#Plastic food models

[ilikedetectives]

[anielskaaniela]

Exploring Kappabashi Kitchen Street: Tokyo's Culinary

In this post , you will visit with me Kappabashi Kitchen Street. Check out my japanese products [here]. What is Kappabashi Kitchen Street? Nestled between Ueno and Asakusa in Tokyo, Kappabashi Kitchen Street, also known as Kappabashi Dōgugai, is a culinary haven renowned for its extensive range of kitchenware. This bustling street, often referred to as “Kitchen Town,” has evolved from a niche…

[lifetimeoftired]

Thought more on the 'Batfam in Danny's world' stuff.

Red Robin: What is this? -holds up a clunky early 2000s device he found in Danny's room between his pinched fingers, like it might bite him- Danny: Oh, my PDA? Tucker insisted on buying it for me but honestly I'm not really that great with tech so I don't use it much. He usually follows me around trying to manage my schedule with it. Red Robin: Concerning but, more concerning, this thing... Works? Danny: It's the latest model, so it should? Red Robin: Latest... -trying not to cringe- How do you connect to the internet on it? Or take pictures? Danny, with genuine excitement: Your PDA can do that!? Man, that sounds way cooler than the plastic that lets you see all the stuff inside! Red Robin: I'm In Hell.

Spoiler: Having villains for parents is the worst right? Danny: I mean, my mom accidentally brings the food to life and it tries to bite us. But the keyword is 'accidentally'. They're mostly harmless. Spoiler: They literally just shot at you??? Danny: They shot at Phantom. They don't know it's actually me you know? Also I don't even worry about it. They don't have very good aim since I'm not a danger to them and Dad only gets badass when mom is in danger. Mom's always a badass but it's good dodging practice. Besides, I'd be more worried about them dissecting me, what with the whole, I'm technically an entirely different species that they've been studying their whole life and don't think I'm sentient anymore. But y'know it's whatever. They're not actually all that bad and I know they love me deep down. Spoiler: I'm not sure whether to borrow Hood's guns and shoot you myself or kidnap you away from here and force Batman to adopt you. Danny: Wha-

Danny: Alright a few more adjustments aaaaand there! Signal: Oh wow! Thanks! It's nuce to be able to see again without getting black spots on my vision. There's so many ghosts around it can be hard to see. Danny, biting his lip trying not to laugh: No problem. Signa;: .... What? Danny: Nothing! You look great dude! Signal: ....... Danny: ....... Signal: What did you put on my face!? Danny: Sun glasses! Signal: -skids to a halt in front of mirror and sure enough they're sun glasses. But they're triangular and the hooks go aaaall the way up to hook around the bat-ear points and look completely ridiculous- Danny Why :( Danny: -trying to say 'sorry' through his giggles, but he's not really sorry-

Danny: Uuuuh Red Hood I can't see your face, but I'm kinda worried about how many guns you're loading right now. Red Hood: I just want your 15th birthday party to be safe, okay? Danny: I'll be fine? It'd be nice if the other ghosts gave me a day off sure, but fighting them seems safer. I don't really want my mom to bake a cake anyway. Knowing her it'd just come alive so if they forget this year it's fine. I'm just, those are real guns man. They're dangerous. Red Hood: They are. -cocks gun- For Them.

Robin: >:( Danny: It was a nice try. Robin: Do not patronize me Fenton! Danny: I don't know why or how, but that sounds even more insulting than when Dash does it... Robin: This is an indignity! Fighting immortals entities that cannot be harmed by blade is one thing- but I will not accept being spoken to like a child! Skulker will return and taste my fury! Danny: Hey calm down alright? Robin: Do not test my patience! Danny: I heard you like animals. Wanna meet my purple back gorilla friend? She's really nice and is easy to talk to. Robin: .... The gorilla... doesn't speak does she? Danny: Haha no of course not! I learned her language instead. Robin: ... You are a strange man. However I will accept your proposal for now and I insist you teach me every form of communication with her.

Orphan: :( Danny, who's always been able to understand Cass perfectly, much to the mystery of the batfam and her delight: Aw Cass, I love you guys too. It's been great having your family around- and really I'm flattered! But I can't be your new brother, I'm sorry, but we do live in different realities. Besides, I think I've had enough of people trying to adopt me. Orphan: ? Danny: Yeah my godfather is a total fruitloop. Always trying to kill my dad and marry my mom who hates his guts and get me to call him father instead. Like, he even tried to clone me and copy my brain into a new body right? Or that time he rigged the election to become mayor just to mess with me. And hiring actually competent ghost hunters so I'd quit (kinda wish I could quit actually but it's fine). His obsession with me can get out of hand sometimes you see. Orphan: >:( -cracks knuckles- Danny: What? No! I don't need protecting really! I can handle him just fine. Now that I'm thinking about it though, I dunno what he'd do with Jazz. He never seems to actually talk about her beyond that one time he tried to get her to attack me- huh? Orphan: -disappeared- Danny: ...... That probably won't come back to haunt me.

[inbabylontheywept]

by tradition, the first day of the camp was spent pranking the group next to us. our prank was ziptying the zippers on their sleeping bags together. we figured one of them would sleep with a knife, because we all slept with knives, because we were dangerous maniacs and half the danger of a dangerous maniac is that they tend to think that they are Actually Normal. so. obviously that didn't pan out, and instead they got stuck in their sleeping bags for like half an hour and because their scoutmaster slept in their car and couldn't hear them yelling, they actually only got out when one of them went full caged animal and chewed through the plastic. which meant they had time to make it to the axe throwing station, but they did miss breakfast.

the scale of our victory was impossible to understate. it was an epic prank. unrivaled. the best in years. we knew they were going to retaliate, and we both feared and craved it. maybe i'm still a maniac, but that feels like a common thing, right? do well adjusted people that are not maniacs crave Judgement?

(serious answers only please, from people who would never spoon a knife.)

anyway, the next day we got back to our camp, and the neighors had skipped dinner to just come back and fill all our tents with pinecones. which was like, a decent prank, i guess, but it probably took them an hour to fill all the tents up, and it took us like 15 minutes to tip the tents out, and as a return volley to the ziptie prank it was incredibly underwhelming. we felt a little cheated.

so our scouting group held a council, and we agreed, unanimously, that our prank was 100% better and theirs sucked and that there would be no escalating tensions because we were the clear victors. they'd had their chance to retaliate, and they failed, and so the war was over. that was it.

we agreed on this. we swore. but madness is a relative thing, and in our group of maniacs, we still had J. i have many, many J stories. too many. i biked up to school with him from 4th grade to 8th, and i saw him get hit by cars thrice. he'd just swerve into the road sometimes. one time on a rainy day in 4th grade, a car splashed me, and before i could even consider my response J yelled I GOT THIS and then he blitzed off after the car. i didn't see him the rest of the day. i was so anxious i barely slept that night. i saw him the next morning and he told me that he'd chased the car until it got to a gated community and then he'd climbed over the fence and looked in peoples garages until he found the one with the car, and then he'd ripped the hood ornament off and broke their window. then he gave me a hood ornament to a different brand of car from the one that splashed me and i didnt tell him because i didnt want him missing more school. i want you to mentally adjust your mental model of the things a 9 year old is capable of doing to include chasing a car for five miles, hopping a fence, breaking into a garage, and vandalizing a randos car.

and that's just the tip of my J stories iceberg.

the point of all this is just to say that J was so crazy that he made us knife spooners look like accountanting enthusiasts.

so we agreed the war was done, and we shook on it, and then J, in the name of friendship, in the name of honor, in the name of avenging our pinecone filled tents, snuck over to their camp that evening and fornicated with a watermelon that they'd been saving in their cooler.

i want to emphasize, again, that this was not the consensus of the group. that is not a prank. like i know it seems like we dont know what pranks are because of the whole ziptie thing, but even we knew that fucking someones food is not a prank, it is a crime, and a sin, the kind of weapon that had only been ethically used once in history by Horus in his battle against Set and none of us dumb assholes had owl heads.

so.

the next day went pretty well. we threw some more axes again, which is a valuable and important skill for children to learn i guess, and we learned how to tie knots, which is a skill that turned out to be far sexier than i ever expected, and i learned how to light fires with a magnifying glass, which was great. i'm looking back at this, and i am actually just now beginning to realize that the clear and obvious point of scouting is turning child sociopaths into apex predators.

and then the day ended, and we went back to our camps, except for our leaders, who had a sort of Scout Leader Meeting they were going to have for a few hours at least. it was built into the camp, that day was supposed to be our day to chill as a group, and make peach cobbler, and just be buddies.

except, as it turned out, our neighboring group's alternative to making peach cobbler was eating their watermelon. so at some point they opened their watermelon, and woo boy. oh man. you think catholics hated seedless watermelons? you should see how much mormons hate seeded ones.

so we were chilling by the fire, and then we heard screaming from the camp over, but we didn't pay much mind to that because there are many reasonable explanations for a group of 10ish children to scream simulanteoulsy, such as wasps, which are abundant in arizona, and then the screaming got closer, which did not bother us because there were many reasons for a group 10ish children to scream and run towards us, for example, wasps, which are abundant in arizona, and then we noticed they had large sticks on them, which we figured were perhaps being used to drive away the wasps, which are abundant in arizona, and then they arrived and they started beating the shit out of us, abundantly, in arizona.

so we ran into the woods.

now, at this point, we had no idea what was up. we knew that the camp next to us was out for blood, which was crazy, because we'd actually locked them in fartproof bags for 30 minutes and they'd barely done anything back, and were trying to figure out what could possibly have happened that could drive them to Terrible Violence when we realized that J was cackling like a witch that had learned how to order children off of ebay.

so we politely asked J what the hell he had done, and he politely explained that had "done" their watermelon, and we politely beat him with large sticks because life is nothing but endless cycles of violence.

we were still being chased by the other camp btw. so it was them, chasing us, chasing J, and then they got tired and went back to their camp, and we chased J a little longer because we were mad we'd all been walloped with sticks, and J did not care because he was a supernatural entity whose only weaknesses were Needles and Fire, and then we got tired and went back and J kept running, and we just kind of figured he would come back eventually.

he did not.

we went back to our tents, and we waited, and J did not come back. we stayed up all night, peering into the forest, worrying. our leader came back, and we did our best to hide our battlewounds, and he either genuinely did not notice or simply accepted this as part of Boyhood. then he went to bed, and we waited, and waited, and waited. And Waited. and did not sleep.

eventually, we convened again, and we agreed that if J was not back by after breakfast, we would have to tell the scoutleader about what exactly had transpired. and we really did not want to do that, because it would have meant that everyone would have gotten in a very large amount of trouble.

morning came around, and J still was not back. we went to breakfast, and we ate very, very slowly. we were afraid the other camp was going to continue their war with us, but they actually looked fairly frightened. one of them actually came to us and asked for a truce, and we agreed because we truly felt bad for them. like, yes, they did beat us with sticks, but J fucked their watermelon. we werent complicit in the watermelonfuckening but they didnt know that, and it was definitely the kind of crime that left one outside the bounds of the social contract.

and then when we could eat no more bits, when breakfast was almost done, right when i was getting pushed to go and tell the scoutleader that we needed to find J, he arrived. he was sleep deprived, and noticeably scraped and bloody, and tied to his belt was a blood squirrel tail.

and i asked him, J, where did you get that? and he said, don't worry man, it was already dead, which did not answer by question and gave me several more.

the camp ended that day, and the other groups avoided us like the plague, and it was not until some weeks later that we were able to piece together what happened.

J, in his sojourn through the forest, managed to find (or, possibly, make) a dead squirrel. he then cut off the tail to keep on his belt, because he was a weird little freak like that. he also took the dead squirrel, and he skinned it, then he tied it to a little crucifix made of wood, and he left it in the other scouting group's camp. which is why they were so scared of us.

it was such an unhinged thing to do it actually sobered us up for a while. scouting became a scary thing for us. we'd found something dark and primal there, in the place where no adult could see, and our appreciation of J as a wild ride kind of changed into seeing him as something truly dangerous. we had a sense wherever he went, something terrible would follow, and the only way to escape it was to not be there when it arrived. and so piece by piece, the scout group dissolved. it wasnt until he moved out of that ward that the rest of us started daring to go back to scouts.

and for the final epilogue of the tale:

i have a little brother who was friends with a younger cousin of J's, and the two would go to parties together in highschool. and sometimes J, who was in his early 20's at that point, would show up at the parties, and it was unsettling in such a way that it just became a known risk at parties with the cousin. and at one party, they were playing truth or dare, and J wasn't even in the room, but someone asked him the Truth of how he always knew how to find the cousin, and J said the cousin's mom had mentioned she was worried about him and the parties so he'd put a tracker in his car. and when he saw that the cousin was out of the house on weekends, he'd made a visit by, just to make sure he was safe.

then he left. and every single person at that party went over that poor kid's car. they searched the wheel-wells, checked underneath it, the works, until they found the tracker. then because they were clever, they didnt break it, or throw it away, or anything that would've given away what they'd done. they just gave the tracker to the cousin, who put it in his glovebox. and on schooldays, he'd take it with him, so J could see him in the parking lot. and on weekends, he could leave it in the garage, so he could go to parties with out Hell coming with him. because everyone that met J - every single person - knew that the only way to be safe from him was to be far, far away.

[xoxotria]

in secret | csc

pairing: idol!choi seungcheol x model!reader

themes: secret relationship, situationship

warnings: minors dni! smut, fingering, mentions of reader having breasts and a vagina

ring. ring. ring.

you didn’t bother checking who was calling as there was only one person to call you during your schedule.

“you know you can’t keep calling me while i’m at work cheol.”

you hear a chuckle on the other end of the line as you pick up another booty call from seungcheol. you had met him through an event where you accidentally bumped into him as you were leaving your dressing room and the rest was history.

“yet you still always answer baby.”

“only because god knows how pouty you get when i don’t.” you laugh as you wave your collegues goodbye, your fittings and schedule over for the day.

you had walked over to your car still on the phone with cheol as you unlocked your car and got in to continue your call in private.

“what is it you want tonight? i’m pretty tired for sex today.”

ah, yes. you were in a friends-with-benefits type of relationship with cheol after that one incident where you both were at a after party in which both of you had alcohol in your system but still sober enough to decide to have sex in his car before he drove you home to your apartment.

“i’m not calling you for sex—well tonight i’m not.” he laughs as you hear the faint sounds of the radio in the background. “i was passing by your favorite restaurant and bought too much food for one person to eat alone so i was gonna ask you if i could come over and share a meal with you tonight.”

“woah, who are you and what have you done to the cheol i met first?” you teased him as you pulled out of the parking and into the street to head home to your apartment a couple of blocks away.

“i can be a gentleman too if i wanted to you know? rude that you think otherwise.” you could see him pouting my the way his voice sounded over the phone.

“i’m kidding baby i know you are but yes you can come over. the doors are unlocked and i’m a few minutes away.” you answer.

“how many times do i have to tell you to not leave your doors unlocked? you’ll be the death of me woman seriously.”

“and how many times do i need to tell you my apartments security is really good. anyways, i got to pass by a shop to buy some stuff for my apartment. i’ll see you later.”

“m’kay, drive safe. see you later.”

༝༚༝༚

“—and then they forced them to hug it out with hannie after they had won the prize and could go home early! it was the funniest thing i saw today.” cheol laughed from the other side of the table as the both of you ate dinner together.

“i would’ve loved to see that in person.” you laughed as you imagined it happening infront of you.

you were familiar with his group, seventeen. he had ‘forced’ you to watch gose episodes and some of their (more specifically his) fancams from previous concerts during some of your more casual meet ups. you had enjoyed it so much you actually had a slight infatuation with wonwoo much to cheol’s dismay that he wasn’t your bias.

“you’d love the boys. they are the same on and off camera, i’m super proud of them really.” he gushed as he sipped on the beer you had bought before coming home.

“i’m sure they feel the same way about you,” you reassured him as he smiled at you.

cheol was a great leader, he was kind but firm especially when it came to his brothers. he would rather pay fines and reassure his fans than keep them overthinking about things. he was a pure soul—maybe that’s why over time you had slowly fallen for him.

“thanks baby.” he mouthed to you as you both enjoyed the rest of your dinner in comfortable silence.

you watched as he finished his food the same time you had before grabbing the plastic containers and throwing them in the trash tidying up your dining room before plopping down on the couch beside you. you had been planning on setting boundaries with him as you knew your feelings would get hurt if he finds a girl he actually wants to pursue and not just fuck.

you had past flings and relationships before you had met cheol. it was never easy for you to fall in love with the way you’ve fallen for cheol—not even with your exes. you had been the secret girlfriend or lover before so why was it so hard to be that with cheol? oh right. you weren’t even his girlfriend. you’re just a one-call away fuck when he needed you to be. but you’d also be the first person he’d run to when the world around him became too much for him to handle.

“cheol?” you called out softly as you approached the couch.

“hmm?” he hummed as he looked up from the tv to look at you.

you watched his brown eyes lock on your own as the nerves in your stomach knotted. you couldn’t do it but you knew you needed to before you hurt yourself by loving a man that wasn’t even yours to love.

could you stomach not being able to hold him the way only you could when it was just the two of you? to live with the thought that he’ll settle down with another woman and that he couldn’t do it with you? to know that you were good enough to fuck but not commit to fully?

“how long will we continue like this?” you ask as you take the spot on the couch beside him.

“what do you mean sweetheart?” he asked as his brows furrowed in confusion.

“this cheol. you and me. is this all we’re going to be? a quick fuck and leave?” you could see the way the gears in his mind were then turning.

he didn’t know what to answer.

“i thought we were fine with this kind of set up? you didn’t want any commitments and i didn’t too especially in the industry we are in.”

“i was at first. things happen seungcheol—things even sometimes i can’t stop.” you argue as you watch him fidget with his hands.

“i—i can’t do it (y/n). there’s so much on the line for me—for you! i have an album release coming up. you have your runway and cover launch. if anyone finds out, the backlash would be too much for both of us to quiet down quick enough that it won’t ruin everything we’ve built.” he reasoned as he stood up from the couch.

“am i really just a good fuck to you?” the question hung in the air as you watch him try to answer you but decided not to and grabbed his keys making a beeline for the door.

“so much for being a gentleman. goodbye asshole!” you shout at him as he leaves your apartment in silence.

you broke down in tears burrying your face into your throwpillow mourning a relationship that was never there to begin with. you had shared you body with him—intimate moments of just you and him as he worshipped your body. you had not only fucked but there was that one time in which he made love to you after he had been away on tour for a month. he touched your body as if he was memorizing every mole, scar and dip of your body, kissing every patch of skin he could as he slowly thrusted in and out of you as if trying to engrave you in his brain yet he couldn’t commit to you even if he did all that.

you knew since the beggining that you were playing a dangerous game when you had met and started messing with each other in secret, so you couldn’t blame him fully for hurting and leaving you when you wanted things to get serious.

you cried for him that night, vowing never to let anyone mess with your heart the way he did with yours. you allowed yourself to mourn him and what could’ve been before drifting off to sleep.

༝༚༝༚

a month had passed since that night, everything was getting better. you had walked for one of your dream brands in their show in paris before being flown back to korea for a cover shoot. you had managed to avoid thinking about him successfully burying yourself in your work.

you had glanced at the calendar hung on the wall in your little office where the date tomorrow was encirled with red ink with his handwriting messily scribbled beneath the date.

new album release in which you’d drool over wonwoo instead of me :(

you had avoided opening twitter to stop yourself from looking at updates from seventeen hoping for a glance of him even going as far as to download weverse to catch a live of him. yet your finger hovered over his contact on your phone wanting to call and check in on him as he was always nervous whenever he had events coming up.

“no stop that. you’re not going to make yourself available for someone who thinks your just a good fuck.” you mutter to yourself as you close your phone.

your room still had traces of him you haven’t got the guts to get rid of yet. his perfume still sits on your vanity as he sometimes stays the night and always forgets to bring his perfume with him to use which resulted in him leaving his bottle of perfume in your room. his jersey from that one gose episode hangs from the chair in the corner of the room from that time you asked him to bring you home wonwoo’s but refused to do so saying it would be weird to see you wearing wonwoo’s jersey when you were fucking him. his toothbrush is still by the sink in your ensuite and his spare clothes are still on your top drawer waiting for him to come and use them—but he won’t because he’s doing better than you are and moving on from your little situationship.

his side of the bed still smells like him despite you spraying your perfume on it. he just manages to haunt you in the solitude of your own home. you’re thinking gets interrupted by a call from an unknown number on your phone.

“hello?” you greet unsure.

breathing is the only thing heard on the other line so in your better judgement you turn the call off thinking somebody just dialled the wrong number by accident.

you shrugged it off before tossing your phone to your bed and rearranging your vanity to keep your mind busy.

ping!

a notification interrupts your rearranging seeing your phone light up as a message comes through.

open the door.

“open the door?” you read out loud as you see the text. confused as the number isn’t saved you decided to check your front door as a safety measure.

you peep through the hole in your front door to see no one there but you decided to open and check. you glanced at the hall seeing no one there but to your surprise there was a paper bag on the floor. you picked it up and placed it on your kitchen counter before locking the door behind you.

you opened the bag to find an unsealed album with wonwoo’s signature on it. confused you rummage through the bag to pull out wonwoo’s jersey from that one gose episode.

“what the hell?” you asked confused as you pulled your phone out to check the number that had texted you. it wasn’t a number saved in your phone but you had an inkling to whom it was from.

you decided to call the number to confirm your suspicions. you had waited a while before the call got answered. and boy were you ready to give them a piece of your mind.

“hello?” he answers as you pace back and forth in your kitchen holding the album in your hand.

“yes, hello to you too. what the fuck is this? why would you send me an album signed by wonwoo and his jersey from that one gose episode? are you that fucked up seungcheol?” you fumed as you waited for him to say something.

“well?” you pushed as he wasn’t answering you.

“hi, uhm, it’s not seungcheol. i’m gonna introduce myself first, my name is joshua hong. i’m seungcheol’s group member and he borrowed my phone to text you. he isn’t here right now but i’ll make sure to relay the message you had for him. also, don’t worry about me spilling your secret i’m not gonna tell anyone about the two of you. you have my word for it.” you could feel the heat build up on your cheeks in embarrassment.

“i’m sorry! i thought you were seungcheol. i probably should’ve let you talk first before i went off on you.” you apologize as you hear joshua chuckle.

“don’t worry about it, i get where you’re coming from. don’t tell cheol but you were right setting boundaries to your situation with him.”

it was nice to know joshua was on the same page with you regarding the matter.

“yeah but it may have cost me his presence in my life. well, until he had contacted me again today.” you admitted as he sighed.

“i told him he should’ve used his own number to contact you but he wouldn’t listen to me. that man honestly, he can be so dumb with things like this but is so smart in other things.”

“i was debating calling him just hours ago. i know how tense he gets with your album releases but i—“

“you wanted him to reach out to you because you already told him what you wanted out of your situation. yeah, i know. he told me about you guys a week ago.”

“he did?” you asked surprised.

you really didn’t think he’d talk about you and your situation with anyone else. truthfully, you didn’t know how you felt about it. seungcheol had all the time during your no-contact period to reach out but he never did so you thought he was fully over your relationship. hearing from joshua that he was talking about it with someone else somehow gave you a thought that he might actually be thinking about you still.

“he hasn’t been able to talk to anybody else about it because of the circumstances but i could tell something was troubling him so i just waited for him to open up to me without being forced to and he did eventually. i know he misses you—he hasn’t shut up about it to me,” he sighs as you pick at your nails. “he means well, y’know? he just has a lot on his shoulders being our leader and the shield that protects everyone around him but i know deep down your good for him and i know he knows it too. just hear him out please?”

