#WHY THE FUCK DOES THIS HAVE 100K?!?!

[soranatus]

[sergeantjessi]

one of the biggest downsides to my "apprenticeship" at the uni radio is that i'll write my little texts... then send them to someone... and this person sends them back... with feedback. and i need to adjust my texts accordingly. I ACTUALLY NEED TO EDIT MY WORKS UUGHHHHH

[sweenstar-reblogs]

Me gritting my teeth watching West Europe devolve slowly into Overt Nazism (again)

[corvigae]

You ever look back on your old, extremely bad Windows Movie Maker AMVs that you never bothered deleting off your YouTube and get jumpscared by how many views they have? Just me? Oh, okay...

[luvyeni]

PERSONAS ,, 이제노

⸃ ⸰ ⌁ jeno is surprised by your persona... both of them ヾ

PORNSTAR!이제노・ CAMGIRL!reader ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ g ・ smut ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ wc ・ 6.4k ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎| ‎ ‎click to library

𓂃 🎞️ content warning... sex on film, rough-ish sex, oral sex ( M ), unprotected sex, facial

「 ���୧ authors note 」 finally did a fic based on this photoshoot , doesn’t he look like a 80’s pornstar?

camgirling was only supposed to be something you did for fun, and the cash you got from it wasn't too bad either — you never expected to blow up like you did, the people really liked you.

when you first started it was slow, but that didn't last long and soon you gained a small following. it wasn't until you did a face reveal that you blew up — the fans loved you; that day alone you gained 100k new followers. from that day on you only grew more; more money rolled in which granted you the ability to move into a bigger apartment, pay off your debts and live comfortably without stress.

“it's your persona” your friends would say; you weren't shy about you did for work; you felt like you didn't need to be — no you weren't telling a stranger on the street you did camgirling , but you didn't hide it from your friends. “you're a walking porn trope.” donghyuck; your best friend said. “innocent girl next door look , but we all saw you deepthroat a 6in dildo without gagging.”

that should've offended you but you were used to it. “yeah , that pigmented blush bows and wide puppy dog eyes is cute and all, but it's that and the fact that you bounced on a 7in strap-on attached to a stuffed bear that turns people on.” ryujin said. “you have a face for porn.”

“is there a difference?” your friends looked at you. “duh , of course!” haechan said. “camgirling is mostly done in the comfort of your own home , low production.” he said. “porn is different, with porn there's a script almost like a movie with a crew , and another actor.” you and ryujin both looked at each other. “uh you seem real passionate about that…” he shrugged. “I'm a man of course i do , that's why i know you would be perfect for porn.”

“what would i get out of bad acting in room full of men with hardon watching me be badly fucked by another macho man on viagra and red bull?” you scoffed. “expect a sore clit and a cumshot to the face that tastes like battery acid?” ryujin looked around the cafe where you were sitting , making sure no one heard the conversation. “would you both keep it down?”

“more money, a new following.” he responded nonchalantly , your ears perked up. “go on.” you said now listening. “well the website you use now, it's big but it's niche , only a few new visitors monthly.” he started. “you do one porn video with a good actor with a good following , bingo! you get a new following from his following and it reaches a bigger audience who stumble across your video.” you had to admit although he was loud and you're pretty sure the sweet old lady walking past heard everything, he talked a big game.

“what are you a porn star scout?” ryujin laughed while taking a sip of her hot chocolate. “wait is that a thing?” he asked, you shook your head. “that does sound good, my rent just went up and there's a new pair of shoes that have been sitting in my cart.” you said. “yn don't do porn for a pair of louboutins and rent , get a roommate.” ryujin said, trying to be the voice of reason. “would you do it?” you asked her.

“i love you so i would never lie to you.” she said. “yeah , give me the script.” the three of you busting out into a fit of laughter. “plus if you don't like it then you can easily go back to camgirling.” she said. “and i don't think all male pornstars are bad.”

“and you know this how?” she looked at you. “you think i don't watch porn?” she questioned. “the acting? horrible but who's watching porn for the plot.” haechan raised his hand. “haechan be fucking for real.” you snickered. “what big dick delivery man and hot lonely milf is a work of art.” he said with a serious face. “oh he serious i think.” ryujin said. “that's the scary thing.”

“you know not all the acting is bad either.” ryujin spoke up. “yeah jeno is good even my dick gets hard when i listen to him speak.” you choose to ignore him. “who's jeno.” you asked. “you don't know jeno? the lee jeno, he's huge in the porn world.” ryujin said, you scoffed. “sorry im not familiar with the ryan reynolds of porn.” you said. “you think ryan reynolds would do porn?”

“lee jeno is a huge pornstar; he doesn't even just do porn , he's a model, he walks on runways as well , he's invited into classy spaces despite showing the world his dick.” the girl explained. “and i heard the girls he fucks on camera…” she said. “those orgasms are real.” haechan nodded in agreement. “i heard that too.”

“if you could get with him, you'd be set.” you rolled your eyes. “if he's as good as you say why the fuck would he film a video with me?” you scoffed. “pussy is pussy and money is money.” ryujin shrugged , the horrified worker walked past making the three of you laugh. “my god ryu , you sound like a man.”

“check him out; i swear you'll understand why he's famous.”

“come in , come in.” you flashed a smile to the camera; this wasn't a camgirl video, but a regular live that you sometimes did because your fans wanted you to — for what? you don't question, they pay you to just talk half naked. “how was everyone's day?”

you read through the comments; thanking the commenters for the donations. “what did i do today?” you read off. “well i ran some errands, got a few new toys.” you smirked. “oh and i had some coffee with some friends.” you said. “they told me i have a face for porn.”

the comments blew up with people agreeing. “i guess you guys agree as well.” you giggled playing into that act they loved so muched, reading more comments.

6inchking. what i would do to film a video with you.

user34.52. fuck yes , i would kill to see you fuck someone else.

allsizesmatter. you should film with lee jeno.

“oh? i keep hearing that name, my friends said the same thing.” you said. “is he really that good? maybe i should watch some of his videos.” you said, rolling your eyes at the comments that were in disbelief that you watched porn. “guys don't be ridiculous , why wouldn't i watch porn?” you laughed, grabbing your phone. “let's look him up.”

you typed into the search bar; waiting for the screen to load. “let's see if he lives up to what everyone says he is.” the screen finally loading, the most finest fucking man popping up on your screen. “oh he's really good looking.” you said scrolling through the many pictures. “really good looking.” you almost forgot you were on live — not only was his face godly , it looked like he was sculpted by the gods himself.

user24.52. look at her , already turned on just by his photos.

user22.63. to be looked at by her liked that.

“guys stop.” you giggled, cheeks red. “he is cute though.” you said. “im already so tired from the day.” you said; and yes you were tired, but you also wanted to watch on of his videos. “am i gonna watch one of his videos?” you smiled innocently , before shrugging. “i guess you guys will never know will you.” you blew a kiss to the camera. “bye bye.” you turned the camera off.

after that you wasted no time, climbing into your bed. your phone in your hand as you get comfortable, reaching over into your nightstand grabbing your rose toy; taking off your panties , pulling down your bra , sighing as the wind hit your nipples. “fuck.” you scrolled through jenos account— he had 5.5 million followers; way more than your messily 345k, he was a big deal.

you scrolled through his videos , settling on the most recent one. clicking the video — normally you'd skip the whole “acting scene” but this guy was known for his good acting so you decided to see for yourself.

you were a little bored at first, but as the scene went on you came to the realization that it was one of the best scenes you'd ever watched when watching porn, even though the actress was good , it almost seemed like regular video — besides the bright production lights and 4k hd cameras , and the fact that the beautiful actress herself was dressed in expensive lingerie and heels. her makeup done to the nines.

and then there was jeno; he was just as fine on video than in camera. his voice alone had you itching to touch yourself, which you did— fingers ghosting over your nipples; eyes closing. you almost forgot about the video, until you heard moaning. you opened your eyes to jeno sticking his cock into the girl. believe it or not , you weren't fucking just anyone , you actually only had sex with a few people , but their sizes compared to his were vastly different.

you understood why he was so famous; jeno was extremely good at his job. it was like you were watching a real couple fuck in their bed; jeno was rough; but not like those horrible videos where it looked like the girl wasn't enjoying it — the way the actresses eyes were crossed, it looked like she was very much enjoying it.

you curled your fingers up into your g-spot, thrusting your fingers in and out of your dripping hole. your moans , jenos and the actresses filled your empty room. you wanted to drop the phone and just finish already, desperate to cum , but you couldn't, it was like you were in a trance. the actress came with a loud scream. “oh fuck.” you moaned as jeno brought the girl to her knees , cumming all over the girls face — lord how you wished it was you.

your legs crossed over your hand as you came, back arching off the bed. “fuck!” you sighed as you came down from your high , the next random video playing on your phone. you turned it off , desperately trying to catch your breath. he had this effect on you and all you did was watch his videos.

getting up to clean yourself off; washing your body and your hair. getting out , drying off. you threw on an oversized shirt not bothering to put on underwear, it was just you. grabbing a snack before making your way back to bed to watch tv.

meanwhile a few miles away; jeno sat in his chair scrolling through his feed. he hated night shoots , everyone was tired and ready to go home. the actress today just wasn't good , her acting sucked , she was bitching about everything; how she hated the script; how the outfit was ugly — how she wanted him to cum. he was all for women wanting to what they wanted , but damn how was it his fault he wasn't turned on enough to cum as much as she wanted.

“jeno?” his manager and best friend jaemin , walked into his dressing room. “is it time to go?” he said, not looking up. “well … no, she's still complaining, something about you being too big.” jeno smirked. “so we're figuring that out now.” he said. “can we just sat fuck this shoot and go home?” he said. “im doing them a favor, i don't need the money.” he said. “yeah sure.” jaemin said. “what can they do?” he told the assistant on hand to tell them they were leaving. “what did you want?” he said, putting on his sweats. “when? oh to just show you this.”

he pulled the sweatshirt over his head; taking the phone from his friend's hand. “what am i looking at, who is this girl?” he stared at the screen , watching you talk. “she's cute , new girlfriend?”

“i don't date, she's a camgirl.” he scoffed at his friend. “her?” he looked at you once again. “stop fucking around her?” you looked so innocent, dressed like a doll , cute makeup, cheeks extremely pink from blush, normally jeno thinks that makeup look is crazy, but you made it work. “she doesn't even look like she's seen a porn film.”

“not everything is what it seems my friend look.” he clicked another video— and he swore he was watching another girl. “did she just?” jeno was shocked. “yes , she did.” his friend smirked while he stared in shock as he watched you take a 9in toy down your throat without gagging. “no gag reflex , if she has a boyfriend he's a lucky fucking bastard.”

jeno pushed the phone away; not that he didn't want to see it, but he also didn't want to cum in his pants to a video in front of his friend. “why are you showing me this?” he said. “you know i don't do camming.”

“yeah , but people want you both to collaborate. apparently she talked about you today and the internet is going crazy.” jaemin said. “she has good following , not as big as yours , but that shouldn't even matter , bro she doesn't have a gag reflex , i’d do it for fun.” jeno picked his bag up, slinging it over his shoulder. “does she even have a manager? does she even want to do porn? why am i asking the questions that i pay you to already have answered before coming to me?”

“she's a independent artist i think, but I'm sure she'd answer a dm.” jeno lifted his eyebrow. “yeah , because she'd answer a random message asking her does she want to do porn , bro she gets those messages daily.” he said. “im sure i could work it out.” he said. “well then come back to me when you do.” jeno slapped his friends chest. “now let's go im hungry.” he said. “i’ll send you that link to the full video , you have to see it.”

“which one did you watch?” haechan asked. “why are we having this conversation right now?” you said cheeks red. “you've literally told us about how you — the recent one.” you interrupted ryujin before she embarrassed you. “i watched the recent one.” she nodded. “oh that one is good, that actress is hot.” she said , hyuck nodding in agreement. “she is.”

“she was, they both were.” you said. “and the acting was good , i actually watched it.” haechan pointed. “told you sometimes the plot just hits.”

“i thought i was watching a couple fucking, either one , that actress is in the wrong business or two , he's a good fucker and she wasn't acting.” you said. “she actually looked excited for him to cum on her.” you could still hear the moans playing in your head. “okay snap out of it , no one wants to watch you get turned on in public.” ryujin said , haechan scoffed. “speak for yourself.”

you laughed , your phone buzzing making you break away from the conversation; it was a message from twitter dm. you ignored it , thinking it was a normal everyday dm from a fan. you sat your phone down only for it to go off multiple times. “girl you got a boyfriend we don't know about? who the hell is texting you like that?” ryujin picked up your phone. “probably a weird fan, im gonna close my dms”

that didn't stop ryujin from clicking the messages, ready to troll the person. “oh girl , i don't think so.” she handed you the device back. “what is it?”

reading through the text messages. “what is it , don't leave me out.” haechan whined. “it's from jenos manager.” ryujin said , haechan sat up from his seat. “what let me see.” he snatched the phone. “oh my god , jeno wants to film with you.” he said. “it's like the porn gods answered us.”

“must you act like a neanderthal? it's probably a fake account.” haechan clicked the account. “it's verified and there's pictures of them together , they seem close.” he said. “he wants you to call him , he gave you a number to call.” he gave you back the phone. “oh my god let's go back to yours so you can call.”

they basically dragged you back to your apartment after that, forcing you to call the boy. “you both have to shut the fuck up if i put it on speaker.” you said typing down the number into the keypad. “probably about to call a random guy just so he can jerk off to my voice.” you pushed the call button. “don't you do that already.” you scoffed. “yeah but i get paid for it.”

the three of you sitting around the bed waiting for them to answer. “hello?” you picked up the phone. “is this na jaemin?” you said. “yes is this yn? i know your voice— wait, not like that.” your two friends snickered. “it's fine, i almost didn't call you, i thought you were a weird fan.”

“understandable; it's probably a weird text , but it me and everything i sent was true.” he said. “it is?” your eyes widened. “s-so he really does want to film with me?” you asked. “yes , he does.” you wanted to squeal , but you didn't want to seem desperate. “oh that's cool.” you said. “oh that's cool?” ryujin whispered to herself. “shut up.” you gritted through your teeth. “excuse me.”

“oh nothing.” you said. “oh okay, well first thing, we set up a meeting with you both.” he said. “just so when you film it won't be too awkward , then we film.”

“that's it?” you said. “that's it , you both show up to film, we'll provide everything else for you.” you looked at your friends who nodded their heads. “how does that sound?” he said. “i guess that's fine.” you said. “great! i’ll let him know, are you free tomorrow?”

“tomorrow? uh yeah sure im free.” you said. “great i'll send the address where to meet us see you tomorrow!” you hung up the phone. “oh my god i can't believe that just happened.” you tossed the phone down on the bed. “this is crazy , you get to film with lee jeno.” haechan said. “i almost want to be in your shoes.”

the next day you got ready for the meeting; putting on your best outfit — so you wouldn't feel so nervous, and maybe to impress them a little. jaemin had sent you the address the night before and lucky for you it was in walking distance from your place. “im almost there's , so I'll call you back when it's over.” you said the restaurant in your view. “you better and be careful , just cause there hasn't been a serial killer porn star, doesn't mean there can't be one.” ryujin ordered. “okay im here.”

you quickly said your goodbyes, before hanging up. you reached for the door , walking into the restaurant. you looked down at your phone, ready to send the man a text when someone tapped your shoulders. “yn?”

“oh hi.” you smiled. “i was just about to text you.” you put your phone away. “you're right on time , jeno is over there.” he said “let's go.” your hands were sweating from nerves as you approached the table , the man himself coming into view. “don't be nervous, he's not as intimidating as he looks on camera.” he said. “jeno.”

the boy looked up from his phone; and he almost did a double take. you really didn't look like what you did for work; gorgeous? yes. but he just couldn't see you doing what he saw you do the night before. “oh shit.” he stood up. “hey.” he said , holding his hands out. you reached for his hand , shaking it. “h-hi.”

“both of you sit down , sit down and get comfortable.” jaemin said. “before i give you some space , let's go over the details.” he sat down. “okay.” you smiled.

jeno didn't need to listen; jaemin would just repeat it over for him — instead he just looked at you, studying you. he watched you fiddle with your nails while listening to his friend intently. his eyes traveling down to your lips, biting the bottom one. “jeno?” jaemin knocked him out of his thoughts. “what?” he watched you shuffle in your seat. “i said you understand all that?”

“yeah , yeah i do.” he said. jaemin knew he didn't , but he'd explain later. “we filming on wednesday, it will only take one day , but it's a all day shoot is that fine?” you nodded. “of course.” you said. “that works for me.”

“good , now i'll give you both some time to get to know each other.” he stood up. “i’ll get you both some food as well.” he walked away. “thank you.” you called out, it fully hit you that you were left alone with jeno again , he smirked watching you shy away once again. “i guess this is the real you.”

“h-huh?” you asked , he sat up; putting his elbows on the table, watching you. “the bows really do change how one would look at you.” your hand came to your head. “no , keep them in , don't take them out.” your hands immediately went to your lap. “cute.”

“me-me?” you gulped. “is anyone else sitting there love?” your cheeks were flushed , to jeno it was like your already pink cheeks were now red. “here you guys go.” jaemin came back with two plates. “i ordered enough steak for you to share , and some pasta.” he said. “i’ll leave you two , jeno play nice , she's perfect for this and we don't need you scaring her off.”

“go ahead.” he said. “eat.” you picked up the fork nervously, picking up a slice of the meat. “now put to your mouth and eat it.” it felt like he was gonna eat you alive , you put the steak to your mouth , biting it. “good girl , i can already tell im gonna like you.”

“so tell me , why'd you want to do this?” jeno asked. “do-do what?” you asked. “do I need to spell it out baby , porn what made you want to do this?” he said. “most camgirls stick to that.” you sat the fork down , taking a sip of water. “well it's kinda stupid.” you said , he waved you off. “tell me.” he said. “well my friends told me i’d be good at it.” you said. “and you just listened to them?” he raised his eyebrows. “you must agree with them.”

“i guess.” you said. “i didn't really understand what they meant by that.” he sat back listening. “i do.” he really did , truth is jeno spent the night before watching your past streams , and fuck did you put on a performance. he had to force himself to put his phone down before he started shooting blanks , his hands and his cock covered in his cum as your moans played over and over on his phone. “well why do you do it?”

“me?” he asked , shrugging. “because i like to fuck.” he laughed, watching your eyes widen. “don't look so surprised baby it's really not that surprising,” he said. “i like to fuck and i like making money , why not do both?” jeno never wanted to be a pornstar , his main dream was to be a model , turns out it wasn't that easy — but it was easy to pick up a camera and film himself fucking. “b-but you're a model , you don't need to do this.”

“you're right i don't , but here we are.” he eyed you up and down , eyes shamelessly stopping at your bust. “just like you.” he said. “y-yeah.”

“you've watched a few of my videos haven't you?” he asked. “i watched yours.” you wanted to lie , but how could you when he was being so truthful. “a few.” you gulped. “so you know im not gonna go easy on you right?” the way he talked so confidently it sent shivers down your spine. “but im sure you can take it right?” your body hot. “i mean im bigger than what you've taken but im sure you can learn to take it right?”

“i can take it.” you said, quickly covering your mouth. “yeah? let's see on thursday.” he bit his lip. “give me your phone.” he said. “here.” you handed it to him. “you listen well , i fucking love that.” he typed down his number. “i don't give my number out to every actress.” he said, handing you your phone back , jaemin returning back to the table. “we have to go soon.”

“that's too bad , we were just getting to know each other.” reaching for your card. “relax , im paying.” jeno said. “i-i have money.” you said. “i'm sure you do , but i didn't ask.” he said. “yn do you need a uber?” jaemin asked, but you were too busy making googly eyes at jeno. “oh no , i-i live a few minutes away.” jaemin nodded. “well it was nice to meet you , why don't you head out first and we'll stay behind and settle this.” you smiled. “thank you.”

“just show up on wednesday as you are ready to film.” you nodded. “of course!” you smiled, about to walk away when jeno grabbed your hand. “your phone love.” you took it from his hands. “thank you.” and just like that , the boys watched you leave out. “you done making googly eyes?” jaemin said. “can i take you home so i can get to my date?” jeno rolled his eyes. “hey don't get upset with me, nothing stopped you from following behind her and getting a pre show of wednesday.”

wednesday came quick; you have a busy few days before — you wanted everything perfect , getting your hair done; waxing your eyebrows and other areas. you hadn't used the number jeno gave you , scared to use it , even though your friends encouraged you too. “you're about to have his cock inside you , this phone call would be nothing.”

still you didn't budge; it probably didn't even bother the boy, he could've easily called someone else.

the production had arranged for a car to pick you up from your place to take you to a location; you read the script on the way there , it was a simple script since it was your first project on this scale — something about neighbors. it really didn't matter to you, you were excited but nervous. “we're here miss.” it was an actual house; a nice one.

you got up to the car , thanking the driver. “okay.” you said to yourself. “let's do this.” you said, the door was open so you just walked in , people running around, cameras and lights everywhere. “you must be yn?” a woman came up to you. “hi?” you said. “you are?” she smiled. “im kim , I run the production company that films the videos jeno is in.” she said. “you do?”

“yes i do; is it a little weird because im a woman?” you shook your head. “no of course not!” you said she laughed. “we're all about comfortability, to make sure you and the actor are both comfortable.” she said. “jeno is already on set , he's normally never here early.” she said. “actually he's normally late.” she said. “but enough about him , let's get you to your dressing room.”

she guided you to your room, opening the door. “this is your first shoot so i wanted to make sure everything was perfect.” she held your back guiding you in. “we have a stylist that will help you , along with make up who will make you even more beautiful.” she was extremely nice. “thank you so much.” you said. “don't worry about it , just get relaxed and ready to film some scenes.” she said. “the stylist will be in here soon , make-up as well.”

she left you alone after that , you looked around the room , she laid out a display of snacks that made you smile — your phone ringing , you took it out of your pocket , furrowing your eyebrows at the unrecognizable number. “so your phone does work.” you recognized the room , whipping around. “je-jeno.”

he walked into the room. “it's been a busy week.” you said. “yeah?” you nodded. “you aren't wearing the bows today,” he said. “gonna tell the stylist to change that.” you nervously took a step back. “i like the bows , let's put them in the movie.” you nodded. “ok-okay.” he was close enough to smell his cologne. “relax , im not gonna bite.” he said. “at least not now.” you squeaked as he pressed against you. “later im not promising anything.”

“i could definitely take you right here right now.” he confessed. “give you a quick training on taking me before later.” he said, his body looming over you. “but i kinda want to wait until later.” he smirked , your knees almost buckling under you. “let's wait until later, yeah?” he said. “ye-yeah.” you sighed in relief when he stepped back , finally letting you breathe. “i’ll see you in a bit love.”

you didn't have time to process what just happened before the stylist and the makeup artist both shuffled in. “out jeno out we have to get her ready.” he was quickly pushed out. “gosh.” the stylist said. “he's never here this early all of sudden he's early.” the makeup artist turned to you. “well there's the reason right there, you are gorgeous.” you smiled. “th-thank you.”

“let's get you ready.”

the outfit wasn't much different from what you normally wear , just a lingerie version meaning it was much shorter; so short you could see your ass , poking from your panties — but it was still cute. “you look pretty.” the stylist said, picking up the bows. “per jenos request, hope you don't mind.” she placed the bow in your hair. “done.”

they left , kim returning soon after. “you ready.” you nodded. “let's go.” she guided you to the front where the scene would take place , the cameras ready. “yn , hey.” jaemin said. “oh hi.” you waved back. “you look nice , you ready?” you nodded. “i'm a little nervous , this is much different than my room.”

“don't worry about it; it's your first big production.” he said. “just do your best.” he reassured you. “jeno is done with make-up so we should be starting — five minutes!” someone shouted , you giggled. “in five minutes.” he said. “good luck.”

“the scene starts with you in the kitchen.” the producer guided you to the kitchen , leaving you alone. you leaned over the counter , scrolling through your phone while you waited. “you look too good right now.” jeno caged you in between his arms. “th-thank you , you smell nice.” it just slipped out your mouth. “oh , i-i di-didn’t — you smell nice too.” he said , your cheeks were already red enough. “makes me want to eat you up right here.” he didn't know how much he really was effecting you , anymore of what he would be doing and you'd be begging him to fuck you right there. “okay actors , get in position!”

“good luck princess.” he walked away, leaving you to pull yourself together and get ready for the scene. “are they actors ready?” everyone got into position. “okay, rolling in 5…4…3…2…1 , start !”

the scene went exceptionally well; it was build up scene that leads up to the actual sex scene — but even those scenes were hot and heavy; at least jeno made it like that. it took a few hours to film , making sure to get every angle. “okay great, the next scene jeno you what to do.”

jeno didn't know if he had it in him; the resistance as the camera guy yelled for the scene to start again — the strength to hold himself together once he got his lips on you; he was a professional, but with you it felt like his very first scene.

“you can do what you want.” you spoke up , back into character , you were a natural — almost like you were talking to him outside of character. “what did you say?” he said , damn near forgetting his line. you looked down at your fingers. “to me , you can do what you want to me.”

there was the girl from the streams; it flicked just like that; your other persona , the one from the restaurant that told him you could take it — and he was about to put it to the test. “i can?” his big hand wrapping around your neck. “you don't know me that well but you'd let me do what i want to you?”

that was basically your current situation with the man; yeah you had only met him four days ago, but you'd let him do whatever he wanted , on and off camera. “y-yes.”

“that's real whore like of you.” his hand squeezed your throat. “real whore like.” he said, slamming his lips against yours. unfortunately the scene took place on a couch so he didn't have much room to work with , but it didn't mean anything to him — besides he'll just fuck you into your mattress on another day.

the kiss was rough; his hand squeezing your throat as he pushed his tongue into your mouth. “fuck.” he cursed, pulling away. “get on your knees.” he pushed you down , the camera close to your face as he unbuckled his pants. “gonna fuck your face.” he pulled his cock out , it was definitely bigger than the dildos you were use to. “hey.” he slapped your face. “come on, be a good whore and suck my cock.”

he grabbed the base of his cock , slapping it on your cheek. “open slut.” he shoved his length inside your mouth , and much like your previous streams , you took him into your throat without gagging. “yeah , fuck swallowing my fucking cock like that.” he groaned , holding the back of your head moving you up and down on his thick length , also moving his hips. “cock sucking slut , how many cocks has this throat taken?”

he was using your mouth; the cameras all there filming it turned you on even more , the many people watching in the room as he fucked your face made you hornier. “yeah fuck!” he had to force himself out of you so he wouldn't cum fast. “get up.” he pulled you up , throwing you to the couch. “ass up, now slut.”

he pulled the dress up , revealing the matching color set they put you in. “dumb slut is wet from sucking cock.” he slapped your ass , you moaned , he pulled your panties down , your folds covered in your slick. “messy pussy , gonna stuff you full of my cock.” he maneuvered your body on the small couch. “arch your back.”

he pushed your head down on the couch seat. “gonna make you take it all at once.” your whimpering turned into screams as he abruptly shoved his entire length into your pussy. “hell you're fucking tight.” he groaned , pulling out slamming back inside. “fuck!” he began to fuck into you , holding the back of your neck. “such a whore.”

his thrust were brutal and unrelentless; the camera catching everything — his cock stretching you out more than you've ever been, the squelching sounds from your cunt it was embarrassing, having people hear that ; but the embarrassment soon was forgotten as he went deeper. “my fuck -oh my- oh my fucking god.”

he let out a lust filled chuckle. “so stupid baby.” he slapped your ass. “my cock really made your brain turn to mush.” he abruptly pulled out of you , slapping your ass , your legs shook. “turn around.” he flipped you on your back.

you looked up at him with teary wide eyes. but he could see the lust in them. “that innocent look doesn't work on me.” he slapped your cunt. “i can see through whores like you.” he lined his cock up with your hole. “innocent looking but ready to take any cock they can get.”

this new angle had you reaching for anything , jenos arm; the couch cushion — his cock had you grabbing at the air. he pulled down the front of the lingerie , your tits now bouncing along with his thrust. the rumors proving to be true as you felt your orgasm approaching. “you're clenching around me , fuck your pussy is suffocating my cock.” he growled. “fuck im gonna cum!” you screamed out. “cum slut , wet my cock with your cum.”

he had your legs open wide , holding your shaking thighs. “cum.” your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you came, soaking his stomach and the seat below you. a high pitched moan coming from your mouth as he kept going. “fuck keep cumming on my cock.” he slapped your poor clit rubbing rubbing it. “yeah im gonna - fuck - im gonna cum.” he groaned. “fuck im gonna cum all over your face.”

he pulled out of your twitching hole , standing over your face , stroking his cock. the camera was up close again as he came — and he came a lot. he groaned, throwing his head back as he covered you in his seed. “fuck.”

you laid out on the couch , his thumb still rubbing at your clit as your reached your final orgasm , your thighs shaking uncontrollably. “cut!”

jeno almost forgot about the camera; ready to bring you to another orgasm. “je-jeno.” your shaking voice pulled him from his horny state. “shit im sorry.” he pulled away , desperately wanting to taste you. “almost made you squirt again.” he smirked. “now how would we explain that? because the camera is off.”

“get her a cover.” he shouted , someone running over to you both , he covered your body. “jeno.” they handed him a robe. “you did so good.” the staff handing you fluids. “felt like watching a couple have sex , you're a natural girl.” you nodded with a smile. “are you a natural princess?” jeno spoke up once they were gone. “or is it because those screams were real?”

you lowered your head , shying away from his gaze. “don't hide from me now , i know your real persona , and these cameras maybe done rolling, but i'm not done with you yet.” he whispered , just as you were pulled from your seat by a staff member and whisked back to your room. “you ready to go?” jaemin came over. “no need to drive me home tonight,” he said. “why not?” asked Jaemin.

“because im not going home tonight.”

©️LUVYENI

[alphabetboyluvr]

NIGHT CRAWLERS - JJK

title credit: night crawlers - kids in glass houses

pairing: drugrunner!jungkook x sugarbaby!reader, college au

synopsis:

jungkook’s always been good at running. track, field, red lights, shit outta luck. drugs, now, too. but he doesn’t expect to run into you. in your shared lecture halls, sure. maybe. but not down the back alleys of daerim at ass o’clock in the morning. there are only three types of women he ever sees in daerim: hookers, sugar-babies and addicts. you aren't any of those; you're a trust-fund baby who can get percocet on private repeat prescription, if you really want it. he's sure of it. so it then further begs the question: why the fuck are you here?

warnings: jungkook and o/c are polar opposites, but y’know what they say, opposites attract and all that jazz, jk is a college student but also a drug runner, mentions of gang dynamics and hierarchy, oc is a sugar baby, mentions of consensual but uncomfortable sexual encounters as a result of this (proceed with caution), drugs, violence, blood, motorbikes, hurt/comfort, all the good stuff, smut – fingering, tittie sucking (wow pretend to be shocked!), unprotected sex, jk has the hugest cawk in the whole entire world, jk is a lil aggressive but in a sexy way, he accidentally says something mean during sex (not sexy mean, actually mean (he makes up for it tho!)), jk on top, oc on top, mentions of his pubes (yummy), tummy pressing, kissy kissy kissy koo, creampie, post-coitus nap, they’re literally in love idk what to tell you, ambiguous ending!!

wordcount: 26K

note from holly: originally published to wattpad in 2021 and also briefly uploaded to tumblr, too. It’s just hit 100k reads over on wattpad so I thought I’d put it here too!! There are two additional chapters on wattpad, connecting the story another fic of mine and also showing us jk + oc four years on from the events of NC!! If you’re interested, you can find it here (x).

i write in british english!! both in spelling and dialect!!

minors dni // cross posted to wattpad

IT'S BEEN SAID that with great notoriety, comes great responsibility to uphold the expectations of those who presume the worst about you.

