#BUT DESPERATE TIMES CALL FOR DESPERATE MEASURES

[sixeyesonathiel]

this love survives bad haircuts

synopsis : satoru makes a very questionable decision the night before school. by morning, he’s convinced he’s ruined everything—especially the way you look at him. it’s not just about hair, he learns. it never was.

wc — 4.8k ✦ tags -> character study, humor, comfort, fluff, crack treated seriously, high school au, established relationship, military haircut disaster, teenage love, idiots in love, insecure satoru

satoru gojo has made a terrible, terrible mistake.

he stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, running shaky fingers through what used to be his glorious crown of silver-white chaos and is now... this. this travesty. this crime against humanity. his hair sits close to his scalp in a crisp military cut, all sharp edges and geometric precision, and he looks like he’s about to ship out to boot camp instead of walking into first period chemistry.

the thing is, satoru has never been ugly before. not once in his seventeen years of existence. he’s been gangly, sure, when he hit that growth spurt at fourteen and couldn’t figure out where his limbs belonged. he’s been awkward, definitely, when his voice cracked during that disastrous presentation in freshman english. but ugly? never ugly.

more importantly, he’s never been ugly in front of you. you, who calls him pretty boy when you’re feeling soft. you, who traces his jawline with sleepy fingers during saturday morning cuddles. you, who literally purrs—purrs—when he nuzzles into your neck like the overgrown puppy he knows he is.

the fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting harsh shadows across his face and making his shorn head look even more alien. he tilts his head left, then right, hoping maybe the angle will make it less catastrophic. it doesn’t. if anything, it makes him look like a confused ostrich. he wonders if this is what normal people feel like all the time—this horrible uncertainty about their own reflection.

��what have i done,” he whispers to his reflection, and his reflection—that traitorous thing—just stares back with the same horrified crystalline eyes, now looking enormous without his usual curtain of hair to frame them.

the dare had seemed so simple last night. suguru and shoko, sprawled across his bedroom floor with energy drinks and homework they weren’t doing, had been going on and on about how you were obviously only dating him for his money. for his face. for the way his hair caught afternoon sunlight and made him look like some sort of ethereal prince.

it had stung, the way they’d laughed about it. not because he thought they were right, but because some treacherous part of his brain had whispered what if? what if you really were that shallow? what if the girl who remembered his coffee order and drew little hearts on his notebook margins and let him drape himself across her lap like a house cat was just playing some elaborate long game?

the thought makes him sick. because satoru gojo is pathetically in love with you. embarrassingly so. the kind of love that makes him text you good morning before his eyes are fully open, that makes him buy you little trinkets from the convenience store just because they reminded him of you, that makes him physically ache when you’re not around.

he’d always been too much. too loud, too rich, too everything. his parents had made sure he knew that—love wrapped in conditions, affection measured in achievements. so when you’d started dating him six months ago, he’d been waiting for the catch. waiting for you to get tired of his energy, his neediness, his desperate desire to be wanted for something other than his last name.

instead, you’d started calling him baby. started letting him sleep with his head on your chest. started feeding him pieces of your lunch while calling him spoiled, but with such fondness that it felt like the sweetest compliment in the world.

“she’s totally shallow,” shoko had said, blowing smoke rings toward his ceiling while picking at her black nail polish. “i bet if you showed up tomorrow bald, she’d dump you before homeroom.”

“not bald,” suguru had corrected, ever the voice of reason, though his smirk suggested otherwise. “but like, really short. military style. bet she wouldn’t even look at you twice.”

and satoru—stupid, lovesick, pride-wounded satoru—had taken the bait hook, line, and sinker. because deep down, in the parts of himself he doesn’t like to examine too closely, he’d wondered the same thing. wondered if your fingers tangled in his hair during kisses because you loved him or because you loved the way he looked in magazine spreads and instagram stories.

now he’s standing in the school hallway, hood pulled up despite the no-hats policy, practically vibrating with anxiety. his palms are sweating. actually sweating. when was the last time satoru gojo had sweaty palms? never, that’s when. but here he is, seventeen years old and terrified of his own girlfriend.

he tries to remember the last time he’d felt this kind of bone-deep terror. maybe when he was eight and broke his mother’s favorite vase, standing in the wreckage with tears streaming down his face while she counted to ten in that voice that meant disappointment. or maybe it was never this bad, because at least then he’d known the parameters of his punishment. now he’s flying blind into territory he’s never had to navigate: the possibility that someone he loves might not love him back.

students flow around him like water around a rock, chattering about weekend plans and upcoming tests, and none of them seem to notice that satoru gojo is having a complete mental breakdown. someone laughs too loudly near the science wing. a locker slams shut with metallic finality. the morning announcements crackle through tired speakers, and principal yaga’s voice drones about dress code violations.

he spots you at your locker, and his heart does that stupid fluttering thing it always does—like a hummingbird having a seizure. you’re wearing the sweater he bought you last week—soft pink cashmere that probably cost more than most people’s rent—and you’re humming under your breath while you sort through textbooks. there’s a small furrow between your brows as you squint at your schedule, and he knows you’re probably trying to remember if you have calculus or literature next.

this is the thing about loving someone, he thinks. you start memorizing their expressions like they’re a language only you can speak. he knows that furrow means concentration, not annoyance. knows that the way you’re tapping your fingers against your locker door means you’re running through your mental checklist, probably remembering that you forgot to finish your chemistry homework and trying to calculate if you have enough time before class.

he also knows that if he walked up to you right now and wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, you’d make that little huffing noise that means you’re pretending to be annoyed but secretly pleased. knows that you’d lean back into him anyway, letting him nuzzle into your hair while you complained about him being clingy in that fond, exasperated voice you use when you’re trying not to smile.

you look so pretty, so normal, so completely unaware that your boyfriend has committed follicular suicide. your hair falls in soft waves over your shoulder, and satoru’s stomach clenches with the sudden, visceral realization that he’ll never be able to mirror that gesture again. no more running his fingers through matching lengths of hair. no more of you braiding small sections when you’re bored in class.

no more of you tugging on the strands when you want his attention, calling him your pretty boy with that secret smile that makes him feel like he could conquer the world.

“just walk over,” he mutters to himself, bouncing slightly on his heels. “just walk over and—”

“satoru!” your voice cuts through his spiral, bright and cheerful, and he freezes like a deer in headlights. you’re waving at him with your free hand, that brilliant smile on your face—the one that makes your eyes crinkle at the corners and shows off the slightly crooked incisor you’re self-conscious about. the one that makes him feel like he’s swallowed sunshine. “come here, i missed you!”

missed you. it’s been twelve hours since he walked you home, since you stood on your tiptoes to kiss him goodbye on your doorstep, since you whispered “text me when you get home, baby” against his lips. twelve hours, and you missed him.

his heart does seventeen different acrobatic maneuvers in his chest.

his feet move without his permission, carrying him toward you on unsteady legs. the hood feels like it’s suffocating him, but he can’t take it off. won’t take it off. maybe if he just keeps it on all day, you’ll never have to see what he’s done. maybe he can transfer schools. maybe he can fake his own death.

he’s spiraling. he knows he’s spiraling. this is what happens when satoru gojo doesn’t have control over a situation—his brain turns into a hamster wheel of catastrophic possibilities. he’s going to lose you. you’re going to take one look at him and realize you’ve been dating a fraud, someone who’s only attractive with the right lighting and good genetics, and now that one of those things is gone, the illusion is shattered.

“why are you wearing your hood?” you ask, reaching up to tug at the fabric with curious fingers. your touch is gentle, familiar, and he wants to lean into it like a cat seeking warmth. wants to press his face into your palm and let you pet him until the world makes sense again. “you know mr. yaga will give you detention if he sees. and then you’ll be all mopey and i’ll have to sneak you extra cookies at lunch to cheer you up.”

the casual way you plan to take care of him makes his throat tight. this is what you do—you notice when he’s sad, when he’s stressed, when he needs just a little more attention than usual. you pretend to be annoyed about it, but you always have his favorite snacks in your bag, always save him the good seat in the cafeteria, always let him tangle his fingers with yours under the desk during boring classes.

“no, don’t—” but it’s too late. your fingers catch the edge of his hood and pull, and then you’re staring at him with wide eyes and an expression he can’t quite read.

the silence stretches between them like a chasm. satoru wants to die. wants to sink into the floor and disappear forever. wants to transfer schools and change his name and maybe join the witness protection program. your eyes are doing that thing where they go very still, very focused, like you’re trying to solve a particularly difficult math problem.

“your hair,” you say finally, and your voice is so quiet he barely hears it over the hallway noise. your hand is still raised, hovering somewhere near his temple, fingers trembling slightly like you want to touch but don’t quite dare.

he knows that gesture. you do it when you’re trying to process something that doesn’t compute. like the time he showed up at your house at midnight because he’d had a nightmare and needed to see you. you’d stood there in your pajamas, hair mussed from sleep, hand hovering just like this while you tried to figure out if you should scold him for being reckless or hug him for being vulnerable.

you’d chosen the hug. you always choose the hug.