“i will, thank you joshua. congratulations on your new album by the way. i’m sure you’ll be hitting the charts and winning awards for it soon enough.” you thank him as he says his thanks and ends the call leaving you to your thoughts.

your phone sits on the counter as you gathered up the courage to text him and soon enough you pressed send.

where are you? we need to talk.

༝༚༝༚

seungcheol had arrived at your door an hour later, knocking lightly on your door you might’ve thought you hadn’t heard him if you didn’t know he was coming over. you opened the door for him not bothering to look at the peephole as he shuffled quietly past you and into your living room. he glanced around the apartment seeing it was still the same way as the day he left you so suddenly. he normally felt at home but this time he felt so tiny and out of place despite all the times he used to come over. he glanced over the familiar paper bag on your kitchen counter with the album and jersey he dropped off.

he could feel your gaze at him but he avoided making eye contact with you which he used to love doing. your eyes were his favorite thing to look at—no matter what you were doing your eyes always showed how you felt despite you not saying it verbally. he would tell you how much he loved your eyes even if he was in the middle of fucking you. he’d often tell you to keep your eyes on him despite you being so fucked out yet you’d do as he asked because you loved how he looked at you. deep down he thinks he knew that the moment he started to look for you in the people he’d interact with everyday was the moment he started seeing you more than just another person he’d call to fuck—he loved you long before he had the guts to let you know and seeing you for the first time after no contact truly did things to him.

“hey.” he spoke softly as he finally looked at you for the first time in a month.

god, you looked so beautiful even if your face held no emotions as you looked at him.

“i did all the talking last time so i think it’s fair i give you this moment to air out your thoughts before i make a decision.” you answered stiffly.

he nodded in understanding as he tried to gather his thoughts together before he opened up his mouth to speak.

“truth be told, i got overwhelmed when you were insinuating that you wanted to be more than just what our set up was but that isn’t a good enough explanation for what i was feeling at that moment.”

it was true, with everything on his plate at that moment it just got suffocating for him so he left without saying anything. it was one of the most stupid thing he had ever done in his life because he wanted nothing more to say something—anything to you.

“i had so much time to think about us over the month of no contact. i learned things about me that i wish i knew the moment you confronted me about what we were and how things were going to play out for us in the long run. i want you, (y/n). i wish i told you that night that i left. i don’t want you just physically because you are so much more to me than just a body to fuck. don’t get me wrong the sex is amazing with you and i feel like i’m on another world when i get to touch you, hold you, and just be with you.” he explains as he inched closer to you.

“but i’m scared to love you. i don’t want to ruin what we have because i’ve seen other couples in our industry get destroyed just because they love each other. i know i can handle the backlash i’d received but i’d hate to be the reason you’d be getting them too—fuck, i love you. god knows when it happened but i do and i can’t stop no matter what i do to try and supress my feelings. you weren’t and aren’t just a good fuck to me—your my entire world and i’m lucky enough to be able to orbit around you like how the moon does.” he could touch your face with how close he was to you by now. the tears falling down your cheeks and he wanted nothing more than to wipe away but he didn’t still unsure about if he could touch you that way again.

“you were the first person i felt both wildly unsure and unwaveringly certain of and i kept falling for you and the little things you’d do. i missed looking into your eyes, kissing your lips when you rambled too much, playing with your hair when we cuddle after sex, the little noises you make when you lose at games, and the way i’d wake up with you in my arms when you let me stay over. i missed you so much baby. i’m so sorry i didn’t contact you sooner.” cheol could feel his voice break as you cupped his cheeks. he leaned into your touch as he caught your scent—your vanilla scented shampoo and a hint of his own perfume mixed together. he loved it.

“you’re an asshole y’know?” she spoke through her tears as she allowed him to run his fingers through her locks. “i missed you.” she peered up at him as he smiled at her.

seungcheol had gazed into her eyes—he stared at her like she was the stars in the sky and he was basking in their glow. he missed her truly and he was going to show her how much he had missed her.

his eyes glanced down on her lips before he had closed the space between them with a kiss. the kiss was full of emotions; longing, happiness, and desire. it had been the longest since he went without being able to touch her body, the longest time being a month when he was away on tour.

he doesn't know when his obsession with you started, but one look at your bambi like eyes and he was hooked. jailed and chained to nights filled with your doe eyes brimming tears and cries of pleasure. oh the sweet sounds you’d make because of him.

"you like that? hmm?" a moan escapes your lips as he palmed your soaked sleep shorts.

“yes.” you answer breathlessly as you feel him lift you up and lock your legs around his hips. gravity causing you to settle down with your cunt pressed against his hard dick.

“oh fuck.” he groaned as he felt your wet cunt slide down his dick. “i missed having you like this baby.”

he had managed to get you both into your room as quickly as he could without bumping into your stuff with his lips on yours before setting you down in your bed. he littered your thighs with kisses as he pulled your shorts down revealing you slick cunt.

“no panties tonight, hm?” he smirked as you blushed.

“you make me go insane baby.” he removed his shirt along with his bottoms bearing all himself for you to see—not that you haven’t seen it before.

cheol dipped a finger into your core, working around the sopping wet muscle to fit in a second. he never broke eye contact with you, even as you groaned at the sudden contact as his finger grazed your bundle of nerves .

"it's okay, baby. come look at me, please? look right at me. that’s it, that’s my good girl."

as his fingers began to speed up, the tension in your thighs loosened, giving him more access to the rest of you. your walls took them in with ease as you welcome the familiar sensation of his fingers being stuffed in you, the wet sucking noises beginning to fill the room along with your moans. his breath is steady as ever, as if he's breathing you through this in an effort to slow you down from getting there before he even gets to truly have his way with you the way that he intends. he hadn’t fucked you in so long—he was going to take his sweet time.

your eyes locked into his—his favourite sight ever seeing you like that, breath hitching in the back of your throat catching the soft cries of his name that you tried to utter. pulling back, cheol removed his fingers from you with a slick pop, sticking the digits into his mouth, cleaning them of your cum.

"always so sweet," he remarked, dragging his thumb across his lip, and bringing it to yours. instinctively, you began to suck on it, slowly letting the taste of your own arousal coats your tongue. you could feel his hard-on pressing into your thigh, the heat between your legs drawing him in ever closer. it was intoxicating. in all your relationship's timespan, you were never sure of the exact moment that you had started to like him at a different light, but you knew that it lay somewhere in the hours he spent buried in between your thighs as he ate you out like he had been starving for years.

"i wanna feel you," your voice was just above a whisper. interlacing your fingers, his hand much bigger than your own, his entire body appeared massive in the small slivers of light that were in the room. your hand wrapped around the base of his swollen erection, a string of curses escaping his lips as you ran your hands up and down the length, icy fingertips teasing at his prominent veins. shifting his weight and allowed your hands to guide him, lining up perfectly with your glistening slit as his head teased at the entrance a few times, positioning itself just mere centimeters from your cunt.

"i love you so much cheol—fuck." you moaned out as your fingers dug into his back.

with eyes locked onto each other, your mouth fell open as he bottomed out. it took you no time to adjust, but the shockwaves ripped through your body just the same as they always did when you were this sensitive for him. he knew that you didn't have long from the way your walls clenched around his dick. it took a few seconds of adjustment, but he nestled himself inside, lowering his head to whisper into your ear.

"i'm gonna move now, 'kay baby?"

you nodded, arms pulling him down to your chest more as his dick dragged itself against your walls. after a few soft, shallow thrusts, your nails bit into his shoulder—the signal that he could go faster. his hips began to rock more evenly, building an even pace as the sounds of your walls began to fill the room. each kiss of his tip against your soft spot gave way to a familiar, lewd squishing noise coming from your delicate hole. your whines only urged him to go a step further, nails raking down his back so hard you were sure you had begun to draw blood. his body was marred with scars, but you knew that every scar on his back had been left there by you, an ever present reminder of the sleepless nights together you two shared.

"cheol—please, please harder," you croaked. he was right where you needed him, but not giving in. he was such an tease.

"are you sure you want more?" his demeanor shifted as lust consumed him.

"i'm not gonna hold back, you know," he started.

"i missed fucking this cunt—fuck—not gonna slow down until you're shaking."

he started ramming into you even harder, each thrust jolting your body backward and further up the surface of the mattress. he was slipping, eyes beginning to lose their light even as they were still locked onto yours. you could feel his grip around your waist getting stronger, digging into you. the veins in his arms started to bulge, he was losing himself in the euphoric washes of your body. you were shaking already, clamping down on his thick cock erratically.

"not going to stop until you're so cock-drunk on me."

every dizzying motion of his hips had your blood rushing to every part of your body. the wall in your abdomen began to shatter as you could feel your own mind slip.

"cheol—it's—i'm—baby—i'm gonna—" you could barely manage getting the words out. he placed a thumb in your mouth again, giving you some semblance of comfort all the while egging you on.

curse him and his high endurance.

"go on, cum for me. cum for your cheol baby."

you yielded to him completely, body simply going limp, giving in to euphoria as your climax overwhelmed your frame. you couldn't stop yourself from letting go completely, gushing your own translucent slick over his own lower half, tilting him over the edge.

"fuck," he moaned out as he reached his own high. "here it comes—here it fucking comes..."

he kissed you through it, groaning into your mouth with his cock throbbing inside you and  painting your insides with thick, milky white.

"Gotta—fuck—stuff my pretty baby so full."

and that he did.

as his own comedown presented itself, he collapsed onto you. you watched his chest rise and fall for a few seconds, assuring yourself that he was still all the way there. his head lifted, eyes meeting your watchful gaze. they were bright, admirable, and warm.

"i love you," cheol murmured into your hairline, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. he had pulled you to his chest to cuddle after chasing your highs. you squirmed a bit, repositioning yourself so that you could run your fingertips up and down his chest, tracing every curvature of his skin.

"i love you too," you cooed.

prying him off you for a second, you were about to stumble in the darkness toward the bathroom only to be pulled back into his chest with his own brute strength.

"i have to pee, cheol," you laughed as he caged you in his arms.

“let me join you and get you cleaned up.”

“you and i both know that won’t happen when your in there with me.” you chuckle as you melt into his arms.

“well then…round 2?” he smiled.

༝༚༝༚

you had woken up in a state of pure bliss with your body flush against cheol’s as his arm draped over your hip keeping you close to him.

it wasn’t a dream. he was here. your cheol was here.

you traced over his features as he slept soundly. you couldn’t help yourself—he looked beautiful under the light of the morning light. you could get used to this. he stirs in his sleep as you run your fingers through his blonde locks.

“g’morning baby.” he greets voice deep and raspy from sleep.

“hi handsome.” you smile as he pulls you closer to him and pecks you on your forehead.

“i could get used to this.”

“happy album release day baby.” you greet softly as you peppered his jaw with kisses.

“thank you, did you like my gift for you?” he asked as you pull away and slap his chest.

“you’re so horny. can’t we not associate everything with sex?” you tease as he raised a brow at you.

“baby i was talking about the jersey and the album i had wonwoo sign for you.” he deadpanned as you beam in excitement.

“oh my god! i forgot about that—wait right here.” you run out of the room as cheol laughs at you.

he felt so happy seeing you so happy but he wasn’t that happy seeing you walk back into your room with just wonwoo’s jersey on.

“i think this is my new favourite top. whatcha think baby?” you smile as you twirl around to show cheol wonwoo’s name on the back of the jersey instead of his.

“mm looks good.” he answers curtly brows knitting together in annoyance.

“i know right! wonwoo’s built is so much bugger than mine that this looks like a dress on me.” you played with the hem of the jersey as you hear cheol scoff in annoyance.

“take it off baby.” he grumbles as you shake your head no.

“nu-uh, it’s really comfy.”

“baby you have my exact same jersey. just wear mine.” he points towards his jersey as you shrug.

“but wonwoo’s my bias—”

“—and yet you weren’t cumming all over his dick last night were you? come on baby just wear mine.” he butts in as you raise a brow at him.

“are you jealous mr. choi?” you tease your arms on your hips.

“me? jealous of your crush on wonwoo? no way.” he answers defensively.

“you won’t mind me wearing this around then.” you sit at the edge of the bed turning you back on cheol as you scroll through your phone.

you felt him creep up behind you as the mattress dips from his weight. his hand snakes around your throat as your pulled back into his chest a smirk playing on your lips from how he’s acting.

“you’re mine baby. so i’ll give you two options: change and wear my jersey or…” he tightens his grip on your neck as he whispers in your ear. “i fuck you so hard you won’t know anyone else’s name but mine.”

“i think i’ll keep the jersey on,” you bit your lip excitedly as you hear him chuckle from behind you.

“always such a brat. well, buckle up baby. you’re in for such an eventful day.”

let’s just say you were so cock drunk from cheol’s dick that you couldn’t walk straight for a couple hours needing his assistance throughout the day.

[sweeterlovers]

FOR YOU / CHARLES LECLERC + LOGAN SARGEANT

logan sagreant x leclerc ex & youtuber reader / SMAU FIC

FACE CLAIM / addy kate

WARNINGS / cheating and logan is still on the grid with williams

-

INSTAGRAM

liked by f1gossip, f1girlfriends, and 56,825 others

f1wagupdates Charles Leclerc and his girlfriend Y/N L/N have broken up. They announced through instagram!

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user6 i wonder why they broke up???

user11 THEY WERE SO CUTE WTF

user00 he lost a 10/10

user8 did you guys notice how they didn’t say it was a mutual decision??

user7 i think charles cheated (again)

user33 once a cheater always a cheater

user0 she probably deserved it

user44 BFFR

user66 💔 💔 💔

user9 give it a day and we’ll find out what really happened

user6 what do you know?????

user9 the truth always come out

user24 they were so cute

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TWITTER

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liked by yourbsf, charles_leclerc, and 178,626 others

yourusername in my reputation era 🖤

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user2 mother is mothering

user99 modern princess diana

user0 gorgeous

yourbsf his loss

yourusername ❤️❤️

user77 the fact that he’s still liking her posts

user1 ✨ O B S E S S E D ✨

user3 the dress is adorable 🎀🎀

user262 going to miss seeing her in the paddock

user3 logan and y/n were my favorite americans on the grid

user986 she should get with logan 😭😭

user22 ughhhh she’s too pretty

user4 reputation taylor’s version????

user555 it’s a need

yourusername i would die if she announced it

user6 we love a swiftie

user3 i hate how charles never took her to the eras tour……

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yourusername sometimes you just need to have a night out with your girls ❤️🖤

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yourbsf I LOVE YOU

yourusername love u too

user2 gorgeous girls

yourfriend 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻

yourfriend prettiest

yourusername literally you

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MESSAGES

logansargeant

hey! i was wondering if i could perhaps take you out on a date when i land in florida?

yourusername

when do you land?

logansargeant

tomorrow morning! i can pick you up from your house?

yourusername

i would love to!

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yourusername cute dress & good food ❤️🖤🤍

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user5 ugh she looks AMAZING

user88 she’s glowing!!!!!

user1 it’s the post breakup glow!

yourbsf ANSWER THE GROUPCHAT

yourfriend WE NEED DETAILS!!!’

yourusername OMG YOU TEXTED ME LIKE 100 TIMES

yourbsf AND????? we need details 🤞🤞

yourfriend WE ARE DRIVING TO YOUR HOUSE RN

user51 this is so real

user7 gotta debrief

user6 she looks so good in red!

user00 i wonder why logan is always liking her posts

user23 is he the boy?????

user63 that would be crazy

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yourusername post swim 🌊🌊🪸🪸

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user1 gorgeous girl

user77 she’s so hot i can’t

logansargeant 🌴🌴

yourusername ???

user2 how does one look so good after swimming????

user666 FOR REAL!!!!! she looks like she came out of a modeling shoot while i look like a seal

user9 😍😍😍

yourbsf PRETTIEST GIRL

yourusername I LOVE UU

yourbsf ⏳⏳⏳

user4 if i was charles i would be at her door with flowers and a boom box

user8 he lost a BADDIE

user4 but logan gained one 💪💪

yourfriend literal model 🙏🙏🙏🙏

yourusername ❤️❤️❤️❤️

user342 showing this to my plastic surgeon

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logansargeant i’m making this post while your sleeping on my lap (post swim) i can’t help but feel so much love for you. you are the embodiment of sunshine. you light up the room. these past few months with you have been the highlight of my life. having someone like you beside me has truly lit up my world. who knew that someone’s lost and mistake would change my life forever. i hope that in 10 years you will still be by my side, on our porch, in our house in florida. i love you y/n, thank you for taking a chance on me 🫶🫶

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user4 THIS IS SO ROM COM CODED

user33 charles could never

yourbsf logan i was skeptical at first, knowing how broken y/n was but you have seriously made y/n so so happy. this is the happiest a boy has ever made her. those couple of months with you has truly changed her. i could care less about the backlash my comment might cause but thank you for treating my best friend the way charles couldn’t.

logansargeant your approval genuinely means so much

user3 the greenest flag

yourusername i’m crying right now, i love you logan i truly do. thank you for showing me what a boyfriend should be like. i can’t wait to have a future with you. (i need to make a post to one up you)

logansargeant i love you too, don’t worry you can post anything and i’ll give you it all ❤️i’ll let you beat me in anything

yourusername AWWW YOU REALLY LOVE ME

logansargeant i really do

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yourusername thank you for teaching me what love truly feels like

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logansargeant i love you so so much

yourusername i love you too

yourfriend 🤍🤍🤍

yourbsf “he’s a good man savannah”

yourusername LMAO

yourusername on a real note he really is a good man

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TEAM RADIO / SWEETERLOVERS - i had this idea in my notes app for a while and i actually did it!!!

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

yes or no?, m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader, slight yoongi x reader

summary: Jeon Jungkook is distraught to know he can't jack off. After all, he spent all that money to complete his tattoo sleeve. He wasn't about to ruin all that hard work just for a quick nut. But it's going to take a while to heal. Days – no, weeks! – with no masturbating. Waaah! Why did he pick his right arm?! Thankfully, noona to the rescue... right? RIGHT?!

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; slight crack b/c JK's POV; JK is whipped, welp; smut (fem reader, minor D/s dynamics, sexual fantasies, heavy petting / teasing, cock-and-ball torture, finger sucking, spit kink, handjob / m-masturbation, edging / orgasm denial, hair-pulling kink, nipple play, m-receiving oral, multiple orgasms, mentioned forearm kink); noona!reader; pleasure is JK-focused and JK's POV

'magic-8' ball noona is back! no need to read, just know there's a yoongi x reader x jk sex triangle and they're roommates :D

--

Jeon Jungkook was in pain, horny, and depressed.

On the plus side, his tattoo sleeve was almost completed!

Woohoo!

Sigh, no, he still felt like throwing himself into a wall and sliding down to become an unmoving puddle of goo. So tired. He always felt like this after the adrenaline of a long tattoo session. Session days were fun while he was in the studio hanging out with the tattoo artist, even for hours on end. He had brought his own snacks, plenty of water, and pain medication. The artist had even brought lunch for him – probably because Jungkook was spending a LOT of money covering up some old tattoos he ragretted regretted, but hey! Free food! Jungkook was always happy to receive free meat!

Wait. That sound weird.

Eh.

Anyway.

He sighed as he fumbled with his keys, trying to use his left hand as much as possible. Today, the artist had worked on his right forearm and filling in his elbow with black. The skin there was irritated and covered in plastic, which made it annoying to do common tasks he noticed. Great. Another day of not getting off. Yeah, Jungkook loved getting tattoos but it made him grumpy that he couldn’t just jerk off whenever he wanted.

What?!

It was a legitimate reason to be grumpy, dammit.

Why did Jungkook pick his right arm for his tattoo sleeve? Simple. He had no foresight and tattoos were permanent. Whoops. (He was not an idiot. Trust.) He finally got the key into the lock and turned it. His life wouldn’t be so hard (keke) if it wasn’t for his current living arrangements. To be clear, he really did love living in Kim Seokjin’s house full of his friends. There was just one problem. One very sexy problem.

He opened the door cautiously, wondering if he would hear moaning today.

Silence.

Whew.

The house smelled really good though. Like food. Mmmm. Food. Jungkook wandered in, loosely holding onto the strap of his large black bag and stepping out of his shoes, neatly settling them into their spot… to avoid getting scolded later. He was a good boy.

Sometimes.

The current residents of the home were: Kim Seokjin, the owner of the house, actor, and professional whaler in too many games; Kim Taehyung, a fashion model and close friend that had taken over Park Jimin’s spot after Jimin had moved out to work overseas for a while; Min Yoongi, a music producer and quite possibly sex on legs (Taehyung’s words, one had to be there for it to be funny); and the Magic-8 ball noona. The only girl. Also, she was, erm, part of a consensual sex triangle that Jungkook was a member of but he definitely didn’t start it.

Really…!

Anyway.

She had a real name but Jungkook was always going to remember that cursed hunk of plastic denying him twenty-six times. Besides, it was just easier to refer to her as noona since she was the one female and older than him. It was proper and polite. She was only by name when he was on his knees and begging to cum.

Cough.

Anyway!

He made his way into the kitchen carefully. It wasn’t unusual for the house to be fairly quiet as it was quite common for the introverts to split up and occupy themselves with their respective hobbies, especially when Taehyung went out with his friends. Jungkook vaguely remembered Taehyung saying he was going to a sauna with his squad or something like that. Seokjin was probably playing MapleStory in the master bedroom with his headphones on. Something about a new update. He wasn’t coming out unless to eat and even that would be rare. Yoongi and noona… well, they were either fucking or holed up in their respective rooms being creative.

Oh.

Yeah, did he mention the other part of this sex triangle was his sharp-witted, cat-eyed, resting-bitch-face-but-secretly-a-tsundere hyung? And the first place Jungkook witnessed Yoongi and her having sex was the kitchen he was about to walk into? His dick twitched every time he entered the kitchen because of it. He both felt guilty and became aroused by the wrongness of it. Then got more turned on when he remembered that he couldn’t masturbate tonight. Maybe he should just touch himself with his left hand to relieve some pressure. Or make it worse. On purpose.

Ugh, maybe he really was a masochist.

Jungkook rounded the corner and yelped when found himself cornered by his hyung and his noona glaring at him.

“Wah!”

“Oh, look who decided to show up,” his grumpy hyung grumbled.

“There you are,” his mischievous noona mused, waving about a ladle like it was a magic wand. “Sit down, sit down. You must be hungry after a long day.”

“Why didn’t you text? We ended up having dinner without you, hah,” Yoongi hmphed, poking Jungkook in the chest. The older male looked tired and overworked. One glance between the glowing, calm smile to Yoongi’s messy black hair sticking up in every direction. It was pretty clear what went down. RIP, hyung. His hyung was wearing an elegant black silk pajama shirt and matching pants with the waistband slightly askew. Red mark on the fair skin of his exposed collarbone.

Here? Or in her bed? Or in his bed? Or… mine so it smells just like them?

It was an irrelevant thought, as Jungkook rarely slept in his own bed despite having one. He had a bad habit unique quirk of falling asleep wherever he was, whenever he felt the need to sleep. This greatly annoyed Seokjin and made Taehyung laugh. Sometimes Jungkook would wake up with the latter guy sleeping on top of him like a handsome sloth. Just Taehyung things. But most times, Jungkook was in his noona’s bed.

Hey! It was a comfy bed.

Ahem.

Jungkook received another sharp poke and he jumped, stumbling as he was pushed to the kitchen island, extra startled as Yoongi wordlessly pulled out the seat for him. He got a what? look in response, complete with black strands falling over those narrowed dark brown eyes.

“Don’t you have to be careful about your arm, especially the first night?” Yoongi puffed. “Don’t get used to it.”

“O-Oh… yeah… t-thanks, hyung.”

