#so it simply doesn’t work and i think my tailor is sick of seeing me though i have another p..s fashion pants i need to get altered 😵

[ashmp3]

this may come as a surprise but i own 0 black mini skirts. I had 5 (1 of them a leather skort) and gave them all away to my sister and friends because they were too big on me. And ever since then i haven’t bought not even one. is this a surprise to you teo nation…….

[yeojaa]

( DEVIL IN A NEW SUIT. )

Money’s something that makes the world go around.  There’s absolutely nothing wrong with securing the bag.  You don’t shame anyone for doing what they need to do.  

That is, until you come face to face with the poor guy that’s being suckered out of both his heart and cash.  You simply can’t let it go on.

pairing.  jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating.  idiots to lovers.  fluff, angst, smut.  the holy trifecta, babies!  explicit, obviously.  

tags / warnings.  mentions of infidelity, kook being adorable and sad, reader being a bit of a tactless butthole, a satin playsuit (very nsfw), kook does a 180, smut in the form of: a slight oral fixation, too much spit, overstimulation, pussy slapping, unprotected sex (pls don’t be irresponsible).

wc.  12.2k of nonsense.  pure nonsense, i tells ya. 

beta reader(s).  @hobi-gif​ did what she always does aka read through this and made me a better writer and @yeoldontknow​ dealt with my big dumbass and let me cry about my pea brain to her.  i love you both sm!!!  ✨💜

author note.  the long-awaited fic is here!!  i really hope you enjoy it.  if you do, please maybe leave a comment or something?  i swung back and forth between loving and hating this so it’d really, really mean a lot.  anyway, thanks as always for reading and i adore you!  stay safe and happy and healthy!

He’s a sucker.  That’s what you think of him, despite the fact you’ve never met him.  It’d be impossible not to, given what you’ve heard. 

His girlfriend - or something - is in every other week, flashing his black card like she has something to prove.  Sometimes, she’s by herself;  often, she’s with another gaggle of girls that fawn all over themselves and shriek a little too loudly for your taste.  They’re vapid, snooty in a way that makes you cringe every time they step into the boutique.  Still, you’re nice because this is your job and you have to be.  You can’t exactly tell a paying customer to get lost - even if you think it at least six times each visit. 

“He has no idea.”  It’s always the same thing, a story that pulls at your heartstrings yet has you scoffing in equal parts.  “I told him we were doing a girls’ trip but Hyunjin’s going to meet me on his way back and we’re spending the week at the Ritz.”

How can he possibly be this dumb, you wonder.  How can’t he see past the pretty pink lipstick and perfectly coiffed blonde hair?  It isn’t even that nice of a colour job - too icy and reminiscent of Malibu Barbie. 

(She’d bragged about it once - how she’d gotten an appointment at one of the most coveted salons in the city, spending hours in the stylist’s chair to get this “perfect shade”.  Her words, not yours.)

You figure he must be some lonely schmuck, some poor old sap who can’t possibly get what he’s looking for anywhere else.  Maybe he had some weird spoiling kink - if so, where was your man like that - or he just wanted companionship and found it in the arms of girls who paid him any sort of attention.  Truthfully, you thought a lot of things about him.  Kind of had to, given how often his girlfriend was in, rambling about her exploits and snickering behind his back.

You’d never expected him to be like this.

Jeon Jungkook shows up on a Sunday afternoon, shortly after lunch and with the dopiest smile on his face. 

Your colleague notices him first, nudging you to attention because you, unlike her, actually do productive things while you’re at work like go through layaways and make sure items aren’t sitting in the back gathering dust.

“He’s cute,”  she very poorly whispers, voice carrying because it always does.  She’s a younger girl - maybe a few years your junior, who’d gotten her job through pure nepotism - but she’s sweet enough.  Zero tact, though.  Never notices when she’s being just a little too forceful with her sales but her sweet smile and full rack seem to keep her from getting into any trouble.  You consider her a vaguely annoying sister, someone you love even when you don’t necessarily like her.

You glance up from the iPad balanced in your hands, disinterested.  “Who?”

There’s an older couple striding past the entrance, hand-in-hand with three Hermes bags.  (God, what awful taste.)  There’s another couple standing at the mouth of the Louis Vuitton boutique, bickering about which belt will best match the boyfriend’s tux best.  (The answer is neither, because those belts do not belong with a classic black tux.)

“Him.”

Yejin all but points him out, jerking her chin in his direction.  You don’t know how you hadn’t really clocked him in the first place.  Maybe because he’s so unassuming that you’d just brushed over him, noting his outfit before moving on.  When you look at him - really look at him - you can’t look away.

You think he’s handsome in that off-kilter kind of way, too-big teeth and too-wide eyes.  He’s terribly innocent looking, despite the fact that he’s wearing a gleaming gold Rolex and sleek black boots you recognise from Prada’s 2019 RTW.  Everything he wears is tailored, fitting him to the point you wonder who his seamstress  is.  

But then he speaks, and it’s not the suave, sultry voice you’d expect.  It’s featherlight and almost shy, bashful in its delivery.  

“I’m here to pick up a bag for my girlfriend?”  He upspeaks.  It’s stupidly adorable.

Bless her soul, Yejin throws a glance in your direction first.  A silent ‘yours or mine?’ that’s answered when you step forward, blindingly bright customer service smile in full effect.  “What’s the item and the name it’s under?”  You keep in mind he’s said girlfriend very clearly, even as you can’t help but trail your stare over his shoulders, the dimple that digs itself into his cheek when he speaks again.

“Oh, it’s under mine.  Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook.” 

You’re floored.  This is Jeon Jungkook?  This specimen draped in leather and fine Japanese silk is the poor idiot wrapped around Barbie’s finger?  You’ve got to be kidding.

You wonder whether the surprise is evident on your face.  It must be, given how quickly Yejin interrupts, piping up in that saccharine sweet voice of hers.  “I’ll grab it!  The Box bag in cloud, right?”

Jungkook can only nod dumbly.  He has no idea what he’s there to pick up - only that he needs to because his girlfriend is away on a trip with her two best female friends.  He tells you as much, chuckling at his own ignorance.  It’d be cute if it weren’t so sad, his eyes twinkling like the jewels set in your ears.  There’s so much love in his eyes it’s frankly sickening.  

It comes before you can help it, snapping off your tongue - an oil spill ready to drag him to the depths of hell.

“Oh - you’re Kiko’s boyfriend?  I thought you’d left for Hong Kong already.”  Your head tilts - the picture of innocence as you continue to spew things you shouldn’t, staining the innocence of his expression with each word that drops off.  “She said she was leaving on Friday.”  Even while you’re tearing this poor man’s life apart, you’re racking your brain for the off-handed comments she’d made.  “She kept going on and on about how she was so excited to be staying at the Ritz.”

It’s almost like you gain some sick sort of satisfaction in watching his face fall.  You’ve never seen someone crumble so quickly, every ounce of affection swept up and spat out in the time it takes you to take a solid, proper breath.  

You do feel bad.  Not for saying it, but for being the person to do this.  For hurting this stranger.  (At least he knew?)

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else.”  Gone is the sunny friendliness, the blissful geniality.  He’s very much uncertain, bunny teeth digging into the full swell of his bottom lip.  He’s pigeon-toed and round-shouldered, thick brows drawn neatly over his stare as he focuses on some indeterminate point somewhere by his feet. 

If Yejin were on the floor with you, she’d tell you to knock it off.  Chastise you for getting involved in something you had no business being in.  (She’d be right, but you’ve always been an advocate for tough love.)  As it stands, she’s still in the back finding that stupid girl’s bag and you’re here, shaking your head, weakening Jungkook’s resolve with the edge of your teeth.  “No, she definitely said she was going away with her boyfriend.  Did you maybe give us the wrong name?”

Maybe if he weren’t so upset, he’d be more offended by the insinuation he’s stupid.  Instead, he only falters further, head mimicking yours.  Poor guy.

“I—I think there’s been a mistake.”

Yeah, you dating that gold-digger, you want to say.  Instead, you meet his stare like you haven’t just dug a thousand holes in his foundation.  “Oh, maybe.  I’m sorry.”  The apology is honest, even if the meaning behind it isn’t.  That’s a thing, right?  Apologising to make someone feel better, even when you don’t necessarily agree with it?  

God, you’re an altruist. 

“It’s fine.”  When he stutters, adorable lisp coming out to play, you know it’s not.  You applaud him for his brave face, even if it’s very poorly offered - a makeshift mask you think you could tear off with just another well-aimed word.  (You won’t.)

“Here it is!”  Yejin’s back, bouncing out from behind the counter with the giant white bag in her hands.  If she notices the atmosphere, she says nothing.  You remind yourself to tell her good job once Jungkook leaves - and you know he’ll leave the moment he’s got those silk handles in his hand.  He looks about ready to cry - or ready to fight, you’re not sure.

Once the purchase is passed over, he nods his head furiously and you swear you see a tear go flying.  You don’t have time to ask before he’s hoofing it out of the store.  

He doesn’t even notice he’s left his wallet on the counter.

By the time you snatch it up and round the corner, he’s nowhere to be found.  Probably because running in stilettos is next to impossible and he’s gotten an embarrassed head start.  Well then.

“I guess we’ll have to call him,”  you hum, turning the Prada bi-fold over and over in your hands.  It’s practically brand new, stuffed with large bills, his driver’s license, and few credit cards, including a Hyundai black card.  The same one on file that his girlfriend - maybe soon-to-be ex-girlfriend? - uses shamelessly.

Yejin’s watching you carefully, silently.  You’re counting down how long it’ll be until she asks - because you can see the curiosity swimming in her eyes, practically bulging her cheeks with the effort of keeping her questions caged behind her teeth.

Finally, after a good three minutes, she’s at your side, bony point of her chin digging a grave into your shoulder.  It’s probably not the most appropriate thing but she’s never much been one for decorum.  (You either, but still.) 

“So… what was that about?”

You don’t bother to turn when you speak, back to running through order details and matching them with customers.  “What?”

“You know— that!”  She waves her wrist in a circle, gesturing toward the space Jungkook had occupied not five minutes ago.  “He ran out of here like he was scared for his life.”

“Scared of the truth,”  you correct. 

You hadn’t thought it was possible for her to get more pale - she’s already fine porcelain, perpetually slathered in sunscreen - but she somehow does, balking at your response.  There it is. 

“What?”  There’s a reproachful edge to her words, an uncertainty that tells more than the single syllable. 

“What?”  It’s mimicry and a challenge all in one, meeting her stare from the corner of your periphery.  You can read every emotion that runs through her expression:  shock, displeasure, confusion.  

She retreats a step, bottom lip caught between her teeth.  (She really does remind you of your little sister.)  “So, you told him?”

You shrug, a noncommittal gesture that disrupts the curtain of silk that falls over your shoulder.  You hadn’t laid it out for him but surely he had an idea now.  There was no way he didn’t. 

“I pointed out a few conflicting facts.  That’s all.”  You’re not ashamed about what you’ve done.  You’d want to know if you were him.  Consider it an act of goodwill. 

The silence that meets your ears isn’t surprising but you don’t pay it any further mind.  What’s done is done.  Now he knows, or something close to it.  The chips would simply fall where they were meant to. 

You have to admit - you’re rooting for him. 

Whatever Yejin’s thinking, she keeps it to herself for the rest of the shift.  She knows better than to berate you about something like this, not that she would anyway.  Obnoxious as she can be, you have an understanding.  It strengthens your not-quite-close-friends-but-more-than-colleagues relationship. 

It’s only at the end of your shift that she brings it up again, drifting over to you as you complete your cash count for the evening. 

She holds Jungkook’s wallet in her hand, mouth pursed thoughtfully as she taps it against the edge of the counter.  “You have to call him.”

You almost lose your count, finishing with a pinched expression.  “Whoever works tomorrow morning can call him.”  You’re not brushing off the responsibility - you really could care less - but simply passing it along to the next person.  Sensible. 

As it turns out, you’re the person who works the next morning, called in because another associate has come down with a cold.  

You’re two lattes deep when you remember the wallet, tucked neatly behind the counter with a yellow sticky note posted to the front.  You suppose it’s your responsibility now.  You know if Yejin comes in tomorrow and sees it, she’ll give you her childish brand of hell. 

The line rings twice before it picks up, that oddly familiar voice crackling through the speaker.  “Hello?”

“Jungkook?”  

There’s a beat of silence followed by a careful confirmation. “Yes, that’s me?”  Upspeaking again. How cute. 

“I’m calling from the CELINE boutique.”  You can practically imagine the look on his face, eyes as wide as saucers as he recalls the awful-to-him encounter.  “You left your wallet here and I wanted to make sure you got it back.”

“O-oh, uh—“  It’s like encountering a baby bunny - or deer or something equally adorable and vulnerable.  “Thanks.  I didn’t even notice.  Um, I can come pick it up today?”  There’s another pause, the sound of fingers over a screen, and then he’s back.  “Is that okay?”

Leave it to him to have lost his wallet and yet be worried about putting someone else out.  He truly was a sucker. 

“That’s fine.  We’re open until six tonight.”  

“I’ll be there before dinner.”  As if realizing how vague that is, he continues, words running headlong into each other like he can’t get them out fast enough.  “Before six, I mean.  Um, is around five-thirty okay?” 

You want to tell him to just come whenever, that it really doesn’t matter to you, but that probably isn’t going to help the situation.  Instead, you hum a quiet sound of confirmation.  “Of course.  We’ll see you then.” 

He hangs up immediately. 

The second time you meet Jeon Jungkook, he’s just as endearing as the last.  It’s actually surprising, if you’re being honest.  You’d thought he’d be resentful or mean or any other emotion better fitting someone whose entire world had turned upside-down.

As it stands, he’s just the right-side of anxious, a hundred little sparks of uncertainty flaring beneath his skin and lighting him up in neon.  You can see him from a mile away he’s lit up so bright, seemingly uncomfortable in his own skin.

Your heart aches for him - and then it skips, almost trips over its own two feet when he wanders into the store with his hands dug deep into the pocket of his pants.

How he looks tonight is nothing like how he’d looked yesterday.  Somehow, you like it more.  The undone head-to-toe Balenciaga, the unruly curl of his dark hair.  It’s effortlessly chic - though you think it might have something to do with the fact that he’s just an attractive person.  (Good-looking people could get away with anything - even god-awful fashion faux pas.)

At the sight of you, he seems to further lose steam, eyes widening to such an extent you briefly worry for him.  Surely they’ll fall out of their sockets one day.  

“O-oh.  It’s you.”  The moment the words come, he’s blushing the colour of your red-soled shoes, horrified.  “I m-mean, just—”  He takes a deep breath, finds his footing and tries again.  “You’re the girl that helped me yesterday.”  Spoken like you, the exact girl who helped him yesterday, wouldn’t remember that fact yourself.  

“That’s right,”  you say evenly, expression neutral.  It’s almost as if that surprises him more - as if he’d expected you to shy away from the knowledge.  

The two of you stare at each other for longer than is strictly speaking necessary.  Well, you stare at him and he kind of bounces his eyes around the room.  You know he can’t be that interested in the croc stamp Belt bag behind your head or the selection of small leather goods in the glass case.  

He’s so awkward.

(You did kind of ruin his day though, so you can’t blame him.)

“So, um, my wallet?”  He’s made barely any headway, still lingering awkwardly by the front of the store.  You can’t help your smile - it’s more of a smirk - as you raise the item in question.  

“Right here.”

Jungkook glances from it to your face, then back again.  He makes the same trip twice more.  “Can I have it?”  To your surprise, he’s taken two whole steps toward you, brow furrowed.  He’s still terribly soft, rounded edges and innocent eyes, but he’s making progress.  Good job, you think.

“Of course.”  You mirror him, moving out from behind the counter.  Somehow, that’s not the right move, because his features are breaking and rearranging, big bunny teeth worrying a hole straight through his bottom lip.  You’d think he’d be more confident, more demanding, more… everything.  (You quite like that he isn’t - a complete anomaly - but you also imagine it’s also to his detriment.  Too much honey, not enough vinegar.)

This time, he closes the distance with three long strides.  It hadn’t escaped you how tall he was, the length of his gait - after all, you’d tried to run after him - but you’re still a little surprised when he’s in front of you, not a foot away, arm extended.  Palm out, he asks again, all while refusing eye contact.  “May I have it, please?” 

You hand it over with a soft laugh, pressing the grained leather into his hand.  You expect him to retreat immediately and he does - but then he turns and his expression is inscrutable.  Is he going to say thank you?  Berate you for what you’d done yesterday?

Neither, it seems.  “Why did you do it?”  There’s no anger, just an abiding sadness that laces his words, turns them the saddest shade of blue.

“Do it?”  You know what he means.  You ask anyway.

“Why did you tell me?”  Jungkook’s doing that thing again, alternating between biting his tongue and chewing his cheek as he stares at you.  You can practically see the melancholy rolling off him;  it shines dark on the depths of his irises, how his fist trembles just barely at his side.  For all his good looks and leisurely charm, you can see the effort it takes to hold himself together now.

Guilt ascends, starts somewhere deep in your stomach and turns stomach acid to butterflies.  It creeps higher and higher over your spine, locking each vertebrae until you’re immobile, unable to tear your gaze from his.  “I thought you deserved to know.”

“But why?” 

“What do you mean?”  

It’s almost comical, how both your expressions descend into bewilderment - like looking into a fun house mirror.  He’s trying to wrap his mind around your actions and you’re just trying to make sense of his confusion.  

You anticipate a response - can see it tittering on the tip of his tongue - but he seems to think better of it, shaking his head.  It dislodges a wayward curl from behind his ear, silver twinkling with the movement.  

“Thank you” is all he offers before speed-walking away.

You don’t expect to see Jeon Jungkook for a third time.  

He’s waiting for you when you end your shift on Thursday, standing somewhere between the two boutiques, loitering like some kind of gremlin.  (Except he’s dressed exceptionally well, slick black jeans and a Balenciaga tee shirt that rivals the cost of your shoes.  Of course he’d get away with hanging out in the store without being told off.)

“Excuse me.”  For once, he doesn’t sutter.  The lisp doesn’t present itself, either.  Was this the same Jungkook?  You’re not sure until you meet his stare - or try, his own skipping away the moment you make contact.

There he is.

“Yes, Jungkook?”  He flinches, as if he isn’t expecting you to know or say his name.  How can someone so big, so broad across the shoulders with a face that belongs on billboards, look like such a terrified rabbit?  It makes no sense to you.

“Can we talk?”  The stare he levels you with is unfair, too sweet and coaxing for you to even consider saying no.  You’ll still mess with him a bit though.

“We are talking.”

He sputters at that, hacks out a cough that makes you snicker openly.  It’s just so easy with him, like taking candy from a baby.  

“I mean like— talk talk.”  The set of his jaw gives away the whisper of frustration, the fleeting touch of exasperation that doesn’t allow itself to live anywhere else.  His eyes are still soft, round and glossy beneath the fluorescent storelight.  

“Sure, we can talk talk.”  

“Did you, um, want to grab dinner?”

You don’t mean to mock him (at least, not really) but he just makes everything so easy. You hope he doesn’t take it the wrong way.  “Are you asking me on a date?”  

“W-what?  No!”  Despite the immediacy of his response - the look of utter shock that cracks the careful facade - he’s burning bright, cheeks aflame with colour that licks up and over his ears.  “I just— I thought you’d want to talk somewhere else—”

“I’m kidding.  Let’s go.”

You move first, stepping past him and onto the elevator without a backwards glance.  He scampers after you, trails like a lost puppy in the wake of your shadow.  Even while you stand in the corner, waiting for the lift to meet the main floor, he keeps a careful distance, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans.  

“So, what do you want to talk about?”  It seems you have to take the initiative, throwing him a curious stare as the floor number ticks down.  His gaze is trained on neon digits, unmoving.  You repeat yourself, glancing up at him, half-tempted to nudge him out of his reverie.  It’s almost like talking to a really hot brick wall.  “Jungkook?”

He tears out of his thoughts like a wayward bullet, head swivelling wildly.  “Huh?”  

“What did you want to talk about?”  

“Um—”  He hesitates, not as if he doesn’t know the answer, but rather that he’s hesitant to speak it into existence.  There’s a tidal wave in the depth of his stare, a cresting wave that looks on the edge of breaking.  “—m-me?”

Brows furrow then amusement spills out.  “You want to talk about… you?”  

“That sounds bad.”  The shape of his grow prominent over his bottom lip, his mouth pulling and pursing with whatever maelstrom exists inside that pretty skull of his.  

“It’s fine.  We’ll talk at dinner.”  

He nods.  You think it means thank you.

Sitting across from each other in the Michelin-starred restaurant - a sought after spot that takes reservations weeks in advance - it’s easy to imagine Jungkook is just another guy.  Another bachelor with too much money and not enough sense, eager to sink his teeth into his next victim.  

It’s hilarious how far that is from the truth.

“What did you want to eat?”  He’s speaking into the pages of the leatherbound menu, half his face hidden.  Whether it’s a defense mechanism or just how he woos pretty girls, you’re not sure.  (You have a feeling it’s the former.)

“Whatever.”  Everything here is incredible.  You really don’t mind.

Jungkook’s face falls, folds in on itself like wet paper and you sigh a sound that further breaks apart the pillars keeping his composure in place.  His right cheek is hollowed, interior being shredded by enamel.  You take pity on him then, flipping open the menu with a great flourish. 

When the waitress - a lovely little thing whose gaze lingers on your dining partner for too long to just be polite - comes to take your order, you rattle off your usual order, doubling certain selections.  Soft-spoken as he might be, you have a feeling the size of his stomach makes up for all the mumbling and half-hearted glances.

“So?”  You level him with a stare over the rim of your glass, lavender and lemonade bursting across your tongue.  

He echoes you, wide-eyed and Bambi-like and stupidly cute.  “So?”  

“What did you want to talk about?”  If you’d had a worse day, if you were a lesser person, you might be irritated by having to repeat yourself so often.  As it stands, you’re only curious, your inquisitive nature outweighing your naturally short temper. 

“Oh.”  Poor boy looks like he’s been asked an impossible question, like what’s the meaning of life or the secret to eternal youth.  He fumbles with the edge of his sleeve, turns the plaid over and over in his fingers as if it were a puzzle.  You stare at him the whole time, unflinching, unrelenting.  He’d asked you here so you damn well expect an answer.

You’re about ready to repeat yourself - fourth time’s the charm? - when he finally finds his voice.

“I wanted to say thank you.”

It’s not the answer you’d expected.  It whacks you in the face, smacking your usual confidence out of place and shooting your carefully threaded eyebrows into your hairline.  “What?” 

He’s terribly uncomfortable, unhappy with being on the spot.  You watch the flicker of emotions through his face, the ones that creep into the delicate skin beneath his eyes, the wobble of his bottom lip.  Try as he might, he can’t keep the light from his eyes - twinkling stars that bloom like newly minted stars.

“Thank you.”  It’s just that much harder when he repeats himself, edges he builds with his bare hands and a clearing of his throat.

You’re silent for a long while - long enough for the first few plates to be set before you.  You gather up shredded radish and perfectly charred beef with your chopsticks, chewing thoughtfully on the morsel.  Jungkook doesn’t move - doesn’t even reach for his chopsticks - and simply stares at you.  You might find it off-putting if it were anyone but him.

You get through half the bowl of green beans, well on your way to finishing it, when he finally begins eating, deftly transferring little bites to his bowl.

The only sound is crunching - king oyster mushroom tempura, ice from your cocktail - and you’re pleasantly surprised to find it’s not uncomfortable.  A little different, sure, but altogether nice.  Like dining with an old friend.

You finally answer when half the plates are gone, another three laid out in their wake.  You’re careful not to speak with your mouth open - you notice Jungkook doesn’t either - and take a long sip of your water.  “You’re welcome, I guess.”  

Something tells you you’re always surprising him - whether intentionally or not.  His eyebrows have a tendency to shoot up, making him look even more shocked than he normally does.  (Seriously, how big are his eyes?)  You find that funny but don’t comment on it, opting to pop a silken piece of black cod into your mouth.  Your stare never falters, trained on his face as you chew thoughtfully.

“What?”  He’s had enough of your quiet observation, apples of his cheeks reminiscent of the tree in your parents’ backyard.  

“What?”  You parrot back, shameless, dark eyes twinkling at him.

“Y-you’re staring at me.”  

“You’re sitting in front of me.”

The line of his mouth hardens then, tongue rolling against his cheek in a gesture that stands out.  It’s the first glimpse of something rude, something not doe-eyed and innocent.  Oh?

“You don’t have to stare.”  Said with a speared piece of sashimi, the end of his chopsticks assaulting the poor piece of bluefin tuna like it has personally offended him.  

You reach for the same place, knock ornate wood against his, and quirk a brow when he meets your stare.  “Does it bother you, Mr. Jeon?”  The inflection is drawn out, almost mocking, only softened by the smile you offer.  

“That’s not my name.”  The bite disappears past his teeth.  You expect him to continue three chews later but he only goes for another, filling his plate and then his mouth.

“Sorry— Jungkook.  Does my staring bother you?”

It feels a little like playing with fire - holding your hand too close to a flickering flame, curious what it’ll do.  Juvenile in a way but enticing in another.  You’ve never met anyone quite like Jeon Jungkook.

“It’s rude,”  he reasons, glossy eyes meeting yours for perhaps the fifth time that evening.

“Maybe I’m just rude.”

He shakes his head then - dislodges untamed strands from behind his silver-lined ears - and sets his chopsticks down.  (Perfectly matched up, propped against the provided rest.)  “You’re not.”

You can’t keep the surprise away, the emotion threading through your brows to tie them into a little knot of consternation.  He says it so readily, as if he knows you and this isn’t one of a handful of very short, very unexpected conversations.  He’s not even looking away, meeting your stare with a confidence that surprises you.  

It lasts for all of five more seconds before he clears his throat and sips at his tea.  Anything to busy his hands, you think.

“You don’t know that,”  you finally return, after what seems like too long.

“I do.”  He nods - almost to himself - and continues, matter-of-fact.  “You care about people.  You’re… hard around the edges but you don’t mean to hurt anyone.  You want to do what’s right.  Sometimes it means you have to do things that aren’t easy.”

For once, you’re at a loss for words.  Really and truly silenced, unable to articulate anything that might beat back the kindness he’s offering.  

How the tables have turned.

He likes waffles with chocolate syrup rather than honey.  He doesn’t like whipped cream or citrus-flavoured desserts.  He has a tailor he’s gone to since he was a child, the same elderly woman he sometimes calls halmoni because she’s watched him grow up.  He decorates his apartment with the most random things:  limited edition KAWs figurines and the guitars he still hasn’t had the most practice with, one of a kind paintings from the gallery one of his best friends curates.  He buys the most expensive bottles of wine at any given restaurant not because his palate is so evolved it matters, but because it’s what he’s been taught to do.

He’s been in four serious relationships in his twenty-five years.  All of them have ended poorly, though his latest with Malibu Barbie is the first where he’d been cheated on.  (Somehow, you doubt that but you don’t voice this disbelief.)  He tends to lean towards long-term relationships with women who baby him (your words, not his).  He scoffs when you call him a serial monogamist, insists he isn’t even as you list out all the facts pointing otherwise.

“I just… don’t like wasting my time,”  he insists from behind his coffee cup.  

“You mean you don’t like the potential to be hurt.”  

Jungkook blinks at you then, Bambi eyes so big and bright you almost want to laugh.  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”  He seems confused - as if his reasoning is solid, irrefutable. 

“High risk, high reward, Jungkookie.”  It’s something your father had taught you years ago, the crazy old sap.  It’s probably why he’s had three divorces since you were seven years old, but you suppose it’s worked out for him now.  He’s been happily married for the last ten years - the longest relationship he’s ever had.  Youngin is good for him, though.  You like her - even if you sometimes wish she weren’t young enough to be your older sister and not his wife.

“You say that a lot.”

“I mean it when I say it.”

He’s quiet then, shoving a corner of his croissant past his lips.  When he speaks - starts to, anyway - his mouth is still full and you level him with a look that silences him until all traces of the pastry are gone.  “Girls are scary.”

You laugh.  Cackle, really.  You can’t help it.  He says it with a pout, the expression so utterly at odds with the offensively revealing shirt he wears, the smooth unblemished skin of his chest almost too much for such a quiet afternoon.  He glares at you across the table, shoves another piece of the flaky golden treat into his mouth, and waits for you to speak.  He knows you’re going to give him a piece of your mind because you always do, rebuffing 99% of the things he says.  (Sometimes for fun, often with good intentions.)

“Heights are scary.  Death is scary.  Leaving your wallet at home when you’re low on gas is scary—”

“Don’t you have Apple Pa—”

“Don’t interrupt.”  He clamps his lips shut, folding his arms across his chest.  From anyone else, it’d be a defensive gesture;  from him, it’s patient.  “Girls aren’t scary.  Having real feelings for people is scary, but that doesn’t mean you should just stay with people who don’t deserve you.” 

“Not all of us have cheater-sniffing noses.”  

You suppose he’s right but the fact still remains that he’s too nice for his own good.  Too trusting, too lenient, too blind to all the red flags.  Like he’s living life in greyscale. 

“Well, that’s what you have me for.”

The look Jungkook gives you then is incredulous, screwing his pretty face up as if he’s about to sneeze.  Instead, he laughs.  “I’m not hopeless.”

“Oh, but you are.”  You’re adamant, insistent.  He’s more comfortable with you now - sometimes teases you in a way you’d never have expected weeks ago - but he’s still so soft.  An absolute marshmallow dressed in designer duds, a heart of gold wrapped up in a bubble gum package.  

You want to protect him, teach him to fly.  Be his wingwoman until he’s soaring the skies on his own.  

You know it’s not his pride that keeps him from saying yes.  He doesn’t have an abundance of that, far too gracious to ever deny help when he really needs it.  He’s just shy, doesn’t know what he wants until it’s staring him right in the face.  

“Fine,”  he agrees after you’ve stared at him for too long.  It’s one of his weaknesses - his inability to handle attention when it’s laser-focused.  It makes him sweat, prompts his nervous habit of chewing at his bottom lip, long fingers picking at the peach fuzz on his cheeks.

“You won’t regret it.”

Jeon Jungkook has gone on six dates over the last ten days.  You know, because you’ve helped him pick out outfits for each of them, seated at the edge of his bed with your knees folded and a bag of white cheddar popcorn in your grubby little paws.

It’s not that he isn’t stylish - you both know he is - but there’s a certain finesse to dressing for dates, to knowing the likes and dislikes of your potential partner and playing to those.  

He, to no one's surprise, does not have this finesse.  If it were up to him, he’d wear his favourite clothes every day, different jeans and joggers in medium-wash denim and impossibly soft cotton.  He’d swap his Balenciaga separates in and out and stick with the finely tailored Gucci suit he calls his lucky ticket (ew).  He’d live in those stupid two-toned sneakers and barely do his hair, allowing it to become a powder puff reminiscent of old Hollywood movies.