“i can explain,” he starts, words tumbling out in a rush while his hands gesture wildly. “it was a dare and i was stupid and i know you probably hate it and me and—”

“satoru.” you’re still staring at him, and now he can see tears gathering in your eyes. actual tears. your lower lip trembles, and you press your free hand to your mouth like you’re trying to hold something back. “your beautiful hair.”

and then you’re crying. not just tearing up, but full-on sobbing in the middle of the hallway, shoulders shaking as you stare at his shorn head like he’s just told you someone died. your textbooks tumble from your arms, scattering across the linoleum with dull thuds.

this is it, he thinks. this is the moment everything falls apart. except... except you’re not looking at him with disgust or disappointment. you’re looking at him like you’re grieving. like something precious has been lost. and that’s almost worse, because it means you did care about his hair, means maybe suguru and shoko were right about something, means—

“oh god,” he panics, reaching for you instinctively, his hands hovering uselessly around your shoulders because he doesn’t know if touching you will make it better or worse. “don’t cry, please don’t cry, i’m sorry, i’m so sorry—”

“it’s gone,” you wail, and several students turn to stare. your voice echoes off the lockers, and satoru can see phones being pulled out in his peripheral vision. “it’s all gone! how could you do this to me? to us? to your perfect, gorgeous, fluffy hair that i loved so much?”

and there it is. the thing that makes satoru gojo absolutely, completely, stupidly in love with you. because it’s not his hair you’re mourning—it’s yours. you’ve claimed it, the same way you’ve claimed his hoodies and his passenger seat and his whole entire heart. in your mind, his hair belongs to you as much as it belongs to him, and someone has taken it away without asking permission.

you’re not crying because he’s ugly. you’re crying because someone stole something that was yours to love.

satoru feels his own eyes starting to water. this is worse than he imagined. so much worse. you’re crying over his hair—actually crying—and he doesn’t know what to do with that information. his throat feels tight, and there’s a burning sensation behind his eyes that he hasn’t felt since he was twelve and broke his arm falling off his bike.

he thinks about all the times you’ve touched his hair. casual touches—pushing it out of his eyes during study sessions, playing with the ends while you’re both watching movies, the way you’d run your fingers through it when he was stressed about exams. but also the possessive touches—tugging him down for kisses, wrapping the strands around your finger while you’re talking, the way you’d pet him absently while he dozed with his head in your lap.

you’ve never said “i love you” out loud. neither of you have. but you’ve said it in a thousand other ways, and apparently one of those ways was cherishing his stupid hair like it was made of spun gold.

had it really meant that much to you? had he been so stupid, so careless with something you treasured?

“i’ll grow it back,” he promises desperately, hands still hovering around your shoulders like he’s afraid you’ll shatter if he touches you. he’s crying now too, which is embarrassing, but you’re crying and that makes his chest feel like it’s caving in. “i’ll take vitamins and do scalp massages and—and i’ll research hair growth treatments! i’ll do anything, baby, please don’t be sad.”

the pet name slips out without his permission, soft and pleading, and your expression crumples even more. you’ve never said it makes you feel good when he calls you that, but he sees the way your eyes go soft, the way you unconsciously lean toward him like a flower seeking sunlight.

“it’ll take months,” you sob, and you sound so genuinely devastated that his heart cracks clean in two. your mascara is starting to smudge, creating dark shadows under your eyes, and you’re hiccupping between words. “months, satoru! what am i supposed to do for months?” your voice breaks on his name, and he’s never heard you sound so genuinely distressed. “what am i supposed to play with during movies? what am i supposed to braid when i’m bored? what am i supposed to tug when you’re being insufferable and i need you to pay attention to me?”

each question is like a little knife to his heart because they’re all so you. practical and petulant and so full of casual intimacy that he wants to wrap you up and never let you go. you’re not asking what you’re supposed to look at or what you’re supposed to find attractive. you’re asking what you’re supposed to do with your hands when the thing you love most is gone.

“i don’t know!” he’s definitely crying now too, tears streaming down his face as he stares at your crumpled expression. his voice cracks embarrassingly on the words, and he wipes his nose with his sleeve like the sophisticated seventeen-year-old he is. “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry, please don’t break up with me! i’ll buy you anything you want—that bag you were looking at, or we can go to that expensive restaurant you like, or—”

“satoru.” you interrupt him, and there’s something different in your voice now. something that makes him stop babbling and focus on your face. “baby.”

the pet name stops him cold. you only call him that when you’re feeling particularly soft, when your prickly exterior cracks just enough to let him see how much you care. you’re still crying, but now you’re looking at him like he’s the one who needs taking care of.

you stop crying so abruptly it gives him whiplash. your tear-stained face goes blank, then confused, then something that looks almost like offense. “break up with you?”

“isn’t that what you’re going to do?” he sniffles, wiping his nose with his sleeve like the sophisticated seventeen-year-old he is. his hands are shaking now, and he can’t seem to stop them. “because i ruined my hair and now i’m ugly and—”

“satoru gojo,” you interrupt, and your voice has gone from devastated to something else entirely. something that makes him nervous. your eyebrows draw together in a way that means trouble, and you plant your hands on your hips in that stance he knows means he’s about to get lectured. “are you insane?”

he blinks at you, confused. water still clings to his eyelashes, making everything look slightly blurry. “i... what?”

“do you think i’m dating you for your hair?” your voice has gone dangerously quiet, and satoru knows from experience that quiet-angry-you is infinitely more terrifying than loud-angry-you. but there’s something else there too, something that sounds almost like hurt.

“well,” he says slowly, fidgeting with the strings of his hoodie, “suguru and shoko said—”

“suguru and shoko can eat glass,” you snap, and now you’re glaring at him with red-rimmed eyes and tear-stained cheeks. your hands gesture wildly as you speak, and he can see the exact moment when your sadness transforms into righteous indignation. “and so can you if you think i give a damn about your stupid hair when i’m in love with your stupid face.”

the words hang in the air between you like a confession. like a secret that’s been building for months and finally spilled over.

in love with.

you said you’re in love with him.

“but you’re crying,” he points out weakly, gesturing at your mascara-streaked face.

“i’m crying because you look ridiculous!” you explode, gesturing wildly at his head. your voice cracks slightly on the word ridiculous, and satoru can’t tell if you’re about to start laughing or crying again. “you look like a military recruit! like you’re about to ask me to drop and give you twenty! it’s so bad it’s actually offensive to my eyeballs!”

satoru stares at you, mouth hanging open. there’s something almost hysterical about the way you’re standing there, tear-stained and furious, defending his honor while simultaneously roasting his appearance. “so you’re not... you’re not going to dump me?”

“for having a bad haircut?” you look at him like he’s grown a second head, and there’s something so incredulous in your expression that he almost wants to laugh. “what kind of person do you think i am?”

and that’s when it hits him. not like a physical blow, but like a slow sunrise, warm and inevitable. you’re not upset because he looks different. you’re upset because he looks bad. because someone he loves is hurt by something that hurts him. because in your mind, anything that makes him less than perfect is a personal affront to your carefully curated world.

the realization makes him feel dizzy. you’re not shallow—you’re protective. you’re not crying because his hair was the only thing worth loving about him. you’re crying because someone took something beautiful and made it ugly, and in your mind, he deserves only beautiful things.

you’re crying because you love him, and you want him to be happy, and you think his happiness is tied to being pretty. you’re crying because in your seventeen-year-old brain, ugly hair equals unhappy satoru, and unhappy satoru is literally your worst nightmare.

it’s such a fundamentally you way to love someone that he almost laughs through his tears. of course you wouldn’t care about his looks in the way his friends think you do. of course you’d care about his looks in the most loving, illogical, completely endearing way possible.

“but you said—”

“i said your hair was gone, not that i was leaving you, you absolute disaster of a human being.” you reach up to touch his head, fingers gentle against the short strands, and your touch is so careful it makes his chest tight. “though i am going to miss running my fingers through it. and tugging on it when you’re being annoying. and the way it stuck up in the morning like you’d been electrocuted.”

you pause, thumb tracing over his temple like you’re memorizing this new version of him. “and i’m going to miss the way you’d let me braid it when i was anxious. and how soft it was when you’d nuzzle into my neck like a puppy. and the way it would catch the light during golden hour and make you look like some sort of angel.”

each word is like a little love letter, and satoru feels his heart expanding in his chest until he thinks it might burst. you’re cataloging all the ways you loved his hair, but really you’re cataloging all the ways you love him.

satoru feels something warm and desperate unfurl in his chest. the hallway around them seems to fade away, the curious stares and whispered conversations becoming white noise. all he can focus on is the way you’re looking at him, like he’s still worth something even when he’s standing there with tears on his face and the world’s worst haircut.

“so you still... you still want to be with me? even though i look like this?”

you’re quiet for a long moment, studying his face with those sharp eyes he fell in love with. your thumb traces along his temple, following the harsh line where his hair meets skin, and he can see you cataloging every detail of this new version of him.

he wonders what you’re thinking. whether you’re trying to reconcile this version of him with the one you’ve been kissing for six months. whether you’re disappointed that the boy you’ve been bragging about to your friends now looks like he belongs in a military recruitment poster.

he thinks about the way you show him off, so casually possessive. the way you introduce him as “my boyfriend” with just a little extra emphasis on the my. the way you straighten his collar before school dances and tell him he’s the prettiest boy in the room, and you say it like it’s a fact, like there’s no room for argument.

then you lean up on your tiptoes and press a soft kiss to his forehead, right at his hairline where the damage is most obvious.