Yoongi pretended not to hear and scooted himself towards the stove. She was standing next to a pot on low heat looking remarkably put together in red plaid pajamas. Jungkook plopped his butt onto the tall chair and put his bag on the other, yanking off his beanie. Ruffled his hair quickly to avoid his short black hair looking flat and dumb. He pretended like he wasn’t checking out the way her juicy butt completely filled out the pants and the way they clung to her lush hips. He pretended he didn’t notice that the top was relatively cropped and he could clearly see her amazing waist to ass ratio. He definitely didn’t say anything about how nice it was to see the beautiful curve of her neck due to the cute sheep-shaped claw clip collecting her hair back. And he surely didn’t go completely breathless when she turned around with a steaming bowl, suddenly realizing her pajama shirt was held together by only a single button in the center and she clearly wasn’t wearing a bra. There was a row of buttons; she just hadn’t done them up.

Fuck.

It was violently unfair that she was allowed to look this hot in normal clothes.

She leaned over the counter and placed the bowl in front of him. He could see down her shirt. Damn. Even through the flannel fabric, Jungkook could still see the peaks of her nipples if he really stared. Really, really stared. For maybe ten seconds.

He jumped at the clink of a metal spoon against ceramic.

“You should eat,” she said with an enigmatic smile. Gracefully balanced her chin on the back of her knuckles, her fingers fanned downwards, her elbows resting on the counter to look into his eyes.

Shit, he was smooth melting like butter under that hot gaze.

“Pick your jaw off the floor,” said a gruff voice in Daegu satoori.

Jungkook jolted as crabby Yoongi appeared seemingly out of nowhere – well, he was here the whole time, oop – and cocked an eyebrow at him. Now the older two were both standing side by side, observing him expectantly. It was only then that Jungkook looked down and realized what was in front of him.

“Wait… it’s not my birthday.”

She chuckled. Her eyes sparkled with mirth. Ugh, he loved seeing them directed at him. “Seaweed soup will be good after a long tattoo day. You need nutrients. You need energy. Plus, Yoongi added beef in there for you. There’s some rice too, but not too much because Yoongi said you don’t like having too many carbs before sleeping. More meat, as you like it,” she concluded, using the spoon to show him all the ingredients. “We made it for you. Eat.”

She smiled exactly how the Cheshire cat would grin. He glanced at Yoongi who was staring at his fingernails like they were the most interesting thing in the world. They stood close to each other. No mistaking their closeness. The worst (best?) part was that even though Jungkook knew exactly what had happened while he was gone all those hours, he didn’t find this scene offensive.

In fact, he felt a bit teary from their consideration.

“T-Thanks…”

He took the spoon from her, his inhale hitching as his fingertips brushed against hers. Oh, her hands. Those lovely hands. His gaze shifted up, his heart beating fast. The side of her lips tugged upwards.

A smile turned smirk.

His cock twitched as Jungkook remembered her smirking face grinning up at him with his cum drenched all over her tongue. The last time he had jacked off into her mouth.

Argh!

He had used his left hand, mostly because he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to do the repeated motion of bending his right arm and bringing the utensil to his mouth right now. Hmmmm. He scrunched up his face and wrinkled his nose. It probably wouldn’t be the best idea. He didn’t want to mess up the line work and all that nice color shading. He was already doing the cover ups, after all. Plus, it did hurt a little moving too much. He would just see how far he could get. It was pretty easy since it was soup and the pieces of beef were cut pretty small.

They must have thought of that.

Jungkook tried not to cry grateful tears into his seaweed soup as he heard his hyung and noona busy themselves with cleaning the kitchen, ‘cause that would be utterly embarrassing and not very manly, sniff.

Thankfully, he was saved by his rising boner.

The thing was, Jungkook was pretty sure he wasn’t turned on by pain. Ahem. Okay, maybe a little (lotta) bit. But, time and place! This was precisely why he picked a very cool and very talented male tattoo artist. He could ask questions and be noisy and immature and not feel bad. Jungkook liked female artists but he would get too mentally distracted because he didn’t really know what to talk about, so his mind would end up wandering to another set of hands and then, bam! A not useful boner. Also, he didn’t want to creep anybody out or make them uncomfortable. That would be mean.

But, uh.

Jungkook was beginning to realize he enjoyed and hated these long sessions. He enjoyed them because he very much considered his tattoo artist his friend. He enjoyed them because his close friends were supportive, bought him snacks, and told him he was cool or brave for getting so many tattoos (very important, yup). And, yeah, he liked the repeated stabbing (it was addictive, okay?!). But he also enjoyed them because of how attentive his noona was before and during the aftercare process. She helped him prepare his bag prior to the appointment, would make sure to remind him to keep the area hydrated, make him his favorite meals (meat!), and be the first to help him in case he needed it. As for the hate part…

Ugh, it made him so fucking horny knowing he couldn’t get off without her help.

Yeah, sure, he could use his left hand. But the nut would be pisslow awful and not at all satisfying. Of course, Jungkook could wait and use his right when he felt like it was fine but that wouldn’t be for a while. He didn’t spend all that money to have to explain that he wanted a touch-up because he needed to cum being around a literal sex goddess his noona (not to mention what a mortifying thing to say to his poor tattoo artist that didn’t need to know all that). And there was no way in hell Jungkook was going to avoid his noona during his recovery. She had just made him seaweed soup! Oh, yeah, and Yoongi was there too. Anyway, the forced waiting turned him on even more than usual because there was a real reason behind it. After his first long session, he even clumsily edged himself with his left hand, multiple times, before he asked her to get him off, just so it felt even better when her lips closed around his leaking, desperate cock.

Jungkook choked on some beef.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m – ack! – fine. Totally fine!” he managed to hack out in a very not-fine tone.

“You look like you’re choking,” Yoongi commented matter-of-factly, eerily similar to a narrator of a nature documentary.

“Be careful,” she laughed, coming around the counter to rub his back. Aaaah! Jungkook lifted his right arm slightly and tried to subtly punch his dick down into submission but, as it turned out, his erection was as stubborn as he was. Awesome. Not to mention space was very limited under the counter. Shit. She patted in between his shoulder blades. “Want some water?”

“No, hah, I’m f-fine,” he wheezed, freezing up a little at her touch. He thought he was used to it by now but he really wasn’t, especially when his dick was already halfway up the stairs to heaven. Down to hell to the circle of lust? Whatever. She wasn’t too close, as she was on his right side, but he had enough memories to know how skin-to skin felt, enough times of her breasts pressed to his back and her hands exploring his chest, enough moments of her agile fingers splayed out over his pecs like blooming flowers, running her nails over his skin, flicking his nipples, all the while tracing her tongue along the base of his neck with her hard nipples rubbing against his shivering back…

Okay.

Jungkook was not fine.

“It’s kinda warm…” he mumbled as she moved away.

“That’s because you’re still wearing your jacket and having hot soup,” Yoongi pointed out, putting away some bowls. “Take it off.”

“Want help?”

It was a very innocent suggestion. Thus, Jungkook spent the next minute trying not to reveal that he had popped a boner while eating seaweed soup, sitting up and sticking out his arms like a Ken doll, letting those dreamy, long fingers peel away his oversized white and black racer jacket. Left arm first, then the right, taking care to slide it off, the sleeve cocoon stripping back to reveal the beautiful butterfly that was his fresh, brightly inked right arm.

“Oh? That’s right, you were covering up some big tattoos today, huh?” Yoongi perked up, his raspy voice with a twinge of curiosity, padding over to investigate. Underneath the jacket, Jungkook had worn a closely fitted, white, ribbed tank top. Comfy but wouldn’t get in the way. “Ho, so much color. Quite rockstar of you. You’re become such a cool guy, heh.”

“I wanted the individual images to stand out more and the artist suggested adding some color,” Jungkook clarified, slurping away at his dinner again. “I just trusted him.”

“He did such a good job,” she was saying, delicately holding his hand. Jungkook tried not to melt into a puddle. “The gradient is fantastic. The text here looks cleaner too.”

“Oh, yeah, I asked him to clean up some of my older tattoos too. For consistency.”

He continued munching happily until…

“So, what’s with the boner?”

Jungkook nearly choked again.

“Ay, Yoongi-ssi, leave him alone,” she chided, smacking Yoongi in the butt. Received a scalding squinty side-eye in response but she didn’t seem to give a shit. Nerves of steel. “You know he can’t cum unless I let him.”

Wow, okay, way to broadcast the facts!

“Hey!”

She tilted her head and rubbed the tip of his nose. Open-mouthed smirk included. Gulp. “Am I wrong?”

Against his better judgement, Jungkook pouted. “Noona…”

She patted his thigh. Condescendingly. He intensified his pout but it was futile. “Finish eating, okay? I’ll help you out in the shower…” She winked, devilish. “As usual.”

Yoongi snickered. “Just don’t be too loud.”

“Put on some headphones then,” she countered.

“Oi, I’m not blowing out my eardrums.”

“Then listen,” she hummed, caressing Jungkook’s jeans. “Or watch. No one’s stopping you.”

The bottom of Yoongi’s lips upturned, giving him the expression of a disgruntled cat. “I have to sleep.”

“Oh, like you don’t sleep enough, grandpa.”

“That wasn’t what you were calling me when I had you folded in half under me.”

Jungkook was left to slurp his soup to the sound of their bickering as her hand gently stroked the inside of his thigh. It could be worse. Could be better too, like her unzipping him and establishing dominance by jacking him off at the kitchen island. But Yoongi was not so easily fazed, so she didn’t, and Jungkook cried at (and secretly enjoyed) the feeling of pre-cum soaking through his underwear.

Turns out, he didn’t have to wait that long to enjoy suffering.

Er.

Attention?

Towards the end of his meal was getting a bit annoying to scoop up what was left, so Jungkook put down the spoon to pick up the bowl and drink of the rest of the soup. For a brief second, he was let go and he noticed Yoongi was flicking his hand over his noona’s chest. She grabbed his hand, pulling that scowling face to her into a sudden and tense kiss. Hey, he wasn’t above some adult entertainment while eating. Well, maybe not during the majority of the meal, but Jungkook kept a (big) peeper out. From his periphery, he saw Yoongi slip his hands under her shirt and heard her murmur in satisfaction, trailing kisses over Yoongi’s face. He saw his hyung smile in response, warm and genuine and butterfly-inducing.

Jungkook lowered the bowl slowly as Yoongi opened his eyes.

And winked.

Devilish.

“I’m leaving,” Yoongi suddenly announced, untangling himself and slinking away.

His noona snickered and shook her head. “Okay, nerd.”

Then she turned around and, before Jungkook could say anything about Yoongi running away like a criminal undercover, she revealed that her shirt was now open and fully exposing her perky tits and large, hard nipples.

“Oh!”

Jungkook felt his eyeballs nearly pop out of his skull at the unexpected surprise.

She acted as if they could ever have a normal conversation with her boobs right in front of his face. “So, are you still tired? Just wanna get washed up and go to sleep?”

He tried to answer but from the first word it was impossible. Her pajama shirt was sliding down her perfect shoulders, revealing smooth skin and the flannel fabric cradled her breasts, framing them perfectly. She smelled fresh and fruity, just like her signature lotion scent. Blackberry and vanilla. Her forearms lay against his thighs, forcing his body to turn, and he gasped as her fingers fanned out over his muscular thighs and squeezed them, basically half-crawling into his lap to look up at him, asking her questions in a very leisurely and unbothered tone.

“Tired…?” he echoed, his brain in a completely different dimension. “Wuh?”

Her hands glided up his sides and delicately closed in around his waist. He gasped, stiffening as her touch encased him, feeling the action through the fabric of his tank top. She hummed softly, caressing his waist. Slow. Tender. Not a second of rushing even though blood was rushing straight down into his dick at record speed. He felt her gaze on him and shifted his own to her face, seeing her observe him with lovely eyes that contained all the innocence of a kumiho.

So, none at all.

Her smile reappeared, mysterious and sinful.

Her palm grazed over his tense abdomen and he whimpered under his breath. Or so he thought.

“Feeling good?” she asked serenely.

“Y… Yeah…”

Down. Tracing the button of his jeans. His breath caught in his throat. Fingertip by fingertip, in slow motion, tapping lightly on his bulge. Barely any pressure. Solidly tucked between his legs, her ass sticking out. He would be fine with the other side of the view too. This house needed more mirrors, Jungkook concluded.

“Do you remember why you came to me?”

He stopped staring at her ass as the question registered. He was holding his right arm out and his left elbow was resting on the counter. “In the beginning?”

“Mhm.”

She was now cupping his covered erection and pulsing her grip around it, making his cock throb and leak everywhere. Great. His boxer briefs were a cum-filled mess now, surely. He could feel the squish and the stimulation against the tip. Agonizing pleasure.

His cheeks warmed. “Ah… Yeah… because… my previous girlfriends said I f-fucked like a robot…”

“You think maybe you just weren’t that into them?” she questioned, running her fingertips of her other hand along his back and waist, sending tingles up his spine.

“I…” It was impossible to concentrate. “Ah… Well… A-Aren’t you supposed to fall f-for their personality first…?”

“Is that why you’re into me? My personality?”

Jungkook looked down.

Right at her personali-titties.

He swallowed so hard that he almost choked.

Again.

“Hm?” she mused.

Ripped his gaze from the visual of her prominent nipples hanging down next to his open thighs and into that sly stare that knew everything. Gulp. She continued toying with his crotch, stroking along the length, dipping down to pat the outline of his balls, smirking wider as his cock jerked in his pants. The roar of his heartbeat thundered in his ears. Fuck. It was the power in that gaze. The confidence in her stance. The ability to be below him and be completely, utterly in control. The taste of forbidden fruit, just within reach. The sensation of his whole body being overcome with want and the way she gladly overwhelmed all his senses by her presence alone. She didn’t have to touch him at all. She didn’t have to expose herself. She didn’t have to smell so good. She didn’t have to.

She simply chose to do all those things to drive him even more crazy.

“Yes or no?” she purred.

He could lie, but he was a terrible liar.

“Y… Yes…”

She seemed very satisfied with his response. Slid up between his legs, her hand on his back dropping and gliding up against his chest instead. He shivered, his lips parting as she rose, closer, the warmth of her exhale washing over him, a soft sigh and then their faces close, centimeters from each other with his racing heart under her palm. Her fingers spread out. Her index found his silver chain necklace resting on his collarbones, playing with it with a small smile.

Her other hand was still on top of his hard dick.

Jungkook used to think that there was no way sex could be sexy. The idea of it was sexy. In practice, sex used to be awkward and uncomfortable, but essential to get his rocks off. It felt like something he had to do. But it wasn’t like that, at least with her. Well, he still sometimes felt awkward and uncomfortable, but Jungkook suspected she was doing it on purpose. He didn’t mind though, because she always touched him with such fondness and – maybe this was the delulu talking – but he really didn’t need the sex so much as he needed her to keep looking at him the way she did.

His dick throbbed suddenly in protest.

“Ah–!”

She tilted her head and kissed him.

Placing a chaste kiss right below his lips, the soft press taking his breath away, and then her lips ghosted over his, grabbing a fistful of his tank top and kissing him deeply. Fuck, how he loved her lips. How could he describe them? So fluffy and yet so insistent. Determined, seductive, pulling him to her and sighing, her contented breath filling his lungs and giving him life. His left hand found the collar of her shirt and gripped it tightly, not even realizing he had closed his eyes instinctively, wanting nothing more than to melt into her. Her hair brushed against his cheek and neck. Her scent warmed him, sweet and decadent. Her knuckles pressed into his sternum, unyielding. Her fingers tangled into the silver chain around his neck, possessive.

His brain melted into a puddle of bliss.

He moaned her name into her lips as she parted. She squeezed his inner thigh through his loose jeans. Still, the fabric was too thick for it to be satisfying enough.

“W-Wait…”

“You kinda taste like beef,” she remarked, releasing her hold and patting his chest. “Come on. If we fuck in the kitchen, I’ll have more to clean than your dishes.”

Jungkook felt his cheeks burn. “O… Oh.”

She backed up a step and took way too long to button a single button to cover her breasts again. He spent a good ten seconds gawking at their perky shape and the way her obvious nipples stuck straight out. She acted as if nothing was wrong, lingering between his spread-open thighs.

“You have to shower quickly, right? Go get started and I’ll come wash your back.”

“But, n-noona–!”

Her hand flew up and landed at the base of his neck. Thumb to one side, four fingers on the other. Jungkook froze.

She cocked an eyebrow.

Then she smirked.

His pulse hammered in his throat, so close to being constricted.

“Are you saying you’re flexible enough to wash your own back now?”

Jungkook shook his head so fast his vision blurred. “Nope. I’m weak. Help. I can’t take off my clothes either. Owie. It hurts so much.”

“Mmmm, very convincing.” She didn’t sound convinced. At all.

Damnnit.

-

“Gah!”

She gave him an exasperated look. “As if I haven’t seen you naked before.”

Minutes later, Jungkook found himself sitting in the bathtub, puffing his cheeks as he washed his hair with his left hand and felt the bath sponge rub against his back. Ah. She was leaning over the side of the tub, holding onto his left shoulder and rubbing circles into his back. Aaaah. He had left the plastic on his right arm for now, intending to remove the tape as his last step so he could rinse it off with a gentle, unscented cleanser. The water was lukewarm. Not the greatest, but he didn’t want to steam up the bathroom. It would be bad for the tattoos.

“U-Um… noona?”

“Hm?”

She rubbed down to his lower back. He sat up straighter. There was a wet towel blanketed over his crotch. Not really for any reason other than cold. Yeah. Anyway. She leaned over and kept going, massaging him at the same time. He gasped as she pressed the base of her palm into his muscle and kneaded.

“I… uh… about what I said earlier…”

“Mhm.”

He jumped a little but she was just leaning over to grab the detachable showerhead, adjusting the water to the correct temperature. “I hope… I hope I didn’t offend you or anything. I do like your personality a lot. You’re assertive and funny and you always remember stuff I like,” Jungkook rambled, lowering his left hand. His right was slightly hanging off the edge of the tub to keep it out of the way. Of course, he scrubbed his armpits before she came in. It would have been rude not to clean all the important bits first.

She rinsed off his back. “I’m not worried,” she chuckled.

“Oh, okay.”

“I don’t mind that you’re shallow. It’s flattering, coming from a hot guy like you.”

“That’s good – wait, what?!”

She sprayed the top of his head and sent him into sputters.

“Ah!”

She grabbed his shoulder, quickly and vigorously rinsing off his hair before pulling the showerhead away and turning off the water. Not before spraying him in the chest though. Jungkook found himself with his drenched hair flat against his forehead, making him unable to see. He felt like a wet dog. He almost wiggled away – until her arm slid down and rested against his chest, her other hand slipping under his wet hair and pushing it back, laughing playfully as she spoke.

“Oh, Jungkook. You’re so silly. Don’t worry about nothing,” she sighed, petting his head.

He couldn’t say anything.

Mostly because her tits were now pressed against the top of his back.

Oh, fuck. Her large, soft nipples rubbed against his shoulders. And her breasts, ooh, so plushy. “Everyone knows you like my personality.” So bouncy. Mmmm. “Just like how everyone knows you’ve been thirsting after me since day one.” No, it was more like first thirty seconds of seeing her. “Just like how everyone knows you’re a pain slut.”

Her breasts pressed against his shoulders.

Wait.

What did she say?

She plucked the towel away from his crotch and locked her fingers around his package.

“AAH!”

She slapped a hand over his mouth and pinned him to her body, crouching over him. It was then – how could it be only THEN – that Jungkook’s brain fully registered that she was topless. Possibly bottom-less too! Not only was she naked but also she was roughly massaging his balls with his rapidly hardening length trapped between her thumb and index finger, essentially making a cock ring with her two fingers and a ball cage with the rest. He gasped, rolling his head back onto her shoulder, moaning behind her hand as her touch switched between caress and choking his balls. There was no water in the tub as the drain wasn’t pushed down.

Her hand changed from covering his mouth to slipping two fingers into his lips.

“See? You like this,” she whispered, sultry and low.

He tried to gurgle out, n-no way, but he was too busy lifting his hips and thrusting upwards, trying to get the friction he so urgently desired but couldn’t achieve. She dragged her nails across his balls and his eyelids fluttered, sucking on her fingers, spit trickling past his lips and down his chin, his moan echoing in the bathroom when she finally closed her grip around his aching cock, pumping slow, running a fingertip over the head, slicking out the pre-cum leaking out.

“P-Please…” he whined.

“You gotta get out now,” she reminded him.

“No, please…”

She slowly thrust her fingers into his mouth, rubbing his tongue. “You should wait longer, shouldn’t you?” He tried to shake his head but he couldn’t, his hips bucking as her speed increased. “Don’t want you to get sweaty and all that.” Fuck, please, he wanted to scream and nearly did when she let go and lightly smacked around his stiff erection, slapping his cock against his tense inner thighs. It bounced around, the head dark red, aching for release. He was so hard that his cock popped right back into position, sticking straight upwards between his spread legs. “Do you really think you’ve been a good boy?” His own saliva was dripping down his chin. How did she get this level of desperation out of him so easily? She held his shaft up with only the back of her thumb and firmly smacked his balls, rapid and light, making him cry out and squirm. “Hold it up.”

“N-Noona, please…”

“Hold it up if you want me to suck your dick,” she ordered calmly.

The thrill raced up his spine. His hair was dripping, droplets down his cheeks and neck. This was it. This electric, intense feeling that seemed to control him, his hand ghosting down to wrap around his twitching length, gasping sharply when her fingers left his mouth. She cupped his chin instead, tilting his head up and now they were looking at each other, only for a moment, her sparkling eyes rich with passion, intoxicating pleasure snaking up his core as he melted under her hot gaze.

This was the feeling Jungkook always wanted.

She lowered herself down. He stared at the ceiling as she teased his balls, moaning and lazily stroking his cock as she slapped them, dragged her fingernails over them, squeezed them. Spit on him. He whimpered, teasing the underside of the swollen head of his cock, more, flinching as she spat on him again, gasping as she dug her nails into the sensitive area behind his balls, coaxing himself to the edge and then stopping, building the frustration.

She kissed his hot cheek.

“You’re doing so good,” she murmured into his ear, licking it softly.

Her right hand closed around his left and they edged him together, their fingers laced, her teeth on the curve of his ear and his moan radiating off the tiles. Long, deep strokes, building up the speed. So good. Tight, rapid pace, close, his chest rattling, so close, his eyes rolling back when her hand clamped around the base of his aching cock and squeezed hard, cutting off the high and colliding him into the mental wall, his dismayed cry drowned out by her lips devouring his.

Fuck!

Was he going to get to bust a nut or not?!

-

“Please, don’t.”

He put on his best pout as she held the Magic-8 ball in front of her body. Still wearing her black seamless panties, but that was it. She was lightly sitting on his thighs, straddling him on the bed as she shook it teasingly.

“Noona, come on…”

“Why not? It’ll be fun.”

She lowered it and Jungkook gasped as the black plastic ball touched his chest, wiggling uncomfortably as she rolled it back and forth. Foreign and cold. It warmed up against his skin.  She leaned over him, not adding more pressure, but giving a great full-frontal view with her breasts trapped between her upper arms.

“It won’t be fun for me,” he whined, gripping the sheets tightly.

He reached up to squeeze her breasts, using his left hand, shuddering as he felt her hard nipples against his palm, looking up to see her tongue dance at the edge of her smirk, her tousled hair trailing down her shoulder. That had been the game before. He would ask to have sex. She would shake the Magic-8 ball and get his answer – resulting in twenty-six straight refusals from that evil children’s toy. Unlucky? Maybe. Cursed? More likely. Extra cursed because it was Park Jimin who purchased and gifted her the thing.

Grr.

Jungkook was still pissed about that.

She tilted her head, sending part of her face into delicious shadow.