Okay, so that's a lie. No one's ever said that - but Jeon Jungkook has never been one for sticking to traditions, and so he likes to live his life as if that's his motto.

That, and 'rather be dead than cool.'

Which is ironic, because it's only the heteropatriarchal bores - the ones from upper-class families, who want a white picket fence and 2.4 kids - that actually think he's lame.

And he doesn't particularly give a shit about their opinions.

Everyone else thinks he's actually pretty fuckin' cool.

Black nails, black cargo pants, black hair that waves loosely over his sharp features. An air of command as he walks, a swagger in his step that lingers in stranger's heads like the silage of his aftershave.

Yeah, Jungkook is cool, and he fucking knows it.

A rucksack is perpetually slung over his shoulder, the top concaved slightly to indicate there's very little in there, not much more than a tatty notepad and a few loose pens - or so you assume.

You've never actually spoken to him. Why would you?

Daddy's little princess, glossy lips, manicured nails. The kind of girl who gives him a second look, but only to sneer. He doesn't think of you often, but when he does, it's never nice.

Jungkook doesn't have time for you, and you don't have time for him. Your paths rarely cross.

At least they barely crossed. Past tense. 

Now that you're taking a few of the same classes as him, he sees you a lot more than he likes. Hair always up in that stupid fucking ponytail that he can't see past, perpetually on your phone. Attention seeking little bitch.

He'd ranted a little to Jimin about it, told him that you really must have been a dumb bitch to swap from an economics major to a film studies major with only a single semester left.

Jimin hadn't said much in return. Unlike Jungkook and his insatiable hate-boner for you, Jimin really doesn't give a shit about you. Barely knows your name, let alone the fact that you studied economics before switching over. Was kind of curious as to how Jungkook knew that. Not enough to bother with asking, though.

Jungkook thinks it's normal to scope out the competition. A little Facebook look-up, Naver search, Instagram scroll. Surely it's rational to do that? Check out their LinkedIn, cross-reference their Twitter history to see what they've said about the course.

It absolutely isn't normal, but then again, nor is Jungkook.

He's exactly as he appears to be; the rogue look isn't a front.

But beneath the exterior, there are a few more traditions he's subverting. 

He's the first in his family to attend college, and he needs to ace this class to keep his scholarship.

It's all just projection, the way he despises you.

You've got everything he wants. A well-to-do family, money, prosperity, financial security. He's never known that. And while he shits on you for having parents that have provided for you, all he wants in life is to be able to do the same for his own children one day.

"I've matched you all with students of a similar grade level, so no one is at an unfair advantage," your professor calls out, tearing Jungkook from his thoughts. "Not a single one of you will experience the city in the same way. From shortcuts to your favourite coffee spots, your lives here will have been different to those of your peers."

Jungkook smirks, leaning back on his chair. He knows this city better than most; its dark corners, where the monsters lurk... how to hide and where to run.

Again, the rogue look isn't a front.

But he also knows how to work a camera better than anyone in that room, how to time his shots, how to frame them, too. Top of the class, though modestly quiet about it (he's got a reputation to uphold, after all), he's curious to see who would be considered an even match for him.

"That being said, your experiences are also shared with those around you. For this assignment, with your partner, I want you to create a unique piece of film that captures what the city means to you. Think outside the box. Create something that excites, that invokes. You've got eight weeks. The partner list is on the noticeboard at the back of the hall. Dismissed."

Footsteps echo around the lecture hall as everyone trundles out of the room. You wait back, having already seen the list before you entered the class.

Instead, you pull out a pen - one of the ones that Jungkook hates, with a ridiculous fluffy pink pom-pom on top - and jot down your number. You aren't aware of his insatiable hatred, and either way, you don't really care.

He ignores you as you approach his desk, eyes only drifting upwards when you slide the torn-out piece of paper towards him.

"Mhmm?"

He's rude, you notice. Brows raised, expression flat, he's fed up with you before you've even said a word. Kinda hot, admittedly, but rude.

"We're partners," you say with an ambivalent shrug. Jungkook's jaw seems to tense, head tilting as he breathes out a short smirk.

Partners?

"You haven't even gone out to check the board."

"So what?" You scoff a little. He doesn't like your tone. The feeling is mutual. "I just made it up?"

It's his turn to shrug, now. "Dunno. You tell me."

His hair waves around his features, and you wonder how long it takes him to make it look so natural. The girls around campus swoon over his hair, like he's some kind of God. Other boys try to emulate it, but they can never quite pull it off like he does.

Another thing that all the girls giggle about are his doe-like eyes, but they're hard, now. Narrow, almost. Less of a doe, more like a dragon. Maybe if you get his nostrils flaring, he'll breathe fire, too.

Yeah, he's hot, you want to laugh to yourself, but not that hot.

"I checked before I came in. Didn't take a genius to work out what it was for."

He takes a moment before he nods. "Right. Well, you should probably know that I work better alone. Just let me handle the assignment, a'right? You can put your name on it, whatever, I don't care. Just let me handle it."

A control freak, you note. Nice.

You didn't transfer majors in your last semester, and face all the hardships that came with such a decision, just to sit back and let someone else do the hard work for you.

"With all due respect, it's a joint assignment. I'm not putting my name on work I didn't actually do."

A stickler for the rules, he assesses. Fucking fastastic.

"Look," he sighs, adjusting his body so that he's practically leaning halfway over his desk. As much as it sounds like he doesn't want to be a part of this conversation, his body language is oddly engaged. "I need to ace this class. You've been here, what? All of three minutes? Film what you wanna film, send it over to me for editing."

"I'm very much capable of editing-"

"And if you could do me a favour and keep the nail salon footage to a minimum, that would be much appreciated. Everyone's seen that shit. It's not interesting. Gangnam underground shopping centre B-roll, too."

It's a thinly veiled insult. Assumptions he's making about you based on the clothes you wear and the company you keep. He doesn't explicitly say it, but you know what he means: you're not interesting.

Jungkook doesn't mean to be an asshole. Not really. He's just got a lot riding on this course, and doesn't want to risk it all for the sake of keeping the peace with someone he doesn't particularly like in the first place.

"Like our Professor said, we all experience the city differently," you plaster a smile on your face, the plastic kind that Jungkook hates. "You might just be surprised at what I can offer."

Private tennis clubs and shopping sprees worth more than a second-hand car? Yeah, no. He'll pass, thanks.

"Whatever," he reclines back, giving your number the once over before tearing a strip of empty paper from the bottom of the note. His hand moves quickly, scrawling his own number onto it. He doesn't hand it to you, but instead tosses it down onto the desk as he stands. "As I said, I work best alone. Don't bombard me with messages about the project. I'll have it under control."

He vacates his desk with an air of arrogance that you don't think he's yet earnt. Sure, he's hot, and from what you've seen of his work, he's pretty talented, too. But no one likes working with assholes, and the whole point of being at college was to make yourself a desirable candidate for jobs.

Or at least that's what your parents had always said.

When they were still talking to you, that was.

Before they decided that you're a disgrace to the family name, all for the simple desire of not wanting to spend your life slaving over finances and spreadsheets.

Like inheritance and a slightly crooked nose (straightened out for your high school graduation gift), econ majors ran in your family - and just like you'd cut off your parents' dream of watching you become an economist, they'd cut you off. Full stop.

So as far as you were concerned, Jungkook could take his arrogant whining about your financial situation, and the hobbies you might have enjoyed as a result of your upbringing, and shove it up his ass.

You really wish he would. Shove it up his ass, that is. Might relieve him of the pent up tension he seems to have going on.

Swiping up his number, you tuck it into your back pocket, ruing the day you'll actually have to text it.

It comes as a surprise to both of you when, a week later, Jungkook is the first to type a message into your fledgeling chat window.

I'm filming tonight. Could use a Grip, if you're free. Dongdaemun Design Plaza, 7pm.

You wonder how much pride he must have had to swallow in order to send you that. 

On occasion, during the past week, you've caught him looking at you in that slightly menacing way he always likes to do.

Part of you thinks he's unaware that he's doing it, just zoning out in your direction, but then you see him shake sense into himself - quite literally, a bunny with an itch behind its ear kind of shake - before he averts his gaze. 

He does a similar shake of his head when your response pings through to his phone.

Can't do Tuesdays or Thursdays. Sorry. Maybe another time.

He doesn't reply.

REJECTION HAS NEVER been something Jungkook has taken well. It's why he works so hard, fearful of being told that he isn't good enough.

He'd only sent that text because he genuinely did need a Grip.

Well, no. 

That's not quite right. 

He needed a muse; a subject of his shots, a pair of eyes to catch the confetti of night market lights in. Someone's hand to film as they exchanged money with a hotteok stand server, another human to get lost and found all within the same shot.

But that felt awkward to ask, especially after his insistence that he could do it all alone, so he'd settled for pretending he'd needed a grip. Just someone to hold his gear while he took tricky shots. That's all.

Given your rejection, he was pleased with his choice.

"Familiar," Yoongi nods over lunch the next day, following Jungkook's gaze. "Yeah, I've definitely seen her around. Dunno where, though."

"Campus, maybe?" Jimin rolls his eyes, confused at the fixation Jungkook seems to have on you.

Yoongi shakes his head. "Nah... She looks like-" he glances over to Jungkook conscious of Jimin's listening ears.

"Like?"

"Just like a girl I see occasionally," Yoongi pauses again, making sure Jungkook's focus on him. "At work."

Jimin laughs. "So yeah, on campus. You work in the campus cafe, Yoongs."

It was the only legitimate place that would hire him. Dumb choices as a kid - and a questionable nickname that's now etched into his knuckles - prevents most places from seeing him as a viable candidate.

Yoongi laughs along with Jimin, but Jungkook knows Yoongi isn't talking about the once a week shift that he picked up as a form of extra credit.

Jungkook knows, because on paper, he doesn't have a job either.

On paper, he manages to survive on his scholarship bursary, The Holangi Honour, awarded to gifted students from underprivileged backgrounds.

On paper, Jungkook is the Korean dream of hard work and perseverance.

His reality isn't so pristine, but it never has been. He comes from a long line of high school dropouts with dubious morals and criminally reckless career choices. It was naive to have thought attending university would help him escape it.

Scholarship funds dried up pretty quickly, rent and t-money cards eating away at it, until Jungkook had no choice but to revisit old haunts.

Yoongi had told Jungkook that he didn't need to worry, that he could help him out if he needed money, but Jungkook was no leech, much to his older friend's despair. He didn't want the kid getting into the same trouble that he was in.

One meeting with Yoongi's old school friend, Hoseok and Jungkook was in the rat race again, delivering people's come ups for when the sun went down. 

He'd always been good at running. Track, field, red lights, out of luck. Drugs, now, too.

Jungkook had managed a good year and a half on the straight and narrow. For that, he was proud. And sad.

But he's also determined. 

Top grades mean top jobs in the future, which means never having to traipse around Daerim at ass o'clock in the morning.

He hates this part of town, but it's where business is currently booming.

Hobi texts him a drop-off list each morning, ensuring his nights are almost exclusively spent in Daerim.

This is how Jungkook sees the city: grotty back allies, groups of men huddled around a pack of cards and dice on the floor, cigarettes hanging out of their mouths, phlegm spat onto the foor. He sees the women of the night in the early hours of the morning, and the sadness in the smiles they give to the men who approach them on street corners.

There's only one club of any worthwhile note in the area, and between jobs, Jungkook likes to sit up on the fire exit that rests above the back entrance.

It's where Hobi works, assisting some other reprobate that Jungkook doesn't care to learn the name of. Nasty piece of work, or so he's heard. The son of some powerful motherfucker that Jungkook knows to stay away from. He isn't interested in joining any stupid fucking gang. He just wants to get his money, get through university, and forget about this place.

That's the big dream at least.

His current wish, which feels much more immediate, is to outrun the fucker who has been on his tail for the past half a mile. Jungkook's pretty fast on his feet, and he gives a mean left-hook, but the guy chasing him has a pocket knife and that doesn't really feel like a fair fight.

It's his fault, and he knows it.

As per usual, Hobi had texted Jungkook his drop off list. Six of them, all in Daerim. He had no business being down by Jungang Market, especially not on a Thursday evening.

He couldn't even explain why he was; he was just curious about what life could be like if he ended up flunking out of college. He wanted to see where the monsters liked to lurk, or if they hid in the shadows like boogeymen.

But reprobate recognises reprobate, and drug runner recognises drug runner.

So now Jungkook really is running, out of territory that he shouldn't have infringed upon.

He's not out of breath yet, but he is conscious that his heartbeat feels like it's in his throat. A few streets over, his motorbike is parked behind an industrial-sized trash can, and he prays that no thieving cunt has tried to make a get away with it. They wouldn't have managed it - it's his prized possession and he never leaves it unprotected.

When he spots it a few minutes later, he laughs, relieved. "You beauty," he praises the engine, pulling his key from the pocket of his leather jacket.

The fucker chasing him is nowhere to be seen, probably nursing a stitch or panting down a different back alley. Jungkook doesn't want to risk it, eyes darting all over the place as he unbuckles the chain on his bike wheel with muscle memory alone. The metal clangs through the iron bars that protect the banjihas down the alley from break-ins. He always feels a little bit of guilt for chaining his bike up to the only source of natural light for the half-basement dwellings, but it's quarter past two in the morning. Not exactly sunshine hours.

And yet his eye is drawn to the light pouring down from a street lamp at the entrance of the narrow lane.

Usually, you ignore the noises you hear on your walk home - but, as strange as it sounded for Jungkook's voice to issue a compliment, you're almost positive that it is his voice.

Dark hair, dark eyes, he doesn't recognise you at first. You're wearing black, and your hair is down, but your lips still have that stupid fucking pink lipstick on, the one he'd seen you blot away onto a tissue in the middle of a lecture a few days prior.

His eyes linger, the lights flickering in his glossy dark irises as if there are fireworks inside that pretty little skull of his. For a moment, he thinks you must have been filming for the assignment. 

The lack of a camera proves otherwise.

"Get on the bike," he yells over to you, tugging on the sleeve of his leather jacket, pulling it down. Cognitive thoughts aren't something Jungkook's really working with, the adrenaline speaking for him.

That, and the fact that he's acutely aware of what men like the motherfucker who was chasing him down did to girls like you. Might not like you, but he doesn't want that on his conscience.

Plus, he needs your signature on the coursework documents, too. You're no use to him if you end up chopped into little squares and scattered in the river.

"Damnit, just get on the fucking bike!" He continues, noticing that you haven't moved a muscle. His jacket is off now, held out for you to take. He's impatient, eyes darting down the alleyway, as if he's scared of the rain that's pouring down around you. "Look, I ain't asking again. Just get on the bike, or I'll fuckin' leave you here. Some nasty fuckers about tonight."

And while you may not trust Jungkook, you don't trust the alleyways of downtown Seoul even more. You've seen the horrors. You know the dangers. Your mother didn’t raise a fool.

She also didn't raise you to bow to the commands of assholes like him either.

You ignore his jacket, hiking up your skirt, revealing far more of your thigh than most get to see. He doesn't make a comment, but you know he sees a flash of your underwear as you do so. 

For once, sex seems to be the last thing on his mind.

Rain pools in the gutter by the drainpipes, trickling down, collecting in the ducts. A puddle sits on top, a tell-tale sign that the street is going to flood soon, but Jungkook also doesn't give a shit about that. Not right now - but he does make a mental note to check that the drains are unblocked by his place when he gets home.

He's a fellow basement dweller, dependent on the cheap rent. A banjiha boy with big dreams of getting out.

You hoist your leg over, ignoring the droplets of water on the leather seat, as your hand wraps around his waist. The front of his white shirt is damp from the rain, elevating the scent of his laundry detergent. You don't hate it. Quite like it, actually.

"Wet conditions," he rasps, voice still hurrying out of his mouth. "So take the jacket. If I slide, the tarmac will rip your skin off." He turns, wrapping the jacket around your shoulders. "I'm not your father. Dress yourself."

"I'd be a bit concerned if my father was trying to dress me at the ripe old age of 21," you bite back, as if the fabric of his jacket doesn't feel like it's melting into your skin on account of how bloody warm he is. You push your arms through the material, shaking it ever so slightly as Jungkook begins to rev the engine.

"Thanks would have sufficed," he bites back a scoff, not wanting to waste time arguing. "Try not to fall off, a'right?" He gruffs. 

Some would have considered his concern endearing. You know it's just because he doesn't want to spend his evening scraping your flesh off the sidewalk. Not because he gives a single flying fuck about you. 

"Hold on."

He doesn't wait for longer than a second, just enough time for you to wrap your arms around his waist, before he pulls down on the accelerator. His exhaust chortles, spitting out petrol as he goes, water from the ground splashing up against your bare leg. You can feel goosebumps forming, and yet your arms are completely warm.

Of course they are. Jungkook's chest is a fucking furnace, heart pumping blood through him faster than the speed of light. Forward, forward, forward, he pushes his bike on, away from the downtown area he found you in, and away from the demons who were hunting him.

The vibration of the bike is a welcome disguise. Beneath the motor's veil, you're shaking. Partly terrified, partly the victim of an adrenaline surge. 

Hardly a surprise. You've never been on a bike like his before.

There weren't many men on motorbikes around your neighbourhood as a child, only Old Jinyeon, who had a Harley that he only rode on the weekends, or when his wife was away at that spa retreat that everyone knew was really code for 'rehab'. Prescription medication was her poison, mostly. There were whispers that alcohol was a bit of a problem, too. 

It was a shame, really. She was a nice lady - she'd just married into a lifestyle that didn't suit hers.

Old Jinyeon's father had also been called Old Jinyeon, and his father before that, regardless of their age. The name wasn't the only thing inherited, but a fortune too. Old by name, old by money. 

He'd met his wife at a gentleman's bar; gambled all of his chips away just so that he could keep talking to her as she worked.

But the good is rarely easy, and the easy never good. Women like her weren't supposed to be with men like him.

And girls like you aren't supposed to be on the back of boys like Jungkook's motorcycle.

But here you are, hurtling through the city at a speed you're pretty sure isn't legal, clinging onto him for dear life. Your eyes are shut, streaming with tears from the wind, mascara blotting onto his back.

"Left turn," he calls over his shoulder to brace you. Your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, stomach losing all stability as he rounds the corner. You've never suffered from travel sickness before, but now seems like the prime time to develop it.

The lights of the city all bleed into one kaleidoscope of colour. Your sense of direction has been rendered useless, only opening your eyes once every few seconds to make sure that this is real. And every single time, you're surprised to find that it is.

You expect it to be like a dream where you fall, only to wake up at the last second - but you've never had one of those dreams. You've only seen them in movies. You're not even sure they actually exist in real life. Perhaps this would be the closest you'd get to one. A main character moment - though this felt more like a crime-thriller than the rom-com you would have liked.

The feeling of damp wind in your hair like this is new, and exciting, but all you can think about is the fact that you're pretty sure one of your fake lashes just flew off. You pull your hand back to stroke at your lashes, just to check, but it's caught by Jungkook grabbing for it.

"I told you to hold on," he shouts, though he doesn't need to. The vibrations of his vibrato can be felt through his back. "So hold the fuck on, a'right?! I don't say shit like that for fun."

Jesus, you think. Who pissed in his cornflakes?

But he's right. You do need to hold on. He proves it by not warning you the next time he turns, the bike leaning so close to the tarmac that you're convinced you can feel rubber burn. He eases as soon as he hears you shriek, the grip you have on his chest so hard he swears you might puncture his skin. Reaching back, he cups your knee with his palm, checking for any sign of blood or broken skin. Negative. And yet his hand lingers before he retracts it. He's just making sure. Double-checking. Over-indulging.

"The fuck was that, asshole?" You all but scream.

"I told you to hold on, didn't I?!"

He did. And if you weren't doing so now, tighter than before, you'd have hit him so hard in the balls that he'd have no choice but to adopt in later life.

"You could have fucking killed me!"

"Oh, boo-hoo," he sneers, catching his tongue before he says something he'll grow to regret.

Jungkook would never have killed you. He knows these streets like the back of his hand, and how to ride his bike almost as well as he knows how to get himself off. It's second nature. Innate. A gift.

But before you can argue back, he draws to a stop, his exhaust rattling, the motor purring. As much as he'd like to tell you to get the fuck off his bike, he can feel you trembling now. A part of him - a very slim, deeply hidden part - feels guilty for being so hard on you.

He's grown up with bikes. Trusts them. Lives, breathes gasoline.

He doesn't imagine you know how to change a bicycle tyre, let alone anything with a motor.

The hand that had checked you for damage earlier returns, his fingertips warm against your goosebumps skin. He strokes lightly, once, twice, quickly. "You're fine," he tells you, and you want to believe him.

"Never said I wasn't."

He snorts a small laugh, then taps your knee, encouraging you off of the bike. His hand remains close as you do so, conscious of the fact that you'll most likely be unsteady on your feet - feet that he now notices are clad in the strappiest pair of heels he's ever seen in his life. Perhaps he doesn't need to worry about your stability at all. If you can walk in those, then you can surely handle a pair of wobbly knees.

Without much thought, you take his offer of assistance, his jacket dwarfing you as you stand, hand clasped in his.

"Where are we?"

The alleyway you're down is unlike the previous one he stole* you from (*rescued). It's cobbled and damp, yes, but the doors down here lead to dwellings, garages too. Not an industrial-sized trash cart in sight. And it doesn't smell like fermented piss either, which is a surprise. You thought that was just the standard for side-streets around these parts.

"Doesn't matter," Jungkook shrugs ambivalently as he unhooks his leg over the bike.

He wants to ask why you're wearing such stupid shoes.

That's a lie.

He doesn't think they're stupid.

He actually quite likes them. You've nice ankles. They look good.

What he really wants to ask is why you're wearing them on a school night. The pair of you might be in college, but it wasn't student night at the clubs, and he hadn't picked you up from a particularly nice part of town.

There are only three types of women he ever sees in Daerim: hookers, sugar-babies and addicts. You aren't any of those; you're a trust-fund baby who can get Percocet on private repeat prescription, if you really want it. He's sure of it.

So it then further begs the question: why the fuck were you there?

Sliding off his jacket, you offer him a small smile. It's the least you can do, you suppose.

It's funny, because you only ever see three kinds of men in Daerim: drunks, gamblers, and dealers. Jungkook isn't any of those. You might not know that much about him, but you know he's a scholarship kid, and that he won the winter film festival on campus for his documentary on back-alley gambling.

"We're not too far from campus," he eventually states. Few blocks over. He assumes you live on campus. Got the money for it.

"Cool," you nod, sure that you'll be able to find your bearings from here. You don't live on campus. Not anymore. No money for it. "Thanks for the lift, I guess."

The atmosphere is awkward, dewy mist in the air dampening both of you. He nods back, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

He knows he should invite you in, offer you somewhere to wait while you call a cab or something, but he's embarrassed. Of himself. His living situation. The fact that he doubts you've ever even been in a basement that isn't a wine cellar.

"Look I-"

"So-"

Jungkooks nose scrunches, cringing at the awkwardness. You glance down, self-conscious.

"What were you doing over in Daerim?" he asks rather out of the blue. He doesn't even process that he's asked until it's too late.

You clear your throat a little. "Just had some errands to run."

"At two in the morning?"

You nod.

"Right," he doesn't believe you, but can't think of a better explanation.

"Well, what were you doing there?" You ask, albeit a little more confrontational than intended. You were on the defensive.

His mouth is flat as he speaks, a narrowness to his eyes that makes your lips purse to suppress a smirk. "Running errands."

So you're both dirty little liars. Who'd've thought?

"Fairplay," you say with a smile. "Look, I still appreciate the ride. I'd have been fine," you add."But yeah, appreciate it nonetheless."

"Was nothing. I was headed in this direction anyway. If you take a left at the end of the street and follow the road down, there's usually a bunch of taxis waiting for the university cleaners to finish their night shifts. I'm sure you'll be able to get one."

"Take a left," you hum. "Cool. Will do." Bracing yourself to leave, Jungkook wonders if he should offer you a lift to your place too. "See you tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?"

"Yeah, tomorrow. Class? That thing we attend during daylight hours?"

"Oh right. Yeah. See you tomorrow."

Bizarrely enough, if this is how awkward Jungkook is when he's being nice, you think you prefer him being an asshole. At least he has a little spark in him then.

Unbeknownst to you, Jungkook feels overloaded with fucking sparks, like someone's holding an axe grinder against the metal of his earrings, deafening him. The reality of his evening is kicking in, and the knowledge that he came a few metres from having a hole in his abdomen becomes overwhelming. He doesn't let it show, though.

"Thanks, again."

You make a promise to punch yourself in the face if you say thank you one more fucking time.

"It's fine, again," he smiles, with a small laugh, before focusing those eyes of his on the floor.

And so you leave, walking straight past the taxi rank and taking a shortcut to your apartment, which is a lot closer than you had realised.

Seven steps below street level, you jog down to your front door, petting the neighbourhood calico stray on your way down. The door closes with a slam, but you don't give a shit because the people in the apartment above never seem to give a shit when they stumble home at four in the morning.

Before he sleeps that evening, Jungkook wonders how much of the skyline you get to indulge in. Your dad works in the accounting side of one of the largest law firms in the city, he knows that much from his research. Knows that your immediate family has more money than probably all of his relatives combined. Alive and dead.

He just isn't aware that you're not seeing a single dime of it. Not since you dropped out of the economics and business side of school to focus on the creative arts. All that money your parents had 'wasted' on your education? Well, they weren't wasting any more.

Because you're a commodity, to be bought and sold, apparently. Not their daughter, who they should have just wanted to be happy.

So now you spend your Tuesday and Thursday evenings down in Daerim.

Because you are a commodity; and if anyone's gonna be selling you, then it may as well be your fucking self. 

A stack of yellow 50,000 won bills sit on your desk. Twelve of them. 600,000 won. Not bad for a week's work. 6 hours.

Might have been cut off from your Dad's money, but your replacement 'daddy' wasn't a bad substitute.

The bluntness of such a statement usually makes you laugh, but not today.

If Jungkook knows the Daerim area like you think he does, then he'll be able to work it out soon enough. A bitterness fills your chest, like coffee dripping through a filter, forgotten about and left to go cold. You've been so good at playing pretend.

Secrets are so much easier to keep when they're not shared.

Perhaps that should be your project piece.

Secrets of Seoul: The Seedy Underbelly of The City.

After all, that was your unique view of the city; the side you saw that you were pretty sure no-one else did.

At least, no one else except Jungkook. Go figure.

"SEVEN WEEKS LEFT!" Your professor reminds the class as they dismiss you from your lecture. There's a little chatter, partners sharing ideas and friends discussing what to have for lunch - and then there's you and Jungkook.

He waits by the end of his row for you to walk to meet him, an inconspicuous look on his face.

The girl who he's watching neatly put a fluffy pen into her handbag looks a lot like you, but a hell of a lot different from the girl he gave a lift to last night.

Who the fuck are you?

Jungkook has always liked a little mystery. Seen the romanticism in the unknown. Still doesn't like you - but you've gotten him curious.

"You haven't sent anything over yet," he notes, keeping a slight distance from you as you walk together up the stairs.

"You told me not to bombard you," you remind him.

"Sending me video files once in a blue moon is fine."

"Once in a blue moon. Gotcha."

It's Friday, so he knows it's not one of your pre-determined days of having prior engagements.

It's only now that he realises that must have been why you were in Daerim last night; that your 'errands' are actually scheduled into your routine. It doesn't bode well for his 'not a hooker, an addict or a sugar-baby' theory.

"I was thinking of heading over to Dongdaemun this evening, seeing as you weren't free on Tuesday," he starts a little awkwardly, but the more he speaks, the easier it becomes. Being nice, that is. "I could still use a hand, if you're free? If you're serious about helping out, I mean. It would be good to make a start on things."

Relief washes over you. You've been fearing a conversation about the night before, but Jungkook doesn't want to talk about it just as much as you don't.

You meet him at seven o'clock that evening at Dongdaemun Design Plaza. You've always loved the green roof, how organic the landscaping looks above such a futuristic building. He listens as you explain this, eyes wide and in awe of the sloping pathways and curved walls, showing him your favourite of all the trees in the park.

Jungkook looks at you for a second, observes your hands, how they delicately move a few leaves to frame the shot you're taking. You've a Midas touch, and Jungkook wonders if your fingers would turn him to gold, too.

It's a silly, fleeting thought, but it doesn't stop him from focusing the camera on you as you roam Dongdaemun night market later that evening, lights cascading over you like glitter.

He thinks you're pretty in this light. Pretty when it's just him and you. No distractions.

Except there's hustle and bustle everywhere, a vendor chasing a thief, groups of high schoolers laughing on their way home from Hagwons, food sizzling, vapours making his stomach rumble. Perhaps you're the distraction, instead.

The pair of you spend the next week traipsing the city together.

Somehow, you only ever come together when the sun goes down, but it's fitting. You're a pair of nightcrawlers, swarming through the city when traffic sounds like a melody and destinations are unknown.

He learns that you drink your coffee black, no sugar, lukewarm. You learn that he'd rather rub coffee granules into his eyes than drink it.

And despite your preference for no sugar, he always tosses a little white sachet towards you whenever you order a coffee. He finds it funny. Insists that you have to be a sugar baby. It's the only way he can explain that night he saw you Daerim.

He's just joking. And you pretend not to, but you find it hysterical.

Mainly because he doesn't realise how bang on the money he is.

But also because you can't help but laugh whenever he does.

There's a comfort that grows between the pair of you, a familiarity. A casual ease that doesn't feel dangerous, not even when he's pulsing through the city on his bike, you holding onto him, his leather jacket wrapped around your body. You begin to like the way that the wind feels in your hair, and you stop wearing fake lashes. Jungkook doesn't tell you, but he likes you better with a few freckles showing, dewy highlighter and a little mascara being the only makeup you wear for the midnight city roams.

It's only because you can't be wasting resources reserved for clients on a boy from your film studies class. Times are tough, money is tight. No point in pouring funds into a boy you won't make revenue from. It's a bad business decision.

A few months ago, you did your makeup multiple times a day just for fun. Now you have to ration it. Life... life isn't what it used to be.

But Jungkook is ignorant to that, and you quite like it. Escaping from your reality. Becoming the version of yourself that he thinks you are.

He isn't sure which version of you he wants to spend time with the most; the too-good for him daddy's girl who dresses in Celine and comes with a pout, the enigma who lurks in the shadows that he thought he had a monopoly over, or the master director who seems to rival his talents for capturing moments of life in 4K.

As he watches your brows furrow while you turn your phone upside down, trying to understand a map, he decides that he doesn't care which version he gets.

Jungkook wants what he wants.

There's an impulsion to his desires and subsequent actions that he takes to obtain them. He's driven by gratification, and little else.

On the days he wants to feel wanted, he'll go to a bar. He never whispers false promises or pretends like he's after anything more than what can be achieved in a single night. The girls he goes for tend to see that as a challenge. They think they can convince him otherwise. It's not his fault when they can't. It's not his fault that they end up falling for him regardless. It's not his fault that he never has any intention of loving them back.

He tells them this. They ignore him. It isn't his fault.

On the days he wants to feel accomplished, he'll stay on campus until the cleaners usher him out of the room so that they can prepare it for the next day. Their insistence is lost on him - no amount of Cif can polish the dirt out of the walls. Once a shithole, always a shithole. He'll offer his apologies for getting in their way, and they'll coo over him like he's their own grandson. It's all very sweet.

They tell him not to overwork himself. He lies and says he won't.

On the days he wants to eat more than a single cup of ramyeon - which is most days, given his absolutely mammoth appetite - he'll send Hobi a text and request more drop-offs for that evening. Yoongi will give Jungkook a subtle look whenever a message from Hobi pings through, knowing it mustn't be good news. It never is.

Jungkook tells Yoongi to mind his business - but with a grin and a glint in his eye that eases his friends worry ever so slightly.

Disapproval never stops Jungkook from doing what he wants, regardless.