“you’re still pretty,” you murmur against his skin, breath warm and reassuring. “still mine. still the same boy who bought me coffee every morning for a month because i mentioned once that i was tired. still the same boy who carries my books and walks me to class and lets me steal his hoodies.”

you pull back to look at him, and your expression has gone soft in that way that makes him want to do something stupid like propose. “still the same boy who texts me good morning before he’s even fully awake. still the same boy who remembers that i like my sandwiches cut diagonally and always saves me the corner piece of cake. still the same boy who holds my hand under the table during lunch and draws little hearts on my palm when he thinks i’m not paying attention.”

satoru’s breath catches. he didn’t know you noticed that last one.

“really?” his voice cracks embarrassingly, and he hates how young he sounds. how vulnerable. but you just smile at him, that soft private smile that’s only for him, and reach up to cup his face in your hands.

“really, baby,” you say, and the pet name makes his heart skip. “though i am going to make fun of you for this until it grows back. and i’m going to take so many pictures. and i’m going to show them to our kids someday and tell them about the time daddy was a complete idiot and broke mommy’s heart by cutting off all his pretty hair.”

“our kids?” satoru’s brain short-circuits. the words echo in his head like a bell, and he can feel his face heating up despite everything. “you want to have kids with me?”

you flush pink, pretty color spreading across your cheeks like spilled paint. your eyes go wide like you can’t believe you just said that out loud. “hypothetically. maybe. in the future. if you want. if you don’t mess up your hair again.”

the last part is said with such stern seriousness that satoru can’t help but laugh.

he stares at you—his prickly, bratty, wonderful girlfriend who just cried over his hair and then promised him forever in the same breath—and thinks that maybe suguru and shoko don’t know anything at all. thinks that maybe love isn’t about perfect hair or perfect faces or perfect anything. maybe it’s about someone who’ll sob over your bad decisions and then kiss your forehead anyway.

maybe it’s about someone who gets genuinely upset when you’re hurting, even if you’re hurting over something as stupid as a haircut. maybe it’s about someone who sees you make a terrible mistake and instead of walking away, plants themselves firmly in your corner and prepares to fight the world on your behalf.

maybe it’s about finding someone who thinks you deserve beautiful things, even when you’ve just proven you’re an idiot. someone who plans your future together in the same breath as scolding you for making bad choices.

maybe it’s about someone who loves you so much they cry when you’re ugly, not because they care about your looks, but because they can’t stand the thought of you being anything less than perfect.

“i want,” he says simply, and leans down to kiss you properly.

you taste like strawberry lip gloss and tears and something that might be love, and when you pull away, you’re both grinning like idiots. your hands are still tangled in what’s left of his hair, and he thinks maybe this length has its own advantages.

“i love you too,” he whispers against your lips, because if you can accidentally confess in the middle of a breakdown, then so can he. “i love you so much it makes me stupid.”

“i know,” you say, and you’re smiling so wide it makes your eyes crinkle. “you cut off all your hair because your friends dared you to. if that’s not love-induced stupidity, i don’t know what is.”

“good,” you say, straightening his collar with careful fingers. the gesture is so familiar, so domestic, that it makes his heart skip. you always do this, fix his appearance like you’re sending him off to war instead of first period. “now let’s go find suguru and shoko so i can yell at them for talking my boyfriend into this monstrosity. and then you’re buying me that expensive hot chocolate from the café across the street because emotional trauma requires premium comfort food.”

“anything you want,” he says immediately, because he’s pathetic and in love and would probably agree to rob a bank if you asked nicely enough. “anything.”

you stand on your tiptoes and press one more kiss to his nose, quick and sweet. “i want you to promise me you’ll never cut your hair again without asking me first.”

“i promise,” he says solemnly, and means it. “i’ll never make any major appearance changes without consulting my girlfriend first.”

“good boy,” you say, and the praise makes his chest warm. “now come on, we’re going to be late for class and i refuse to get detention because you had a crisis about your hair.”

satoru laughs, bright and relieved, and thinks that maybe this terrible, terrible mistake might just be the best thing that’s ever happened to him. because now he knows, with absolute certainty, that you love him for all the right reasons.

even if he does look like a military recruit.

[noodles-07]

there’s a thing I think about sometimes when I’m writing that I call ‘the rabies condition’

by which I mean: there are no contraindications to getting the rabies vaccine for post-exposure prophylaxis.

every other vaccine usually has a few contraindications like ‘don’t take this if you’re allergic to it’ or ‘if you’re pregnant discuss the risks and benefits with your doctor’ or ‘don’t give to children below age 6′ or something, but not the rabies vaccine. if you’ve been exposed to rabies, there is literally no medical reason that can justify not getting the rabies vaccine–you can be deadly allergic to literally every single ingredient and the correct decision is still to administer the vaccine, because if you don’t, you’re 100% guaranteed to die of rabies. even the life-threatening allergies are a step up in survival rate (especially since anaphylaxis is something that can be managed, even if there are risks associated with it)

which is to say, the rabies condition: if a character has been ‘exposed to rabies’, aka, in some impending absolute worst-case scenario, like the apocalypse or some death curse or the destruction of their entire city via demons or whatever, then that character has to take action and the consequences and risks no longer matter, because literally any other outcome would be better, and 1% chance of survival is still better than 0%. that doesn’t make those actions necessarily good, the same way that injecting yourself with something you know you’re deadly allergic not a good thing to do, but it’s still better than dying horrifically of rabies. desperate times and desperate measures etc

and then, after your character’s prevented some horrible thing by doing some almost equally bad thing, they should absolutely experience the consequences of those choices.

[meadowfics]

not your time

cho hyun ju x f!reader with past mentions of kim young-mi x f!reader

this is chapter eight for my BLOOMING FLOWER SERIES

synopsis: those who seek death, live

warnings: ATTEMPTS OF SUICIDE! please don't romanticize anything in here. blood, violence, angst, depression, hopelessness, suicidal ideation. reader discretion is advised.

mingle game concludes with a chilling silence that settles over the arena.

the once-vibrant carousel lights dimming to a muted glow as the final doors lock with a resounding clang.

all surviving players emerge from their rooms, their faces full with the exhaustion of surviving.

you stand among them, your broken shoe scrapes against the platform.

hyun-ju saved you in the final round after the round that killed young-mi.

the woman's strong hands pulled you into the pink room when you stood still once the number 'two' was called.

you were paralyzed by a numb desire to let death claim you.

the game’s end should bring relief, but it doesn’t.

your mind is a void, your body moving on autopilot as you drift toward the green door where young-mi fell earlier. there is a blood spot that remains, a dark, glistening stain on the ivory floor, her life’s essence left behind twenty minutes ago.

young-mi's body is no longer there. however, you knew it was cold and stripped of the warmth to wherever they have taken her.

it was the body you once held dear, now carted away in a coffin, the forklifts’ mechanical hum still echoing in your memory as you stared at 333 with anger in your eyes.

now, you sink to your knees.

the hard surface bites into your skin, as you crawl and extend a trembling hand toward the blood.

once you reach the spot your fingers dip into the warm, sticky pool, the sensation a reminder of young-mi's final moments. your girlfriend was short, how did this much blood come out of her?

without a conscious thought, you smear it across your face, streaking your cheeks and forehead with crimson lines.

it’s a strange, almost ritualistic act.

it is a desperate attempt to cling to the last tangible piece of young-mi’s existence, her blood a connection to the love now lost.

you stay there, kneeling beside the stain, your eyes tracing its edges where it seeps into the floor's small little cracks, your breath shallow as the reality of her absence sinks deeper.

the scent of iron fills your nostrils, mingling with the faint memory of her strawberry fragrance, and the sinking feeling tears at you.

young-mi's body, once vibrant and alive, is growing colder by the minute.

the warmth you cherished slips away forever.

hyun-ju and geum-ja approach you, their footsteps soft against the platform, yong-sik trailing behind with hesitant, uncertain steps, his young face clouded with worry.

the ex-marine kneels beside you, her tall frame casting a shadow over the blood spot, her voice gentle but laced with urgency.

“y/n, I'm sorry... but we need to go back to the dorms now,” she says, her hand hovering near your shoulder, fingers trembling slightly.

“it’s not safe to stay here.”

you shake your head slowly, a stubborn refusal, your gaze fixed on the blood as if it holds the key to bringing her back.

geum-ja crouches on your other side, her maternal presence a faint warmth amidst the cold of your heart.

“what you’re feeling is valid, y/n,” she murmurs, her voice soft and measured, though it feels like she’s speaking through you, her own grief mirroring yours.

“it’s okay to hurt, to grieve. we’re here with you.”

hyun-ju’s hands finally settle on your arms, her grip firm yet tender as she tries to lift you.