“We can make it a little game.”

His hand slid down her arm and covered hers.

“No games,” he begged, catching the edge of his lower lip with his teeth. Her eyes shifted down. He was playing all his cards. She muttered under her breath, hah, I love that underlip mole of yours, how can I resist a lip bite, fuck, and those cute, round, big brown eyes… all while lowering herself to him, drawn to his plea, releasing her hold on the Magic-8 ball.

She rolled it on his chest and into his open hand.

“Okay. No games.”

She kissed him again.

A claim to his lips. Soft and insistent, working him into a frenzy, making him grip that hard plastic ball tightly as his breathing shallowed, moaning as her tongue slid in, out, in, out. He felt her hands frame his head, crowning him with her fanned-out fingers. Tingling as her thumb rubbed across his temple. His jaw. His earrings, toying with them, nipping at his lower lip and sucking on it, her warm body settling between his legs, soft to hard, rubbing up against him.

Fuck.

Fuuuuck.

She pulled on his hair roughly and his lip slipped from her teeth due his own whimper, gasping hotly as her kisses danced down his throat, then running her tongue over the trail of kisses. She had a hand planted onto his chest to prevent him from arching his back, lapping at his collarbones daintily as she tugged at a fistful of his still damp hair. Sparks of pain showering down from the crown od head meeting the maddening bliss of her lips on his chest, traveling, decorating his clavicle, each mark of her teeth mirroring the redness of a fallen rose petal.

He tried to lower his chin and shuddered against the hurt, making better and worse at the same time, opening his eyes as she let go of his hair, seeing her sliding down his torso.

That ass.

He felt a nip at his nipple and his breathing hitched, snapping down to see her looking up at him, expression highly amused.

“Pretty nice ass, huh?”

No one said she was humble.

He grinned. “Yeah, I should take a pic and make it my phone background.”

She chuckled, running her tongue over his hard nipple and Jungkook shivered, transfixed by the image and the simultaneous surge of pleasure. He lifted his head higher off the pillow. Shallow breaths, watching, the glossy tip of that dexterous pink muscle against his dark nipple, her lips closing around it, feeling his body stiffen as he felt the sucking sensation vibrate through him. The moan bubbled in his tightened chest as she gently bit, licked, sucked, alternating between the actions. Her fingernails dragged over his sides and flexed abs, electrifying his skin with the pressure. He flinched when she released him and replaced the rough play with kisses, moving across his chest to do the same to his other nipple.

She glanced at him, witnessing his perverse enjoyment with a knowing glint in her eye.

He clutched the Magic-8 ball at his side with in his left hand, falling back into the pillow moaning, writhing slightly as the sucking intensified. Her hand slid down, stroking the inside of his thigh. He could barely feel the side of his half-hard cock brush against the back of her hand.

“F-Fuck… please…”

His entire body jolted when she popped her lips off him and sealed her work with a kiss.

“You’re so impatient, Jungkook,” she hummed, pressing her tongue flat to his nipple and rubbing roughly, saliva sticking to his skin. “So needy.”

His mind was spinning. Blood running hot under his skin, body uncontrollably quivering, clutching the sheets and the Magic-8 ball for dear life. The pent-up arousal was driving him insane but, as a wise man once said, gotaa go insane to stay sane. Or something like that. Jungkook couldn’t remember any wise proverbs right now. He was too horny. She was rising, re-clipping her hair with that cute sheep-shaped claw clip, keeping it out of her smirking face.

“Y-Yes, I am needy… a-ah… please…”

Slipping down, down.

She pressed her palms into the innermost part of his thighs, spreading her fingers over his crotch, and swallowed his cock.

He moaned so loud that Min Yoongi surely heard.

Hey.

No one said Jeon Jungkook was subtle.

Especially when being pleasured.

Immediately his cock swelled at her up-and-down motion that came with tongue and lips and a tight, wet, warm throat that pushed him in as deep as possible. He was always somewhat shocked at how easily she maneuvered him without her hands, preferring instead to use only her mouth to take him all the way to the base and lick at his balls, her constricting throat suffocating the thick head of his cock, and then back up, running the sensitive skin over the roof of her mouth and closing her lips around the tip tighter, teasing the underside of the slit with deft flicks. Then, again, swallowing his growing length, molding her tongue to his girth, slathering saliva over his balls.

God, Jungkook loved the bed suck.

She had an immaculate level of control when giving a blowjob on the bed. He didn’t have to do anything but lay back and relax, occasionally looking down to follow her head movements and see his length glistening in between her plush lips, then collapsing again as the erotic euphoria overtook him again, his chest fluttering with the intensity, his core tightening, lost in lust. He completely forgot the itchiness of his right arm. The colors were brighter under the overhead light and the lotion he had applied right before getting into bed, a sharp contrast to her bare arm against his hip, her elegant hand nestled up his side, her perfect round ass in the air. His pants blending into moans, floating on cloud nine from her tight, soft mouth and agile tongue, wondering how the fuck he got this lucky.

She’s basically a porn star in bed, Park Jimin once said.

She paused when she noticed him watching her again. Extended her pink tongue past her lips, slapping his balls and scooping them up against the base of his cock, raising an eyebrow at him.

Damn.

Truer words had never been spoken.

Then – thankfully – she returned her attention to his cock, except this time it was tighter, faster, and he gasped, feeling her push the head up and force it deeper into her throat when she descended, oh, fuck, he could see her breasts bouncing too, those perfect nipples, damn, obvious wet noises drowned out by the more obscene sounds he was making, crying out, moaning, the pace intense and deliberate and racing, and the only way he could describe it was as if somehow her mouth had become a warm, wet sleeve for his twitching cock, powerfully massaging his length all over, close, his eyes rolling back.

There.

He groaned as he shot into her suffocating throat, wanton and pathetic, finally, his mind going blank, pumping thick cum into that tight pocket and whining as she swallowed, fuck, finally, her pinning his flinching hips down as his shuddering length jerked again, another vicious throb and dripping cum, tears stinging the edge of his vision, gasping out her name as the apex of pleasure consumed his nerves and set them alight.

Fucking finally.

He felt his orgasm squish into the back of her tongue and around the aching head of his cock and he moaned. Long and loud and pornographic. He felt himself twitch in her mouth. She brought him down, slow and wet, a low hum vibrating from her throat to his cock to his core.

Jungkook panted.

Tension shimmered throughout his chest and limbs, keeping him breathless.

Wait.

Her tongue rubbed against the underside of his girth, fanning out along the pulsing, abused head, sending racing sparks over his ass and up his spine.

Wait a second.

Her fingertips glided over his slick balls, squeezing them and making him shudder at the shocking bliss.

I’m still hard.

He yelped, snapping his head down, but it was too late, too late to stop, the afterglow of his last orgasm building towards another, her head sliding up and down, her lips flush to his glossy shaft, him whimpering while he watched, shivering at the lewd image and the idea of back-to-back orgasms, so good, fuck, she looks so good and it feels so fucking amazing, the addictive adrenaline spiking, the lasting buzz radiating all over, oversensitivity increasing the forbidden pleasure, tight and wet and soft, taking him as so deep his balls slapped into her chin, the muscles of his body flexed and tense, hard underneath the soft.

His second orgasm slammed into him.

His head fell back and the pleasure swarmed him, knocking the air out of his lungs, drawing out his lustful moan, his heartbeat roaring in his ears. Her name tumbled out of his lips, praises, swears, her name again, the words mixing together on his confused tongue. She swallowed again, loud to his ears, so obvious, and he trembled all over. The sharp spasm of ecstasy left him rattled, whining, feeling her licking him again but tender, even more gentle this time, slurping around his softening cock, the sensitive skin prickling and pulsating under her warm tongue.

“So… fuck… s-so fucking good…”

Oh, how he loved the feeling of her lips and those kisses feathering his thighs, his crotch, his cock, his balls, shivering in delight, all his previous frustrations making it everything so much more satisfying.

Uh.

He didn’t just think that.

Shit.

“Man, you’re loud.”

“Gah!”

“Hey, Yoongi.”

She planted herself on top of his drenched cock, laying out all over him with her hands on his chest and shoulder. Jungkook gawked at her and then at his hyung standing there at her open bedroom door, looking around at the pastel sheep plushies decorating her room and pausing at the pink bunny and tuxedo cat plush sitting on her desk. Then those dark brown orbs moved back to her ass leaning against Jungkook’s still trembling thigh.

“You could have taken off your panties,” he grumbled in his low voice.

She turned her head to look back at Yoongi. “Sorry. I didn’t think about it since I wasn’t going to get any tonight. I didn’t know you would be watching.”

Her words made Jungkook frown. “What do you mean, you aren’t getting any?”

She faced him again, raising her eyebrows. “What are you talking about? We shouldn’t push it. You’ll get too sweaty.”

“But, noona, that’s not fair, I could…?”

Silence.

A bird cawed outside.

“Use you left hand?” Yoongi snorted. “Meh.”

She smiled. “I’ll wait. I can be patient.”

Yeah, well, guess who couldn’t be patient?

As the youngest, he protested. “You could use my thigh. Or… Or my forearm! You like that!”

“No, no. I’m fine with waiting.”

“You’re doing this on purpose! You’re torturing me by not letting me feel you cum!”

Jungkook paled as his hyung and noona grinned at the same time. Deviously. In unison. Scary as fuck. Yoongi leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, his long black hair framing his cunning eyes and open-mouthed smirk, serving every bit the allegations of being sex on legs. Jungkook trembled as he felt her trail her fingers along the base of his neck, sensually rubbing his collarbone. Thumb on one side, four fingers on the other. Not moving up but reminding him nonetheless.

“Whatever gave you that impression?” she drawled.

They were in cahoots.

Not that Jungkook minded.

That was how he got this lucky in the first place.

The Magic-8 ball rested against his naked hip, the window reading, without a doubt.

--

masterpost

[gremlingottoosilly]

Lego still not sponsoring me (dark!Konig x fem!Reader)

Konig is a nerd who needs to get sprayed with water for being a fucking creep. You're an adorable cashier at the Lego Store in Berlin who doesn't know any better and is too nice to lose. He will have you. Mostly because he wants someone to do his Lego sets with.

Details count: 2922 AO3 TW and Tags: Dub-con/Non-con, age gap, size difference, kidnapping, awkward colonel Konig, nerd Konig, hurt/comfort, Konig's POV(mostly), awkward German, yandere Konig.

You didn’t want to build Millenium Falcon with him. 

You didn’t want to shower or eat, you didn’t want to do anything besides crying, and even though your tears, as he expected, were beautiful and adorable, it was kinda hard for König to take care of your mental and physical needs while he was rock hard from watching you cry so sweetly. 

König is patient, kind, and a model citizen through and through. Why are you upset? He is doing everything he can, just to make you smile! Seriously, Schatzi, the desire to make him as miserable as you possibly can doesn’t make you pretty or cute or even the least bit adorable. Good thing that he is used to feeling sad and kinda of bullied – you’re lucky he doesn’t even try to feel good anymore. Not in his destiny book to live a good life. — I brought food. 

You groan lightly, whimpering somewhere in the corner of his basement. To your justification, his basement is a bit dirty. He forgot to visit the house for months after deployment, which was never enough to fill out the blanks of loneliness in the empty rooms. His dogshits methods of choosing decorations also made the mere existence in the house a hard mission even in itself. He looked at the anime posters in the guest rooms, which made him want to sell the property to anyone willing to pay 50 Euros for the processing fees. The posters(Sword Art Online because why the hell not, he likes cool swords and a power fantasy about a loser getting the chick) and artwork of his queen and savior, The Busty Blond Lady From Fate because, unlike those waifu-obsessed freaks, he did have a life and not enough time to actually remember her name. Something about light sabers. Or cats. — Are you going to kill me? 

He sighs because you sound like a broken record. All the time – the questions about his intentions, like you can’t see the tent in his pants every time you open your eyes, about letting you go, about at least allowing you to text your family that you decided to change your country of residence and would need to revoke your German visa. You’re way more soft than he thought you’d initially be – no fighting, no arguing, just pure terror and desire to die every time his hands brush over you. König is a sweet guy, as sweet as someone like him can be – but he only has a few weeks until his next mission, and even a few days of your moping around is bound to make him not just blue-balled, but also very, extremely, offensively hot-headed. 

He spent two days with you chained up in his basement and, he thinks, that should be enough for foreplay. He is extremely generous and kind – usually, at this point, he’d already start breaking the fingers of whoever poor fuck is his torture victim for the mission. 

— I don’t want to kill you. 

You whimper – somehow, his answer didn’t calm you down. Fucking women and their inability to talk to their kidnappers – he considers spiking your food just this once, so he could have a nice session with your little drunk self and some roofies but, of course, he is a nice guy who brought you takeout in a reheatable container, with a cute plastic fork and some sparkling water in a glass, just so you won’t feel like he is making you eat some garbage. It’s good food, too – he’d love to cook like this, but the heights of his skills are runny eggs and burnt coffee. He hopes you like the Italian because it’s the most inoffensive stuff he could have brought you without resorting to pizza and cup noodles. He will never let you eat cup noodles on his watch. 

— Are you going to rape me? 

He can’t exactly say no because, as a matter of fact, pulling your cute body under his is one of his intentions. He wanted to do it since he was you in this fucking store, but, of course. saying this to a pretty girl is lame. And completely counter-productive. And would make him a villain in your eyes, even though he tries so fucking hard to be a hero. He can make you feel good if you were to just open your pretty legs for him and moan under his tongue – god knows, he wants to make you feel good. He wonders what would it take for him to please you. If he could have a full-time job at this. 

— Nein. Thought I told you already. 

— I don’t…I shouldn’t believe you. 

He shook his head, pushing the plate(he had to go out of his way to actually put the pasta from the tray to a proper plate, enjoy this, woman) towards you. You’re adorable like this – naked, trembling, a bit too weak to actually fight him over not eating anything for the past two days – you’re repeating the same conversation over and over again and König wouldn’t mind living in a groundhog day if the loop would end with his fucking you on that thin mattress each time. 

Speaking of mattresses – he needs to get you a thicker one. 

Speaking of thicker mattresses – he needs to relocate you into his bedroom as soon as possible. 

Speaking of his bedroom – he is fucking bricked. 

— If you don’t trust me, why do you ask? 

You bite your lips. He can see you’re hungry and thirsty – he doesn’t want to forcefully feed you, so, yeah, you better be very hungry very soon. He pushes the plate towards you, hoping you won’t launch it on his head. He survived worse, a 6’4 British dude in a ski mask falling on him with the speed of Brexit, but getting hit by a plate when your angry girlfriend is being an angry girlfriend is…the best thing that could ever happen to him, actually. Gott, he is miserable. 

— I…I don’t know. Don’t want to get killed. 

— I won’t kill you. 

— But you will hurt me. 

— I don’t have to do that, Liebling. 

No, he doesn’t. 

But he sees the way your plushy thighs are squeezing into that tiny corner where your mat is, your squishy body getting all shaky and trembly, your lips in a tight line with tiny blood droplets from biting on them too much – and, by his fucking god, you’re beautiful. He wants to make you wet, to make you squirm, to make you beg and cry for mercy as he pounds into the sweetness of your cunt. He wants to try you on the inside and out, lick you all over from the inside, and then make you lick your love juices from his lips. 

König knows he is hard and can’t really hide it – it’s useless now, really, he is being very nice and considerate to you. Changing your life is hard, especially with how quickly you moved to his place – like a good boyfriend, he should help you adjust. And aid you in recognizing that he is, in fact, your boyfriend and future husband. The perfect partner to ever exist. — What is it? 

— Pasta. It’s…it’s good. Should be good. He is nervous, anxious. Seeing a pretty girl in her natural habitat – a Lego store – is one thing. He was barely able to talk to you properly, especially right after his deployment, where the only female attention he ever got was Roze asking to cover her or additional female soldiers groaning in pain as he stomped them. But you…he shouldn’t be colonel around you – absolutely not. You’re soft and civilian, you’re as polite as a girl in a basement could be, and you deserve to have something nice for once in your life. Licking his lips, König gently picks up a fork and presses a small amount of pasta – rich, creamy, with some nice cheese that smells divine - -against your lips. 

You refuse.

A smart move, he could have poisoned it – so he thinks for a few seconds, staring at you like a smart girlie you are, and then – lifts his hood. If only barely, revealing his scarred chin and bruised lips. The initial swelling after getting his head bumped by a guy who was speaking like an edgy teenager in the Counter-Strike lobby was already gone by the time he managed to get you into his basement – but no amount of rest could hide all other marks from his job. 

Despite being a seasoned mercenary with hundreds of killed targets and completed objectives, he feels…insecure. You’re a nice girl, a good girl, the type that used to look at him with hatred while he was bullied at school. Hatred or pity – but you only look at him with fear, and it cements his understanding that you’re not going to give in to loving him so easily.

König sighs deeply, his lips, curved into that awkward, boyish smile that creeps on his face every time he as much as thinks about you, now transforming into a scowl as you proceed to whimper and try to get lost in the wall behind you. Like he wouldn’t be able to track your scent if you would disappear. He slowly presses his fork towards his mouth, chewing on the food – showing you that it’s not poisoned. 

He smiles again when he sees you slowly parting your lips, expecting him to feed you with less of a fuss. He’d propose something else – maybe even untying your hands and allowing you to actually for yourself, but something in your helpless state made his cock throb in his pants. God, König knows he isn’t his strongest soldier, but could he please make you less adorable? He doesn’t want to push you on your knees and make you suck on him until he whimpers, but the way you lick all of the cheese from your lips and try your best to look presentable in front of him… The process of feeding someone shouldn’t really be sexual, but König gently pushes the hair away from your face and lifts up the fork over and over, sometimes only changing to bring a glass of water to your lips. He can do this all day. Every day. Pleasing you already becomes second nature – and he spends most of his life thinking that the only thing he can take care of is his rifle and a few tortured enemies that need their teeth extracted. You require gentle handling – and he wants nothing more but to give you that. Just…a bit later. Preferably after the already came in your pussy at least two or three times and made you choke on his dick as a little thank-you gift. 

You finish eating after a short while, thanking him for bringing you a napkin to clean your lips. König gently caresses your head, enjoying the sensation of your hair under his palm – it’s like petting a cat. A soft little pet just for him and no one else – if only he could actually bring you to like him. He has a few bond activities in mind, though. — You liked it, ja? 

You lick your lips again, and his breath hitches. This is going to be hard, this is going to be impossible, it’s worse than having to work with high Krueger on a ship that made everyone feel like they were the ones doing crack in the backroom of their makeshift base. 

— I…I did. 

He pets your head again like you’re his pet – and you gently move your head to lean into his touch. Perhaps you’re dumber than he thinks. Or way smarter – a clever strategy to make him relax and nice to you without making him too suspicious. You slowly get back into your corner, but König wouldn’t have any of it – he drags you back by your arm, making you whimper and sob in his hold. It’s bad, he doesn’t want you to squirm from under him as much as you do, but…if you don’t want to be a good girl, he might as well force you to. 

You cry as he pushes you deep into the corner, his hands roaming over your body. Thank god he ripped your clothes before you woke up – now there isn’t anything protecting you from his hands, not even that adorable bra he ripped in pieces because, as much as he loved wearing a uniform with straps and buttons everywhere, he could not figure out how to take this thing off you without breaking it. The last time he was sleeping with a woman, she wore a sports bra that could be taken off easily. It’s your fault that you decided to be more girly, really. Not his. 

His hands cup your breasts roughly. Tugs and twists your nipples, a few shaky moans telling him exactly how sensitive you are – he might not have a girl in a hot minute, too busy with being the best freaking mercenary in the world, but even he knows how to take care of a pretty thing like you. Your tits fit in his hands perfectly, even more, reasons to believe you were just made for him. Not for some lame job at a Lego store counter – you should be waiting on your knees in his bedroom, with your mouth open wide and neat to fit his cock right in. With some sweet things lingering on your tongue as he bullies himself right in, getting what he deserves for protecting peace – and installing violence – while doing his job. He might not be the best freaking guy around, but he deserves something nice. 

He pinches your nipples until they’re firm and swollen, every little cry escaping from your lips is only encouraging him to proceed. Licks on the open skin of your neck until his eneve stubble makes you whimper from how sensitive you are – it should be painful, he thinks, with how bloody the little bite marks from his teeth have become. 

König marks you as thoroughly as possible, smiling each time you cry and beg for him to stop. You’re changing between bad German and good English, between loud cries and small whimpers, which he can’t determine from pleasure to pain. Not like he cares, too determined to make you cry his name – even though you probably don’t know it. All of his desires to claim you taking full power now, not listening to the way you plead with him. Whimper for him. Your skin is a clear canvas, allowing him to paint you with hickeys and marks, enjoying the little blood droplets covering your collarbones. 

— Quiet, please. Don’t…don’t move, Schatzi. I don’t want to hurt you. 

— Please, please, just…anything but… — Won’t take long. Promise. 

— I don’t want to- — Quiet. I know you don’t, Liebling. Just…Scheisse, you…fuck. 

— Stop! — Can’t. I apologize, Schatzen. Relax for me, ja?

He whispers, he whimpers, he is almost out of his mind when he can finally put his tongue on your swollen nipples. For some weird, depraved reason, he almost expects the milk to start flowing from your chest, allowing him to drink up as much as he wants. If he could get you pregnant, he might enjoy it for a few months – although having a kid on his hip isn’t as fun as it could have. He tried to babysit Hutch kids once when he brought them to base – and it was the worst fucking day of his life. Besides, little children can’t be around Legos – it's already a deal breaker for someone like him. 

Speaking of legos…

You wiggle in his grasp, as good as you can with your hands still in the handcuffs – he should give you that one, at least you aren’t just laying lifelessly in front of him. At least you’re putting up a fight. At least he doesn’t feel too bad about restraining you without proper reasoning. You lick your lips again, that cute tongue of yours going over all the bite marks. You take a deep breath, shaking in his hold. God, he can just look in your face the whole day – barely knows how to handle himself around you. — I…I thought you wanted to…build this set with me? Smart girl. Way smarter than he gave you credit for – you know how to make him stop in his tracks and finally look at you differently. Maybe, you’re too good for him. Maybe, he doesn’t really care about that. Millennium Falcon, still sitting in the box – König hoped you’d start slowly putting it together but, seemingly, you need a bit of encouragement. The only thing that could tug him away from your breasts is the expensive set sitting just next to him. 

Might start bonding with you as well. He tugs away from your nipples with a loud pop, an obnoxiously wet sound emerging as a thin line of saliva connects your breasts and his tongue. You whimper when he smiles, that scarred face of his twisting in a huge grin. Knows he’s not the most charming person around, but it’s not like you have any choice now – not with the limited options he gave you. Like a good girl, you’d probably pick doing Lego Sets with him than taking his cock in that tight pussy of yours. He’d be satisfied with any outcome. — J…ja. I’d like that.  He has to give this one to you – you really know how to get a man going.

Bu building this insane set with him, that is.

[fourmoony]

𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐄𝐓: Chapter Two

After breaking your ankle in the wake of a break up, you're determined to get through your senior year without any interference from James Potter. That is, until his loyalty to loose cannon Sirius Black lands him straight in your lap. Or, rather, your kiddie-skate group.

CW: Language, mentions of violence, sour sibling relationships, overbearing parents, mention of car crash and scars.

ITN: The Masterlist

James

One of James’ earliest memories is of the rink, back home. It’s not exactly a clear memory. There was lots of falling, a plastic penguin almost the size of him, and Sirius Black. His first day at kiddie-skate. Even though he’d spent more time on his ass than skating, it’s a memory James will always cherish. Even if it blurs, slightly, as time goes on. Because it’s the day he met Sirius. At five years old, James had no idea that the lanky, smart as a whip kid who somehow managed to both stumble across the ice and act like he owned it at the same time, was going to be one of the most important people in his life. Sirius is James’ soulmate. His best friend. There isn’t a day where James isn’t grateful for Sirius Black stumbling into his life; wild and untamed.