Not from his friends, from the cleaning ajummas, and especially not from you.

So he ignores the look in your eye, as he encourages you to follow him through a gap in the chainlink fence, which surrounds a disused water tower on the outskirts of the city.

Jungkook wants what he wants.

And right now, he wants to get a shot of the midnight city from his favourite vantage point.

"You said you've taken thousands of shots here," You hiss as a twig snaps beneath your foot. He smirks as you utter out a curse. "Surely you can just reuse one of those?!"

He guides you round, ignoring the ground level rubble, until you get to a ladder that definitely isn't safe for use. It's rusting by the bolts, and has a few vines trailing up it, undisturbed for months. Remnants of paint are flaking from the structure, collecting like ashes on the ground below.

"I have," he shrugs, unhooking your camera bag from your shoulder, popping it into his rucksack for safe keeping. He crouches, putting his palms upwards to offer you a leg up. "You haven't, though. You see the city differently to me, remember?"

He's taunting you. Reusing the phrase from your Professor that you had quoted to him on the first day of the project. Asshole.

Asshole with a smirk that suggests he's only teasing. Suggests that he's fond. Words that suggest he remembers the things you say to him. Memorises them, even.

Curious.

"Can't we just pretend like we see it the same way?"

"No can do, sugar."

"Oh my god, stop calling me that."

You're thankful for the midnight sky and the way it disguises your blush.

As if throwing packets of the white stuff at your face in coffee shops isn't enough, he's taken to calling you 'sugar', too.

"Give me a reason not to," he says as he tilts his head, encouraging you to accept his leg up. You check your feet for mud, then put your trust in his grip.

"I've already told you, I was just running errands," you defend yourself for the thousandth time. A short yelp escapes your lips as he boosts you up, your hands gripping onto the flaking bars beside the ladder.

He doesn't believe you for a second. He also doesn't believe that you're actually a sugar baby. It's just fun to fuck with you a little.

Once you're up, he waits for you to safely sit on the ledge, and then he makes the climb too. He's up a lot quicker than you, coming to sit beside you with his legs dangling over the ledge of the railings.

"Tell me it isn't worth it," Jungkook says a little airily, enamoured with the view.

And he's right. It is worth it.

A maze of city lights twinkle like the Carina nebula, interstellar, yet entirely of this earth. Bright whites, reds and greens speckle the horizon, and for a moment, it's easy to forget that you're looking at Seoul. There's a magic that can only be appreciated from a distance, far away from the scent of alleyways and the void nothingness of grey brick buildings. Skyscrapers tower above the skyline, but still look small from where you and Jungkook sit, silently, in awe.

"Look over there," he points across the vast expanse. You follow his trajectory, but you have no idea if you're picking out the right spot. "Daerim. Can always tell. Know the street layout too well."

"You're gonna get me thinking you're a sugar baby," you nudge your shoulder into his, and he laughs.

Reaching into his rucksack, you expect him to pull out your camera. Instead, his hand comes back into vision holding a pair of chopsticks and a tub of instant ramyeon. Uncooked.

He pulls the seal back, stabs at it with the chopsticks and offers you the small chunk he's broken off.

"It's good," he promises.

You know what dried ramyeon tastes like. You know it's good. You just can't understand what the fuck is wrong with him.

"Are you broken?"

He grins as he tosses the chunk of dried noodles into his own mouth. "Absolutely - but ramyeon is ramyeon."

You tell him he's weird, and he continues to smile, not resisting as you take the tub from him and break off a chunk with your fingers.

It's one of his favourite snacks. He's impatient and impulsive at the best of times. Waiting for it to cook? Too much effort. Cooking it at the convenience store and carrying it up the tower with him? Disaster waiting to happen. It's just easier this way.

And so the pair of you sit, not really saying much, watching the city roll by. Every now and again, he offers you a chunk from his chopsticks.

By the end of the night, neither of you have gotten any footage of the city.

And neither of you really care.

AS YOU SPRINT home after yet another spree around the city with Jungkook, running late for your Thursday evening appointment, you curse your inability to send his calls to voicemail. 

You should really be working more. You need to be working more - but for the past four weeks now, you've answered every single one of his calls.

His messages? Yeah, you ignore those. He's learnt this, though. He messages you regardless, because... well, because he wants to, quite frankly. He doesn't give a shit if you respond.

He knows you read them.

He knows you saw that picture he sent of a flyer detailing a live art event last week. He knows that you noticed the veins on his arms.

You don't know that he'd spent a couple of minutes tensing his arm before he took the picture. Deliberately.

It's been said before that Jungkook wants what he wants - and what he wants more than anything, frustratingly, is your attention.

The way you study his arms the next time you see him proves that he's gotten it.

If anything, the delayed gratification makes it so much more worthwhile. 

You have been thinking about him.

So as far as Jungkook is concerned, you can ignore his messages all you like, because you still always answer his calls with an airy 'hi,' as if talking to him takes your breath away.

The only time you don't answer is between the hours of eleven and two on Tuesday and Thursday evenings.

Chances are, if he just so happens to be in the area - which he always is - he'll catch you down on the wrong side of the tracks at just gone quarter past two.

He still calls you 'sugar', teasing you for the reputation of the area. You just roll your eyes and grin, then banter with him about how even if you were a sugar baby, he wouldn't be able to afford your prices.

He argues that he'd pay in ways that didn't include monetary value.

You don't ask him to expand.

But as you wipe your watery lash line in the bathroom of a shitty rental apartment in Daerim, you think about what he could have meant. If he actually meant it. 

The TV blares from the living room, faint vapours of a mango e-cigarette wafting through the gap beneath the door. You've always thought mango smells like cat piss. Rancid.

Whatever Jungkook could have meant didn't matter. His flirty tone and angel eyes didn't pay the bills. The cash tossed down on the bathroom counter did - or more specifically, the widower, who occasionally wanted company from a pretty young girl, did.

A hundred thousand won for an hour, three hundred thousand total. It takes you just a week, two appointments, to make up the month's rent - but you still need to eat, to study, survive. 

And so you return, every week.

It's not his actual apartment. He lives over in Gangnam, close to his kids' schools. More money than sense. He doesn't tell you much about his personal life. You think a lot of his small claims are lies, anyway - but you smile and flutter your lashes as if he's reciting bible verses.

Some nights are better than others. Sometimes, he genuinely makes you laugh. Occasionally, he'll ask you what you want to do. Takes you to museums. Fancy dinners. Theatre shows.

But he has a nasty streak, and in those three hours, you're his. He owns you. There's no sex, that's not the arrangement, but his hands have been known to roam, and the disparity of equality within your working relationship becomes apparent. You brush it off, tell yourself that it's natural for a man engaging with you in a romantic capacity to forget the rules. You tell yourself that it's okay.

The churning in your stomach and dis-ease of such a situation tells you that no, it isn't okay. But if you laugh at his painfully unfunny jokes loud enough, you're able to drown out the noise in your head.

The worst nights are the ones where he pays you extra.

There's no discussion anymore. The stack of notes is just thicker than usual upon arrival, and you know that at some point during the night, you'll have to sit in silence and watch as he sinks his hand down into his pants.

It's easy to forget the way it looks. Your eyes glaze over, and the discomfort, the slight disgust, indicated in your features gets him hard. He thinks it's taboo. Thinks you enjoy it too. That your panties look a lot like his hand by the time he's finished.

The snort-like grunts are what you find hard to forget. The wail of a moan that comes when he does. You hear that shit in your nightmares.

But it earns you an extra two hundred thousand, so you endure it because you don't have much of an option at this point.

Come 2 AM, cash stuffed down your bra, you don't have to think about it anymore. The fresh air of the city, a little smoggy and polluted, hits you like a freight train. You thank it.

When Jungkook enters Daerim that evening, he expects to find you. He normally does. You never look particularly happy - in fact, he often tells you that you've got a face like a slapped arse - but it's more so today.

He whistles from across the street, clad in black, a thick hoodie keeping him warm beneath his leather jacket. "Oi, Sugar," he calls, that boyish grin on his lips. Teeth so pretty you wonder how much novocaine it would take for you to be numb to the way it makes your stomach flip.

Eyes dancing up and down your body, he likes what you're wearing. Black tights, black dress that cuts off at your mid-thigh, a sweetheart neckline and chiffon sleeves that puff around your slender arms. He decides your boots are far more sensible than the heels you're usually in.

"That'll be twenty thousand, Jeon," you call back, arms folded over your chest as you change direction to walk towards him.

"Per hour?"

"Per every time you call me that stupid fucking name."

"What would you rather?" he goads, leaning against a window ledge on the back of a restaurant building. There's nothing down the alleyway, just trashbags and the distinct scent of fermenting piss. "Shugs? SB? Baby?"

You smirk, walking to the wall opposite him, mirroring his position, hands resting beside you on the ledge. There's a safe distance between the pair of you. A look, but don't touch type of vibe - but this time, unlike earlier on in your evening, you actually enjoy it.

"You really gotta make your mind up," your eyes roll, lips rising into a crescent. "One minute I'm a trust-fund princess with Daddy's money on tap, the next I'm a sugar baby with a different type of Daddy altogether."

Jungkook shrugs. "Just don't see why you waste your evenings roaming fucking Daerim of all places."

"Best dandanmian in the city," you say, referencing the abundance of traditional Chinese restaurants in the area. "Can't get the authentic stuff in Itaewon."

"Can't get hookers in Itaewon like you can in Daerim, either," he taunts you.

He doesn't really think you're a hooker, but he likes the way you grin whenever your eyes roll.

"Ah, so that's why you're here."

He holds his hands up to playfully admit defeat. "Guilty."

You laugh, knowing that there's no way in hell Jungkook will ever have to resort to hookers. Not when he looks like that. All doe-eyed and charming, floppy hair just begging for a pair of hands to run through it.

The pair of you let the moment simmer, droplets of water dripping from the drainpipe and into the sewer. He's lit by the neon light of a restaurant sign, red and yellow painting him like an impressionist masterpiece.

"You look cold," he acknowledges, but you shake your head and insist you're fine. Your hair is a little damp from the small shower you'd been caught in a little while previously, mascara smudged around your eyes. You looked like that before the rain, mind you. He shakes his jacket off and tosses it across to you, snorting quietly as it hits your face and crumples over your feet. "C'mon. I'm now about to ride home. I'll give you a lift."

He asks for your address, and you tell him that you'll just get a taxi from his place like you normally do. There's no need for him to go out of his way.

"The princess doesn't want the pauper to see her castle, huh?" he teases, always talking in bloody riddles.

"See!" you protest. "Always changing your mind! A minute ago I was a sugar baby, and now I'm a rich bitch again. Which is it, Jeon?"

"I dunno," he reaches behind himself, adjusting your legs and pulling you a little closer into his back, tapping your side to make sure you've got the jacket on. "You tell me, sugar."

He doesn't see you roll your eyes, but he knows you do it. You always do. Even when your pretty pink nails are clutching the fabric of his shirt, you pretend like you don't enjoy his company.

You've gotten good at playing pretend. 

Jungkook only jokes about you being a sugar baby.

He doesn't fathom that you actually are one.

His engine begins to purr, and Jungkook kicks up the stand, setting off into the night.

The way you hold onto his waist is different tonight.

Physically, it's the same.

But it feels different.

And it is, because you're not just holding onto him; you're hugging him. Comfort in an old routine. You adjust your arms, keeping tight against his back, and he pretends like he doesn't notice the shift in dynamic.

He pretends as if he didn't notice your sad eyes earlier, too, and as if he can't feel the stutter in your chest as if you're trying not to cry.

Jungkook isn't a knight on a white horse, and nor does he want to be - but he doesn't mind being your rogue bandit who steals you away from the things that make you sad.

He's just an arc in your fairytale, not your happy ending.

But you've always been a sucker for a bit of a plot twist.

When you arrive at his, he wants to ask you to stay. He doesn't want an orange taxi cab to appear at the end of his lane and act like your actual knight in shining armour. He doesn't want you to ride into the sunrise with anyone but him.

And as luck would have it, your phone shares his desires.

Well, no. It doesn't. It's a mobile phone. It doesn't have cognitive thoughts - but it is out of charge.

"Different charging ports," he grits his teeth as he holds up his Samsung after you ask if he's got an iPhone charger. "I'm pretty sure I have an apple cable lying about though. You can come in for a second, get a little bit of charge just so that you're not stranded in a taxi without a way to contact anyone."

You nod appreciatively. "You sure?"

He doesn't answer, instead holding his door open and ushering you inside.

Jungkook cares in strange ways. He's practical, forward-thinking, trying to find solutions to problems that you'd normally shrug your shoulders at.

He's never told anyone that he loves them before, but he did once swap the hinges on his ex-girlfriend's bathroom door to the other side, so that it would stop hitting the sink basin every time she opened it. He shows his affections in meaningful ways, often without being asked or expecting anything in return.

Neither of you realise it yet, but this is one of those occasions.

It's not until you're perched on the worktop bench in his kitchen that he realises he let you in without hesitation. No longer embarrassed of where he lived, he kind of likes having you here.

You look out of place, silver pendant round your neck, expensive, and hair professionally coloured, nails done, toes, too. Not that he can see them. He just remembers a conversation you had once over chicken and a beer about the fact your toes always matched your nails.

Small details like that are what he thinks about when he's alone; like the way you blink a little faster when you're confused, and how you sprinkle Cheeto dust back into the bag off of your fingers instead of licking them like he does. He thinks about the way you laugh in his company, and how he's never heard you laugh like that with anyone else. And he tries to stop, but dammit, he thinks about how sexed up you look on those Daerim nights.

You're dressing like that for someone else, he knows that much.

But he gets to indulge in it too, when your body is pressed against his back as he takes you home.

He's stopped asking what you do in Daerim. He doesn't want to know.

For a few minutes a night, when he's alone, he likes to pretend what it would be like if he was the one you were dressed like that for. Only ever a minute or so. Gets him too hot. Finishes him off too quickly. Absolute sin.

"Kook?"

He doesn't even realise he's halted his movements until your voice breaks him from his thoughts. His jeans tonight are tight, and do a pretty good job of hiding the swelling between his legs. Fucking uncomfortable, though.

"Sorry," he doesn't turn to face you. "Was just trying to remember where I last had the cable."

"I was just saying that it's fine. It's really not that far. Don't wanna be a bother."

"Why'd you say shit like that?" he turns to face you, face twisted a little. He's annoyed.

"Like what?"

"Call yourself a bother. You do it a lot."

"I don't."

"You do," he insists, and you can't work out why he's so annoyed by it. You want to apologise all over again. "You just-" he takes a moment to find the right words. "I dunno who's conditioned you into thinking everything you do is bothersome, but it really isn't. If I didn't wanna help, then I wouldn't. It's not a bother. You're not a bother."

And you don't know why, but for some reason, you choke up a little. It's not like he said anything particularly groundbreaking, it's just for the last few months, your entire existence has felt like a drain on those around you.

The money you can live without, but you miss family dinners on Sundays, and face timing your little sister, more than you can even begin to explain.

And while no, you didn't want your parents' money, you didn't want to keep seeing a perverted old man just to be able to afford to eat, either. The flat rate was 500,000 now. Every single time. Without fail. You hadn't put the price up. He was just always paying extra. Always touching his prick. Always jerking himself off over your repulsion.

Earlier that evening, he had queried how much it would cost him to finish on your chest. You told him a million. He asked if you accepted bank transfers. You told him no. He offered 1.2 mil.

Part of you considered it. It's a lot of money. Not something to be taken lightly.

But when you ran into Jungkook, just like you knew you would, you were adamant you had made the right choice. He had scanned your body, getting a read on your mood, assessing what you needed, what you wanted, and then had offered up his jacket. All doe-eyed and sparkling. You finally got what all the girls swooned over, 'cause you were doing it too.

"Hey," he says softly, noticing the way your eyes are reddening. "Hey, hey, no. Don't cry, sugar."

You laugh through the first couple of tears. Stupid fucking nickname.

"I meant it," you sniff, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hands. He's standing closer now, hesitant to touch, hands hovering around you. "20 thousand won, Jeon. Pay up."

His fingers tenderly wrap around your wrists, keeping them from rubbing at your face again. He's smiling, eyes ever encompassing, cheeks so appled that you bet you could get drunk off the cider he'd produce.

"Can we do it on an I.O.U. basis?" he speaks quietly, playfully. "I get paid on Monday."

It's a lie. He gets his commission cut straight from his sales figures. There's 2 million won in his rucksack. He only gets ten percent. 200K. His job's not nearly half as lucrative as yours, but it's still nothing to be laughed at. He's making bank.

"Nuh-uh," you sniff again, letting out a little laugh. He laughs too. "Told you that you couldn't afford me."

And then it's silent. You can hear your heartbeat. He moves a little closer.

"Told you I'd just pay in other ways."

His voice is hoarse, as if he's scared. 

As if he fears the consequences of his claim.

Your eyes drop to his lips. They're trembling slightly. Preparing.

The grip he has on your wrists loosens. He's giving you freedom. He's giving you the chance to back out, to run away.

But you don't.

"Pay up, then," you all-but whisper, lips closing on his.

Jungkook doesn't stall, no, but it takes him a second to respond. To realise.

And once he does, his brows furrow into the kiss, demanding that you know just how much he wants this. Wants you. Has done for weeks, now.

He pulls your body into his, needing you close. Your body curves, his arm hooked behind your back to keep you balanced.

A surge of intensity washes over you like crimson paint. It'll stain you, and everyone will know: That's her. That's the girl who let Jeon Jungkook kiss her like he actually meant it.

He kisses, and he kisses, and he kisses, and he doesn't stop, as if he knows his first with you will also be his last - and when he finally does stop, forehead on yours, the pair of you are breathing so heavily into each other's mouths that it's as if you're sharing oxygen. Keeping each other alive. Both capable of first-degree murder.

And so neither of you pull away. There's no way he's doing time for you. There's no way you're doing time for him. Looks like you'll just have to kiss forever. Shame. Such a hardship. However will you cope?

"I-" he begins, before cutting himself off, easing his grip on your waist. One of his hands lingers, while the other pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes wincing. "Shit-" he finally lets you go. "I don't know what that was. I'm sorry."

You want to tell him that it's okay, that you didn't mind, that he could do it again - but it's clear he doesn't agree.

"Just adrenaline," you offer, sinking down to perch on the worktop bench. Your defeated posture is hidden well like this. "Don't sweat it."

He stays silent as he turns around to resume his rummaging, looking for a charger that will fit your phone. He knows there's one in there, he just can't for the life of him remember when he last had it.

Everything feels a little awkward. You half think that you should fill the void with something, that you should break the ice, but what was the point? You'll be out of his hair soon.

And you are, home twenty minutes later. You had only charged your phone for ten minutes at his, just enough to get you home. It's about to die again. Not before Jungkook pings you a message, though.

He doesn't expect a response, but he lies awake until he sees your read receipt confirm that you've seen it.

Sadness doesn't suit you, sugar. I'm not gonna pry, but if you ever need a ride earlier than normal out of Daerim, give me a call.

He spent a good six minutes debating whether or not to end his message with a kiss, eventually deciding against it. No need to make the message any softer than it already was.

To his surprise, a bubble pops up on your side of the chat thread.

His heart twinges, your response saying everything he wished he had with just one simple letter:

x

JUNGKOOK HAS A terrible habit of taking out his stress on the people around him; the ones that he holds closest.

"I just don't see why it's such a big issue," Jimin says through a mouthful of salad greens. His teeth chomp so loudly that Jungkook thinks they'll have to swing by the dentistry labs later that afternoon. Which Jimin'll probably like, considering he won't stop fucking rambling on about a dentistry student at the moment. "She's hot, she's got guys practically falling at her feet and she's interested in you. It's one party. Stop being so fucking boring."

Yoongi casts Jungkook a sympathetic look. He doesn't work so much at the moment, what with his chemistry finals coming up, and especially not in the Daerim area.

That's Jungkook's market now - but he did happen to have a drop-off for a last-minute order a couple of weeks back.  Territory isn't an issue between the friends, with Jungkook respecting Yoongi far too much to ever tell him to back off, or to not take deals in that area.

He had been about to approach Jungkook that night, when he noticed you crossing the street, a smile plastered on your face. He couldn't see Jungkook's face from the angle he was at, but he could see how raised his cheeks were. And so he left the pair of you to it, knowing better than to stick his nose where it wasn't wanted.

Unlike Jimin, apparently.

"Not boring," Jungkook retorts, tossing the wrapper his chopsticks came in at Jimin's face. "Got a bunch of assignments due in."

"Dude, you've been MIA for weeks. If we didn't have classes together, I'd have sent out a search party by now."

"You're being dramatic."

"You're being boring."

"Kids, settle down," Yoongi interjects, and wonders why he doesn't just find friends his own age. Logistics, he decides. The perils of having to save up for university before he could actually attend.

Jimin, being Jimin, then proceeds to bicker with Yoongi, leaving Jungkook free to find your face amongst the canteen crowd. You're sat with friends, none of whom he's ever met.

Your hair is up, like it always is during school, but you've let your grown out bangs frame your face. Pretty, he thinks. Prettiest girl here.

But then you stand up, and Jungkook turns caveman. Head empty. No thoughts. Just nonsense. Jesus Christ. Who gave you the right? God damn.

A few months ago, he would have looked at you in that outfit - a silky sage green playsuit over a white tee, sunglasses resting on your head like an alice band and a pair of white converse on your feet - and he probably would have scoffed. Wouldda said some bullshit about the fact you're dressed like a child, or that the weather isn't good enough to warrant such an outfit.

A few months ago, he was a fucking idiot.

You feel his gaze on you, just like you always do.

And you ignore it.

You've been getting good at that. Pretending as if you don't feel his eyes. As if you're unaffected, unbothered by the simplest form of intimacy: a single look.

He knows you've been keeping your distance. Watching from afar is all he can do when you slink out of class before he can catch your attention. He tells himself that he doesn't care.

Jungkook mutes the audio track of the editing software he uses when he stitches together your footage, so he doesn't have to relive your conversations or hear you laugh, or worse, hear himself laugh.

It's all a bit nauseating.

Maybe a party would actually be a good distraction.

"Tonight, did you say?" Jungkook pipes up out of nowhere, only dragging his eyes away from you when he sees you pull your phone out to send a text. 

He pouts. You never text him. Not once since last Thursday. 

And you were nowhere to be seen on Tuesday.

He had called you, and for once, you didn't pick up. He didn't try again. Decided that it was on you just as much as it was on him.

That being said, he didn't get home till four in the morning, two and half hours after his last deal. Spaffed away an entire tank of petrol. Rode in fucking circles. Just in case.

"Now we're talking!" Jimin grins. "Tonight. It's her birthday, she's rented a bar in Itaewon - Dad knows the landlord or something."

Jungkook didn't know who 'she' was. Hadn't been listening to that part of the conversation.

"Well, you kids enjoy yourselves," Yoongi sighs as he gets to his feet. "Can't risk my finals over a few crappy drinks in a shitty bar."

"Oh boo-hoo!" Jimin pouts. "Spoilsport."

When Jungkook enters the bar that evening, he's greeted with everything he expects. E-cigarette vapours cloud the air, a cocktail of flavours violating his senses as he heads to the bar, shitty EDM pumping through the speakers. It's been a while since he let his hair down, so to speak.

There's something about him that commands attention. People gravitate towards him, even through the smoke clouds and sweaty bodies. Girls buy him drinks. Guys buy him drinks, too. Anything just to spend time in his presence. Like leeches, they hope to share some of Jungkook's aura.

It's impossible, though. It's Jungkook's authenticity that gives him such charisma. Trying to emulate it only ever comes off as tacky - like the guy towards the back of the room who's permed his hair to look like Jungkook's. Pierced his eyebrow, too. Looks like shit. Jungkook doesn't want to judge him, but he's a few drinks deep, and being kind is what got him into that mess with you in the first place.

No good ever comes from being nice.

He takes a shot. Tequila. Chases it down with lemonade. The girl next to him is playing with the bracelets on his wrist. Her nails scratch a little bit, and he quite likes it, so he doesn't resist when pulls him onto the dancefloor. He observes the way she moves first, and isn't disappointed. She knows how to move her hips, and seems to like it when he puts his hands on them. He can't really feel the sensation when she kisses him. The alcohol has numbed his lips. Maybe Jimin was right to force him into this.

By the time he goes to the bar for another drink, he's faded. Off his tits. Helped himself to some of Hobi's stash that he was supposed to be distributing that evening. A little bit of coke never does him any harm. He knows his limits. Tastes like shit down the back of his throat, but he kind of enjoys it.

At first, he thinks he must be seeing things when he catches you with an espresso martini in hand, laughing with people he doesn't know.

You've this whole life that he's no part of. A whole entire world. He really is an outsider looking in.

You're one of the elite; an old-money heiress. The type to own a miniature dog breed and only fly business class. It was stupid of him to think your interest in him had been anything more than entertainment. A 'little bit of rough.' Excitement away from the confines of the life he's sure your parents must have planned out for you.

It might just be because he's coked up, but he doesn't care about any of that. 

All he can think about is the fact he's pretty sure you've never looked more beautiful.

He feels so lost looking at you like this, as if he needs to be closer, for fear of losing sight of you entirely.

And so he sits beside you at the bar, orders his drink, waits for you to notice him. Which you do.

You'd spotted him the very second you walked into the bar, his hands all over some girl you don't know.

In all fairness, you didn't realise he would be there. Sohyun, the girl whose birthday it was and an old friend from high school, has been fawning over Jungkook for months. Just superficial drawling, comments about his thighs and the fact she'd quite like to be suffocated by them. Harmless, really. You know she's never actually made a move.

Sohyun doesn't know you're working on a project together. You avoid the topic of him altogether, especially with her.

But she does notice the way Jungkook is looking at you like he's seen a ghost; haunted and comforted all in the same expression.

"You're here," he finally says, and it feels as if your chest is about to cave in.

Turning to face him, you're casual in your posture. Unbothered. Completely unaffected by him, and the lipstick that's painting those lips of his that you like so much.

You raise your thumb and swipe it across his bottom lip. He's silent as you do so, watching you, holding his breath. His lip moves like rubber beneath your touch, soft and supple, springing back into position once you release it.

You raise your thumb to study the lipstick you've collected from him. "Plum's really not your colour, Jungkook."

He doesn't say anything, a little transfixed. It's barely ticked past midnight. You should be in Daerim.

In all fairness, so should he. Hobi had some choice words for Jungkook when he told him that he wasn't working that evening at such short notice.

You swipe open your phone and repeat the step, filming your thumb as Jungkook becomes captive to your touch. You want to look, to see how wide his dark eyes are, but you're too busy feigning disinterest.

"There," you smile, forwarding the video along before you lock your phone. "Just sent you a video of how I see the city tonight."

You've no right to be annoyed. You know that.

Jungkook can be in a bar with another girl's lipstick on his chin if wants to be. He can stay out all night, and he can stay in beds that aren't his. It's his prerogative.

But you are annoyed.

It's irrational, and pathetic, and you shouldn't be.

You barely know him. Not really.

After you'd shown him your favourite tree at the Design Plaza a few weeks ago, he'd insisted on taking you across town to Garosugil, a street in Gangnam lined with beautiful tall trees. He questioned why you only had one favourite tree, when you could have had an entire row of them instead.

At the time, you'd enjoyed the way his eyes looked beneath the lights of the designer stores that neither of you could afford. You didn't question what he had meant.

It seems like you found your answer.

"I'm not the city," he eventually says.

And he's right.

He's not the city.

Fuck it, no, he's not the city, but his eyes sparkle like Itaewon on Friday nights, and his hands are strong like the World Cup Bridge. He's not the city, but you find it so easy to get lost in him without a map, and sometimes wearing his leather jacket makes you feel like you're eating comfort food at your favourite breakfast bar over in Myeong-dong. He's not the city.

He's not the goddamn city.

But it feels a little like you'd accidentally anchored your navigation pin in him regardless.

All you do is smile, and tell him that he's right.

"Look," he begins, and you can smell the spiced rum on his breath.

"It's okay," you interrupt. Who are you to make him feel guilty for his promiscuous encounters?

He doesn't know what you do in the dark. Not really. If he did, he probably wouldn't have kissed you last week.

"No, I-" he cuts himself off like he always does when he doesn't wanna fuck up his words. The alcohol is doing him absolutely zero favours. "I dunno, sugar."

Your smile is sad, and he hates himself. You lean forward, press a kiss into his rosy cheek and whisper, "That'll be 20,000, Jeon."

And because he's drunk, and he wants to make things better, he reaches for his wallet. You were about to walk away regardless, but damn, if the boy doesn't know how to hit you where it hurts.

"Really, Kook?"

It's like he doesn't know you at all; doesn't remember how you banter with him, how you flirt with him. Or maybe you were just stupid for thinking that you'd been flirting with him in the first place. Maybe he just speaks to everyone how he speaks to you. Must have spoken to whoever was wearing that lipstick in the same way.

He doesn't answer, not verbally, but his brows pinch together and his lips develop a frowning pout.

When he stumbles home that evening, he asks himself the same question: really, Kook?

In the morning, he wakes alone, with no recollection of how he got home. 

He doesn't remember the girl from the bar, or the fact that Jimin threw up in a fish tank, or that they're now barred from three different establishments for encouraging people to snort fish food (which Jungkook had stolen while Jimin was emptying his stomach). Regretfully, he doesn't even remember your arrival at the first bar. Doesn't remember how, for once, you'd dressed to impress just him.

His lack of recollection means fuck all though, 'cause despite his headache, the thing weighing down most heavily on him is guilt. He feels a sense of duty when it comes to you; duty that he hasn't performed lately. Were you getting home safe? Getting harrassed by scummy fuckers on the Daerim path of destruction?

Out of habit, he checks his phone, ignores the messages from unknown numbers and goes straight to your message thread to check the damage. He's surprised to find that he didn't drunk text you, but even more surprised to find that you'd messaged him. It's a video, just a few seconds, but it's enough to provoke some of his memories back.

He watches your thumb as it glides across his bottom lip. Watches it again. Notices the lipstick. Notices the thumb ring he never realised you wore before, and the fact that your nails are black now instead of their usual pink. There's something erotic about it; the way you touch him. The way you filmed yourself touching him. He'll probably get in trouble for it, but there's no way he isn't adding that to your project.

You consider ignoring his call when your phone flashes with his caller I.D.

It's only just gone seven, and you're still in bed, still try to make heads or tails of your life.

But you're weak, and so you slide your thumb across the little green icon.

"Hey."

"Uh, hey."

"You good?"

"So hungover, I think I might die," Jungkook jokes, voice hoarse. You wonder if he always sounds like this in the morning. "Just wanted to check in with you though. Barely seen you all week, and then I end up with a weird-ass video in our message thread that I don't remember."

Ah. You cringe.

"Ran into you at the bar," you shrug, not that he can see you. "Didn't realise you were friends with Sohyun."

"Hmm?"

"Sohyun... the girl who's birthday it was?"

"Oh. Right. Yeah. Nah, no, not really friends with her. Jimin forced me along."

You don't know all that much about Jimin, but from your limited interactions with him, it doesn't surprise you. Not in the slightest.

"Good night?"

Your question sounds forced and awkward, and he doesn't quite understand why.

"No idea," he admits honestly. "Remember fuck all."

He sounds as if he wants to keep talking but doesn't know what to say.

You don't know what to say either.

It's a mess. You liked it better when he hated you.

"Were you at the bar for long?" He asks, genuinely curious. "You're normally busy on Thursdays?"

"Just a drink. Had a last-minute change of plans."

"Oh?"

"Yeah..."

You know he wants you to elaborate. He wants more without having to explicitly ask for it.

Which is apt. Seems like it's a common occurrence with Jungkook.

"So what did you call for?" you change the topic, not wanting to dwell. The aversion doesn't go unnoticed by him, but it does go unquestioned.