“come on, please,” she pleads, her tone softening, “we can’t stay here.”

you resist at first, your body heavy with despair, but her persistence breaks through, and she pulls you to your feet, holding you close as you descend the colorful stairs. the nauseating swirl of pinks, yellows, and blues blurs into a ton of pain.

in the dorms, you stumble to your bunk, collapsing onto the thin mattress where you and young-mi once shared fleeting moments of comfort.

you bury your face in the pillow, pressing your nose into the fabric where her head once rested, and inhale deeply.

the faint scent of her strawberry shampoo wafts up, a lingering echo of her presence, and it unleashes a floodgate within you.

you cry, a loud, lung-hurting wail that rips through the dormitory, the sound raw and unfiltered.

it echos off the concrete walls and drawing every eye in the room.

“what’s up with her?” player 124 asks looking at se-mi. the man's voice curious and slightly annoyed as he huddles with his group near the bunks.

se-mi shoots him a sharp look, “she lost her girlfriend in mingle,” she says flatly, her tone carrying a weight of empathy.

thanos, the purple-haired 230, nods solemnly, his usual manic energy subdued.

“that’s tough, man,” he mutters, his voice low, a rare moment of seriousness.

your cries grow louder, a keening sound that reverberates through the dorm space.

as the voting process begins, the guard's voices only overshadow your cries lightly.

the mechanical voice calls out numbers, the rhythm of survival continuing despite your world’s end.

when “player 112” echoes through the dorm, you don’t move, lying numb on the bed, your body a lifeless shell.

the guard’s voice follows, cold and detached.

they gave you four seconds to get the chance to cast your vote.

when it was clear that you weren't standing up, the guard spoke up, “player 112 has forfeited her vote.”

the words drift over you, meaningless in the void where young-mi once lived.

later, as the long line forms for the meal distribution, you remain still.

the energy to rise is drained from your soul.

hyun-ju comes over, her hands carrying a boiled egg and a glass water bottle, the items placed gently on your bed.

she sits beside you, her presence is quiet.

“y/n, you need to eat something,” she says softly, her voice laced with concern as she holds out the egg, “just a bite, please.”

you don’t respond, your gaze fixed on the wall, your mind lost in the replay of young-mi’s final moments.

hyun-ju sighs, her shoulders slumping.

when you remain silent, she sets the food down and walks away, her footsteps fading into the murmur of the dorm.

in a corner of the dorm room, gi-hun gathers a group which has hyun-ju among them.

the man's voice is low but intense as he outlines an attempted rebellion.

“we strike back tonight, after the lights come back on,” he says, his eyes fierce. as he speaks, hyun-ju listens intently, but her gaze keeps drifting to you, lying awake and numb on your bunk.

after the conversation ends, she approaches you again.

“y/n,” she whispers, kneeling beside you, “I think many ‘O’ voters are planning to kill the ‘X’ players tonight. it’s going to be dangerous. please, stay safe.”

you stare at the wall, the threat a distant echo...death feels like a release, a reunion with young-mi, and you don’t care if it comes by the hands of an 'O' player desperate for money.

the 'X' on your jacket is large, making you a target.

hyun-ju frowns, her eyes searching yours.

“please, stay safe,” she repeats, her voice breaking, “that’s all young-mi would want for you.”

you lower your head, staring at the blanket. the fabric is a blur through your tears.

hyunju walks away, her defeat palpable.

when lights out plunges the dorm into darkness, you look up. the flickering shadows revealing ‘O’ players moving with predatory intent. the red 'X' and the blue 'O' glow on the floor, shining their faces.

you stand, your broken shoe silent for once, and slide under the bunk, the cold floor a contrast to the feeling of despair within.

the carnage begins as screams pierce the air. after a few seconds, the screams are followed by the harsh flicker of lights as violence erupts.

you press yourself against the metal frame on the floor.

the realization settles as the games get more intense.

you can’t survive this, not with your soul already dead alongside young-mi.

maybe, in the distraction of the murderous players, you can escape it all.

you crawl out, grabbing a coarse blanket from the bed.

climbing up the stairs to the highest bunk, your movements are mechanical.

you fashion the blanket into a noose, your hands trembling as you tie it to the bar, the knot rough against your fingers.

you loop it around your neck, the fabric chafing your skin, and close your eyes, ready to step off and hang yourself over the carnage below.

this is all to end the pain where young-mi's life ended.

nobody needs to kill you since you’ll do it yourself, you think.

it is a final act of control in a world that’s stripped it away from you.

before you can move, a force slams into you from behind, strong and sudden.

you spin, expecting a blade or a fist, your breath catching in terror.

it’s hyun-ju, her eyes wide with panic, her hands gripping your shoulders.

“y/n, what the hell are you doing?” she yells, her voice cracking as she yanks the blanket from around your neck, her fingers fumbling with the knot.

“would young-mi want this? would she want you to give up like this?” hyunju's words are a barrage, tears streaking her face.

you collapse into sobs, your body shaking uncontrollably, the blanket-noose falling to the floor twenty feet below.

“i can’t live without her,” you cry, the words a jagged wound torn from your throat.

“she’s gone, hyun-ju, and i’m nothing without her. i see her everywhere. her smile, her tears, and it hurts too much!” your voice breaks, a wail of anguish that blends with the screams below.

hyun-jus grip tightens on your arms.

“yes, you can,” she insists, her tone strict as the sounds of ripped flesh and screams come from below.

“you can live for her, for the love you shared. she wouldn’t want this for you, y/n. she’d want you to fight, to find another reason to keep going.”

the carnage below continues, screams and the flicker of lights a chaotic symphony, but hyun-ju’s presence keeps you tunnel-visioned.

all this time, hyun-ju has felt something for you...a pull she mistook for jealousy when she first saw your pretty face, your quiet strength drawing her in.

just right before the votes that started your argument with young-mi, she realized it was attraction. it was a warmth she buried out of respect for you and young-mi.

seeing you on that bunk, ready to hang yourself, she couldn’t stay under the bunk and watch.

she drags you down the steps by your arm, her movements quick and determined, the blanket left behind on the ground below as a discarded symbol of your despair.

you both hide under a bunk again, the cold floor pressing against your back.

the screams and flickering lights a constant reminder of the rebellion’s toll.

“once the lights turn on, hide in a corner,” she whispers, her breath uneven, her hand still on your arm.

“what?” you ask, your voice hoarse.

your hand brushes over the phantom pressure of the noose still lingering on your neck.

“just—hide in a corner, I'll explain it all later.” she hesitates.

there is concern in her eyes, yes, but also that unspoken attraction.

“please, y/n, just do it. please stay alive.”

you nod slowly, the blanket’s ghost still haunting your skin.

fortunately, hyun-ju saved your life.

it wasn’t your time, not yet.

even though the pain of young-mi’s absence lingers like a shadow you can’t outrun.

especially when the lights turn on, and the screams and stabs turn into loud gunshot noises.

the next chapter will be linked here

full series masterlist linked here

[ktownshizzle]

Magic & Mayhem | Masterlist

✎ ˎˊ˗ Pairing: Min Yoongi x Reader, Kim Namjoon x Reader ✎ ˎˊ˗ Summary: So your relationship with Namjoon has gone to shit. Your solution? Hit up a sex shop and try to salvage things in the bedroom instead of dealing with the real issues. (Solid plan, right?) What you didn’t expect is to walk out with a blind box and pull a toy called SUGA—magical, stupidly hot, and guarantees to fix your 99 problems, but he actually becomes one. ✎ ˎˊ˗ Alternately: Yoongi is a Labubu / Sonny Angel. (Kind of.) ✎ ˎˊ˗ Genre: Fluff, Angst, Smut, Crackfic galore, Magical realism slash sci-fi, Non-idol ✎ ˎˊ˗ Warnings: Again, Yoongi is a toy (be aware of that, but, well, he grows life-size.) ✎ ˎˊ˗ Notes: Hello!!! And welcome to another vaguely planned series. I know it’s not the type/genre I usually post, but this idea has been in my brain for months now. I promise it’s gonna be a fuckin' good time! 🎉 TAGLIST IS OPEN

Masterlist

🔮001 ✨ unboxing on July 13 ✨ 🔮002 🔮003 🔮004 🔮005

Read the introduction under the cut

You always thought relationships ended dramatically—with screaming matches and shattered plates, and doors slamming hard enough to shake termites off the walls. But you learned the painful truth with your first love Kim Namjoon: relationships often crumble quietly, fading so gradually, so infinitesimally, you barely notice until the warmth has completely vanished, hearts once filled with everything is completely weightless.

Like now, seated across from him at your favorite café, sunlight streaming through tall windows, you sip your coffee and glance at him over the rim. Namjoon is buried in his phone, thumb scrolling endlessly. A small sigh escapes your lips, but he doesn’t notice. Hasn't noticed, actually, in a very long time.

"Did you hear what I said?" you ask softly.

"Hmm?" He lifts his eyes, distracted. "Sorry, work shit. Sup?"

"Never mind," you say with forced brightness, waving away your disappointment. But the heaviness in your chest stays, quietly and gradually expanding.