The girls would probably still love it.  (It’s easy to love him.)

“What do you think?”  It’s low-cut black, relaxed in the shoulders and flattering in the torso.  It holds him just right, hugging the muscle that threads across his shoulders like armour, coils around his upper arms and makes his tattoos stand in stark relief where the sleeves end, mid-forearm. 

It looks good— but then again, a lot of things look good on him.  He wants great.

You answer honestly, because that’s what you do and that’s what he has you there for.  To knock him down when his (admittedly small) ego gets a little too big, remind him of his hubris like the summer sun upon his candle wax wings.  “Not bad…”

You don’t even need to finish the thought for him to be tugging the shirt over his head, back flexed, ink-strewn fingers gripping the hem.  

Not for the first time, you’re reminded of just how unfair life is. 

How had Jungkook - bona fide dork, certifiable shy guy - been gifted one of the best bodies in human existence?  (You wish you were joking.)  It was utterly absurd, a complete waste on someone who’d only learnt to utilise his good looks in the last five months you’d known him.  

“This one?”  He’s grabbing another hanger, all but thrusting it into your face.  Medium-weight cashmere.  Probably too hot for a night like tonight but you’ve seen it on him before and it hugs him like a lover, displaying his best assets (titties) and drawing attention to the narrow shape of his waist.  It’s the equivalent of a little black dress.

“Look at you go,”  you tease, mouth full of mirth and popcorn kernels.  “Throw that Juun.J trench you have overtop and you’ll be set.”

Jungkook nods sagely, as if your word is law.  You suppose it is.

“Thanks, ____,.”  He says it in that sweet way of his, eyes lost to the weight of his gratitude.  

Your response is a shrug.  “Bring me back some dessert and we’ll be even.”  You don’t know where he’s going tonight but you figure it’s one of the many restaurants you’d recommended earlier in the week when he’d started lining up his various dates.  You know there’ll be something good on the menu.  

He promises he will as he slides the turtleneck on, tucking it into the dark trousers he’d picked up days ago, and redoes the slim black Rag & Bone belt around his waist.  You have to admit - you’ve done another great job of styling him.  Simple yet painstakingly attractive, playing at all the little bits of Jungkook’s best qualities without outlining them in bright red ink.  Understated but elegant, effortless yet seriously hot.  

Maybe you should quit your day job and become the female Hitch.  That was a viable plan, right?

You’re mulling it over when you realise your walking Ken doll is making toward his bedroom door, wallet clasped in one hand and phone in the other.  “Hey!  You’re leaving already?”  It’s polite surprise that colours your words, stare drawn to the screen of your iPhone.  It’s only 6 PM and the reservation isn’t for another hour.

There’s a sheepish look creeping over his features, painting itself in delicate strokes that you spy past the line of his smile, how the skin crinkles around his eyes.  For a moment, he’s the shy Jungkook you’d met in your store and not the one that now bleeds careful confidence, filling his little black book (read: phone contacts) with names as easily as he breathes.  “I was, uh, going to stop and get f-flowers.”  A silver-lined hand scrubs across his nape, dislodges the carefully styled waves he’s settled for.

Flowers, huh?  Well, that’s certainly something new.  Good for him, you think. 

“Jeon Jungkook, going all out.”  It’s heavy on the teasing, playful mockery lending a warmth to your words.  “She’s special.”

Which you’d figured, given he was seeing her.  Repeats were rare for him now that he’d learned how to weed out the bad seeds, held his hand a little closer to his heart (at least, sometimes).  Since he’d started dating again, this would be the first time he’d be going on a second date.  It’s a big deal. 

“Yeah—“  Nervousness sparks across his face, lights up his stare like the stars in the night sky.  “I guess she is.”

You smile fondly, like a proud mother.  “Go get ‘em, tiger.”  

“I will,”  he promises, looking so giddy it makes your heart swell ten sizes.  

You don’t even think anything of it as you follow him out of his room, bag of popcorn neatly rolled under your arm and your socks slid back into place.  It’s only when he levels you with a strange stare, pauses in the shrugging on of his coat, that you return his look.  “What?”

“Where are you going?”

“Leaving?”  

“Why?”

Wasn’t that the million dollar question?  

You don’t normally leave, usually waiting here at home for him until he returns to give you a rundown of his date (and the promised appetizer/dessert/whatever).  It feels somehow wrong to stay, though, as if you’re taking up space that doesn’t belong to you.  He’s going on a second date, after all.  Soon enough, he won’t need your help picking out clothes or deciding on a restaurant.  You won’t get to curl up on your usual corner of his sectional, wrapped up in the obnoxiously soft blanket you’d convinced him to buy one night while online shopping.

But it’s fine.  Totally, one hundred and ten percent fine.  The two of you are friends.  You’d always expected - anticipated, hoped - this day would come.  Baby boy was growing up. 

“Y’know.”  You answer a second too late and he’s still wearing that odd expression, handsome face flooded with something that looks like disappointment.  It flickers in the bits of his stare you can make out past his fringe, partially concealed by the dark silk that you know feels as soft as it looks.

“I know?”  He never tries to read your mind - knows it’s utterly useless.  

You wiggle your hand dismissively.  “Second date and all that.”  

Jungkook giggles - the same deceptively sweet sound he always makes - and finishes tugging his jacket on.  It fits him so well it should be illegal, falling to his knees and ending just shy of the intricate laces of his boots.  “Just stick around.  I’ll drive you home when I get back.”

It’s something he always does - his way of saying thank you for putting up with all of his first date jitters, his outfit changes, his worrying over how to first approach a girl on Tinder - so you don’t doubt him.  “Fine.  I’ll stay.”

He beams, caught halfway out the door.  “Tell me to break a leg.”

“Go break her back,”  you retort to the sound of his laughter.

You’re almost asleep when your phone starts going off, the vibrations jolting you awake.  It rattles across the glass table, won’t shut the hell up until you’re slamming your hand atop it, glaring at the screen as it lights up with notifications.

It’s almost 2 AM and they’re from Jungkook.  This can only mean one thing.

from jeon jungkook:  Hey. from jeon jungkook:  I’m really sorry but I won’t be home tonight. from jeon jungkook:  If you want to stay over, I can drive you back in the morning. from jeon jungkook:  Please don’t be mad.

Leave it to him to apologise for getting his dick wet - to feel bad about having a successful second date.  It makes you laugh as you stare down at the texts, tap a quick response you know will have his heart racing.  (Even after months of friendship, it’s hard not to tease him just a little bit.)

to jeon jungkook:  i officially hate you

The typing notification gives him away immediately, but the moment you do the same, he stops.  Of course.  He hates confrontation - would rather leap off a cliff-face than deal with negative emotions.  (He’d told you that once, over a night of beer and fried tteok.)

to jeon jungkook:  it’s fine!  have fun! to jeon jungkook:  turn her world upside down 😏

He doesn’t answer after that but the read receipt pops up.  Good, you think.  About time he finds someone nice.  You wonder what she’ll be like when you meet her.  

Jungkook’s third date comes with another third - you.

He drags you along to dinner, insisting there’s nothing at all weird about the fact.  He has to repeat it at least four times during the drive there, head nodding like a plastic bobblehead as he weaves in and out of traffic. 

“I want you to meet her,”  he mumbles, like that makes it better.  As if bringing a friend along to a date with that reasoning means it’s totally acceptable and not on the list of Hard No’s When Dating.

“Don’t you think that’s kind of weird?”  He’s too focused on changing lanes to answer you, signalling before seamlessly drifting over.  (He’s an impressively responsible driver, but that’s unsurprising.)  You repeat yourself.

“It’s not… weird.”  But you have a feeling that he knows how odd the request is.  Knows and doesn’t care, unfortunately.  “She wants to meet you too.”

(When had Jungkook turned into this person who argued with you?)

You somehow highly doubt that.  No girl in her right mind would leap at the chance to meet her potential beau’s wingwoman.  It’s something reserved for official status, when the foundation is set.  Still, you play into his hand, level him with a stare he should recognise.  It’s the one you throw his way any time he’s too nice, gives a mile when he shouldn’t even offer an inch.  (It doesn’t come as often anymore, but it still makes appearances once in a while.)  

“What does she even know about me?”

“That we’re friends.”  His vague response speaks volumes.  The look changes - grows into a glare that has him furtively peeking at you from the corner of his periphery.  When he speaks, it feels like a dead giveaway.  “That I really value your opinion.”

You groan, a noise so loud it rattles around in the car and interrupts the ballad playing through the speakers.

“She’s trying to figure out if I’m competition or not!”  Of course.  It’s obvious.  She wants to know what she’s getting into it before things get too serious, determine if her Prince Charming is really all that.  (He is.)  “I’m not coming to dinner.”  

“You’re already in the car,”  he reasons.  

You note he doesn’t deny your first statement, mouth rounding into a pout that should crush your resolve.  Instead, it drives you mad, irritation bubbling in your throat.

“I just won’t go in.”

“____,.”  When he says it like that, it’s hard to deny him.  Jungkook might not utilise his charms often but when he does, it’s lethal.  Undeniable with those dumb Bambi eyes of his.

“No.”

“____,,”  he repeats, almost pleading.  You can’t look at him.  You won’t.  The moment you do, you’ll be sucked into the swirling vortex that makes up his stare - a million pretty little lights caught in the brown of his iris, so many possibilities you’d lose yourself trying to explore them all.

You last a whole ten seconds before his staring becomes too much, those round eyes tracking you in the rearview mirror until you’re relenting, softening in the way that only he can cause. 

“Fine.”  You hate how it sounds rolling off your tongue, terse and a little pissed off.  You’re not actually mad.  Just worried.  You’ve seen situations like this play out - not that you’ve been in this position before - but female friends and potential girlfriends just don’t go hand-in-hand.  It takes a very special kind of person to facilitate a meeting this early and you are not that person.  You’re ragged edges, uneven temperament, distrust that you can’t help.

Jungkook knows that.  Should, anyway.  You’ve grown close over the last nearly half a year.  

When he mumbles a quiet sorry, turns to rest his chin against his knuckles as he drives, you know he means it.  He’d never put you in this position if it didn’t mean a lot to him - if his own happiness wasn’t somehow also on the line.  (Truthfully, it’s your fault.  All that self-love encouragement was coming back to bite you in the ass.)

You grumble an obligatory acceptance as the streetlights fly by.  You’ve got a reputation to uphold. 

“You’re paying for my dinner.”

“Of course.”

How many times have you pictured this same situation, watched it unfold on your television screen as the protagonist gasps wildly, hand at their throat?  How many times have you laughed at the exchange, snickering into your palm as the romantic interest makes some wild declaration of love and wins the protagonist’s heart?

Answer:  you’ve lost count.

Still, it doesn’t prepare you to be thrust beneath the spotlight, half-dreaming and terribly confused.  

“What’re you doing here?”  At any other time, it might be as reproachful as you want, full of disapproval and sleepiness.  Here and now, it’s slurred speech and the lines of your pillow dug into the softness of your cheek, lashes dusted with sleep and breath freshly minted.

Jungkook’s oddly surprised, considering he’s appeared unannounced at your doorstep at the crack of dawn (not really).  “C-can I come in?”

You don’t budge.  It’s not because you’re about to say no, but because you’re still really tired.  So tired you stare at him for a moment too long, zoning out as you drink in his appearance.  He’s wearing the clothes from last night - the same animal-print silk shirt that hangs obscenely low and reveals too much skin.  You recognise it because you’d picked it out for his date.  

(The one where he was supposed to ask Jiwon to be his girlfriend, you fail to note.)  

You repeat yourself around a yawn, ignoring the way your vowels crash into each other and barely make it to the light of day.  “What’re you doing, Jungkookie?”

“Please let me in,”  the doe-eyed prince at your door mumbles, gaze bouncing somewhere beyond your shoulder, over your face, to the wayward strands that’re the result of sleeping too well.  Everywhere but your eyes.

“Fine,”  you huff, stepping back to allow him over the threshold.  You don’t miss the way he smells - his signature cologne and something else.  If you had to guess, it’s her perfume.  It’s distinctly floral, drawing you into a garden of roses.  You don’t know if you like it.

Without a second glance, you’re shuffling away from him, dragging your slippered feet into the kitchen.  

You move on autopilot, spooning coffee grounds into the Chemex filter.  You don’t bother asking whether your surprise guest wants any - assume he does, because the fiend somehow lives on caffeine - and settle against the counter as you wait for your kettle to whistle.

You’re still so tired you feel like you might fall asleep standing up but you think you do a good enough job of levelling Jungkook with a solid stare.  “So?”

“W-what?”  

It’s been so long since you’ve last heard his stutter that it surprises you, recentres your attention from your own exhaustion and has you frowning.  Something’s happened.  Must have.  There’s no other explanation for it - for how he looks at you, so uncertain like all those months ago when you’d smashed his glass house to pieces.

“What’s going on?”  You’re demanding, full to the brim with concern as you round on him.  He flinches away as if your words have burnt him, leaning into the stainless steel side of your fridge.  

(Silly Jungkook - that won’t protect you.)

“What do you mean?”

The early hour has, luckily, dampened your usual aggression.  He’s stalling, you can tell.  You hate when he does this.  You tell him as much, glowering at him as he tries to shrink his nearly six foot frame into something small.  “You’ve showed up at my house unannounced.  What do you mean ‘what do I mean’?”

He looks as if he’s on the brink of repeating himself, biting it back behind his neat white teeth when your expression grows darker, more frustrated.

It’s impossible to stay dressed in red, lethargy swathing you up like a cocoon and softening your edges.  You sigh heavily - perhaps a little overdramatically - and go about completing your coffee ritual.  Patience works best with Jungkook, you’ve learned.  (Though, he sorely tests your own sometimes.)

With a steaming mug in your hand and the other passed over to him, you gesture toward your living room.

He nods once - a small up and down of his head.  

“So.”  You try again, softer this time, warmed by the heat that permeates ceramic and settles your sleep-ravaged nerves.  You’re seated cross-legged on your couch, facing him with your back pressed to the arm rest.  He’s half-turned to you, coffee cup slotted between his thighs.  Feet turned in, mouth wobbling with the intensity of how hard he’s chewing into his bottom lip.

“I couldn’t do it.”  The words rush out too fast, tumble into each other in such a way you have to take a second to comprehend what he’s said.  Couldn’t do… it?

You stare at each other for a long while, you trying to understand and him refusing to meet your stare.  

When realisation dawns on you, you can only imagine how you look.  It must be terrifying by how Jungkook practically tries to crawl into the cushions of your couch, shoulders rising around his ears like a turtle.

“You didn’t ask her?”  It explodes out, a question that demands an answer. 

He’s staring past your head, unblinking.  You’d almost worry he was a robot if his voice weren’t so damned human, full of melancholy and rounded by his lisp.  “I c-couldn’t.  It was just…”  The shrug he offers is half-assed at best, not nearly good enough to excuse him.

“Just what?”  

“Just—”  There’s the wiggly hand gesture you do that he’s adopted, his ink-strewn hand waving through the air like a floppy chicken foot.  He thinks it’ll earn him a pass but your unrelenting glare indicates otherwise.  He deflates, hand falling back to his lap, clutching his mug like it's a makeshift security blanket.  “It didn’t feel right.”

What did that even mean?  Feel right?  

Love didn’t just appear, fully-formed and complete.  It took work and dedication and the understanding it could all come crashing down.  Didn’t he understand that?  Hadn’t you drilled that into his head?

You exhale through gritted teeth, push breath past enamel that acts like a solid steel gate.  

“Jungkook, it’s not going to just ‘feel right.’”  You’re air quoting, all tact thrown out the window.  “You like her, don’t you?”

You expect him to nod immediately.  He doesn’t. 

“Jungkook.”

“Yeah?” 

“You like her, right?”  

“I think so.”

You want to tear your own hair out.  Instead, you press the pads of your fingers into your temple - apply pressure in hopes of alleviating the tension that settles there.  “So, you like her.”  It feels a bit bad, condescending in a way;  you don’t mean it in any way but supportive.  You just want him to be happy.  “But you couldn’t ask her out because it didn’t feel right?”

“She’s not you.”  

He’s looking at you now, looks like he might have a heart attack if he does so any longer.  But he doesn’t tear his gaze away when you meet it, entire expression warped into something you don’t recognise.  Hope, maybe?  Fear?   

“What?”  You wish it were hard rather than feather light, almost lost to the cacophony in your head.

The hollow of his cheek is thrown into stark relief, the line of his jaw clenched tight.  He repeats himself even as you’re the one looking away, shaking your head as if that might will away the irksome answer.  (It won’t.)

“Don’t say things like that.”  

It’s hurt that flashes through his expression and strikes you right in the centre of your chest.  His face crumbles, brows knit together beneath his mop of shiny hair.  He looks so terribly sad - a kicked puppy, an abandoned deer.  Bambi, through and through.

“You asked why I didn’t do it,”  he reasons in a voice far more solid than he looks.

“I didn’t think you’d say something so ridiculous.”  It’s cruel.  “You’re making a bad choice.  You’re into this girl.  Don’t be dumb.”

His features rearrange, then so do his limbs, entire body lifting from his seat in jerky, disjointed movements.  “I’m not dumb.”  There’s a reproachful quality to his words, a distaste he doesn’t bother to mask.  It’s not something you’ve ever faced, surprising you enough to draw your eyes to his face.  

He doesn’t look like the Jungkook you know.  

When he leaves - sets his cup in the sink and storms out the way he’d come before you have time to stop him - you wonder if you ever knew him at all.

“Okay.  Spill.”

Yejin’s tired of your abrasiveness, tired of having her head bitten off every time she tries to approach you with a question.  You can’t blame her.  You’ve felt like shit the last week, sleep-deprived and generally pissed off.  

All because of a doe-eyed idiot.  

“What?”  It’s less snark, more sigh.  You’re counting down the minutes until you’re free, until you can curl back up in your bed and try to sleep like you’ve done the last four days.  

“What’s going on with you?”  

“Nothing.”  

“Bullshit,”  she hums, trailing after you as you move behind the counter.  “You’ve been in a bad mood all week.  I’ve never seen you this upset like, ever.”  She’s right, of course.  You’ve always been very careful to keep business separate, pushing the customer service agenda no matter what.  “Did something happen?”  

You grit your teeth.  An expletive careens off your tongue when you slam the tip of your finger within the drawer you’d just shut.

“____,”  she tries again, concerned.  

“Nothing happened.”

“See, I don’t believe that because like, look at you!”  She gesticulates wildly, adorned wrists clinking loudly.  “You look like hell—”

“Thanks.”

“—and you’re being clumsy and like, I think I know you well enough.  So just tell me?”

You hate that she’s right.  It doesn’t mean you’ll relent, too caught up in your own strange brand of strength to unload.  (Maybe it’d be helpful.  Probably.  But you’ve never found comfort in other people.  At least, not like this.)

“Yejin.”  Her name stops her in her tracks, hurried and insistent as you pull your coat on.  “It’s fine.  Really.”  You’re swallowing your pride - practically choking on it - as you offer what you hope is a reassuring smile.  “I just need to get some sleep.”  And figure out what the hell to do about Jungkook, but that’s a can of worms you refuse to open and certainly not here.

Maybe at home, over a glass of wine, fueled by liquid courage.  

The bottle of Côtes du Rhône has aided you more than you’d hoped, offered an armour that slinks over your shoulders and drives your fingers to action.  It’s prompted something - started the ball rolling.

(Idly, you think that might not have been a very good idea, but it’s too late to care now.)

“You’re here.”  You being him and him being Jeon Jungkook, hair damp and imposing frame draped in an oversized sweater.  He looks terribly uncomfortable standing in your doorway - more so than he had days ago - hands shoved into the kangaroo pouch of his hoodie, dumb sneakers pigeon-toed as if he’s ready to take flight.

“Y-you asked,”  he mutters, refusing to meet your stare.  At least, you think he’s refusing.  It’s a little hard to focus when there’s this fine film turning everything hazy, the bitter taste of wine heavy on your tongue.  

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

He looks at you like you’re crazy then, though he never quite meets your eyes.  It’s a smart tactic - level you with a look then immediately bounce it away.  It has you coming back for more, eager to refocus his fretful gaze until it’s locked with your own.

“Will you come in?”  You sidestep, give him enough space that he can enter without feeling suffocated.  He still hesitates, takes a second too long in deciding.  “I won’t bite.”

You don’t miss the better promise that comes under his breath.

“So.”  This feels oddly familiar, him backed into the corner of your couch again while you settle across from him.  He hums a noise but offers nothing further.  

This is how it’ll be then.  Fine.  If he wants to be this way.

“You like me.”

He sputters - doesn’t mean to, by how big his eyes go.  He hadn’t expected it to come barreling out of your mouth.  “I—  I don’t—  I didn’t say that.” 

If it were anyone but him, you’d take his reticence as rudeness.  

“Tell me why.”

The poor boy blinks, stares at you full on now.  Can’t look away, locked in the intensity of your stare.  

“W-what?”

“Tell me.”  You sip carefully at the liquid in your glass, swirl it ‘round and ‘round.  “You said that girl wasn’t me but you haven’t made a case as to why that matters.  What have I got that she doesn’t?”  

“You’re serious?”  

“As a heart attack, Jungkookie.”

The brunet swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion.  You think he might say no, outright refuse.  You don’t expect him to start rattling things off like the list lives in his head, answers printed against the darks of his eyelids.  

“You’re funny.  You’re honest.  You speak your mind.”  You don’t mean to scoff but his reasons are so shallow - so easily found in other people.  He must read the doubt in your expression, pushing on to cut you off from doing the same to him.  “Y-you care about people even when you pretend like you don’t.  You’re just as scared of being hurt as I am.”  

For the first time in a long time - in years and years - you feel seen.  As if he’s pulled back the cover of your unpublished draft, memorised the redlines and notes in the margins.  

“I don’t—”

“You have this face you make when you’re proud of me.”  He’s turning his own fingers over in his lap, knuckles white from the strain of locking them together and undoing them again.  “When I do something you approve of or when I make you laugh.”  

There’s something thick in your throat.  

“You make me want to try.”  He clears his own, speaks so softly you have to strain to hear it.  “Y-you make things not so scary.”  

It grows heavier, harder to breathe as you stare at the man sitting across from you.  He’s focused wholly on his hands, too caught up in his words to help the way he plucks at his skin, fiddles with the silver chain that loops around his wrist.

“You know what I need, even before I know myself.  You make me laugh.”  He laughs, an almost choked sound that fizzles and rattles bashfully. “You look really, really good in your work skirt.”  You know the one he means - all black, pencil-fit.  Makes your legs look a mile long, despite the fact that they aren’t.  

You can’t help but join him, a little breathless, with a strange sensation behind your ribs.  Like sunshine on a cold day, filtering past the walls you’ve put up, streaming through the windows that’d replaced drywall when Jungkook had waltzed into your life with his fluffy hair and boyish laugh.

When you speak, you don’t even believe your own words.  They come of their own accord - a defense mechanism.  “I can’t.”

As if he knows - as if he’s got a polygraph going, Jungkook shakes his head, meets your eyes and holds you there with the intensity of his attention.  “Can’t or won’t?”

“I—”

“I’m not asking for the world here.  Just a chance.”  He’s got a peculiar look on his face.  “Don’t you think you owe it to me?”

“Excuse me?” 

All of a sudden, he’s close.  Closer than you’d expect, far closer than he should be.  There’s nothing beyond his expression, the way his eyes twinkle under the dimmed apartment lights as he stares you down.  The scent of his cologne is cloying now, the fading nectarine hint of his shampoo making your mouth water.  

“You kind of ruined my life.  I think this makes us fair.”

You sputter, gasp, make sounds that careen off your tongue and fill the air with nonsense.  You’d ruined his life?  (You’d made it better - made him see the light, you thought.)  You’re working to find your voice, ready to tear into him for this abrupt accusation.

Then he’s giggling, nose scrunched and delight filtering past his teeth.  

“I’m kidding.”  

It feels like whiplash.  You’ve created a monster.  

“But you do owe me, I think.  So why not?”

You only have yourself to blame when you say yes, conceding to his pretty eyes and sweet smile.

Dating Jungkook is easy - as effortless as breathing.  He’s a bona fide dreamboat plucked from your wildest dreams. 

He texts when he says he will and picks you up every night, stamping a kiss to your cheek the moment you’ve clocked out.  He holds your hand and refuses to let go, rubbing soothing circles over your wrist when you’re tired or stressed or annoyed.  He brings flowers to every date - insists on them even when you tell him they’re a waste of money.  He knows your coffee order, has learned the art of the pour over when he wakes up before you.  

You understand now, why he’d stayed with women who were terrible for him (to him).  If you were them, you wouldn’t have let him go either.  Would lock him up in an old tower like your own personal Rapunzel.

(You say that because you’ve been on a Disney movie binge.  He is, unsurprisingly, very into these sorts of things.)

“Open it,”  he pleads, pushing the luxurious pink box towards you.

You stare down at the lid, the Agent Provocateur label glaring back at you.  You can’t help how you laugh, sound bouncing around his bedroom.  “Are you trying to tell me something, Jungkookie?”

Your lover - not boyfriend, because you haven’t had the talk and it’s still new and you’ve never been this careful before - rolls his eyes, pushes the box closer with a huff.  It’s adorable.  

“Just open it.”

You finger the soft bow strapped across the top, play with the neatly cut ends.  You can feel the impatience radiating off Jungkook, feel those pretty doe eyes boring holes into the top of your head.  You take your time even more now, unravelling the ribbon with slow, measured twists of your wrist.  

Whatever you’d expected to find nestled among the tissue paper, this isn’t it.  

You’d imagined he’d be into something feminine, all pristine white lace and scalloped cups.  Something he could brush his cheek against, run his fingers over.  

Tucked within the box is something that doesn’t even earn the title of lingerie, a few flimsy straps bonded together.  Blush pink satin and dressed with buckles, you turn it over in your hands, trying to make sense of the way it all connects.  Surely there’s more to this.  Surely, darling innocent Jeon Jungkook doesn’t expect you to wear just this?

“Do you like it?”  You can sense the eagerness in his voice, that desire he has to please that seems to never go away.  

“What is it?”

“It’s a playsuit.”  

“A playsuit?”  You’re no stranger to experimenting in the bedroom but this— this looks like it’s meant to harness a dog in.  Would it even fit?  Soft as it is, it seems terribly restrictive, made for someone with model proportions and no body fat at all.

He nods, round eyes so bright, so hopeful, you can’t voice your concerns.  “Will you wear it?”

It fits you better than you’d expected.  Or at least, you think it does.  If Jungkook’s reaction was any indication, it’s heaven sent - the perfect gift wrapping for a present he’s been dying to claim. 

The buckles you’d studied earlier - that had taken you too long to strap together - dig into the tender flesh of your hips, the shape of his fingers imprinted along the metal.  He grips you so tight you think you might bruise, left with a reminder of his love for weeks.

“S-so wet,”  he groans, sound dropping into an almost whine as the swollen mushroom head of his cock brushes through your folds.  The satin of the playsuit has been long since tugged aside, stained with your arousal as it cuts into the softness of your thighs.  He repeats the motion once, twice, coats your clit in pre-cum that leaks out of the slit and adds another layer of slick.  “So ready for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You nod dumbly, drool around the two fingers he’s got slotted against your cheek, ring finger pressed down over your tongue.  

“Use your words, gorgeous.”  As if you can, as if you’re not riding the high of your last orgasm and about to come apart beneath his playful teasing.

The palm of his hand meets your overstimulated clit with a sharp smack, the cold of his teeth bared against your neck.  He doesn’t like when you don’t answer - much prefers to make an effort even if it’s indiscernible.

“What did I say?”  

Something garbled comes, a plea as much as a sob.  Another hit lands, just shy of the pearl that throbs with need and pain, landing instead on the sensitive, already red skin of your inner thigh.  He soothes it this time around, massages your own wetness into the roses that bloom beneath his touch.

When he speaks again, it’s so utterly sweet, tender as can be.  The Jungkook you’ve known for months and not the devil in disguise.  

“You like this, don’t you?”  His kisses are searing, laced with reverence that feels at odds with the way he forces your gag reflex, taps his curved cock against your pussy.  “You like what I’m doing?”

“Y-yes,”  you cry, spit pooling past the sides of your mouth, dripping lewdly across your breasts.  The hand cradling your chin is all but drenched, dark ink thrown into stark relief by the way it slides over his skin.  Jungkook hums against your cheek, licks a fat stripe from shoulder to ear.  

“Good girl.”  Two fingers spread across over your heat, pointer and index sliding over your lips.  You’re spread obscenely - can see it in the mirror that rests against the far wall.  Can see how the head of his cock peeks between your thighs, runs the same path over and over with each languid, slow roll of his hips.  “Such a good girl for me.  My perfect girl.”

Your shoulders shake with the effort you put into nodding, throat clenching on reflex when the three fingers in your mouth flatten over your tongue, hold you steady in place.

“Pretty girl wants more, doesn’t she?  Wants me to fill her up?”

He’s teasing you, the bastard.  Dragging his aching erection against your cunt as you writhe against him, desperate.  It’s amusing to him - you can read the delight in the reflection, see it shining bright like a beacon when he pulls his hand away and recentres it across your chest.  Digits tease at the already pebbled buds, swollen and sensitive from how hard he’d sucked them into his mouth earlier.

“Say it.  Say you want me.”

You do, without hesitation, without fear.  You know he’ll catch you.  “I want you.”  

He sinks into you the same instant the words fall, holds you tight against him when your entire body begins buzzing and threatens to do the same.  Your walls feel like a vice grip around him, greedily sucking in his cock as he slams home, ruts into you like a wild animal.  

Strong as he is, he’s weak to the noises you make - the broken sobs that spill off your tongue and make up the prettiest sound he’s ever heard - and how you feel absolutely perfect, wet and warm.  The muscle in his thighs strain, pleasure vibrating up the notches of his spine, setting every nerve ending alight with its ascent.

“B-be mine,”  he returns, practically begging as he spreads you wide, making you take everything he has to offer.  Heart and soul and stupidly huge, perfect cock.

“I am.  I am.  I am,”  you chant, tears welling along your lash line.  They fall when his rhythm stutters, when the heat overwhelms and you’re coming for the third time that night, crying his name like it’s the only word you know.  

They continue to pour, carve trails down your reddened cheeks as you reach nirvana, wait for moment he’s right there with you.  It doesn’t take long - a few more punishing thrusts into your fluttering heat - and then he’s found his bliss, crying into the silk of your hair, spilling inside you. 

It doesn’t happen how you thought it would - a shy question poised over dinner, sealed with a sweet kiss on the way to the car - but it means just as much.  Breaks you apart as it rebuilds you, fills you up as it splits your seams.