"I-" there he goes again, cutting himself off prematurely. Coward. "Are you free? Now?"

Oh.

Not a coward. Just cautious.

"Now? I mean, yeah, I guess."

Jungkook takes a second, and then he bites down on the grenade pin.

"Can you come over?"

THE WAY YOU keep Jungkook hanging on tenterhooks is deliberate.

You're unsure of him, of his motivations, and what he does in the dark. And so, while you want to let your guard down, you can't. It's probably something to do with your parents - the people who are supposed to love you unconditionally - making their love entirely conditional and withdrawing it so suddenly.

It's the kind of shit you would have spoken about with your therapist, but you can't afford her anymore.

Can't afford much of anything, anymore. So much of the money you've earnt recently is tied up in credit card debt or rent.

Foundation was the first luxury that you'd compromised, and you're still yet to buy any more. Cheap stuff always makes you break out, and thankfully your parents did give you decent genetics, at least, so your skin was pretty clear.

It's the lack of make up that suggests to Jungkook you're opening up; not hiding from him anymore.

But it's also what tells him something is incredibly wrong, when you show up at his door half an hour later with a graze beneath your eye. Little flecks of reddened skin creep up your cheekbone, and Jungkook thinks it almost looks like carpet burn.

He hadn't noticed it last night, but it was dark, and he was drunk.

He lets you in, takes your jacket, offers you a drink. Everything that he knows he should do. Asks how you are, keeps a safe distance.

You don't know why you're here. Why you didn't say you were busy.

Except you do. 

It's cause you miss him whenever you're away from him.

"I like these," you smile as you look at the artwork he has up in his room. The studio space is small, cramped, like all semi-basements are, but it's distinctly 'his'. A lot different to yours. Everything you own is still in boxes, not yet unpacked. 

You've refused to come to terms with that being your life now.

"Thanks," he nods, watching you as you explore the box of a room he calls home. "They're from a guy down by the coach station. Has a little stall."

"You'll have to show me," you muse, turning to smile at him. It's saccharine, but the graze on your face is just so bitter. He hates it. Hates that he doesn't know how you got it. "Think I'd like some for my place."

"I have a feeling they'd look a little out of place in a princess tower, sugar."

Your shoulders shake as you laugh quietly, not correcting him. He doesn't need to know that you're a basement dweller, too.

"How's the editing coming along?" You steer the question away from your living situation.

"Nearly there," he grins, brimming with quiet excitement. Something about the way your camerawork looks with his editing technique layered on top just really works. He's always been confident with his final projects, and this one scares him a little bit, but in a good way. It's his best yet. Maybe he did need you after all.

"Can I see?"

"Not yet."

"Kook," you say, and - oh god - you're pouting. Jungkook suddenly begins to feel nervous.

It's that scary feeling again. A fear of the good stuff. Trepidation.

"What?" he grins, walking a little closer to you, letting his hand stroke against your back as he sits down on his bed. His fingers catch yours. It's fleeting, but enough.

You both feel it.

"Such a tease," you say, talking about the project, but there's innuendo in your words, too.

"Some girls like it," he flirts back.

"The girl at the bar last night seemed to like it."

Jungkook rolls his eyes, boyish and charming. It's annoying, you think, how impossible it is to be mad at him. It's not because you're weak, or because you can't resist his charms, but because he has a way of playing things off as if they're no big deal.

The girl at the bar? A nobody, his shrug suggests. She doesn't matter.

And it's so easy to believe, because you're the one in his apartment. You're the one he wanted here, the one that he missed. Or at least, the one that he was thinking of when he decided that he could do with some company.

It might be nothing, just something to pass the time, but it makes you feel wanted. Desired. Needed.

So you accept his hand when he reaches out towards you, pulling you closer, positioning you between his spread legs. You're standing, his eyes level with your chest, unashamed as he looks at your body.

"You look warm," he husks.

Just like he always uses your body temperature as excuse to give you his jacket, he's using it as an excuse now, too. The desired effect is obvious.

His AC switchboard is on the wall behind his bed. You'd clocked it when you were walking around, observing his possessions. Yanmar, the branding reads, the plastic outer frame beige. Once, it would have been crisp white. Age has dulled it. The monochrome monitor has a clock symbol in the corner, an indicator that Jungkook has his AC set on a timer. It suggests a sense of permanence. This is his home.

You haven't set your timer yet. You just flick it on when you get hot. It isn't your home.

He watches you as you move, curious. He's smirking, because he just cant help himself. 

And because he knows that you like it whenever he does. Gets you a little bit flustered.

One of your knees hooks over his lap, and then the other follows suit.

He'd have said you were straddling him. You'd have argued that you were simply reaching over to the AC.

And you do exactly that, flicking the switch, watching as it lights up. "There. Much better."

Touche, he thinks. Smiles. Grips your thighs, as if he's scared you'll stand up again. Scared to lose you.

In all honesty, he had been hoping you'd take your shirt off, but he isn't going to complain with you in his lap, instead.

Doesn't matter if you mix the eggs with the milk first, or the flour. You still bake a cake at the end of it all.

Jungkook looks at you in such a way that you find yourself thinking maybe, just maybe, it wouldn't be so horrible to let someone in. His eyes are honest, void of ulterior motives. He's doing this because he wants to. Because he wants you.

Wants that feeling back. The one where his lips are cushioned between yours, his tongue licking into your mouth.

Jungkook wants what he wants. Jungkook gets what he wants.

And, fuck, if it isn't bare minimum - but you know this, and you don't care. Bare minimum tastes pretty fucking good when you're licking it from his lips.

His hands roam, and you let them. He's rough with his movements, but the fleshy pads of his fingertips are soft, like silk against your skin. It's almost like he's afraid, filled with the knowledge that he can bruise, if he really wants to.

But he doesn't want to. He wants to ask about the graze that's sitting pretty where blush should be. Jungkook doesn't wanna hurt. He wants to heal.

"I catch you looking, you know," you tell him before he gets a chance, wanting to see how he responds. "Every now and again..." He hikes you forward in his lap. Places you dead centre over his cock. You can feel it. He can feel you. "...I catch you looking at me." He presses a kiss against the base of your neck, obsessed with the way it vibrates when you speak. "Why are you always looking at me?"

The fact that you're sat in his lap, grinding your hips against a solid bulge, should be indication enough.

Jungkook isn't going to spell it out for you. The eroticism of suggesting he's a fucking voyeur makes him want to laugh - but the way your nipples are tenting the shirt you're wearing distracts him.

His teeth graze your throat, hands creeping round to your tummy. His fingers are long, practically the length of the expanse between your hips and the underneath of your plump tits. Just a little further and he'd be holding them, cupping them, caressing. Just a little further.

"I look at you-" His hands continue their exploration as he leans back, watching the movement beneath your shirt. It somehow feels forbidden - like he can touch, but not look. After all, your question had sounded quite a lot like a telling off. "-because you like me looking at you."

He's fucking with you, trying to get a rise.

"Do I?"

The way that you whimper as he brushes against your nipples has him pulsing his hips. Your eyes close, head tilting back ever so slightly. You like this. The way he does it.

"Uh-huh," he mumbles, lips wet against your neck. His fingers knead into the flesh of your tits, nipples hard in his palm as he relieves his stresses. "Bet you think about it all day, don't you? Think about the way I look at you when no-one else does."

Yes.

"All day?" you smirk between dulcet moans. "You're lucky if I pay you any attention at all."

"I think you're lying," he declares rather boldly, hands all over you. "I think it plays on your mind. I bet you fall asleep thinking about it, don't you?"

Yes.

"Ddaeng."

"I bet you get yourself off thinking about it."

Maybe you do. 

Maybe you've whispered his name in the dead of night, imagining how it would feel to have his body weight on top of yours. Maybe you get intrusive thoughts of that kiss every single time you try to draw close. Maybe Jungkook has made you cum without ever laying a single finger on you.

But even if he has, you won't tell him.

And you don't need to, because his phone buzzing on the bedside table behind you cuts the conversation dry. Jungkook glances towards it automatically, then back up to you. His frustration is evident, jaw tense.

"I gotta get this," he mumbles, encouraging you off of his lap. You don't resist, accepting the last five minutes for what they were: a momentary lapse in judgement. He sighs as he stands, adjusting his trousers, swiping his phone and putting it to his ear. He strolls just far enough away that you won't hear what or who is on the other line. "Hobi. Speak to me."

Hobi, you muse. A friend? A colleague? Another girl?

You swallow back the nauseating feeling in your throat, pretending as if the prospect of Jungkook with someone else doesn't chip away at your self-worth a little bit. It wasn't like you thought you had anything special between the pair of you.

But he was right. You did like him looking at you.

More than you had realised until the prospect of him looking at someone else arose.

From the corner of the room, you could hear Jungkook trying to interrupt the person he was talking to. The first syllable would escape, and then he'd hush again, never quite managing to get the words out in full.

"Ho-" His nostrils look quite cute when they flare, lips pursed, a pair of unique dimples becoming evident. They're different to the usual ones you notice. Full of surprises was Jeon Jungkook. 

"Hobi, can I-" 

He runs his hand through his hair, already dishevelled from your hands. 

"Hobi will you let me fucking talk!"

Attaboy.

The pause that follows Jungkook's outburst would suggest that Hobi had said 'no' - and then a few more choice words. If Jungkook rolled his eyes back any further, they'd surely get stuck.

"Look, I'm a bit tied up right now- no! No, not that. Who? No. I don't know a Taehyung, and even if I did- Huh? Ain't got nothin' to do with Holangi. Don't know a single one of 'em." 

You try to decipher the conversation, but fail. 

"You're a real fuckin' cockblock, yanno?" 

You blush. 

"Fuck it, fine. But you owe me. I'm not saying yes next time."

He glances over to you, catching your raised brow. Next time?

A smile catches on his lips. You thought this would be a one time thing?

He's barely hit second base. If there's one thing you're yet to find out about Jungkook, it's that he loves to win. He won't be satisfied until he's got a home run.

Any other girl, and he'd have probably been running laps for fun by this point, but you... yeah, you didn't bowl him easy hitters, that was for sure.

Jungkook moves with confidence, like he always does, as he strides over to the sofa, the bulge in his pants considerably softened but still present. "Take a picture," he grins. "It'll last longer."

You roll your eyes, but it doesn't stop you from asking if that's an offer. He laughs - that soft, gentle thrum of his vocal chords that sounds so heavenly in your ears - and tells you to behave.

"I just gotta help a friend out," he says as he reaches over you to grab his rucksack. It's heavier now than it ever is at school, the jingle of crushed tin foil rustling as it briefly catches on your knee. He pretends not to notice the curiosity in your eyes. Pretty eyes, though. He quite likes them, especially when he's towering above you and can see the whites just above your lashline. Yeah, he likes them alot. "I'll only be an hour or so. You can stay here, if you like?"

The way he phrases it is so casual that it's almost like you're old friends.

That, or Jungkook's just used to having women he doesn't know very well stay at his place.

You're unaware of the mental gymnastics he's putting himself through. If he could kick himself without looking like a twat, then he definitely would.

Shrugging, you give him a polite smile. "I don't wanna overstay my welcome."

"Nah, you're fine. I can give you a lift back to yours when I'm home? I'll be an hour. Two, tops."

Finally you agree, watching as he leaves like a lovesick puppy, listening out for the familiar rattle of his exhaust pipe. There's a cough and splutter of petrol spitting onto the sidewalk as his motor roars into action, and then he's gone.

You don't hang around for much longer.

You tell yourself that you will. That it would be nice. That you and Jungkook might not be so ill-suited after all.

But as the clock ticks by on the wall, you find yourself getting antsy. You find yourself asking stupid questions. Who exactly is Hobi? What was in Jungkook's bag? Why is he always down in Daerim? Is that where he's gone now?

The thoughts grow, adapt, intrude. Before you know it, you're considering what you'd find if you opened the top drawer of his bedside cabinet. 

Realistically, you know it would probably be a wank sock and a tub of vaseline - it doesn't matter though. Your mind is wondering. You need to scratch the itch.

Just a little peek. He'll never know.

Oh, how you loathe your brain.

What's the worst you could find? A revolver? His ex-girlfriends panties? Love letters? A crack pipe?

Somehow, you'd rather find a pipe than panties. 

It's not that you want Jungkook to be a crack addict. It's just the more that you think about it, the more you come to realise that you really, really don't like the idea of someone else feeling how warm his torso is, or how his upper teeth always nip slightly when he starts kissing you, until the pressure of his pecks plump his lips. You've only experienced it a handful of times, and it's stupid to get carried away, but he just makes it so easy.

He didn't ask you to stay, you tell yourself. He asked you if you wanted to.

Moments of instability like this are exactly why girls like you don't spend time with boys like him. It's stupid. Futile. A game for fools.

You leave his apartment as you found it, with not even a note to say thank you. He's had a squeeze on your tits. You deem that thank you enough. If anything, he should be thanking you.

When he returns, just half an hour after your departure, he can still smell your perfume. He tosses his keys down, calls out your name, and is met with silence. It takes him a moment or so to realise that he's alone.

There's a sinking feeling in his chest that he doesn't recognise. Doesn't like. Hates, in fact.

But fine. Fuck it. He didn't want you there anyway. He'd just been doing a good deed. Being kind because - if your face was any indication - obviously someone else had been particularly unkind to you.

Jungkook thinks he knows who, now.

Daerim nights have always been sketchy, but the days are no better. 

He's just the lowest rung on a long ladder of criminals who turn a profit when the sun goes down in Seoul.

Hobi had asked him to drop the stash in his rucksack off at a club, some gang-run joint that Jungkook doesn't know much about, so that he could get them back to his boss. 

That had been the plan, at least.

He slings his bag down, now empty, and sinks into the sofa, not bothering to get a rag to clean himself up. No point. The dried blood will just wash off in his shower. It's not the first time this has happened. He doubts it will be the last.

Jungkook's nose is currently bleeding, dripping down his chin and hitting the ceramic tiles of his apartment with small slaps. A bruise is forming above his left eye socket, and his knuckles are red.

A punch to the face means very little to Jungkook.

He's young, but he's strong. Fast, too. It could have been a lot worse if he wasn't.

He pushes the back of his hand against his nose, sniffing, before unlocking his phone, and dialing a number he knows now by heart.

The dial tone bleeds out, just like his nose.

And so he hangs up, and calls the only person he knows he can rely on.

"Wassup, kid?"

Jungkook doesn't mean to sob, but he cant help it. He knows Yoongi has finals coming up. He doesn't need his bullshit on his plate, too.

"I got jumped Yoongs."

Fuck.

"You alright? Sound pretty bad? Where?"

"Daerim-"

"The fuck you doing there at this time of day?"

"Hobi wanted me to drop off my stash."

"Kook..." Yoongi speaks slowly, coming to a horrific realisation. A few punches had never bothered Jungkook before. Something bigger was at play. "The stash...?"

Jungkook can hear it in Yoongi's voice: fear.

"Gone."

Yoongi sighs down the line. "Hobi know yet?"

"No."

"Alright, get outta your flat," Yoongi begins, not wasting time. Now is not the time for emotions, and it's clear that Jungkook isn't capable of that just yet. "I need you to go somewhere safe, somewhere you can lie-low for a little bit alright? Let me sort it-"

"Yoong-"

"Let me sort it. I got you into this mess. Don't sweat it."

"Ple-"

"Kook. Seriously. Trust me with this."

Yoongi doesn't let him debate it any further - and it's just as well he doesn't, because as soon as he hangs up the phone, another call comes through. Jungkook wants to answer it. Really, he does.

Jungkook's just very aware of the fact that the guy who jumped him had almost been waiting for him. Right by the entrance of the apartment block which he always picked you up from. 

In between blows, he'd warned Jungkook to 'stay the fuck away from the girl'.

The girl who's now returning his call.

"Hey," you say animatedly, having not expected him to call. You thought the pair of you would resume your usual awkward routine of pretending like nothing ever happened. "Sorry, I was in the shower. You good? Sorry I left, I just did-"

"I need a favour," he doesn't bother with formalities.

You want to banter with him, to flirt, but the tone of his voice warns you not to. So instead you tell him that you'll do whatever he needs.

"Can I come over?"

Fuck. Anything except that.

"Please."

YOU DON'T EXPECT to say yes. You don't expect to care more about him than you do about protecting your own dignity. You don't expect Jungkook to traipse down the stairs that lead to your slovenly open door with a glum look on his bloodsoaked face, as you stand there waiting for him.

But he does.

He makes no comment, no remark about the building. Just wraps his arms around your head, cradling you against his chest as you stand in your doorway. You can hear his heartbeat, thud, thud, thud against his ribs.

Go somewhere safe, Yoongi had told him. It was a no brainer.

"I'm sorry," he says, eventually pulling himself away from you. "I didn't know who else to ask."

You tell him it's fine, and you mean it. Keeping up pretences doesn't really matter so much anymore. Perhaps honesty was overdue from the both of you.

"The fuck happened to you?" You ask, tenderly reaching up to stroke away some of the dried blood from his lip. He winces, hisses, body tense, but he lets you continue. "Sorry."

"Could ask you the same, sugar," he speaks kindly, not wanting you to think he's being critical as he nods to the entryway behind you.

You grit your teeth together and let your hand rest on his shoulder. "King kicked the princess out of the castle."

And, suddenly, it doesn't seem embarrassing anymore. In fact, it seems perfectly apt that Jungkook knows. He doesn't pry, don't push for further clarification. Just nods. Accepts your reality.

"Castles are overrated, anyway," he presses a kiss to your head, and gently guides you through the threshold. The corridor is short, opening up to an open plan studio. The layout varies from Jungkook's, but it's similar in size. Small.

"Ignore the wallpaper," you say of the awkwardly granny-ish floral print. It's beige, so not totally offensive, but dear god, you think it looks like vomit.

"No," he grins. "It's... wow. Your landlord really knows how to make a statement, don't they?"

You perch on your bed and cringe. "A statement... a crime against interior design. Whatever you wanna call it."

Jungkook continues to pace around your room with a curious smile. He's partially deflecting from the fact he knows you're probably dying to ask about his face, and why he was so desperate to be with you, but he's also interested in the life you neglected to share with him.

Brown cardboard boxes are piled high in the corners, your possessions not yet unboxed.

This place is just temporary.

You've got three and a half million won sat on your desk. A couple more weeks, just a few, and you'll have enough for a deposit on a decent flat. Then you can get a regular job, something stable, and you won't have to worry. You could work through the summer and then figure out what to do next. Just as long as you keep on moving upwards, you'll be happy.

"So," you begin gingerly, as you head to the kitchenette beside your bed, wetting a cloth beneath your tap. "You gonna tell me what happened to your face?"

He takes your previous position, inviting himself to sit on the end of your bed, anticipating your return. There's light coming in from the thin windows by your ceiling, hitting directly onto your back. He thinks it's apt. Thinks you're the kind of girl who deserves a spotlight. Thinks that Mother Nature agrees.

Jungkook shrugs, in that lazy, boyish way he so often does, as you walk towards him. He spreads his legs, encouraging you between them, letting his hands graze your thighs. You pretend not to notice as you press the damp cloth to his cheek. Tiny crows legs appear at the edges of his eyes, face wincing from the contact. It's painful.

But being alone would be more painful. He chose to be here. To be with you.

And so he tells you what happened, with as much honesty he can muster. There are some things better left unsaid, his occupation being one of them. You listen attentively, dabbing at his wounds, a frown etched into the lines of your face.

"Stay away from the girl, huh?" you muse, avoiding his eyes as you study his face. His nose is still bleeding, but every time you tell him to tilt his head towards the ceiling, it ends up back in its original position. He can't see you as well with his head tilted back. Doesn't like it. Doesn't wanna do it. "Could be any girl."

Jungkook's dimple forms in his cheek. "No. No, it couldn't."

His fingers that have been grazing at your thighs squeeze tenderly, letting you know he means it. More than he thinks you know. More than he knows he should.

There's a chance that any words spoken between the pair of you could be misconstrued. He doesn't know what his feelings for you are, and you don't really understand yours for him - but you understand your body, and the electric current running beneath your lips, dying for a connection. A little spark.

So you do the only thing that makes sense: you kiss him.

And he kisses you back. Slowly, tenderly, deliberately. His lips melt into yours, hand pulling your legs closer. He encourages you onto his lap, as if he needs to be insufferably close to you. Once you're positioned how he wants, just like you were earlier, he grips your waist, keeping you stationed there.

Jungkook knows he should stop.

He knows he should have paid attention to the pair of fists that warned him off you as his skull hit the pavement earlier that morning, knows he shouldn't let himself get so wrapped up in such a red flag - but he just can't help himself. It's like you're laced in the narcotics he deals, and slowly but surely, you've gotten him addicted.

He's craving. Dying for a hit. Just a little taste of your tongue on his, the scent of your shampoo in his nose.

Red flags, red stop signs, pretty red lips all plump from the kisses he's smothering them in. Red blood, too. His nose is still a little damaged, and the way he's painting your cheek in crimson should repulse you.

Should repulse you.

Like fuck it does, though. You can smell the copper twinge through his plasma, and suddenly it's as if the Cullen's had the right idea all along.

When he pulls back, only for a moment, hands clutching at the side of your face to assess the look in your eyes, he notices it too. Hard not to. You blush all the fucking time, so much so that he knew the shade by heart, and the rouge on your cheek is far too vibrant, too scarlet. It's his fucking blood on you.

It should scare him, he knows. But the way you're looking at him, eyes all wide and glassy, lips swollen and waiting for more, has him unable to think straight. It has him obsessed, the way you don't care. The way he's covered you in blood and you still seem to want more.

But there's a softness to the way in which you're looking at him, mild confusion, as if you've got the same strange warmth running through your veins as he does. It's not a feeling he recognises, pulsing through his bloodstream with every beat of his heart.

Perhaps it's nothing. Jungkook tells himself that it is. Just adrenaline, probably.

You look at his lips, all crimson and blushed, and realise you much prefer the shade of his blood to the plum lipstick that had tainted them the night before. You're delicate as you wipe your thumb along his pouted bottom lip, just like you did in the bar. Except this time, the jealousy that had blossomed in your diaphragm is nowhere to be found. There's still a pinch beneath your ribs, but this time it's in your heart, and it's far more aching. This time, you feel his hurt.

Jungkook reaches down to where you left the damp cloth on your bed. It's wet and heavy in his hand, a little warm, too. He brings it to your face and dabs silently, cleaning you of the mess he's made. Fixing you. Restoring you to your former glory.

Its futile, 'cause his nose is still fucking bleeding, and you don't plan on leaving it more than a moment before you kiss him again. You simply don't care. Want him for all that he is, blood, sweat and tears.

But still, he insists on ridding you of his stain. Doesn't want to tarnish you. He's soft with the way he presses the cloth against you, mirroring how tenderly you were with him earlier. He's learning from you, adapting to you. Wants to be like you. Wants to be 'better'.

You watch as his eyes scan your face, brows twisted like they always do when he's about to say something but stops himself. The vertical groove just above his cupid's bow is red, blood tacky as it dries. If he kisses you now, he'll leave a stamp; a mark that says 'you're mine.'

It's too much. Far too much. You aren't his, and he knows this. He never wanted you to be his, in fact, for the longest time, he had wanted to be anything but yours.

But now he sits beneath you, crestfallen, heart in his throat, blocking him from speaking.

This was never part of the plan. He was never supposed to end up here. He was supposed to escape from the trenches, to get on the path of straight and narrow. Thrive. Succeed.

And it's not your fault, he knows this, but there's a little part of him that wonders what could have happened if he hadn't seen you that night in Daerim, hadn't seen the way your eyes look beneath night market lights, hadn't heard your laugh as he looked at his favourite view of the city.

You whisper his name, your palm resting flat on his chest, and his brows soften.

It doesn't matter what could have happened, anymore.

All that matters is what is happening.

The shortness of his breath, the flutter of his lashes against your cheek, the swelling between his legs. You can feel it, feel him, and he knows it. The way he's pulsing his hips upwards is testament to that.

It's a comfortable position, you sat on his lap on the end of your bed, not one that either of you wishes to break from. Not even as he begins to breathe against your lips, unable to properly control his reactions thanks to the friction beneath his briefs.

"Want you," he mumbles, pressing his lips into yours, the air in his lungs giving itself up to you. "Want you so bad."

You shake your head, brows pinched just a little. "I'm bad news for you."

And maybe that's it. Maybe he just wants you because he knows he shouldn't - but fuck it, if he can't let himself indulge in simple pleasures, then why bother getting himself beaten to a pulp over you?

"I'm bad news for myself, sugar," he husks against your lips, tickling them as he slips his tongue into your mouth. Deeper, deeper. Closer, closer. He wants it.

Wants it all.

Wants you naked.

Wants to know what it feels like to have you gasp in his ear as his hands roam beneath your panties.

Wants to know if you'd still look at him like you're stargazing even when he's railing you.

Wants it. Wants you. Just wants.

And what Jungkook wants, Jungkook gets.

He slips his hand up your shirt and pushes it upwards, before letting it crumple to the floor. You know that you should be more bashful, a little bit ashamed, but it's impossible when he's looking at you like this.

He has a visual now that he didn't have earlier. The glow of your skin beneath his bruised knuckles looks almost sinful, like he's plucking forbidden fruit from its tree. He'll pay the price for this, and he knows it, but he just can't resist.

Jungkook has always been a boob guy, always loved the way he could get girls moaning with just a little pinch, but never had he had a pair quite like yours. So full, so round, he's not sure his hands are big enough, and that doubt makes him throb. Soft and pillowy, he groans as he watches his fingers sink into them, utterly enthralled. His hips adjust, pushing upwards, pressing himself into you. He wants this. Wants it so bad.

You can feel the metal of his rings against your skin, and then you can feel his lips, his tongue, his teeth as they graze against the plush skin of your chest. He licks around your nipple, letting the air cool the wet trail, hardening you for him.

He's utterly obsessed.

His mouth pulls at the sensitive skin, suckles, sucks. His lashes are splayed on the tops of his cheeks, lips pouting around your nipple as he does so, small groans of pleasure vibrating against you. It will be a miracle if he can't already feel you seeping through your panties.

You whimper as his teeth graze your hardened nub, and his eyes flutter open. He doesn't detach himself, but instead, he keeps your gaze as he sucks. The pressure varies, and then it's hard. Really fucking hard. So hard you'll think he'll somehow give your nipple a hickey - but fuck, if you don't love the sensation.

"Christ," you gasp, before biting down into your bottom lip.

"Too hard?" He mumbles against you, peppering you in kisses and soft licks as if to apologise.

"No," you pant. "Was good. Was great. Just - fuck."

You laugh, soft and airy, and Jungkook smiles from the sound.

He likes this. Likes how you react to him.

And while he’s patient and gentle with you in a way that he isn't with other people, Jungkook has only ever known how to have sex in one way. It's ingrained into him, as if he was made to fuck like it; like he doesn't give a shit about the person he's screwing.

Jungkook doesn't do love, and you know this. He trades. Works in transactions. Settles debts. You don't really know this part, but you aren't stupid. You know he's never in Daerim for any good fucking reason.

You don't question it as his hands move south, slipping past your underwear. In fact, you're smug as he curses when he feels how wet you are, fingers slippery in your panties.

He pushes a finger into you, and closely follows it with a second. They curl ever so slightly, and it's at this point that you realise Jungkook is absolutely going to ruin you. Just a few pumps. Just to ease you up.

He's bored of waiting. Wants you now.

The pair of you move fluidly, minimal discussion needed, just occasional checks of 'you good?', or 'this okay?'. The answer is, always, without a doubt, 'yes'.

He gets you on your back, panties pulled off, legs not quite hanging off the edge of your bed, but nearly. He strips himself of his shirt first, and grins as he notices the way you whine.

"What?" he toys.

"Nothing," you flirt. "Just wish you'd hurry up. I'm a busy woman."

"Oh yeah?" The sound of his buckle coming undone is enough to make you fucking leak. "Busy doing what?"

You neglect to tell him. Not because you don't have a witty remark lined up, but because he's fucking naked now.

What a sight to behold he is. Body lean, honey skin flawless, muscles defined. You pretend like you're looking at his body, but your eyes are drawn to his cock. You'd expected length, but not the girth - and he has both in abundance. The tip of his cock is blushed and wet, with Jungkook just as aroused as you are.

Noticing your gaze, he rolls his eyes, and toys with your pussy again, lightly running his fingers up and down your slick entrance. When he pulls back, his fingers are still connected by thick clear fluid. His cock throbs.

"You're gonna get me so dirty," he hums, as he crawls onto the bed above you, before holding his fingers to your mouth. "Clean them."

Part of you wants to say no, but the other part of you can see his darkened gaze and the way his cock is twitching. You can't refuse.

His fingers are on the tip of your tongue, the tip of his cock nudging so close to your entrance that he may as well just do it. You raise your hips, encouraging, but he retracts a little just to tease.

The fingers that were in your mouth come to grip at the soft flesh of your cheeks, his thumb on the other side. "Don't you fucking dare."

There's tepid aggression to his movements, and it makes you feel vulnerable - but you like it. You like the way he's gripping your face, the ways he's looking at you with narrow eyes, just like he used to do across the lecture hall. You like being reminded of when you were nothing to one another, because it makes the satisfaction of feeling his stiff cock jump a little against your pussy as you moan so much more worth it.

He used to hate you, now he can't wait to bury his fat cock in you. Victory is yours, even if he's trying to act like he's the one holding all the cards.

You don't correct him, though. You let him think he has the upper hand. You'll play pillow princess just this once if it means you get to see him a little bit mean again.

"Dare what?" you pout, cheeks still squished between his fingers. He grips a little tighter, your chest rising as you gasp. He pulls your face towards his, sinking down into your lips, until he decided he's done with you.

He stands by the edge of your bed, and yanks your ankles towards him, pulling you close enough to the edge for him to fuck you like this.

The loss of his grip is unwelcome by you, a frown forming. He isn't looking at your face now, eyes down on his cock, which he's rubbing between your soaked pussy lips, but he can almost hear you brace yourself to whine. He smirks, one side of his mouth lifting, head knocking to the side slightly.

"Don't you dare try and set the pace," he finally husks, still not glancing up towards you. He's taking his time, making sure the head of his cock kisses every inch of your exposed mess. "Nearly got my nose fucking broken for this pussy-" he spits, hard and fast, right onto your clit, spreading it with his cock. "- so I'm gonna make sure I get what I'm owed."

He spreads your thighs back, his fingers gripping harshly just how you like it. Perhaps you should pretend to be embarrassed by the fact your cunt is leaking for him, begging for him, but the way he hisses at the sight, chest heaving, prevents it.

Jungkook's thought about this before, about how pretty and pristine you'd be, about the mess he'd hoped you'd make. Thought about it so many times. Fingers wrapped around his shaft in the middle of the night when no one can hear him chant your name as he spills over. Yeah, he's thought about it a lot.

His imagination has never done you justice. One look and he's obsessed. Wants to spend hours touching, caressing, licking you.

"Take it," you whisper. "What you're owed, Jungkook. Take it."

He looks up now, brows threaded together. You don't recognise the contemplation his face is laced in, but he doesn't give you the chance to question it, for you begin to feel that burn. The one your fingers can never give you. It's alien, and yet familiar, inherently natural but intrusive nonetheless.

"Shit," is all you can manage to say, eyes locked on his.

He wants to watch himself sink into you, watch as his fat cock forces your slick wetness out of your pussy, but he can't. Not when you're looking at him like that. Not when your chest is heaving and your eyes are watering beneath tense brows. Not when your mouth is hanging open and just begging to be fucked like your tight little pussy.

And then he starts feeling something a little strange. A little unfamiliar. A little bit like his heart has stalled to beat in time with the contractions of your chest. And though he's not in pain anymore, too busy feeling you, he's aware that it hurts. Aware that he can't fuck you like he wanted to, 'cause his chest needs to be against yours. Needs to feel the beating drum beneath your ribs.