You’d planned this coffee date to rekindle something—anything—but now it feels like a futile effort. The silence stretches until your coffee turns cold. Just like your 10-year relationship.

Maybe love wasn’t supposed to feel thrilling forever, but it shouldn’t feel this empty either. Maybe it’s because you fell in love too early, too soon. But you miss the laughter, the passion, the nights tangled together in bed until dawn. Lately, all you've shared are polite good mornings and goodnights, passing like polite strangers under the same roof.

Desperate situations call for desperate measures, you suppose. Which is exactly how you find yourself standing in front of "The Magic Shop", the quirkiest little sex shop tucked in an alleyway of boutiques you've always avoided entering. A glowing neon sign flickers playfully above the door:

Cum Inside. Happy Endings Guaranteed

Wow. How subtle.

Inside, you're met by walls of purple velvet, shelves crowded with vibrant boxes and toys in every conceivable shape and size. It's whimsical and overwhelming, scented faintly of vanilla and spice. You're about to lose your nerve when a warm, amused voice interrupts your anxious thoughts.

"First time in the Magic Shop?"

You whip around to meet a pair of moon-like eyes and a mischievous smile, belonging to a man behind the counter whose nametag reads: Jimin.

… to be continued

A/N: Alright! Are we sat??? Leave me a note if you’re excited. 🥹

TAGLIST IS OPEN | Just drop a note or leave an ask so I can tag you when the first part is out. Or you can join my permanent taglist :)

Permanent Taglist: (Part 1)

@wonh0oe @woozuzu @glossdebut @kiki-zb

@agustblog @maryhopemei @perfectiondazesworld @kimsaerom @kam9404

@00-sleepdontweep-00 @tea4sykes @mggv97 @marnz1990

@whydoeyecare @pastelmin @tarahardcore @minjenna @chimmchimmm

@aaclariww @mar-lo-pap @tinytan-gerine @vesperbells @butterymin

@eve1633455 @baechugff @lilkittenjenjen @wobblewobble822 @coffeedepressionsoup

@futuristicenemychaos @jadestonedaeho7 @granataepfelchen @whoa-jo @annyeongbitch7

@chimmisbae @sexytholland @idkjustlovingbts @kpophosblog @tinyelfperson

@yoongicatagenda @codeinebelle @parapiop7 @diame93 @janeelizabeth1216

@withmuchluv-tannie @abadiimm- @angellekookie

Divider by: @saradika-graphics

[neurotica-tales]

Yandere Peter Pan Headcanon

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Up Next: Yandere Belle (Beau) Headcanon, Yandere Snow White (Winter White) Headcanon

To find my main masterlist, click HERE.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~

"Never grow up. Never leave me."

Peter Pan doesn’t fall in love like other people do.

He doesn’t understand love—not really. Not the kind that grows and twists and deepens with time.

For Peter, time is a foreign thing. He doesn’t measure life in months or years or heartbreak.

His world runs on adventures and stories, swordfights and stardust. His heart beats in rhythm with mischief and freedom.

He’s not supposed to need anyone. He never has. 

That’s what makes him special.

But something changes the moment he sees you.

It’s not grand at first. It’s not a bolt of lightning or a crash of thunder.

It’s quieter than that. Stranger.

More dangerous, because he doesn’t even notice it happening.

He’s floating outside your window at midnight, looking for something interesting—maybe a shadow, maybe a dream—and then you roll over in your bed and sigh.

He stops.

His feet hover a few inches above the rooftop as the wind stirs his hair, moonlight outlining his silhouette like a question mark. His head tilts slightly as he presses his nose to the glass, curiosity blooming like a vine.

You shift again, murmuring something soft in your sleep.

He can’t hear the words. He doesn’t need to.

You feel like a story. A new one.

There’s something different about you.

You're not afraid to sleep with the window open. You're not the kind of person who forgot magic when they turned ten.

There are books piled by your bedside and silver stars stuck to your ceiling. Your slippers are mismatched. You hum in your sleep.

You feel like a puzzle Peter was never meant to solve—but suddenly needs to.

The second time he visits, it's deliberate.

He tells himself it's for something silly. Maybe Tinker Bell dropped a thimble near your house. Maybe he's checking the chimney.

He spins a lie for himself because the truth—that he wants to see you again for no reason at all—feels too big. Too adult.

Too real.

But he comes back again. And again. And again.

Sometimes you're reading. Sometimes you're dancing alone with your curtains drawn, headphones in, unaware of the boy hovering just beyond the moonlight. Sometimes you talk to yourself, rambling out loud in the dark like a half-dreaming poet, and Peter listens with rapt attention.

You speak of things he’s never heard of. Desires he doesn’t understand. But he wants to.

You are nothing like the girls in his stories.

You're too strange. Too alive.

You think too deeply. You wonder about the stars like they owe you answers.

Peter doesn’t know why, but the way you exist pulls at something deep inside him—something ancient, feral, and childishly desperate. He doesn't know what to call it. So he names it fun.

But fun doesn’t explain why his chest aches when he flies away.

Fun doesn’t explain why he starts sneaking closer. Perching on your balcony like a shadow, leaving behind feathers or buttons—small things from Neverland—as if hoping you’ll find them and start to believe in magic again.

He watches you sleep. He studies your smile. He hates the way your alarm clock rips you from dreams. He glares at your phone when someone texts you at midnight.

He wants you to stay dreaming. Stay his.

The fourth time he visits, he whispers something through the crack in your window. Just a word. Just a name.

Yours.

And even though you're asleep, you shift toward the sound. You smile—soft and slow—and Peter feels something inside him click.

That’s the moment he decides.

You're different from Wendy. Different from anyone he’s ever taken before. 

He won’t let you be a story that ends. 

He won’t let you be a girl who grows up and forgets him. He won’t.

Because you looked peaceful when you dreamed of stars.

Because you keep a glass jar of dandelions by your bed like they’re treasure.

Because when you sleep, your heart speaks a language he’s never heard but somehow understands.

He flies back to Neverland the next night with a fire in his chest and a single thought echoing in his head:

You belong with him.

And the next time you see Peter Pan, it’s not as a shadow at your window. It’s not in passing, not a maybe or a dream. It’s real.

He swoops into your room with a boyish grin and wild eyes that flicker like candle flames.

"Second star to the right, and straight on ‘til morning," he says.

And when he reaches for your hand, his fingers are already trembling.

Because this time, he won’t let you slip away.

[jkwritez]

Swept under Surveillance | JJK | (2)

A janitor with a past. A CEO with enemies. A deal no one can know about.

Pairing: CEO! Jungkook x Ex Convict! reader

Genre: Corporate suspense, Corporate Thriller, Slowburn romance, secret alliance, modern AU, Spy AU, MDNI, Enemies within

Word count: 5K

Summary: All Y/N wanted was to protect her friend but one punch, one trial, and she became an ex-con. Now mopping floors at the company she once dreamed of, she stays invisible… until she catches a leaker and says a little too much for a janitor. The incident is buried. Everyone forgets her. Except Jungkook. He’s been hunting traitors. She becomes his hidden asset. Stay quiet, report everything, and he’ll clear her record. She agrees. Reluctantly. Because as Jungkook says no one notices the janitor. And that’s exactly what makes her dangerous.

Taglist: Open (comment under this)

Warnings: Strong language / swearing, Themes of class division & power imbalance, Implied corporate espionage, Subtle psychological tension, Hints of trauma / past conviction, Rich people being evil, Mutual watching, One (1) mop-related humiliation, Jungkook being quietly terrifying, Y/N being sharp-tongued and exhausted, Slow-burn tension — emotional, mental, and whatever-the-hell-this-is

Series Masterlist

______________________________________________________________

You’ve been fired before.

It’s usually quiet. Formal. Security shows up with a box, and someone in HR pretends to be sad while they escort you out like a threat.

So when the security guard showed up this morning, silent, tight-lipped, holding an elevator keycard and avoiding eye contact, you already knew what this was.

Kang Min-jae must have pulled strings. Of course he did. You humiliated him. Dragged his dirty secrets out into daylight in front of a VP and a wide-eyed intern who probably had nightmares about it. You told the intern to “take notes,” and you meant it. You weren’t subtle. You didn’t try to be.

Because it was the truth.

But this floor? This floor is above truth. The 38th floor is marble and silence and chrome. No fingerprints. No laughter. No second chances.

You step out of the elevator, your boots clicking on glassy stone.

Nobody stops you.

Nobody smiles.

The matte black doors at the end of the corridor slide open without a sound.

Inside sits the man whose name is printed on every contract, whispered in every boardroom, and etched in articles that ask how someone so young could possibly rise so fast.

Jeon Jungkook.

The youngest CEO in South Korea to hit a ten-figure valuation without scandal or investors to prop him up. Men want to be him. Women want to be with to him. And right now he’s sitting in a high-backed chair like he invented the damn skyline behind him.

He turns toward you slowly.

Like he knew you were coming the second the elevator moved.

He doesn’t stand. Doesn’t offer a handshake.

He just motions with one hand toward the chair across from his desk.

"Sit"

You don’t ask questions.

You cross the room, posture straight, and lower yourself into the seat like it’s just another part of the game.