You’re his and he’s always been yours. 

tag list.  @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle @shaybtsforever @we-found-wonderland-in-1989 @justanothergirlfromeurope @jalexad @bonnyskies @coffeeismylife28 @haeilove @purplespaceymermaid @sunsetsnsirens-blog @beingbeings​ @veronawrites​ @notmontae97​ @papillonsgf​ i’m really hoping i didn’t miss anyone e___e

[milkyway-writes]

i’m not ready for that s.r.

pairing: Steve Rogers x black!Reader (anyone could read though)

summary: Even though Steve has been living in modern times for a couple of years now, he still finds himself not used to the present, especially when it comes to women. But when he meets you, an outspoken girl who completely embodies the kind of woman “he’s not ready for,” Steve is forced to reevaluate what he wants.

warnings: 18+, explicit language, dry humping, unprotected sex, sex in a hotel room, a small age gap (but not mentioned much), probably some typos and/or bad grammar, disregard for card games and 60′s music

word count: 2,828

author’s note: This is my first time writing a fic! So, tell me what you think and if you’d like more stuff from me. 

After waking up in a world filled with people dressed in unfamiliar clothing, using confusing language, and carrying around these tiny devices they called “phones,” Steve experienced the expected amount of disassociation. He said things which earned him weird looks, struggled to understand modern references, and sometimes secretly wished he could just go back to his own time. 

But if anything, Steve Rogers was determined. 

He kept a notepad to track the new things he learned and reviewed them in his spare time. He made an effort to listen to the radio and watch popular TV shows. Steve even managed to tailor his wardrobe to a certain degree. Except for the khakis. The khakis were essential. 

Despite his acclimation and newfound understanding of the 21st century, Steve still struggled with women. And in all honesty, he doesn’t even feel that open to dating. He’s completely content with simply working and living his life, romance not much of a priority of his. 

But Natasha keeps pushing it. 

“What about that girl from accounting?” she says, “Laura, Lisa…”

"Lillian,” Steve answers, “lip piercing, right?" 

"Yeah, she's cute."

"Yeah, I'm not ready for that.”

•••••

So, when you show up with a total disregard for authority, a smile that could fool the devil, and a snarky attitude all complete with a cute little nose piercing, Steve doesn’t quite know what to do with you. 

Your words are much bolder than any woman he knew from the 40’s. You behave with a certain level of confidence and self-assuredness that it’s impossible to believe that you’re only in your twenties. And you don’t shy away from showing men up, never one to hold your tongue. Steve notices that you don’t mind interrupting people. You seem to get a glint in your eye each time he clenches his jaw after you’ve cut him off. 

Everything about you is overwhelming to Steve. 

Any time he tries to correct you, you scoff, blowing air through your plump lips. Always rolling those brown eyes in annoyance. (It makes Steve want to scream.)

Nothing is ever easy with you. There is always a rebuttal, or some type of teasing remark, or simply a look that tells him “you can’t tell me what to do.” It enrages him. Steve doesn’t think he has ever met a person who could find a way to fight him on every single thing.

Now, as he looks at you standing with your hands on your hips, freshly-manicured nails on display, Steve wonders how he’ll ever manage to get through to you.

•••••

You hadn’t known much about Captain America before you’d agreed to work with him and Natasha when S.H.I.E.L.D. started falling apart. 

You had been working for the agency for a while now, assisting in the capture of criminal individuals as a sort of immunity for your own crimes. Your skills were too valuable to waste, and honestly, they knew you’d escape any prison they put you in anyway. Despite this, you weren’t the most reliable. 

You often took risks, and your youth raised a sort of concern amongst other S.H.I.E.L.D. agents. No one trusted a girl whose main motivation to be an agent was to avoid prison. And because of this, Nick Fury did not bring you on for the Avengers Initiative right away. You needed time to grow, time to figure out your priorities. 

For two years, you focused on your development, learning how to control your abilities and use them most effectively, and in the meantime, you only took on small missions. You were happy with this, so happy that when Fury began reaching out to you with the intent to bring you back on for more advanced missions, you promptly avoided them.

One quiet afternoon, you were feeling the soil of your succulent, trying to figure out if the plant needed watering when you got the call that Nick Fury was pronounced dead. 

Immediately, your stomach dropped. 

Your mind was racing as you rushed to the hospital, hoping that this was all some sick joke. A test. Something Fury had comprised to teach you a lesson. 

Natasha noticed as you stood frozen at the door of the hospital room. Your heart ached seeing him lie there lifeless. 

While you pretended that you didn’t care about him, Fury had always been important to you. He had given you a second chance when you didn’t even think you deserved it. He saw potential in you when others saw you as a delinquent. This grief, coupled with the knowledge that S.H.I.E.L.D. had been compromised, led you to agree to work with Natasha and her new friend, Steve Rogers. 

•••••

Since the beginning, your presence had been an immediate concern to Steve. Along with your untamed attitude, he didn’t like the way you would make hasty decisions that left him wondering if you were still alive. He had to bite his tongue at your stubbornness. And each roll of your eyes pushed Steve further and further to the edge. After a while, he had had enough and pulled you to the side to express his disapproval. 

You stare at him expectantly with your hands still on your hips, waiting to hear why he’s singled you out.

He lets out a breath, “these antics of yours have got to stop.” 

You instantly laugh. Because he has to be kidding. 

It takes everything in him to remain calm when you flash him a smile and saunter away, throwing a “oh loosen up, Captain,” over your shoulder. 

He has to stop himself from watching your hips sway. He catches your wrist. “No. Not ‘loosen up.’ You need to be more responsible.”

“Well you need to understand that I’m not a soldier,” you yank your arm back. “I’ll follow your plan,” you offer, “but sometimes things don’t go as planned and we have to make adjustments,” you say, speaking slowly as if Steve’s a child. 

He steps closer, now towering over your small frame. “Your ‘adjustments’ almost always result in dangerous situations.”

“Really?” You cock your head to the side, “Is that right?”

He narrows his eyes at you.

“So, this is coming from the man who jumped out of an elevator?” Your perfectly arched eyebrow raises tauntingly. “Right?” 

You chuckle as he rolls his eyes. You don’t miss the hint of a smile in them. 

•••••

You do eventually try to be more of a team player, sticking to the plan when you can. You figured you’d be working with them more often, so it was in your best interest to make yourself easy to work with. Your efforts don’t go unnoticed.

Steve is grateful that you don’t pull any surprises when the Winter Soldier makes his attack. The revelation that it was his best friend already enough to throw him off. 

Surprisingly, when Steve decides to go after Bucky, you offer to join him and Sam. Your excuse being that you don’t trust two men to get the job done. 

Honestly, you just didn’t want to go back to your life before. Working with Steve was exciting. He was exciting. The way he’d catch your eyes after you’d say something snarky made your stomach flip because there was a hint of a threat in them.

You enjoyed the way he wasn’t afraid to touch you. He liked to grab your arm and pull you to him when you didn’t listen. He’d once backed you up against a wall when he thought you weren’t telling him the full story pertaining to the mission. And while he was angry, you couldn’t help wondering what it’d be like to have him take you right then and there.

You had come to terms with the fact that you wanted Steve Rogers. You just didn’t know if he’d want someone like you. You were aware that he probably hadn’t encountered many women like you in his past life. 

•••••

While your eye rolls and sassy comments do remain, Steve finds himself enjoying your presence despite himself. The struggle between the two of you slowly morphing into playful teasing, teetering the line between that and sexual tension.

“How’d you end up here anyway?” Steve asks as he lays down an ace of spades. 

You grimace and tuck your king of hearts back into your hand in embarrassment. “We’re on a mission, silly.” You giggle, the diamond in your nose catching the light.

“Mhm very funny,” he says. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

You don’t say anything. The only sound coming from your breathing and the Solomon Burke song that’s playing through your phone speaker.

You hum along as you pretend to search your hand for a card to play. 

Steve nudges your knee. You’re not sure if it’s because you haven’t answered him or because you still haven’t put down a card. 

“You mean how’d I end up doing this? Working for S.H.I.E.L.D.?”

He nods.

“It’s a long story,” you manage to let out.

“We’ve got time.”

You sigh and place your cards down on the mattress knowing you were gonna lose anyway. 

“A while back, I lost someone…someone very important to me,” you say, “and all I wanted was to hurt the people who took them from me.” You glance up to meet Steve’s eyes, “one thing led to another, and I sort of lost myself. I hurt people in ways I never intended to, caused the kind of pain that,” you search for the words, “that I had always been so afraid to feel.”

“I was so blinded by rage,” you shake your head, “I just completely forgot my morals.”

You feel the bed shift, and Steve reaches out for your hand. 

“Long story short, Fury offered me a job. Said I could use my skills for good. And next thing you know I’m going on these crazy missions and catching ‘bad guys,’” you say using finger quotes. 

You sigh, “you must think the absolute worst of me now, huh?” 

Steve chuckles, “no, not at all.” He pauses and his eyebrows crease. “It actually makes me respect you more.”

You let out a laugh, “well then, sir, you are most definitely twisted.”

He shrugs, “maybe I am.”

You notice that he never let go of your hand, and for a second you swear you feel a flutter in your abdomen. Lightly, you slide your fingers up his arm, tracing the veins. He doesn’t move or protest. Instead, he brings his other hand to rest on your knee. You look up at him as his hand moves from your knee up your thigh, gripping you firmly where your shorts end.

Steve looks at you for approval, and when you nod, he pulls you in by your hips and leans in, letting his lips ghost over yours.

You haven’t felt like this in awhile, and it takes a lot of strength to hold back a whine. Steve continues to tease you, only letting his lips lightly touch yours while rubbing circles into your hips under your shirt. Impatiently, you link your hands together behind his head, and when you grasp the hair at the nape of his neck, Steve finally leans in, letting his lips press against yours. 

Almost instantly, you climb onto his lap, straddling him. The playing cards from earlier are hastily pushed aside as Steve scoots back, bringing you with him. 

His hands find your hips again as he sucks on your bottom lip. You softly grind into him, causing Steve to groan into your mouth. He works to control himself. He hadn’t expected it to feel this way with you. So desperate, so needing.

You can feel his hardness through the material of his sweatpants, making your arousal even more apparent.

Steve leans down to kiss your neck. The feeling of his tongue makes you buck your hips, searching for some type of friction. His hand travels up your side and comes to cup one of your breasts. He runs his thumb over your nipple, feeling it harden. 

This must give him an idea as he moves to pull your shirt over your head. He grabs you again and takes your nipple in his mouth. You moan, continuing to grind onto him as his hands cup your ass. At this point, you’re sure that your arousal is leaking through your shorts.

Steve feels completely lost in you, your body setting him on fire and awaking something within him he doesn’t think he’s ever felt before. 

He continues his assault on your breasts as you fight to control your arousal. You feel his cock twitch under you. “Please, Steve,” you say breathlessly.

“Please what?” He mumbles around your breasts.

“I need you.” 

Those seem to be the words he needed as Steve promptly flips you over, roughly yanking your shorts down. He tosses his shirt off as you grab onto the waistband of his pants, urging him to take them off. He pushes you back on the bed, leaning over you. You feel his knee press into your cunt and let out a moan. 

Steve grabs your face, kissing you sloppily, and trails his hand down your body. You nearly grind onto his hand as he places his thumb over your clit and rubs slow circles over it. 

“You like that, honey?” He teases as he rubs you over your panties. 

You nod, biting your lip. 

He grabs your chin, “I said do you like it? Answer me.”

You cry out, “yes, Steve yes,” You whimper, “please I need more.” 

He scoffs, “who would’ve thought to get you to act right, I’d just have to play with this pretty pussy?”

You let out a pitiful whine. 

“Now you wanna be a good girl huh?”

You’re afraid you’re going to cum just from his words when he stops and drags your panties down so slowly that you want to scream. The smug look on Steve’s face makes your face burn. He’s enjoying this too much. 

Once they’re off, Steve settles between your thighs, making you look him in the eyes before reaching his hand down and dragging the head of his cock from your folds to your clit. You moan as he gently taps it against your clit a few times and makes a comment about how wet you are. There’s a hint of a smirk on his face as he lines himself up at your entrance. Steve groans as he eases into you. You wrap your legs around his waist, encouraging him to go deeper.

He bottoms out, and you both moan. Steve begins to thrust, and you’re already so worked up that you know you won’t last long. He brings his hand down to rub your clit causing you to cry out. 

His thrusts become more forceful. Your eyes close tightly, your sharp nails digging into his shoulders. He leans his forehead against yours, “I know you want it, sweetheart. I know you wanna cum.” 

His words shock you but send a wave of pleasure straight to your core. 

“Come on, honey, cum for me.” Steve says as he thrusts into you. Your walls spasm around his cock, causing him to groan into your neck. He never lets up on his thrusts though, continuing to slam into you as your first orgasm ripples through your body.

“You feel so good around my cock, baby,” he brings a hand up to lightly wrap around your neck.

You groan in response feeling your abdomen tighten once again.

You can tell Steve is close now, his thrusts becoming frantic and rushed. You clutch onto him as the sounds of slapping skin fill the room. Your name falling off of his lips repeatedly in your ear.

“Cum inside me, Steve,” you plead, “I wanna feel you.” He groans at your words, and you feel his hand tighten around your throat. You look at him, and his eyes are dark with lust, you feel yourself clench around his length. The look he’s giving you fills you with a primal need. You plead one more time, pushing Steve over the edge. His thrusts begin to slow, the feeling of him filling you up is enough to bring about another orgasm.

You find it difficult to keep your eyes open. Sleep begins to take you, and you drift off with Steve guiding you to lay your head on his chest. 

With one hand caressing the side of your head, Steve stares up at the ceiling of the hotel room, Nina Simone’s voice floating out of your phone. 

“It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, it’s a new life for me,”

“And I’m feeling good.”

•••••

Initially, seeing a girl like you would have made Steve doubt himself.

But now, he knows he’s ready for you as he sits next to you holding your hand as you prepare to get your first tattoo.

[girlfriendsofthegalaxy]

tuesday again 1/4/22

congratulations to everyone in general but me specifically for surviving 2021 bc it cut a little fine there at times. anyway this week we have an inadvertent theme of How Do We Improve This Fucked-Up City?

listening killer queen. may the new year have this much rollicking glam as my favorite queen song

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reading Geiger #1-6 with writer GEOFF JOHNS and artist GARY FRANK uniting with superstar colorist BRAD ANDERSON.

this is postapoc, to me. this is some good cheesy shit that leans all the way into it. we’re in vegas babey! everyone shuttles around in big beautiful tunnels between and under the casinos! each themed casino has a themed boss! they all hate each other! we got some excellent nuclear knights shit! the brotherhood of steel WISHES they were this fucked up! LOOK AT THIS MAP

i am pretty hype to watch the politics and backstabbing play out, with a side of accidental child acquisition.

watching the book of boba fett. love star wars concepts, hate their execution, simple as. i had a number of complaints to make here bc unfortunately i am That Fucking Guy about star wars. i generally have extremely low standards for this franchise! it’s fun to look at and that’s all that really matters. the extended parkour sequence did make me laugh tho- it felt like a very weird way of some exec going “what did kids who saw the prequel trilogy also like? what was cool in aught oh three? parkour? they liked parkour then they’ll probably still think it’s sick now”

[this used to be a super whiny paragraph about how this franchise is never going to be the thing i want it to be]

my fondest hope for this show is that it looks at boba and fixes some shit. for example, if, instead of making him a weird tradcath nevernude incel as per the old EU books, they simply made him ace, that would preserve what they wanted to keep about the core of the character (man who follows traditions as a sort of grief ritual and who simply does not have time for anything that doesn’t get him closer to his goal, which is being the best at his job) and tweak it for the better. sort of an anti-james bond, if you will. i have not identified as ace for Some Years and am not an expert on the #representation the community is currently angling for, but a family of coldblooded bounty killers probably isn’t it? however jango was absolutely aroace and you cannot change my mind about that.

the concept of taking one extremely bad city (mos espa) and making it into something better is literally tailor-made for me, i love that shit. i love seeing people get frustrated at how interconnected everything is and how much tiny things matter. cities COULD be such incredible places to live but they Aren’t. this show is (so far) doing a good job of showing boba as someone who’s pretty good with the small stuff but is having some trouble adjusting his methods and worldview to a larger scale.

two other nitpicky things: i have read so much fic where twi’lek lekkusign was a huge thing (and it’s been established canon for quite some time!) that’s it’s still sort of a shock to see them so still on the screen? we have the technology. we can make those things move. disney is literally drowning in money and i demand better costuming and practical props

also get these fucking boston dynamics cop dogs out of my franchise that i like

playing this section will be changing. i don’t know what it will change to or what it will look like yet. honestly i game way less since i got this job. it is very weird going from my job where i think about bideo james all day to, immediately, on the same pc and desk, play video games. this might be a good sign that i need to get back into phone games, or maybe start playing genres that don’t pop up a lot at work like visual novels? i like games where you can tell a little story about what happened to someone else, and genshin and animal crossing: pocket camp simply do not produce interesting stories for the tuesdaypost. although there is a new genshin update coming that i will be able to play thursday evening, so who could say? maybe this one will be a big fat lore drop

anyway over the weekend at the end of a holiday break where i did zero gaming, i put like fifteen hours into fallout 4, with a dude bc i’ve never played through this game as a dude before. i get startled every time there’s one of those wretched little dialogue cutscenes bc i go Aah! That’s Not Me Or My Standard RPG Lady Character Aelia Laelia! no mods on this run (i hate this also) bc i want to pick up a couple achievements first

here’s my fucked-up sad dad dead wife guy with the lesbians at oberland station. bog-standard dude, his face is completely from one of the presets except i gave him more scars bc why not. not that you can see them but it’s the thought that counts. one of my favorite games within a game is to take absolutely dogshit screenshots of objectively well-rendered games bc this pc can only sort of handle lowest settings.

i am happy as a fucking clam making my little settlements all fancy. i like using warehouse walls for things bc tall and big windows, and i am making a giant fancy bar/restaurant/hotel thing in sanctuary hills bc why the fuck not. no pics of that bc i have nowhere near enough glass yet.

also busted nick valentine out :) what a good quest. what a good man.

making :)

[forzalando]

The Perfect Arrangement | George Weasley | Pt. 1

Pairing: George Weasley x F!Reader AU: Bridgerton!AU Word Count: 2.1k Warnings: Bridgerton spoilers, mentions of alcohol

Summary: As a woman in the early 19th century, you’ve been told all your life that marriage should be your ultimate goal, however, you do not share that sentiment. When the insufferable George Weasley devises a plan that may solve your problems, how can you say no?

A/N: hi friends! this will be a multipart (probably 3-4 parts) George fic inspired by Bridgerton. i’m so excited for it and i hope you all are too :) thank you for reading!

The start of the social season had been, as you had expected, the topic of conversation around the ton for the past few weeks. It was impossible to go anywhere without hearing whispers of who would snag an engagement in the next few months.

Particularly, people had been interested in who the Queen would declare the “diamond of the season”. Your mother was positively convinced it would be you, but you had other plans in mind for your life other than parties and dresses and loveless marriage. However, when the Queen took one look upon your face, she quickly declared you incomparable, as she had done the same for Daphne Bridgerton, now the Duchess, a few years prior, and your fate was sealed.

As a member of the distinguished and esteemed Y/L/N family, and as the eldest daughter, you had a trivial, yet necessary and important role to play, even if you longed to free yourself from it. Your mother and father, as wonderful as they might be, had high expectations for you, and you would not and could not let them down.

Your mother fluffed your hair and primped your dress in preparation of the Danbury Ball, admiring you fondly and gushing about how beautiful you looked.

“Maybe your luck will be as wonderful as the Duchess, her love match was indeed unprecedented but oh so joyous. Do you think your fortune might align with hers, dear?”

“Mama,” you sighed. “I have no interest in a life like the Duchess’s. All the parties, teas, and properness. Besides, there isn’t another Duke for me to marry.”

“I did not mean that you would have to marry a Duke to share her fate; only that you may marry for love.”

You huffed as you turned away from the mirror. In truth, you had no interest in marrying for love, or marrying at all for that matter, but the duty of an eldest daughter was set in stone.

All too soon, you arrived at the Lady Danbury’s spectacular first ball of the season; the sea of gowns and tailored coats causing a queasy feeling to settle in your stomach, and you wished with all your might that anything at all would ruin the festivities.

A glass of champagne was placed in your grasp and you let your eyes wander around the room; Lady Eloise Bridgerton, a close friend of yours, donned a similar look on her face though her mother enthusiastically tried to get her to waltz across the dance floor.

Glancing to your left, you noticed Lord Farley, a rather grotesque older man, eyeing you up and down; his beady eyes causing the queasy feeling to return and for your feet to take off in what could almost be considered a sprint.

When he was no longer in your line of sight, you began to slow down your gait, but a shoulder roughly bumped into yours and an unattractive yelp escaped your lips.

The unmistakable chuckle that followed your outburst made you groan due to your detestation of the man you knew you had bumped into.

Lord George Weasley; a man, nay, a boy, with hair of fire and a wit to match. You had known him for years as you were the same age and his sister Ginevra was the best of friends with your younger sister.

“I want to believe, Miss Y/L/N, that you would not take such drastic measures to capture my attention, but I must say I am flattered nonetheless,” George teased, his hand reaching out to steady you as you recovered from the collision.

“Mr. Weasley, I believe you to know me better than that,” you spoke with gritted teeth as you swatted his hand away. “Besides, there are plenty of young women here that would kiss the ground you walk on. Might you bother them instead?”

“Ah, but where is the fun in that? I’ve noticed that you still have room on your dance card?”

“I always have room left on my dance card.”

You tried to step around George and escape his company, but his impossible height made it so easy for him to evade your attempts.

“Is that by choice or because you’re just so pleasant to spend time with?” he inquired with a smirk.

“Suppose a bit of both. Now, if you would be so kind, I’m quite parched and would love another glass of champagne.”

“Perfect, I shall accompany you.”

George Weasley, you surmised very early on, was nothing but a flirt. You wouldn’t go so far as to call him a rake, because as far as you knew he was an honorable man, but he was also most intolerable with his boyish charm, sense of humor, beautiful eyes…

Yes, you were quite sure that he was entirely intolerable.

“Have you told your mother you have no interest in procuring a husband, yet?” he mused, breaking you out of your trance as he carefully handed you a glass of champagne.

“Don’t call it procuring as if it’s a transaction. And no, I haven’t. Do you think I’d be standing here alive if I had?”

“Good point,” George hummed as his eyes surveyed the room, no doubt searching for the next woman so unlucky enough to be graced with his presence.

“How is your family?” you asked as you sipped on your flute of bubbling liquid.

“They’re doing well, thank you for asking. Work has been a bit hard on Dad but – ”

Before George could finish, a man approached you and bowed; taking the hand not holding the champagne flute and pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“Miss Y/L/N, would you like to join me for a dance?”

You noticed George looking on angrily at the sight before him, probably because his ego couldn’t take the interruption.

“I’m flattered, Lord Rainier? I believe?” When you received no objections, you continued. “As I was saying, I’m flattered by your offer but I simply must decline. I am feeling a bit ill and all that spinning might make me sick.”

“Yes, yes, of course, Miss Y/L/N. Perhaps another time?”

You gave him a small, soft smile and let out a sigh of relief when he walked away. Turning back to George, you urged him to continue. While you held him in contempt, or so you told yourself, you did enjoy his family as they were all simply lovely.

“You were saying, George?”

“Right, work has been a bit hard on Dad, after his accident a few months ago. He’s been doing better but Charlie had to take a break from his travels to come home and help out since he’s the eldest. Fred and Angelina are expecting again, if you haven’t heard. They’re hoping for a girl this time.”

“Maybe if you were more like your brother you’d be married and having children by now,” you teased.

He gasped and clutched his hand over his heart, drawing the attention of anyone near.

“You wound me, Y/N.”

Much to your dismay, you laughed at his actions, devastated that you gave him the satisfaction of knowing he was entertaining you. However, the moment was short lived as another man interrupted your conversation.

“Miss Y/N, I must say you are looking exquisite this evening. It would be a shame for your dress not to take a twirl on the dance floor. Might I accompany you?”

You tried not to groan when you noticed a line forming behind the man currently asking for a dance.

“Actually, Lord Beverly, I’m feeling a bit warm. I was just about to go outside for some fresh air.”

“I shall accompany you, then.”

“Without a chaperone? Goodness, no, please find another young lady to dance with. There are certainly many that would be delighted at the chance.”

You looked around Lord Beverly to see at least four other men waiting for their chance to ask you for a dance, and the thought of making up more excuses made your head spin. You graciously bid Lord Beverly a good evening, and turned on your heel towards the nearest exit.

In your haste, you did not notice George following you into the gardens.

“Well, you sure like to let them down easy,” he joked.

“George!” you cried. “We can’t be seen alone, are you daft? Trying to ruin me and my family?”

“Calm yourself, my Mother is just right there.”

You looked a bit to George’s left and saw his wonderful mother keeping a careful eye on the two of you, graciously leaving the attention of her husband to ensure that none would suspect foolery between you and George.

“As I was saying, it’s awfully obvious that you do not want any man to court you. Your mother will realize well and soon enough of your…aversion to marriage.”

“The only reason you know that is because you eavesdropped on a conversation I had with Eloise. But yes, I have no desire to marry, and I’m quite certain I never will. I’ll have to fight off suitors and think of a million excuses until I’m considered a spinster and men no longer want me.”

Silence enveloped you both as a tear slid down your cheek. You hastily wiped it away, hoping that George hadn’t seen, but of course, you were not so lucky.

“Is the idea of marriage really that upsetting to you, Y/N?”

“All those men, all they want is a woman to wear on their arm and to give them children. That’s what a woman’s life is in marriage. A husband doesn’t care about his wife’s passions, desires, intellect, among other things, and I can’t bring myself to entertain the idea of a life that has no room for my happiness.”

George was quiet; pondering your response and your feelings, when he was suddenly struck with the most brilliant of ideas.

You see, Mr. George Weasley was in love with Miss Y/N Y/L/N, has been for several years in fact. He couldn’t tell you exactly when or why, but he knew that the fluttering in his chest and the way his whole world became brighter when she entered a room meant that Y/N was more than just someone to engage in friendly banter with.

“I’ve thought of an idea,” George muttered, piquing your interest.

“Whatever might it be, Mr. Weasley?”

“Your…situation, can only go away if men were to believe you were taken, correct?”

“Yes, I suppose, only I can’t fool them into thinking that. It would become quite suspicious when I’m seen alone everywhere. And, there’s no way I could ever fool my parents.”

“Except you wouldn’t be alone, you’d have me!”

“I don’t believe I’m following your idea, George.”

“Marry me.”

You choked and sputtered on your own spit, unable to take a breath through your coughs and gasps. George’s hands flew to your shoulders to steady you, helping you to breathe easier and calm yourself down.

“George, you must be joking,” you said quietly.

“I am as deadly serious as I could ever be. Not a real marriage, of course. Real in every sense of the word in terms of legality, but not real as in, well, us together. I’ll spend this social season courting you, and at the end of the season I’ll propose. We’ll get married in a few months’ time, and then we can travel the world, doing whatever our hearts desire.”

“Why on earth would you want to marry me?”

“It’s quite simple. You need to get the eligible bachelors of the ton to leave you alone and you never want to marry because your husband would restrict your freedoms. I, as your husband, wouldn’t dare. You’re not entirely awful, I suppose there are far worse people to spend my life with, even if you utterly despise me, and marriage, real marriage, isn’t something I want either.”

You looked at him quizzically, searching for signs that he’d had far too much champagne or had gone completely mad in the head, but he looked right as rain, and your mind was spinning.

“I find it hard to believe you do not want to marry, after all the times you’ve said you cannot wait to marry the woman you love.”

“Honestly, the woman I love is….unattainable, I’ll put it that way. I won’t ever love anyone but her. I’m also waiting for an answer, it’s not every day you have to have a discussion after a proposal.”

“You’re sure this will work, Mr. Weasley?”

“How hard can it be to pretend to be in love with a woman as beautiful as you?”

“I always knew you were a flirt, but God, do you lay it on thick.”

George looked at you expectantly, almost a glimmer of hope is his eye, but as quickly as you thought you’d noticed it, he looked away.

“My answer is yes, George. Let’s fool the ton, our families, court, get married, and then travel the world platonically.”

“That sounds like the perfect arrangement, darling.”

@theweasleyslut @vivacesole @weasleyclaw @nuttytani-reblogs @theweasleysredhair @hufflepuffbaby9 @theboywhocriedlupin @swellwriting @fortisfiliae @thoseofgreatambition @woakiees @wildfire-whizbangs @gcdric

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[tomurasprincess]

Fairy Ring (Kurogiri x Reader)

Summary: You enter the realm of Faerie despite every instinct telling you not to, in order to save the life of your sick sister. But you make a mistake far greater than you can even imagine when you catch the attention of a truly powerful, dangerous Fae. Pairing: Fae Kurogiri x Reader Rating: Explicit+ Warnings: Fantasy AU. Noncon, dubcon, aphrodisiac, drugging, manipulation, coercion, stalking, yandere. Word Count: 5.5k Note: My entry for the BNHarem Discord collab! The theme this time around was fantasy AU, and I stepped out of my usual characters by trying Kurogiri. The full masterlist can be found here, so make sure you check out the fics from all of  Special Note: Thank you to @thewheezingwyvern for being my fae lore expert, I could not have done it without you. And also for talking me through 7AM induced sleep delirium.

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

This is a mistake, you know this. This is, in fact, one of the biggest mistakes you may ever make in your lifetime, assuming that you live past what you’re about to do. But you know that you have no choice. Your sister’s life depends on it. And for her, you would do anything.

And so with a deep breath, you step into the fairy circle. You feel a tugging at the core of your being before white hot agony lances through your bones. You think you scream, but you can’t be sure as you briefly lose consciousness.

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

It feels like hours before your eyes open again, but in all likelihood it was mere minutes. It doesn’t take long for you to realize that it worked.

You’re in the Realm of the Fae now.

There’s a sense of unreality, a haze that makes you feel like you’re dreaming. Everything seems too bright, colors that don’t seem like they should exist in the real world, and what looks to be a purple mist covering everything you can see.

You’re standing in an open clearing, right on the edge of a large forest. Behind you, there is a large lake that looks so inviting that you just know something is lurking below the surface, waiting to pull you under, never to be seen again.

The forest doesn’t look much better, trees so close together that it feels claustrophobic, making it very hard to see anything that would approach you. You have no idea what kinds of things might be lurking inside, but this might be your best bet to find the specific plant you need to cure your sister.

And then there is the swamp that you see in the distance. The mud looks thick and deep, as if it would suck you right down into it so that you can do nothing but wait to die. The fog is so dense that you doubt you’d be able to see much beyond the reach of your arm, and in the depths of it you see pretty, flashing lights.