Except, maybe, today.

The rink at Hogwarts is a place James always feels at home. The smell of Zamboni fuel and the rubber mats meant to protect skate blades. The banging of lockers and the whir of the air conditioning that keeps the ice cool. It’s a small area of campus where James can go when he feels too much. Too overwhelmed, too sad, too anxious. A safe place. Even training is a relief to James. A time in which he’s allocated to turn his brain off, become captain and lead his team. He focusses on plays and makes mental notes on what to work on with the guys. During games he’s focussed on one thing: winning.

But today. Today, Hogwarts Arena is the very source of James’ anxiety, of the weight in his chest that just keeps pressing. It’s not that he’s scared of the rink. Or even of you. But the idea of being in charge of twelve miniature humans whilst knowing in the back of his mind that you’d rather be literally anywhere else is a pretty decent source of anxiety. The last thing James wants to do is make you uncomfortable in an environment that you love so much. You’ve coached mini skate since you were a sophomore. You once told James that it felt like your purpose. To fill the world with as many accomplished skaters as possible. Be a role-model. A guiding light. Someone they could look back at and think I’m glad I had a coach like her. A motivator. A kind soul.

You’re setting cones out on the ice when James takes a seat on the team bench to put his skates on. The kids are down by the tunnel, if the noise that flows from it is anything to go by. James finds himself staring as you skate. You do it with such ease that it reminds him hockey isn’t the only on-ice sport. You’ve trained your entire life to get to the level you’re at, today. He knows you’re going for Nationals again, this year, refuses to allow himself to think about last year. You deserve better of him than to have him distracted by that whilst co-coaching. He knows how that spiral goes. Spent all of his summer thinking about you, about the physical therapy you’d be enduring, the anger you’d have been feeling. Shame washes over him, hot and fast.

He ties his skates tighter than they probably need to be and joins you on the ice. Your head turns at the sound of his blades against the ice, fresh pressed by the Zamboni, after your training session with Pince, probably. You’re still wearing your training clothes, likely haven’t left the rink to get food between practice and mini skate. James makes a mental note to bring you something, next week.

“You’re late.” You call across the ice. You set another cone down, skate towards the next location.

James weaves in and out of the cones you’ve set out with ease, gaining on you without trying. “My Econ class ran long. Flitwick sent you an email.”

Your ponytail swishes when you turn to drop the next cone, feet crossing in a way James imagines is only capable because of your toe picks. If he tried a move like that in his blunt rounded hockey skates, he’d land on his face. With the final cone in your hand, you skate backwards, eyes on James. “Literally the last thing I said to you was ‘be on time’, James.” You sigh.

James smiles, “Actually, I believe the last thing you said to me was ‘You’re sorry that you feel like shit’.”

Your eyebrows hook in the middle when they furrow. James knows he has no right to chide you or try to joke with you, but he wants this to be painless. He hurt you, he knows that. He done a lot of stupid shit, things he can’t take back, even if he wishes he could. But he never thought you’d want to act like strangers, like two people who can’t hold a civil conversation. In his opinion, there’s too much history there, for that.

“The kids will be out any minute. We’re going over control. You take half, I take half.” You nod your head to the pile of cones on the other side of the rink.

James nods. “Sure thing.” He gets to work on setting up his cones before the kids come out of the tunnel.

The majority of kiddie-skate passes in a flurry of tiny skates torpedoing around James. He tries to keep up, tries not to come across as stern, even when all six of the kids under his leadership would rather race each other across the span of the ice. They remind him of he and Sirius, at that age. Causing trouble everywhere they went, consequences be damned. It’s exhausting, but nowhere near as awkward as he thought it might be. You dutifully keep your kids to your side of the ice, well behaved and skating in neat circles around their cones. James finds himself wondering if you gave him the wild bunch as a punishment. By the end of the session, James finds himself giving in and racing seven-year-old Michael from one net to the other. He considers letting him win but decides against it when he sees the determination on Michael’s face, the sure-fire way he glides on his skates. He’s fast; has potential. That shouldn’t be coddled. It should be nurtured, turned into motivation to try harder, next time. Because, next time, when he does try harder, he might just win. Until he’s playing at division one level.

James is sure that’ll be true, one day.

The parents mill around by the exit doors at the far end of the ice, ten minutes before the session ends. James can’t quite believe how fast the time has gone. You call him and his group of kids over to the middle of the ice, skidding to a stop on the edge of your skates. Dutifully, James directs his kids towards you. “Let’s go, team. The boss wants us over here.”

If you hear him, you don’t say anything. Instead, you direct James to stand next to you, arms crossed over your chest. “What did we learn, today?” You ask.

“Control.”

You nod, smile kind and patient. “That control is a key part in skating. Whether it be hockey or figure skating. If you can’t control your weight, your speed, your skates? Pshh,” You scoff, dramatically, “Game over, guys. You’re out.”

There’s amusement in your voice, despite the importance of what you’re saying. James finds it admirable, your ability to connect with the kids. You could connect with anyone, anywhere, though. It’s the kind of person you are. Patient, kind. Undeserving of all the bullshit James has brought into your life since you met him.

“Did you lose control when you broke your ankle?” One of the kids asks. A younger girl, a sparkly pink helmet sitting squint on her head. There’s no malice, just that childlike innocence that brings about curiosity.

The question shocks you, regardless. Your lips press into a thin line, eyes a little distant. James wonders if he should step in, cover for you. Change the subject, somehow.

“No, Kayla,” You fix your face, a sort of wistful look that James can’t figure out. “No, I lost focus.”

James feels his heart sink. Two nights before you left for Nationals, James dropped an irreversible bomb on you. It broke your heart, tore your relationship apart. Then, he sent you off to Nationals with a head full of his bullshit and watched you break your ankle in front of the entire country. Because he distracted you. He broke your focus. Took away the gold medal that had your name written on it.

The guilt keeps him awake at night. More so than the ache of missing you. Because he does. He misses everything about you. Your smile, your laugh, the way your nose scrunches when you’re focussing. He even misses your grumpiness when trying, and failing, to nail a new routine. He misses holding you, kissing you, telling you that he loves you.

But the guilt, the shame. The reality of what he did. It plays on a loop in his head, eats him alive. He’s trying not to drown in it as he watches you dismiss the kids, waving to parents as you skate them to the door. James just stands there, in the middle of the ice. Unsure of how to act. Unsure of what to do, if he should go, if he should stay and try to talk to you. He settles for skating to the team bench, a carved-out box halfway up the side boards. He sits down on the bench, bends down to untie his skates.

The door clicks shut behind you a moment later, a whoosh of cold air and the scent of your perfume as your skates skid to a stop outside the box, beforehand. James looks up as you cross past him, sitting on the opposite end of the bench. You follow his lead, untying your skates in silence. He puts his guards on, places them in his bag. Puts his shoes on. All the while suffocating in the silence.

“It wasn’t your fault.” You tell James. Your voice is quiet, so soft, like maybe you’re not sure you want him to hear you. Your eyes don’t leave your socked feet, hands folded in your lap.

James focusses on putting his shoes on. Doesn’t look at you. “You were right, you know.”

He catches the way your face scrunches, the sadness there. You won’t appreciate his comfort, so he doesn’t give you it. Instead, he stands, slings his bag over his shoulder. His hand itches to reach out and touch you, to tell you that he’s sorry. He wishes he could change everything, could take it all back. “I do feel like shit. But that’s not why I’m sorry.”

Your head tilts up. Your eyes are filled with tears and James can’t stomach it. He hates himself. You look so sad and tired. “See you on Sunday.” He nods and books it out of the team box, along the corridor, the foyer, and into the carpark.

He climbs into his truck, lets the shame swallow him whole, lets the pain burn him. And there, in private, alone, he breaks. He loathes himself for it. He has no right, no reason to be so sad, so solemn. He took everything from you. Yet he still breaks, anyway.

James doesn’t know how much more he can take before he can’t put himself back together, anymore.

Sirius

The Hogwarts Library is Sirius’ least likely haunt. He, honestly, avoids it at all costs. Unless he’s trying to find Lily. Even then, he tends to only stay for ten minutes, or so. It’s not that he hates studying. He actually enjoys his classes, finds the work stimulating for his overactive brain. He’s smart. That’s not to be doubted, even if he acts like an idiot ninety-nine percent of the time. The reason he hates the library so much is because it reminds him of the one at Grimmauld Place.

Hogwarts library is brighter, in fairness. But the high ceilings, regal architecture, the smell of old books and the eerie quiet. It’s all too similar to the library in his childhood home. It makes his skin crawl, the hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. He’s guarded, like he always was at home. A place where it was do or die, fight to survive. Libraries are supposed to be a peaceful place. A place of childlike wonderment, a place where you can get lost in stories of knights in shining armour, passionate love. His opinion of libraries is that it’s a place one would go to get the shit kicked out of them at a dinner party for being too smart tongued. He remembers that all too well. Hates that particular story.

The girl at the front desk smiles kindly at him, but all he sees is a vulture waiting to pick him off, trap him here and make him relive his worst memories over and over. He grimaces, places his hands on the cold wood of the desk and begs it to ground him. Sirius forces a breath as he rolls his shoulders.

“I’m here for community service? There’s a kid writing a paper or something.” His words are breathy, unsure, gritted out through unwilling teeth. He hates this. Hates it with his entire being.

The blonde girl smiles, likely a little awe struck at the sight of a hockey player in the library. As far as Sirius knows, none of them use the library. Half of the team prefer to study at home, and half of them could give less of a shit about their degrees. “Uh, sure, Sirius, right?” She asks, prucking around the desk for a sheet of paper. 

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Astrology is on the third floor. He’ll be waiting at the main desk for you.”

Sirius nods, thanks the girl and heads towards the stairs. He climbs them two at a time, skin itching with anticipation. He really hopes whoever he’s stuck with for the foreseeable future isn’t an overachieving dick. The signs for the astrology section of Hogwarts library point to the right, Sirius follows them all the way to the main desk in the centre of the floor. All of the shelves surround it in a circle, little stars and flecks of paint on the edge of each bookcase. In the centre of the circle sits a circle table, scattered with open books, papers, drawings of constellations.

Sirius tries not to think too hard about the irony of being landed with an astronomy student. He might hate everything about his family, but he loves the stars. Loves his namesake.

There’s no one at the desk, their things left abandoned. Sirius tries not to be nosey but fails. The closest thing to him are drawings, mappings of planets and stars. Hand drawn; with such painstaking detail he finds himself in awe of it. He sets it down, moves on to the next piece of paper, covered in barely legible ramblings about the importance of planet distance, star mapping, it’s barely congeable.

“Did no one ever teach you not to touch what’s not yours?”

Sirius freezes, blood draining from his entire body. The ice cold, baritone voice. Sirius hears it in his nightmares. It claws at the darkest parts of him. His hands shake as he turns; face to face with a more polished carbon copy of himself. Regulus Black is two years younger than Sirius, and yet he looks almost a decade older. He looks positively regal in his ironed clothes, with his perfectly tamed hair and clean-shaven face. Even his shoes don’t have a single scuff on them. It’s not lost on Sirius, the idea that this could have been him. He was supposed to be the heir, the brother with his shit together.

Regulus scowls at Sirius, reaches forwards to rip the paper from his trembling hands. His brain refuses to work, bile rises in his throat. He’s going to kill Moody.

There are memories, there. Playing somewhere in the back of his head. Childlike voices talking in hushed tones, screaming, fighting, hateful words, laughing, crying. He and Regulus were once as close as brothers could be. He hates that Regulus now looks at him with disgust. But refuses to let him win.

“Only thing my parents taught me was to hit fast and hard, watch your enemies wither and die.” Sirius scoffs, hands stuffed in his pockets. He will not allow Regulus to see him rattled. “Of course, they treated their own children like enemies.”

It’s Regulus’ turn to scoff. Even his scoff is prim and proper. He rounds the table and takes a seat, like a king in his throne. Sirius supposes he is. Everything in the Black family dynasty will be his in a few years. Everything Sirius didn’t want. Everything Regulus didn’t want. Not until he didn’t have a choice. “You wanted for nothing.” Regulus quips.

Sirius’ blood burns with the statement. He sounds exactly like their mother. Cruel, evil. Willing to overlook the darkness of her own soul because it got her what she wanted. Money and power. “Spoken like a true Black, Reggie. Congratulations.”

Regulus’ smile is nothing short of bitter. He knows the insult that lies in there, but he shrugs it off as easy as picking a piece of lint from his pure cotton shirt.

“I need all of the books from section A to B noted. Titles, author, date of publication. Alphabetised.” Regulus levels Sirius with a bored look and he balks.

His younger brother, acting like Sirius is beneath him. He shrugs, “Better get to work then, Reggie. Might take you a while.”

“You’re the one on community service for acting like a rabid animal.” Regulus shrugs.

“Yeah, I’ll take the suspension. This shit isn’t gonna happen.”

Regulus chuckles and Sirius can already picture it. His younger brother, sweet, kind, sensitive Reggie. Turned into a fortune five hundred shark, belittling his staff because he can. Just like their father. “Sure. Throw away your hockey career, Sirius. But the Black family won’t be there to welcome you back when you blow your trust fund.”

Sirius’ jaw ticks. Hockey is his life. The Cannon’s won’t touch him with a ten-foot pole, draft or no draft, if he doesn’t touch the ice this season.

“You’re just like him, you know.” Sirius spits. He doesn’t miss the way Regulus’ face hardens; a little shame mixed in there somewhere. They’re too similar, in some ways. Sirius knows exactly where to press where it hurts. 

Regulus hands him a notepad. “A to B.”

“Better get out before you end up like her, too, Reggie. That shit’s irreversible.” Sirius tells him, disappointed in himself for even saying it. It feels like acid on his tongue. He turns and goes to find section A. Doesn’t look back to see the fear on his younger brother’s face.

Remus

Thursday evenings are Remus’ least favourite. There’s no practice to keep his mind occupied, the gym is closed for deep cleaning, there’s nothing for him to occupy himself with, except his weekly call with his parents. He’s longed for an excuse to cancel a million times over. It never comes. A punishment, Remus thinks, for something he did in a past life. He loves his parents. They can be overbearing, intense, but they care. That’s a lot more than some people have.

But they don’t get him. His father, more so, than his mother. Hope Lupin is kind and understanding. If Remus told her he wanted to sack it all in and become a shark wrestler, tomorrow, she’d buy him a shark keyring and do as much research as it took to help him on his way. But Lyall Lupin? Five-time Stanley Cup Winner, top player in the NHL for years, retired, hardass hockey player? He’d strangle his only son with his bare hands. All he ever does is push. He pushes and pushes and refuses to see Remus’ health as an issue.

It’s exhausting. Sometimes, Remus just wants to be told to slow down. As much as he’d hate to (he has goals, things he wants to do, his illness won’t stop him). It would still be nice to not have so much pressure on him all of the time.

The call connects with a heavy sense of dread. Hope and Lyall are in their living room, a large canvass of Remus with his first ever hockey trophy hung proudly behind him. That was before the crash, before the scars and brittle bones. Back when the world was his for the taking. Remus hates that photo.

“Hi, love.” Hope beams, cheeks appled out in a smile.

Remus looks most like his mum. Right down to the sandy brown hair, fluffy and unruly. Except he has his father’s nose. The nose that his least favourite scar slashes jaggedly across. He avoids looking at the square with his face on it. Instead, he focusses on the look on his father’s face.

“What’s wrong?” Remus asks, nerves on edge.

Lyall Lupin, to the media, to people who don’t know him, is an unreadable man. Remus can read him like a book. His face might portray as impassive, but he’s furious. About what, Remus has no fucking idea. It’s always something.

“Nothing, love.” Hope tries to shake it off.

“You were a little heavy on your left skate last game, no?” Lyall grits out.

Remus almost laughs. Like, full on belly laughs. Disbelief washes over him, hot and furious, his blood burning. “I played first and second line because Kennedy bust his shoulder over the summer. You remember I have a bad knee, right?” Remus scoffs, eyebrows raised.

He sees the way his mother eyes his scars, the way they pale with the stretch. She looks sad, remorseful. He relaxes his face, shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“Of course, we do, Rem.”

“You think the Wasps will be impressed with that performance? So early in the season, too.” Lyall scoffs, waving a dismissive hand at Remus.

Sometimes Remus thinks his parents see right through him. Sometimes, he wants to scream that he’s right there. That they almost lost him altogether and anything he does now should be a fucking bonus. That he’s sick of never being good enough. That his father should be grateful Remus is even still physically able to get on the ice.

Instead, he swallows the anger and sighs. “Holme gave me some new physio exercises. It’ll be better next time.”

His father nods. “Good.”

“Is that all, then?” Remus asks shortly.

“How was your week?” Hope asks, at the same time Lyall lets out a stern, cold, “Yes.”

She frowns at her husband, who blatantly ignores her. It raises a feral beast in Remus. A wolf howling. He wants to tell his father to respect his wife, to appreciate all she does for him. But he knows Hope hates when he does that. So, he scoffs, hangs up, and slams his laptop closed. He’s exhausted after a mere five-minute phone call, wants nothing more than to crawl into bed with a book and pretend the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

But Sirius stands in his doorway, a sympathetic look on his face. Remus hates it. Hates when Sirius treats him like something fragile, something that can be easily broken. While it may be physically accurate, it will take a lot more effort from Lyall Lupin to break Remus mentally.

“He was in top form.” Sirius murmurs.

Remus nods, runs his hands across his face. The raised bumps of his scars irritates him, so he drops his hands to his lap. “How was community service?”

Sirius shrugs. “The kid writing the paper?”

Remus hums.

“Regulus.”

“Shit. Sorry, Pads.” Remus offers, hand itching to reach out and intertwine with Sirius’. A comforting touch for both of them. He doesn’t.

Just follows Sirius across the room with his eyes as he approaches Remus’ neatly made bed and climbs in. Remus sighs. He’s not sure he has the energy for whatever game Sirius is playing. He can barely keep up anymore. They’re toeing the line between best friends and something else, and while Remus enjoys it, sometimes, he doesn’t think he can stomach it tonight.

But Sirius pushes the display pillows off the side, pulls back the covers for Remus and he finds he can’t resist.

Sirius smells like old books with a touch of cinnamon. He curls into Remus’ side with ease, muscles relaxing until he’s lax in his arms. He feels himself relaxing, too.

“I miss him.” Sirius whispers, voice broken.

Remus presses his lips to Sirius’ hair. “I know.”

“He hates me.”

His chest constricts. Remus knows how much Sirius regrets leaving Regulus. It weighs on him, is probably a large part of why he refuses to take responsibility for anything, ever. He wishes he could make it better for Sirius. “He hates that you got out.”

“I hate myself for not dragging him with me.” Sirius says.

His grip tightens on Remus, his head pushing further into Remus’ neck.

“He’ll forgive you. If you tell him.”

Sirius doesn’t say anything. His breathing slows, Remus feels his eyelashes flutter against his neck. Asleep. Out cold.

He presses one last kiss to Sirius’ hair, pushes all of the thoughts out of his head, and follows suit.

[rassicas]

so i was on Pinterest and i found this duo that is kinda similar to the cuttlefish duo (coikals) is there any information about these two girls? they kinda look like a k pop or j pop duo

haikara walker page 221. i believe theyre in-universe fictional characters. magical girls maybe?

"We usually think of cans being filled with food or drink, but these fun cans contain toys instead. They can be found in E04 Heinous 8-Ball Station. It gives off the sort of excitement like one gets with a capsule toy, as the contents are unknown until opened. Inside the can with the brave, helmeted squid on it are small plastic models for boys. The can with the cute squid girls on it contain things like accessories and stickers meant for girls."

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

MY THREE DEAD, LITTLE DOVES (IV)

NAVIGATION || RAVISHING ALLURE MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER V

PAIRING: Nikto x F!Reader (Soulmate AU)

WORDCOUNT: 10.1k

WARNINGS: Angst, mentions of stalking & stalking behavior, talks of death, weapons, suggestive thoughts/comments, mentions of sex & intimacy, toxic modeling standards, use of a derogatory word for women, food issues, dead animals, blood, gore, etc. (Series 18+)

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

Nikto is first to wake up, and you find him assembling the blacked form of a gun on your island counter while your wide eyes try to push back the curtain of sleep. It’s not even five A.M yet. 

“Your pantry is empty.” He speaks and you blink quickly, staring at his back as the blanket over your shoulders staves off the chill of the penthouse. “No food.” 

“Well…” Your voice is raspy from the whimpering you’d done, nightmares waking you up half an hour before you had to be ready to go to work. “I don’t eat a lot. Did you try the fridge? I have yogurt.”

You clear your throat and wonder about the tea you’d left him, finding the cup back where you’d grabbed it the night before; cleaned and dried. Even in your sluggishness, a sheen of smug satisfaction looms above your head, though you had no proof that he’d drunk the tea or just was prompted by his cleanliness to dump it out. 

Nikto’s covered face shifts to look over his shoulder, those piercing eyes digging through you. They slash you up and down as his fingers continue to move, moving parts and clicking metal together with ingrained perfection. You watch with hidden impressiveness.

“More.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes. “Alright, then. Are you going to be doing the grocery shopping?” The soldier turns back around and huffs.

“Да.” Your unimpressed look is missed, but you let a smile twitch your lips as it normally would. A tease eases out as you shuffle to the fridge on careful feet.

“Wonderful, Nikto, thank you.” You can feel the glare on the back of your neck as you open the barrier, the chill seeping out as the darkness from outside was pushed back by the single overhead light that the Russian had turned on. 

A small lapse in conversation falls as you rub at your eyes, groaning under your breath at the itch before you miss grabbing for your yogurt once. You knock your knuckles to the wrack in the fridge and flinch, but quickly re-situate and drag the dairy product out. 

“If you want me to order you a bigger bed,” placing the item on the counter, you rip off the top before you go on a quest to find a clean spoon. “You just have to tell me—I can have one ordered. Mattress too.”

Nikto pauses his work, staring at his own gloved fingers as they still. Even in his seat, he was a large sentinel of mass and brutality; you have to wonder if he ever thinks what other people make of him. Your eyes move up and down his visible form as you grab your utensil with a small breath, your pajamas loose and swaying as you saunter back over to the seat directed across from him. 

You wait for him to answer as your fingers tap around the plastic cup, licking your lips before your spoon descends down. 

“That is not necessary,” he says, lower than he has before as if confused by your willingness to make him comfortable. You blink up at him, but he glares at his gun.

“I don’t mind,” your voice eases, and you take a bite of your breakfast. “I have the money.”

“Why is it that you have no reservations? No backbone?” Nikto’s words are firm, digging into your mind. His eyes burn like gray fire, a finger twitching over a blackened part that you haven’t the faintest clue as to where it might go. 

The gun is placed down next to a cleaning rag that smells of oil as you raise an innocent brow. 

“I don’t feel the need to be a constant bitch, if that’s what you’re trying to get at here.” He jerks his head away, shaking it harshly as he grumbles.

You force down a chuckle. 

“Hey, Big Guy, I’m just saying that there are more important things than buying you stuff you need—food, a bed,” you shrug, scooping more yogurt. “I don’t know, clothes?” Eyes move up and down again, narrowing carefully. “I’m not trying to judge your style, but you do look like you’re in the middle of an active warzone.”

Half-closed lids stare at you, unimpressed. 

“Do you ever stop talking, Whelp?”

“Not really,” you comment, licking your spoon as the pale shade darts down to watch. You point the metal at him as you finish, smiling. “You’re fun to talk to.”