But your gaze doesn’t stay on him.

You scan the office. The walls. The angles. The exits. You clock the placement of the cameras, the height of the desk, the fact that the tablet beside him is locked but fingerprint-smeared, and that the glass behind him doesn’t reflect the room , it reflects you.

And it’s supposed to.

It’s psychological.

You’re being watched in all directions.

He watches you the whole time. Says nothing. Doesn’t blink.

Just… waits.

Finally, you speak. Flat. Direct. Not desperate.

“Am I here to get fired or sued?”

Jungkook’s head tilts slightly. Not surprised. Just measuring.

“You think that’s why you’re here?”

You shrug giving him a fake chuckle to show that you are proud of your action “Kang Min-jae looked ready to cry yesterday. Pretty sure he called someone.”

“He did.”

You nod, unsurprised. “So, which is it?”

He folds his hands together — long fingers, steady wrists, the AP watch on his left hand worth more than your debt.

“You’re not here to get fired.”

You blink.

Pause.

Your throat doesn’t dry but your mind shifts gears.

“You’re not kidding.”

He leans back just a little. The leather chair creaks softly.

“If I wanted to fire you, it would’ve been done by now.”

You exhale slowly. A different kind of tension coils in your stomach. Not fear.

Something worse.

Interest.

“So what the hell is this?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he opens the slim file on his desk and slides it toward you.

Your name. Your degree. Your job at G&K. The promotion you almost had. The assault charge. The trial. The cell block. The parole.

Every line written in clean ink and official fonts. Like your entire life is just a PDF someone clicked through too fast. You scoff

Jungkook taps a finger against the page.

“This isn’t a janitor’s file.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s not your call to make.”

His gaze lifts to meet yours. Calm. Hard.

“It is when that janitor uses terms like ‘unauthorized metadata access’ and calls out a senior staff member for breaking protocol that hasn’t been in training manuals since 2018.”

You hold his stare.

He continues.

“You’re not stupid. You’re not quiet. And you’re not here by accident.”

“Funny,” you say dryly, “I’ve heard that before. Usually right before someone screws me over.”

He lets the insult sit between you, untouched.

Then

“I have enemies in this company.”

You blink.

Once.

Then again.

That, you weren’t expecting.

He stands now, slow and deliberate, walking toward the massive glass wall behind him. His silhouette becomes part of the skyline. Dark. Tall. Untouchable.

“This company has too many hands in too many pots. When you’re at the top, everyone smiles at you. But you can’t trust a single one.”

He turns his head slightly.

“Except the people no one sees coming.”

You’re silent.

He faces you fully now.

“Someone’s bleeding us from the inside. Leaking project data. Preempting deals. Targeting key staff. It’s been happening for months.”

“And lemme guess, you can’t find them?”

“I’ve tried.” His jaw ticks. “They’re smart. Calculated. They’ve covered every move.”

He walks back to his desk, slow and quiet, and sits.

“Except yours.”

You raise a brow. “Mine?”

“You exposed Kang Min-jae without authorization. Loudly. Without hesitation. You walked into a room full of people who outrank you and made it impossible to look away.”

You shrug. “He was a leech. I saw it. I said it.”

“No one else did.” He leans in. “And you did it without access to our systems. That’s what impressed me.”

You pause, watching him carefully now.

The calm mask hasn’t slipped but it’s cracking. You see it in the quiet urgency behind his words.

He’s not just hiring you.

He’s desperate.

“I want you,” he says, “to find out who else is working against me.”

You don’t respond.

You just lean back, arms crossed.

“So you want me to be your little informant?”

“No.” His voice is steel. “I want you to hunt.”

Silence settles like smoke.

“You’ll stay where you are,” he continues. “Cleaning. Overhearing. Observing. You’ll stay invisible. No one notices the janitor.”

Your eyes narrow.

“And in return?”

“Your record. Gone. Clean” His tone is so level it’s terrifying. “Everything wiped. New clearance. New access. You want a desk? You’ll get it. You want out? I’ll give you enough to leave the country clean.”

You stare at him.

“You expect me to trust you?”

He doesn’t blink.

“No.” He says it like a promise. “That’s why I’m asking you. YN”

He says your name without formality on purpose, to make you believe that behind closed doors, he is not your CEO and you are not a janitor, to make you realize that you both will be working together instead of you working under him.

You look away for the first time, not out of weakness. But because it’s too much. Too calculated. Too real.

He knows exactly who you are.

What you’ve been through.

And he’s still handing you a knife.

You stand slowly.

He doesn't rise. Doesn't push. Just watches you with that same unreadable calm as he reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket.

A sleek black business card slides across the polished desk, stopping perfectly at the edge in front of you — crisp, untouched, like it was made just for this moment.

His voice is low, velvet-lined steel.

"Call me when you make your mind."

It isn’t a question. It isn’t even a command. It’s a statement wrapped in certainty like he already knows you will. Like you already have.

Then he leans back again, shadows sharpening across his cheekbones, and waits.

As if you’re the one who has something to prove now.

“You’re playing a dangerous game.”

His eyes meet yours.

“So are you.”

And you walk out quiet, straight-backed, and already thinking of the people who’ve talked too freely around you these past months.

Because he’s right.

They don’t notice the janitor.

And that’s exactly what makes you dangerous.

The door clicks shut behind you, sealing off the skyline, the tension, and the man who shouldn't have known your name.

You walk — not fast, not slow. Just enough to look like you still belong here. Like you didn’t just sit across from Jeon Jungkook while he handed you a loaded offer dressed in velvet and steel.

The business card’s in your hand before you even realize it.

Black. Smooth. Unmarked on the back.

You don’t look at the number. You don’t reread the name.

You just slide it into your pocket like it’s a receipt you don’t care to keep.

The elevator dings, cold light spilling over gray tile as you descend — one floor at a time, back to the concrete and grime that stains the lower levels. Back to where no one looks twice at you unless they need to step around your mop bucket.

When the doors open again, the noise rushes in to fill you.

Buzzing lights. Squeaky wheels. Paper jam complaints. The scent of burnt coffee.

A half-wet mop still leans against the wall where you left it.

You take it in your hand. You move back to the hallway like nothing happened.

“Hey!” a voice snaps from across the corridor. Some middle manager you’ve seen a dozen times but never cared to name. “This spot’s still filthy. You blind or just lazy?” You swear you don't mind becoming a ex-con again if it means you get to punch this asshole.

You don’t flinch.

You don’t respond.

You just lower your eyes and drag the mop over the same spot twice. The sound is soft, rhythmic, forgettable.

You blend in again.

Like you’re just a janitor.

Like that card in your pocket isn’t burning a hole through your soul.

______________________________________________________________

You’re just finishing up your third pass down the hallway, same fluorescent lights flickering like they’ve been on since the company was founded when a familiar shout cuts through the stale air.

“Hey! Miss Mop, you missed a spot!”

You glance up, eyebrow arching with all the grace of someone who’s dealt with this guy’s nonsense since forever. You plant your mop firmly, smirk curling at the corner of your mouth.

“Maybe if you stopped sniffing glue behind your desk, you’d notice the damn spot is clean,” you fire back, voice dripping with just enough sarcasm to make it clear you’re not here to babysit.

The guy grunts, but you can see the flicker of surprise. No one usually talks back.

You toss your head and start pushing your mop again, humming under your breath, “Maybe next time I’ll leave a note: ‘For best results, please clean your own damn mess.’”

Meanwhile, somewhere miles above in an office that smells like money and quiet power. Jungkook’s watching your little showdown through the CCTV feed.

He leans in, one brow raised, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

“That’s the spirit,” he mutters. “Too bad no one else here has half that backbone.”

He taps a finger against the screen where you’re wiping the floor while murmuring curses under your breath before tripping over the mop and falling. That steals a chortle out of him.

______________________________________________________________

You push open the door to your tiny studio apartment, the familiar creak greeting you like an old, reluctant friend. The faded walls are scuffed in places, and the single window is streaked with city grime, barely filtering the fading orange light of dusk. Somewhere outside, a car horn blares. The muffled hum of distant traffic seeps through the thin glass.

You drop your bag with a thud near the entrance, the sound startling in the quiet room. The faint smell of damp and old coffee lingers in the air. Your body feels heavier than usual, the weight of the day dragging you down as if your muscles remember every insult, every glare, every word left unspoken.

You lean back against the door, closing your eyes for a moment, wishing you could shut out the noise inside your head—the tired ache, the frustration, the lingering sting of invisibility.

Slowly, you start peeling off your work clothes. The uniform’s fabric is rough against your skin, smelling faintly of bleach and stale coffee. The shirt slips over your head, a little tighter than before, as if it’s holding on to all the exhaustion you carry.

That’s when your fingers brush something solid and unfamiliar in your pocket. You pull it out, and a sleek black business card slips free, landing softly on the worn wooden floor.

The edges are crisp, the surface smooth and glossy under the dim light. Your eyes fixate on the stark white letters printed boldly across the card:

Jeon Jungkook Chief Executive Officer

You stare at it, heart skipping a beat for reasons you won’t admit. The name echoes in your mind sharp, commanding, impossibly distant from your world of mops and late-night cleaning.