He doesn't even realise that he's paused until you whine a meagre, "please."

"That's more like it," he hums, as he pushes into you, the base of his thick cock plugging the weeping mess that he's made. You know that as soon as he pulls out, you'll be whimpering, begging for the tip of his cock to kiss your walls once more. "See how nice things can be when you just behave yourself, huh?"

His hips push just a little deeper, and he knows that it hurts. Knows that the little gasp isn't entirely from pleasure. He's seen his cock. Doesn't take a genius to work out that it can do damage.

"You can take it," he tells you, and like a pathetic, whimpering mess, you fucking nod. He's still inside of you, still deeper than you thought possible, and then his hand is on your stomach. He grabs your hand and places it beneath his. "You feel that?" He retracts just a little, pushing back in just as deep. Beneath your hands, there's a bulge. External or internal, it doesn’t matter. It's him. He does it again. "You feel me taking what's mine?"

Whatever the fuck you moan is incoherent, but he doesn't give a shit, 'cause he's ploughing now. Bucking his hips into you like pneumatic fucking drill. Shit. He's done this before. Got it mastered to a fine art. Momenta worthy of a museum exhibition.

Your tits are pillowed on your chest, nice and round, wobbling as he takes command of your body. He slaps one of them, just to watch it ripple, before that firm grip of his is on it. "Perfect tits," he growls the compliment, not really meaning for it to come out. "Gonna put my cock between them later," he tells you. "Gonna cum all over them."

He doesn't tell you that he'll also clean them with his hungry tongue, before delivering his cum into your mouth. Figures he'll just let you find out. His brain is working at a mile a minute, trying to reign back thoughts of sharing his cum with you in such a filthy manner. God, he wants to do heinous things to you. With you. For you.

But for now, he needs to focus on his cock. It's rubbing inside of you, nuzzling. He knows he's weeping, and that his precum is getting mixed with your slick juices. Knows he won't last long if you keep whining like that. Mewling. Purring.

He stalls his hips, letting go of your tits as they jiggle back into position. Your cheeks are flushed, imprints of his fingers reddening your skin. Lips pouted and resting ajar, Jungkook thinks they've never looked more fuckable. More kissable. More whisper-sweet-nothings-against-able.

"You ever shut the fuck up?" he teases, but is quick to notice confusion flash in your eyes. He didn't mean it as an insult, but it's easy to read the hurt in your perplexed features, and the way you begin to try and push your legs together. It's futile. His cock is keeping you open.

But you feel embarrassed, as if your natural reactions to him are a turn-off. It's silly, because he's quite literally inside of you, fat and solid, using you to milk himself. Of course, he's not turned off, but you're hyper-aware of how vulnerable you're feeling right now. It had been fun to pretend like you were in control, but as soon as he slipped inside of you, all sense of power had evaporated.

He doesn't realise this though. Doesn't realise that his cock is nudging so deep into you that it's practically knocking against your heart. Knock, knock, knock. Who's there? Your mind taunts, but you daren't answer.

"Hey," he coos, one of his large palms stroking on the inside of your thighs. That uncomfortable, obscure feeling is back again. The one that tells him he needs to be closer to you. This time, he doesn't ignore it. His hips pulse, just the once. A reminder he's still very much into this. Into you.

His hands grip your waist, softly this time, as he manoeuvres himself onto the bed with you, keeping himself snug. Your head is by the pillows, Jungkook's knees on either side of your ass, his chest flat against yours as one of his hands cradles your jaw. He presses a chaste, airy kiss against your lips, and whispers, "I love the way you sound." He kisses you again, hips rocking. You're trying not to, but you whine. "Fuck, sugar. You're my favourite fucking sound."

Your legs hook over his back, and he groans now. The angle change lets him delve deeper, your walls massaging him so well. Jungkook thinks he might have died and gone to heaven. He's slipping in and out of you with minimal force, skin slapping together. He makes sure to let his moans roll off his tongue and into your mouth. You eat them up and give them back. The pair of you aren't kissing anymore, just gasping and humming into one another's mouths. He's stuttering.

There's a pause as he adjusts his grip, digging his fingers into the soft flesh of your thighs. He likes it, the way you seem to melt around him in all capacities. His lips nudge against yours as his steady hips begin to rock into yours again.

You groan as he pushes down on your legs, pushing you as far apart as your bones allow. It's typical of him, seeing how far he can take things. Push them to the limit. Always gets him in trouble. There's a click, as air escapes from the socket where your leg meets your pelvis.

"You good?" He checks and you respond with a kiss. Hands tangled in his hair, you hope it conveys the fact you've never felt better. He laughs a little, soft and serene, into your mouth, the weight of his body keeping you trapped beneath him.

You're morbid in your thoughts, and consider how nice it would be for Jungkook to suffocate you like this; steal you of the air you breathe with his tiny giggles of satisfaction. So, so nice, you think.

And so you tell him. You tell him that you want his hand on your throat. He takes a second to respond - not because he doesn't want to, but more so because he can't believe you actually asked.

He doesn't normally fuck the girls he cares about like this. Then again, he never really cares about the girls he fucks.

"God," you moan as he pushes one of your legs over his shoulder. His body is clammy against yours, skin hot and damp, chest lean but built. He's working hard; not just for his release. For yours too. Rams into you, stuffing your cunt with his cock, dipping his head to lather your clasped throat in wet kisses.

"That's it, sugar," he growls as his teeth graze your neck. "Need to hear how good you feel. Need to hear what my cock does to you. You owe me."

You want to laugh. You're about to laugh. But then his head dips down to your chest, and he latches onto one of your pebbled nipples, sucking so hard that all you can do is tremble. He knows you like this. Knows it makes your pussy all creamy and slippery for him - and like clockwork, he's proven right. The sounds are lewd. He loves it.

"On your back," you husk, punctuating your instruction with a whimper as he suckles even harder. He shakes his head, eyes closed, mouth vibrating and full of your tit. Not a chance, he tries to say, but it just sounds likes he's forgotten how to speak. Too busy. Too close to spilling himself into you. Doesn't wanna get distracted.

So focused, he doesn't realise you're pushing him over until you're on top. He frowns as he detaches from your nipple with a pop, but his hands are running all over your body regardless. Obviously doesn't care that much. Course he doesn't. That ache in his chest has settled.

Until he starts thinking about it, and oh god, it's back and it's fucking unbearable.

"C'mere," he pulls you flush against him, as your hips begin to work against him. His hands cradle your face so he can kiss you as deeply as he likes, tongue slipping into your mouth, as his cock slips up and down your pussy. This, he thinks, is it. This is what fucking should feel like.

"Shit," he whispers. "Shit."

The friction of his surprisingly neat hair that rests at the base of his cock is nice. Real fuckin' nice. You're not even fucking him anymore, just grinding against it. Using it, using him, to get yourself off.

You think you're being slick, like he won't notice - but he does. Of course, he does. He's obsessed with your body.

"God, yeah, baby," his back arches, pressing his chest against yours, eyes closed. "Use me like that. Use me," he bites into your shoulder gently. "Fucking use me."

He means it. Doesn't give a shit about himself anymore. Just wants to feel you tremble as he holds you close. Wants to press kisses against your lips as your moans become undignified. He needs to be the reason you cum; needs to be responsible for your oxytocin rush.

You sit up a little, and Jungkook holds back a pout from the separation - but how can he complain when you're sat like that, his cock buried inside of you, hair a mess and with eyes like his favourite constellation? He's hypnotised as your boobs begin to bounce, pussy working up his shaft like the true Daerim woman of the night you are. He's forgotten about all of that, now. Can't think about anything except for how to not fucking cum.

He can't and he won't. Not until you do. But you're bouncing, and it's wet, and he can hear it, and it feels so fuckin' good. His toes are curling, torso tensing, eyes half-shut, pretty little pout hanging open. He's fucking whining. "Yeah like that," he encourages. "Gonna milk me so well, baby. Gonna... ah. Fuck. Gonna-"

Jungkook can't fucking speak. He wants to. Wants to tell you how fucking beautiful you look, how he wants this endlessly, how he never wants to let you go. Needs to tell you how right this feels, how good you make him feel, how he doesn't understand his feelings but fuck, just that he is feeling. Feeling so much.

You're not sure at which point he started calling you baby, but you're actually convinced that the name alone could tip you over the edge.

The pace of your hips is slowly, savouring. He doesn't quite get it. You were so close. Why stop?

The stillness of your movements makes way for something new. He feels a throb around his fat cock, which is begging for release. Notices the way your chest is shaking like you've got hiccups, tiny whines of pleasure making themselves known. Your pussy was always warm, but it's hot now, contracting around him.

And then he gets it.

"Oh, shit," he mewls, his hips slowly pumping upwards. "Yeah, that's it, baby. Let yourself cum. All over my dick," he encourages, hedonistic and self-serving. "That's it. Cream for me."

His slow movements as he fucks up into you amplify the sensation, the tip of his cock nudging languidly against your tight walls. Your entire body shudders, the feeling rippling from your chest right down to your toes. You rasp out moans, the sensation all too powerful, a creamy mess pooling at the base of his shaft. There's a jerk as your muscles spasm, your orgasm well and truly delivered. He pulls you down and into his chest, his strong arms wrapped around your back.

Your body rests on his, spent and sensitive, and he can tell you can't hold out for much longer. He pushes back the hair that's sticking to your clammy face, and presses kisses into your temple.

"So big," you hum, voice hazy, eyes shut.

"Just a little more, baby," he promises. " You're doing so well. Just a little..."

You've considered how Jungkook would orgasm on more than one occasion - and you're pleasantly surprised to find that your imagination was wrong. There's no grand declaration, nor large grunt. He's not aggressive, either, like you'd half-hoped he would be.

Instead, Jungkook kisses you as his hips begin to stall. His brows are creased, moans muffled against your lips. His torso shudders, abdomen as tight as his balls. "Baby," he drowsily mewls, and then it's happening. His cock pumps into you, unloading thick creamy spurts with every stroke of your pussy. The first one is so desperate that you're almost positive you can feel it paint your insides. You moan along with him, utterly obsessed with this, him, whatever the fuck just happened.

He doesn't withdraw immediately. Just lays there and kisses your skin, absolutely spent.

You don't move a muscle. You don't want it to be over. Don't wanna lose this. Lose him.

When you tilt your head to look at him, he's smiling. Eyes closed, cheeks appled. Serene. In a state of fucked-out bliss.

You tell him that he's pretty, and he lets out an airy laugh, covering his face with one of his hands. You move his hand and watch him fondly, enthralled with the grin that he's struggling to fight.

He turns to look at you, and the smile he's been boasting amplifies. "God, you're gorgeous."

It's not a new observation; just one he's never voiced before. One that he was able to resist saying. But you're naked now, chest pillowed against his, eyes glowing and nose blushed.

You hum, running a hand through his dishevelled hair. "I'm glad you chose to come here."

Just like that, there's a knot in Jungkook's stomach that seems to anchor that feeling he keeps having.

"Yeah," he nods. "Me too."

IT'S THREE IN the afternoon by the time you wake from your post-fuck snooze. Jungkook's never had one of those before. Hated being sticky after sex with anyone else. Always had to shower - but with you, he wants to stick to you like glue.

"Should have filmed that," he hums, the tips of his fingers stroking up your arms. You aren't sure if he's joking or not. "Would have given us a unique take on the project. Probably wouldn't have gotten us very high grades, mind you, but art is subjective."

"Some would argue that the critique of art is objective," you muse back, still blissfully cum-drunk from the events prior to your nap. Jungkook's nose has stopped bleeding, and the pair of you have almost forgotten the reason he showed up in the first place. "Documentary maker by night, porn star by day," you flirt. "Although it's cute that you think you fuck like a porn star."

"I felt you shaking," he says, knowing there's no possible way that you didn't enjoy it. His nose feels a little cold after all the trauma of the morning, so he buries it into your hair. "Can't fake that."

"That's what I'm saying," you simper, pressing a kiss against his bare torso, just below the meeting of his collarbones. And then another, simply for good measure. "Porn stars never actually look like they're making the woman feel any good." You trail down his chest, tongue licking gently at the darker skin around his nipple. "You... yeah you don't fuck like a porn star." And then you suck a little. He hisses, in the best possible way. 

"Don't," he says. "Not ready to go again."

You laugh. 

Jungkook thinks he's reached Nirvana. Almost certain, in fact. Never had a girl do that to him before. He loves to give it, but hasn't ever thought to receive it. Wonders what other things you'll do to him that he's never had done before. He can feel his cock fucking twitching again, achy and sore, definitely not recovered yet from how hard he went earlier - but god, he wants it. Wants to bury himself inside you again. Belong to you.

His hands paw at you, one gripping on your chest, the other on your ass, pulling you closer. Your leg hooks over him, and he can feel how wet you still are on the side of his thigh. His balls fucking tighten. He can feel it happening, blood rushing to his crotch. 

Yet despite it all, he just kisses you. Softly. Tenderly. Merely his lips languid between yours. Withdraws slowly. Keeps his eyes closed. Bliss.

"The fuck have you done to me, sugar?" he whispers, dark eyes opening to look into yours. His speech is husky, like he trying to steal the answers of a pop-quiz from you. You can't help him. You don't have a clue what the answer is. You're just as stuck as he is. "Got me feeling all fuzzy 'n' shit."

"Just a sugar rush," you smile. "It'll pass."

You're both acutely aware that it won't, but that will be a problem for another day.

"Tell you what," Jungkook muses, though his thoughts are shallow. He's not digging deep. Just talking for the sake of it. "I might not fuck like a porn star, but you don't fuck like a hooker." 

He pulls your arm up so that he can study the crease of your elbow. You let him move your body like you're a barbie doll. You'll be his toy, you think, if he wants. No bother. 

His fingers press at the thin skin that covers your veins, inspecting. 

"Not a scratch," he assesses. "So you're not an addict either."

You laugh, slightly amused. "No? Maybe I just don't inject."

Jungkook gives you a stern look. Hopes you're joking. Tells you that you better fucking be joking. The sweetness of your laughter tells him that you are.

"So?" you press. "I'm not a prostitute and I'm not an addict. It's your lucky day. What of it?"

Jungkook tilts his head down so that his nose is nestled into the crown of your head again. Comforting, he thinks. Smells like laundry. You must have washed your sheets recently. 

His next statement takes you off guard. 

"Only ever see three kinds of women down in Daerim." 

And you know.

You know he knows. 

You can feel it in the way he protectively presses his lips into your skull, as if he's Prince Charming trying to rid his Sleeping Beauty of the nightmare she's been living. Wake up.

But Prince Charming rides a white horse, not a petrol-spitting, air-cooled, steel-framed shadow that rips through the city at night. 

There are no nightmares, either. You're already wide awake. There's no saving you. 

He sighs against your head. Pauses. Resists, and then confronts. 

"I know what you do in the dark, sugar."

You don't say anything for a moment, and then you're pulling away from him, reaching for your shirt. He doesn't like this. Misses your warmth, but doesn't stop you. Instead, he follows, sitting on the edge of your bed, the corner of your comforter lazily protecting his modesty. His muscles are relaxed now, a little crease in his stomach from the way that he's slouching, hands in his lap. Those Bambi eyes of his are peaking through his hair, cheeks red and grazed from the morning encounter he'd had in Daerim.

He watches as you pull your shirt over your head, hair just as messy as his, and a graze on your cheek to match. He was pretty certain before that it had been carpet burn, but now that he's seen it up close, softly rubbed his thumb against it during pretty kisses, he's sure of it.

You avert his gaze. Feel shameful. Hate that he knows. You never cared before. It was just a fun little secret, the fact that he didn't know you were no angel. 

But you want him to think that you're one, now. 

For a moment, you were sure that he had. 

Instead, now, it feels like you're falling from grace.

He reaches for your hand, but you pull it back. "Please don't."

And so he doesn't. Just sits for a little while instead. "Do you want me to get dressed?"

You really don't. 

But your tongue is lodged in your mouth and it won't budge. You turn away, internally furious with yourself. It's been a while since you've gotten like this; so dreadfully panicked that you can't talk. It's a once in a blue moon kind of thing, the early onset of a panic attack, but you're hoping it won't reach the stage of no return. Praying.

"Babe?"

He sounds worried now, and it's making it worse. Feels like you've just reached the top of Bukhan Mountain without taking a second to catch your breath. 

Has your chest always been this tight? Or has someone just been wrapping rubber bands around your torso without you noticing? 

It isn't possible, and you know this, but it feels like it and - oh God - you can hear him shuffling, the buckle of his belt clanging. He's leaving, he's leaving, he's leaving, your ribs cackle as they close down on your lungs. 

There's a light hum behind you, like a wasp is coming to send you into a state of anaphylactic shock and then it stops. His jeans are tossed to the floor once more.

"Yoongi?" Jungkook speaks quietly behind you into the receiver of his phone. "Wassu- Yeah, yeah, I'm safe. I'm good."

I'm safe. 

I'm good.

"Where are- Yoongi stop. Stop it. I'm being deadly fucking serious-"

You don't realise it, but your chest begins to mellow as you listen in to his conversation. 

"It's my mess!" He shouts now. "I'll fucking fix it. I don't give a fuck what Hobi says. Where you at? The Zoo? I'll be there- Yes, I will. Don't do anything fucking stupid."

And then he hangs up, chucking his phone into your bed with more aggression than he'd ever wanted to show in your presence. You don't see it, back still turned, but you hear it, the way his phone rebounds against the springs of your mattress.

"Shit," he hisses, and when you turn to face him, you find that his head is in his hands, elbows on his knees.

Crouching by him, your chest expands. You don't give a shit about yourself anymore. Your palms rest just behind his elbows, eyes anchored below his, looking up. 

"He's got his fucking final in an hour," is all Jungkook says. "He's gonna miss his fucking final."

He lifts his head, tender lips pouted, eyes bloodshot from the pressure he's been placing on his palms. Looks right at you. Decides he'll never trust another pair of eyes more.

"I know what you do in the dark, sugar," he relays. "But I do worse. So much fucking worse. And I've just gone and fucked it all up."

And while he blames it all on himself, you know it's your fault. 

He didn't stay away from the girl. He tempted fate, tugged on the red string, and accidentally snapped it.

Forlorn, he slumps, tongue wetting his bottom lip as he bites down on it. It's only to stop it from trembling. Clouds lurk in his eyes, trying to block his vulnerabilities from you, but it doesn't take a genius to work out that he's scared. 

"Take it," you say, lips in a flat line, eyes stern. You nod towards the pile of cash on your desk, and his eyes follow. "Take it. Pay your debts. I can earn it again. I don't have a deadline. You do."

He shakes his head.

"I'm not taking the money you've earned."

"Yes, you are."

"I'm not," he protests and you've got it in your right mind to slap his pretty face silly. "Gonna be totally honest," he adds, "Don't really want your sugar baby money. Kinda resent it a little. Resent the fucker who gave it to you."

Jungkook hates him. 

Doesn't know him.

Loathes him.

"So then give him the middle finger and take it," you plead. "He got you fucked up into this mess, he got you jumped, he got your stash stolen. Take his money and get yourself and Yoongi out of it. You don't have time to be fucking arguing with me."

He wants to fight back. You stop him.

"We can argue later," you promise.

And that ever-present effervescent feeling is back in his chest. 

"Sugar," he speaks quietly. "Don't do this."

"Kook," you respond, voice much firmer than his. "You gotta do this. Yoongi shouldn't be fixing your mistakes and you know it. We can work it out on an I.O.U. basis. It's okay."

"I.O.U. suggests I'm gonna keep seeing you for a while," Jungkook mumbles. He isn't feeling as confident in himself as he had done earlier. 

You stand, offering your hand to him so that you can pull him up with you. Neither of you acknowledge the fact that he's stark bollock naked. It's really not the time. Nothing you haven't seen before, after all.

"Well, yeah," you shrug with a straight face, but there's a glint in your eye. "I'd hope so. Pretty sure you said you were fuck my tits later? Gotta hold up your end of the bargain, sugar."

And despite it all, he laughs, toying with your hands before slipping his finger between yours. "Don't call me that."

"Why not?" You squeeze his hands. "You're technically my sugar baby now."

"That's not how it works."

God, he knows he shouldn't be fucking about, wasting time flirting, but he just can't help himself.

"No?" You question, equally distracted.

"No," he says. "If you're paying me, and I'm fucking you, then that makes me a hooker."

He's not wrong. 

"Oh, that's kinda hot," you smile, pulling gently on his hands to encourage him to lean down. He does as he's told, and kisses you like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"You're so fucked up," he whispers against you, knowing that it's exactly why he enjoys you so much.

You don't let the moment linger, though, tossing him his clothes and going to grab the money while he dresses himself. You stack it together, all nice and neat, using the desk to straighten the edges. The wedge is thick in your hands. Yellow 50's are laughing at you. Stupid girl thought we'd fix her problems, they chatter silently to one another.

"Three and half million won," you hold it out to Jungkook. He hesitates, so you force his grip around it and let go. It's his problem, now. Not yours. You smile so warmly that Jungkook can't help but let that feeling in his chest simmer. Your hair is still messy, mascara still smudged. He wants to kiss your cheeks. 

Jungkook hasn't disclosed what exactly was in his bag.

But in the same way he knows there are only three types of women in Daerim, you know there are equally only three types of men.

There's only one demographic that he belongs to. Yoongi, too. 

You don't say it explicitly, not like he does. 

"Holangi are nasty fuckers," you acknowledge. "I know they raise the stakes just for the fun of it. Whatever got stolen, the street value doesn't matter. Take it all. You'll need it."

Take what I owe you.

When he kisses you goodbye, it's just like the first time; all breathy and needy, lips parted and pouting. Again and again, he presses down into your lips. His brows furrow, hands on your cheeks, chest pressed against yours.

The crimson paint that had stained you from his very first kiss returns. You're painted in red for the second time that morning, but this time only you can see it. Only you can feel it.

That's her. That's the girl who let Jeon Jungkook kiss her like he actually meant it. 

But it's funny now, because you know that he does mean it.

When he finally leaves, his nose is blushed, his cupids bow too. Eyes glassy. Smile forlorn.  

Disappointingly, as you close the door of your apartment when he's no longer in your line of sight, you remember exactly how Jungkook had kissed you for the first time:

Like it was going to be the last.

And it consumes you, because the kiss you just shared felt exactly the same.

Your chest is uncomfortable again, but it's not rubber bands this time. 

It's that stupid red string that Jungkook had tugged too tightly on.

The one that he'd snapped right in half. 

WATTPAD // AO3 // KO-FI // CARRD

[piastri-lover]

only her; lando norris

summary: in which you and your boyfriend go on holiday together, but the only pictures he seems to share are of you

pairing: lando norris x reader

authors note: this is my first one of these but i keep seeing other people's so i really wanted to try!! please send in any requests u have and i'll try and do them asap!!

INSTAGRAM

yourusername 📍santorini, greece

tagged: landonorris liked by pierregasly, landonorris and 1328947 others yourusername honey, honey, how he thrills me x view comments

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user1 im so fucking jealous of her -user2 why shes just an attention seeking whore --user1 bitch who are u to talk

carlossainz55 why does he looks so goofy in the water? -yourusername who taught u the word goofy lol --carlossainz55 lando :))

landonorris prettiest boy ever (and ig shes kinda cute too) -yourusername think hes kinda mid icl

landonorris love u baby x -yourusername ig i love u too --landonorris i take it back ---user3 i want what they have

user4 im sorry but why does she literally have the perfect body liked by landonorris -user4 ahh lando liked

user5 does no one else think they're only together bc she's a golddigger and he likes her body -user6 i do always feel like there's no chemistry --user7 its their relationship why do u care??

~~~

landonorris 📍santorini, greece

tagged: yourusername liked by pierregasly, carlossainz55 and 5927462 others landonorris her.view comments

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carlossainz55 u were on holiday for 2 weeks and u only have pictures of ur gf -landonorris only ones worth posting

user8 carlos is saying what we're all thinking -user9 can't believe she's manipulated lando like this --user10 bitch u better be joking

yourusername we went to 4 diff islands and they're the only photos u have -landonorris i can post the one of u after that night in mykonos --yourusername nvm these are great

yourusername don't know who that guy is but i LOVE his hands -user11 omg she's so real for that

TWITTER

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INSTAGRAM

landonorris

tagged: yourusername liked by pierregasly, oscarpiastri and 3183640 others landonorris thanks for 100k likes on twt, i think she looks as pretty as ever xx view comments

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user12 how does she still look so good -user13 fr like i don't even know why she made such a big deal out of it --user14 attention seeking i bet

yourusername i hate u -landonorris love u 2 baby xx

oscarpiastri did u take any other photos in greece -landonorris wdym i've only posted the prettiest views --oscarpiastri smooth

user15 i wish i was her -user16 i wish i was lando so i could just stare at her all day

georgerussell63 lando's giggling at all the comments about how pretty y/n is -landonorris fuck off no i'm not --yourusername i wish u were that's kinda hot ---landonorris i 100% was

~~~

yourusername 📍greece

liked by landonorris, alexalbon and 793583 others yourusername bc lando refuses to share photos from holiday... view comments

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user17 yk they were staying in the best hotels -user18 joys of dating an f1 driver

user19 ik that lando was just the most romantic on this trip liked by yourusername

landonorris these photos are mid compared to the ones on my page -yourusername ur mid compared to me --user20 facts liked by landonorris

landonorris am i right in saying the third photo is before u fell over and grazed ur knee -yourusername fuck offffff --landonorris love u bitch

user21 i want what they have -user22 witty banter in comment sections?? --user21 no lol good looks

~~~

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landonorris replied to your story:

landonorris look so good baby xx

yourusername thank u my love missing greece so much

landonorris yeah me too

yourusername the food the music the hot weather the views

landonorris looking at u everyday

yourusername oh shut up

landonorris never ;) see u on friday x

yourusername yeah love u ig

landonorris i kinda love u as well

~~~

landonorris 📍santorini, greece

tagged: yourusername liked by pierregasly, yourusername and 4193759 others landonorris missing her hours x view comments

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user23 okay i do kinda see why he likes her she's stunning -user24 i don't know how lando norris of all people pulled her --user25 she's everything and he's just ken

maxfewtrell @/yourusername pls come get ur man he hasn't shut up about u since he got home -yourusername don't tell him but i do kinda miss him --landonorris i fucking knew it ---yourusername nvm im over it

yourusername ik u took other photos post them bitch -landonorris these the only pretty ones --yourusername idk how someone is so cute and infuriating at the same time

user26 at this point i'm not even convinced lando went on holiday i think he just took photos of y/n liked by landonorris

user27 she's stunning

user28 lando dump y/n and pick me instead -yourusername @/landonorris u heard them --landonorris sorry baby but the people have spoken ---yourusername @/user28 hope ur ready to deal with his snoring lol ----landonorris Y/N FUCK OFF!!

[chengfagshi]

I really need to vent because this shit is pissing me OFF. Okay, so I'm sure proshippers have heard about the proship server on discord or whatever. Basically, an anti joined, downloaded the selfies of these proshippers and posted it on tiktok for several thousands to see (it almost has 100K likes on tiktok). Now, disclaimer, I do not think taking selfies and posting them on discord with a bunch of strangers is a good idea. Especially considering a lot of these proshippers are minors. Like the owner of the discord server is 14, I believe. I don't think that's a good idea at all. SO an anti took those selfies and posted them for the world to see. 100% without permission and consent of these proshippers. And anytime someone on tiktok comments things like "Uhh, why are you posting kids' selfies", the comments are filled with this type of shit. Dumbfuck #1 is the one that posted the tiktok

[Image ID: "Why are we posting pictures of minors without their permission..." Dumbfuck #1: "Being a minor doesn't excuse being a bigot and a predator." End ID] Keep in mind, we're talking about...you guessed it, fictional characters. This is basically how Dumbfuck #1 sounds to me: "I have to protect the fictional minors from the very real minors by calling out and endangering said real minors". That's basically what Dumbfuck #1 is saying.

And here's Dumbfuck #2:

[Image ID: Person with a functioning brain: "Why are you posting images of minors without their consent tho?..." Dumbfuck #2: "I can tell you like kids." End ID]

I DON'T EVEN FUCKING KNOW WHERE TO BEGIN WITH THIS FUCKING SHIT. FIRST OF ALL, someone caring about the wellbeing of MINORS does not make them a pedophile, despite what you fucking idiots like to believe. And secondly, you are literally endangering MINORS by posting their selfies for the world to see, but you don't fucking give a shit, because you're more worried about them shipping fictional fucking characters together.

[catskets]

A more in-depth guide for creating visual novels, especially in the horror, horror-romance, etc circles

Some of you have seen my previous, smaller post on crafting visual novels, especially in this little space of Tumblr that a lot of us have found themselves in. Since that post took off, I've wanted to create a longer guide to help touch on some points I've thought about for the past few months.

In case you've never heard of me, I'm Kat, also known as catsket. I have a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Game Design. I've been making games for nearly 5 years, and I've been doing visual novels more "professionally" for 2. You may know me for Art Without Blood, 10:16, God is in the Radio, or Fatal Focus. I'm here to help you make your first visual novel.

Please note that my advice does not fit everyone, and you may disagree with what I say. That's okay! It doesn't work for all. That's why there's thousands of resources out there.

FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO HAVE NEVER MADE A GAME

So, you have an idea for a huge visual novel. Horror, a shady and obsessive love interest, a little bit of woo-hooing. 100k words. Maybe a million. What is this, the 07th Expansion?

I notice a lot of people getting into visual novels are artists first. That's okay! I wanted to do art for games before I realized how much I enjoyed writing. And even less of you have probably touched Visual Studio. Again, perfectly okay. We all start somewhere.

My number one piece of advice? Make shitty games.

What does that mean?! My recommendation to those who have never done games is to make a bunch of shitty ones. Think of a theme, or hell, even join a game jam, where you make a game that fits a theme in a short amount of time. Spend about a week on your game. Focus on making something polished. Polish your mechanics. Polish your output.

I recommend, if you can, to make at least 4-6, if not more, kind of shitty games before hopping into longer projects. Making a game is a skill, just like art, just like writing. And game development is combining ALL of these together into one big soup being stirred by a skeleton hand puppet. You'll get into the rhythm and see what works for you.

It also helps you learn, perhaps, the second most important thing here: do you even like making games? There are cases out there where people have created video games (not saying visual novels) just for clout. That's no fun for you, that's no fun for your players. And you might go through this process and find that you don't like making games. That's completely okay! It's not for everyone.

Also, you can use these shittier games to gather an audience. I've built my audience because, for the past few years, I've been releasing games that slowly give me growing fields of eyes every day. A success story overnight is a rare one. It takes time. It's like building a brand, but you aren't a brand, you're an artist.

REV UP YOUR ENGINES!

Ren'py is the number one engine you will be recommended. It is very beginner-friendly, with lots of tutorials, assets on itch.io to use and download, and support. The engine comes with a few tutorials in the form of games, whose code you can freely browse. This is the engine I use most often. Most visual novels you see are made in this engine.

Twine is a text-based engine that most people use for interactive fiction. You can add images and audio, though, if you don't mind messing with HTML. I use Twine for text games and for outlining for my larger games. Ever played Degrees of Lewdity? Yeah, I know you have. Don't ask why. That game was made in Twine.

RPG Maker has multiple versions and has been used for exclusively VNs if you don't mind fucking around with plugins. It can definitely give your game a super unique feel. I recommend RPG Maker MV, since it has the most resources. This line of engines usually costs money, but it often goes on sale for under $5-$15.

People will recommend TyranoBuilder, but as a user and player, the lack of options and the format the games often come in is just...not fun to navigate. It advertises itself as little to no code, but it's often evident in the final results. Some good games have been made in it, though, so if you want to use it for prototyping/practice, you can. I'm not a fan, but that doesn't mean that fans don't exist! This engine costs money.

Not an engine, but check out Ink! Super useful scripting language that's used for more professional projects.