Will-o'-the-wisps, spirits that deliberately lead travelers off the paths to their deaths. If you go into that swamp, you worry you’ll never leave, doomed to wander around without ever finding the path back out.

Before you can come to a decision of where to go, you hear a strange whooshing noise behind you. You turn around to see something totally unexpected. A purple opening rimmed with black around the edges appears in the air as someone steps out of it. A portal, you realize, and so this must be -

He’s a very tall, slender being wearing a well tailored and expensive looking suit. But where a human face and hands should be is a swirling purple mist instead, leaving you no idea of what he looks like underneath. He has piercing yellow eyes that seem to bore right into the very core of your being.

“Welcome, human. May I ask what brings you to Faerie? We have very few of your kind coming here, and even less who come willingly.” The Fae speaks in a perfectly polite tone, but you know that doesn’t mean you can let down your guard. Everything and everyone here needs to be treated as dangerous.

“Greetings,” you nod politely. “I am here for a certain plant that I need to find.”

“Hmm, I may be able to help you find such a plant. What’s your name, human?”

Ah, you think to yourself, the very first trap the Fae intend to set for you. You know what can happen when you give a Fae your true name, and you have no intention of falling for this one.

“You can call me the Seeker.”

The Fae’s eyes seem to glimmer with amusement.  “Cautious, are you? Very well then. I am called Kurogiri.”

He parrots your phrasing back at you, which means that it’s not his true name either, and nothing you can use against him.

“If you don’t wish to deal with me, then by all means, continue.” He takes a simple step away before motioning to the forest. “Were you intending to go into the forest? I wouldn't do that if I were you.”

The fact that he is deliberately leading you into a certain direction makes you reconsider where you intended to go. He notices your hesitance and gives a soft laugh. “I am not leading you astray, human. The forest is treacherous, and that you can be sure of.”

You ponder your options for a brief moment, before deciding to listen. At least with the swamp, you know one of the dangers you’ll face right off the bat. With the forest, there is no way to tell what you’ll stumble across. “I believe I will take the swamp, actually.” You give him a respectful nod as you take a few steps away from him.

“Please, be my guest.” He motions you in the direction of the swamp. You keep him in your sights as you walk past, worried that he’ll attempt something when your back is turned. But he makes no move to follow or stop you, and so you turn your back to him completely as you take your first steps into the swamp.

It’s very slow going, as the muck is so deep that you have to stop to pull your shoes out every few steps. The will o'wisps are hovering around everywhere, looking like delicate, beautiful lights showing you the way out. It’s a deception that you don’t let yourself be lulled into, deliberately choosing the paths where it is darker. Your world narrows down to simply taking a few steps, clawing your way out of the mud, looking for the plant you need, taking a few more steps, over and over. But nothing ever seems to change, and you seem to be getting no deeper into the swamp.

Finally, you can move no further, and so you stop to catch your breath. You’re exhausted, sweaty, and covered in mud and brackish water. You find a nearby tree to lean against and close your eyes for several seconds, trying to take deep breaths in and deep breaths out to calm your racing heart.

But when you open your eyes again, the wisps have surrounded you completely. There is no clear path anymore, the entire swamp cast with brilliant purple light as they fly around the area. You try to think back to the way things looked before you took a break, but everything is hazy in your mind.

You’re lost, with no idea which path to take to get out of this swamp, or even go back the way you came. Picking a random direction sounds like a horrible idea, but standing here and doing nothing sounds even worse. So with a deep breath, you pick a path and start to follow it.

Everything seems fine at first, passing through terrain not as difficult to traverse, but it quickly becomes apparent that this was not the correct way when you hit a patch of deep, thick mud and begin to sink in. You let out a startled shout, trying to claw for purchase, something to stop your head from being pulled under. But there is nothing, no way to get yourself out. Just as only your head and raised arms are visible, you feel something grab your wrist and begin to yank.

The strength behind it is unbelievable, and you’re out within seconds and looking at the face of your rescuer. The Fae Kurogiri is very hard to read, but you think he seems to be laughing at you.

“You seem to have lost your way, little Seeker,” he muses as he raises his arms up. You’re surprised when you feel a solid pressure against your cheek, running down along your jawline to cup your face. “Why not simply give in and make a deal with me? I could tell you where this plant is, easily.”

“And what would your price be?” You stare into those yellow eyes, a challenging tone in your voice.

“That would depend on exactly what you’re willing to give up, now wouldn’t it? Let us leave this swamp and we can discuss price and terms.”

Alarm bells ring in your head at his words. There is something very off about this Fae, something telling you that making a deal with him would be to your detriment. Maybe it’s his overly polite tone that seems to hide darkness underneath. Maybe it’s the fact that he is still gripping your face, pulling you tightly against him in a possessive hold that makes you feel like he never wants to let you go.

He must see your refusal in your expression, because his grip against you tightens imperceptibly before finally releasing you and stepping away. He makes a motion behind you, and you turn to see a portal opening up, with a view of the clearing that you came from on the other side.

You make a move to go through the portal before realizing something. Your backpack that you have been carrying with you this entire time is gone. You glance around quickly in all directions until you see the very top part of it sink completely within the muck that almost did the same to you. All of your supplies were in there, including the most important thing of all.

Your food and water.

Kurogiri lets out a deep chuckle at your panic. “Ahh, I see you lost your supplies. I could help you with that, as well.”

Your eyes meet his yellow ones as you narrow them. “You saw my backpack sinking, didn’t you?”

His silence is answer enough, and you shake your head and turn towards the still open portal. You go through it with him close behind and find yourself exactly where you expected to. Right at the beginning.

Remembering his words about the forest, you glance over at the massive lake and the faint sign of land on the other side. Your instincts scream at you that there is something horrific lurking within the forest, but you also really don’t want to swim.

“Before you go, you may want to hydrate yourself. The lake’s water is poisonous for humans such as yourself to drink.”

He holds a water bottle out towards you, and you simply cross your arms. “You must believe I’m incredibly stupid if you think I intend to drink that.”

“You will not believe me, but I am simply trying to help you. I don’t want to see you injured or wanting for a single thing.”

You glance back down at the bottle of water. It really does look good, you think to yourself. And you realize now how very thirsty you are. Would it be so bad if you took the water? You snap yourself back to reality before you can reach for the bottle, taking several steps back. “That is a kind gesture, but I must decline.”

You’re at the water’s edge now, glancing over to the land you see on the other side. You know of too many dangers that can lurk within bodies of water, and you have all but decided to skip the lake altogether when you see it. A beautiful looking flower on the other side, That could be it, you think to yourself, and it doesn’t look too far to attempt the long way around.

You begin to walk around the shore’s edge, not getting very far before your curiosity gets the better of you. You glance back at the clearing to see if Kurogiri is there or not. But he’s already gone, like he was never standing there at all

You turn back and continue to follow alongside the shoreline, setting a slow but steady pace so as not to wear yourself out. You’re not out of shape by any means, but you still don’t want to push yourself overmuch. As you walk, you try not to discourage yourself by staring at the land you’re heading for.

With the sun beating down on you and sweat pouring from your face, you truly begin to regret the choice of not taking the water Kurogiri offered. It could really be of use right now, with your tongue feeling like sandpaper in your mouth. Even worse, you’re starting to feel dizzy, occasionally stumbling forward before regaining your balance at the last second. Things are still fine, you try to reassure yourself, but you realize the extent of the trouble you’re in when you glance to the other side of the lake. You must have been walking for what feels like hours, and it’s not a single bit closer.

You turn back towards the direction you came from, only to have a moment of horror when you realize that you don’t see it. To that side is nothing but open shoreline as far as you can see. How could the land behind you have disappeared completely? You finally lose your calm, beginning to panic as you start to run, hoping that you’ll reach your destination soon. You only succeed in wearing yourself out even further, forced to stop as you pant for breath.

But that’s when you see the flower from earlier, looking even closer than you thought. That’s it, you think to yourself in elation, that has to be the plant you’re looking for. It isn’t so much farther, you could easily make it. But as you begin to walk again, your head swims even more, going completely hazy. You sway on your feet, barely keeping yourself up. When you open them again, there’s a horse standing by the side of the water.

It wouldn’t be so bad, would it? To ride the horse, get the plant, and then get back to the clearing where you started? It would be so quick, so easy. And then all of this would be over, your sister would be cursed, everything would be fine -

You come to your senses seconds too late to stop yourself from grabbing the horse. Well, not a horse anymore, at least not really.

It’s a Kelpie. Travelers have always been told to avoid Kelpie near the water, so as not to be pulled down into the depths. And you just grabbed onto the back of one.

You try and pull your hand off the creature, but it’s too late. Your hand won’t budge and you have a moment to curse your stupidity before you’re dragged into the water. Despite your best efforts not to panic, you still do, accidentally taking gulps of water into your burning lungs as you jerk and kick in an attempt to get away.

You’re going to drown, you think to yourself as you thrash about in the water, you’re going to drown and there is nothing that you can do about it, all because of your own stupidity -

Just when you think you’re going to drown, everything stops. You’re suddenly laying on solid ground, choking and sputtering as you take gasping breaths. You lay there for a few long minutes, simply gathering your bearings before you glance up at your rescuer. You know who it’s going to be, and you are proven correct as you see Kurogiri’s towering form lowering down beside you. He pets the back of your head, as if you were a dog that needs comforted, and coos soothing words at you.

“You’re okay, my little seeker.” He made a clicking noise with his tongue. “You truly should have known better than to try and ride a Kelpie. I can protect you, you know. Just talk to me for a bit, and I’m sure we can make a mutually beneficial agreement.”

You fly up from the ground, wrenching yourself a bit away from him. “No agreement,” you shake your head. “You want something from me, and I can’t figure out what.”

Kurogiri gives a long sigh. “I tire of this game. Things will go so much better for you if you let me help youl. But don’t misunderstand me. You will make the deal, one way or the other. So you may as well give in to me now, my little human.”

His demeanor has become different than before, more impatient and more annoyed. All of the alarm bells in your head are ringing, and you find yourself running towards the forest before he can say anything else. You are instantly surrounded by thick foliage, and as you glance back into the clearing to see if you’re being followed, the Fae and the portal are both gone.

You push through little by little, making your way deeper into the forest. Occasionally you have to make your way backwards to find another way forward, as the way is blocked by trees or thick vegetation that doesn’t quite look right.

You hope the instinct that you’re being led a particular way is wrong. But you have learned to trust your instincts, especially when it comes to the Fae. So when you emerge suddenly into another open clearing with Sluagh flying around, you’re not overly surprised.

You are, however, terrified.

The Sluagh are well known for their sadism, said to be feared by even Death itself. They are skeletal looking, so thin that there is barely any meat on their bones. What skin they have is dangling and loose, and their legs end in talons with razor sharp claws. Their mouths smile at you, filled with rows and rows of vicious, sharp teeth.

And right now, every single one of them is staring at you like you’re a delicious meal, waiting to be devoured. You know it’s useless to run, as they will find you even more enticing if they are able to chase you down. So you simply stay stock still, waiting to see what the creatures do and desperately hoping that they’ll get bored of you and fly away. But of course, that’s not in the cards for you.

In unison, they let out a shriek that sounds like nails down a chalkboard, causing you to cover your ears in agony. At least five of them rush you at once, and you brace yourself for the pain. But it doesn’t come, as the creatures lock their talons into your clothes instead and begin to lift you into the air.

Fuck, you hiss to yourself, you knew this may be suicidal to go into Faerie. You have faced so many of Faerie’s challenges and only survived by the help of one of them, and you knew it must only be a matter of time before your luck ran out. But you had no idea it would end this way, to be lifted up and dashed on the hard ground below. You squeeze your eyes closed when you feel them let you go, and you brace for an impact that never comes.  Instead, you hear the distinctive whooshing sound before and fall into the arms of Kurogiri.

“I did tell you not to go that way, didn’t I?” His voice has a dark amusement to it, and you realize instantly that he knew the Sluagh were there and didn’t think to warn you directly.

“Yes, you did. And your assistance is appreciated,” you say carefully, fully aware that this is yet another trap. You never tell one of the Fae thank you, as they can take that to mean any number of things you’re suddenly obligated to do for them.

“You are welcome, my little seeker,” he chuckles to himself, sounding every bit like he knows exactly what you’re doing. “Will you accept my deal now? I can help your sister if you would only allow me.”

You squirm a bit in his arms, fully hoping that he gets the hint and puts you down, but he squeezes down as if he never wants to let you go. The thought worries you, there is one thing that worries you even more.

He knows the plant is to cure your sister. And you never gave him that information.

“I - I will think about it, if you’ll kindly let me go - “

“Ah, of course.” He sets you down on your own feet, and you finally get a chance to look around. He teleported you back into the same clearing where you started from and keep managing to return to. “Now, about the deal -”

Before he can finish his sentence, you are running in the only direction that you have yet to try. It’s another smaller section of forest that you hadn’t considered because it looked impenetrable. But now you see a way to enter, and you flee there without glancing back. The trees there seem to suck you in, darkness enveloping you. You wonder if he’s still somehow watching you before shaking the idea from your head. That way lie madness, and right now you must run, must hide.

You don’t know how long you run, only that your legs almost like rubber, barely able to carry you anymore. Your breath comes out in gasping pants as your lungs struggle to take in more oxygen. And your head is spinning, most likely from your lack of food.

Just as you’re about to reach your limit, you spot a large, wrought iron gate and a large house beyond. You don’t have any time to consider the implications before you’re rushing through the gate, stopping only long enough to lock it before you reach for your last resort. You’re not sure why there’s an iron gate here, as iron is one of the things that the Fae are joined together in their hatred of. But right not, you don’t care as long as it can protect you.

Just as you suspected, Kurogiri portals to the location just outside of where you stand. But rather than be deterred by the iron, he lets out a loud chuckle as he continues to walk to the gate. Your eyes widen as he gets closer and closer, a sense of deep unease crawling up your spine.

The Fae hate iron, you tell yourself, he’s simply bluffing, he’s not going to be able to get past the gate. And then the lock simply drops away, as if it’s nothing. The gates slowly slide open as he walks through, and there seems to be a look of true admiration in his eyes.

“That was a very good try, my little human. But ultimately, you lose our game.”

It all clicks into place at once. “You - you’re a dullahan,” you whisper in fear. The dullahan are widely feared, and for good reason. They are harbingers of death, and it is said that when they stop, a mortal dies.

“Yes, I am. And now there is nowhere for you to run. Simply give in to me”

You realize you have one single card left to play, and if this doesn’t work, then you are done for. You reach into your back pocket where you stowed your ring before entering the swamp earlier. You hold it up to him to see, and smile when you see him recoil from the gold metal. You turn and begin running again while he’s distracted, only to run face first into a portal he opened back up.

When you fall out of this portal, you are no longer in Faerie. It looks like home, just as when you left it before. Nothing appears different, except for one big thing. Your sister is out of bed, looking like she’s never been sick a day in her life.

“Is that - sis, is that really you?” You whisper in shock at seeing your sister, healthy and happy before you.

Your sister gives you a warm smile as she holds her arms out for you, just like she always did when you were kids. You grin and run into them, giving her a tight hug that you don’t ever want to be let out of.

“I don’t understand, I didn’t actually make a deal.”

Your sister gives her characteristic shrug. “I don’t know either, I just know that I felt something really warm come over my body, and suddenly I felt better.”

It must be Kurogiri’s doing, you think to yourself. You have no idea what you did to earn this, or maybe it was just that he was impressed you beat him at his own game? Either way, you won’t take it for granted. “How long have I been gone?”

“Too long. I was so worried about you, I didn’t think you’d ever come back.” She pulls you into another hug, and you smile as you run your hand down the back of her head. The moment is ruined by the sound of your stomach growling, causing you both to laugh. “Bit hungry, there?” She teases you, and you simply grin.

“Yeah, I ran out of the supplies I took to Faerie and then I lost my whole backpack. I don’t know how long it’s been since I’ve had anything, to be honest.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll get you something!” Your sister runs off the kitchen to grab you some food. “Um, I’m sorry that we don’t have much, but -”

“I know, you haven’t been able to go to the store without me. It’s okay!” You take the simple sandwich she offers you, wasting no time at all before you’re devouring it. You didn’t realize how truly hungry you were until right this second. And this is easily the most delicious thing you’ve ever tasted. You freeze, blood running cold as you hear an amused chuckle from beside you, where your sister was just standing. A decidedly male chuckle.

You look down at the mostly eaten sandwich as you begin to tremble, dawning horror hitting you like a freight train. Beside you, what you thought was your sister has turned into Kurogiri. What you thought was your home has turned into that same damnable clearing.

Despite your best efforts, you were tricked after all. You never truly left Faerie.

And you just ate fairy fruit.

He pulls your trembling body tightly into his as he runs a hand down the small of your back. “My little seeker, don’t feel too bad about this. You did a rather good job of avoiding my tricks. I had to resort to more extreme measures.”

A tear runs down your face as he strokes your body. Forcing you to eat fairy fruit means that you’re trapped here with him now, forever. Completely defeated, you numbly allow him to lead you through the newly open portal, taking you to the house with the large gates. The place where you believed you won this little game, only to realize that he was always one step ahead of you.

“But the gold -,” you whisper, “I had the gold, why didn’t that work?”

He laughs a bit as he kisses you. You’re surprised that he’s able to, but you assume he must have some form of human body underneath the mist. “Not all myths are true, little seeker.”

He takes you into the house, leading you down several corridors until you reach a bedroom. He leads you in, shutting the door behind him. You have only a second to worry before he’s on you. Lips run down your neck as hands come down to grip your ass. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted you, how long I’ve planned this.”

He rips your clothes off easily, piece by piece, until you’re shivering and naked before him. He lays you down on the bed, sliding his tongue skillfully into your mouth and massaging yours with his own. His hands aren’t idle either, tracing up and down your body in featherlight touches that has you writhing.

Everything seems almost dreamy, and you feel very warm. Overly warm, in fact, and it only increases the more he touches you. Your body feels like it’s on fire, your head spinning. You wonder briefly what he did to you, if it was the faerie fruit you ate.

“What did you do to me,” you whine as you continue to squirm on the bed, fire raging through your veins. “I feel - god I feel so hot, make it stop.”

But when his tongue licks up your heated, dripping pussy, you realize that it really doesn’t matter what the answer to that question is. You throw your head back and moan as you try to grind down on his tongue, and you feel rather than hear his laughter as it sends pleasurable vibrations against your throbbing clit.

“Don’t you want me to make you feel good?” He slips two fingers inside of you, curling them upwards and grazing against a spot inside you that has you throwing your head back onto the pillow.

“Yes,” you whimper, sounding more needy than you ever have in your life, “please make me feel good.”

“Your name then, little human. I can’t very well pleasure someone whose name I do not know, wouldn’t you say?”

“But what about yours?”

“You give me yours first,” he sounds so imminently reasonable that you give him a blissed out smile as you nod your head. You make a come hither motion with your index finger and he leans in closer as you whisper your name in his ear, and he gives a contented laugh as he works his fingers inside of you again.

“You didn’t tell me yours,” you whine a bit in protest.

“Mmm, I am Kurogiri, remember?”

You do remember him saying that, but you also remember not believing that to be his true name. But that part seems less important than him working his fingers inside again, and you let out a small gasp as you clench down, only to be left feeling empty when he completely withdraws. You’re about to complain when you hear him unbuckling his belt.

“I would much rather feel you cum around this cock,” he whispers as he sinks into your aching pussy, filling you up completely when he bottoms out inside. You let out a deep groan at the stretch, and the burning sensation you’ve been feeling since you ate the fruit abates just a bit.

And then he begins to move, and desire flares back up inside you. It doesn’t take long for your muscles to tense up, toes curling as you squeal when your orgasm overtakes you. “So sensitive,” he whispers as he simply fucks you through it, groaning when he feels you clamp down around him. “And so needy for me. It makes me want to keep you like this all the time, my pet. Would you like that?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chant as you feel another orgasm building up, “Kurogiri, please keep fucking me, it feels so good.”

”My good little pet,” he grabs your hand and guides it to your throbbing clit. “Stroke that clit for me.”

You instantly obey, moaning loudly as you begin to rub tight circles on the swollen bead. You clench down around him as you cum again, liquid gushing out to soak the bed beneath you. His movements slow as he reaches his own end, filling you up with hot ropes of cum before instantly getting hard as he begins to fucki you again.

You lose all sense of time, only aware of the burning desire, and the twitching and thrusting of Kurogiri’s cock as he fills you up again and again. You can’t seem to stop cumming either, pushed beyond your limits and blissed out until finally all you can do is lay there and take it as he continues to ravage you.

Finally it’s over, and he collapses beside you as he pulls your back into his chest. “My precious little pet,” he whispers into the back of your neck. “I worked so hard to get you where you are now, into the realm of Fae where I could claim you.”

“And now you’re mine. Forever.”

✧༝┉┉┉┉┉˚*❋ ❋ ❋*˚┉┉┉┉┉༝✧

Tags: @ichor-and-symbiosis, @thewheezingwyvern, @vixen-scribbles, @ttamaki, @lildreamer93, @kittygonyan, @bat-eclecticwolfbouquet-love, @daedaep69, @heyybrittannia, @groovydreamertrash, @hisoknen, @chou-maitresse, @shoutogepi, @togasknifes, @kingtamakimurder, @shigaraki-is-my-master, @kittycatkrissa, @dabilove27​, @fae-father, @anxietyplusultra​, @flutterfalla, @angmarwitch, @nereida19, @dabis-kitten, @bakugos-cumsock​, @yumeneji​, @reinawritesbnha​m @sawamooora​, @yanderart​

[ihatebnha]

With the beauty stuff going on here- think Bakugo and Shoto (maybe Shinso?) would comfort their s/o in regards to not entering certain clothing stores? I can't go into a lot of them because all/the majority of their clothes are for skinny/petite women and I can't fit into it. Plus, with all the good looking girls who work in those stores I can't help but compare myself and see the trash I am. Sometimes I get physically sick if I walk into the stores because its so overwhelming. Sigh. Wish those boys would be a comfort, but they'd probably just be awkward or break up wif me. Especially explody boy.

Legend... the only thing that’s trash here is your garbage attitude! I wanna let you know that I’m on the tubbier side, too... so when you say you’re trash, you’re calling me trash, too... and I honestly don’t like that nor do I agree... (and trust me, I hate fitting rooms too... why do you think i only wear pajamas all the time?)

because the truth is...YOU’RE NOT! You just live in a world that favors conventionally attractive and skinny people over everyone else. Obviously it isn’t bad to be either of those things, but we all have a duty to work hard at rewiring our brains to reevaluate society’s sense of beauty (esp since its very eurocentric, too). 

it’s also funny you sent me this because I honestly believe that all the boys in bnha like chubby girls (but ofc they don’t discriminate)! im very genuine when i say that EVERYONE is their ideal type, and i could honestly talk for hours about how they’re too busy being heroes to give a crap about petty things such as looks and weight. 

the truth is, “real men” (and real partners, for that matter) don’t care if you’re heavy, have beauty marks, anything, so therefore... the bnha boys dont mind those things, either. 

plus lmfao... todo, bakugo, and shinso are all actually in my top list of chubby chasers soooo (although im biased and think every character is on that list tbh)... 

none of them would break up with you for your insecurities! They of all people understand what it’s like to be ashamed of things (as Bakugo faces feelings of inferiority, Shinso has his quirk, and Todo’s family is bananas), so they would only want to comfort you if you ever expressed your concerns. 

Not to mention, they all seem like the type to be in a relationship for the long haul... So if they’re already dating you, it means they’re in it FOR LIFE🤞🏻

Which is why, none of what you do could ever bother them... and as for comforting... 

I don’t think either Bakugo, Todo, or Shinso are really going to notice if you don’t want to or can’t go into certain clothing stores. They’re heroes (and boys for that matter💀) with a lot on their mind, so if you mention you don’t like shopping somewhere, they’re just going to assume that you either don’t feel like it or it’s not your style. 

Their heads don’t really connect your insecurities with your shopping preferences, simply because they assume you already know what you like to wear and where you like to shop.

In Shinso’s case, while I can see him picking up on some of your subtleties, such as avoiding certain stores and/or sections, he’s probably not really going to think it’s a serious issue or bring up the topic unless you initiate the conversation yourself, mostly because he (doesn’t want to be at the mall) assumes you already know that he likes your body and really doesn’t care what you wear. 

That being said, when you are in fitting rooms together, he gets pretty handsy even before you start getting frustrated by things. Definitely distracts you from doing anything by whistling at you or grabbing at your thighs and pulling you between his legs from where he sits on the tiny stool they’ve provided... Also probably puts in some effort beforehand too, helping you pick out things that he likes and are more likely to fit in the first place.  

Bakugo is pretty similar to this, as well. With his parents working in the design industry, he definitely has a good eye for sizing and can help you pick out the most accurate things for your body type. He’s actually really useful because you can hold up anything, and he’ll generally have a pretty good idea on whether the style will suit you or not, and if it’s in the right size. This makes trying things on a bit more bearable, as you honestly end up fitting everything you bring into the changing room. 

He’s also good to shop with because he’s probably not gonna let you go to any shitty clothing stores either... So wherever you end up going is probably gonna have better stuff that’s in every size, anyway (it’s literally like 2200 and people have quirks... you can’t tell me stores would have things for literally every shape). The nice thing about this too is that everything you end up getting is super comfortable for that exact reason. 

Definitely can stay pretty serious in the dressing rooms... but you have to be careful because the moment you guys get home he’s gonna be horn-nee. 

Todoroki, on the other side of all of this, is literally motherfucking useless. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be comforting, it’s just he really just doesn’t put the puzzle pieces of your insecurity together AND thinks you look good in everything, regardless... so even if you tried to explain why you hate shopping, he’s just like “but everyone has things they don’t fit?” 

HOWEVER..... the redeeming quality about him is.... HE IS RICH!!! And probably grew up with a tailor, and/or at least a family stylist, so once you’re in with him, he just adds you onto the bill for that, too. Say goodbye shopping, hello to having clothing that fits you shipped right to your door... (and Todo just loves staring at you while you get measured for outfits). 

SO.... sorry for my earlier harshness... it’s just because I love and care about you sooooo much!! as well as understand what it’s like to feel like a freak in forever 21... 

ANYWAY... here’s just some little things I wanted to include, too! 

-

I used to think that Bakugo wouldn’t have a preference for thick girls, but then I saw this tik tok that was like, “my attractive friends always ask me where all the hot and fit boys are.... in these guts bitch” and my perspective changed entirely... I just know a beefy boy like him who has a mean mommy LOVES curves... like you can’t tell me he doesn’t see your belly and absolutely melts... like that shit is straight FAXXXXXXXXXXX no printer... (i also saw a tik tok today that was like, “would you fuck me if i was skinny? and the person said “i would fuck you right now.” and tbh that’s big baku energy LOL) 

Todoroki also definitely gives me vibes where if you’re like, “but i look ugly in ____,” he’s just like, “doesn’t matter, it’s you.” AND YES TBH i cried

AND shinso... god tbh shinso is the guy that all your friends are jealous of bc he’s the one who’s like, “I like my women with meat on them” because he doesn’t believe in skinny culture or diets... he wants you chubby bc chubby just kinda looks more correct.... tbh king shit

[nillegible]

(Part 4 of Stay, the MY time travel fic. Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 )

So much that Meng Yao has seen in his second life has been disturbingly accurate to the memories that he still has of his former life, but the brothel is different. It feels much smaller than it did to a child who grew up there. Appears more garish than he’d seen from afar, after ordering the place to be burned down. Or perhaps these decorations are so like the gilded decor Koi tower that he hadn’t noticed, back then.

Meng Yao walks inside now, for the first time since he fled after mother’s death, dressed in simple gray robes of good make, sword and tassel marking him as a cultivator. His hair is deliberately done up plainly, as different from his mother’s as he can manage it. He does not wish to be recognized here, as her son.

“Please, please stop,” someone is crying out, and a tall, well-built young man – not a cultivator though – is dragging a woman outside by the hair. As Meng Yao steps aside to make way, he recognizes her. Anxin. It’s a new way to remember her face, twisted in fear and desperation, instead of in cruel, mocking laughter.

He lets them pass, and walks into the establishment. Two young girls, maybe sixteen, direct him to a table in the main hall and prepare tea. He responds to their flirtation politely; they’re just doing their jobs, after all; and waits for the Madame to be free.

I bet Father, never had to wait, thinks Meng Yao, but it’s an idle thought. Even his mother had not wanted Meng Yao to be like him, only to gain his favour and the prestige that entailed.

For all that he’s a cultivator now, one of considerable renown even if it does not match that of a Sect Leader or heir of a major sect. He waits patiently for the madame’s attention.

The young women at his sides stiffen into perfect posture, alerting him to the imminent arrival of their boss. “How can I help the honoured young master?” the well dressed, elegant woman asks finally, coming over to sit gracefully at his table.

“This one greets Madame,” says Meng Yao simply. “I am merely here to observe, and perhaps make a purchase.” She’s so practiced that her reaction is nearly entirely subdued, only traces of her glee at finding a customer to buy one of her girls’ contract are visible. Meng Yao pretends not to notice, just smiles, serenely.

“The Young Master is seeking a wife, then? My girls are each very accomplished, and I’m sure he will find one eminently suitable to his tastes.”

Meng Yao just nods, as if disinterested. “If madame would show me the suitable candidates…” then hesitates, carefully. “I am not seeking a wife. My Uncle’s wife has taken ill, and I hoped that if I found him a suitable concubine, there would be less disharmony in my household. I am unmarried, and finding good servants is difficult enough without him scaring the help away with his ways.” He scrunches his nose in faint distaste, and watches the calculation in her eyes.

“This one understands, the Young Master will not be looking for their skills in managing a household, then. There are women to match this criterion as well. Some of my girls are great beauties and will certainly captivate any man.”

“He can find beauties on his own coin,” Meng Yao huffs. “As long as she can perform her duties, who cares what she looks like? Will Madame show me the women? I will decide when I see them.” With such crude, miserly words, Meng Yao has saved himself having to browse through most of the women here, as well as much of the haggling. The Madame would not dare to inflate her prices above that of the prostitute’s contract, for fear he’d leave and just bribe one of his female servants to quietly accept the abuse.

Sure enough, after Meng Yao is settled in a private room, the women suggested to him are significantly older than the young ones entertaining downstairs. The madame excuses herself; there’s nothing much for her to do here, but leaves two clerks to explain the costs of each contract.

Meng Yao reads through them dispassionately, even setting aside Sisi’s contract when he sees it the first time, though in the ‘look again,’ pile, not the ‘too expensive’ one. Finally, he narrows it down to three, and the women are requested to attend them, in the small parlor.