A wave of conflicting thoughts crashes through your exhaustion. You want to shove the card back into your pocket, to ignore it like you’ve ignored every opportunity that ever came with strings attached. Pretend it’s just another piece of trash, another promise that won’t be kept.

But you can’t. The card feels heavier than cardboard and ink, weighted with possibility and threat.

You sink down onto the edge of your bed, the thin mattress creaking under your weight. Your fingers trace the name again and again, as if trying to will some answer from the smooth surface.

What if you say yes? The thought nags at the back of your mind, impossible to ignore.

What if you say no? The safer choice.

The room suddenly feels too small, the walls closing in with the same quiet pressure you feel every day at work unseen, underestimated, dismissed.

You lean back against the cracked wall, business card still clutched tightly, your breath shallow.

The offer isn’t just a job. It’s a crossroads.

And the clock is ticking.

Your fingers hover over your pocket, the business card still warm against your skin. You pull out your phone an old, cracked-screen model that’s seen better days. The plastic casing is worn smooth from years of use, the volume buttons slightly sticky, and the battery barely holds a charge. It’s not flashy. It’s not smart. But it’s yours.

You press the power button, and the screen sputters to life with a faint flicker, the dim glow illuminating your tired eyes. The slow startup feels like a small reminder: things don’t have to be perfect to matter.

Swiping through the faded icons, you tap the Contacts app. Your thumb hesitates over the “Add New” button — it’s been so long since you saved a number that wasn’t a delivery guy.

With deliberate care, you start typing: Jungkook.

Instead of CEO, you opt for Jungkook.

Each letter feels heavier than the last, like you’re signing off on a future you aren’t sure you want yet.

The keypad beeps faintly, mechanical and old-fashioned, like the phone itself is holding its breath.

You pause, hand frozen mid-air. Then, with a quiet breath, you press “Save.”

The number locks into your contacts, no fancy ringtone, no name lighting up the screen with neon colors. Just a plain, sharp line of digits waiting silently beneath the name.

You fold the business card neatly and slide it back into the pocket, the smooth card now a secret weight against your side.

You stare at the screen a moment longer, the soft glow contrasting with the growing dark around you.

You don’t know what comes next.

You set the old phone gently on the edge of your cluttered desk, its faint glow casting flickering shadows on the worn wood. The quiet hum of the city leaks in through the cracked window, mingling with the distant sounds of traffic and life moving on outside.

For a moment, you just sit there, letting the weight of the day settle around you like a thick fog.

Then, without another thought, you push yourself up and head toward the bathroom.

The hot water hitting your skin is sharp, sudden, a brief sting that forces your muscles to relax and your mind to slow.

Steam curls around the mirror, blurring the edges of your reflection.

You close your eyes, letting the water wash away the grime, the exhaustion, the noise.

But the business card and the saved number linger in your thoughts, stubborn and unyielding.

The steam still clings to your skin as you step out of the shower, towel draped around your shoulders, hair damp and clinging to your back. The mirror is fogged up, warped and useless not unlike the reflection you’ve avoided for the past few years.

You don’t bother wiping it clean.

You walk barefoot across the creaky floor and collapse onto your bed, the mattress groaning beneath you. The towel falls loosely at your sides. Your body aches, but it’s the ache of thought that keeps you awake.

Your eyes drift toward your desk where your phone rests, Jungkook’s number quietly waiting like it knows something you don’t.

You stare at the ceiling.

I’ll clear your record. You could be more than a janitor.

The words replay over and over, some parts sharper than others.

You start to weigh the options in your head

What’s the worst that could happen?

You’ve had enemies before, girls who resented your ambition, men who hated being outsmarted by someone. You’ve survived office politics, backstabbing colleagues, a courtroom trial, and whispers in every hallway since.

You’ve had enemies before.

But not like Jungkook’s.

His enemies don’t roll their eyes behind closed doors.

They don’t post vague passive-aggressive notes on company forums.

They don’t sabotage spreadsheets or get you blacklisted from interviews.

They don’t fight. They play.

They play long, slow, calculated games with poisoned smiles and clean hands.

And then it hits you, the quiet, brutal truth sliding into your chest like ice.

The worst that could happen… Isn’t prison. Isn’t humiliation. Isn’t going back to mopping floors.

It’s death.

Just like that.

You could disappear and no one would ask why.

No one would care.

The mop bucket wouldn’t stop spinning.

The floor wouldn’t remember your name.

You swallow, throat tight. The air in your apartment feels heavier now like even the walls are warning you to leave this alone.

You lie there, damp hair soaking into your pillow, arms folded across your chest, staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers. But all it reflects back is a ceiling fan that wobbles slightly every third rotation like even it’s unsure of itself.

This whole thing… A deal with Jeon Jungkook? A covert operation in a billion-won company?

You’re the janitor, for God’s sake.

And not even a fake janitor. A real one. With a time card and mop burns on your palms.

You scoff softly, the sound half-bitter, half-tired.

If this were high school, maybe it would’ve felt like a thrill. You’d get to play the spy, sneak around with a walkie-talkie, decode shady conversations by the lockers, all while imagining you’re in some secret teen thriller. Worst case? A trip to the principal’s office. Maybe your parents that you didn't have, would be called. Maybe you'd get suspended.

But this?

This isn’t detention-level risk.

This is you post-record, post-trial, post-career being offered a role as an unofficial spy for a man whose face is on half of Korea's business magazines and whose enemies, if they smile at you, are already planning your funeral.

Because let’s be real

You’re the vulnerable one here.

You’re the one with no name to protect, no lawyers on speed dial, no legacy to fall back on. You don’t even have proper healthcare. You’ve got a phone that turns off when it overheats and a fridge that hums like it’s dying.

Jungkook? He’s sitting on top of the world in silk shirts and stone floors, where the cheapest bottle of wine in his cabinet probably costs more than your entire year's rent. Where deals are made behind tinted glass, and betrayals aren’t spoken about, they’re eliminated.

These men in suits and smug smiles, they’re not boardroom ambitious. They're bloodthirsty.

And the worst thing isn’t prison anymore.

It’s disappearing quietly, like you were never there to begin with.

And suddenly the idea of being involved, of walking into that world without armor, feels less like taking a risk and more like laying your head down on a silver platter.

You close your eyes and exhale slowly, your chest tight.

Because now you understand exactly what he meant when he said:

"No one notices the janitor."

And now you know why that makes you dangerous.

But also very, very disposable.

You stare at the ceiling so long your eyes start to blur.

Everything’s quiet except the thud of your pulse and the low hum of your fridge like it’s trying to keep you grounded in this tiny, real world of yours.

But your thoughts? They’ve already wandered into a world with sharper edges.

One thing is crystal clear now, the kind of clarity that settles like cold metal against your spine:

The elite class is not to be messed with.

Not by a janitor. Not by someone like you.

They operate on a level where the rules bend, and the law politely looks away. Where consequences don’t apply, only payouts, silence, and clean exits.

People like you? You’re lucky if you get a warning.

They eat people like you for breakfast without spilling a drop on their pressed white shirts.

You’re being asked to walk straight into their circle.

Not as a guest.

As a spy.

And while Jungkook’s suits and stillness might look polished, you’ve seen the quiet kind of dangerous before. And he has it in spades.

He says you'll work together like equals.

But you know better.

Because in that world? You’re not the exception.

You're the expendable.

You drag the towel tighter around your shoulders, lips pressing into a thin line as you stare at the phone screen still lit on your phone.

And the weight of this decision is now sitting at the base of your throat like a stone.

Your eyes snap back to the desk. That damn phone. That name glowing soft and smug from the screen like it owns you already. Like it’s waiting for you to cave.

And you almost did. Almost.

But no.

Your fingers reach into your pocket, slow at first, then faster, rough like the thing you’re pulling out burns. The black business card slides out smooth and cold between your fingertips. Sleek. Weighty. Like it thinks it has power.

You stare at it for a long moment, jaw tight, breath stuck somewhere in your chest.

Jeon Jungkook. CEO. King of his marble tower.

Born into wealth, groomed for power, never had to fight for a damn thing that wasn’t already handed to him in a limited-edition box.

And here he is, playing puppet master with your life like it’s some recruitment game.

You don’t care how sharp he is.

You don’t care how many enemies he has.

You don’t care about his glass office, or his cologne, or his offer that sounded a lot more like a threat dressed up in velvet words.

Screw him.

With one swift, violent motion, you tear the card straight down the middle.

Then again.

And again.

Black flakes of luxury fall like confetti onto your lap. Pieces of power. Pieces of control. Pieces of the decision you just ripped away from him before he could ever think he owned it.

You ball them up in your fist, nails biting into your palm.

Jungkook and his inherited empire can go straight to hell.

You throw the shredded pieces into the trash with the same fury you’ve swallowed for months, years.

You’re done.

You brush the card remnants off your lap like dust, nothing but trash now. The luxury’s gone. The choice has been made.

And with that, you swing your legs up onto the bed, pulling the scratchy blanket over your still-damp skin. The ceiling stares back at you, unbothered. The cracked wall hums faintly with the neighbor’s TV.