You can imagine him raising a dark brow at that, and perhaps he does, based on the skin that moves from under his mask. But you’d quickly gotten used to his silence, as he only grunted and snatched his rag, rubbing it over the barrel of his gun with firm pressure. 

After a minute of you watching while cleaning out your cup, he levels out a response of cold steel. 

“I do not need your money…When are we leaving?” Nikto moves the form of his Beretta M9 back and picks up the magazine from the counter, having thoroughly disassembled and cleaned every part for the better half of an hour before you had awoken. He needed to think, and the best place to do that was somewhere silent. 

Your constant muttering in your sleep had kept him up, spilling in from the open door.

In many ways, you reminded him of a lost puppy—caught up on your own feet and looking at the world through a lens of false confidence, a sheen of dopey pleasure stuck in your expression. But you weren’t dumb. Not as dumb as he thought you would be when he was informed he was being placed with you.

In fact, your smiling face paired with your fast tongue had been somewhat of a shock. Nikto didn’t like being shocked.

You look at him, your head tilted and your face tight from lack of sleep, eyes beady in the low light. Outside the city was only beginning to wake up, the curtains still closed fast though the steaks of light were cast through like strands of ribbon. 

“I usually leave at six.” 

“Acceptable.” You hum, cleaning out the rest of your breakfast and licking your lips. Pushing the item to the side, you link your fingers together and lean forward, watching the man push the shadowed length of the magazine into the bottom, a tiny click emanating as it locks in. The bulk of Nikto’s fingers caress the grip 

You open your mouth but pause, closing it once more. The words of your mom from years past remind you to keep your elegance, and never stoop to ask pointless questions, but one from yesterday was beginning to flare up once more. 

Did Nikto see color? Did he find his soulmate already?

You can’t imagine the man having a significant other, truthfully, but you weren’t heartless like that—it was entirely possible.

Those pale eyes miss nothing, and as the M9 disappears into the holster on his meaty thigh from under the table, he clips out through his accent, “What is it, Girl?”

Your eyes snap up in surprise. 

“O-oh,” you huff, “nothing.” He stares blankly, spine rail-straight as you come up with a quick way to change the subject. “Have you eaten yet?” 

He watches a moment longer before he grasps his rag and folds it neatly into a square, flattening down the edges—you hadn’t yet noticed, but the journals and random objects on your island were all separated and placed neatly atop one another. 

Nikto stands and places the fabric into one of his many pockets, moving his grasp over the various straps along his body that tighten the loose material; checking, assessing for flaws. “I have said—you have no ingredients.”

That makes your head perk up.

“Ingredients?” You pick up your garbage and move to toss it away. “You cook?”

There’s a meaningful pause as if he doesn’t want to tell you about himself. Eventually, there’s a low sigh. Perhaps the warmth of your attitude and the easy way you spoke made him forget his stern muteness; it certainly seemed like it.

“Да. Yes.” 

You mutter under your breath, raising a brow. “Wasn’t expecting that.” A low grumble behind you makes your face hide a smirk. 

Your hand places your spoon in the sink as Nikto takes out a small journal from his back pocket, flipping through it before he finds a blank page. There’s a flash of a pen before a roughly scribbled-on paper is torn out and slid to you. Picking it up, you send a curious glance to the soldier as he begins speaking formally. 

“You need говядина,  баранины, рыба, картофель, свекла, лук…” He kept speaking, listing off ingredients as if a checklist for an infiltration team—you run your eyes down the perfect Russian script on the paper, amused. You couldn’t read any of it, unfortunately, or understand exactly what he was saying, but you expected it was the basics.

Your soft laugh interrupts him, and his eyes dart over as he tenses. 

Raising the paper, you ease out, “I can’t read this,” you slide it back over, “I’ll leave it in your hands, okay? You said you were going to be doing the shopping anyway.” Your eyes shimmer, before you back up and begin walking away to go get ready. As you pass him, you lean in and flirt. “I think I should buy an apron, too, Nikto. One with a strap that tightens around your waist. Make you my big bad live-in cook.” 

Chuckling at his annoyed growl, you pull your blanket closer and begin back upstairs, hand sliding along the back of your belongings until the banister can take your weight. 

“I am not your cook,” Nikto barks from the island, boots taking him to stand at the bottom as you gently place your feet down, his clenched hands pulsing in insult.

A distraction, indeed. 

You send a laughing glance over your shoulder, not responding as you make it to the top. Without another word, you look him up and down before you disappear into your room, stepping over your yards of fabric. 

Nikto glares, his jaw under his mask clenched in deep annoyance. No, you weren’t dumb—but this would have been easier if you were. 

Your hand closes your door and locks it, doing the same to the one that connected the soldier’s room to your own. Instantly, your smile drops. 

Eyes blinking slowly, tension pulls itself back into your shoulders—infecting your muscles gradually until you press your palms into your eyes and take a deep breath. Leaning against your bed frame, your body rumbled with hunger, and the shaking of your hands got worse the longer you stood. 

You were afraid.

Afraid to go outside, afraid of the looks you would get. Afraid of another gift, or even something worse this time around. Bodies hang in the back of your mind, charred. Jewels like starlight, tinted with black blood. 

Sighing aggressively, you shake your head and clench your eyes shut. 

“It’s going to work itself out,” you tell yourself, going to unlock your phone and find the text from Aly that had gone through last night. 

Room 32A w me today! Same photographers as always. 

You take a shuddering breath, fighting back the panic. “It’s all going to be over soon.” 

Nikto stands downstairs with his arms crossed and his feet apart, gazing at the colors around him with unblinking eyes. He wasn’t the type of man to make comments about this, the mash and clash of shades and hues. But the entire time he’d been here his hands had been itching to re-organize; at least make it seem like this place had some form of structure. He’d tried his best with his own room, but there was only so much he could do. 

His piercing blues side-eye the taxidermy deer head on the wall, narrowed to a point of distaste. The man wouldn't be surprised if you’d even named the thing as well. 

Nikto grumbles to himself in Russian, muttering about everything from food to the job itself—itching at the sliver of pale skin from between his gloves and the sleeve of his compression shirt under his bracers. 

“We will get this done quick,” he growls under his breath in English for practicing sake. “Keep the girl safe and put a bullet in the man at first sight, yes?” Even he has his doubts, and in his gut, he feels this mission will take far longer than anyone thought it would. Just his luck, he was here—missing all the fun. Nikto clenches his biceps tighter, rolling his shoulders with a grunt. “Be back at Base soon.”

If only. 

Far more prolonged than he would have taken, you come back down with a small smile on your lips just as he was about to stomp upstairs and demand to know what you were up to. You wear a simple button-down, and the man sees the hue of cream in it as your black dress pants swish around your ankles. He watches closely as you descend, making sure your legs don’t attack themselves and make you meet your end before he has the chance to spill blood.

“Have you been standing there the whole time?” Your eyes blink at him, and Nikto finds himself studying your face, seeing how the shirt sinches at your waist as you have it tucked into your pants. The swell of your hips that are shown off nicely in pleated cotton. A cross-body purse with the words ‘Coach’ hits off your left thigh with every pass of your uneven steps. 

Pale eyes slink down your body slowly, and Nikto hums in the back of your throat.

“Nikto?” His gaze turns hard and he snaps his studying vision back to you with a heat in his veins. 

Your face scrunches with interest as you wonder what shoes you should wear out. “You with me?” 

He scoffs, arms lowering slowly as you slink past, the perfume you’d put on drifting into his nostrils like a vapor of lust. The man cracks his neck and looks back at you as you bend over near your end table, fishing out small black stiletto boots with a tiny heel to them. 

Everything you do is layered with extensive thought, down nearing the layer of perfection besides how you drop one of the shoes to the ground with a soft curse before snatching it up. 

“Heel?” Nikto ignores your question for one of his own. “You are going to kill yourself.”

“I will not,” you level him with a dry stare. “I’ll be hanging off your arm, Mr. Bear, there’s not a chance in the world I would fall.” He sighs and you chuckle, slipping on the boots with one hand on the wall. “Besides, I work at AMA of all places—showing up without looking my best and potentially getting photographed on the way there would send me on a one-way trip to unemployment.” 

Your mind wonders if anything like this was sticking with Nikto; the stack of rules and regulations that was sitting on your head like a rock. While his were probably more life and death, yours were no less strict or strenuous. Everything was routine. 

You were nothing but a gear in the machine, but now you were responsible for an entire section if these next few photoshoots went well.

Nikto doesn’t comment, but he slides out a low, “Your hand is shaking.” 

“Dystonic tremors,” you respond easily. “Result of brain trauma. They don’t go away, only lesson for a bit.” Standing to your full height, you grab your black double-breasted coat and slip it on. Your soft face tilts to him, a twitch to your lips catching Nikto slightly off-guard at your apparent uncaring attitude to the entire thing. “Let me tell you, my signature is nothing short of crazy-looking lines and slices.”

The small, airy, huff that emanates from under his mask is all the reaction you’ll get to that, and you chuckle before you grab your keys from your purse. All of your make-up took time, especially when you felt about one minute away from losing your cool, but you were both still on schedule.

“Oh,” you say as you slip your key into the slot by the door, calling the elevator. “Be ready for the pictures.”

Nikto blinks, fingers twitching. “Pictures?”

“Just…” you sigh, looking at him, “just try to look less…” Your hand vaguely gestures as he stands there, large shoulders and bulging muscle leaking from behind his kevlar. A vibration in your throat leads to a general sound of, “Eh.”

Pale eyes glower as the sunlight streams in through the closed curtains behind the two of you. 

“That means nothing to me.” 

“No, I don’t want to be mean,” you wave a hand as the ding signifies the elevator has arrived. You unlock the dividing door and step through as Nikto follows, apparently not needing anything more than what was currently on him. Judging by the combat knife at his thigh and the bulk of his phone and wallet in his pocket, you imagined that really was all he needed. And no one could forget the Beretta, either. There were extra magazines strapped to his vest.

“I do not care about your opinions of me,” the Russian spits. “I am here to do my job and leave.” 

Your eyes slide to him as you once more punch your key in and press the button for the lobby. 

“I never said you weren’t. You’re just, well,” you pause, “I think you might…scare people.” 

You’re leveled with a blank and expressionless look. A frown grows on your face. “Don’t stare at me like that, I’m being honest.”

“I am aware.” His feet shift, hands going behind his back to cross in the perfect image of a killer waiting for an excuse to pounce. Nikto looms beside you, accent harsh. “I am not meant to look anything but.” 

You stifle a long sigh. 

“If you just lost the get-up, or maybe changed into a suit and lost the mask I could—”

“Нет!” The bark is louder than any before it, and you find yourself flinching immediately, head snapping in his direction as one hand goes to clutch your purse. You suck in a harsh breath of air, blinking quickly. 

Burning eyes seer through your flesh and bone, enraged by the prospect as you begin to shrink subtly away, your body leaning more to one side. 

A tense silence strangles your throat.

“O-okay,” you whisper, eyes wide as you stare in shock. 

The man says nothing and snaps his head like a wolf to look away from you, poking holes through the metal of the box you’re both stuck in together as his biceps jerk in an involuntary reaction. After the outburst, you clear your throat and stand up straight—arms moving to cross themselves over your chest. 

But Alyona always said you were too kind for your own good. Or just too trained. 

“I’m sorry,” you explain, not looking over as you stutter. “I didn’t know it was a sore subject if I had I…I wouldn’t have brought it up. I apologize, Nikto.” 

He says nothing and the entire ride has fallen into a thick atmosphere of uncomfortable thorns; the vines dragging across your skin as it tingles with unease. 

I’m getting too comfortable, your eyebrows pull in on your face, lips tight. No more Yefim. 

But why was it so easy to speak to Nikto? To poke and prod; to flirt and find the bulge of his body attractive to you. He bled raw murder—sociopathy in the lines next to his eyes making a perfect backdrop to a mask that would look natural speckled in blood. You could imagine him clearly behind the sights of a gun, and even as you envision yourself in the crossfire, the thought doesn’t make you panic. 

Why?

Your mind flashes to the memory of him sitting in your kitchen, his large hands caressing the side of his weapon, finger digging into the metal as the material of his gloves bunches. With a frantic blink of your eyes, your face suddenly gains a deep heat to it—throat going dry. 

What was happening to you?

You should be terrified down to the bone of this man. So why were your clothes suddenly too tight on your body? Why could you smell the scent of his body; rotting wood and gun oil mixed with sweat from under the kevlar? It was sinking into your nostrils until you had to move a hand up and rub at your nose, chest holding weight. 

The Russian side-eyes you.

Nikto stays as still as a statue as the elevator comes to a slow stop, a ding of the door as it pulls back making you snap out of whatever strange trance you were in. You leave quickly, feet walking as fast as they’re able past a suddenly stiff Isaak. 

The doorman squeaks when he sees the soldier—those pale eyes darting to the front desk instantly as Nikto follows after you with his canid-loping. Isaak’s body shivers before you exit the building, placing your keys back into your purse with a slow breath to calm yourself. 

Yet, it’s not soon after that the looks start up from passing people, and then after, the quick pulling of phones and the lighting of recognition in eyes. 

The car is unlocked with a beep from Nikto’s key fob, and you wonder how or when the vehicle got here in the first place. 

You puff the collar of your coat and move along the ashen streets until a heavy hand claps on your shoulder. As you snap your head up to look at Nikto, he’s already pushing you away from the concrete ground and instead to a parked car sitting stationary a few feet away.

Camera flashes make your eyes go buggy for a moment, hand slashing the air to connect to the soldier’s wrist to help steady yourself. He grunts next to your ear, sending a fast and sharp command in Russian into the cold air that makes even your back go straight for a second. People halt, their faces shocked and loose before they slightly back up. 

“Inside,” the man grumbles, and he releases you as his grip extends to the back door, opening it as his head turns to scan the crowd. You blink up at him slowly, steadying yourself on the frame. 

“What did you say to them?” There’s a flash of something across his visible flesh. Amusement? 

“It does not matter. Quickly.” You huff and slink inside, carefully slipping into the leather seats before the door is closed behind you with a puff of air. In the relatively still silence, you move a hand and brush against the tiny wound from the explosion, looking out the window and across the multitude of jeering faces. 

Like an audience, you yourself the attraction at the zoo, you can’t stop the dark thoughts in your head about who could be out there; locking onto male faces with sneers and others with wide wonder. A man with a beard is taking a video of you, another leaning over to someone at his side and whispering something—they both smirk at each other and snicker. One more just watches, silent, a large jacket over his shoulders and his hands in his pockets. 

You stay stuck in your hammering heart’s throws, hands going to rest in your lap and clench over one another. 

He’s not out there, your inner monologue reasons, moving your head forward swiftly to try and calm yourself down. He isn’t. He would never come here—and now with Nikto, there’s not going to be any more attacks. 

But whoever was doing this wasn’t right in the head, for whatever reason besides they were obsessed with you. 

Nikto enters the driver’s seat and slams the door shut behind him. You don’t comment on how he looks far too large to be driving such a normal car, moving to click on your seatbelt as he does the same. As time draws closer and closer for when you walk through AMA’s doors, your anxiety grows like a rising tide. 

Jewelry and bits of glass. A bomb under the floorboards. 

“Nikto,” you speak as the car pulls out, one of the man’s hands on the wheel and the other resting on the grip of his M9. His eyes move from the reflection in the mirror, meeting yours before they return to the road. As always, there were few cars out. “You know about the,” you take a breath. “The gifts, right? My mom told you?”

“I have been informed, Да. Драгоценности.” You listen to the harsh words, the grating Russian, blankly. Nikto pauses, before pushing out stiffly, his hands on the wheel twitching. “Jewelry.” 

You nod, watching him. Your lungs tighten. 

“What if this time it isn’t?” This time you get a longer stare, a small grunt of air.

The Russian doesn’t do comfort—he’s not some man who pretends that isn’t what is most likely going to be the case. But he wasn’t in KorTac because he didn’t know what he was doing, either. He would let you go where you needed to go and do what you needed to do, as long as he was an ever-present black shadow beside your pale contrast. Some corrupting demon. 

Nikto could adapt and learn faster than anyone, could look at a situation and react accordingly. Call his actions cocky, because maybe deep down they were. He was arrogant in the pride of his skills. And, yes, blunt. Even to a woman that piqued his interest as you did.

The man shifts his gaze away. “It won’t be.”

—

Nikto parks the car on the street, right in front of the doors to your agency. With a nervous glint in your eyes, you let him get out and open your door, standing behind it as you shimmy out. Boots meeting the ground, you make sure you have your bearings before you take another step away. Brushing down your coat and picking off random bits of dust or dirt, Nikto prods you along after the vehicle is locked. 

Here, at least, the crowd was slightly subdued, seeing that now there were a few days between you and the explosion at the bakery. Though, it wasn’t vacant. 

Journalists wait for you, and Nikto has to use that same tone from before to clear a way for you like a guard dog, snarling fangs and all, as fast Russian is thrown into your face by glaring men and women. 

You politely smile and wave a hand as if to try and tell that you can’t understand, nor do you want to participate. “S-sorry, I don’t know what you’re asking me.” You’re met with hard looks up and down; disgusted comments that you don’t need to know the language to fully understand. Your body slightly curls into itself.

Maybe Mom was right about me leaving. Nikto shoves out a hand and all but barks at a man who had come too close for his liking, threatening him with his fingers tapping the grip of his gun. 

Who would have known that a former FSB would be so feral, you think to yourself sarcastically. But that wasn’t to say you weren’t thankful. Nikto being scary was perhaps the best thing to come out of this.

You swiftly walk through the front doors, where the journalists and all the other eager ears can't come in, and immediately feel the need to sit down and take a breath. Nikto walks backward into AMA, shouting behind him and waving a hand—eyes from all over lock onto the two of you. 

A sheepish smile peels your bloodless face back as the ladies at the front desk pierce you with unimpressed stares. 

“Ah…Здравствуйте,” your Russian is still stunted and broken, but you get the formal greeting across even if it makes your vocal cords pull on themselves. The two look at each other and shake their slate heads lightly and what little confidence you had shriveled. 

Nikto successfully pushes off the strangers from the door, his appearance and authority so uncanny to them that they send horrified glances to one another and back away. Not without a few choice words, of course. When he casually walks back to your side, you look up at him and innocently open your mouth. 

“I don’t think you’re saying anything kind, are you?” 

“No,” he glances down at you, shifting his feet as his arms cross. “Why would we?” 

You let your small smile crinkle your eyes at that, a tiny chuckle. Nikto’s gaze darts down to study it with a gradually fading tension before you walk forward.

“You don’t like paparazzi?” You’re trying to distract yourself from the event that draws closer and closer as your jerking feet take you to the front desk. Yet, Nikto stays beside you, and you use his body as a guiding point to remain on a semi-straight path.

“I do not like anyone who gets in my way, Woman.” His response is lessened in brutality, but it is nonetheless formal. 

But you have either blocked out his response or wiped it from your damaged brain because you furrow your brows at the women at the front as they do nothing. They’d always passed you the box, but now they just stare blandly as your heart rapidly pounds against your ribcage. 

Nikto spares you a glance, speaking in fast English. “What is it?”

You frown, palms sweaty. “They usually give me the package right about now.” 

The Russian huffs, immediately commenting in his native tongue to the two. They scoff at him and utter something, one giving you a final glance once over as if you were on fire before they both go back to typing at their computers.

It’s a moment before you get a translation. Nikto’s eyelids tighten. 

“They have nothing.” Your head perks up, shock filling your senses.

“They…” you trail off, studying the ladies as they ignore you, but not a second later a stomach-tightening fear holds you hostage. 

A change in pattern? Your throat clears itself as your name is called from across the lobby, over seating where Yefim and the others had waited for you not days prior—alive and well. If you weren’t too focused on not flailing over, you could have imagined their ghosts sitting there, ready to walk you home. 

“Oh,” breathing out a slow response, you take a small step back and ignore the curious look from your ice-like guard. 

“Seraph!” Alyona’s voice calls to you, and as you slowly pass Nikto, feeling a bit lightheaded, before her hands grab your arm and you’re pulled into a tight hold. “Солнышко.”

You take in the scent of clean clothes and warm fire and instinctually sag forward.

“Aly,” you sigh. The arms squeeze you tightly, slightly shaking you back and forth until a firm kiss is pressed into your temple. 

Alyona pulls back after a few seconds, grabbing you by the cheeks and tilting your head to the side to stare at the tiny mark there—barely noticeable anymore. 

“There, you see? Almost gone, Seraph, just like this entire situation will be.” She smiles as a way of reassurance, her hair straight as a line. “It is good to see you in person again. I missed my friend, and I apologize for being unable to come and see you. Nikifor was too worried about me.”

“And I’d never hold that against him,” you shook your head, feeling her hands fall from you softly. “You didn’t have to come over for me to know you were worried.”

“Ah,” she scoffs, eyes delicate along her angled features. “But it would have made me feel better, no? I’m selfish.” 

Forcing a smile, you skip past the greetings and get to the point in a quick whisper of shock and fear. 

“There isn’t a gift.” Her face goes concerned, stuttering without knowing what to say before her head swivels the open lobby. At the people who might be listening. 

“That might not be bad,” Aly hurriedly says, only sending Nikto a strange glance before putting a hand on your back and moving you down one of the hallways to your changing rooms. “You do not know that it is a horrible thing, Little Солнышко, I promise you. Maybe the monster has finally come to his senses now that the authorities are opening a case on him.”

“It isn’t that simple,” you try to hold onto the thread of your sanity as your Russian dog follows at your heels, listening but not showing it behind his blank stare. “I-I’ve been reading up on it, stalkers just don’t stop especially after something like that—he’s already gone too far.”

“Shh,” Aly firmly hushes you, gripping you closer to her as men and women pass by, some pausing to try and speak before they’re gowled away by Nikto. “No, no, why would you look up things such as that? Seraph it’s not that simple—this cannot be explained away by papers or studies. This is a bad person, and that is the end of it. We need to have patience and keep steady.” She tries to tease you back to your soft malleability. “Come now, I know you have trouble with that, but I think your good friend here is well enough on her feet to hold you. I have no trouble with it, yes?” 

You give a damp chuckle, licking your lips and looking anywhere but at her.

“I’m scared, Aly,” you admit, and you don’t see Nikto’s vision fully focused on you. “I don’t want to be in public right now I–”

Your breath hitches and you’re quickly reminded about your makeup, and how hideous you’ll look if you mess it up right now. A hand raises and covers your mouth, your shaky breath hitting the digits as you try to restrain your tears. 

“Easy,” Alyona mutters, patting the back of your back softly as she takes a quick left, pulling you into a side room and closing it before Nikto can slip inside. He knocks on the door immediately, but with a heavy order in Russian, Aly has you alone in here with a flick of the light. 

It’s a storage room, larger and holding mops and buckets. 

“Explain,” the woman whispers. “Talk to me. No tears now, my Seraph.”

You suck down a deep breath, hands shaking violently, and even a bit painfully as the nerves pinch and tighten. Aly’s hands cover yours, squeezing them as you hiss. 

“Speak,” she urges. “It will make you feel better.”

“I don’t know what to do,” your throat tightens. “I-I got a text last night and I haven't told Nikto about it.” 

“Text? From…from the—”

“Yes.” Your eyes dig into hers. “I feel like I’m being hunted. Like…like every turn I make there’s something else around the corner; people's faces scare me, I don’t know what they’re thinking.” 

“Seraph…” Aly’s face scrunches, pain etched in her expression. 

“I can’t go to sleep without seeing their bodies,” you whimper, and the woman already knows who you’re talking about. “I can’t sleep, Alyona. I’m so tired, and my mom, she…she just…” You shut yourself off, moving back a step and waving your hands. “I want to be able to tell her things, but I can never get the words out—she’s,” the large shadow of boots from the crack in the door spread along the white floor. “I wish I could speak to her as I speak to you, I want to lean on her for support through this.”