Meng Yao keeps his face averted when Sisi approaches. There’s a sharp inhale when she sees him, and he looks up to catch her eye and quickly shakes his head, asking her to not give it away. Seeming to understand, she falls into place beside her two sisters, and allows Meng Yao to… consider his options. He picks Sisi as if on a whim, and then finalizes the purchase.

*

“Meng Yao?” she asks, when they’re left alone, shortly after. There is paperwork to be completed, and they’re brought tea while they wait.

“Aunt Sisi,” Meng Yao says softly. “It is good to see you again.”

“I didn’t expect… do you really have an uncle in need of a concubine?”

“Jin Guangshan has three brothers,” he answers. “But as I have not acknowledged him as my father, I do not have uncles.”

“I see,” she says. That sharp gaze means, go on. Means, what do you want of me, and it is too suspicious, too disturbing to wait until they leave the brothel to explain.

“I would have bought Mother out, if I could. I dreamed of the day. But she died and… Aunt Sisi has ever been kind to her. You were her greatest comfort, in her final days.”

“Meng Shi was a good woman,” she says shortly. There’s no softness to the words.

“I remembered that Aunt Sisi was an excellent seamstress. There is a shop well known to me, in Yunmeng, and the proprietor is willing to take on a skilled helper. The money is a loan from my Sect Leader, but it will be paid back over a year from my allowance. Aunt Sisi may pay me back over a longer time, we can work out the specifics of that loan, after you’ve settled your living at the shop.”

Sisi is quiet for a long time. “There is a merchant,” she says, “Who offered to marry me.”

“The one with the jealous wife?” he asks. “Does Aunt Sisi believe her life would be peaceful, in her household?” Not that she would even get a chance to live there, but there’s no way that Aunt Sisi could know that.

She doesn’t say anything else, nor does he, while they finish their tea, and eat the snacks laid out. Unlooked for good fortune, at the whims of those more powerful than him had never made Meng Yao feel grateful. He’s not going to expect it in someone else.

“I suppose I should thank you,” she says, only after they’ve left the establishment. He’s leading her towards the docks, to rent a boat to Yunmeng. He has all of her luggage sealed away in a qiankun pouch, though her money is in a purse clutched tightly in her hands.

“Aunt Sisi does not have to,” he says. “This one did not consult you, before choosing this for you. I apologize, for that.”

“Don’t bother apologizing,” she says. “It’s just a lot, without a moment’s notice. But I am grateful.”

“You’ll like Madam Yan, the tailor,” says Meng Yao. “She’s kind.” Of course, Meng Yao can practically see her disbelief; of course the tailor was kind to Meng Yao, a paying customer! What would she be like to an underling, and one with an unpleasant background? But Meng Yao knew more of Madam Yan than just the previous day’s meeting with her, when he’d talked to her and asked her if she needed the help of a talented seamstress who needed somewhere to go. Meng Yao’s skilful enquiries and opinions on the robes that he was having commissioned definitely helped support his argument that he knew what he was talking about, and that if he said someone was skilled they must be, but Meng Yao also knew a little of Madam Yan’s history because her daughter would one day be a Jiang disciple, and Jin Ling would be fond of the Shijie with the lovely robes.

He’s certain that he’s making the right choice, to leave Sisi with her instead of at the brothel, where she’d only face injury, scarring, and heartache.

(And then turn desperate enough to be hired for the most suspect of jobs, of being used in a murder plot, and then locked away for years. Meng Yao had been careful to give her a comfortable life, but he doubts that it was any happier than the lives of the koi in his ponds. He owes her this, even if she does not know why.)

The awkward air between them doesn’t clear, even as they hire a boat to take them the half hour upstream to Yunmeng, nor while they stop at an inn for lunch. He asks her if she’d like to rent a room to freshen up in before she meets her future employer, and she agrees. Meng Yao waits downstairs after paying for the room, returning Sisi’s luggage to her.

While he waits, he wanders between the shops nearby. He doesn’t have much money to spend on frivolities, he’s carefully planned out his finances for the next year to allow him to repay the borrowed sum as soon as possible, but browsing has always been fun. His eyes catch on a hat, scholarly, a bit shorter than Meng Yao’s own preference, and he stares for a moment.

So much ribbing in his previous life, for his height, for his name, for how he was more of an administrator than a son to Jin Guangshan, even during all those years where he was the only acknowledged heir. ‘I’m doing it all for you, Mother,’ he’d told himself, through all of it. Setting his signature hat on his head every morning, like a piece of armor. That everything he did was for his mother… and yet he’d killed so many people in her name.

People like her.

Meng Yao remembers the burning fury of hating being called a whore’s son, of people washing their hands when they touched him, like he was tainted, like the filth was on him instead of their sick, twisted minds. Of being refused a chance to carry his own nephew, shooed away and made to stand apart from the golden heir of Lanling.

My mother is not like those whores, he’d thought to himself, she’s nothing like those filth, and never regretted or repented for his choices until he saw Sisi’s scarred, terrified face among the women he’d ordered to be killed.

The frightened, sobbing women who had been used to kill his own father.

Meng Yao thinks of Anxin’s terrified face as she was dragged out of the brothel this morning. He has no idea what it was about. He doesn’t think it matters. Perhaps they truly would all be better off dying in a cleansing fire than living their sad miserable lives, as he’d reasoned to himself before. That they were deserving of such a death, for how they treated Meng Shi.

All of that… any of that, was easier than the truth.

My mother was a prostitute, and I was ashamed.

Nothing, no temple, no prayers, no statues of guanyin with his mother’s face could ever erase his crimes.

“Meng Yao?” asks a hesitant voice, and he turns around to smile at Sisi. She’s wearing the same subdued outfit she’d worn to leave the brothel, but she’s washed away the sweat from travelling over water on a hot day, and her hair has been redone. She looks like any other woman in the marketplace, though the loveliness of her face is still admirable.

“The shop is not far,” he tells her. “Shall we go?”

[Read part 5 here!]

[novelconcepts]

Hi. I don't know if you do this sort of things and it's totally cool if you don't, but i've seen quite a lot of criticism pointed towards THoBM about it being dry and too domestic, about it being a children's story and long winded and a few blatant hints at it playing to the "kill your gays" trope.

I was wondering if you can talk a little about your own take on Bly Manor and Dani and Jamie's relationship.

I personally found it beautiful and healthy and it wasn't boring or juvenile at any point during the series. I even kinda like the end (in a masocistic sort of way). I honestly think they are one of the best wlw couples portrayed on tv, let alone on netflix but i'm curious to hear what you think.

THANK YOU SO MUCH!

Well, in terms of the bury your gays thing, I have never felt like this falls into that trope, simply because...look, queer people are people. We’re going to get old, get sick, have mental health strain, lose our spouses before we’re ready, because that’s the nature of life. The idea that this can’t be explored in a gothic romance story, a dark tale of loss--the idea that I can’t have this emotional catharsis that reflects what my actual life might look like someday--simply because we’re queer is...complicated at best. I stand by the idea that Dani doesn’t die because she’s queer; Dani’s queerness does not define her, though it certainly informs her character and gives her story a different kind of depth. Honestly, the only way this would have felt like a BYG story to me is if Jamie had died. Which, for a minute, I did think would happen, and I thought, “Great, they did this just for the heartache to make Dani’s life worse.”

And, instead of going that route, they gave Dani a whole lifetime of being in love, being largely at peace, being allowed the agency to live the time she has left to the fullest. That’s not a queer trope, that’s a human story I wish would become a queer trope, ‘cuz lord knows we could use more of it. And they set Jamie as our narrator, our hand to hold in the dark as she leads us through the story, telling us the heart of the whole thing is her love for Dani and Dani’s love for her. I think that’s the opposite of antagonizing your queer audience. I think that’s absolutely lovely. 

(I do discuss the darkness of Dani’s story and why it works for me more over here, if you’re interested.)

As for the rest of it...anyone who is complaining about this show being too dry or domestic or “childish” has already decided not to like it. The reasons for that are their own, and I’m not sure there’s a point trying to argue anybody into liking a piece of media that doesn’t suit them. Some of these people might not like the gay of it all; some just wanted more scares. The show isn’t really...designed for straight scares or straight people who just don’t “get it”, I guess. And it’s okay for not everyone to dig it, although I do find it frustrating when people just heap insults on a product because it wasn’t written “for” them. 

I personally find that this show is tailor-made for me. It’s all about found family and mutual admiration and the kind of respectful, evenly-balanced romance that surpasses death. There is nothing about that I don’t love. I think Dani is an incredible, well-rounded, interesting heroine; I think Jamie is a gorgeous foil to balance her out. I think Owen is an excellent example of non-toxic masculinity, I think Hannah is gloriously elegant and brave, I think the kids are a nice spin on the usual Creepy Children trope. I don’t find any of it boring, because...it’s exactly the kind of story I prefer. I am happiest when conflict is on a human level, people working through grief and emotional baggage to come out the other side stronger. Bly delivers that.

I also am happiest with a wlw couple that is treated with love and respect, allowed to be two people falling in love and staying that way. I love that there’s no biphobia, no jealousy, no unnecessary sniping or cheating like we see in most queer lady ships on television. I love that these are two women who hold each other up, communicate, and fall in love organically. And I understand that there are people--mainly straight people, but not exclusively--who aren’t going to be into this, because they’re under the impression that there’s no intensity or interest in domestic romance. Those people ain’t me. I find nothing at all boring about a well-performed, well-written love story between two people who genuinely like and respect one another all the way through. I frankly would take that every time, if I could. There aren’t enough healthy love stories like this in the world.

But yeah, the folks who aren’t into it aren’t into it, and that’s fine. I disagree with them wholeheartedly, but that’s going to happen. 

[an-exotic-writer]

jimin: sidewalk sugar (m)

[unedited - reupload - will edit soon!] ❝ you met your sugardaddy on the sidewalk? - jeon jungkook 2k16 ► 9955 words // scenario, sugardaddy!jimin ❣ one of my absolute favorites! ;w;

There are days where you love life to the end of time. Everything seemed to be a domino effect of pleasant things going your way; planned itinerary finishing on time, unexpected good news, maybe even a raise in your salary but that’s highly doubtful but a person can hope, no? It’s all the possible good emotions bottled up into a day, the span of twenty-four hours oozing with nothing but smiles and giggles. Those days are what you aim for the most, or at least, try.

Today was not one of those days.

Today was really not one of those fucking days.

Getting up late for work even though you set two alarm clocks? Yeah, those tiny pieces of shit decided to spell out fuck you in numeric because you got up an hour later. The regular bus you took seemed to be late and there was no way in hell you would make it in time for your first class. That would resort to your second class but hey, look who decided to trip you and spill coffee all over your notes? Ah, this is also a giant middle finger shown from God when a random passerby decided to help you and fuck me man, he’s gorgeous.

It’s already bad enough that the notes you’ve spent so hard had brown splotches and even if you wiggled them out, it’s going to take a ton of writing to make up for the loss. You try not to cry, simply because you get emotional when things get tough and hey you’re human, it’s normal. But when so many things are falling out of your way in just the beginning of the day, might as well set yourself on fire. The stranger that bumped into you hadn’t even had the guts to apologize just as he tries to scurry himself up and make a dash for it.

You would’ve let him go, because if you saw his face, you’d remember his face structure and made sure you’d add a little extra in his drink if he ever walked into the coffee shop you worked at. But another voice seemed to caught him down for you.

“Hey. I believe you owe this lady an apology,” At the authoritative tone, you down your guts about to throw up, tilting your chin up to see a man clad in a suit, tailored to perfection wrapped around his slim figure was the owner of that sweet, honeyed voice that sounded so powerful as each word fell from his mouth. You gape, aware of the stares you’re getting because this is a bloody sidewalk where at this time it’s the most packed that you naturally reach out to tug on the hem of this… stranger’s pants. You’re trying not to stain his attire because it looks too expensive for your ass to cover that but you give your best, “D-Don’t, it’s fine…”

The handsome stranger lets the other stranger go, growling a beat it before he lets him scramble off while you’ve gone back to gathering your notes. When you see that another set of hands help you out in picking up the sheets of hand-written notes, you realize you’re not alone. As you reach for the last one, he does the same and your hands brush against each other. He gasps and stops, only for you to snatch it before mumbling a soft thanks. He gets up, offering you help as well and where in the name of God did he come from?

He carefully hands you back your notes and smiles at you in apology despite this not being his fault, or his business to begin with. His black hair mused as if someone had just ran their hands through them, dark, round eyes disappearing when he smiles, lips soft and pink as they radiate warmth to seep in your veins, it’s difficult to keep eye contact when remembering your current state.

Your white blouse is now half brown, black pencil skirt coated with a thin layer of the remnants on the pavement and let’s not even begin with the marks on your kneecaps. But none of that is compared to the look on your face as you bite down on your lip, staring at your hours of hard work now flushed in the drain. In other words, a large cup of black Americano from an asshole.

“Hey…” His voice is still sweet, this time dropping to lukewarm as his hand graces over to your shoulder, trying to comfort you when the tears well up in your eyes, “A-Are you okay…?”

Managing to look at him in the eye, you nod and smile despite the single tear straying down your cheek. As his eyes look painfully immersed in the emotions of your own, of how he frowns and the lines crease his forehead, he intends to say something about you lying. But you soon correct yourself with the shaking of your head, hanging your head low, “No,”

Even saying a word with one syllable was hard and it makes him sick to his stomach.

He brings things to his own hands, moving the one from your shoulder to use two fingers to tip your chin up so he can look at you properly, his smile appearing once more, “Is there any way I can help you?”

With an intake of air, it fills up your lungs and your mind of what you should do but what you really do instead as you wipe the remaining tears that fall from your eyes. He acts quick, fishing out an ironed and nicely folded handkerchief that carefully swipes your tears away. He quietly tugs you to the side, to avoid walking traffic and when you’re at a safe distance by the wall, you lean against it and he doesn’t like how you look like one of those nice people who just gets shitty things happening to them.

“Really, let me help you. Whatever it is, I’ll try,”

Initially your plan was to comeback with a snarky comment like why the fuck do you care but upon meeting his eyes and seeing how genuine they are in helping, you can’t. He looks like he donates half of his earnings to charity and with that, you’re not about to treat someone else like shit because your day got started off the wrong way.

“Unless you can miraculously make my notes clean or my clothes, I don’t think so,” Shaking your head at his incredible hospitality, you gently put his hand away from your cheek, “But on the other hand, I appreciate it. Thank you,” You give his hand a light pat as it falls to his side and gather every ounce of selfesteem left in you to turn on your heels to start walking away. Not even halfway through this coffeeshop to your right, his voice that you seem to recognize calls for you with—“Wait!”

You do stop but you’re not expecting much until he jogs around you, reappearing before you again. He catches his breath and then says past a heavy exhale, “I can help. Well, only half of that but… do you trust me?”

If he’s thinking this is one of those movies where you’d just gladly accept his hand and run away to the sunsets, man he has another thing coming. Raising a brow at him, you take a step back, to which it deflates his confidence but he doesn’t let it show.

“I… I just met you. And I don’t even know your name,”

He laughs, and the way he laughs completely strikes your heart to the heaven’s at how beautiful it sounds. His head tips back because apparently, you’re a comedian and yes hi hello, you’re hilarious as fuck but no. He leans forward, stretching his arm and hand to you once the laughter dies down. He’s smiling once more, not offended or affected by your response but he is rather impressed. Many your age would be smitten by looks and grabbed by the hook but apparently, there’s still hope left in society.

“I’m Jimin. Park Jimin,” From his eyes filled with sincerity to his smile curved to kindness, you relent and manage your things in one arm, extending the other to place your hand in his. Automatically he curls his fingers around yours, feeling the grip of warmth clutching onto you as you shake his hand lightly, “Y/N. Just Y/N,”

“There, now you know me,” He lets your hand go, to which you go back to clutching onto your notes as he smiles at you widely, “Now, do you trust me?”

Oh what the hell.

With a small smile, you nod, bringing a wider one to Jimin’s lips, “Yeah.”

//

“Um… where are we going?” You only ask now, after seated in his car (which is a fucking Mercedes Benz, one of the limited editions in jet black) as he drives you downtown and once seeing high rises and luxurious lots, you’re certain this part town is none of your favor. “Just somewhere I’m regular at,” He answers with a hint of amusement, taking a side glance to notice how your eyes are glued to what’s outside of the window. The gape you have as your eyes ogle at the sight, he’s certain you’ve never been to this side before. Or you have but never gotten the chance to linger around.

He takes it as you’re done when you close your mouth at the stop he pulls in front of a boutique. Stained glass just for class, the clothes they present out by the line of the sidewalk, it scares you how expensive it must be to even stand in there to breathe. Jimin makes himself known when he opens the door for you, not knowing how to function properly until he offers a hand for you to step out. Once on your feet, you rely on him to lead you into the shop with his hand in yours.

The bells ding upon arrival, stepping in and automatically, there’s a man clad in a striped suit, similar to Jimin’s, the pattern only distinctively different from his. He’s taller, of silver hair combed back and a dimpled smile shining your way when he walks around the counter, “Ah, Min. Brought a lady back, I see,”

Jimin only chuckles, grip loosening on your hand as he steps forward to offer whoever this is a hug and—“I’m Namjoon, Kim Namjoon.”

“Y/N,” You manage softly, reaching to shake his hand and everything else that happens after leaves you in a daze. With the snapping of his fingers, there’s a lady coming out—high waisted skirt, pretty peach blouse with her hair in a nice bun with a few allowed strands by the side of her face, she takes your measurement. There are no words exchanged as you stand there, like a doll for her to dress up. As she steps away with a measuring board, she clicks away back into the curtains.

Gulping, you turn to look at Jimin, who’s seated on one of the black leather sofas and he smiles at you, motioning you with a hand to follow her. You’re about to protest, something like I can’t afford this but when he looks so confident, as if he knows what you’re thinking, you relent and stalk behind her. Past the curtains there’s already a row of clothes by the side, a mirrored wall that puts emphasis that this room might be bigger than you thought. The lady earlier smiles at you and picks out something that might match your taste and true enough, it does.

It’s a nice white dress shirt with sleeves that curl around your wrists with lace. The buttons are of gold with white thread and the pencil skirt she picks out almost looks like the one she has on but this is in your size, fitting right above your knees. She gives you privacy to change and just as you slip on the skirt, she steps around your discarded clothes to reach behind you, zipping you up before you can do it yourself. With a grateful smile, you look at her over your shoulder, “T-Thank you,”

“You’re welcome, love,” She winks, picking up what you should be and before you can take it back, she frowns at you, “Um… I don’t think this is worth saving. Even with the quality of cleaning products we have, it might not work,”

She notices how you’re attached to it because that’s my favorite… but you’re quick to shake your head, brushing it off with a small smile, “I-It’s okay, then…”

“Are you sure?” She wants to confirm she has your green light and when you nod once more, she disappears and goodbye, half a month’s worth of paycheck. You come to realize there’s no time to sulk when a voice startles you from the other end and in this case, it’s not Jimin. Smoothening your hands down on your clothes, it feels so foreign, a little too expensive but you like it. Turning around, you nudge the curtains aside and come face to face with Namjoon, who grins, “Looks great,”

Grinning back, you step out to follow him, “Thanks,”

As he leads you to the counter he stood behind not too long ago, filling out a card for you to take. “If you need any other assistance in the future, bring this back,” It has your measurements and whatever it is to tailor to your needs and you blink at it before taking it carefully, “Thank you but… I don’t think I’ll be coming back,”

Noticing it came off wrong, you shake your head and almost crush the card out of nervousness, “N-Not because the selection here is bad! Because, um… I don’t have the money…”

“Well, with Jimin, it’s off the house,” Namjoon says smoothly, folding his arms and leaning forward to eye you with curiosity that has you growing conscious with how you look, “By any chance are you younger?”

“Than Jimin?” Namjoon nods. “I guess? I’m not too sure—“

“Is he your sugar daddy or something?”

Gawking at his assumptions, you now know Namjoon’s not one to sugar coat his words. Finding your words, they fly out filter before you can hold yourself back, “I wish he was,”

“Wish who was your sugar daddy?” A voice pops up from behind and you watch as amusement fills Namjoon’s eyes, belittling you as he smirks and stalks off to the side, gone as he walks past the blinds. Gulping, you turn around carefully and offer him a crooked smile, hands behind your back, “Um…”

He steps forward, closer and closer until he’s in the personal of your space. His hand reaches up, putting strands of your hair behind your ear as he hums for an answer, “Hm?”

“You. But we were just kidding and—“

“Shame, I’d actually take it up,” He coos, finding that you’re not all as you seem and he likes it. Jimin likes it a lot. With his hand, he carefully strokes your cheek and then puts his hands back into his pockets, shrugging at you, “And, you look beautiful,”

“Thank you—thank you but, Jimin, how much is this? I don’t know how long I’d need to take but I’ll pay you back and—“

“No no, it’s my treat, don’t even talk about it.” He shakes his head, tutting at you in the process as he reaches down and holds his palm up. You quietly place your hand after a hushed thank you and Jimin doesn’t think he’s heard anything more sincere in his years of living. Once you have your hand in his, he holds onto it and leads you back out to his car. Neither of you say a word until closes the door of his side of the door and the both of you are inside the vehicle. Anxious, you don’t say anything, keeping your lips shut and only answering him when he asks where do you need to be?

After giving him the name of the university you go to, he seems to be interested, questioning as soon as you strap your seatbelt and he revs the engine, “Final year?”

“How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess.” He snorts, and after that, the rest of the drive is quiet. (but really, he managed to see one of your notes with the hint there)

//

When he reaches just a few blocks away, you manage to place a hand on his shoulder, gaining his full attention, “J-Jimin, you can stop here. I’ll get off,” You take your seat belt off, only to let Jimin hold you back when he does pull over but he keeps the door locked. Unable to open, you look over your shoulder to frown at him, “Jimin…”

“Why not at the front?” He questions, only to have you sighing as you shake your head, “I… I don’t want people to get the wrong idea. I’m sure, for a person like you to be driving a car like this, you’re in no position to be associated with me and just—“

“I don’t care,” He cuts you off, causing you to suck in a breath when he leans over dangerously close and you swallow the lump trapped in your throat, preventing any words from slipping past, “J-Jimin…”

“I’ll drop you off in the front, yeah? Take it as part of the ways you’re repaying me,”

“P-Parts?” You squeak, and Jimin doesn’t answer just yet, chuckling with that beautiful voice of his as he takes advantage at the green light, getting his car back onto the main road as he drives past the remaining blocks. Once reaching the front gates of your university, he doesn’t let you get off just yet.

“How about some dinner tomorrow night? Down at The Grand Marlin at seven?”

Trying to remain calm, you see if you’re on the same page as he is, “A-Are you serious about the whole sugar daddy thing…?”

He raises his brows and lowers them down, an act of teasing you as his voice spells out—“I am if you are,”

Biting back a smile, letting out a shy one, Jimin unlocks the door for you to open the door, in which you get out of the car without a word. He doesn’t know if it’s a good sign or a bad sign but he does know he appreciates the way you rake your hands through your hair, sparing him a grin as you murmur just for him, “See you at seven.”

//

The rest of your day had been better than you had expected. You pass the presentation with a grade that your lecturer seems to be pleased with, lunch was paid for by your friends and tonight your boss called in saying that your shift was taken over by a co-worker, so you need not come in. But this is where everything starts to sink in at the thought of Jimin when you’re reaching a friend’s dorm. Considering you live just next door, you decide to pop up because you need help.

“Wow, who the hell did you rob to get that?” Taehyung’s eyes grow wide, simply because he’s one of the few who knows of your dealings to earn money and there was no way you’d spend for another attire like that when it’s your last year in this hellhole. You laugh and step in, giving him a quick hug before you reach the sofa. He doesn’t let up on it, taking the seat beside you, looking at you dead in the eye, “I’m serious, Y/N. Who did you kill?”

“I’m about to tell you, alright? Jeez, let me breathe,”

He waits until you take three inhales and two exhales and that’s when he shakes you, “Tell me!”

“I don’t think you’re going to believe me,” Your voice is shaky, the same time you drop your bag to the side and he scoffs a laugh, rolling his eyes along the way. He brushes his brown hair back and leans against the arm of the sofa, grabbing onto a pillow to hug and tossing you one, “Please. I think after what happened with Jungkook, I believe everything is possible now. Try me,”

“I… got myself a sugar daddy. Or at least, I think so…?”

“Woah, okay, okay,” Taehyung takes in your words, the new information digesting in his system before he—“I was not expecting that. The closest I thought you would get is friends with benefits but a sugar daddy? Who the fuck begged on their knees to get fucked this time?”

Before you can answer, the hollering down from the hall has the both of you flinching, “Who got a sugar daddy?!”

Taehyung groans and tosses his head back, glaring at the face popping out and now seated by your other side, looking over your shoulder in excitement.

“Fuck off, Jungkook. She was just about to tell me!”

“Us,” He corrects, “Now proceed,”

“His name is Jimin and I met him earlier today by the sidewalk and—“

“You met your sugar daddy on the sidewalk?”

“Yes, Jungkook I met him on the sidewalk where the fuck do you think I was supposed to meet him? A five star hotel?”

“That would’ve been more believable,” Taehyung muses and Jungkook snorts, “I know, right?”

“Anyway,” Your voice is loud enough to get them to shut up and luckily, they do. “We’re going out for dinner tomorrow night and I don’t know what I should do,” Letting out a sigh, you look at the both of them, back and forth, “Help me?”

The both of them decide not to poke fun on this too much, Taehyung thinking of something to say, something not stupid but Jungkook’s faster, being the quick thinker. He places a hand on your shoulder, making you face him and Taehyung raises a brow to what he might propose, “Set rules of what you want. Like, what you’d do and what you wouldn’t do.”

“Ah, make sure he’s clean, too! Get tested. Together. Or not, up to you,”

“Make sure he signs it, too. Keep it valid and—“

“If you don’t enjoy it, call it off. The rules are there to validate what you’ve agreed to. If anything, we’re on your speed dials and—“

“Could you please the ever loving fuck stop cutting me off?” Taehyung hisses, to how how manages to smack his boyfriend over your shoulder and you bark with a laugh, leaning back on the sofa with your arm clutched onto the pillow, pressed to your stomach, “Oh my god,”

“I’m trying to make sure her sugar daddy doesn’t take her for granted! Most assholes are like that nowadays!”

“We don’t even know who he is!”

“Exactly! That’s why we need to be careful!”

“Oh, Y/N, I know just what you should wear,”

“Fuck me, why are we dating?” Jungkook groans, leaning back and giving up on saying anything while Taehyung hops off the sofa, patting your head and sparing a kick to Jungkook’s shin, “Shut the fuck up. You were the one who turned gay for me,”

As Taehyung scurries off to retrieve what he has in mind for your date, you only laugh at Jungkook’s reddening cheeks and snarky words, “Bitch! I’d turn gay for myself!”

//

There are perks when it came to having friends who are in the fashion designing course. They’d make lovely clothes with such detail that makes your eyes double over at what Taehyung had to offer you. It was one of his final projects, to which he had you model in a year ago and now, it seems like it paid off. What took him a month of planning and two weeks of execution (Jungkook almost getting a black eye for spilling soda on the fabric and him needing to reorder another roll of silk), now it fits like a glove.

You make an effort to do your make up, your hair and picking out one of your favorable shoes that wouldn’t be death to walk in. Heels are the way to go so you chose the ones you liked most. As you reach the place he’s talked off, you’re sure this is it. And boy oh boy, it’s as grand as the name itself. You’re not too sure if you know who you’re dealing with but now you most certainly do. As if yesterday wasn’t enough, this is ten times more.

The waiter smiles at you just as his co-worker opens the door for you to step through. He smiles at you and flips open his book, pen in his hand, “Hello there, miss…?”

“Y/N,” You answer, trying not to stammer and before you can mention the name you’re here for, he already gets it, “Ah, wait here. We’ll have someone show you the way,”

You try to process what’s going on, blinking at him, “I-I’m sorry?”

“This way, please,” Another voice calls for you and you try to keep up, earnestly not tripping over your heels as you walk, purse by your side (Jungkook got it during some trip, one for you, one for Taehyung). He brings you away from the big crowd, heading straight for what seems to be a private room and your heart stops when he opens the door, revealing Jimin inside looking like a fucking model that stepped out of a magazine.

He decided to drop down on his usual clothes, more for comfort but stylish nevertheless. In contrast to his black dress shirt and white coat, it’s replaced with just a white dress shirt, buttoned up to his chest, revealing enough skin and all the way down, jeans does justice to the curves of his bottom when he stands up to greet you. The waiter leaves the pair of you alone, closing the door and you step in, making your way towards him with your best not to fall over.

You reach him in time before you can make a fool out of yourself and his smile is so wide, his eyes are gone. As he puts an arm around you for a quick hug, you settle down first when he pulls the chair for you, then in as you lean forward. After a soft thank you, he’s in front of you now, on the opposite end with his eyes never leaving yours.

It’s like he’s full of surprises, much like you as a mirror and he’s not afraid to show he’s in awe with the way you look tonight. The white dress compliments your skin, the way it hangs on your shoulders and exposes a part of your back when you look around, a preview of what you have on and he knows you know when you smile back at him.

Before anything else can go on, he pulls out the menu and smiles, again, “Shall we order first?”

Taking the menu you have in front of you, this is the first time you’ve been here and you’re not too sure what to order. Blinking at the words you’ve never quite called out before, you look up to Jimin with a nervous look, “H-Hey, um… I’m not too sure what to order…”

“What do you like?” He questions, tipping his chin up, only to hear your answer of, “I like a lot of things,”

He laughs, but tries to get an answer, a narrowed scope of what he should suggest, “Any allergies?”

“No beef, no peanuts,”

“Seafood?”

“Surprise me.”

Jimin decides to do exactly that when he calls for the waiter with just a bell by the side of the table. On cue, a man walks through the door, the one that guided you here and he stands by Jimin’s side when he motions him over. Jimin orders the serving for two of lobsters, a side of oysters and what seems to be the special on the appettizer platter. He sums it all up with a nice bottle of white wine, in his favor of the year he specifies. When the door opens and closes once more, you’re left to folding your elbows on the table, keeping your eyes glued on him. He seems to take interest to do the same, raising a brow, “Yes?”

“How old are you?” The question slips out before you can stop yourself but Jimin doesn’t seem fazed. He chuckles and shakes his head, fringe brushing over his eyes as he answers, “I’m four years older than you. And you, for someone who’s quite hesitant to enter the boutique yesterday… you have quite the taste in clothes,”

Leaning back in your seat, you cross your legs and put your purse beside you, “My friend’s in the fashion design course. Considering I helped to be his model, this was something I could fit in to borrow,”

He rests his chin in his palm, finding the time to be cheeky, “With a face like yours, I would believe that you’re a model,”

“Dropping compliments now, are we?” You tilt your head at him and he shrugs, sighing, “What can I say? It’s in my nature,”

“Oh really? What do you do for a living?”