But the silence?

It feels earned.

Clean.

You let your head sink into the flat pillow and let your eyes slip shut.

No glass walls. No fake deals. No men in tailored suits offering salvation like they invented the concept.

You’re not rich.

You’re not safe.

But you’re not being hunted either.

You’ll take your creaky 200-square-foot apartment, your leaking faucet, your secondhand fan, and your microwave dinners any day over living like a caged canary in some 5,000-square-foot penthouse surrounded by silk, silence, and old creepy millionaires who play chess with people's lives like it's still sport.

At least here, no one’s watching.

You don’t dream of Jungkook.

You sleep like the dead.

And that, for tonight, is enough.

______________________________________________________________

The city glows outside Jungkook’s penthouse windows, glass stretching from floor to ceiling like a frame around the skyline he owns. The lights blink slowly from buildings below, red, gold, and white like the city itself is breathing under him.

But Jungkook doesn’t notice the view tonight.

He’s lying in his bed, silk sheets pooled low around his waist, the mattress custom-built to his measurements, the kind of comfort you don’t find in stores. His bedroom is minimal, expansive, the kind of space most people would be afraid to move in, all black marble accents, subtle recessed lighting, and cold, clean elegance.

His wristwatch, a limited-edition piece worth more than most salaries, sits on the nightstand next to his phone, both untouched since he got home. The scent of cedarwood and expensive cologne still lingers faintly in the air.

And still, with all of this�� he’s thinking about you.

The way you walked into his office earlier, every movement sharp and guarded like you weren’t impressed by the money or the view or him. Like you’d stepped into a battlefield instead of a boardroom.

And maybe, in your mind, you had.

You didn’t sit like someone beneath him. You sat like someone waiting for a lie.

He liked that.

You didn’t smile, didn’t flatter, didn’t try to charm. You looked him in the eye and made it clear you didn’t trust him and that you weren’t interested in pleasing him.

That was new.

That was rare.

His thoughts drift to the way your voice dropped when you said:

"That’s not your call to make."

Most people in that room would’ve folded. Agreed. Begged.

But not you.

You made him work for it.

He shifts slightly in bed, the silk cool against his skin, and tilts his head to look at the ceiling. His jaw tightens as the moment replays again, your defiance, your silence, your careful eyes scanning his office like you were cataloging every risk and every weakness.

You didn’t say yes.

But you didn’t say no either.

And in Jungkook’s world, that sliver of possibility is more than enough.

Without warning, a small smile pulls at the corner of his mouth rare, fleeting, and entirely unguarded.

He remembers watching you on the CCTV earlier, just after you'd left his office. You’d stormed back into the hallway like you’d never been summoned by the most powerful man in the company. Like you’d never been offered a deal people would kill for.

And then… you tripped.

Right over your mop bucket.

It had rolled out of place, and your foot caught it in the most ungraceful, completely human way. A flail, a curse, and you barely caught yourself before face-planting into the tiles.

You’d looked around immediately, not out of embarrassment, but irritation. Like you were ready to fight the damn mop for making you look less sharp than you are.

Jungkook had watched the whole thing through the CCTV feed.

And now, alone in the quiet opulence of his bedroom, the memory lingers, clear and oddly endearing.

The girl with the mouth of a knife, the eyes of a soldier… and the coordination of a sleep-deprived giraffe.

The smile grows, just a little.

Not many things amuse him these days.

But you?

You’re already breaking rules without even knowing it.

He lets the thought settle, heartbeat slowing in the silence of his penthouse.

The city hums quietly beyond the glass.

And with one last glance at the ceiling, business calculated, interest noted, Jungkook closes his eyes.

Sleep pulls him under, smooth and soundless.

And just like that, under the same peaceful sky, You both sleep.

In opposing worlds, one wrapped in silk sheets and city lights, the other tucked beneath a threadbare blanket and buzzing old wires. Both still. Both silent. Both unaware.

Because if nothing else, the storm that’s coming won’t be less than what you read about in mafia novels. If anything… It might just be worse.

And neither of them, is ready for how deep this rabbit hole really goes.

Because the traitors?

They’re not just bitter old men in boardrooms collecting six figures to sip wine and whisper schemes.

They’re calculated.

Strategic.

Connected.

They smile at Jungkook during meetings and toast to his leadership, but behind closed doors… they plot. And worse, they know.

They have an idea of exactly who they’re fucking with.

Jeon Jungkook isn’t just some rich heir coasting on legacy. He’s sharper than they expected. Colder than he lets on. And more dangerous than they’re ready for.

But even the sharpest blade can’t fight what it can’t see.

And that’s why they’re getting bold.

______________________________________________________________

Taglist : @mar-lo-pap , @themwordsblog

[britvigilante]

𝑬𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒂 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝒂 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒔𝒐𝒍𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏........

Why the hell didn’t that surprise him? He’d have to choose between one or the other, 𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 if he was going to actually go through with letting her have his 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒍. Did he really want to end up leaving the world without getting to see Vought, Homelander, and all the rest of the Supes completely eradicated from existence? Not particularly. Hell, he didn’t exactly like the idea of anyone—let alone a fucking 𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒏—owning his soul in the damn first place, but it might be the only chance he had at 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 managing to succeed in the area he’d been trying to succeed in for so long.

She 𝒎𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 be able to extend his timeline? It wasn’t exactly the kind of answer he’d been wanting to hear. Of course, it wasn’t exactly all that surprising, either. If she 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 wanted him to go for a more 𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 option, he could possibly bring in a few people that would be willing to get the job done—namely the rest of his team. They were the only ones willing to stand against Vought and everything the company stood for, as well as Homelander and all the rest of the Supes that were out there.

“What if I brought in the rest of The Boys?” Could he 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 let anything horrible happen to them? Normally, there was no way in hell he’d be willing to let that happen. But, desperate times called for desperate measures.

Maybe bringing the others into it would help not only extend his lifespan, but also get the job done thoroughly and efficiently—as well as effectively.

𝑶𝒇 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆, she would say something along the lines of that. Despite the fact that she likely already knew 𝒆𝒙𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒍𝒚 what it was he wanted—she wanted him to actually tell her. 𝑭𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒚𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍. He hadn’t exactly leaped at the chance to strike a deal with her, yet at the same time he couldn’t exactly back out of it now—could he? Besides, even if he’d wanted to back out, his stubborn nature wouldn’t have let him. He’d already risked so much to get as far as he’d gotten, so why not go even farther to ensure the job got done?

Would he 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 be able to destroy Vought, all the Supes—𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 Homelander, along with anyone and everyone who worked for or with them in five years or less? If not, then he likely wouldn’t be able to see the victory finally happen if or when it ever did happen. That would 𝒅𝒆𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒚 suck—unless, of course, he could find a way to escape from Hell to get back to the Land of the Living.

A light scoff escaped past his lips as he shook his head with a roll of his eyes. “Oi, fuckin’ ‘ell…” He muttered under his breath before the corners of his lips curved into his signature smirk. “Fine then, since ya obviously wanna do things the old fashioned way.” There was a bit of a pause before he continued. “As ya might already know, I want Vought, the Supes—especially ‘Omelanda, along with anyone ‘n everyone ‘ho works for or with ‘em completely obliterated from existence.”

Whether or not things would actually work out the way he wanted had yet to be seen. He wasn’t exactly a huge fan of her finger being poked into his chest—or having his personal space invaded by her—but at least for the moment, he managed to keep himself 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 calm.

“Ya might 𝒂𝒍𝒔𝒐 know that I ain’t exactly gonna wanna leave this world right away once everythin’ is all said ‘n done, either.” The smirk widened slightly. “‘Sides, ya might not wanna ‘ave to put up with me for all eternity down in that fiery pit any sooner than you’re gonna ‘ave to.”

[bonebrokebuddy]

“You’re posing as a gay man but there’s no lover beside you.”

- normal things you say to your twin when you wake her up from dead sleep so you can use her as a art reference when she blearily asks why the fuck you woke her.

@stealingyourbones im so sorry bro I just couldn’t a ref image at the right angle, u can go back to sleep now.

[mxmasked-alien]

Custom made Hana Lee pop vinyl doll

So I got tired of the lack of Hana merch so I finally bit the bullet and ordered a customized Hana Lee doll

I'm pretty happy with the outcome! ❤️

Website where I ordered her:

[flickeringquip]

Convince the Fighter abstinence is bad for his health. There may be consequences(?) <<

hello my well-laid snuggle plans were temporarily waylaid because of Blythe & this post by @thedolmainblog

aster's stamina was not prepared.

[ma-du]

I guess I'll have to take desperate measures then *opens tab to ff.net*

[wikitpowers]

everybody shut up i have something to say

everyday it’s them who are on my mind

art: @cassandrajean

[skyhawkstragedy]

I feel like if Meme campaigned to Cameron it would stroke his ego so much he would consider taking her off the block

[maryshelleysgrave]

Over caffeinated and willing to die for a cigarette

[theballadofjohngeorgeandyoko]

Unfortunately, I think I must buy things on Amazon

[beperoncin]

i won