A tear leaks down from your cheek and you quickly wipe it away, stopping your rant for the final time. 

“I’m sorry,” you breathe, tone changing. “No, I’m sorry, I can’t put that on you.”

Aly takes you into a hard hug, arms around your waist and holding firm. 

“Lord, Солнышко. Do not apologize to me.” You both stay there, and it gets harder to hide your ragged breath. She sighs and rests her head above yours. “You are too good, Seraph. Too good for this.” 

She holds you, harder than you can remember anyone doing since you were little. Staring at the door and Nikto’s shadow, the conversation shifts to him as if a piece of paper in the wind. 

“And about the beast? I am not sure I like him yet.” A meaningful pause. “I know I said not to fuck him on the first day, but if the size of him is anything to go by…”

You laugh, taken aback by the shift in her tone. The woman smirks as if a plan had worked out. 

“I’m not going to fuck him, Aly. Christ.” 

“I am just being honest, yes?” Her eyes shift to the door. “I have Nikifor, of course, but even he isn’t as monstrous as that. If you do choose to get into bed with him,” you groan, mood lightning. “You’ll need a wheelchair after he’s done rutting into you like a—”

“Alyona!” 

From the other side of the door, Nikto taps his foot on the floor slowly, his arms crossed and his glare stuck into the far wall as heavy laughter spills out from under. He growls, annoyed, and speaks to himself in his native tongue as he’s been doing a lot lately. Nikto watches people pass by without moving his head as if a toy as his eyes slide when a shadow darts one way. 

His mind moves to the lack of a gift, and the Russian’s guarding form tries to figure out the next move while the two women hide away. No gift was a strange turn of events, but he wasn’t about to try and say he was an expert in stalkers—his only job was to keep you alive and let the authorities track the animal down. 

Nikto’s brain remembers the sheer panic that had washed your features and grunts to himself, thighs tensing. 

The only thing he could call you was strange, and already from only knowing you for less than two days, he had attributed that fact to you. Strange. Attractive, obviously, as there was no getting past that. But strange. Not like the women he’d been around in his life before—you apologized for things like asking about his mask. No one had ever done that before. 

Nikto’s hidden throat bobs in a swallow as a large group of photographers walk through the hallways, speaking to one another about an upcoming photoshoot. Your name and your friends being mentioned make his attention shift back, his neck tilting to follow the group and listen in on the fast Russian conversation. 

“...Explosion?”

“The two are popular…”

“—See how many shoots they have lined up, Fedorov says the calendar is booked!”

“He has them ready to ship out to parties as well…guess who’s going to get a raise now that the whores are even more famous? Us!”

The soldier’s eyes narrow violently, heart jerking to the pulse of disgust. 

“Fools,” he scoffs, slicing his head away as the laughter spikes up from the group. 

The door behind him opens, and his pale eyes blink as he casually steps to the side, his arms still crossed as his neck bends to you as your form walks through the entrance. 

His chest slows at the sight of your red-rimmed eyes, the color hitting his pupils instantly. Still, he keeps his tongue, only studying you for a long moment as you sigh under your breath.

“Sorry about that, Nikto,” you spread a kind look over your face like butter. Again with the apologies.

“Who is this?” A finger is motioned to Alyona as she elegantly walks out, looping an arm through yours. Nikto already knew, of course, but he wants it from you.

Your friend surprises him and speaks first with a haughty tone, inspecting him as she speaks. 

“Alyona Arkadyevna Solovyova,” an icy brow is raised. “You are?”

Nikto tenses, and the pair size the other up like bears. You elbow your friend in the side lightly, amusement hiding the still nervous lines along your forehead. 

The soldier pushes out slowly, “...Nikto.” 

Alyona huffs. “Just Nikto? Никто?” 

A stiff grunt. You watch the Russian’s visible skin go tight with blatant irritation. 

“Alright,” you mutter gradually, feeling the tension that had formed. “We all need to get going. We have to get our schedules, Aly.”

“Right,” the woman sighs. “Busy week.”

“Busy month,” you grumble, but you slide her a thankful look. Alyona hums and lets her expression soften. 

“I will need floor plan,” Nikto interrupts, and you nod without a beat as Aly walks with you down the hall, unwittingly following the same path as the photographers that the masked man had seen not minutes prior. 

“I’ll get my manager on it, you’ll have one by the end of the day.” 

“Copy.” 

Aly utters into your ear as she guides you slightly faster. “He’s…”

You puff air. “Scary?” 

Her eyes tell you all the answers you need and you let out a tiny, defeated sigh in response.

—

You wear a silk robe as you lounge in the studio's seat, your bare legs crossed over themselves as everyone waits for Alyona to change out of her previous clothes. Closing your eyes and letting them rest from the constant white light from above, the skimpy pajama set under the silk was nothing short of insulting. 

But this was what you signed up for, after all. 

You can’t even recall the brand that had paid for this, too caught up with your neck hairs constantly pointing up in caution. There were many people in the room, and you only took solace in the few that were familiar to you—certain photographers you’d seen around including your own, and the other women here with you for when the space was free. 

But none even looked at you beyond a smirk and a quick whisper to their friends. 

Well, none but Nikto. 

He turns his gaze away only to scan the room, and then those orbs always rove back like a security camera; if you weren’t so on edge, you’d find it funny—cute even. Like a little robot of obsidian death. Across the divide, you send a quirk of your lips as the front door opens. 

“Let us get this over with, yes?” Alyona’s outfit is the color opposite of yours, and you snicker at the fact she must have walked from the changing room without putting on her robe to get here. 

Pajamas had been too nice of a word, the reality of it was tight lace and restraining straps along your thighs, making the skin move away and your ribs go inward. See-through tights and horrible little bows at your navel and in between your breasts.

Lingerie. 

Your fiery friend's words from days before had been a prediction it seemed, because you had dates lined up for intimate apparel for an entire three days; today was the only joint photoshoot as well. You felt like a puppet.

Standing, you untie your robe and slip it off, folding it over your arm before placing it down on the chair. White, of course, is the color that was chosen for you, and black for Alyona. Padding over to the plain backdrop, carefully dodging the ring lights and the camera equipment, you speak easily as eyes dig into the both of you.

Envious or lustful, it didn’t matter to you. You just wanted this to be over so you could go home. 

“This is the first thing that they put us into?” You have to ask, plucking at the line of elastic that pushes up your breasts uncomfortably as you grimace. “We almost get blown up and I’m getting shoved into lace?”

“Just think of the money, Little Seraph,” Aly reminds blandly and you frown. “Money, and then we can fill our days with whatever it is we choose after we get wrinkled and they finally let us go.”

Nikto no longer stares.

His head is stuck to the door, tilted away from the scene of you and the blonde, from the flashes of the camera. You wonder at his hulking shoulders before your photographer’s fingers snap for you to look at them, and you do so with a practiced face of no thoughts and curve your body to fit beside Alyona’s. 

This continues for multiple hours, different sets, and the same dead mind that it takes to successfully pull the look off. No one wants you to think, to show real emotion—they want a manufactured image, and so you give it to them. It’s the only thing you can do right, and even then it had come down to a fifty-fifty draw with genetics; a brawl of metabolism and walking on nails. 

A model tries to speak to Nikto, and you find your gaze slipping over as she does—her flapping lips moving but the man’s interest not shifting for a second. You tilt your head from where you sit on the floor, surrounded by soft fabrics like feathered blankets that tickle your open skin. A nest, nearly. 

The soldier's body pivots, and he fully turns away from the model and faces you head-on. You furrow your brows as the woman’s face goes a deeper shade of gray—angry. She spits something at him before marching away like an angry cat. 

You meet Nikto’s face and your lips part in question, one arm keeping you up as your legs are folded. Alyona is off on break, so at this point, it has come down to only the photographer, your guard, and the few other models in question. As you study each other, the man’s hard eyes never soften, never even ease away from a dead nothingness as they slide down—just like your ‘perfect’ face. 

You feel his gaze caress you like he had his gun, and with a tingle in your flesh you can suddenly imagine him doing the same to you; taking you apart bit by corrupt bit until you’re left shaking for another reason. 

Clearing your throat, you instantaneously tear your eyes off him and his seemingly widening stance before you can see him do the exact same. The camera ahead of you flashes, and the unimpressed Russian words that come your way make you hunch. 

“Apologies, Fédor,” you ease, nodding. “I was distracted.”

The dark eyes of the photographer only soften slightly, but the professional knife returns. Yet, before the next burn of the flash into your retinas, there's a commotion from out in the hallway.

Your head snaps to it, the pound of footsteps and the call of fast words, but arms are already grabbing you, the camera taking a shot involuntarily as the sudden slam of the door makes Fédor flinch. 

Nikto carries you by your waist, and you yelp in shock at being so easily manhandled away. Your feet are set back down and your robe is tossed to you as you scramble to snatch it. 

An immovable stone is leveled in front of you, and you gaze widely at the soldier’s back as the bulk of Nikto’s hand is placed on his M9. 

“Keep behind me,” he grunts and you stutter out a rapid affirmative as you hurry into your robe, tying off the strap. Your head only slightly peaks out from behind him as your palm lays flat on his back. 

Nikto tenses but says nothing at the action as the door opens quickly. 

Your manager is pushing his way through the confused and annoyed employees, barking and snarling at anything before he can finally shift his body and find you. In his hands, he holds a large wrapped box. 

“You!” He booms in loud English, and you take a swift inhale as your pulse soars. 

Nikto’s body straightens as the man moves closer to you two, but the soldier doesn’t let him come any closer than three feet before he gives a cold, and firm word. 

The raging manager tries to lock eyes with you, moving his legs back and forth and divulging into his native tongue. You wished that learning Russian had come easy to you because you would certainly be less scared and nervous than you are right now. Everyone watches, and people from the hallways even peek inside to listen. 

Whatever it is the man is saying, it’s certainly interesting, because many cover their mouths with their hands and widen their eyes. 

“Nikto?” You ask quietly.

“Hush,” is all he responds with, but his hand falls from his weapon and that alone makes your clenched digits on the back of his kevlar loosen a smidge. 

You glance at all the searing eyes and look to the floor, confidence shriveling even at work. Your face burns with embarrassment as the barrage continues on, but inside of your chest, you enjoy how quick the Russian was in his actions to keep you safe—far faster than you could be with your internal injuries.

Nikto talks to your manager lowly, with no emotion in his tone as his mask tilts down. One last growled word and glare, and the finely dressed man points back at you before he shakes his head, shoving the parcel into Nikto’s hands. He turns and leaves, trailing smoke as he shoves through the crowd in the doorway. 

Everything is deathly silent, and you feel entirely left out of the loop as dread grows. 

There are so many eyes here.

Your body shivers, but you do the best you can to look collected—your hand dropping back down to your side as the whispering starts back up. Vision sneaking from one gray blob to another, your jaw clenches when the paranoia once more leaks into you, as if an old lover trying to claw its way back into your heart. 

What’s going on? Your brain hurts. 

Nikto utters to you, holding the package firmly in front of him. “Get dressed. We are leaving.”

“What’s in the box?” Your voice is tiny, face imploring him to answer even if you don’t exactly want one.

You know who it came from, and morbid curiosity would be the end of you. It should be burned, tossed away, and hidden. But how would you be able to catch him if you didn’t have evidence? 

Nikto glances over his shoulder at you. He pauses. Repeats. “Get dressed.” 

It doesn't take much convincing. 

You’re trailed by him even for the short walk to the changing room, your voice kindly asking people to move out of the way. The only reason they do is because of the black void behind you, of course, but the important part is that they move regardless. 

“Nikto,” you speak out in the hallway, the man corralling you so that his body is nearest to the foot traffic and your hand slides along the wall. “I-I can’t just leave, I still have appointments lined up until the end of my shift. There’s the dress fitting and the makeup change at two, before I have the—”

You continue on, but the soldier is back to his muteness; great walking form only holding the box in one hand while the other is resting securely on his M9—you guessed that would be a pattern like the use of ‘we’ in his sentences. 

He stops you with a grunt. “We are getting you back to your property. I need to be in contact with security team.”

“Security?” You halt outside the changing room door, holding out a quivering hand. “Nikto, I need answers. What made my manager act like that? Why aren’t you showing me what’s inside that box?” 

“You do not need to see it,” he explains blankly. “Unimportant.”

You flatten your lips, not speaking while a group passes by behind him. The both of you eye them, but you continue after they leave, dark shadows in the corner of your vision. 

“If it’s about me, then it’s not unimportant—I will not be kept out of the loop. Not after Yefi—” Your voice fizzles, but you shake your head and slow your pulse. “More people are in danger than just me if there’s going to be another public attack. I need to know what’s going on at all times. My mom won’t let me know about the active investigation, but as long as you’re working under me,” you take a breath, “then I order you to.”

Nikto’s pupils tighten, lungs in his chest stilling. It’s a battle of wills that takes place, and you’re not exactly one to win those.

Before long you’re being pushed back into the room behind you with a growl, and you blink quickly as those who had been in the hallways all look on with wide and shocked expressions as the door shuts behind Nikto’s back. You’re left standing as you steady yourself when the Russian lets go. 

“I do not take orders from you.” He spits, visible flesh swimming with irritability. “Remove that from your mind, Whelp. I am here to watch after you, nothing more.”

Again, outward confrontation was never your strong suit. 

“And I’m trying to watch after myself,” you say in a low and even tone. “Three people are dead—I’m making sure that no one else is going to get injured because of me.”

Teeth snap, a hand waved in exasperation.

“That is brainless. Others would not care about you, given the same situation.” You're looked down at, and you can envision a sneer on his lips easily. You frown and cross your arms. 

“You’re rude.” 

Nikto blinks quickly. 

“What?”

“You’re rude,” you say again, nose in the air. “Mean. Ill-mannered. Impudent, if you will.” 

The lights of the room buzz over your head, white on every surface. It’s funny, really, how this building cloaks itself in a veil of perfection and purity when the complete opposite is going on. And no one seemed to be doing anything to make it easier.

“You do not know how to keep your tongue behind your teeth, Woman,” Nikto bites, hands over the box clenched tight. “I am doing you a favor, but you are intent on biting the hand that feeds.”

You don’t respond, glaring softly with a tapping finger over your robe. 

Nikto’s eyes flash, chest rumbling. But he looks like he made up his mind with no real care at all for what this might do to you—if you were acting like this, fine, he would give you what you were asking for. 

“So be it,” he snarls, accent harsh and brutal.

The box is shoved into your arms and the man turns on his heels and stalks out. You watch him go, licking your lips and sighing slowly as the door slams. 

Your neck carefully bends downward, and you delicately run your fingers over the bare cardboard, feeling the bumps and the bends in the material. The interaction left a sour taste in your mouth, but you could worry about your people-pleasing nature later, this was far more important. 

One more shaky breath, and you’re placing the package on the pale top of a vanity, sitting it in the middle between makeup brushes and a notepad. You used this room more than the others, so you supposed you could call it yours in a strange ‘I’m always seen here, so it’s mine’ way. Like an unassigned-assigned seat in a university. 

“He wouldn’t give it to me unless it was safe, right?” Your voice echoes, but you know the answer. Nikto valued the mission above all else, anything to get there was wasted on him. 

The wide eyes of the crowd were blooming in the back of your head, your brain pulsing. Unconsciously, one of your hands goes back to rub at the base of your skull, fingers lightly dragging up and down to itch at an irreversible scar hidden in your hair. 

Shaking your head, you pull back and rub your digits into your sweaty palms. The hair on your arms stands up, and, hot in your robe, you undo the strap and let the garment hang open. 

With a steadying breath and tingling nervousness, the back of your eyelids explodes with gray fire as you pull at the top of the box, the cardboard slipping away from one another. Now or never.

You see the dead-eyes first, and the feathers after. 

A hand snapping to your mouth, you cover your sharp shock as the image of three dead doves lay mutilated in the confines of plastic bags. Across the front of the material lay three names in quivering English script. 

Petya.

Aleksandr. 

Your horrified gaze locks onto the last, its tiny wings broken and legs ripped from its body of white purity. Ripped in half. An angel of wind and clouds, stuffed into a cage with its dark blood sloshing around in a bag of murder. 

Yefim.

The others had been burned, feathers curling and ashy beaks open wide. 

Tears sting behind your eyelids, mouth perpetually open to the pure disgust you feel—the sword that pierces what little you’d built yourself back up. 

You don’t know how long you stay there, staring, but while you’re trapped in your terror, Nikto has already called the investigators he’d been told would be heading your case and informed them of more evidence in curt sentences. 

Maybe the cameras had picked up someone walking into your manager’s office, where the package had been left. 

In his mind, he called you foolish, and he truly did mean it. 

How pig-headed could you be? And yet at the same time, he knew from your interactions that you were unused to this harsh city’s climate. People here didn’t care about you, and they wouldn’t. Even the man he had just hung the phone up on seemed eager to get back to the cigarette that Nikto had heard being lit up instead of helping the Western Woman and her Consul mother. 

While the soldier had his reservations as well, he cared little for semantics. He had a job, and he would see it through. Nikto didn’t concern himself about you or your feelings; he didn’t care about your fear. You were someone he needed to watch like a pet, and he would. What else would he do? 

To keep you alive was the only priority, and alive was an easy thing to make happen. He knew alive very well, and the gray area in between it. 

Nikto was born and bred for this, and he was nothing but a cliff-face with the dig of a climber’s hook stuck in the side, his own stubbornness butting heads with the mountain goat that was you and your melting eyes. That smile. 

That body clothed in tight lace. 

Nikto growls to himself and slams a hard fist to your door twice.

“Девушка! Hurry up!” His ears twitch to the sound of muffled sobs and his hand freezes above the door before a third strike can boom over the hallway.

He blinks slowly. 

Arm lowering, he scoffs to himself before his hands cross his chest, the weight of his shoulders barring down as a janitor slinks past, pushing a cleaning bucket. Nikto picks up on the green of his eyes as they lock with his, and the two are locked in with one another until the soldier’s lids narrow dangerously. 

The man pads on and turns a corner. 

When your form graces him once more, the man has brushed his kevlar of nonexistent dust, eager to leave this place for a more secure area even for just the time being. 

He does not mention the glossiness of your eyes or the panicked, and not well handled, swiping of your mascara streaks. You’re back in your normal clothes. Nikto only takes the box you wordlessly offer him, and the contents inside that he had been made aware of prior. 

It was your decision—he’d tried to tell you.

“Good,” he utters, not glancing at your quick lungs. “Come.” 

He walks, and after a swaying moment, you jerkily step after. 

Your pulse is so loud it drowns out the comments people make as they look at you, no longer a kiss on your cheek or a pat on your shoulder—now it was distrust and caution. What if something happened to them while you were around?

I’m not infected, your brain tries to ease you, your vision a dark tunnel that stays stuck to Nikto’s wide back as he carves a path. This isn’t my fault. 

Three dead little doves to call your own sit in a cardboard box, and the realization of no letter strikes you like a punch to the gut. 

“No letter,” you mumble, arms crossing and fingers digging into your biceps. “Why wasn’t there a letter?” 

Your body stumbles out of the front doors, the ladies at the desk calling to you in confusion, and Nikto unlocks the car; opening it. Without another word, you get in. 

This isn’t my fault. 

TAGS:

@anna-banana27, @random-thot-generator, @midwesternwitchery, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @halfmoth-halfman, @alpineswinter, @blingblong55, @cryingnotcrying, @lxne20, @not-eclipse, @theecoffeebean, @phoenixhalliwell, @h3ll-guttz, @tiinkerbell, @genjilvr, @azush4rp, @escapefromrealitysm, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @finnigansxz, @cowboybaby2, @delaynew, @doggydale, @zapphir, @littlemisstrouble, @xxtmoe, @grizzersmamma, @andreas-river, @blogdddxx, @jade-jax, @emthegrace, @lovebugmsyd, @makariaspresence, @noisyprofessorhoundsalad-blog, @scythebot, @blueoorchid, @kra-rino4ka, @caramlizedtomatoes, @strawberymilk,@frazie99, @homicidal-slvt, @develised, @crispyhusband, @cathnoneofyourbusiness, @ghostslittlegf, @generalcloudtraveler, @azsteris, @rvjaa, @creminemisinthehizzyforshizzboy, @comsyki

[covid-safer-hotties]

Also preserved on our archive

By Jessica Wildfire

Our friends and family think they understand their immune system because George Carlin explained it to them in the 90s:

"Where did this sudden fear of germs come from? What do you think you have an immune system for? It's for killing germs. But it needs practice. It needs germs to practice on. If you kill all the germs around you, and lead a completely sterile life, then when germs do come along you're not going to be prepared. What are you gonna do? I'll tell you what, you're gonna get sick and you're gonna die and you're gonna deserve it because you're f-ing weak and you've got a f-ing weak immune system."

George Carlin was right about a lot of things, but he was wrong on this one.

(He got plastic wrong, too.)

Unfortunately, this part of his 11th HBO standup special became permanently lodged into the American cultural memory. I only saw it once as a kid, but it stayed with me for the rest of my life.

Not even AP Biology could dislodge it.

I, too, used to think you built your immune system up by exposing yourself to harmful germs. How could the great prophet George Carlin be mistaken on something that made so much intuitive sense, especially when you dropped a few f-bombs in there? I also thought it was a good thing to exercise your way through a cold. Then I opened myself up to the possibility that I was wrong.

In the words of Carl Sagan, I'd been bamboozled.

In early 2020, this Carlin bit inspired countless reaction videos that still litter the internet. Anti-science zealots have used George Carlin's monologue on disease thousands of times over the last four years to ridicule masks, vaccines, and clean air. Everywhere you look, that piece of standup looms in the background, and it's getting revived again for bird flu. But even George Carlin got the idea from somewhere else.

You can trace this misguided notion back to hygiene theory, proposed by David Strachan in 1989. Strachan argued that a whole range of health problems in the late 20th century had roots in "a lower incidence of infection in early childhood." Basically, our immune systems weren't getting enough exposure to bacteria and viruses. He was mainly talking about the rise in childhood allergies as the result, but the media began printing loose interpretations of his studies and jumping to conclusions that less exposure to disease was a bad thing in general. So the public developed the idea that somehow getting sick was good for you. So began the myth of the "bored immune system" that needed practice in order to stay healthy. Gurus and quacks latched onto this idea. So did talkshows.

And then comedians...

It wasn't until 2003 that Graham Rook offered a more accurate description of the situation. As he explained, "microbes have evolved into an essential role in regulating our immune system... the microbes involved are not infections, but friendly microbes which make up our human microbiome. These are acquired by exposure to other humans or animals and microbiota from our natural environment."

This became known as the "old friends hypothesis."

The old friends hypothesis now serves as the dominant model for how microbes work with our immune system. According to immunologists, kids need to be playing outside more and eating fresher, healthier foods. That's what helps their immune systems.

Getting sick all the time just hurts them.

Like many debunked ideas, hygiene theory and the myth of the bored immune system have become entrenched. A couple of years ago, hygiene theory got repackaged as "immunity debt." Now Americans, Canadians, and many Europeans think they need to get sick to stay healthy. The elites have absolutely no problem with that. It saves them countless billions to let everyone continue thinking they're better off letting diseases run around in their cells.

So:

Your immune system doesn't work like a muscle. It doesn't get stronger the more it's exposed to different harmful germs.

It doesn't need practice.

Phillipp Dettmer gives a vivid, accessible breakdown of the immune system in his 2021 book, Immune. You can show it to any internet troll who brags about their knowledge of the immune system. Dettmer destroys misinformation, explaining how your adaptive immune system actually works, as well as your gut microbiome.