“Straight to the point, aren’t you, baby girl?” He coos, much to the pink blushing your cheeks and he chuckles as you clear your throat. “I work at a logistics company that belongs to my father—inherited and now running under my own hands. I juggle with that along with being a model sometimes, if Namjoon’s that desperate,” Squinting your eyes at him out of being playful, you tease, “Aren’t you a little successful?”

He snorts and moves his hands, resting them on his knees as he tries to remain humble, “One of the top young business leaders to enter the scene but it’s nothing, really,”

“Interesting,” You nod slowly, a smile playing on your lips and it’s his turn to flip the coin, eyeing you with certain curiosity that fills his cup, “What about you?”

“What about me…” You repeat his question, finding the easiest way to answer his question as you look up to him, “I’m currently in my final year. Scholarship on one of my two majors. Balancing two part time jobs and one side job while trying not to die halfway of finishing what I need to do to get my education,” Jimin’s mouth opens to say something, but you beat him to it, “Which reminds me,” He falls silent at the zipping of your purse and when you pull out a piece of folded paper, he only unfolds it after you slide it over and get him to read it.

It’s a typed out set of rules he has to agree with and he’s not going to lie, he’s impressed. Even with the whole ‘should I not abide by, any legal action should and would be taken upon’ and continuing on to what could happen and the consequences along with his spot to sign. He reads diligently and that’s when you know he is serious and he’s careful with everything he’s putting his signature on. Initially, there should be no flaw. But when he hands you back the paper, you notice the correction he adds in.

Frowning, you look up to him, “J-Jimin, no. I don’t need—“

“Either that or not at all. You decide,”

Seventh: Personal tutor… and gifts.

“What if I don’t want gifts?”

“What if you do?”

He sees that you’re not budging and that’s when he brings up to—“How about we leave that to be negotiable? The tutor thing, I agree.”

Biting his bait, you nod, taking out a pen to sign your name down, “Fine.”

Jimin does the same, with a smile and a fountain pen, “Great.”

Then there’s that—it’s done.

Well, and dinner is served.

//

Once full and sweetly taken in the dessert Jimin calls for after knowing your liking for ice cream, that’s when the bottle of wine comes down to nothing, empty as it clinks on the table and Jimin’s looking at you like you’re the first woman he ever saw. You refuse to let go of eye contact, a little hazy with the alcohol infused in your veins but it’s not too much where you miss the hint of arousal pooling in his eyes.

“Shall we head back to my apartment?” His voice is husky as each word grates past his throat and whether it’s him making you feel hot and bothered right now or the wine, you don’t know. You don’t care. “Yes, god, yes.”

//

During the ride back to his place, he does the little things that make your heart race even if you think it wouldn’t. He has a hand on your thigh, soft and gentle as he rubs his palm over the silky material of your dress. The low rumbling from the radio does nothing to calm your erratic heartbeat but when Jimin ever so casually spares you a glance every now and then, it seems to have an effect on you to calm down. He smiles at you and if that wasn’t enough to set your heart to a flight mode straight to the sky, you don’t know what is.

You hadn’t realize you’ve reached the destination until Jimin makes a move to give you a squeeze with the remaining hand on you. Flinching, you turn your cheek to come eye to eye with him. Since when did he lean in so close? His breath hitches but he doesn’t make a move. Instead, he gives a nudge with a light line over the tip of your nose with his own, his voice coming out in a soft whisper of air, “We’re here,”

Gulping, you regain composure and place your hand on his, giving it a nudge to have his palm slipping away and he catches the hint of skin that shows as the hem of your dress slides up. He’s certain he knows what you’re doing to him when you sway your hips with an extra twist as you stand up. His brows perk up but before he can savour the tinge of tease you’re seasoning him with, he gets a grip on himself, scoffing a laugh as he watches you get out from the car with minimal effort; standing in heels before you toss your hair over your shoulder as you look over it with a cheeky grin, as well as making his heart thrash from left to right with hard beats.

He’s following your cue to get out and he wraps his hand in yours naturally that it makes your head spin, dizzy from how tonight is filled with circles connecting one another to complete perfection. It’s more than you can ever ask for and for a brief moment, walking with him into the building with his smile curved up to please, you almost forget the initial reason why you’re here. But you can pretend for a while, right?

To be frank, you were rather nervous. Despite guidance from Taehyung (a hint of sass from Jungkook) and the preparations taken with the rules sealed down, it was hard to keep calm. Sure, you’ve had sex before. Getting paid and offering your body in return after? That was something new. Still, you keep to your youth and your will to show him you’re one hell of a surprise to begin with. And it seems like he’s on the same page without words when the both of you step into the confinement of his apartment.

From the dark walls with the pure white leather sofas lined up, your jaw drops. The chandelier hangs beautiful in the middle, dazzling lights twinkling as the moonlight glistens around the diamond carvings. The choice of white tiles is perfect with the slick, black marble tables of his choice—a square coffee table directly below said chandelier, lightbulbs hanging through the column of the corridor down to where you exactly think it leads to.

You had braced yourself for his place to look expensive, extravagant even but not to this extent as the splashes of gold compliments the black almost every corner you turn to, which is pretty much really. Jimin lets out a soft chuckle as he stares at your reaction. After putting your heels aside and closing the door, he thought you would’ve gotten used to it. But as he stands beside you, mischief eyes and a smirk, not yet, as it seems.

“I’ll take it as you like it?” He muses, velvet voice singing into your ears and it sends chills down to your spine, keeping you upright as you turn to look at him, “Please excuse my language but holy fuck this place is gorgeous,” You’re back to being in awe, much to Jimin’s laugh that echoes and bounces off the walls, into your ears that you repeat once more as your fingertips brush over the cold stone of a beautifully sculpted dragon beside you, “Fucking amazing…”

Jimin gives you a couple more seconds before he decides it’s time for you to have the stars in your eyes for something else rather than his furnishing and the interior of his apartment. He silently steps behind you, taking you by surprise when his arm is strong against your waist, yet with a certain delicacy that offers you a leeway to take charge. His fingers strum up to your hip, his other casually slipped into his pocket as he murmurs into your ear, “Let’s not get carried away now, shall we?”

You feel his chest tightening when you snicker, but he’s relaxing in an instant when you lean back, making sure the curve your back and all the way down touches somewhere Jimin’s confined for far too long since dinner. He gasps as you press yourself to him, voice breathy as you look over your shoulder, spelling them out on his lips and Jimin only wonders if he’s ever felt this hot and heavy before during his youthful years, “Bedroom.”

“Fuck me,” Jimin grunts, unable to resist the urge to twist you around, pressing his lips to yours with such urgency it’s making your stomach churn, toes curling with excitement. His arm remains against the lower of your back, right above your waist to lever you down as he parts his lips and drawls his tongue out on the seam of your lips. He feels your grin before you grant him permission to kiss you deeper and with the leg that trails up his ankle, over his calf, up to his thigh as your legs hug him closer, he stutters and his teeth clicks with yours. Chuckling, you sling your arms around his neck, tugging his collar down, revealing enough so you can attach your lips to his skin. He gasps, an arm keeping you near, his other hand raking through your hair as you start to suck and nibble on his flesh; the mix of purple and red threatening to form as you murmur in between, “C’mon, handsome. This is your apartment,”

Growling, Jimin gives a tug on your hair enough to make your stomach clench. A mewl drawn from your lips as he pins you with eyes filled with lust and need you can’t resist. “Jump,” He orders, hands already flicking your dress up, enough for your legs to move freely. His arms come around to steady you as you do as you’re told. Legs wrapped around his figure, steady hands balancing you carefully as if you’re a fine piece of china he can’t bear to break,  he’s the one trying not to break as he makes his way to his bedroom. For a moment, he goes blank and forgets how to coordinate his body when you’re doing things that makes his head suffocate in the haze of pleasure. Your tongue licks a stripe on the skin of his neck, hips rutting in his that gets him to stop walking. The slam against the cement of the wall has you whimpering, despite the material of the dress softening the impact, the exposed part of your back regrets being out in the open.

“Keep doing that and we’re going to play dirty, baby girl,” He grits past his teeth, hot and heavy breath after breath and his half-lidded eyes drives you insane. Much similar to your bruised lips and teary eyes from the pleasure, yet, fearless like your age as you lean forward to coax him out with your lips on his. He groans, pulling you off the wall, resuming his pace towards his bedroom and he signals the arrival when a door clicks shut behind the you.

Again, if he had assumed this was going down the way he wanted like in the movies, he had another thing coming.

As he settles down on the bed, seated, your hips encasing his the way it should be, his eyes snap open as your lips detach from his and you’re on your feet. His hands move faster than his mind, grasping onto your hips, “H-Hey—“

“I’m not going anywhere,” You assure him, in a voice that’s thick as honey, smothering down his lips and over his jaw before he looks at you with a panting chest. Easing your hands on his shoulders, you give him a short massage to get him to relax, in which he does when his breathing regulates and his eyes are dark as the night as he stares at your every move. When you have him where you want him, which is now, beneath you and staring up to you for mercy, it’s where it starts; the point of beginning and there’s no going back.

One of your hand trails up to his black locks, running your fingers through them and the other snaking down to his chest; voice of pure sin as it slithers into Jimin’s ears, spelling out the meaning of eurphoria with light, taunting touches.

“So, do you remember what the rules are or am I going to have to repeat them for you… Jiminie?”

He gapes at you taking charge, daring to call him with a nickname out of nowhere despite him being older and just getting comfortable. Either way, he doesn’t seem to mind, legs propping open wider, head tipped up to match yours lingering down as he voices out what he thinks. “I believe I’ve got everything in check…” His hands trail up to your bottom, gripping onto your cheeks firmly as he smirks at your moan, head falling back. “…but a reminder couldn’t hurt,”

Oh, it’s going to hurt. You smirk, keeping your thoughts discrete with your plan as you’re quick to reincorporate with his gameplay. Balancing one hand on his shoulder, you reach back for one of his, drawing it up to reach the zipper of your dress. His breath hitches as you make him drag it down in a tantalizing pace, yet, your voice filling in the spaces between when it’s starting to get quiet. That’s the last thing that’s going to happen tonight.

“First off,” Jimin reaches the end as the words roll off your tongue and he can’t help but stare as you force his hands to follow yours, peeling the clothing off starting with the straps from your shoulders. You hadn’t notice how cold his fingertips are but they’re easily heating up when they graze over your skin, scraped off like wildfire when the lines slide off and they hang around your waist, revealing the lacy lingerie you had put on for him. He’s shameless as he stares at what you have to offer; white wrapped around the crevices and Jimin licks his lips in anticipation. He’s about to touch but just as he does, your hand grabs his chin, directing them up to your eyes as your voice is apprehensive, his dick kicking at the bass of your tone, “You fuck me and only me,”

He resumes what he has in mind, taking over briefly as he drifts his hand down, squeezing your breasts generously and it hikes up a whine of his name. “Second,” He rasps, swallowing any doubts and he’s swift with his clothes, completely removing his dress shirt; unbuttoning one and pulling it off his head when he’s gotten that out of the way. He takes pride in his body, smirking at the way your hands nimbly brush over the expanse of his chest, down to his abdomen and then to the line of his jeans. When your eyes wander a bit too far where he want you to, it’s his turn to cup your chin, nudging it back up as he lines his eyes straight to yours with a look so intense, you feel your knees buckling, “You fuck me and only me,”

The feeling is mutual when you’re nodding, dropping to your knees and guiding him to get his jeans out of the way. When he’s flicked his belt open, he straps it off and tosses it to the side, the clink hitting the floor reminding you of what’s left undone that you continue speaking. “Third,” You rise up to your feet when he shimmies his jeans off, with your guide to tug them off and to the side where it’s out of your reach. You’re about to finish your sentence but he decides to stand, maneuvering you around to push you down onto the bed and you’re having quite the view as he drags his underwear down and off, his hard length smacked to his stomach almost instantaneously after. He’s thick and with a length you know you’ll enjoy, the licking of your lips has him chuckling as he strokes your cheek with his hand, gazing into your eyes lovingly as if he’s not bare and hard for you, “You were saying?”

“G-Getting tested. Together,” Your words are barely audible but he catches the words as he hums, stalking off to the drawers and pulling out what you assume is a condom. When he returns, he drops the packet at the sight of you with your lingerie in your hands, following where the condom lies when your fingers release the lacy material. He gapes, eyes widening at your bare body glowed with the moonlight. Your eyes point at the shiny silver packet on the floor and he picks it up hastily, stumbling back to you and tackling down on the bed with his lips desperate to kiss you.

He moans when you rake your nails down his back, his lips kissing you everywhere possible when he travels down your body, worshipping almost every part as he goes. He stops at the spot where you want him but he doesn’t give it to you until you continue speaking, “Fourth,” Your breath almost gets stuck in your throat when he hums, sliding a finger into your wet heat and you’re going delirious. Jimin seems to adore the way your back arches, voice hoarse and your hand coming down to his head for support, “F-Fuck, Jimin—four…“ Your voice trails of a bit, out of track before you gain some senses to continue speaking.

“Fourth,” You repeat, just as he’s adding another finger, pumping in with ease and you cry out when his fingers glide in with minimal effort. He rises up to your body, fingers hooked inside of you as he kisses your cheek, his other hand pinning you down by the waist as he continues to prep you, sliding his fingers in and out as he murmurs, “Go on, I’m listening,”

You clutch onto his wrist, forbidding his hand from continuing just to get out in a rushed breath, past your heavily blushing cheeks and sweaty skin, “Aftercare is essential,”

“Of course,” His words are promising, actions even more when your grip loosens and he shoves in three fingers to stretch you nicely, voice pitching up through the cry of his name as you grab onto his shoulders. He circles an arm around your waist to hold you there, his fingers never stopping to get you wetter and his movements are languid, pace kicking up in speed to have you whining in his neck, thighs trembling. He slows down to let you breathe, your chest expanding as he leans to press his forehead on yours to say, “Fifth—kinks are talked of before proceeding. Consent is needed,”

Mustering a cracked okay past your sore throat, you kiss him and he gladly obliges, removing his fingers and you feel him searching around your lower region with moist fingers. You’re about to question him, or in this case, maybe state out another rule but then he touches you right there and your body surges through with pleasure. He grins when he manages to find your clit, using two fingers, the lubrication of your arousal to press tight circles and it’s making your jaw grow slack, “J-Jimin!”

“Sixth,” He ignores your pleas, the desperate clutching on his shoulders as he gets you to speak, “What’s the sixth one, baby girl?”

Your eyes clench shut when he rests his thumb on your clit, three fingers used earlier to dive in past your folds and you’re in the verge of tears as you choke on your own voice. He shows you a bit of mercy, easing his thumb movements to slow rubs and his fingers stilling from inside, allowing you to think straight. Past your blinked tears and stained cheeks, you look up to him to murmur, “A-Any day is fine, except—“

“Thursdays,” He finishes for you, maybe to showcase that he truly cares and listens but you don’t question too much on it, until he adds in, “Double shifts, I know,”

In the midst of heavy breathing and reddened skin, you manage to smile at him, the same time he does to you as if his fingers isn’t in the middle of fucking you ready, “You remember,”

His brows does that thing—raising a little out of cockiness, remaining the humble side of him when he doesn’t overdo it. He reminds you of the current situation and that’s when your hands fall to grasp onto the sheets instead (whatever this is made of, you’ll apologize for being too rough on it later). His thumb harshly digs into your clit and his fingers curl where his fingertips brush upon a spot that has your voice ragged, in contrast to his smoothly filling your ears, “I take this very seriously, don’t you know that?” He puts emphasis as he gives you thrusts with the flick of his wrists.

“Oh God,” Your hand snatches onto his, away from your folds as you look up to him, “I do know I’m gonna come if you keep doing that,”

“And what’s wrong with that?” He cocks an eyebrow, only to have it falter when you smirk because he’s not the only one with confidence to dirty talk, “Wouldn’t you want me to with your cock?”

“Fucking—“Jimin doesn’t even finish his sentence, moving around to grab onto the condom where he rips the packet apart without hesitation, the foil coming off and the latex rolling on as you taunt him by dragging your fingers on his thighs, which they flex under your touch and you gasp. He turns back to you with a gaze so lustful, your lungs contract at the lack of air, mouth agape as you grab his neck and lure him down to kiss you, supply the air you need to breathe. He steadies himself with a grip on the headboard, his other lining himself up and just as he slides in, he presses his palm down on your stomach the same time you press your lips up to his.

Moans are exchanged, tongues mingle with one another as your hands slide up his thighs to his waist, holding him there as he reaches all the way in, deep in you, lips no different as he kisses you fervently. Your hands move back up, one resting on the spot on his shoulder, the other raking up through his hair and then tugging him back so you can speak, “Seven,” You exhale deeply, trying to adjust to his size, making it seem like him being balls deep in you isn’t anything sinful at all as you try to get the words out right. His eyes widen, dilating with the need to listen when this isn’t part of the rules.

“No gifts. I just want a personal tutor,”

His hold on the headboard releases, so he has a hand to brush the hair away from your face, his hovering above yours as he says, “We didn’t exactly agree on that. What if I want to get you a tutor and buy you gifts?”

“Doesn’t work that way, old man,” You grunt, legs wrapped around his figure, using the heel of your foot to knead into his bottom to get him growling, “I’m only four years older,”

“Still older,” You poke your tongue past your lips, that like a switch completely loses humor when he tests what he’s up for with the rolling of his hips,  a little reminder that he’s in you. You whimper when he pulls out, clenching around nothing but air until he slides back in, grasping onto your chin and tilting it down so he can kiss you again. Again and again as he thrusts harder and faster, to the point where you’re about to forget everything and anything, tossed into the oblivion except for the letters of his name when they fall out from your lips like a symphony.

He holds down your wrists by the sides of your head and that slowly transitions to his hands slipping into yours, fingers coming between as you rock your body up to his, meeting each thrust halfway that drags Jimin’s jaw down to moan your name into the air clouded with sex and heat. You can tell past your half-opened eyes when he pulls away, thumping his forehead on yours, his pace relentless as he chases for your orgasm, that he wants to speak. But when you’re clenching your walls down on him, moaning his name in a voice that cracks his train of thought, he’s losing it.

But he’ll make sure you’re losing it first.

His hands pry away from yours, sweat trickling down your temples and he wipes them away before he glides his hand down between your bodies. You’re holding onto him, hands clutched onto his shoulders that escalates to nails down his back then arms around his neck as he reaches for your clit once more. You cry out when he has the nerve to lazily nudge his thumb on your clit, cursing into his shoulder, biting his flesh before you payback with a harsh clench that gets him riled up to the edge.

He picks it up, rough thrusts and rigidly grinding his thumb harder until you feel nothing but his touch, his cock thrusting in and out and him, him, him. “J-Jimin—I’m gonna—oh fuck!” Jimin seems to understand what’s about to happen; the telltales of you coming as your thighs quake, the grip around him contracting and the erratic clenches of your muscles as Jimin fucks you through to pleasure. You spill and coat him with your release and Jimin doesn’t think he’ll ever get a better sight of you thrashing beneath him, moaning his name out and the syllables travel straight to his cock as he pulsates inside of you. He stutters on his thrusts and that’s when you find the strength to flip him over despite how strong he is and from his protest, it snaps into a sharp cry when you sink down on him and get him to lose control.

With a few precise rolling of your hips, he comes with a loud moan when you punctuate your words: come for me, Jiminie, each syllable milking his release until Jimin’s letting out a string of profanities in various versions that has you chuckling as you ride out your highs. His room gathers the sound of heavy breaths and slick movements of skin upon skin that slide with the ease of sweat. Even with that, neither of you move, Jimin growing soft and a mess of residue left on his bed but he doesn’t mind.

He takes his cue to roll over on his bed, slipping out from you as he bends down to kiss you. It brings a smile to your face, lethargically kissing him back as your hands come up to frame his face with such delicacy in contrast to how you were gripping and scratching him a moment ago—and in this case, Jimin likes both. A smile forms as he pulls away, locking eyes with you and it’s hard to keep up but you do when he spares you one more kiss on your lips.

You realize he’s speaking once he gets up from his bed, removing the used condom into the bin and returning with a damp cloth after. Still, he notices how you don’t decipher his words even after he chuckles, so he decides not to speak about it just yet. He gets you clean, warm and  purring out of delight. He pulls you to the spot on the bed that’s slightly cleaner and tucks you in his arms after. The blanket comes of your naked bodies and Jimin rests his chin on your shoulder, firm chest pressed up to your back as your limbs tangle together. Your hands slide over his forearms and you look over your shoulder, finally processing his voice as he repeats what he said not too long ago.

“Eight, I’m paying whatever that’s left for your tuition fees,”

Eyes growing into confusion, lips curling to a frown, you lick your lips and turn around in Jimin’s hold, to which he still keeps his arms around you, “J-Jimin, no. No, I can’t accept that—“

“Either that or gifts. Which one would you prefer?” You forget that you’re dealing with someone who’s mighty good in persuasion and that you can’t quite argue with him even if you wanted to. Although he’s given you reasons not to reject, it’s hard. Money doesn’t fall from the sky and you’re certain Jimin’s taken quite a while to gathered up the amount he has now. Doesn’t matter if he has a mountain or a swimming pool filled with checks, you can’t.

“Jimin… I really, really can’t… The tutor was our agreement,”

“So was the gifts,” He pins you with a look, one that you pout at with hands gingerly playing behind his neck, “But the tutor was practical… gifts are not…”

“They are to me,” He speaks up, nudging you closer and planting a tender kiss to your forehead that you can’t differentiate if he did that out of affection or if he wants to make you feel better. Either way, you’re not complaining. “So here’s what. I’ll pay for your fees, limit to getting you gifts once a month and you can pay the tutor on your own. Sound fair?”

Grinning, your eyes curl up to something Jimin thinks is one of the most endearing things ever; the way they disappear when you smile too hard, your arms slipped around him tight as you lean into his shoulder. He gladly welcomes you in and kisses the side of your head. He strokes your hip with his fingers, then smoothening over your skin on your back all over as you take in deep breaths, fanning his neck. He leans back and the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes is the beauty of your smile playing on your lips.

[mcrcki]

‘ a heart is a heavy burden ‘

Was that [JESSIE MEI LI]? Oh no no, that was just [SOPHIE HATTER], a [CANON CHARACTER] from [HOWL’S MOVING CASTLE]. They are [TWENTY TWO] years old and [ARE] aware that they are not actually from Washington DC. Too bad they can’t stray from this city for long.

how long has your character been here 

nearing a week but honestly just barely been here 

what is your character’s job 

currently, they are unemployed. but eventually will be opening up their own hat shop. it wasn’t her favorite thing in the world, and while she’s noticed there isn’t as big of a market for it here, she can’t see herself doing anything else for money. it was also something super important to her family and she feels like it might help with the home sickness. it will probably have a tailoring aspect to it just for a little more foot traffic though.

where has your character been pulled from in their fandom

i’m going to be bringing them from the end of the movie, so after she has fully broken her curse. no more turning into a ninety year old woman for my girl. 

has any magic affected your character

a little, it’s affected her memories slightly. she is aware, but details are hazy, faces are hard for her to recognize, and she’s really wondering if maybe all of the magic was really just a bad dream. she knows she’s from her own world and this place is different but the whole events of the movie feel like some hazy memory from a bad dream and she's trying to figure out what is real and what is not. she feels like she probably just had a really bad cold or something, like her mom mentioned, and that it was all some wild fever dream of another life that she wished she lived. but that’s just how they’ve rationalized it?? she knows it happened but she refuses to think it’s fully real

any other information 

light of my life, sweet baby angel who really was just trying to go visit her sister at work and ended up cursed and living with a disaster bi wizard, his demon bff and his kid ?? like i'm obsessed with this movie, a true comfort film for me and sophie is simply my everything so i apologize that this is simply going to be me rambling about them for forever.

first and foremost, sophie will be using she/they pronouns. she doesn’t have a preference on one or the other fully, so she uses both. but right now it’s more so that strangers she prefers they, and people she knows/she is more comfortable with can use she/her. 

so with that said ~~ 

sophie is truly one of those characters that i kinda just sit and stare at in awe ?? like their dedication and determination throughout the movie is incredible. their perseverance and bravery despite being in a situation so outside of her comfort zone and original understanding of the world around her ?? like just absolutely incredible. she is such a good balance to howl’s over the top dramatics because she stays so utterly grounded throughout and only really breaks down like twice in this whole movie ?? pls let me know how u do that

she is thrown head first into magic when it had only ever been a passing piece of knowledge in her world, like telling girls that a wizard will steal their hearts if they’re not careful?? but she gets thrown into it and just runs with it !!

background, she leaves her family’s hat shop to go visit her sister, and along the way, some soldiers are absolute creeps to her, howl swoops in (there’s a whole background to it and i could ramble forever about the importance of his appearance but this intro is long enough) he’s being followed, she gets wrapped up in his drama for the first of many times, eventually she returns to the hat shop, only to have the witch of the waste waiting for her. the witch proceeds to curse sophie with a comment of “give my best to howl” as it’s done to try and get to him, to steal his heart, etc etc. and sophie is cursed with turning from like nineteen to ninety. 

but she gets this curse?? has like a quick freak out ?? but by the next morning she’s got jokes!! truly sees themselves in the mirror and is like “welp at least my clothes finally suit me” ???? bestie and then just sets out on their way to fix the issue. fully just goes “well i gotta go find the bitch adios” i just?? what an icon please

also her curse, abridged : basically sophie exists in a world of self doubt, she has a very poor self image, and has always seen herself as this worn down already old woman despite being barely in her twenties. the witch p much just brings her own perception of herself out into the real world for everyone to see. sophie learns to break it as she grows more confident, with each passing day she learns to accept herself for who she is, sees her worth, and realizes that she is not as meek as she had made herself be. she’s this strong, independent determined person and she can carve her own path in the world. she eventually breaks the curse on her own, as she accepts that part of herself and as she helps save calcifer and howl. and turnip head, no not forget she really just walked around at the end of the movie breaking curse after curse.

an irrelevant piece of information, but sophie will still be sporting their silver haired bob. i’m obsessed with the look, but on top of that, i feel like it's a big part of her being able to finally accept herself and growing that like self love vibe. it is a reminder of what she went through, of things having been real even though her mind is trying so desperately to tell her it was all a dream in the end

i don’t wanna give away like the entire movie because please if you have not watched it go do it ,, it’s simply incredible and i will happily give everything i can for sophie, howl and the crew. 

here in dc, she still has that confidence, but she feels it slipping with each day, solely because the magic is taking hold, making things feel more and more far off, like everything is becoming more and more like a dream as time passes. she tries to hold onto what she knows is true but her mind wants to rationalize it. wants to make sense of the highly improbable. so, she is slowly becoming unaware and is fighting against it.

i could really keep going but i really do not need this intro to be any longer ~~~

possible connections :

♥ roommate vibes

she is a star roommate, she will 100% cook and clean and make sure everything is tidy cause that is how they work best. is if the space they’re in is organized and sorted. so lowkey think it would be v funny to have someone who is the exact opposite

♥ employees 

listen if your character needs a job, even if they are bad at sewing come apply she will hire them 

♥ friends

please she doesn’t have many ,, her best friends are literally a disaster man, his apprentice kid, and a fucking fire please come be their friend she would be the mom friend of your group and you cannot change my mind

♥ someone to help her keep her memories

would really love to plot something out that’s kinda like ?? she tells them about her life back home and as she feels like she’s forgetting they help her remember that it’s all real, that it wasn’t a dream. just something along those lines to have a friend that she can turn to during those times??? idk this i would want to really plot out a lot

[greenygreenland]

If I Were You Pt. 3: Fives x Reader

 ‘-Uhmmm yes and thank you for the request??? -Of kriffing COURSE I’ll do a pt 3! -I love asks, they make my day so thank you so much!! -the beginning is inspired by something that actually happened to me today (but it’s greatly exaggerated in this. promise.)

PREVIOUS PART

WARNINGS: MENTIONS OF DEATH, ABUSE, HOSPITALIZATION.

The first thing that hits your nose is a sharp scent, like toast that’s been overcooked. You frown to yourself, dropping your pencil on the dining table as Fives follows your gaze. “What’s that smell?” you inquire. He shoots up from the couch, darting into the kitchen with a low hiss. “Maker!” 

You frown. That can’t be good. “Fives, did you put something in the toaster?” You don’t get an answer straight away, and maybe it’s better that way. When it’s silent for too long, you get up from your seat, ignoring the screeching of your chair against the wooden floorboards. “Fives, don’t tell me you--”

Everything you assumed you’d see would have been so much better. Burnt toast. Water boiling over the sides of a pot. Overcooked ramen that’s too soggy to swallow. The bright flames licking at your stove and overflowing to the L-shaped counters is so much worse. How did this happen?, you wonder to yourself. Just what had Fives been up to while you were studying for an exam? 

He’s suddenly shouting at you to do something as he fans the fire. It grows in size and he’s screaming, but it’s hard to hear him over pounding in your head. That’s when you hear the smoke detector. That familiar beep beep beep beep sound that always went off unconventionally. You never guessed it could have been right, not until now. 

The words finally fall from your mouth: “Call 911!” 

“What’s the number?!” Fives cries. You speed past him, whipping out your phone and turning on the sink. The numbers displayed on the screen flash before your eyes, and as Fives dumps water over the hot flames, you calmly speak into your phone. It’s as if you’ve been trained for this, for a life-or-death situation that would most definitely break you in the long run. 

You were already broke as it was, paying for bills on your own and the college debt that left you waist-deep in nothing. After your mum had been hospitalised due to her condition, you’ve been on your own, with only Fives as that little bit of domestic support. He couldn’t work, not when he didn’t have a passport, proof of his citizenship, or really of his existence as a whole. 

After all, he was technically still a ‘fictional character’.

When the fire department arrive, you and Fives already have the fire out. It was a miracle that the fire hadn’t spread to the rest of your home, but still a complete loss for your poor stove and toaster. 

“I’m sorry...” 

You turn to Fives and cup his cheek. His eyes are downcast as you run your fingers against his smooth skin. He feels guilty, that much you can tell, but you can’t blame him. You simply don’t have the strength to when you are oh so tired. “I bet it was a malfunction in the machinery.” you quietly answer. “It’s not your fault, love.” 

He meets your gaze with doe-like eyes that remind you just how young he is on the inside. “But I--”

You shut him down with a peck on the lips and link your hands in his. When the firemen are done inspecting the house for any possible flames you might’ve missed, you walk back inside and give your mum a ring. She doesn’t care much about the house. It’s all you and Fives that matters, just as any parent should think. You’re grateful she isn’t angry, and more so that she tells you insurance will cover everything just fine. 

The next week go smoothly. You pass your test with flying colours, your mum’s health is as stable as ever, and the house recovers with the help of insurance. The only issue you have left is the aching pain in your chest. 