DEMOS, DEMOS, DEMOS

You've got an idea for a long-term project, and now you want to show it to the world! But wait, wait, don't do that yet!

When should I start advertising my game? This is a personal opinion, but I say that you should not start advertising your game until 50-60% of your demo is complete. Why? As I've discussed with some fans of indie VNs, they can name quite a few projects that have been in the "working on the demo" age for 1-2+ years. I've been in the Kickstarter MMO circles. If you, making a single-player experience with little mechanics to balance and polish (aka a visual novel), are taking that long on a demo, I am going to assume the game is not coming out. There are some games I have seen out here that have been in "working on the demo" phase where I haven't seen a single ounce of what the project will look like.

What should I put in my demo? The purpose of a demo is to showcase the mechanics and the vibes and the mechanics of your game. It's a demonstration. In my last post, I pointed to the Dead Space 2 demo that was showcased at E3 (RIP), that takes place about 2 hours into the story and shows how enemies are defeated, some animations, bits of the story, etc. Usually, because it's less about mechanics and more about vibes, visual novel demos showcase a certain percentage of the full thing (5-10%.) Can you showcase the vibe of the game here and what players should expect? If not, show off another portion.

How long should I work on my demo? Before, I said 3-4 months. That can be true, that can also not be true. Think about how long the demo takes you in proportion to how long the actual game should take you. Don't put too much effort. The demo is to showcase the vibe. It's to see how much the public and fans may enjoy the game.

My game is 18+, what should I do? Make a splash screen when the game is downloaded to let players know your game is 18+. If it's going to contain sexual content, you can hide it with itch.io's adult content filter. Write it on the page itself that your game is for adults only. Don't put your demo behind a paywall. This is genuinely ridiculous. The purpose of a demo is to showcase what a game is like before a player purchases it. That defeats the point of a demo. I've seen this happen, and it discourages players from approaching, especially because most demos never make it past the demo phase. So...I'm paying you $10 for 2-3k words of a game that may never come out?

Should I make a social media for my game? YES! Go for it. These anchors are how people will find your game. Make a Tumblr and open that ask box. Make a Twitter. Go to BluSky. Advertising is not bad. Some YouTubers even take e-mail suggestions from developers. Feel free to shoot your shot. The worst they can do is not respond.

HOW TO SET UP YOUR ITCH.IO PAGE:

Getting your itch.io to a presentable state can be very challenging! There's many ways to do it. I highly recommend using this page image guide for learning how to size your images to make your page pop!

Itch.io themselves has suggested to not publish a page until the game or demo is released. You can make the page and keep it as a draft, but do not publish it until you're ready!

Your cover image is the image that will appear in the search of the website, on any front pages, in collections, and on your profile. What have I seen that works? Key art of one of the characters up close and the title of the game! If you can make it a .GIF, do it! Bitches love .GIFs!

Itch.io recommends 3-5 screenshots on your page. I recommend 1 of these 5 be a .GIF that shows how gameplay feels. This is effective, even for visual novels!

Write a 3-5 sentence summary about your game for the description. What is your story about? What is the draw?

DO NOT BE ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE WHO IS GOING TO SAY "This is not like other visual novels. It doesn't have that cheesy this or that or-" No one cares. Genuinely. You're putting down other games in your genre and elevating yourself to the pompous level.

TAG YOUR GAME! itch.io gives you a list of tags to choose from when you go to tag. DON'T USE THIS! Try to go for more specific tags. Arimia has a very good guide on how to use itch.io's tagging system to your advantage.

GENERAL GAME MAKING ADVICE

SCOPE KNIFE IS SUPER USEFUL! Everyone makes games that are way over their workload. It's okay to cut out features and add them later. Prioritize making a finished game before hitting those stretch goals.

PLAN, PLAN, PLAN! Writing outlines is super helpful. I use Twine for my outlines, because you can connect your passages together and make really well-thought webs.

IT'S OKAY TO ASK FOR HELP! Whether it's from friends, professionals, or anything in-between. They can help with assets, editing, etc.

HONE YOUR SKILLS OUTSIDE OF GAMES! Write some poetry. Do some sketches everyday. Improve on your craft to improve your games

MUSIC IS HARD. THERE ARE RESOURCES. Most of us aren't musicians. That's okay. Make sure the music you get for your game is allowed to be used. You can use anything non-commercial if your game will not cost money or donations. I try to do songs in the public domain or free to use overall with credit if I don't have a musician. Consult the Creative Commons website if you're unsure how you're supposed to use a certain piece of music. If you don't use the right stuff, not only can it put you in legal trouble, but it can put streamers in hot water if they play your game and they can't upload the video because music is copyrighted.

PLEASE, DO SOMETHING ABOUT YOUR UI. Wanna know an easy way to get your game to look more professional? Edit the damn UI for your game. Make a new textbox, even if it's just a black box. Change the font. Eventually, players recognize the defaults and patterns of games made in certain engines and may attribute a lack of UI changes to a developer being lazy. It doesn't take very long to change the colors around and move text! Please do it to add a little pop to your game.

DEADLINES ARE AWESOME. Not everyone works well under pressure, but if you give yourself an infinite amount of time to make something, it'll never get done. Set goals for yourself for how much you can work on something.

IF YOU HAVE TO GIVE UP, GIVE UP. Making things is hard, especially long-term. Emergencies happen, jobs happen, life happens. Let your fans know that a project isn't happening anymore. Don't leave them in the dark. You don't need to tell strangers your medical history or anything, but transparency + honesty are really hot traits. You should use those in your creative work. This is one reason why I advocate for not publishing or advertising things until you know it's stable.

SHOWCASING YOUR CONTENT

People love to see WIPs for games! This is what the devlog is good for! A devlog is a post where a developer talks about and showcases some things happening in the game? What can you add to your dev log?

PERCENTAGES! How much of the artwork is done? How much of this character's route is done?

SNEAK PEEKS AT ARTWORK AND SPRITES!

GIFS! GIRLS LOVE GIFS!

Anything else to showcase your game's content! Posting consistent updates retains and even gains a fan's attention for your work.

RUNNING YOUR TUMBLR

You've joined us, and you've made a Tumblr for your blog! Link it on the itch.io page, so people can come find you after playing your awesome demo!

Do I have to respond to every ask? No. It's your blog. Delete whatever asks you want.

I got a hate comment! What do I do? Delete it and move on. I have a more detailed section on hate below.

I want to interact with [blog]! How do I do that? Reach out to the devs for silly little collabs. If you come onto a developer slightly headstrong, they might feel you are being abrasive or using them for content.

If people make fan content, interact with it! Encourage it! Reblog it. Show your love.

OTHER IMPORTANT THINGS

PROFESSIONALISM IS KEY. These may be pet projects, but you want to appear some level of professional on your actual itch.io page.

Being dismissive of player and fan complaints or criticisms will make you appear childish.

If your game is broken, fix it. I have been told by some amateur developers to ignore game-breaking bugs. It does not make me, a player, want to engage with your content. It seems messy and unfinished.

With the above point, it's 100% okay to have bugs and errors upon release. Every developer and their brood mother has. To decrease these issues, get playtesters. Friends can play your games, spot any errors, and help you point out things that can be improved upon. I recommend having playtesters at every stage of development.

Make sure your game runs before you publish it. Please.

You can still be silly and giddy! There's no reason to not be, especially when you get positive comments! The point of this is to not be outright rude to potential players and fans.

IGNORE HATE COMMENTS. In this case, a hate comment is a statement that contains no constructive criticism and are only here to be insulting or malicious. People are going to leave you with actual piles of dog shit in your ask box. They are trying to provoke you. Giving hate comments any attention, even if you're there to "clap back" proves that they got to you, even if you don't take the hate to heart. They will continue to pester you. Delete any hate comments and ignore them completely. Laugh about them with friends in a private setting, sure.

THINK BEFORE YOU REFERENCE! I know one big thing in this community is adding references to other games in yours, such as plushies of other characters or putting them on posters. The best thing you can do it ask the developer before adding this. How would you feel if some random person you've never met put your character in a video game? Most of us would feel weird and potentially violated. Open communication with devs is awesome. I am usually okay with it as long as someone asks for permission.

As a complete aside, I prefer more tasteful references to other games as opposed to 523482346 plushies and posters. These have been slightly overdone. Why not theme a candy after another game's character? Maybe your characters know each other.

OTHER RESOURCES I RECOMMEND

Devtalk is a server dedicated to independent visual novel creators. You can find jobs, resources, advice, talks, and, like, everything there! Devtalk is super useful. Everyone in there is so cool. They have a really great and comprehensive list of resources that I could not even begin to cover.

Visual Novel Design is a great YouTuber. No other words, check the guy out!

Ren'py and whatever other engine you're using has documentation that's super useful to follow.

Arimia not only has amazing VN resources, especially for marketing, but she also just has? Amazing games that you should check out?

And for a shameless self plug, I'm the lead of Sacred Veins, a collective of devs creating narrative games, whether it be horror, humor, romance, or everything in-between. Come hang out with us!

[ourflagmeansgayrights]

hi i cant reblog this post but the results are bothering me so im gonna go through everybody listed here one by one in order of who's leading in this poll:

CALICO JACK: the entire reason im making this post and the entire reason i even thought abt this poll longer than 2 seconds is bc i immediately wrote him off for several reasons and then saw that he was WINNING and i need to set the record straight. first of all, calico jack does not have cybertruck money. those things are going for like $100k right now, cj has $30 in his savings and he does not have the credit score necessary to get himself a goddamned cybertruck. second of all the car calico jack owns is like a ford something or other and it's one million years old and does not pass inspection but it DOES have a pair of truck nuts dangling off the back. you know that video with the red truck speeding through an open field with cinder blocks on it?? that’s jack’s truck

A BADMINTON: i could see it, and i know this is insane bc OP said they're interchangeable and the ARE but i could see it with nigel specifically. my first thought was that ppl who own cybertrucks aren't usually RICH rich like that, but also there's a certain type of arrogant morons who like to showboat their wealth but also are dumb and have bad taste and i think nigel is that type of guy. im thinking abt him going out of his way to hang out with stede just to bully him and make fun of his ship and i think nigel would think owning a cybertruck is some sort of flex. chauncey is less interested in tormenting stede for the hell of it and more into just straight-up trying to kill stede by any means necessary and something abt the single-minded goal of it makes me think chauncey's a bit more pragmatic and less into the showboating compared to his brother (yeah there are like Reasons why nigel might seem a bit more lighthearted than chauncey, only one of them is trying to avenge his brother when we meet him, but also who cares it's the fucking badmintons lol). the car(s) chauncey owns isn't flashy but it is pricey.

PRINCE RICKY: this man is like distant british royalty, i dont think he even learned how to drive until he decided he wanted to follow stede's path and run away to become a modern au equivalent of a pirate. after learning to drive with a private tutor he went out and bought a used audi that was one year old and had less than 5k miles on it and that was him "roughing it"

IZZY: so i voted for him bc i think the aesthetics PERFECTLY fit him but after thinking abt it i would probably change my vote to a badminton. izzy sees cars as a necessary tool to take him where he needs to go and his only requirement is that the color of his car is black. he only buys a new car when the one he has is so old that it's worth more to fix than to replace, and so the only situation where izzy would buy a cybertruck is if he happened to be due for a new car at the same time that the cybertruck was coming out. i think in that scenario the aesthetic kinship he would feel for the truck would be enough to make him buy one even though it's more than he usually spends on cars and it's not his usual sedan. and then he would get in the car and drive it two miles and the software would fail and the car would completely die

STEDE: would not buy a cybertruck simply bc they are ugly. he has better taste than that

ED: same as above but also he's way too smart for that. come on.

FRENCHIE: guys, frenchie's the one RUNNING the scams, not falling for them

SPANISH JACKIE: why is she even on this list. of all the polls to include jackie on, why is this the one. no she doesn't own a fucking cybertruck, come on

[velvetreds]

fake dating ft. oliver aiku

wc; 735

cws; gn!reader, angst ending, aiku is a bitc, hurt no comfort, situationship vibes, may make a p2 . not proofread .

fake dating with oliver aiku!

except you're actually falling in love.

i mean at first it's a win-win thing — everyone gets along with aiku, but they're also really fucking scared of him, so they stop bothering you or hitting on you. meanwhile, aiku's fangirls also lessen (to a certain degree). not to mention, he's also giving you a(n admittedly small) chunk of his big fat football player salary. still, it's like 100k yen per month, who could possibly be stupid enough to say no? not you, of course.

you're not sure when exactly you start regretting all of this — maybe it's when the pet names used for show sneak into your private conversations, or maybe it's that one day you realise that whenever he's done with a match, the first thing he does is look for you. maybe it's when you actually start caring about how you present yourself to him, maybe it's when he starts spending nights at yours.

however, thinking of the past and regretting your choices doesn't quite change the position you're in right now, losing your shit and sobbing your eyes out. you hate yourself for ever thinking anything good would come of this. at least he won't see you like this, you think-

but then your front door opens and closes, and shit, maybe you shouldn't have given him one of your extra keys, because now he's halfway down the hall, and you're feverishly wiping at your eyes to maybe look a bit more presentable. but also you're like, really good at all this- hiding your feelings and such. so when he's finally in your room, there's a cheery smile on your face as you greet him.

"hey," he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you. you feel a quick kiss pressed to your cheek, a light brush of stubble, before he pulls back to show you what he's holding. "look, i gotchu some candy."

"thank you," you say. you're not quite sure what to feel — none of this is supposed to be real, so why is he acting like a boyfriend in private too? you wish he would go away so you can rot with your feelings in peace again. "you really didn't have to."

"i wanted to," he grins, then looks at you seriously again. "you can drop the act now, by the way."

"what act?" what the hell is he talking about?

"why are you sad?" he asks, pulling you to your bed. he falls back onto th mattress, and you sit down on the edge, beside him.

"i'm not," you lie.

"dude, you look like you're gonna cry." all six feet and three inches of oliver aiku is sprawled out across your bed as he attempts — in vain — to have a heart-to-heart conversation with his fake partner.

"fuck off." your voice breaks.

"you gotta tell me what's wrong," he says with a shrug. he doesn't look at you.

"i just can't do it anymore," you say, taking in a huge breath. "any of this."

"why not?"

"i don't know what's real anymore," you say forlornly.

"what, like schizophrenia?" oliver asks, sitting up.

"no, what the hell! i meant, whatever the fuck we're doing."

"what about it? it's just for a bit more, now."

"yeah, but you keep acting like my boyfriend when you don't need to, and i— i like you!"

"oh," says oliver, and you know it's over. "i'm sorry, y/n, i really am."

you look away, unable to bring yourself to meet his eyes.

"i don't think we should continue this," he adds when you remain silent, and you nod, ashamed of the tears prickling at your eyes. oliver aiku, perceptive as always, notices it and turns to you.

"i'm not saying that i don't want to date you, just... i'm not ready for a committed relationship right now, you get me? you're gorgeous and amazing and all, it's just me who's the problem."

"it's okay, i understand," you reply. the floor is suddenly much more interesting than it ever was before, and if you look into his multicoloured eyes, the ground will turn into lava, and you into stone, and the world will explode.

oliver aiku pats your shoulder, once, then gets up and walks away. the bag of candy is bunched up in one of your hands; the other fists the material of you — no, his jersey. you should've never said yes.

yeah idk ab this one. angst yum yum. um. err. part 2 where they make up maybe

[gunpowderdtim]

i wonder what me and @miralines rpverse ouatisblr would look like

10 notes

🌅 atypicalarielien follow 🔁 antiroyalribbons follow

🤡 normalpeopleonly follow

dni if you think that freckles luck should in ANY way be involved in goverment. i mean she's a rose red why should we ever trust that? theyre all monsters i thought this was well established when they FUCKING KILLED US FOR 30 YEARS??? wtf

🥀 antiroyalribbons follow

uh freckles luck did NOT spend 30 fucking years fighting for the rebels for you to call her a rose red. she's made it clear she's just a normal person dozens of times what is WRONG with you

🤡 normalpeopleonly follow

she's still a fucking clone. they put chips in their brains, did you know that? theyre all mind controlled and shit why should we ever fucking trust one. with fucking government programs. i dont care if she 'seems' 'normal' she's just a rose red. i dont get why they didn't kill them all anyway

🥀 antiroyalribbons follow

SHE'S A WAR VETERAN?????? BRUH. you owe your freedom to her she helped kill the fucking king?????

⚫ zanti-deactivated02334432

I think mentioning she assisted the new regime is unnecessary. RR-11678 betrayed the crown in 4395. I think either way she should be shot. Rose Reds, especially defective ones are a hazard. She betrayed the king once. If the new "president" Marion Belle were any sort of intelligent she would have her killed. She betrayed once. She could do it again.

🥀 antiroyalribbons follow

oh now the crown loyalists are here. @normalpeopleonly look what you attracted. this is why we shouldn't give people like op energy

🌅 atypicalarielien follow

bros stop reblogging this it has captain luck fucking id in it she's said like twice to stop spreading that information further...

1,312 notes

🌅 atypicalarielien follow 🔁 zanti2 follow

🌅 atypicalarielien follow

you guys ever think about how hot rose reds are 😳🏳️‍🌈

🪙 zanti2 follow

they are not people.

🌅 atypicalarielien follow

motherfucker you made an alt just to harass me i get it you're a crown loyalist why dont you go suck coles dick. oh wait. he's dead. maybe you should join him

5 notes

🥀 antiroyalribbons follow

everyone should read Althea Black's new book: The Army With a Single Face: Firsthand Accounts of Rose Reds in the Crown War. it really puts the whole war from the perspective of a rose red into mind. really fucked up.

123 notes

🟥 realredhood follow 🔁 antiroyalribbons follow

🪫 ravenousrebeliousraven follow

crazy how president marion belle and her husband are getting divorced... guess that's what the war ending does do a relationship

🟥 realredhood follow ☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️

its because belle sucks ass lmafo

🪫 ravenousrebeliousraven follow

RED HOOD?????

🥀 antiroyalribbons follow

only on sptumblr do we get war veterans gossiping about divorses. i guess. also is this government secrets or

🟥 realredhood follow ☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️

:3

5,678 notes

🌅 atypicalarielien follow

can't believe that people threw rocks at fucking Rose Prince on the beach like. what. she's not a giant literally look at her stature..... this was like 3 miles from my house hell world can i move to fucking mulberry or some shit

1 note

🟥 realredhood follow ☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️☑️

if i get 100k notes ill leak crown and rebel documents on my sptwitch

[dontmixpaintinyourcoffee]

Rewatching Yellow Jacket, I can't help but really appreciate how the main trio are written, especially in regards to money. I feel like the easy way to go would be to have a story about greed, forgetting where you came from, ego, blah blah blah. That's the cliche cake you get from the ingredients set up in the first act. But I really, really love that they didn't go that way. Hannah doesn't want money for luxury. She won't say no to it, but her primary motivation is entirely about making Lex happy. There's no bullshit about how money can't buy happiness, because it kind of can. Not happiness directly, but it can sure as fuck buy security, stability, and resources. Ethan has never seen anything close to 100k in his life. And then what they do with a quarter of it is, objectively, irresponsible. Because they're still kids. What would be treated as frivolous in a less compassionate story is vital to these characters. They buy games and toys and ice cream, fill the house with arcade cabinets and a bounce house. Ethan gets so excited that he forgets to get a bed for himself and Lex, but he gets Hannah an extravagant water bed because he loves the kid with all his heart.

Lex has been working shitty minimum wage jobs since she was 16. She had to drop out of high school because she literally couldn't afford to not work for those 8 hours a day. She takes all the hours she can get, she sells whatever she can get her hands on, she takes the consequences onto herself, she takes the snide remarks, she takes the verbal abuse, she takes all of it because she refuses to let Hannah suffer the way Pam did. The hyper-awareness of money bleeds over to Hannah too, no matter how much Lex tries to protect her from it. She knows that a child should never have to worry about bills and medical expenses and if food is gonna be on the table tomorrow, and she doesn't want Hannah to feel the same anxieties that she does. But still, this kid, on her birthday, sees a tablet she could win, and her first thought is that she could sell it. Because fun is a luxury, and she knows it.

So Ethan blowing 25k on games and pizza and candy- it's not silly to them. It's not frivolous. He's giving them both, but especially Lex, the childhood that was taken from them. That was taken by late stage capitalism, and poverty, and a school system that let them slip through the cracks, and an abusive, negligent parent. It's not the most responsible thing in the world, but it's not about the games or the junk food. It's about the ability to eat the junk food and have time to play the games. It's about Lex not having to feel guilty for spending the day with her sister when she could be working. It's about being able to stay up late for Hannah's 15th birthday, because she doesn't have to take a shift the next day. It's about having the time and energy to study and pass the test without entirely burning herself out and hurting the people around her. It's about these three people finally, finally having the resources to feel real, safe, full joy in their lives, and more.

Thank you for joining me on this week's episode of Why This Scene Of Two Twenty-Somethings Sleeping In A Bounce House Made Me Cry, and now back to Dan with the weather-

[puck-luck]

new beginnings | june 24 - june 30

note: welcome to the start of honey and trevor's very complicated relationship and some of my favorite subplots ;) we've officially surpassed the 100k mark for total words on this fic and we've got a while to go. apologies but also– this is the extended-extended cut !!

29:90 – TREVOR

They say you learn something new every day. 

Today, Trevor has learned that he should really check out the window before he walks outside in nothing but his compression shorts. He also learned that he should really do his laundry before he runs out of clothes– or that he should just steal clothes from Jack when he runs out of shorts. 

Why, you ask? Why did Trevor learn these tidbits on a Monday in Litchton, North Carolina?

Well, because on this particular Monday in Litchton, North Carolina, there are two girls laying in Trevor’s backyard. 

No one had told him that the girls were coming over. If they had, maybe Trevor would have stayed inside. Of course, that would’ve been hard with Honey just a hundred yards away in a bikini top, but he could’ve at least waited until his laundry was done. Honey has seen him in less than the compression shorts, but Bea has not. 

And Bea made Trevor’s outfit her problem as soon as she spotted him. She sat up from the flat deck chair that she dragged out from under the covered patio and whistled, pushing her sunglasses up to rest on the top of her head. Her hair is pulled up into a knot and she’s wearing a thin strip that is a sad excuse for a tube top. 

“Hoo-wee, Trevor!” She calls. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

Trevor scowls, glaring at Bea from the side of his eye as he pulls on his skates and laces them. “Fuck off, Bea. I’m doing laundry right now.”

“And we’re honored, really,” Bea continues, sarcastic and biting. She folds her hands in a prayer in front of her chest and nods at Trevor, eyes wide. 

Honey giggles at her comment, leaning up on her elbows. Her hair is braided into two pigtails and she’s in a bright pink strappy bikini and her tiny daisy dukes that Trevor likes so much. She squints against the sun, one of her eyes completely shut under the shadow of her hand. 

Quinn uses his stick to pick up the wiffle-ball they’ve been using for their scrimmages and tosses it in a high arc towards Bea. It lands in her lap, resulting in an exclamation from Bea, and the girl hands the ball off to Honey. Trevor’s girl positively launches the ball at Quinn, a wicked whistle sounding as the ball makes its way towards Quinn and hits him in the stomach with a resounding thwap.

Quinn groans and doubles over, catching the ball in his palm before it drops to the ground. “Fuck, Honey.”

Honey just shrugs and closes her eyes, laying back down on the deck chair and covering her eyes with the bend of her elbow.

“Bea-girl, come play hockey,” Jack calls. “We need a sixth. You can be on the Hughes team. We’ll sub Luke out since you’re probably shit.”

“Hey, I was an athlete!” Bea exclaims. She stands up and pulls one of Quinn’s Bauer shirts over her head, tying the front into a little knot. “You have no idea.”

“No idea,” Honey echoes. 

Trevor looks at the girl and gives her a secret kind of smile, one that’s reserved specifically for her, but Honey doesn’t look his way. She’s still hidden beneath her elbow. 

“Come show us your athleticism then,” Jack challenges. “You don’t even have to wear skates.”

“Yeah, ‘cause we don’t have a pair of blades for a girl,” Cole teases, skating up to the edge of the rink and taking Bea’s hand to help her step over the wall.

“I hope you won’t go easy on me just because I’m a girl,” Bea replies, her steps careful and calculated as she makes her way onto the rink. She looks around like she’s sizing up the court, surveying end to end.

Luke skates up with an extra one of Cole’s sticks, handing the item off to Bea. He toes the ground with his skate and does a spin, circling around the girl. “I won’t go easy on you, Bea.”

“He’s only saying that because Jack kicked him off the team with his brothers,” Trevor warns. “He’s going to get you.”

Luke offers Bea a coy little smile and skates away, stealing the wiffle-ball from Quinn with an agile poke of his stick.

“First to 21, cornhole rules,” Cole tells Bea, skating up to knock shoulders with Quinn. 

“Cornhole rules?” Bea exclaims. “You fuckers think I want to play for that long? I came over here to tan and get laid before my work week starts.”

“Buzzy, just get in front of the goal and stop complaining,” Honey calls. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

“Exactly, Buzzy,” Cole adds, bouncing a little. 

Jack and Trevor meet at the center of their rink, knocking heads before pulling back and setting up for the face-off. They did it accidentally once when they were kids, then it became like tradition for their summer scrimmages. Luke holds the wiffle-ball with an ungloved hand, then drops it, and the boys fight for it. Jack wins and Luke is already blocking Bea from getting open, maneuvering around her easily in his skates. 

It quickly becomes evident that Bea will be no help to the team of the Hughes brothers, to the point that Trevor, Luke, and Cole don’t even need to defend against her. Even when Quinn sends her the ball, encouraging her to shoot at the open goal, she struggles with the stick.

“My sport didn’t have a stick,” Bea grumbles when she misses another pass and Luke scoops it away from her, flicking the wiffle-ball up so that it sails through the air and bounces into the opposing net. “If we played volleyball, I’d fuck you all up.”

“I’m sure you would,” Quinn commiserates, skating up to plant a slap on Bea’s ass. She snarls at him and spanks him with her stick in retaliation. He laughs and kisses her cheek, mid-game, then skates off to fight with Luke.

The game doesn’t make it to 21 points– well, technically Trevor’s team wins because he and Cole continue to shoot at the net after Bea quits. They’re maybe halfway through the game when she huffs and puffs and tries to step over the wall to exit the rink, but Jack skates up and wraps his arms around her middle. He carries her over to the center of the rink and sets her down, putting the stick back in her hands and reaching for a puck. 

“Pass with me, Bea. I’ll teach you so you’re not so shit next time we play, yeah?” Jack says, dribbling a loose puck between his legs. He’s just showing off now. 

“One sec,” Bea replies, turning around and settling her hands on her hips. She eyes Trevor, then beckons him over. 

Dutifully, Trevor skates over. He towers over Bea with the blades laced up around his ankles and it’s particularly satisfying to look down at her. That is, until Bea wraps her fist in the cloth of his shirt and tugs him down so his ear is next to her mouth.

“I know she told you about Thomas,” Bea murmurs, quiet enough that Jack can’t hear her. “And she’s embarrassed that you know, so she’s going to ignore you today, probably. You can’t let her push you away.”

Trevor pulls back, making eye contact with Bea. He’s sure he looks alarmed. He thought that Honey’s revelation would result in them getting closer, in her sharing more stuff about her life with Trevor, but he supposes he was wrong. Maybe it was just wishful thinking. 

Bea pulls him back down. “Let me explain it like this: do you know that tweet where that girl said ‘In order to date me, you have to defeat my seven evil exes’ or something?” 

She waits until he nods to continue. He doesn’t think he should correct her and tell her that the seven evil exes are actually from Scott Pilgrim, not some chronically online girl’s imagination.  

“Honey doesn’t have seven evil exes. She has one, but he fucked her over seven ways to Sunday, and she’s going to push you away a hundred times before she realizes her mistake. It’s just the way she acts. Trauma, and whatnot. Don’t fucking back off, dude. Your fragile little ego can’t be your priority here, not when you’re the first person that Honey’s been remotely interested in since Thomas ruined her fucking life.”

Bea pushes him away and Trevor rolls backwards due to the momentum. He’s nodding in assent, but Bea has already turned to Jack and reached her stick out to poke at the puck, which he’s doing a spectacular job of keeping from the girl. 

Trevor returns to his own shooting, aiming for the crossbar and hoping to deflect the pucks into the goal. It’s completely precision-shooting, although normally there’s a goalie’s big head in his way, hiding the crossbar from view. 

Quinn is passing with Luke, flicks of their sticks sending the puck from one end of the rink to the other without effort. Cole has completely abandoned the rink, opting instead to wander over to Honey’s chair and take Bea’s spot. He’s sitting with his legs stretched toward Honey, driving the blades of his wheels back and forth over her thighs. Honey is rubbing her face in exasperation, but she’s not pushing him away.

Trevor thinks she secretly likes the attention that the boys give her. They don’t flirt with her, which is great for Trevor, and she doesn’t want them to, which is even better for Trevor. He thinks that Honey enjoys having more friends than just Bea, even if she pretends to be annoyed by the antics of the guys. It’s easy and normal.

This same feeling washes over Trevor more and more frequently lately: that this would be a life where he’s perfectly happy. His whole life, he’s felt like he’s needed hockey. He made his friends through hockey, made his career by playing hockey, and enjoyed life because of his sport. 

Spending the summer in Litchton, even just so far, has taught Trevor that he would be fine in this life that Bea and Honey live. They go to work on the weekdays, they hang with their friends on the weekend, and they don’t get caught up in the outside world. It’s a nice life, simple and easy, and Trevor envies them a little bit. 

At the end of the summer, he has to return home to Anaheim, or maybe even to a new home if the trade rumors are anything to go off of. No one from Anaheim has called him to say that they’re considering trading him, so Trevor isn’t worried, but the whole world seems to believe he won’t be back. It would be harder to have to move away from Anaheim in addition to leaving Honey on this side of the country.

He’s mourning the moment already, he realizes. Lately he’s been filled with that painstaking dread that comes with having the best summer of your life and knowing it will just come to a close in two months time.

Not wanting to get caught up in his own thoughts, Trevor shakes his head. He leaves the rink and sets his stick against the edge of the house, sitting down in a juvenile plop like a child to unlace his blades. 

He remembers that he’s just in his compression shorts, and his laundry is probably finished, so he heads inside instead of going to kick Cole off Bea’s chair like he wants to. He’ll talk to Honey later. For now, he’d like to make himself decent.

Trevor gathers his dry laundry into a clump, holding it in his arms and hoping he’s not dropping socks all over the place on his trek from the laundry room to his bedroom. He dumps the load onto his bed and starts to fold the laundry, making a mental note to pick up the items he lost later. It won’t be the first time one of the boys let their laundry lay out until they went back to get it. 

He’s not even sure all of this will fit in his dresser, to be honest. At one point it did, but now he’s not sure. Maybe the drawers will just be overfilled and hard to shut. 

There’s a slight method to his madness, but it’s not all that real. He usually starts with the clothes that go in his bottom drawer, like his pants and shorts. He folds all of those up into a neat pile, then he starts on his shirts.

A timid knock reaches his door before it creaks open. 

“Hey,” Honey says. She holds up two fistfuls of laundry– mostly socks, but a pair of Trevor’s briefs are dangling from her hand. “You dropped some stuff.”

“Thanks,” Trevor said, gesturing towards the pile of unfolded laundry. “You can just toss them on there.”

Honey obliges, leaving the socks and briefs in a jumbled pile atop his other clothes. She then reaches for one of his shirts, lifting it into the air to smooth the wrinkles before folding it.

Oh. She’s staying to help him, then.

She adds to his pile, although she doesn’t focus on the shirts like Trevor does. She varies throughout and she’s not exactly shy when she picks up his underwear and folds it into a little square.

Trevor’s not sure what to say, so he says nothing at all. 

“Bea and Jack are hooking up,” Honey says eventually. 