As many articles and books explain, your body has an innate immune system that already knows how to fight off pathogens. You can help your immune system by feeding it the nutrients it needs. (That's an entirely different article.) You can protect your immune system from pollution, cigarette smoke, and other toxins. But genetics determines a lot of your immunological makeup. You can be born with an immune system that doesn't work the way it should, and it's not your fault.

You also have an adaptive immune system that stores chemical blueprints of pathogens in memory T and B cells. According to a 2024 article in Nature, these cells respond better to specific pathogens your body has seen before. Those blueprints last only as long as your memory cells. Sometimes those cells mature and stay around for years, even decades. If they don't, then your body won't remember the pathogen.

Your body doesn't need exposure to viruses.

Your immune system responds to harmful microbes and it can develop memories from previous infections. Most of the time, those memories apply specifically to that specific strain, variant, or clade of the virus. For example, immune memory to one type of adenovirus or rhinovirus doesn't confer automatic, guaranteed protection against all of them, and there are hundreds.

Sometimes, cross-protection can happen, but it's limited and hard to predict. When it does, like with the original smallpox vaccine, it's a big deal. If that were easy, we would already have a universal coronavirus vaccine and wouldn't have to update flu shots every year. Most of the time, getting sick with one virus doesn't train your body to respond any better to other viruses, especially when those viruses aren't related.

Victoria's state department of health puts it very plainly:

"The immune keeps a record of every microbe it has ever defeated, in types of white blood cells (B-lymphocytes and T-lymphocytes) known as memory cells. This means it can recognise and destroy the microbe quickly if it enters the body again, before it can multiply and make you feel sick. Some infections, like the flu and the common cold, have to be fought many times because so many different viruses or strains of the same type of virus can cause these illnesses. Catching a cold or flu from one virus does not give you immunity against the others."

You can add Covid to that list.

Some research has suggested that because catching one virus activates your innate immune system, your body's broad layers of defense offer brief protection against other pathogens. Viruses also compete with each other, meaning that infection from one virus can ward off others. That's called viral interference. Neither option means your immune system benefits from exposure to viruses.

We can't explain all of the human immune system in a single post, but here's the point. It's way more complicated than George Carlin explained. There's a lot more going on. It's not as simple as training your immune system by giving it practice.

That's not how it works.

It just sounds good.

No credible doctor or immunologist recommends building your immune system by welcoming viral and bacterial infections into your life. The costs far outweigh the benefits. Many viruses exact a price on your body and your immune system. Getting infected over and over again makes you weaker, not stronger. Vaccines don't work because they give your immune system practice. They work because they allow your body to develop a memory of a pathogen without all the risk.

Many viruses, like the flu, often leave lasting damage even when your immune system fights them off. Your immune system actually does some of that damage itself by attacking infected cells. In the wake of flu, your entire body including your immune system needs time to recover. During that stage, you're vulnerable to opportunistic infections. Other viruses, like measles and ebola, disable your immune system and even wipe out memory cells.

That's also what Covid does, among many other things.

You can't develop full immunity to viruses that evade, attack, and disable large parts of your immune system. Sometimes you can develop partial immunity, but the virus still invades and still does damage every time. Just because you can recover from these infections, that doesn't mean you're better off afterward.

Think of it like this:

Your body already knows how to heal its skin and bones. You don't have to teach it how to do that by cutting yourself or breaking your arm.

As it happens, many westerners also think bones grow back stronger after they're broken and scar tissue is tougher than normal skin.

That's also false.

Scar tissue remains functionally deficient in many ways compared to uninjured skin. Broken bones form a temporary calcium callus that's stronger than ordinary bone, but it's eventually replaced.

These misguided ideas fit in a culture obsessed with tough love, the idea that abusing someone somehow builds their character. And while it might make you interesting, it's certainly not "good" for you.

Sometimes I wonder what George Carlin would think about having one part of a standup special used to endorse bad science and eugenics. I'd like to think he would have a problem with it.

There's a lot you can do to boost your immune system.

Getting sick isn't one of them.

[bonny-kookoo]

Jungkook

𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 | Hide Me

Wrong place, wrong time, wrong everything. And yet, maybe it's not as bad as you thought.

Tags/Warnings: Alien!Jungkook, Human!Reader, Angst, injury, medical things such as needles, mentions of potential murder

Length: ~2k words

A/N: T H E R E I S N O T A G L I S T-

-> Masterlist

⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──👽── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅ ── ⋅ ⋅

Okay, your plan might not work the way you'd hoped after all.

You'd wanted to just get away from earth for a while now- with the intergalactic union basically punishing the whole human race for ruining planet earth, by taking away any humans from leading positions in the government, and by entirely changing the law system across the globe.

But down the line, money seems to be enticing even for people from outer space- and so the humans with the most of it had stayed in their roles, corrupting the system even more these days.

You don't want to be here to watch everything inevitably crumble.

What you didn't really plan for had been the drunk guy robbing you just half an hour before you were supposed to go to the port where the interstellar cargo ships would soon get ready to fly out to other planets to trade produce and other food products. But really, you can't pay much attention to your own injury, because otherwise you'll miss your chance entirely.

And considering they only fly out once every two to three months, you really don't wanna miss this.

So you go through with your plan despite your blurry mind- hunger and your injury by now having definitely made things more and more difficult to handle. You mostly trust into your instincts at the moment, unsure if you could really pay attention to anything out of the ordinary in order to check your plan- but maybe you should've.

Because now that the heavy steel doors close, and the ship starts to rumble, engines starting, you realize that your environment isn't what you'd expected to find as you lift the heavy tarp from over your head a little.

It doesn't make sense.

The interior, now that you look at it, looks nothing like the cargo ship from Heza that you had been supposed to be boarding. There's also been almost no security, no other staff around, no guards or even workers seen anywhere.

Everything is metal, a bit bent and busted here and there but still good and well taken care of. The model of the ship must be the same as the one from Heza -

But this is absolutely not the ship you thought you were sneaking into.

This is bad.

It's the worst, in fact, considering your still throbbing and probably bleeding wound, which had also not been part of the plan. The shaking of the ship finally subsides, a calm buzz and steady vibrations instead filling the space, your ears feeling strangely pressurized, something that subsides after moving your jaw a little. You know what this must mean.

You're no longer on earth.

Well, this is a problem now. You don't know where the hell this person is traveling to, let alone who owns the ship in the first place. For all you know, it could have no pilot at all, flying on pure autopilot which would at least make you feel a bit easier knowing that only actual cargo ships fly predetermined routes like that.

You feel like you're gonna throw up. Your stomach is so empty that your throat is closing up, or at least that's what it feels like. And considering this isn't a Heza ship, there will probably be nothing edible here at all.

And suddenly, there's a rumbling noise, metal scraping on the floor as the pressurized doors open, causing you to hide under the thick plastic coverings again, hoping, praying no one finds you. Boots click on the floor, and you hear chains hitting each other in high pitched noises, leather squeaking a bit and then-

You hear plastic being lifted. Whoever is currently here is aware that you're not supposed to be here. That something's off, not quite right. They're searching for something.

Someone.

You hold your breath as if that's gonna help you at all, but you know it won't. The steps echo closer, closer, closer, plastic tarp being lifted and placed back over and over again around you. And suddenly, the tarp you're underneath lifts as well, and you're sure you're visibly shaking, especially when something cold hits the back of your head.

A gun, for sure.

"You got one try." A male voice states, the click of the gun heard and felt against your scalp and oh God, you're gonna pass out, either from blood loss, hunger, or the fact that there's someone pointing a fucking gun at you-

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't shoot you through the airlock right now."

Well, fuck.

You think hard, unsure what to really tell him- you don't even know if he's human or not, can't catch a glimpse of him considering he'll probably shoot you right away if you were to try, so you can't adjust your answer according to his race either. So, really, what do you have to lose now?

You're probably going to die either way- so why not just throw out your honest intentions.

"I'm trying to escape earth." You simply say, voice trembling as it's hardly loud enough to reach him properly.

"Why?" He presses on, leather moving again with distinctive noise as he squats down, gun still against the back of your head. "Are you a criminal?" He asks, and you shake your head.

"No." You answer. "Just.. over it." You shrug, tumbling forwards a little as you lose your balance for a second, brain becoming dizzy.

"Give me your name." He demands. "I will try and verify your information myself." The man says, and you laugh to yourself.

"Well, too bad." You chuckle. "I don't have a name. Got a number though, if you want it?" You slur by now, growing increasingly nauseous as your body seems to be hot one second and icy cold another. It seems as if he's noticing your state by now as well, hands moving your arm upwards as he inspects the blood staining your shirt by now.

"How did that happen?" He asks, and you try and explain- but there's no thought properly formed anymore. "Hah..., weak things." He mumbles to himself as he lets you fall forward onto your side, unable to sit upright any longer. He isn't very gentle as he lifts you up, over his shoulder to carry you out the cargo area of his ship and down several hallways like nothing but a sack of potatoes, into a room that looks awfully sterile and small. You're barely conscious, really, as you only somewhat feel him lay you down somewhere.

Everything between that, and now, as you wake up with a feeling of sudden panic, is just not there.

Your wrist is bound to the metal frame of the simple bedframe in the sterile, small room, machines beeping and occasionally making other noises as a voice rings out through a speaker, a sound echoing to signal an announcement. "Don't think your weak body will make me overlook the fact that you're a stowaway that illegally entered my ship." His voice echoes through the room. "You've broken human laws, and I'm required by the intergalactic union to report your crimes." He says, and you flop down onto the bed at that, a hand on your face desperately trying to hide your tears. That's even worse than getting shot through the airlock.

So you act out of panic, sitting up to rip out the IV line from your arm. "Hey- stop that!" He barks through the intercom, but you don't listen, as you try to squeeze and wiggle your hand out of the handcuffs bound to the bed, tugging on other sensors connected to your body, uncaring of the harsh sting and slight blood you're drawing.

It's when the only door of the room opens, and the man walks in, boots heavy on the floor as he leans one knee on the bed, grabbing your wrists that you're forced to stop your little panic attack. "Stop that." He growls, looking at you with both annoyance and anger as he watches you. "What in canis major is fucking wrong with you?" He scoffs, a low, clicking like sound in the back of his throat as his eyes glow an angry red.

"Throw me out the airlock then." You ask, frustrated tears brimming in your eyes as you look at him. "Shoot me in the head, I don't care." You tell him.

"Death won't lift your crimes, human." He tells you lowly. "You should've considered the consequences prior to your actions." The young man says.

"Hah, as if I didn't do that!" You bark at his face, and he leans back at that, eyes shifting slowly from their deep red to a more orange hue. "I'm not going back to earth. At least not alive." You say with a final tone to your voice, and at that he gets up, sighs, his eyes a pale yellow-ish brown as he opens them again to move around, and pick up the IV you'd tugged out from your arm, discarding the used needle before he moves to get a new, packaged one.

"How did you loose your name?" He asks, as he walks around, prepares the IV again it seems like, while you sit on the bed, legs tucked in closely. "I've looked up the number inked on your wrist. What you said about your identity seems to be true- but there's always a reason why humans loose their names, and yet there was no criminal record attached to you." He explains, and you shrug.

"Just.." You shrug again, glaring at him a bit as he rather roughly tugs your hand away from your knees, turning your forearm to locate a vein again. "Not worth it, I guess. I'm not trained in any field that's considered valuable, and I'm also not very smart- so I lost my name when I turned twenty-one because I'm not valuable enough." You say.

"That doesn't make any sense." He furrows his brows as he places the IV back in with not much regard to you hissing when he pishes the needle into your skin, securing it with medical tape before he adjusts the machines and sensors again.

"Yeah well, a lot of things don't make sense on earth." You mumble as you watch him, hissing a bit when he tugs on your skin too roughly as he checks the large plaster covering your stab wound.

"Stay here now, and stop being ungrateful for my care while I go over some things." He says, and you tug on the handcuffs a bit, as if to remind him. "What?" He asks.

"Are you.. not taking those off?" You wonder, and he seems almost amused as he looks at you with a slightly pinkish undertone in his eyes.

"No." He simply answers, door opening with a hiss of the hydraulics. "Wouldn't want you to get too comfortable here, after all."

[the-kr8tor]

Hi! could you please do a fluff+comfort of Hobie comforting reader that is struggling with choosing what their gonna follow in college/university, and could the reader be non binary please, thank you!

(also I love BDAS it's single handedly feeding my need for pirate Hobie, and your writing is absolutely amazing🧡)

(this is also my first time making a request so could I be 🃏 anon if it's free please)

Thank you for requesting! And welcome 🃏 anon!! (Sorry this took so long, I hope you found the right major for you! ❤️) I hope you like it!

Pairing: Hobie Brown x nb! Reader/ Spider-Punk x nb! Reader

Tags: No use of Y/N, No specific physical description of the reader, CW food mentions, hurt/comfort, fluff.

ʕ⁠·⁠ᴥ⁠·⁠ʔ

University pamphlets are scattered all over the floor of your bedroom, knees tucked under you, eyes glaring at the dozens of papers laid in front of you. You have no idea which college to go to or even what major to take. Your hand trembles once again at the thought of losing time, wasting the precious minutes as the clock tick tocks on your side table.

You know you want something to do with art, but there's so many options that it makes your head swirl with all the names of possible majors. Thumping your head on the side of your bed, frustrated doesn't quite describe the feeling you have right now.

The carpet under you is suddenly itchy under your legs, the soft tick tocks are ringing in your ears like a damn gong inside your head.

Your curtains shift, the familiar sound of the window opening and closing isn't much of a surprise around this time of the night.

Hobie's shoes land quietly on your floors, he takes it off quickly before the soles stain your floors. Walking silently, he shifts his eyes at the red numbers on the clock, then to your hunched form. The plastic in his hand crinkles as he drops it on the foot of your bed, careful not to spill.

He pokes your cheeks, gloved hand against your soft skin. “You're contemplating again. Your pout makes you look like a bloody trout.” Sitting down, you don't acknowledge him. Now he's properly concerned. “Oi,” he goes to the softer approach by sliding his hand behind your neck, kneading it gently. “Hunchback of Notre dame, are you alright?”

You snort, finally looking at him through sticky tear drenched lashes. “Did you just call me Quasimodo?”

“Who the fuck is Quasimodo?”

Finally letting out a chuckle, the sound melts his concerns a tad bit. “The hunchback of Notre dame,” you say matter-of-factly. “We need to watch the movie now, Hobie.”

“Right, and then you'll fall asleep again like last time hmm?” Hobie tilts his head, the simple act makes you want to smooch the smirk off his face.

Moonlight spills in your room, illuminating his handsome face. He adds insult to injury when he slides his hands down to your back, pulling you in then embracing you. His smell wafts over you, relaxing your tensed muscles.

“See, already fallin’ asleep.” He murmurs against the crown of your head as you make his chest your home.

“I don't know what to do.” You blurt out, and he pulls you in, impossibly closer to him that you two almost become one.

“You'll figure it out, like you always do.” His hand is splayed atop your waist, squeezing slightly to ease you further into relaxing.

“I don't have the time to figure it all out, Hobie.”

“Yes you bloody do.” He takes your face in his hand, patting your cheek with his thumb, index laying on your temple, carefully massaging the tight muscle. His voice is soft and full of certainty, no ounce of malice. “Look at all these colleges,” he picks up one pamphlet nearest to him. “And— I don't think anyone's this happy to go to college.” He jokes, showing you the model's wide grin. “Look at this happy bloke carrying his books that must've cost an entire month's rent!”

You laugh into his suit, the sound reverberates through his bones, almost making him dance. “I could be that happy. If I can just choose.”

“You can be that happy, love. I know you can, yeah?” He shakes your shoulders. “I was saying before this fiend—” he wiggles the paper in his hand, and you chuckle, “Stopped me, is that all of these unis and majors would be happy to have you. They'd be fucking lucky to be chosen by you.”

Sniffing, you crane your neck to peck his cheek. It earns a content sigh from Hobie.

“That worked?” He asks through his smile, fingers taking a fallen eyelash off your cheek. “Make a wish?”

“Of course it worked, Hobie. You could say anything in that voice of yours and kiss the living hell out of me and it would still cheer me up.” With a gentle blow, you make your wish.

“Anythin' huh?” He pokes your side with a teasing smile. “What'd you wish for?”

“If I tell you it wouldn't come true now would it?”

“If I bribe you with a sandwich from that place you like, will you tell me?” He twists his long arm, patting the crunching plastic.

“Maybe…” you narrow your eyes. “Add a kiss for good measure?”

He's already leaning in, lips brushing along yours. “Mm-hmm bribery, when did I stoop so low?” Smiling, he presses sweetly on your lips.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Hi, what do you think about this news?

BBC News - Climate: NFU Cymru opts out of farming scheme over tree planting

Interesting, isn't it?

Here's the thing: it is a fact that we need more trees than we currently have, that Wales is under-forested, and that decades of inaction mean we now have to make big changes fast rather than incremental changes safely. Given that the Welsh Government is actively trying to base modern Welsh identity on environmentalism (we are the only country in the entire world with dedicated sustainability legislation in the form of the Wellbeing of Future Generations Act, and we're third in the world for recycling rates), it was inevitable that they were going to seize the bull by the horns, so to speak, and set a strict target.

In fact, they have past form for this - there's a reason we're third in the world for recycling. I am simplifying this massively and going to make any lawyers reading this wince, but the way EU legislation works is that the member states agree something should be legislated for, the EU makes a directive, and then the member states each interpret and apply that directive how they want into their own laws (sorry lawyers). In the case of recycling, the EU member states collectively decided we needed to get serious about diversion from landfill in 2008 with the Waste Framework Directive, and then the UK chose how to go about that.

But, waste management is a devolved area. So Wales, Scotland, NI and England all got to implement it themselves how they wanted to. England didn't set any specific targets; it was more like "endeavour to be recycling 50% of waste across the country by X year." But the Welsh Government went "Right, lads, here's the targets: 58% by 2015/16, 64% by 2020, and zero waste by 2050. We'll let you pick the recycling bag colours."

(In Swansea it's green for paper, cardboard, metal and glass, pink for plastic, white for garden waste, and you get a special dark green bin for food waste with a locking lid to keep the seagulls out.)

But that meant Welsh councils had to actually move on it, with the result that we smashed those targets. We're now aiming for 70% recycling by 2025, and zero waste might be brought forward to 2030, because the government likes the model of "Shoot for the moon and land among the stars."

So like. It has worked, in the past.

BUT, the problem with setting arbitrary targets like that is that it doesn't always work, and what happens to people who get caught in the gears, so to speak?

In this case, this is a subsidy scheme. It's still in consultation, but if it goes ahead, farmers get money from the public purse for doing something "for the public good" - they need to tree plant 10% of their land, and manage another 10% as wildlife habitat. Currently, this is true for every farm, regardless of its nature. 20% of productive land removed, and you'll be paid to do so.

But, will that work for every farm? No. No it won't. The smaller your set up, the more that 20% is going to bite into profits that the subsidies won't compensate; and what if you only have productive land? A flatish farm, somewhere in Powys, used for crops rather than livestock? 20% of that is very, very different to 20% of an upland sheep farm with sections that are almost impassable and very difficult to round up the sheep from anyway, where you can simply fence off and plant up the slopes to create ffridd and woodlands. It's a one size fits few policy. I fully believe the government saying plenty of farmers are all for it - this will work for many. But for many others, it's simply not financially viable.

But what I find REALLY interesting about that article, actually, is the way the farmers are framing their objections:

(NFU Cymru) president Aled Jones said farmers were prepared to integrate more trees into farming systems - from "shelterbelts, streamside corridors to field corners". "But we will not take our productive land out of food production for tree-planting," he said.

SHELTERBELTS. That is the Pontbren effect. Pontbren taught us that farmer-led environmental schemes work, and provide additional unexpected benefits including in revenue (it was designed to simply allow the sheep to stay out year round, but the flood control and soil conservation that came with it brought their own benefits - silvopasture, how I love thee.) Now it's there as proof-of-concept, farmers want a piece of that action. They want to be more environmentally sound. But, those trees have to serve an economic purpose, not a solely environmental one; otherwise, it's not going to work for farmers.

And it's very frustrating that the Welsh Government have forgotten that crucial lesson in trying to implement this. But then, as I say, it's true that we need big changes now, and are running out of time for the soft incremental changes. I just think the two could have been married better.

[teriri-sayes]

TCF Modern AU Character Checklist (Official)

RIDI, one of the Korean publishers of TCF/LCF, recently released new ebook volumes for TCF. The volume set consisted of volumes 10-18, spanning chapters 201-398 of Part 1. And RIDI added a "Character Checklist" as the exclusive bonus content for buying the volume set.

What is this character checklist about? It's just a list of things that the characters are most likely to do or prefer. But it is set in a modern AU (alternate universe) setting.

Those who want to purchase official merchandise can head over to RIDI to buy the new ebooks. You can get a 10% discount and a 5000 won coupon if you participate in the event, so the cost for the new volume set will only be 24,160 won. But be aware that this is only in the Korean language. There is no official English ebook for TCF. 🥲

The new ebooks included new novel covers. For volumes 1 - 9, they changed the ebook cover to this:

And for volumes 10-18, the new ebook cover is this:

Because the character checklist is not publicly available for free, I will only post a quick summary of it.

***

Alberu 

likes to eat snacks while working

beautiful handwriting

celebrates others' birthdays grandly

frequent social media poster because of work

Beacrox 

makes tteok-galbi and gives it to Cale

2nd best at making snow ducks

Ron

makes travel plans because of the kids

good at claw machines

Bud 

world traveler who's good at driving any vehicle

frequent social media poster because he's an attention-seeker

Hilsman 

scared of bugs

Witira 

heavy drinker

troublemaker child because she couldn't control her strength

Eruhaben 

good singer of old songs but only does it upon the kids' request

picky appetite

doesn't use kiosks because he's not interested in learning anything new

On

great dancer

makes travel plans

knows the most about memes

Hong

makes travel plans

likes winter because of family get-togethers

frequent social media poster because he finds it exciting

good at drawing because everyone praised their drawings

posts memes

Raon

makes travel plans

prefers to play together than go on amusement park rides

likes winter because of family get-togethers

late sleeper because he always daydreams of going on trips with his family

good at drawing because everyone praised their drawings

Choi Han

stiff dancer

secretly prefers thrills in the amusement park

good at making snow ducks

student with low grades

Deruth

believes in fortune telling stuff but is in denial over it

Cale

somehow ends up as the leader in team projects

celebrates others' birthdays secretly

best fit as the leader of a K-pop boy group

buys lots of online books to read when he achieves slacker life

heavy reader

drinks hot Americano because Ron says cold drinks is bad for him

Mary

likes spicy food

likes horror movies

good at computers because Tasha taught her

Lock

first to apologize after getting into a fight

model student with good grades

Tasha

loves to eat meat

Archie

always grumbles on trips but shuts up when Cale stares at him

Toonka

bad at using machines and gadgets

Cage

prefers eating over studying

Rosalyn

drinks iced Americano in the morning

troublemaker child because she wanted to do lots of things

Jack

likes pineapple pizza

Hannah

likes mint chocolate and eats it together with Mary

***

Some trivia:

Mint chocolate in Korea is similar to pineapple pizza that people either heavily like or dislike.

Witira being a heavy drinker is a pun related to her race as a whale tribe. Sulgorae (술고래) is a figurative expression for a heavy drinker. It’s a combination of the words 술 (alcohol) and 고래 (whale). English has a similar expression to it - drink like a fish

Making snow ducks is a trend in Korea. They use plastic tongs with a duck mold to create snow ducks. Some treat is a game where you make dozens of it fast as if printing out items in a factory, and line it up in a row.

Tteok-galbi is grilled short rib patties. Hmm, delicious~! 😋