Whenever you pass that stupid TV, all broken with the cracks and dark memories, it hurts. You know it shouldn’t when your father is locked away in jail, but it does, for what could have been. If your father weren’t such a jerk, then maybe you could have what you see on TV. The family where the father comes home with the mother after work, and they greet their children with smiles and hugs and kisses and ‘I love you’s that you’ll never be able to hear. 

Fives isn’t blind to the pain you carry. He sees it as clear as day, yet it’s almost impossible for him to make it go away. The most he can ever do is ease it, no matter how hard he tries. 

Today you’re wrapped in his arms on the couch with a Spotify playlist in the background blaring through a small speaker. It’s quiet, save for the faint melody of a song you never cared to learn the name of. 

“I’m sorry,” you suddenly say. Fives perks up at the solemn tone in your voice and brings you closer to his chest. “What are you sorry for?” You glance at the broken TV, then the empty house with a long sigh. “This.” You say it as if ‘this’ explains everything. It doesn’t, and Fives knits his brows together. 

“If anyone should be sorry, it’s me.” he says. “I can’t work, I don’t have an education. It’s not like I can join the military either when I’m not even supposed to exist here.” He rests his head on top of yours and your shoulders slump. “I wish I could help you more.” By ‘more’ you know he means ‘soothe the pain in your heart’. You don’t say anything though, and that’s because you’re still tired. 

You lean against his chest and close your eyes. His heartbeat is your bacta today. It helps to ease your mind knowing that he’s here every step of the way. He won’t leave you. Never.

Beep! Beep!

Your eyes snap open and you sit up. Fives hands you your vibrating phone, his secure arm still around your shoulders. You tap on the screen and place the speaker to your ear. “Hello?”

“Is this (Y/f/n)?”

“Yes.”

“You were the only contact on the list, so I thought it would be fitting to call. I’m really sorry, but (M/f/n) has passed at eleven fifty-two P.M. I’m sorry for your--” 

The phone slips out of your hands. You can’t bear to hear the rest because it hurts too much. After being on your own with the bills, the money, college--everything, it’s like a smack to the face, the final breaking point that sends you over the edge. 

Fives doesn’t need to hear your voice to know what happened. He’s seen that face too many times to count that it’s ingrained in his mind like the very tattoo on his forehead. Your eyes well and you practically throw your arms around him. “Fives...Fives...” 

“It’s okay.” he gently says. “I’m still here.” He is all you have left with your parents gone. You’ve been thrown into this wayside world, where nothing is perfect and nothing goes right, but Fives is here. He’s still here. 

You don’t remember closing your eyes, or falling asleep against Fives’s chest, but when you open your eyes, all that sticks is fear. The staple screeches of blaster fire and charges blare in your ears as you rake yourself off the dark ground. You aren’t wearing your PJs, but a nice pair of Jedi robes you were sure you hadn’t ever seen in your life. 

The bodies at your feet make you feel sick, and not because the lifeless corpses aren’t moving, but because you can practically feel the absence of warmth they were supposed to exude. 

“GET DOWN!”

Arms are around you again, and as dirt and grass and branches of odd plants fly past by, you tumble to the ground in a heap. It’s hard to see through the dark haze the planet provided, but you know it's Fives who saved you. That much you can tell by the pressure of his grip and the shake of his breath. He hauls you somewhere off to the side, a little further away from the front lines as his brothers barrel past him. 

“(Y/n).” He grips your shoulders. Hard. You stare up at his frantic eyes, bewildered, and frankly, scared. You could have died, or worse, ended up a mangled mess as you died a slow, painful death. “Where--what--we were just--?”

“I don’t know.” he says. “But I guess you’re a Jedi.” His gaze falls on the lightsaber swinging from your belt. “Can you...?” You unclip the cool metal that feels so right in your hands. It’s not too light, and not too heavy, as if it were tailored for you and only you. 

The mesmerising (colour) light of your saber shines upon your face as you thumb it on. Fives sends you a reassuring nod as he throws on his bucket and whips out a blaster. “You’re a fast learner, you can do this Cyar’ika." You take one glance at the explosions to your left and nearly freeze. You’re a fast learner? You can do this cyar’ika? What kind of nonsense was Fives spewing? 

Learning how to cook was different from fighting for your kriffing life. 

Fives doesn’t give you much time to think as you swing around you lightsaber. You’re running on pure muscle memory now, from all the times you had to run in gym, all the times you played around with your plastic lightsaber. Who knew any of that would come in handy? 

It’s a miracle you’re even able to block the incoming blaster bolts, as if you had done this for years and not five seconds. 

“(Y/n)!” 

Your shoulders tense. That wasn’t Fives, it was Anakin Skywalker. He blocks a few blaster bolts and motions for you to come to him. You do, slicing a droid down its middle like it were warm butter. “(Y/n),” Anakin says again, “where were you? I’ve been looking for you for the past fifteen minutes!”

“Uh...I...”

Anakin glances at the confused look on your face and you feel like you’ve just disappointed him. A frown bursts onto his face like he’s just seen the galaxy’s worst disappointment: you. “What’s wrong? Did you hit your head?” He doesn’t give you time to answer. He already knows you have no idea what’s going on, as if an invisible tie connected your thoughts to his. 

But of course he knew, he was a Jedi. 

Suddenly, his eyes widen. He nearly drops his lightsaber as he tackles you to the ground, panting, silently begging for time to be on his side. At first, you can’t feel anything, but as soon as your arm twitches, it’s there: a burn and sharp pain like you’ve never felt before. Anakin’s lips move, but you can’t hear a word that comes out of his mouth. 

You want to cry, to gasp out in pain, but it’s too much, and you black out. 

Pain. That’s the first thing you feel as you sit up with a low hiss. “Glad you’re awake Commander.” Your eyes are wide as you meet Kix’s comforting smile. Although you sense a flicker of joy, there’s a heavy weight on his shoulders you understand. He’s stressed, but not just about your condition, but his brothers’ and everyone else his heart could reach. He was a healer, just as you were supposed to be. 

“You took a nasty hit there, but you’ll be good as new.” he said. “Give it a few weeks or so.” You ripped your gaze from his and took in the sights of the hazy planet. After being thrust into the mayhem, you finally realise just where in the galaxy you were. “Kix, this is Umbara, right?” you inquire. He knits his brows together and you just know he’s beyond concerned for your health. 

“Yeah,” he slowly replies, “why?” You shrug, but he clearly doesn’t want to let you off the hook. Not when you’re needed on the battlefield for a campaign you know will go south. “No reason.” 

“I swear if you have amnesia...” He trails off and meets your eyes, as if searching for a sign to reassure him that he wouldn’t have another thing thrown on his plate. “Commander, if I may ask, do you remember what our mission is?” 

“To...capture the Umbaran base not too far from here?” 

Kix frowns. He’s disturbed, as if you told a gory horror story. For a second, you wonder why, but then it hits you like a rock in the face. Anakin saved you, and the orders you relayed just now hadn’t been announced until after his departure, when Krell arrived right after. “Wait, no--I mean--Kix, I can explain. Fives and I, we’re--” You try to sit up, but he forces you to sit back against a tree trunk. 

“I think you should sit down for a little.” he said. “Just...give it a minute Commander. Maybe you’re in shock.” 

“If you don’t mind me asking, where’s Fives?” Your open-ness with Kix surprises you, but you blame it on how many times you’ve re-watched the Clone Wars on Disney Plus as a distraction from your piling college debt. He frowns again just like before. “Fives? I haven’t seen him since--”

“(Y/n)!” 

Oh that voice. You could spot that even among his own brothers. “Fives!” you exclaim. He’s already at your side, staring at the bandage covering the wound on your shoulder. “How is it?” he inquires. You shrug. “I thought it would be worse, but it’s okay.” You’re fighting hard to keep from wincing and Fives can see it. “Kix did an outstanding job.” You nod towards the medic, who remains in his spot wide-eyed. 

Kix knows something is wrong. Since when were you and Fives so close? Let alone so...touchy? 

“Cyar’ika, you’re really bad at hiding that you’re in pain. I can see it.”

Kix’s jaw goes slack. Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no. He doesn’t say anything as Fives grasps your hand in his because he’s still processing everything. When had you both been in a relationship? When had this even happened? What did he have for breakfast this morning? His memory is all hazy and he knows something isn’t right. 

“Fives,” he slowly begins, “when...” Kix can’t bear to finish the sentence. If anyone found out, he could be court-martialled or even wiped of his memory or executed. He couldn’t let that happen to his brother. Not after Echo. Not after all the suffering he endured. 

Fives suddenly releases your hand. His expression goes blank as he meets Kix’s gaze. “Please, you can’t tell anyone.” There’s a graveness in his voice that matches the solemn tone of the planet, as if he’s expecting a lurking enemy around the bend. Kix wants to say more. He wants to lecture Fives and his Commander about how dangerous this predicament was, but he can’t. 

Not when they were looking at him like that. Like their lives depended on it.

“Alright.” he finally says. “I promise.” 

When Kix gives the ‘okay’ sign for (Y/n) to get up, she follows Fives out from behind the cover of the trees. Kix eyes the closeness of their hands, the way their shoulders seem to brush every now and then, and the whispers lost to the wind. 

“I can’t believe this...” he mumbles to himself. He rips his gaze away from his friends and walks over to check on the wounded.

You aren’t sure what to do as you pass a few members of the 501st. Some salute you while others continue their tasks. Everything you thought you knew about this arc suddenly goes down the drain. What was going on? Did Anakin already leave? Who were you to these men? To this world? 

“(Y/n)!” 

Anakin jogs over to your side, placing a hand on your uninjured shoulder comfortingly. He furrows his brows as you knit your own as a subtle sign of confusion. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” he says. “Kix told me you’d be fine. He said it was just a graze.” Anakin pauses for a moment and frowns. “What’s wrong? I sense your confusion.” 

Wonderful. He senses your confusion. 

“I...” You glance at Fives, but he’s just as clueless as you. Anakin’s hand leaves your shoulder and wraps around a lightsaber on his belt. He hands the beautiful hilt to you, that frown still plastered on his lips. “You know, if anything is wrong, you can always tell me. I’m your master, I’m supposed to help you.”

Wait, what? 

“It’s kind of my job.” 

You almost have the urge to smile, but that last bit about him being your master just hits you in the wrong way. Did that mean you stole Ahsoka’s role? It’s suddenly hard to look Anakin in the eye. Even though he was trying to make you feel better, it only made you feel worse. 

Anakin’s lips twitch upward into a reassuring smile and he breaks from your side. “By the way, we move out in the next fifteen minutes.” 

The next hour is a complete hell of blaster fire, grenades, and death. You’ve never fought one day in your life, and a part of you wishes you hadn’t. What you know will haunt you forever are the screams of those who fight a war they never had a say in. 

After a group of Y-wing bombers swoop in as assistance, Krell comes planetside. He’s taller in real life and much more intimidating than the screen could ever capture. A lingering coldness seems to sink in your bones as he waltzes out of the gunship. You glance at Anakin, but he’s already greeting Krell with a grateful look on his face you just want to slap away. 

“Master Krell,” he says. “Thanks for the air support.” Krell inclines his head respectfully. “Indeed General. The locals have proven to be more resourceful than we anticipated.” Something inside you tells you to stay alert. It might have been the Force, but you can’t tell. Krell’s very presence seemed to cloud your mind and you could only assume this was the power of the Dark Side. 

It was so much worse than described in the books or movies and shows. The sensation left you feeling cold and overwhelmed with fear you’ve never felt before. It seemed today, you were learning more than your puny brain could handle.

Anakin raises a brow at Krell. “But that’s not the reason for your visit.” Krell shakes his head. “No. The Council has ordered you back to Coruscant, effective immediately.��� Anakin’s brows shoot upward. You can feel the surprise and blatant worry without having to see his face. “What?” he exclaims. “Wh-why?”

Krell crosses his arms across his chest. “I’m afraid a request has been made by the Supreme Chancellor and the council obliged. That is all they would tell me.” You purse your lips together and glance at Anakin, who in turn glances at you. “Well I can’t just leave my men and my padawan.”

“I’ll be taking over in the interim.” answers Krell. His tone comes out rather pushy, like he’s practically itching to take charge and put the 501st to death. The mere thought of what would happen after Anakin’s leave makes you shrink back. It’s a silent plea to your master not to go, but as everyone around here knows, orders are orders, even if they’re questionable. 

Rex glances at you and then Anakin’s troubled expression. “Don’t worry about a thing, Sir.” he dutifully says. “We’ll have the city under Republic control by the time you’re back.” Anakin takes it upon himself to introduce the Captain to Krell, who in turn gives a simple ‘good to hear that’ and wishes Skywalker well. 

Anakin turns to you and offers a comforting smile. For a moment, it makes the cold recede into warmth and love and light. “I know you’ll do fine.” He pats your shoulder in a silent telling to relax. “Master Krell, know that my padawan is more than capable both on and off the battlefield.”

“Of course.” You can’t tell if he’s sneering or not. His face is practically glued in a never ending scowl. “I will keep that in mind.” Anakin gives you one last nod and marches off to the gunship. You watch as it soars away, further and further until it’s hidden beneath the thick fog of the planet. 

Rex makes his way over to Krell’s side. He says something, but you aren’t paying attention--well, until Krell speaks. 

“I find it very interesting, Captain,” he begins, “that you are able to recognise the value of honour for a clone.” Your eyes widen. Oh the nerve. 

“Stand at attention when I address you.” Krell adds. Rex’s shoulders stiffen and it takes all your willpower not to scream. You glance at the other boys silently watching the exchange with bated breath. They followed Rex’s display, keeping their shoulders back and heads tilted at a perfect ninety-degree angle. You frown to yourself as Krell looks down upon your men. “With all due respect Master Krell--” 

He glances at you like you’re nothing more than the dirt beneath his feet. “No respect is due when you are interrupting me, Padawan (L/n). It would do you well to know where your place stands.” You open your mouth to say something, but Krell is already talking again. “Have all platoons ready to move out immediately.” He marches somewhere far from your sights and you really don’t care where in the galaxy he’s going as long as it’s away from you. “That is all.”

Fives sends you a look that you can’t even begin to explain. You sigh and it takes all your willpower not to say something snarky. Krell’s appearance was expected along with his terrible display of violence, but it wouldn’t have ever occurred to either of you that you’d be here to see it.

“He’s more of a jerk than I thought...” you whisper to yourself. Rex knits how brows together. He looks like he wants to chime in, but the swift flash of conflict in his heart tells him otherwise. It just wasn’t what a soldier was supposed to do. You were no soldier though, much less a Jedi Padawan at that. 

Why should that matter? If you were here, on Umbara where all the wrongs could never be fixed by the rights, then you couldn’t think about not knowing what to do. Here, you were someone, not a nobody struggling through college or scraping by with whatever dollars you could spare. Here, you had people who relied on you to lead them to victory. To another day. 

These men, these boys--they were bound to suffer a fate they had no say in because of the chips, because of Palpatine, because of all the corruption you saw on screen. Now, all this was more than a show. You were in it with living, breathing people. You wouldn’t let them down. 

“Rex.” You turn to face him and lower your voice. Even if you’ve never spoke to him, interacted with him, or even looked him in the eyes like you do now, you speak to him like a friend, as if you’ve known him for all the years the war raged on. 

“I don’t trust Master Krell.” you quietly begin. “I know you’ve heard good things about his...accomplishments, but that doesn’t mean we can follow him blindly into battle. If something’s up with his tactics, I won’t hesitate to change them. I’m not very good at that though, so I’m relying on you to help me.” 

He doesn’t even hesitate to nod. “Yes, Sir. You have my word.” His trust and loyalty to you outranks the amount he’d give to Krell on every single level possible. It’s something you thought you’d never see--devotion to a single cause, a single person, in the face of battle. The only other person you had seen such loyalty in is Fives, but now, you’re beginning to understand the pattern, or rather, culture. 

You heave in a deep breath and break from his intense gaze. “Thank you Rex, I really...I really appreciate it.” He seems to understand your unease and puts it upon himself to round up the platoons. “Alright boys!” he shouts. “You heard the Commander! Come on, let’s get a move on!”

Good man, that Rex.

--- 

Marching. That is what you’ve been doing for the past five hours, and if you remember correctly, you’ll be at it for another ten. It was a miracle you weren’t as worn as you could have been, but you guessed it was because of Fives’s energy. It kept you in step, in line with the rest of your men.

“So I say to her, baby you--”

Cue a long line of sighs and groans. “What is with you vod?” inquires Jesse. “You’re not charming Hardcase.” Kix bumps shoulders with Jesse. “Neither are you. Your cheesy jokes scare people away.” Hardcase sends Kix a funny look. “Not like you’re any better Mr. Pretty Boy, you don’t even carry lotion on you.” 

Hardcase, Jesse and Fives burst into a tough fit of giggles. Kix goes silent for a moment, heaving in a sharp breath before actually laughing. You gape at him. It’s impossible to even begin imagining the stress he’s under after seeing so many of his brothers die in his arms. He’s a medic, but with that comes a responsibility greater than holding up the sky. 

“You’re right about that.” Kix admits with another chuckle. “But at least I can read five textbooks in my spare time without getting bored.” Fives rolls his eyes and you almost smile. “Like that’s anything to brag about. Our Commander here can probably read ten.” You glance at Fives, who you can just tell is grinning madly under that bucket. “No I can’t.”

“Uh, yeah you can.” he sassily replies. “Throw a few reports on top of it and a due date, too. She’s amazing.” You glance at Kix, sensing his curiosity that seems to bloom as soon as your eyes meet his. Hardcase and Jesse are quick to catch on, glancing between you and Fives like it were a tennis match. 

“Hmm... Something’s not right here.” Jesse comments, peering at Fives. You want to glare at your boyfriend, but how can you stay mad at him? He’s absolutely right about you and you know it. 

Kix sends you both a look that clearly says, ‘are you gonna tell them?’. Now you glance at Fives, who then glances at you, which finally makes you turn to Kix and then the two curious boys. Jesse suddenly stumbles over a rock, not because he’s clumsy, but because he’s shocked. 

Oh no.

“Not to be intrusive, but are you...?” Jesse tapped the air, as if connecting the dots. “No way. No way. Does anyone, you know, know?” Everyone eyes Rex, who’s only a couple meters up front. As if written in a book, Rex turns to look over his shoulder, his gaze so happening to zero on you and Fives. 

“Why are you such a loud mouth Jesse?!” Fives whisper-screamed. You face-palm. “That wouldn’t have happened in the first place if we had, I don’t know, whispered?”

“How was I supposed to know? I didn’t think I was actually--”

“Quiet back there.” Rex’s steady voice orders. He slows his pace to match your own, tilting his line of view towards the group of rigid boys. “If you keep that up, you’ll find out a lot faster that not everyone is good at keeping secrets.” And with that, he nods your way, picking up the pace to settle back in his old spot.

Hardcase looks between his brothers and you. “I still don’t get it.” 

You smile at him weakly. It’s all you can muster. Fives’s hand brushes yours; a silent sign of comfort. You look up at him, and even with that bucket, you know he’s smiling like you put all the stars up in the sky. All you know in that moment is if you were him, and he were you, neither of you would survive. 

The galaxy is big, but the universe is wide.

DON’T FORGET TO REBLOG (so this can reach more people!) TIP JAR

[jojo-reader-hell]

Jonathan with a girlfriend who is absolutely spoiled, stuck up, always completely dressed up, and a daddies girl? She tries to spoil him all the time with expensive items and throws a fit and starts bawling because she doesn’t know how else to show her affection?

MY BABY 😭🥺 I needed to write something hopeful and sweet for my hubby ❤️❤️ GIVE JONATHAN LOVE.

“What say you to this color?”

Jonathan blanched, seeing that familiar dark scowl cross your face as you approached from the other side of the room. Your father was sitting placidly across the way from where you had been playing inspector, draped on a couch and smoking his pipe away from where the tailor displayed the many suits of clothing you’d commissioned for your future husband. No less than twenty full ensembles, including his wedding attire with more on the way to be delivered tomorrow. As if Jonathan didn’t already feel like a burden accepting your father’s kindness to stay at your home until the wedding, now he felt as though you were trying to dress him up like a show poodle.

“Now love…” Jonathan murmured meekly, but you didn’t hear him.

You slowly looked towards the tailor, the fabric of Jonathan’s wedding clothes between your fingers. It looked sharp and attentive on the mannequin, and from the greedy eyes of the man you hired he was already calculating in his mind how much he could swindle out of your purse.

“This is a joke to you, tailor?” You said, so lowly it was almost a whisper.

“Madam?!”

“Pray tell me sir, if you think this…” with one quick motion you ripped the sleeve of the new suit clean off and held it out, “… is a joke? A spectacle, a farce. I told you it was of the upmost importance that you use the fabrics and the stitches I recommended. Are you perhaps under the assumption that we are performing a production of ‘Twelfth Night’?! You were told this was a wedding, were you not?! SO I AM VERY PERPLEXED AS TO WHY YOU INSIST ON DRESSING MY FUTURE HUSBAND IN THIS INSULT OF A MONKEY SUIT-…!”

Oh great… There you went… When you got like this, not even Jonathan in his most commanding tone could get you to calm down.

“THE NERVE… NO, THE AUDACITY OF INSULTING HIM AFTER HE HAS GONE THROUGH SUCH A PAINFUL ORDEAL!”

He felt as though you would be so busy going over your individual trousseaus that you’d miss both the wedding and the honeymoon abroad you and your father had planned right from under him.

You hadn’t even waited for his wounds to heal or for the embers to be extinguished in what remained of the Joestar estate, no sooner had you invaded his sick room that you began to take over every aspect of Jonathan’s life. It was you that decided what he ate, what clothes he wore, what time he went to bed, he’d never felt as weak and helpless as he sank into his chair while you continued to run off at the mouth. You’d be married in a week (thanks to a bit of your prodding and encouraging he finally worked up plenty of nerve to ask you to be Mrs. Jonathan Joestar), and despite the general excitement of your household and the exorbitant costs, Jonathan was starting to feel the tiniest tinge of regret in his heart.

“Well, all I can offer you is luck for your wedding old boy.” Speedwagon had clapped him on the back, “Seems your lady wants it her way, and I hope she means well taking control.”

For some reason Robert Speedwagon’s usual talent for judging character had gone muddled. He didn’t quite know what to make of you. You tended to Jonathan like he was a child by spoiling him with gifts and trinkets, and tempting him with sweet things, all the while scolding your servants and your father with a sharp tongue, despite the fact that they all seemed eager to bend to your will. You’d been rather abrupt with Robert, turning your back to him and catering to your beloved Jojo as though the other man didn’t exist.

How many times had Jonathan scolded you about your selfishness over the course of your short courtship? Too many to count. He insisted gently at first that he didn’t need anything, your love was more than enough... Only to be blatantly ignored as you chided him for foolishness and delved for hours into the places you’d both go, and the clothes and toiletries you’d need for honeymoon in France and Italy. As of late he’d been rather curt with his tender feelings, trying to quell the resentment that had been building up.

What had he gotten himself into with you? The love you shared was hurried, as though fleeting, like a thief in the night you charmed Jonathan and easily stole your way into his heart because it was where you wanted to be. He knew it. Everyone knew your intentions for the charming specimen, and it was only a matter of time before he found himself inexplicably tied to you with a red string of fate, a chord binding the two of you for better or for worse. Call it the desire of the young to sow his wild oats, call it boys will be boys, call it the beguiling seductions of a temptress, call it whatever you please, all he knew was that this was to be his future if he cared one iota about reputation.

“For the price your crooked practice has tried to extract from me, I expect you to get it right the first time.” You growled to the tailor. “Make sure you do not make the same mistake twice.”

“Yes madam! Anything...! My apologies to your fiancé as well, I beg a thousand pardons sir.” The shriveled old man bowed out, and as you smoothed your skirts and pretended nothing had happened Jonathan stood to make his exit.

“Oh dearest! Please stay seated, if you need something presently I shall send Benson to fetch it!” Your voice rose a few octaves, and you darted towards him like a sparrow when you saw he was preparing to take his leave.

“I am quite alright, thank you.” Jonathan replied, his voice tight and low as he played off dodging your grasp as him trying to grip the arm of the chair to center himself.

He had to insist that he was fine. It would be alright. He just had to take care of some personal things before he could come back. But he instead hid away in the one place in the entire manor you wouldn’t think to look for him.

Surrounded in your own miniature museum, Jonathan sequestered himself in a bay window behind heavy drapes, and dropped his face into his hands as he began to cry his frustrated tears. This helplessness was consuming him. He could do nothing except submit to your will, and in his delusion of masculinity it hurt him and made him feel helpless and lonely. Despite his resolve to never let anyone push him around again, it only applied when his tormentor was a man apparently. What could he do? He couldn’t do anything to you except bow to your whims, already in debt in over his head and trembling at the trap laid out for him; it was a deadly combination of convention and Christian morals that dictated of a man to rise up and be counted responsible for his actions. Where could he go now? His choices of shelter were nonexistent. There was no Joestar estate to return to, at least not until you both returned from your bridal tour abroad when the workers your father hired projected its completion. Heaven help him, he even found himself pining for his lost love, feeling a heaping dose of Christian guilt whenever those thoughts crossed his mind. But there was no comfort even in emotional infidelity. Erina Pendleton refused to hurt you. During the nights she nursed him she rebuffed his reaches towards her, and only told him to treat you tenderly, to make an honest woman of you considering the nature of your close relationship, and to accept the kindness you had extended to him in the form of a place to recover. And there was no way, no chance in hell that a gentleman would betray the expectations of a lady. Even if you drove Jonathan crazy and made him wish that he had never agreed so rashly to marry you, he couldn’t go back on his word. Hadn’t he made a big to do about your engagement? Something he promised his late father pertained to you, a promise just before he went to school he assured his father the same thing he did for you: He would not force you to suffer shame or subject you to the horror of your father’s desire to marry you off to one of his rich friends to save face. If he made the choice to know you, he would take the responsibility of taking care of you as his wife.

They that dance must pay the fiddler after all. His father informed him that his late mother quoted this often. And what a shame it would be to her, if she were alive today and knew that her own son didn’t maintain the morals she wanted for him.

Surrounded by your “curios” and decorations from the Orient, Jonathan tried for many hours to steel his nerves. It took him until it was time to eat with you and your father, the hunger and promise of a feast coaxing him from his corner and to the dining hall where he sat distantly at the overly large table. He supped quietly, refusing to answer your questions as to why he was so late, and simply pretending as though nothing was happening in his mind. Sometimes he made polite conversations with your father, but any time you or the wedding were brought up he avoided the subject like the plague. Hard to do when all your father talked about was you, with the slight possibility he might throw in a morsel or two about his horses. Once in a lull where your father was prying lobster meat from the shell, Jonathan looked up from his plate that he had cleaned nearly five times to see that you barely touched anything, your shoulders withdrawn and your lips pressed tightly together. For a minute his heart twinged with anger, only to soften when he wondered if you’d even eaten anything at all. You looked so pale, and did you always have that green tint to your cheeks? Jonathan watched quietly as you told one of the many servants at your side that you just didn’t want anything right now, but in his heart he knew you weren’t starving yourself for the sake of fashion, nor was it because you were upset.

Jonathan couldn’t let the facade of his anger alienate you… It wasn’t right. Especially not in this condition where the slightest misstep could only make the situation worse. Even if you were with fault and not at all the perfect image of a lady, hadn’t he learned to see passed that to see the beautiful qualities you possessed? Hadn’t he been able to see passed the glitz and glamours you hid your true self behind? As was expected, you were favored by men for your wealth and quick wit, among the women you were hated for the ease with which you could capture a beaux with a simple beckon of your fingers.

It was odd really, among the other ladies of your pedigree you stood out, a bluejay among robins with the temperament to match; none of the ladies were safe from your sharp beak. A beautiful blonde daughter of a marquis would pale in comparison to you, even though you possessed no traditional qualities of beauty that they did. Your face was far too severe, brow perpetually pulled into a look far too sly, and your smile seemed to come at a price as well. Anyone who spent more than a few hours couldn’t fail to notice your short temperament and disdain for the delicate flowers of England. And yet when asked there was never any shortage of complements: your jewelry always sparkled the brightest against your clean skin, your hand was never empty, always clasped by a dancing partner or in fervent confessions of love, and your clothes were always of the finest French silks, fitted in ways to emphasize the assets you did have. Yet the compliments were more superficial, whereas most romantics like Jonathan wanted a Jane Eyre, you were more Blanche Ingram, all French lace and jewelry and coveting any little trinket you could get your hands on.

Yet there were hidden qualities you possessed that you only allowed Jonathan to catch a glimpse of. As much as you threw money towards your curios and your dresses and jewels, you were just as obliged to give it all away to charitable causes. He never forgot the blue coat school you showed him one day when he was itching to go outside for a bit of fresh air. The building bearing your family name was only a few hours ride away from your home, the halls as spotlessly clean and well equipped as your manor, and all the chubby cheeked little orphan girls knew you by name and ran up to kiss you and put bluebells in your hair when you told them you wouldn’t be visiting for some time. They cried at first, thinking you were abandoning them, only to squeal in delight when you told them you were getting married to the handsome man that had accompanied you. He remembered the parties he attended where he’d started to show interest. Your quick with and sharp intellect endeared you to the men, each one pushing Jonathan in your direction when they noticed your demeanor changed for the better whenever he was around. He would always remember the times you purposefully snubbed the advances of one Dio Brando, much to Jonathan’s secret delight, merely because you “did not like the look of his eyes” and that you would not forget the injustices committed against your sweet Jojo.

There were many other things… The times you’d prattle on and on about your fossil collection and all the things you learned whilst collecting them, bonding over a mutual love of history and listening to his own prattling about the stone mask, asking about his hopes and dreams, mourning his father with him on nights where his injuries were too painful to ignore… Even appreciating the friendship and love of Erina Pendleton, because she made him happy during a time where you did not know him. That had to be when he’d truly fallen in love with you. Your heart was wholly good, you only wanted his happiness, whereas any other woman would have flown into a rage because he had never stopped loving another.

Jonathan was so lost in thought about you, he rose from the table without speaking once the meal was concluded, and went automatically towards his sanctuary of your own miniature museum, he didn’t hear your footsteps following eagerly after him.

“Jojo??”

Your voice sounded so innocent, so tiny and sad, that Jonathan paused his journey and allowed you to catch up to him, your jewelry and the knickknacks lining the halls in curio cabinets rattling with your steps as you ran towards him. For every one step he took, you needed to run very far, and it took a while for you to catch up. Yet you did eventually catch up to him winded and looking more pale than before. Gently, like a little girl beseeching her father, you tugged his waistcoat in the hopes that he’d turn to look at you.

“Jojo...” your voice was the tiniest whimper. “Jojo... Are you going to leave me?”

“What?!”