“Oh,” Trevor replies. He’s matching up socks now, only a few left. He’s down to a bunch that don’t match, but he might just pack them away together and wear them mismatched. Cole has always loved a mismatched sock, but Trevor isn’t necessarily a fan.

“She thought of a solution for his, uh… lack of endurance,” Honey continues. She picks up the pile of Trevor’s shirts and walks over to his dresser, opening the drawer and setting the pile down, then pushes the drawer shut with her hip. “Do you want to know what it is?”

“Sure,” Trevor says. He takes two ankle socks and folds them together into a little ball. “What’s she doing with him?”

“She’s setting a timer while he fucks her,” Honey explains, a devilish smirk growing on her face. 

Trevor balks. “She’s doing what?” He exclaims, jaw hanging open.

Honey’s smile only grows, delighted to get a reaction out of Trevor. “She’s timing him, and– and–” she waves her finger in front of Trevor’s face. “If he beats his personal record, then she’s going to give him a treat.”

“What kind of treat?” Trevor asks, laughing at the idea of it. 

Jack’s always been quick in bed– Trevor would know, after that failed threesome he and Jack considered back when they were on the same team– but Trevor never expected that to be a mainstay in his sexual life. He had hoped it was just once, or maybe just the first time Jack hooks up with a girl– allegedly, the boy “gets nervous.” It seems as though Bea is searching for her own conclusions, treating Jack’s incompetence as grounds for an experiment. 

Trevor will have to tell Bea that he likes how she thinks. Later, when she’s done– but probably after the girls leave. He’ll text her.

“I’m not really sure,” Honey says with a shrug. “I think she bought a pack of M&Ms to give him. Like she’ll give him five M&Ms if he beats his record– it’s a resealable bag of candy– and she’ll only give him one if he gets close but doesn’t beat it.”

Trevor feels like he’s floating with how ecstatic this news makes him. “She’s bribing him with candy until he starts lasting long enough,” Trevor summarizes, a crooked smile taking over his face. “That’s sick.”

“I know. She’s funny.”

A silence falls between them, growing more and more awkward with each passing second. Honey stands near the door, crossing her arms over her chest and rubbing her opposite tricep like she’s cold. 

Trevor puts the last of his clothes away, then turns to smile softly at Honey. “Thanks for the help.”

“Yeah, well,” Honey says, sheepish all of a sudden. “When I saw all the socks and underwear on the ground, I thought you’d need it.”

Trevor nods, debating whether or not he should walk over and touch her the way that he wants to– but now that she’s shy and reaching for the door, he decides against it.

Instead, he turns to the dresser and finds a pair of sweats to pull over his compression shorts. The shorts are doing him no favors and he doesn’t need to embarrass himself by growing a little stiff at the thought of the easy domesticity he and Honey just experienced, folding his clothes together. He gets a flashing vision of Honey’s clothes sprinkled amongst his own, and Trevor turns to say something to her, but she’s already gone.

30:90 – HONEY

For the first time in a while, Honey gathers her knitting bag and sets out to open The Reading Nook. She’s planning to join the ladies at their knitting circle today and continue her big blanket. She only really knows how to knit squares and rectangles, despite Gillian offering to teach her time and time again. She’s made more scarves and blankets than she needs and usually donates them to the Salvation Army in Winston before the winter sets in. 

The Reading Nook is cold when Honey unlocks the door and steps through the threshold, which is fine by her. The ladies might complain, but Honey thinks it’s refreshing. She’s wearing a ribbed t-shirt, cropped close to the hem of her long skirt. It falls around mid-calf and she got it from the little thrift store down the street last spring. It’s green and floral with cream trimming on the bottom and Honey loves how it swishes.

She opens the store quickly. There’s not much to do during openings except sweep, but even that is barely necessary. Honey’s bored almost from the get-go, but the ladies start to file in just as the store opens. 

Rosalind appears first, with Scarlett and Vera not far behind her. Honey joins them at the table, sitting at the head of the long surface. She unfurls a little bit of her yarn and sets the skein on the table, adjusting in her chair to get down to business.

When Sacha and Gillian join their group, they’re delighted to see Honey at the table. Sacha kisses her cheeks and insists that Honey stays seated rather than standing to hug the woman. Gillian brought bagels, freshly made. She also brings cream cheese, which is “unfortunately store-bought.”

Honey supplies a fresh patch of blackberries, washed and dumped carefully in a little ceramic bowl that the ladies pass around. She got them from the fruit stand yesterday after she left the boys’ house, and although she had meant to ask Trevor if he wanted to ride in the car with her to the store, she never actually did. Instead, she just folded his laundry with him and they talked about Jack and Bea for a split second– it was the only thing Honey could think of that might get a reaction out of Trevor. He was so quiet the day before, but Honey also thinks she might be going crazy.

It’s been a long time since she wanted to hook up with a guy consistently and she feels seventeen again, toxic and overthinking each of her interactions with the boy. It’s the exact same behavior that she loathed so much as a teen, part of the behavior that she vowed to drop when she left Charlotte and moved to Litchton.

So, she left without inviting Trevor to the fruit stand. He must have forgotten that it was a Monday, because he didn’t show. Not that she was looking– she was in and out quickly, ready to go home and take a shower and go to bed. She had almost forgotten how Cole rubbed his grimy-ass rollerblades along her leg while she was tanning, but when she spotted the streak of dirt along her thigh, she was itching to get in the shower and wash it away.

The women gossip about sweet nothings– so-and-so didn’t show up to church on Sunday, this person’s cousin visited from out of town and treated the staff at Scruffy’s like trash (probably a side effect of when said cousin moved up north for college and they lost all their southern hospitality), and other small-town travesties that really aren’t so large in the long run.

The conversation veers toward the upcoming July 4th holiday and what Honey is planning to do– nothing yet, but probably the lake with Bea like every other year. The ladies ask about Bea’s birthday, which is coming up in about two weeks, reminding Honey that she has to go present shopping soon.

That conversation, devolving from Bea’s birthday into a scandalous tale of how Rosalind saw Bea and a “young brunet” walking down Main Street after church on Sunday hand-in-hand, turns toward the boys. 

Honey keeps her mouth shut as Vera raves about Cole, using her adopted nickname for the boy and gushing about how kind he is. She does not mention his evil streak or his annoying tendencies. 

Scarlett mentions that she had seen two of the others around, buying water tubes and toys a few weeks ago. Honey assumes she means Luke and Jack. Scarlett had not spoken to the boys, but she did think they were handsome, and she once again expressed that if she were younger and more available, she might try to scoop one of them up. Honey holds back a laugh at that, thinking that Bea is doing the exact same thing, but she’s scooping each of them. In another life, Scarlett and Bea are best friends who have a body count competition and, possibly, are sister wives.

No one seems to have met Quinn, although they’ve evidently spotted him when he’s with Bea, so Honey fills in a few of the blanks. 

Just as they get to Trevor, who Vera calls ‘Bear’ and speaks about with slightly less intense praise, the bell on the door jingles and they all have to shut up because their chatter seems to have summoned the boy.

“You all started without me?” Trevor asks with a faux-pout, crossing his arms over his chest pointedly at Scarlett. “After you taught me how to knit two weeks ago?”

“Well, young man, when you didn’t show up last week, we didn’t know what to do with ourselves!” Sacha exclaims, wagging a finger at Trevor like she’s actually scolding him. 

“I didn’t realize you were such a knitter,” Honey teases, a polite smile etched across her face. 

Trevor matches it and Honey doesn’t miss how the edges of his face soften when he makes eye contact with her. “I didn’t realize that you could’ve been teaching me how to knit all along,” he says. 

Honey rolls her eyes. “Yes, Trevor, because I have the patience to teach you how to knit.” 

She’s being sarcastic, a little mean even, just because Trevor’s face makes it so obvious how he feels about her. Ada punished Honey for being mean to him a few days prior, but Ada’s not here right now. The other ladies are and Honey doesn’t want them getting any ideas or spreading any gossip– Trevor’s features, all filled with admiration for Honey, are almost as dangerous as his words could be. There’s a chance that anyone who looks hard enough would be able to deduce that Honey and Trevor have a particular relationship and Honey is determined to keep that from happening.

It appears as though, yet again, Trevor doesn’t give a shit about her desired discretion.

“You left something at the house yesterday,” Trevor says. “I figured I’d bring it to you.”

Honey makes a face. “Did I? Maybe it’s Bea’s. I don’t think I left anything.”

Trevor shrugs, hands in his pockets. “I don’t know. I’ll just put it in the back room and you can look at it later.”

“You don’t work here,” Honey denies with a laugh. “You can’t just go in the back room.” She stands from her chair. “C’mon.”

She’s too busy leading Trevor to the back room to notice the self-satisfied little smile that grows on Trevor’s face.

When she opens the door and walks through it, Trevor follows and closes the door behind him with a quiet click. He takes his hands out of his pockets and he’s holding nothing– nor does it look like he has anything in his pockets.

Aw, shit. Honey realizes. I’ve walked right into his little trap.

She tilts her head to the side and takes a deep breath, quirking an eyebrow at the boy. “Don’t tell me that you’re only here because you wanted to see me,” she says.

“I wouldn’t say that’s the only reason,” Trevor says. He reaches for Honey and she backs up. He rolls his eyes and follows her forward, placing them back in the same position as they were two weeks ago. Honey’s back is against the counter and Trevor stands in front of her, arms on either side of her body, hands along the counter.

It reminds her of the whipped cream incident, which is not the thing to be thinking about right now.

Trevor’s smirking a little when she meets his eyes. “Hi,” he says quietly.

The change is so abrupt that Honey blinks in surprise. “Hi?” She replies, uncertain.

Trevor raises a hand and pushes a strand of Honey’s hair behind her ear. “I missed you.”

“You missed me.”

“Terribly.”

“And so you concocted a plan to get me alone?”

“Well, I knew Bea wouldn’t be in yet and those old ladies out there don’t need your attention,” Trevor surmises. He leans closer, whispering into Honey’s ear. “I need your attention.” He brushes a kiss against Honey’s earlobe before pulling away, smug.

Honey can feel her cheeks growing red. “You need my attention. Is that your way of saying that your dick is broken? Because I can refer you to the doctor– he’s just down the street.”

Trevor laughs out loud. “God, Honey, you never let my lines work, huh?”

“You need new lines,” she says. “It’s a shame these ones have gotten you this far. But, say what you will about Californians and puck bunnies–”

“Puck bunnies,” Trevor repeats, glee lighting up his eyes. “Have you been doing research, Honey? Been reading about hockey lingo lately?”

“No,” Honey denies, growing even more red. “Absolutely not.”

Trevor hums, clearly not believing her. “Okay.”

That’s all he says. Honey gawks at him. “What do you want?” She asks.

“I realized last night that I haven’t returned the favor yet,” Trevor says. “You’ve made me come twice and I haven’t made you come at all.” He frowns, hoping to draw her sympathy, but his eyes are still dancing with a little laughter and a lot of confidence. 

Honey’s mouth makes a little ‘o’ and she raises her eyebrows. Her head is tilted up, looking at Trevor from her smaller stature, and she fumbles a little when Trevor’s hands close on her waist. His thumbs stroke over her clothed skin and Honey allows herself to be pulled closer, or maybe Trevor just steps in and traps her against the counter. She can’t be too sure.

Until he lifts her by the waist and sets her on the counter, her long skirt folded underneath her. It’s too thin and Honey realizes that she’s a little warm and damp in her underwear just from Trevor’s proximity– yet another unconscious reaction that she’d put an end to if she could. How dare she grow wet from absolutely nothing.

“You want to know how I realized that?” Trevor asks, nudging her nose with his. 

Honey leans back before his lips can touch hers. “Realized what?” She asks, voice heavy. Her eyelids feel droopy, like when she and Bea booked a two-hour couples-massage two years back that was so relaxing that they both had to sit in the car and nap before driving back to the house. 

Trevor chuckles, just air leaving his mouth instead of real noise. His eyes are zeroed in on her lips, Honey notices, and she licks them because they suddenly feel very, very dry. “Realized that I hadn’t made you come yet, Honey. Do you want to know how I realized?”

“Um,” is the intelligent reply that Honey comes up with. She might as well be a PhD student when she comes up with a shrug, barely constituting an agreement. Trevor’s so close to her. She can smell him– she can’t place the scent, but she knows that Trevor smells rich. Like, money-rich, not strong-and-overwhelmingly-potent-rich.

“I was thinking about how delicately you were folding my laundry,” Trevor says. “At first. Then, I was reminded that your fingers once wrapped around my dick and made me come without any of our friends knowing. Your fingers looked so good around me, and I was thinking about how badly I wanted to see them there again…”

Honey lets out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. She wants to stare at Trevor’s eyes, but instead she’s drawn to the way his mouth forms his words and the tiny peeks of his tongue against his teeth as he speaks.

“Which is when I thought to myself, I haven’t shown Honey what my fingers can do,” Trevor continues. He licks his lips, then bites down on the lower. It’s a little chapped, maybe from sun. He needs to wear more chapstick. 

Honey’s chest is heaving, her stomach pushing against the band of her skirt in this position in an uncomfortable way. Maybe Trevor should just take it off. HUH? Nope, nope–

“So now I’m here, and I thought I’d tell you that you left an orgasm at the house because it’s stupid and I thought you’d laugh at me,” Trevor finishes. “And I know how much you like laughing at me.”

“Because I hate you,” Honey supplies, sounding entirely unconvincing.

“Duh,” Trevor agrees. “But I just can’t get enough of you.”

He noses at her nose again before his mouth seals over her own. He kisses her deeply, like she’s sinking into a warm bath after a long day, and Honey sighs against him. 

She’s leaning forward into him, touching his sides over his cotton shirt. Trevor’s hand is sliding over her cheek, the other bunching up her skirt over her knee so that he can get a grip on her skin. When she pulls away, he asks for permission.

“Can I make you come on my fingers, Honey?” Trevor asks, index finger toeing the line and digging a burning path into her skin as he runs it over her inner thigh. “Please?”

“Only ‘cause you asked so nicely,” Honey replies, pulling him in again. Her teeth knock against his when he laughs, but he wastes no time to flip her skirt up and reach his hand underneath the fabric. 

“Do I need to start saying “yes ma’am” and “no ma’am” when I’m in your presence?” Trevor teases. “Just to keep up my good manners?”

“If you want to keep getting laid,” Honey affirms, practically spoon-feeding the words onto his tongue. Her eyes are closed, but she can feel the way Trevor’s smiling against her lips. 

“Oh, baby, I want to keep getting laid,” Trevor assures her. His fingers tap over her clothed mound, sliding his nail along the seam of her panties.

“Don’t call me baby,” Honey admonishes.

“What can I call you?” Trevor asks. 

“My name,” Honey answers. “Or ‘your Royal Highness.’” 

Trevor hums in acknowledgement, petting over Honey’s core. He’s still kissing her, just brushing his lips against hers in cute pecks that leave her whining for more and looping her arms around Trevor’s neck to keep him close. 

“Your Royal Highness sounds perfect,” Trevor mumbles.

“Would you hurry the fuck up and finger me already?” Honey berates, tugging the hair at the nape of Trevor’s neck. 

“Yes, your Royal Highness.” 

Trevor pets over her panties twice more, running his finger all the way from her slit to the patch of skin just past her clit, then he removes his hand. Honey nearly growls, but Trevor shifts his other hand under her skirt and uses both to pull her panties down her legs. He taps her hip so that she shifts on the counter, able to slide her underwear off and place them in his pocket for safekeeping. His fingers, callused and rough against her wet skin, spread her folds and rub over her entrance. 

Honey shudders, her mouth opening against Trevor’s when he presses two into her from the get-go, up to the first knuckle. She swerves his next kiss, gasping with her breath fanning across his cheeks and rolling her hips against his fingers. 

“Sorry,” Trevor whispers. He presses his lips to her cheekbone, further embellishing her blush with the sweet gesture. “We have to be quick. I have a feeling some old ladies might come looking for us if we’re gone too long.”

“Don’t talk about them right now,” Honey groans, patting her hand against Trevor’s hand with an ounce of force behind it. 

“Yes, ma’am,” Trevor agrees.

“Just make me come,” Honey bosses, sliding forward on the counter. She spreads her knees and Trevor steps closer, his fingers filling her up. His fingers are thin, and long, and Honey’s fingers are stiff with how tight she’s holding him against her. She moans aloud when the wide, bulbous second knuckles of his fingers work past her entrance, then slaps a hand over her mouth. It brings Trevor even closer, with the bend of her elbow securely against the back of his neck. 

He laughs at the noise, shushing her quietly. He brings his other hand up to her chin and meets her lips. “You make some pretty noises, Honey, but we can’t let anyone else hear them,” Trevor whispers like it’s a shared joke between them. “Those are just for me.”

“You wish,” Honey bites back, just as Trevor draws another noise out of her with a pointed stroke of his fingers. 

“Mmm, I do,” Trevor murmurs. “You feel even better than I thought you would.”

“Trevor.” Honey grinds against him, tugging at the chest of his t-shirt.

“So warm and wet for me,” Trevor continues.

“Maybe I’m not thinking about you,” Honey gasps out. “Maybe I’m thinking about someone else.”

“Doesn’t matter– no one else is here,” Trevor replies. “Just me and my pretty girl.”

“Your Royal Highness,” Honey corrects, feeling Trevor’s fingers prod at her in a way that’s making her teeter along the edge of an orgasm– the first orgasm she’s experienced with a man since Thomas, she realizes. Sure, she’s had them alone, but she’d forgotten how mind-numbingly good it was to relinquish control and let someone else bring her pleasure. 

“Exactly, my Royal Highness. Why don’t you focus on coming instead of bossing me around?” Trevor increases his tempo then, rubbing the heel of his hand not-quite over her clit, but close enough and with enough pressure to make Honey keen and arch her back into him. 

Her nipples are hard, practically poking through her shirt. The fabric of her top, against the fabric of his top, with the hard muscle of his torso beneath it sends a rush through Honey’s body. Her mouth hangs open as she comes, bouncing a little bit with quivering thighs on Trevor’s fingers to prolong the feeling that comes over her. Honey’s head lolls back against the cabinets, the knob digging into the skin at the base of her skull in an uncomfortable way. Normally, Honey would be bothered, but she can’t care less about the pain in her neck when Trevor’s fingers are still moving inside of her and his lips are molded against hers, swallowing each sound she makes. 

When she comes down, Trevor kisses her one last time and pulls her skirt back down. He reaches over and runs his fingers under the faucet, wiping them with a paper towel once he deems them clean enough. 

“Not hungry?” Honey asks, her vision a little blurry after squeezing them so tight when she came. 

“If you think the first time I’m going to taste you is by licking my fingers, you’re sorely mistaken,” Trevor chides. He draws her panties out of his pocket and holds them up. “Can I keep these?”

“No way!” Honey exclaims, a laugh escaping her. “I am not letting you keep my underwear, you freak. I’m definitely not walking around this store all day with no panties on, Trevor. Give ‘em back.”

Trevor just wiggles his eyebrows and bites down on the waistband of the panties, leaving them dangling from his mouth as he slides to his knees. He pulls Honey’s ankles through the leg holes, then releases his grip on the waistband to draw them up her legs. 

Honey shifts her hips again so he can pull them up, laughing as Trevor’s head disappears and makes a lump under her skirt. She pops him on the head like a Whack-A-Mole and Trevor lets out a little “hey!” when she does. 

Just before he retreats, he pats her hips goodbye and brushes a kiss against her clit. Honey can hear him whisper something under his breath before he kisses there again, then he pulls her skirt off until his head is free. He smiles up at Honey, that same stupid smile on his face, and the dipshit has the nerve to wink at her.

“You are such a loser,” Honey tells him, exasperated. Once he’s far enough away, she slides down from the counter and onto her feet. 

“Mmm, you like it,” Trevor says, leaning in to kiss her again, but Honey just pushes him away.

“Get outta here,” she commands, trying to hold back a smile and failing. She pushes him to the door and he stumbles through it, laughing. 

“What’s so funny?” Vera asks, pausing her knitting.

“Trevor thinks he’s got jokes,” Honey says with a frown, her palms pressed against the small of Trevor’s back as she pushes him towards the entrance to The Reading Nook. He does not make it very easy for her. She’s able to wrench the door open and use her shoulder to push him out of the building, which makes him laugh again. He waves goodbye before he walks away.

After returning to the table, a lethal eye roll on Honey’s face in plain view for all the women to see, Scarlett speaks up. “What did he give you?”

“Nothing but grief,” Honey says with a nod and a huff of annoyance. “Here’s your scoop for the gossip circle, ladies– that boy is nothing but a loser.”

She’s overplaying it, but he really is. She just hopes that her voice doesn’t sound as fond about his loserish tendencies as the pitter-patter of her heart makes them out to be.

Honey returns to her own project, head down and avoiding the eyes of the ladies. They certainly have more questions, but Honey will not entertain the teases that these women are capable of. She already gets teased enough, even if their statements are made out of love and belonging.

The bell jingles above the door again and Bea walks in, sipping at the straw of her coffee. Later, when she goes to assemble her lunch on the counter, Honey is going to have to politely steer her towards the table. Then, Honey will have to explain why Bea can’t make her lunch on the counter until after Honey cleans it, and then they’ll squeal in the back room until Ada pops her head in and tells them to quiet down.

For now, though, Honey just wants to sit with her secret and feel her lips buzz with the mesmerizing phantom press of Trevor’s.

31:90 – TREVOR

Trevor doesn’t wake up to an alarm. He set one, he did, but instead, he wakes up to text after text from Bea.

what time are the guys leaving today

is quinn getting his haircut before or after he leaves

why aren’t you awake yet

when is the flight

which airport are they flying out of???

where are the awards again?

trevor get UP it’s almost 9 and i actually went to work on time today i’m BORED

oh and another thing

don’t think we’re not having a conversation about how you fingered honey on MYYYYY counter

with the ladies in the next room over?? you are an exhibitionist and i do not like the bad influence you have on honey

my workplace should not be brought into your sexcapades IDIOT

omg WAKE UPPPPPP

trevor

trevor

trevor

trevor

trevor

trevor

She’s still typing when Trevor finally wakes up and grabs his phone, irate and ready to chuck it across the room so that he can get that last twenty minutes of sleep before Quinn says it’s time to head to Charlotte.

will you stop by the nook before you leave so i can say goodbye

The thin line of Trevor’s patience finally snaps. He clicks through his phone, clicking on the blue number under Bea’s contact and bringing the phone to his ear. She picks up on the fourth ring and Trevor doesn’t let her take a breath before he snaps at her. “Give Quinn your fucking phone number so you don’t wake me up with a shit ton of pointless messages, Bea McLean.”

He’s pissed off and the girl has the nerve to laugh. “At least I got your attention.”

From a distance, Honey voice reaches the telephone. “Who is that?”

“It’s Trevor.”

“Oh.”

Trevor shakes off Honey’s “oh” as best he can. He’s hoping that her face conveyed more excitement about Trevor’s presence on the phone than her voice did. 

She seemed to like it when he fingered her on the counter. She was just as sassy as always, something Trevor wouldn’t trade for shit, and he cataloged every second of it for later– later, as in, when he got home and wrapped the same hand that was inside of her around his dick and stroked himself to a very quick release.

Trevor speaks again. “Why are you so against giving him your number?”

“Not him, dummy. If the other boys catch wind that I gave him my number, they’ll start demanding it.”

“The other boys?” Trevor asks.

“Jack.”

“Yeah.” Trevor pauses, rubbing his hand over his face. “So you need us to come to your work so you can give Quinn’s hair a goodbye kiss?”

“Tell him he’s not allowed in the store,” Honey says.

Trevor assumes she’s joking, but if she wasn’t, he’d be mad that she said that. He knows what Bea said about her one hundred attempts to push him away, but that’s just plain mean. What if he wanted to read a book? Would he have to send Cole to pick it up for him?

Luckily, Bea has Trevor’s back. “You didn’t seem to mind him being in the store yesterday.”

At the same time, Trevor doesn’t want to push his luck. Sometimes, with Honey, it seems like he goes one step forward and two steps back. He doesn’t want to give her a reason to pull away from him. “Tell her I can stay in the car.”

“What if I don’t want you to stay in the car? What if I want all of you to come into the store so Quinn and I can have a quickie in the back?” Bea asks, her tone pointed not at Trevor, but at Honey, who Trevor assumes is still hovering in the background. 

“In public?” Honey exclaims.

“As if you’re any better,” Bea says.

“Can you focus on me for a second? I don’t want to talk to you any longer than I have to,” Trevor says, speaking up so that Bea certainly can hear him. He snaps his fingers next to the speaker for a couple of seconds just to annoy the girl. “We’re headed to the Charlotte airport in like ten. I don’t think we have time to stop by and see you.”

“Well, how early will you be?” Bea sasses, a frown evident from the tone of her voice. “At the airport.”

“Q is on Dad Mode and wants to go two hours early.”

“Tell him that’s fucked. And then tell him that I’ll be mad at him if he doesn’t see me before he leaves.”

“Didn’t you come over yesterday and take a nap with him?” Trevor pinches his bottom lip and speaks through the muffle. 

Bea hums over the phone, high-pitched and obvious. 

“No one wants to hear about that,” Honey admonishes. 

“Go away. I’m talking to Trevor.”

“You’re barely talking to Trevor!” Trevor snaps. “You can’t just send me twenty texts and then talk more to Honey than to me–”

“So you’re jealous…”

“I want you to stop annoying me. Give Quinn your phone number–”

“That’s not going to happen…”

“And get out of my business!”

Trevor pulls the phone away from his ear and hangs up. He tosses it with a loud clatter onto the floor and experiences a brief moment of reprieve and silence before someone in the kitchen hits the ceiling with the broom. He bets it’s Cole. He recently watched the episode of Friends where Mr. Heckles died and he’s starting banging the broom against the ceiling “in memoriam” of the side character. 

Trevor rolls out of bed and pulls on a shirt, swapping his boxers for a new pair and pulling his jeans on. 

When he walks down the hall, he bangs on Luke and Quinn’s door. “Bea says she doesn't give a shit if you're late to the airport, she wants to say goodbye before your stupid haircut,” he announces through the wood of the door, hoping that the boys are doing their normal last-minute packing. He’s proven right when a muffled “okay” comes through the door and Trevor retreats, but not after he tells the boys that they’re leaving in five minutes and they’d better be in the car by then, or Trevor will make sure they never make it to the award show.

They don't make it to the car in time and, although he’s annoyed, Trevor’s threat was an empty one. He already abandoned Quinn in Charlotte once and he thinks Quinn might kill him if he pulls the same thing (but opposite) a second time.

Both Trevor and Cole tag along for the ride to the airport. They take Trevor’s car and the two non-Hughes ride in the front seat. The short ride to The Reading Nook reminds Trevor why they don’t normally allow the brothers to ride together in the backseat– because they’re annoying. Luke wasn’t even helpful this time– the mediator of the family refused to sit in the middle because his legs are too long, which left Quinn or Jack to take the middle and Quinn outright refused, despite being the shortest. 

Trevor can’t believe they have to drive all the way to Charlotte with the Hughes brothers in the back. It’s no wonder their parents bought a car with a third row and banished Jack to the “way-way back.” Trevor is considering trading his car in for Quinn’s rental car on the way out of town– the third row would give him reprieve. There’s only so many times Cole can turn up the music to drown out the brotherly bickering before the stereo is turned to maximum volume. 

Jack spills out of the car when they make it to The Reading Nook, barely letting Trevor shift the car into park before he’s climbing out and spreading his arms wide just because he can. He does the same with his feet, standing wide and starfishing vertically in the middle of the sidewalk, his head tilted back and eyes closed. There’s no regard for the passersby, nor for the brothers that are climbing out of the car after him.

Luke reminds him of his existence quickly with a sharp pat to the back of Jack’s head, knocking his hat off and taking it with him into the store. Jack chases after him, the front bell ringing as they barge through the door and disturb the quiet atmosphere of the Nook that Trevor has come to enjoy.

Cole and Quinn follow behind the boys at a normal pace and Cole holds the door open for Quinn, who gets an armful of Bea as soon as he crosses the threshold. 

Trevor watches from the car, true to his word. He catches Bea’s million-dollar-smile (her words, not his) as she throws her arms around Quinn’s neck and automatically intertwines her fingers in his hair. She blows a kiss at Trevor when she sees him, barely looking past Quinn to acknowledge the boy before she turns back to the man she’s all over. Trevor can’t see Quinn’s face, but he can imagine the content on Quinn’s features as Bea fusses over him and ignores the other boys.

Cole eventually makes his way into the store as well, leaving the door to close behind him. Trevor sees his own reflection against the glass, then turns back to the wheel.

He runs his fingernails along the stitching of the wheel. He goes around the whole circle, then traces the logo in the center of the wheel over and over. Eventually, he tires of that, and closes his eyes. He leans back against the headrest and plans the week out in his head– today, the Hughes boys leave. Tomorrow is the award show, then on Friday, Cole wants to bust out the hot tub since they haven’t used it yet. The boys come back on Saturday morning, filling the house again. 

Trevor has two days of peace. He’s happy for Quinn and Luke, nominated for the Norris and the Calder respectively, but he can’t wait to get some peace and quiet. If he’s lucky, Bea won’t bother him until Saturday when the boys get back.

His eyes are still closed when the passenger door opens and someone shuffles in. Assuming it’s Cole, or maybe even Luke, Trevor keeps his eyes closed and doesn’t acknowledge them.

“I wasn’t serious, you know. You’re allowed to come in the store.”

Trevor startles at Honey’s voice, his hands accidentally making contact with the horn and honking it. When he looks at her, she’s smiling, and he blushes.

“I wasn’t sure,” Trevor replies. “I didn’t want to overstep.”

Honey stares at him, unimpressed. “You fingered me in the back room of my work with the ladies in the other room and then asked to keep my panties. You’re either at zero or one hundred, aren’t you, Trevor?”

Trevor smiles, a little sheepish. “So you liked it?” He asks, biting down on his bottom lip after the question leaves him. One of his hands rubs over the hem of his shorts, fingers dipping under the fabric to toy with it. 

Honey hesitates, tapping her finger to her chin and looking up at the ceiling of the car to delay her answer even further, but Trevor knows that she’s just doing so to get on his nerves. “You were fine.”

“Fine?” Trevor demands. 

Honey shrugs. 

“You’re a dirty liar, Honey,” Trevor says. “I made you come in minutes and I barely touched your clit.”

“That was your problem. It could’ve gone faster.”

Trevor’s jaw is slack, then he laughs a little. “So you didn’t like it?”

Honey shrugs again, but there’s a little smile pulling at her lips. Trevor takes that as a good sign.

“You’re being mean to me when we both know that when I fingerfucked you, you couldn’t stop moaning for me,” Trevor says with an ounce of pride leaking into his statement.

“Just because you and I were the only two people in the room doesn’t mean I was moaning for you. How do you know for sure that I was thinking about you? I believe I brought this up yesterday, too.” Honey raises her eyebrows like a challenge.

Trevor leans into her space, over the center console. His elbows dig into the barely-cushioned leather and he knows his eyes are half-lidded from the way Honey leans back and tilts her chin up, appearing unaffected by his movements. She never falls for his sultry, go-to flirtatious expressions. “You definitely weren’t thinking about what would happen if we got caught,” Trevor says. “And who’s to say I would’ve stopped even if we had?”

Honey purses her lips, eyebrows turned down as she presses her tongue to the back of her front teeth. She stares at Trevor for a moment, evaluating him, then she turns and lets herself out of the car. She slams the passenger door in Trevor’s face and stomps toward the entrance of the store. 

Trevor rolls down the window and calls after her. “Too much?”

“You’re really banned from my store now,” Honey replies, not turning to look back. She wrenches the door open, bell jangling merrily in sharp contrast to the scowl that Trevor is sure adorns her face, then slams that behind her.