Hours ago before he ate he might have considered breaking the engagement out of anger, but now that he had remembered his love for you (and been fed) he couldn’t dare think of destroying you like that.

“Why would you ever think-…”

“You have that look about you Jojo. I’ve seen it so many times, the first night I saw it, you were making our engagement known to Erina. Now... I... Jojo, please... Forgive me.”

Your hands were shaking. He could see you tottering in your heels and knew immediately when he grabbed your waist to balance you that your mood had only been dictated to anger because you were poorly. Dressed like a doll and smothering in your clothes because your father demanded it of you, and here Jonathan was only making it worse.

“Why... no, I should not pretend as if I do not know the cause of your pain.” He murmured as he pulled you close into his chest. “While I will not deny your tempers vex me, I must beg your forgiveness too... my love, I’ve told you over and over so many times: I have no need for earthly possessions. Your love is all I need. I don’t want to leave you, I only beg of you to let me take care of myself. I wish you wouldn’t spoil me so.”

“B-but Jojo...”

“Shhh... my love, you’re ashen.” He murmured softly into your neck. “You need to have something my love. I can send for a meal to be brought to your room.”

He tried to lead you to your room, but you refused to budge and only tugged on his clothes again, begging him to look at you.

“But Jojo... I... my only wish is that you should want for nothing.”

“I don’t need gifts and trinkets my love.” Jonathan murmured gently. “I just need your love and understanding, and for you to always be happy with me.”

You couldn’t help but melt into tears by his words, explaining through your hiccoughing that you never wanted him to feel unloved or unwanted, citing the many wrongs done to him and the burden it left on your heart to know that while you were blissfully unaware of your future husband’s suffering, you had merely been collecting and hoarding your obsessions and waiting for a man to come and take you away. It frustrated you, you went on, because Jonathan had lost everything, and for once in your life you had the means to give him back what he lost.

“I... I know I cannot turn back the hands of time and return those you have lost...” you whimpered, your tears wetting his cravat and making his own burst forth onto your hair. “However the least I can do is give you clothes, a home, a good meal...-“

“Oh my love... I only. Need. Your. Affections. Nothing else.”

Each word he spoke was punctuated with fervent kisses to your lips, his good arm pressing you tightly against his chest as you lost yourselves to passion. He very nearly lost control there in the hall, not caring that anyone including your father might walk in and scold you both for acting in perversion. But eventually he pulled away from your enticing lips, his heart swelling and beating out the things he thought in anger, your sweetest kisses reminding him of why he asked you to be Mrs. Jonathan Joestar in the first place.

“I had wanted to show you after we took care of your clothes,” you gasped, breathless from his canoodling, “Plenty of other things came today as well, come, before you take me to my room.”

You took him gently by the good arm, directing him into a room he knew to be your nursery in childhood. It wasn’t far from the area you assured him would be your own shared chambers (your father insisted you’d remain with him for the time it took to completely restore Jonathan’s home), and when you opened the door you assured him the setup within was only for a little while.

“Just until the little creature is strong enough to make the journey back home with us Jojo.” You told him with a smile as you lead him into the room.

Seeing the bright pretty colors, as well as the miniature items and clothes, Jonathan couldn’t hold back his happiness. He glanced at you, his lips open in a smile and tears dribbling down his cheeks, and gasped in pure delight to see the items you were squirreling away inside.

“You... you did all this?” He grinned widely.

You nodded eagerly, smiling as he picked up soft swaddling clothes, ran his fingers along the supple wood of a cradle, and looked around with wide, lovesick eyes.

It was as though finally he could see the promise of happier times in these possessions, and realized that you were only trying to give him happiness in the one way that you could. In truth, he still preferred you, and the gift you would give him in a few months time.

[cynwritess]

My Outlining Technique As A Pantser

I despise outlining with every fiber of my soul. I don’t care how much people persist you need an outline, I will put it off to the very last minute and do it very half-assed. Even in school, its straight to the first draft. Outlining requires a very precise skill of breaking things down as small as possible and my mind simply does not function that way. It’s literally all or nothing. Unfortunately while this may work for writing school essays, it’s not exactly a good idea when it comes to a book. Writing a book requires structure and precision because you need to carefully place information, have an idea where your characters are going, tedious yet necessary things. Fortunately, I’ve come up with a way to outline without completely frying my brain.

Characters. 

I almost always start with the characters first and build the world, other characters, and plot around them. If you have a name in mine, perfect! Go ahead and use it! If you don’t have a name, don’t dread scouring through dozens of baby name websites. Give them a place holder name or better yet, give them a role/title. I’m going to use one of my current characters (steal anything about her and I’ll send demons after you). When I first created Selina I only had a vague aesthetic and the idea that I wanted her to somehow be attached to spirits. Her name didn’t come to me until 25k into the story, but I had to refer to her as something so I used a conjunction of a place holder name and calling her “Reaper of Souls”. This way I know exactly who I’m referring to. Also, this helps me know what path my character needs to go down. Reaper of Souls is who she’ll become, but its definitely not who she is when the story begins. It makes me thing: What steps do I need to take to get her there? This is where you can start brainstorming character arcs and give them trauma. 

Another essential part of creating characters in my opinion is giving them “role models”. Personally, if this is a brand new character I’m creating off the top of my head its hard to write them because I know nothing about them. I don’t know their sense of humor, who they would and wouldn’t get along with, their inner monologue, etc. Now you have to be careful with this and make sure to mold them into their own unique characters at the end of the day, but you can use other already existing characters to help begin the process. When creating Selina I knew vaguely she needed to be connected to spirits. What characters do I know like that? Jodie from Beyond Two Souls is a good one and Zelie is a bit of a different twist to it but still the same general idea. But wait! Selina’s vibe doesn’t match either of them. So in this case I might look at Jude Duarte for inspiration for her personality. Nitpick all your favorite things about different characters and use that to your advantage! It gives you the jolt you need to really begin to explore who your character is. 

Always do the main character first, then follow with the supporting character or villain. In my opinion, the main supporting character and villain should be foils of the main character in order to get the most out of each one, because you’ll be able to see different aspects and different arcs they could’ve/will have. Once you have those three characters you can create the others as you progress with your story.

Setting.

This can either be really simple or your worst fucking nightmare. For me, it’s a mixture of both. If your story is taking place in the real world then this can be relatively simple even if you’re creating your own town/city. If your town has a very specific location like a town square or maybe there’s a river running through it, then just google “towns with a river going through it” for a start. If you have a specific town in mind you can also google the map and start dissecting different aspects of the town and incorporating it into your own. You can even use your own town for inspiration! The town my story takes place in is made up, but my hometown actually resembles it quite a bit so I’ve been using it for references. So far, its been working out pretty good.

Now if you have a high fantasy setting... I wish you the best of luck. I’ve only written one high fantasy story when I was twelve and... well clearly its never seen the light of day for a reason (partially because I deleted it, partially because there was absolutely zero world-building). I’m sorry to say my skills have no improved much since then. I’ve dabbled with the idea of high fantasy worlds and honestly my only advice is to look at other fantasy maps and draw inspiration from that. Narnia, Ravka, the ACOTAR world, the shifting isles of Elfhame, the Avatar universe, Orisha, to name a few. You’ll also have to look at some basic geographical stuff like the climate, but overall you have pretty much free reign over how your world looks. This is the one part I feel like you can’t bullshit if you don’t want your story to seem halfway. Really go in with the details even if its just for you. The more fleshed out your world is, even if its set here in the normal world, the better.

The main issue. 

This is pretty much a given but you do need to have some sort of idea who the main antagonist is/what is the big issue your characters are fighting. If you’re writing a series then chances are book one will probably focus on an entirely different issue before the big one is revealed. There’s not really much advice I can give for this because it’ll be tailored specifically to your story. I don’t think your antagonist has to be fully fleshed out if you’re going to be introducing them very late, but do have a general idea who or what it is, their goal, and why your character feels the need to stop them.

Usually you’ll notice the problem in the beginning of the story isn’t the ultimate problem, its just a gateway to it. I wouldn’t necessarily call it a subplot but I guess technically that’s what it is. Think of Percy Jackson. The main issue of book one is him being accused of stealing the lightning bolt, but the ultimate issue was the war with the titans. Or The Cruel Prince. The main issue was Jude feeling helpless and wanting to create a place for herself in the faery world, but the ultimate issue was those attempting overthrowing the entire Greenbriar family from the thrown. 

This kind of goes without saying, but there has to be a strong motivation for the character to stop them or it just won’t work. You don’t see characters going after the antagonist because nothing in their life isn’t threatened. There’s always a motivation, something to fuel them even if done so reluctantly. For example, Zelie from Children of Blood and Bone was sick and tired of constantly fighting and being the hero, but she did it anyways because she was the only one who could truly help the maji. Or you can take a slightly antagonistic approach and look at Kaz from Six of Crows who did what he did out of greed for money, power, and revenge. Usually when I begin my stories, I only have a vague idea as to why my main character is joining the fight, which is perfectly fine. As long as you have some sort of idea and begin to build on it as you write, you’ll be probably be fine. 

Brainstorm.

I cannot for the life of me sit in front of my computer and write a bland summary of what it is that is going to happen in my book. Sorry, but I am simply not built that way but it also makes writing your books ten times harder as well. I’ve found a bit of a cheat. For one, brainstorm. Get a general idea what some of the main events you want to happen are. Do you want a character death? Does a specific location need to be mentioned? Is there subplots or character arcs you would like to explore? Is there any themes you’d like to explore? Jot them all down, along with your word count goal. You probably won’t be able to incorporate all of them in one book, but at least you’ll have an idea what path you’re going to head down in terms of your story.

And now onto my actual cheat. Because I’m a pantser who hates outlining, I usually jump into my stories without knowing what direction they are going. Recently I’ve discovered that I can outline the first five chapters, write them out, and give myself complete free reign. I’ll explore all sorts of character personalities, different beginnings, different writing styles, different scenarios, different relationships, anything I can realistically include in the first five chapters of my story. Then I’ll go back and edit it. Don’t completely delete anything, always save it in a separate file! I’ll go back and decide which characters are unnecessary at this point, what plot points can be introduced later on, what writing style suits this story, things like that. Then from there, I’ll go back to my outline and make any appropriate changes before proceeding to write the rest of the draft as normal (WITHOUT GOING BACK TO EDIT). The reason why I do this is because I need a solid base to begin my story, otherwise its so easy for me to go off track and begin to tell a completely different story. This way I’ll know exactly what I’m going after, I’ll be able to explore and get to know my characters and setting, and it’s enough chapters that I can even begin to incorporate the main issue at hand. 

[liliability]

Day Two: In the hands of the enemy

(Eh, kinda. This piece is a nod to the prompt I wrote back in September, set in the same universe of Day One: Let’s Hang Out Sometimes)

CW: lady whump, pet whump, dehumanizing language, collar, caged whumpee, captivity, blood mention.

Timeline: Late 90's, 20 years before Max abduction

Every year, Emma attends Trevor Harding’s luxurious ball uninvited. A nice excuse, she thinks, to wear a tailored suit and flirt with absorbed ladies all night without bringing attention to herself. 

An even better annual excuse to keep her eyes on Harding’s closest friends, the infamous elite of magic timekeepers that hold all the cards in this part of the city.

Trevor had reacted with mild annoyance at the first, but quickly took up the challenge to surprise his most intriguing guest every year with his latest purchases. Usually, the acquisitions are older than the immortal host himself.

This year, unlike the last few decades, Harding’s precious asset isn’t on display in the main hall, and that’s enough to make Emma a little wary of the nature of his acquisition.

 ------------------------------

“Well, it’s not exactly a new acquisition, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but it took me years to get improve my project. I wouldn’t settle with an unfinished piece of work.”

The loud Vivaldi that entertain the guests in the ball room is slowly replaced by a faint ringing in her ears as Harding leads Emma to the biggest cellar she had ever seen. The place looks more like a warehouse from a horror movie, or even an old-fashioned dungeon, than the underground of a sumptuous castle. She wonders if anyone can hear her if she screams.

The answer is probably no, or else Harding wouldn’t lock any living creature down there. Emma knows they’re walking towards a living thing, because the ringing is replaced for a low groaning as they run down the cellar.

“Don’t get too close to the cage. My girl has quite strong teeth.”

Emma notices the big cage hidden by the shadows in one corner of the cellar. The reinforced bars hold whatever pet Harding got his hands on this time, and it mustn’t be very well-trained, but this isn’t Emma’s biggest worry.

The cage is too big for a dog.

The dark Harding whistles to bring the attention of the creature. 

Emma hears a rattling of chains, followed by a loud growl, before the pet draws closer to bare it’s teeth at them and thrash violently at the bars of the cage.

The woman nearly falls back when the pet snarls at her, and in the darkness of the cellar it takes her a while to notice that the figure locked in the cage is not an it, but a bruised young woman, bound on her hands and knees, that thrashes back and forth against her restraints like a startled animal.

The sounds she made doesn’t sound human at all. Distressed and strangled whimpers come out from a throat that is as restrained as her limbs.

She’s wearing a fucking dog collar.

“What...What the fuck, Harding? This is a- fuck- how long do you have a person in your cellar?”

Trevor puts himself between Emma and the cage, doing quiet shush motions. Behind him, the woman stares at them with wide icy eyes and bared teeth. There’s a thin layer of sweat covering her face but no flush reddening her hollow cheeks. No freckles, no blush, despite the paleness of her skin. The only color in her face are the dark circle under her eyes and the dried blood spattered on her cheeks.

She looks sick. Damn, if she wasn’t panting so much, Emma would think she was fucking dead.

“I know, I know what you’re thinking, but let me explain. Do you see the runes in her arms?”

Emma lowers her gaze, looking at the elaborate knife-made marks in her arms. She had heard about the forbidden runes, made by greedy mortal beings who want immortality- or perhaps corrupt timekeepers who lost their powers. At the end, their craving is the same, but these years of life are not simply granted. They are stolen, and that’s the purpose of the runes.

The lines are neat and straight, the work was clearly slow and deliberate. The woman must have stayed still- or unconscious- but if the point Harding is trying to make is true, she did these runes of her own volition.

“So, the rumors are true. Are you sheltering strays now, Trevor? I thought mortals like her had their own gang, or something like that”.

“Well, what could I do? She asked me for help, and I turned her myself.”

The woman snarls at them again, pulling at her restraints with smudged red fingers and shouting something that sounds quite like “Go away!” Emma would guess she’s in her twenties, but there’s no way to know with the runes-

One awful question pops in her mind.

“How long... for how long do you have her?”

Harding grins at the question.

“Now, that’s a nice question! I found her at ‘91, so let’s say... seven years?”

Emma’s going to throw up. There’s no way the poor thing in the cage had known the fate reserved for her, there’s no way she would agree with this.

“This...this is wrong, how can immortality be worth all this?”

“Oh no, she didn’t trade herself for immortality, that was only a collateral. Do you see how the pattern in her arms is different from the standard rune?”

There’s a mark in her arms that resembles a chain, the rune used to bound a mortal’s life to a Timekeeper’s powers. No matter who this woman was, she gave herself to Harding to be able to extend someone’s life. 

Emma is paler than usual. “What could she possibly use these powers for?”

“About that...”

Harding leads her back to the crowded ballroom. The caged woman doesn’t seem to relax even when they got more distant. Instead, Emma can see her growl to a shadow and rub her face in the bars, removing the matted hair that gets in front of her eyes.

 Dozens of servants move around the room with plates full of champagne glasses. One of them is visibly younger than the others, and particularly nice looking. His icy blue eyes and messy dark hair caught her attention immediately, but she can’t stop thinking how similar he is with the feral prisoner downstairs.

He walks with his head cast down, a tired frown in his face, but despite his careless expression his uniform is flawless, except for the wrinkled fabric in his arms were the sleeves are rolled up to expose the runes. 

Anyone could see the carved marks at meters of distance, and Harding’s closest guests would certainly know about its meaning. A sign of danger and unnatural in any other place out of a timekeeper’s territory, but here? In Harding’s own ball, serving guests and cleaning tables? The rune is a sign of ownership. A brand marked with no iron.

“Is that a...?”

“A bound mark, exactly. The siblings made a deal with me, some years ago. His darling sister dropped dead in my door some years ago, and he came for me to trade his life for hers.”

“I won’t say he looks very alive, but he’s clearly not dead, at least.”

“I got a little turn in my arrangements. His sister wasn’t very pleased when she woke up. She begged me for a deal, and I granted her new powers to keep her brother alive, as long as she can buy him more time.”

Trevor doesn’t say the rest of the sentence. From someone, buy him more time from someone, harming innocent mortals to extend her own life- or someone else’s, in this case. 

“But she’s not one of us, she can’t steal without killing her targets.”

Harding’s smile widens. “I’m very aware of this” The trail of blood is no inconvenience for him.

This is absolutely sick. She knew some timekeepers could be corrupt, but Harding is in a whole new level...

“What would you get in return, huh? Betraying your own people, using forbidden magic? Brennan lost his powers for much less.”

“I beg to differ, as I was the one who removed his powers, in the first place. With your connivance, if you don’t remember.” Harding shrugs, following the dark-haired servant with his eyes. “But what did I get in return? As you could see, I got myself a gorgeous brand-new toy, and the best hunt dog I could hope for.”

Emma doesn’t think about all the laws Harding had broken behind her back. She doesn’t think about the inappropriate comments the half-dead man gets from the guests and their even less appropriate touches that only stop when the guests see the runes.

But mostly, she tries not to think about the bared teeth pointed at her, and kicks herself whenever she wonders about what Harding would consider a hunt.

[famouslastwordsinmexico]

Suggested for You

     You think to yourself, I shouldn’t have looked that up online.

     You’re now staring at a bunch of banner ads that frame your email inbox. Each one is attempting to entice you to purchase succulents from flower shops near and far, small and conglomerated. The bright, animated images boast to you about how their store’s succulents will set you on the path to self-care while reconnecting you with nature. You know these ads are suggested to you and tailored specifically for you based on your search history, but, really, you just wanted to know how to spell “succulent”.

     To be fair, you probably shouldn’t be looking up non-work related curiosities while actually at work, but it’s been a slow morning. And yet, right as you excuse yourself for the trivial indiscretion, you’re called into your manager’s office. You lock your computer and worriedly head over to where they wait for you. Upon entering the room you see that there is someone else here for this impromptu meeting. Or, rather, someone has video-called in, their face on your manager’s monitor, which has been turned to meet yours.

    “A representative from HR will be joining us remotely,” your manager informs you. They then sit on the front edge of their desk, not behind it, in a manner you suspect all managers unironically believe comes off as cool and relaxed.

    “Huh. Is something wrong?” You cautiously take your seat, looking between them and the digital HR rep.

    “Oh, no, not at all. It’s just a small request.” They fold their hands in front of them. “That presentation you’re working on for Friday; I wanted to ask if you would give it over to Robert.”

    “Robert? Why? I thought it was supposed to be my project.” You worked hard on that presentation, and even harder on that project. It was something that was going to get you noticed by the higher-ups, a first step towards bigger things.

    “It is. Or, it was. It…” They stop themselves, physically appear to reset, and adopt a concerned face. “We’re simply worried it might be putting too much stress on you.” They lean in. “How are you feeling? Is everything alright with you?”

    “Uh… I’m doing fine?” You’re progressively less certain about what’s happening.

    “You sure? You can be honest with us.” They lean back. “We’ve heard you’ve been depressed.”

    The shock of this gives you mental whiplash.

    “‘Depressed’?” you echo. “Why would you think that?”

    “Well,” they begin, affecting the concerned yet distant tone in which only senior managers are capable of speaking, “it’s come to our attention that you’ve been sharing some pretty troubling sentiments.”

    “I only really talk about work-related stuff with people, honestly.”

    “No, I’m referring to the stuff you share online.”

    Dumbfounded, you blink.

    “You see,” your manager explains, “we recently employed a service that keeps us up to date with our employees.” They seem mildly pleased with themself over their technological ability. They speak to you but look at the HR rep on screen. “Of course, it’s only because we care for the well-being of everyone here in the office. And their software told us that you’ve been feeling quite down lately. They even highlighted some examples; is it not true that you recently posted about how nothing really matters?”

    You don’t recall using those words for anything. As you confusedly shrug, they pull out their phone and hand you it, showing the post in question.

    “Wait, what?” you ask. “Those are song lyrics. To a very popular song! I shared them for a ‘Throwback Thursday’.”

    “Hmm, no,” they say, taking their phone back. “I’m still seeing a cry for help. Like, what about this one: ‘All I want is to sleep and pizza and do nothing and sleep’? That sounds pretty depressed.”

    “That was one of those online things where people let auto-complete write a post for them.”

    “Sure, then how do you explain this post, where you describe how you wish the food truck across the street would ‘run you over’ if you ‘tipped extra’ for your burrito before you got back in from lunch?”

    “That’s a really old post I made when I was at my old job. The one I left for this job! I made that joke to vent. Other people liked it.” Specifically two people: a friend, and the food truck’s company (which you presume auto-likes any mention of their brand).

    Your manager sighs as they shake their head.

    “Come on, now, you don’t have to hide. You can be honest.” They lean in again. “This is sophisticated software; it wouldn’t lie. Its algorithm combed through your life and crunched the numbers. You are depressed. And, if you’re feeling depressed, we want to make sure the company isn’t placing any undue stress on you. Wouldn’t want you turning around and saying we’re unfair, or that we torment you with public speaking, huh?” No one laughs at their non-joke. The HR rep briefly writes something on their notepad. “Right. Well, when we ask you to hand the presentation off to Robert, it’s not just because we want it to turn out well, it’s because we want you to be well, too.”

    “You’re punishing me because of memes?” you ask, unsure of how much incredulity you can show without further risking your job.

    “Oh, no, of course not,” they reply, “we would never!” At this point your manager doesn’t even try to hide that they’re assuring the HR rep more than they’re talking to you. “This company does not punish depression. In fact,” they add, turning back to you, “why don’t you take the rest of the day off? We’ll mark it down as a sick day, a day for ‘personal care’, even.” They nod to themself, satisfied. “I’ll mark it down in your time sheet right now.”

    They pull out their phone and begin typing, finished with this meeting. You want to tell them not to do that, since you only have a limited number of sick days, but feel there’d be no use arguing. You stand up, at a loss for words. As you slowly turn to leave you find the HR rep is pointing towards the printer in the room. It prints off something you deduce they sent remotely. It appears to be a pamphlet. The person in the monitor motions for you to pick it up, their face set in the textbook definition of a polite smile. The pamphlet is titled Dealing with Depression.

    Your smartwatch pings as you grab the pamphlet and the screen displays an ad for succulents. You turn the watch off.

    You don’t feel like going home right away. You instead head to a nearby cafe and order the kind of sugary latte you know isn’t worth the high price and higher calorie count, but you could use the comfort. There are no real baristas here, only machines that charge you extra to print a picture of yourself onto the latte foam. You pay the extra amount. You then sign on to the free wifi, checking off the terms and conditions you didn’t read, and take a picture of your cup to share online. Not five minutes of browsing later you get a call from your mom. You plug in your headset and answer.

    “Are you alright?” she asks.

    “Yeah, how do you mean?” You wonder why everyone’s asking you that today.

    “Because you’re not at work!” You realize now that the picture you just posted is location-tagged. “And I know what kind of drinks you like when you’re feeling sad; I’m your mother, after all.” You should’ve never accepted her friend request.

    “No, it’s not that, it’s just… I’m alright. Working from home today, but I figured I’d grab a coffee. That’s all, I promise.”

    You don’t think she believes you but her silence tells you she won’t push if you don’t want to tell her the truth. You instead get a notification on your phone that your mom has sent you a “poke”, a feature that only moms still remember exists. She breaks the silence first.

    “Well, okay then,” she offers, “if you say so. Anyways, there was something else I wanted to ask you about.” Her tone gets conspiratorial for her next question. “Are you and Jamie dating?”

    “What?!” You nearly choke on your latte. “No! Why do you think that?”

    “Your aunts told me,” she answers plainly. “And, apparently, some of their friends told them first. They’re still not used to, you know, those kinds of relationships.” As progressive as your mom can be, her age and upbringing still show from time to time.

    “I don’t even know my aunts’ friends, why would they think I’m dating Jamie?”

    “They saw your picture online.”

    You rub your eye, annoyed.

    “What picture, mom?”

    “Well,” she starts, and if phones still had cords you could imagine your mom twirling hers now, wrapping her finger as she shares the gossip, “you see, one of your aunts’ friends was online and saw you as a suggested friend.” You never understood what algorithms determined those suggestions. “She was curious, so she went in and browsed your page. There it was, a photo of the two of you, looking pretty close and cozy.”

    You check your account on your phone. There’s no way someone randomly looking you up online could’ve seen that photo. Although, how many times did the site tell you they were updating their privacy policy and you opted to skip the details of what that meant?

    “Mom, didn’t you see that picture yourself before? That was just Jamie and me playing around. You know we’re just friends.”

    “Yes, I thought it was nothing. But, those friends of your aunts talk a lot, and they do seem very convinced. I looked at the picture again and it got me thinking.” Her tone gets conspiratorial again. “Are you dating Jamie? I’d have nothing against it. Your father, though…” You block the headset mic to hide your exasperated sigh, and then interrupt before she can finish the thought.

    “We’re not close, mom, not like that. My aunts and their friends are making up stories.” You wonder how scrutinized any future pictures you post will be. Maybe you should restrict how much of your profile your mom can access. You’ll have to figure out the new privacy settings first.

    “Yes, fine, you’re right. I’m simply saying they sounded convinced, is all.” You can almost picture her busying herself with some chores at home to prove that she’s over it. And yet she adds, “I will say, though, that if you were with Jamie, I’d be very supportive. Jamie’s lovely, and would be lucky to have you.”

    You hide another exasperated sigh and change the topic. When she’s had her fill of catching up, your mom says goodbye and you hang up.

    You sit in the cafe, your mouth contorted in contemplation save for when you sip from your cup. You thought you were good at keeping your personal and online lives separate, but thanks to dubious algorithms and out-of-touch inquirers, your agency at work has been diminished and your sexuality is being questioned by people who’d be less than understanding. Even if you restrict who gets access to your information, what little slips through the cracks is still interpreted without context. Is that what the internet is now? For people to be data-mined so other people can make assumptions? Who wanted it that way?

    Your phone sets off with another notification, informing you that a local indoor plant store has followed you online. They specialize in succulents.

    You almost laugh out loud at the insanity of it. Of course; this hunt for data is mostly the hunt for ad revenue. While it’s a marvel how fervently someone on the other side of the screen wants to believe they understand you, advertisers are the ones who set the system up. And even they can’t seem to get it right!

    The fever of frustration breaks, giving way to a fever of defiance. Why leave room to be misinterpreted? You decide to live your online life unabashedly and unafraid to share all. Will someone be tracking your moves? You don’t care, but if they are you hope they can keep up.

    You grab your phone and browse with fury and determination. You share news articles and let your political leanings lay bare as you never had before. You hit “publish” on every dumb joke and inane thought you had previously hid shamefully as drafts. You post all of the pictures in your phone, and when you’re done with those you take a couple more. You follow musicians, actors, and influencers alike, so that no one would have to guess what your tastes are. You join in as many forum conversations as you can, and only stop when a person you’re arguing with, who has an anime-girl profile picture, threatens to dox you. You log off.

    When you finally get home you’re bleary eyed from unblinking browsing and shaky from the excess of caffeine. You want nothing more than to decompress. As you turn on your TV to search for something to stream and zone out to, you call out to your virtual assistant device and say, “Play something soothing.”

    Though your command was vague, as the speakers turn on they start playing exactly what you only now realize you had in mind. You love this band, even if you hadn’t thought of them in a while. Your phone goes off with a notification that this band has a concert coming up soon. As if on instinct triggered by serendipity, you click the notification to buy tickets.

    While browsing various streaming services on your TV you come across several documentaries that you’ve heard confirm a lot of opinions you’ve had on the state of things. While you’d love to be proven correct, you’re more in the mood for something light. You wonder if they have this one funny movie that’s a reboot of a movie that’s based on a book. Before you can remember the title you see it listed. You hit play.

    Ultimately, modern movie watching entails being on your phone, so you scroll through whatever new content was uploaded on your commute home. While you idly browse, you find another tailored ad, this time for a t-shirt boldly claiming that people born the same month as you are kind yet shouldn’t be messed with, each line in a different garish font.

    “Ha,” you laugh to yourself, “what a stupid ad.” Even after all the data you gave them, advertisers are no better than your manager or your aunts, thinking they know you and what’s best for you.

    Suddenly the page you’re on refreshes. What loads first is the ad, this time for a different shirt that’s admittedly more your style. The tagline reads, “Your life, your look.” Unsettled by the coincidence and feeling like you’ve found yourself in a conversation with your phone you didn’t know you were having, you try to click on a different link. More content loads just at that moment, though, shifting the layout of the page and leading you to click on the ad instead. Surprised, you fumble with your phone to close what’s popped up, but as your panicked fingers slip your phone decides you mean to go through with the order. You adjust your hold on your phone but somehow manage to set off a biometric scan that confirms the purchase.

    As if queued by your consumerist momentum, an ad interrupts the movie you’re watching (since when did this streaming service have ads?). The volume seems to increase on its own as the TV blares at you.

    “You don’t necessarily feel you age, so why look your age? Our skin cream can miraculously take 5 years off your face, letting your inner youth shine through.” The ad shows a model before and after using the cream. It makes a specific point of telling you the model’s age, which is your age.

    You search frantically for the remote to turn the volume down. No matter what angle you point the remote at it, the TV refuses to recognize your button pushing. You get up and simply turn off the TV manually. This gives your virtual assistant device space to chime in with a separate ad.

    “Tired of the long commute to your workplace? Find more free time while moving into one of the fastest growing neighbourhoods that’s perfect for you.” The voice emanating from your speakers describes listings in a building that you recognize is half a block away from your office. You run to unplug the device.

    One by one more “smart” appliances in your home, devices that you now question their need for internet connectivity, begin to play or display ads that were made to appeal to you exactly.

    “Our energy efficient windows fit your green lifestyle!” your thermostat boasts, citing a climate change article you just read.

    “Let us deliver the groceries you need for the recipes you love!” your fridge demands, listing off your actual favourite recipes.

    “Bzzt!” vibrates your electric toothbrush, calling you to look at its charger’s digital screen and see an ad for a dental clinic, featuring a close up of a mouth you’re weirdly certain is actually yours.

    As your apartment comes alive with the sounds of aggressive advertising, you’re terrified. You step out onto the balcony. You think to yourself, and only to yourself, that you need to get away.

    A delivery drone floats up from under your balcony and stops right at your eye level. It’s been outfitted with a display monitor. It plays a video.

    “Looking for a vacation?” it asks. “Why not fly out to Pasadena, California? You can visit the Cactus & Succulent Society of America’s annual show and sale!”