Within a minute, the boys shuffle out of the store awkwardly and clamber into the car. Jack ends up in the middle seat again, waiting for Quinn to climb in after him. 

Quinn hesitates before getting in the car, reluctant to let go of Bea’s hand. Trevor watches as he gives her a soft little smile and mumbles something before leaning over to kiss her cheek. 

Bea nods and puts her hand in his hair again, tilting his head down so she can kiss the brown mess. Then, she squeezes his hand and wishes him luck. She peers into the car. “You too, Lukey. Good luck.”

Quinn lets her go, then climbs into the car. Bea shuts the door for him, then waves goodbye. She turns and walks back into the store, and not five minutes later, Trevor gets a text from the girl.

thank you good sir i’ll make sure honey doesn’t ban you entirely

Then, another few minutes later, a picture of the front window of the shop that now hosts a “No Trevors Allowed” sign in the bottom corner of the window. Trevor saves the picture to his phone with a little smile. Honey’s dramatic. He likes her so much. 

32:90 – HONEY

Honey was hoping that with Quinn, Luke, and Jack gone for the next few days, she’d be free to sit at home and ignore Trevor’s looming presence. She could start her newest book– a romance, because she’s had a desire to read something trashy lately. She could bake something, or keep working on her knitting, or just go to bed early and rest. 

But Honey should’ve known that that would be too much to ask. 

Bea wants to watch the award show and she wants to watch it with the boys, since her libido has increased by leaps and bounds since she started hooking up with people regularly again and Cole’s the only boy left in town. Honey is sure that Bea will put him to use over the next two days. 

Honey tried to hide in the Nook again before closing, but she failed for a second time. She likes to think that she can outwit Bea, but the girls know each other so well that neither of them can get very far into something secret without the other finding out– or finding their hiding place. Next time she wants to avoid hanging out with the boys at Bea’s request, she’ll just ask Ada if she can leave early. If that doesn’t work, she’ll just escape when Bea isn’t looking and skip out on the end of her shift.

What’s Ada going to do? Fire her?

The worst part about Bea dragging Honey to the boys’ house is that Bea walked to work and Honey had only enough gas to get home before filling up the following morning… so she had to fill up her tank and Bea did not offer to pay, although it was her idea to go to the rental house in the first place.

Now, Honey is sat between Bea and Cole with a full hand of Uno cards, trying to shield her cards from the prying eyes of the blond boy on one side and ignore the girl on her other. Trevor is sat on the loveseat, flicking through the channels before finding ESPN and tossing the remote onto the table before them. He’s got his own hand of cards, but he’s left them out on the table for everyone to see. Bea has been reaching over and plucking his worst cards out of the pile on his turn. She’s also been working overtime to make sure Trevor receives every +4 card that she can find.

“When does the show start?” Bea asks, reaching forward to spread Trevor’s cards out even further.

“Seven,” Trevor replies, checking his watch and sounding bored. He hugs a pillow against his chest and yawns. Instead of returning to the game of Uno, he keeps his eyes on the television and lets Bea do whatever she wants with his cards.

Honey frowns, but then focuses back on her cards. She bats Cole away, then picks one of her cards and lays it down. She covers her hand, hiding it from view, and looks at the television. 

The announcers seem to be discussing various sports, just talking back and forth about stats and statistics. A lot of it is focused on hockey, with the awards coming up, and Honey raises her eyebrows when she sees a clip of Quinn hitting an opposing player, rocking the guy and spinning in a one-legged circle with the momentum. Other than the spin, he barely moved on the ice. He didn’t stumble at all from the weight of the other man crashing into him. 

Honey finds herself nodding at the sight of it, as if in a trance, then she shakes herself out of it. She returns to the Uno game, catching a side eye from Cole that was much too obvious to be a serious action as she reviews her cards.

Bea wins the game, because of course she does. She and her family are by-the-rulebook Uno players, so Bea almost always wins just by her sheer knowledge of what you can and cannot do in the game. 

Honey also thinks she might just be a very convincing liar.

Before they know it, the announcers are signing off for the night and ESPN is segueing into the NHL Awards. There’s impressive animations on the channel, clips of the players that are tastefully thrown together by the production team, and a live look at some of the families walking down the carpet. 

Honey is more excited about the creation of the broadcast than the contents of the broadcast itself, if you can’t tell. 

Bea slams the pack of cards on the table just as the cameramen start to show players and their guests. 

“Wow, they’re a gorgeous couple,” Bea marvels, drinking in the mint-colored suit and dress on a pair. 

The woman is blonde with some of the longest, possibly heaviest earrings Honey has ever seen and the man has a bright smile. His cheeks and nose seem a little sunburnt, but only in a way that glows. 

“That’s one of the guys Quinn is up against,” Trevor says.

Bea immediately frowns. “Then I hate their outfits and any talent he possesses,” she gripes, crossing her arms over her chest. 

She holds that position until a man with a mustache comes on the screen wearing the most jarring outfit Honey has ever seen. Whoever styled this man did not realize they were styling a premier athlete– they were told that his aesthetic was Cape-Cod Grandmother. Honey hopes that’s the case at least– she’d never get over it if this was the man’s actual style.

Bea agrees, speaking as if she can read Honey’s thoughts. “Holy shit, Emily Gilmore,” she breathes out.

Cole chokes on his yawn, whacking himself on the chest as his breath stutters. He looks up at the TV and starts laughing, rolling on the couch and clutching at his stomach. His face is contorted like he’s miserable from laughing so hard, growing red in the face. 

Trevor casts him a glare, bewildered. “Who’s Emily Gilmore?”

The way Trevor says her name sends Cole into another fit of giggles and Honey can barely suppress a smile. The boy’s smile is contagious.

“She’s, like, an old money Connecticut grandma,” Bea exclaims, grinning wildly as Cole chortles. “It’s from a show. What’s so funny, Co-Ca?”

“He’s making the Leafs look fucking stupid,” Cole forces out between laughs. He gulps down a few deep breaths to calm himself, then giggles again. 

“You’re lucky the Hughes boys didn’t hear you say that,” Trevor says. “You know how they hate when you poke fun at their childhood team just because they’re your rival.”

Bea shushes them all. “Speaking of the Hughes!” She points at the TV, eyes glued to the screen. She won’t even blink. 

Honey shakes her head fondly, then turns to catch what Bea’s looking at. 

She sees Luke first, with a sleek black suit and a tie that Honey can’t quite decide the color of– beige? gold? tan? Regardless of the color, it looks good on him, adding a pop of color to the outfit that’s just classy enough on Luke to not be overkill. He’s smiling wide, looking charming at the camera. Honey has never seen him turn on the charm like this before– but it’s impressive. He looks at home, even though once his smile fades between photos he looks back to his normal self. Maybe it finally set in that he was at the NHL Awards and that he’s nominated for once, not just attending with family. Honey hopes he’s not too nervous.

Quinn is next, looking mature in his black suit with the black tie. Whereas a colorful tie helped Luke out, color would just distract from the pure confidence Quinn exudes. He’s walking around like he’s already won the title of Best Defenseman, smirking at cameras and fixing his jacket. His hands go in his pockets after that and Honey admires his belt, a smooth black leather with a silver buckle. They’re simple and he looks smug, almost, in the outfit.

Honey looks over at Bea, who is biting the side of her bottom lip. 

She returns to Quinn. She notices that his hair was cropped much shorter, to an almost corporate length. Honey recalls the first time she met Trevor, when he said that all the buys were business partners. Quinn could definitely pass as an executive of a company, raking in the big bucks in a high-level office. 

“Has he always had that scar on his cheek?” Honey asks.

Bea shakes her head, still facing forward. “He just got it this past season, during the playoffs,” she tells Honey before Trevor or Cole can supply the information.

Jack isn’t shown right away, which is kind of disappointing for Honey. She would’ve liked to see all the boys right away. Honey leans forward to grab a handful of pretzels from Cole’s bowl of snacks. She catches Trevor watching her out of the corner of his eye when she sits back on the couch. She frowns, then chews a pretzel.

“Has their mom always been that gorgeous?” Bea asks, sounding awed. 

Honey looks to the TV and catches a blonde woman in a loose white shirt and black pants, looking delighted but reserved on the screen. Honey can imagine her as someone who would bake some brownies as a housewarming gift for her new neighbors upon their move into the neighborhood. Her hands are aged with love and although there are lines starting to peek at the corners of her eyes and cheeks, Honey immediately has nothing but respect for Mrs. Hughes.

She’s standing with an older man and Jack, holding onto the arm of Mr. Hughes with a casual intimacy that Honey audibly murmurs at. Mr. Hughes is smiling, close-lipped but proud as his sons join them. 

“She has Jack’s smile,” Bea says softly, sounding touched. “That’s so special.”

Speaking of Jack, Honey admires his outfit. He’s wearing a steely, almost metallic-iron suit with a black button-up beneath it. His suit wouldn’t be so eye-catching if he were wearing a white button-up, plus it would wash him out. He’s not wearing a tie, which makes him stand out, but his only problem is that Honey wishes he had taken more time with his hair. It doesn’t look as good as she knows it can, which is frustrating. 

The camera cuts away from the family after they catch that initial shot, so Honey loses the boys. Bea sighs at the same time, laying back as if she can bury herself between couch cushions. She frowns at the loss of the Hughes brothers and Trevor chuckles out a little laugh. 

“You know you get to meet them for Fourth of July,” he mentions, smirking at Bea.

The girl’s expression drops with her jaw, her eyes flashing. “What?” She asks, blinking rapidly. She sits forward again. “His parents are coming for the Fourth?”

Trevor laughs sharply and nods. “Yeah, Quinn didn’t tell you yet? They decided to come last week. They said the Michigan house seemed too empty this summer without them.”

Cole jumps in. “Plus, once they heard Jamie got invited on our ‘top-secret-vacation,’ they didn’t believe the excuse that we wanted to be alone this summer,” he laughs. “But you can’t really complain when Ellen and Jim are around. That reminds me, we have to find a new golf course for when Big J comes.” He’s speaking solely to Trevor and Honey rolls her eyes at the nickname– Mr. Hughes must hate it when Cole calls him ‘Big J.’

“Why didn’t you guys tell me sooner?” Bea cries, throwing her hands up. She runs one of her hands through her hair, gathering it out of her face. She ties her hair up with the elastic on her wrist and fans herself like she’s sweating. “I can’t meet their parents when I’m fucking all three of them.”

“Four if you count me,” Cole adds. “I’m like their adopted son. I’ve met their grandma and she loves me.”

Honey laughs aloud at that.

“All grandmas seem to like you, eh, Coley?” Trevor teases. “Vera loves you more than anyone else in Litchton.”

“Oh, God,” Honey groans, rolling her eyes. “You can never bring him to Knitting Circle.”

Everyone grows quiet for a second and Honey seems to realize what she said. She laughed with Trevor. 

Noooooooooo–

“Has Trevor gone to Knitting Circle with all the old ladies?” Bea asks, giggling. She looks elated to have found yet another thing to bother Trevor about and Cole looks mildly interested, a smile growing on his face. 

“You know how to knit?” Cole asks, poking his tongue between his teeth and sticking it out at Trevor with a crinkle of his nose. 

Trevor shrugs. “I needed a hobby for the summer. I was bored and stumbled on it one morning. Honey hates it when I show up.”

He looks over at her, raising his eyebrows and tilting his head in a tiny nod. His lips quirk, but barely.

Honey suddenly realizes that he’s staying true to his promise that he wouldn’t tell anyone. She doesn’t know why she doubted him, except for that flower incident outside the fruit stand, and she feels like it’s unbearable to look at him any longer. She blinks quickly and wrenches her gaze away from him before she can do something stupid like smile.

“Maybe I have to come to Knitting Circle,” Cole threatens, smiling wildly. “I have been looking for something to do this summer.”

“No, you can’t come,” Trevor says. “It’s my special thing.”

“Yours and Honey’s special thing,” Cole groans. “That’s not fair. Why do you want to exclude me so bad?”

“It’s not a Trevor and Honey thing,” Honey insists. “He just shows up and I have to be there because I’m the only one who shows up to work on time.”

“Not true!” Bea denies, upset. “I showed up on time yesterday.”

“And that was the first time since…?” Honey asks, reaching over and pinching Bea’s thigh. 

Bea bats her hand away and pouts, curling up into a ball on the couch. She’s still sitting upright, but she nestles herself in the corner of the cushions and the armchair, her knees pulled tight to her chest. She steals Honey’s blanket and wraps it around herself. 

“Shut up,” Bea says. “The show is starting.”

Honey returns her attention to the screen and the group of four grows quiet. Bea audibly coos and pinches her fingers at the TV when she sees all three brothers sitting on a couch together. 

The foursome doesn’t talk much throughout the show– Trevor and Cole make a few comments about the attendees, explaining who they are and why they’re important to the girls. Bea makes a comment about the announcer, about how she doesn’t like his jokes. Honey just shrugs, but she silently agrees. The attendees just look uncomfortable when he talks, especially a younger looking boy with brown hair. 

It takes a while for the awards to actually get going, but Luke’s is one of the first. Honey is surprised to know that he’s in his first year in the league. When she was watching their scrimmage the other day, pretending to tan while Trevor pranced around in his little compression shorts, Luke seemed well-practiced and mature when handling the puck. 

She supposes it makes sense– he’s had twenty years of puck-handling under his belt. The boy could skate before he could walk and had a stick in hand like a silver spoon when he was born. All of the boys did– not that it’s a bad thing. They’re lucky that they love hockey so much– it’s their destiny.

Bea stands and shrieks at the television when Luke doesn’t win the Calder Trophy, waving a finger wildly and stomping her feet with a frown. She had the same reaction when she would attend Honey’s softball games and the umpires would make a bad call. It makes Honey laugh.

The boys try to explain the voting system to Bea, as well as Luke’s stats. Bea doesn’t care.

“It’s unfair is what it is,” Bea says petulantly. “Who is this Connor Bedard kid anyway?”

That makes Trevor laugh, tossing his head back. “He’s a first overall pick and he got to enter the minors in Canada a year early because he’s just that good, Bea. Luke wasn’t going to get the Trophy, but it’s an honor to have been nominated. There are a lot of rookies in the league. Luke is top three– that’s sick.”

“Luke is top one,” Bea insists. 

Trevor rolls his eyes and holds his hands up in surrender. “Whatever you say.”

Bea nods, satisfied with Trevor’s cession. She makes little comments here and there about each person on the screen, each winner of each award, and even continues to gripe about the announcer. She’s surprised to see celebrity announcers on stage who reveal the winners of the trophies. 

Finally, it’s Quinn’s turn, and Bea shushes everyone, even though she was the only one talking. She sits forward and folds her hands together, her fingertips pressing against her bottom lip. Her eyes are trained on the screen, drinking in the introductions and smiling a little when they show Quinn’s image in the corner of the screen.

“C’mon, Q,” Cole breathes out, anxiously biting a hangnail on his thumb. He waits with baited breath, as does Honey. Trevor pinches his bottom lip between his thumb and middle finger and stares at the TV.

The pause between the announcers’ words seems to stretch eternally. The celebrity announcers do not speak in unison, the girl hesitating when the boy lags behind, making the announcement frustrating for Honey. 

When they announce Quinn’s name, Bea jumps to her feet and screams, bouncing up and down. Cole joins her and they bounce around the room hugging and cheering while Quinn accepts his award. Bea reaches for Honey and pulls her into the circle, while Trevor laughs from his loveseat and tries to focus on Quinn’s speech. In celebration, Bea kisses Cole’s cheek, Honey’s cheek, and Trevor’s forehead, collapsing across his legs and grabbing his wrists to clap his hands together in applause. She pinches Trevor’s cheeks too, then holds her hand out flat in front of his face.

“What?” Trevor asks, clapping his hand down on hers and dapping her up. 

Bea drops his dap and flattens her hand in front of him again. 

Trevor goes to spit his gum out in her hand, but Bea wrenches it back. “Ew!”

“What?” Trevor repeats, laughing.

“I need your phone,” Bea tells him. 

“Why?” Trevor asks.

“I want to call Quinn and congratulate him,” Bea says.

Trevor rolls his eyes. “He won’t be able to talk to you until later tonight. The show’s going to last for a little while, then they have to do photos after. You’d be better off calling him tomorrow. Can I interest you in putting his number in your phone?”

Bea pushes Trevor’s head back so it knocks against the cushions, then climbs off of him. She pulls on his belt loops until he’s teetering on the edge of the couch and kicking his legs out to get Bea to let go. “Give me your phone or I’ll beat you up.”

Trevor laughs, so Bea pops him on the hip with a sharp hand. He winces at that and shakes her off. “Dude, you can call him later. Get off me.”

“Yeah, Bea, leave him alone,” Honey says. 

“But I want to call Quinn to tell him how pretty he looks,” Bea whines, pouting.

“Call him later. Trevor can text him and make sure that Quinn calls when he’s back at his hotel room. Right, Trevor?” Honey says. She turns to the boy, who is situating himself on the loveseat again. He looks surprised that Honey addressed him, but pleased nonetheless.

“Yeah, I’ll shoot him a text now,” Trevor says, nodding along at Honey’s suggestion.

She wants to roll her eyes at how willing he is to text Quinn when she says it, although he would have continued to fight Bea as long as she kept pestering him. He dutifully pulls his phone out of his back pocket and taps away at the screen, eventually locking it and putting it away. He smiles at Honey when he’s done, but she only catches it out of the corner of her eye. She’s turned back to the TV by now.

The night passes with little more interest, except for the boys. They nod along with most of the remaining winners, unsurprised by the award recipients. Bea and Honey play Uno again between themselves and Bea wins for the millionth time. Honey asks her to play pool, which she won’t because she doesn’t want to lose, but Cole does. Bea eventually takes Trevor’s phone with a “hi, Q-baby!” and heads upstairs with it, squealing excitedly into the phone. Trevor joins the remaining pair at the pool table, perching himself upon one of the saddle-stools and watching Honey playfully tease Cole throughout the loss. Cole demands a rematch, which Honey grants him, and after he loses that round, Trevor grabs his own cue and proposes a game of 9-ball.

They play a few rounds, the game much easier given that there are so many fewer balls on the felt. Honey wins a few and so do Trevor and Cole, but no one is keeping track. No one is updating the board. They’re just having a good time– and it’s a night that Honey knows she’ll remember for the rest of her life. 

33:90 – TREVOR

It feels like as soon as the girls leave, they’re back. Bea might’ve slept over, to be honest, but Trevor doesn’t know. He knows Honey left because she never made it to his bedroom (and yes, he did go looking for her). 

But now she’s back to soak in the hot tub with them, since Cole mentioned uncovering it last night and Honey said Bea would like that. She brought Bea with her, obviously, although Trevor would have liked to see just Honey. 

On the bright side, he has a plan to get Bea out of the picture– Quinn did an interview today for the Four Nations Face-Off, since he was named to Team USA, and Trevor expects Bea to be very interested in how his hair looks after he hasn’t showered in a day. She’ll be even more interested to hear about how the brothers went gambling and they had to sneak Luke in since he’s under the legal limit. He’s actually ready to hand over his phone and allow the girl to disappear if it means that he can have Honey alone– Cole is the only other person he needs to take care of.

That shouldn’t be hard. All he has to do is keep feeding Cole beers and the boy will grow tired sooner rather than later. Trevor actually already started the process– Cole’s been drinking all day and so has Trevor, but Trevor’s been able to keep a grip on himself by eating plenty and drinking water.

When the girls walk through the front door, they’re already wearing their swimsuits. Trevor can tell because Honey’s got a sweatshirt on, the same one that she wore on the boat a few weeks ago, and Trevor can see her long, long legs beneath it. The sweatshirt is just long enough that Trevor knows she’s not hiding shorts under there– just the swimsuit. 

Bea’s the opposite. She’s got a knitted wrap around her body, like a long cardigan, but it doesn’t open in the front like a cardigan. It’s also threadbare on purpose– Trevor can see right through it. She’s got a blue flowery bikini on underneath it, which Cole compliments right away.

“Bea, you look good in blue,” Cole says, tongue loose from all the beer. 

Trevor smirks against the lip of his own bottle and takes a sip to hide it, although he catches Honey’s eye and knows that she’s figured him out immediately. 

But she doesn’t say anything, to Trevor’s excitement.

“Thanks, Coley,” Bea says. “I’ve been told it’s my signature color.”

“For good reason.”

Trevor takes another swig of his beer bottle before leaning to set it on the table. “Hot tub?”

Cole’s face lights up when Trevor mentions it. He scrambles to his feet and nearly forgets to grab his drink but circles back around. “Yes! I uncovered it this afternoon.” He walks toward the back porch, then Honey grabs his arm.

“Cole, we’re upstairs. The hot tub is on the patio. Let’s go out from the basement door, yeah?” She says, leading him towards the basement steps. Cole goes happily, shifting Honey’s hand down so that he can intertwine fingers with her, and he looks very pleased about it.

Trevor rolls his eyes. If Cole could hold hands with someone all day long, he would. It doesn’t matter who.

Bea and Trevor follow along, with the girl shedding her cover up as soon as they make it down the stairs. She tosses the white article of clothing onto the couch, toeing off her shoes when they reach the door. 

Honey is laughing as Cole starts to pull his shirt off, struggling with the fabric when it gets stuck on his neck. She helps him take it off, then tosses it aside. It hits Trevor in the chest and he catches it when it falls. 

“Cole, you’re not wearing a swimsuit,” Bea says. “Wouldn’t you prefer it if you went to change?”

Cole’s eyebrows furrow and he frowns. “No?” He replies. “I can just wear my underwear. It’s the same thing, pretty much.”

Bea’s mouth quirks up at the edges and she raises her hands, backing up a step. “Whatever you say.”

Cole nods with a “hmph”, dropping his shorts and stepping out of them. He climbs into the hot tub, grinning to himself as he settles in.

Bea joins him, sitting across from the boy. He starts talking about something– Trevor can’t be bothered to listen to what– and Bea engages with him. 

Honey walks over towards the house and places a hand on the doorframe to balance herself as she toes her own shoes off next to Bea’s. 

Trevor joins her, draping Cole’s shirt over one of her shoulders. He leans into her space and says quietly, “Want to undress me, too?”

Honey startles back at his words, her head snapping up and her expression growing dark. She slaps Trevor’s arm repeatedly, gritting her teeth and hissing at him. “Get– away– from me!” Honey exclaims between hits, finally using Cole’s shirt as an added weapon. She twists the shirt and snaps it at him like a dishtowel. “You are so fucking annoying!”

She pulls her sweatshirt over her head and stomps away from Trevor before he can really take in the view, but he’s perfectly content watching her walk away. She’s wearing a purple swimsuit, almost like the plum of his alternate jersey, and her bottoms are quite cheeky– Trevor chooses to believe she wore that just for him.

He pulls his shirt over his head and sheds his shorts, leaving him just in his underwear like Cole. He climbs into the tub, stretching his legs out and laying his feet flat on the edge of the step where Honey sits, on either side of her legs. Cole stacks his legs on top of Trevor’s, then Bea on top of Cole’s and Trevor’s. Honey stays still, arms crossed over her chest and glaring at Trevor.

“Let’s play a game,” Honey says, voice hard and eyes never leaving Trevor’s own. “It’s called ‘everyone say one thing you hate about Trevor.’ I’ll start: he sucks.”

“I love this game!” Cole exclaims. “I’ve got a list for all the boys. I hate Trevor because he’s too loud. Bea, your turn!”

“I’m too loud?” Trevor interrupts, letting out a little laugh. “You barely ever shut up, Cole.”

“And yet, somehow you talk more than me. I have another: Trevor snores. I hate sharing a room with you at the lake house.” Cole sticks his tongue out at the other boy.

“Well, good thing we’re not there this summer,” Trevor bites back. 

“My turn!” Bea says, splashing Cole. “You said I could go. You can’t get two turns. Now you have to lose a turn next round. I hate that Trevor thinks he can tell me what to do.”

“I never tell you what to do,” Trevor says.

“‘Bea, put your number in Quinn’s phone!’ ‘Bea, stop texting me!’ ‘Bea,’ blah, blah, blah,” Bea mimics, pulling her hands out of the water to make a talking motion with her fingers. “You’re always whining about me.”

“I don’t like this game,” Trevor says. He takes his legs out from under Cole’s and they drop, bringing Bea’s along with them. The water splashes and spills over the edges of the tub a little bit.

“Oh,” Cole says, a lightbulb practically appearing over his head. “Should we turn on the jets?”

Trevor shrugs, as does Honey. Bea nods. “If you want,” she says. 

“I want,” Cole replies, twisting in his seat and leaning over the edge of the tub to find the button for the jets. He presses a few buttons that do nothing, seemingly, before he finds the jets. 

Trevor moves so there’s one pushing water out and hitting the small of his back. It’s soothing and it inches him closer to Bea, who crinkles her nose at the proximity. She crosses the tub and cuddles up next to Cole. The boy throws his arm over Bea’s shoulders and leans his head against hers.

And now, Trevor is sitting next to Honey. She doesn’t say anything to him, instead opting to talk to Bea about some memory from the long-ago, distant past, talking about the first time they got to go in a hot tub. Bea ruins the story for Trevor by mentioning the boy who stole Honey’s first kiss from Trevor– no, he’s not delusional– on the same vacation.

Honey starts to climb out of the tub after the story ends and Trevor watches the water drip off of her. 

“Where are you going?” He asks. This isn’t how the night was supposed to go– Bea was supposed to go inside to talk to Quinn, then Cole was supposed to go to sleep. Honey wasn’t supposed to leave first.

Honey fixes him with a reproachful look. “I wouldn’t expect you to know, but you’re not supposed to stay in a hot tub for more than fifteen minutes. It messes with the regulation of heat in your body. Fifteen minutes in, fifteen minutes out.”

“That’s a hoax, Hon,” Bea says. 

“It is not,” Honey replies with her chin held high. She opens the closet near the outdoor shower and digs out a towel. She wraps it around herself and lets herself into the house, pausing at the door. “Would anyone like anything?”

“Beer?” Cole asks. “And can you check the draft to see what they’re on? Montréal picks fifth.”

Trevor forgot that the draft was today– they’re using the Sphere, which is kind of fun, and Trevor is a little jealous. His draft was in Rogers Arena, in Vancouver, a place where he had been plenty of times before because Quinn had been drafted there the year prior. It doesn’t seem very special. 

“Yeah, can you check the draft? It’s on ESPN. Can you put it on the outside speakers, too?” Trevor asks.

Honey frowns. “I will check the draft for Cole. I will not put it on the outside speakers because I do not wish to listen to hockey all night.” She turns with a dramatic flourish and her towel swishes like a cape. 

Trevor watches her retreat, eyes trained on those long, long legs as she goes. He’s smiling, way too big for someone who was told ‘no’ by the girl he likes.

He’s mostly quiet while she’s gone, listening to Bea and Cole chitchat about nothingness. He does manage to tell Bea about Quinn’s hair, which she demands to see, and Trevor hands over his phone, which is open to Quinn’s Instagram. He posted his own thirst trap, probably just for Bea despite knowing that she doesn’t have an Instagram. Trevor overheard them talking the other night about the possibility of Bea redownloading the app and making a new account so that she can follow Quinn– just Quinn– and this thirst trap might be the nail in the coffin.

Annoyingly, it doesn’t have the effect that he wants. Bea does not climb out of the tub with Trevor’s phone to go call Quinn and tell him how gorgeous he looks– she must’ve gotten her fill yesterday. 

Or she’s just focused on getting Cole in bed again, giving him a second go-around. Trevor doesn’t understand why– she’s so taken with Quinn that they might as well make it official. He thinks it might be an experiment for her, like the Jack thing and his timer. She’s very scientific, isn’t she?

Honey comes back with two beers in hand, a Budweiser and a Modelo. Trevor smiles– she remembered that Modelo is his favorite.

Honey twists the top off both beers and hands the Bud to Cole. She slides into the tub as far away from Trevor as she can get, with Cole putting his other arm around her and pulling her to his side just like Bea. 

Trevor reaches out for the Modelo, waiting for Honey to hand it over. She gives him a look with one raised eyebrow and brings the bottle to her mouth, taking a drink. Trevor takes his hand back. 

“What, you thought that I was bringing you a drink?” Honey asks. “Did you ask for one?”

“No, but–”

“Then it’s not for you.” She purses her lips and waits to see if Trevor has a response, which he doesn’t. Instead, he looks at the water, where his hands have folded over his stomach. He’s grateful that the jets are creating waves that distort the image of everything under the water– he’d hate for Honey and the rest of the tub-dwellers to see that he chubs up a bit each time Honey gets sassy with him. She’s such a brat. One of these days, he’s really going to fuck all of that attitude out of her. If she lets him. She might not, but he’s determined to get to that point.

“How’s the draft?” Cole asks.

Honey recites the first few picks off the top of her head. Trevor watches her do so, a tiny smile on his face. The only thing that he likes more than when Honey yells at him is when she talks about hockey; even though she pretends she doesn’t care, she sure pays a lot of attention to the sport in recent weeks. She’s even up to date on the lingo. Her use of ‘puck bunny’ the other day had Trevor smiling for hours after.

“The sweetest looking kid went third and he very clearly had no idea that he would be the bronze pick of the draft based on the way he said ‘what the fuck’ twice to his parents after his name was called,” Honey says. “It was so precious. I want to put him in my pocket.”

Trevor looks down to hide his smile. The Ducks picked third. This kid is his new teammate. He’ll have to convince Honey to visit him in Anaheim later this year and introduce her to the rookie– so she can really adopt him as her own. 

“What about the fifth pick?” Cole asks.

“Ivan Demidov,” Honey says. “Celine Dion announced the pick.”

“Celine Dion?” Bea repeats.

“Ivan Demidov,” Cole murmurs thoughtfully. “That’s a good pick. We needed a right winger. Slaf’s our best one. I thought the analysts said Demidov would go to Chicago.” 

The last part of his statement is directed at Trevor, who just shrugs. He hadn’t paid attention to the analysis this year. It doesn’t really matter, since each team is working for what’s best for them and ignoring the speculation from the analysts.

Trevor is doing the same thing about trade rumors. He’s ignoring until something official comes through. It would be annoying to be traded and lose his upper hand over Honey– introducing her to that rookie, of whom she is now a fan.

The next time Honey leaves the tub, Trevor follows her.

“Would you quit following me around?” Honey asks, climbing the stairs into the kitchen.

“No,” Trevor replies. “I like being around you.”

“Too much, I think,” Honey says. “You’re breathing down my neck.”

“I’m too far away to be doing that,” Trevor says. 

Honey’s back is to him as she opens the fridge and the freezer at the same time, frowning as she scans the shelves for something. She hasn’t told Trevor what she’s looking for, although he could probably help her find whatever it is much quicker than she could. She bends a little at the waist, craning her neck to evaluate a shelf.

Trevor comes closer, pressing his hips against her behind. She stands, stiff against him, but there’s nowhere for her to move unless she wants to climb into the fridge and shut herself in.

“Now I’m breathing down your neck,” Trevor murmurs, moving her hair to one side and kissing her neck. For extra emphasis, he exhales on the skin. “I hope you can tell the difference.”

“You’re being obvious,” Honey chastises. “You shouldn’t be following me around. Someone’s going to find out. You need to work on your subtlety.”

“Bea already knows,” Trevor says. “And the only other person here is Cole. He doesn’t notice anything unless it’s right in front of him. As long as you don’t climb onto my lap– which I know is very hard for you– you’ll be fine.”

Honey frowns and opens her mouth to rebut, but Trevor manages to silence her by sucking a little on her neck, right below her hairline on the side of her neck. He can feel her head tilting back at the sensation and he smirks. 

“You like that spot, huh?” Trevor mumbles against her skin. “Or do you just like the boy who’s kissing you there?”

That makes Honey laugh and push him off. “I do not like the boy who’s kissing me, especially when he doesn’t listen. I don’t want Cole to find out.”

“He’ll be off to bed soon and Bea will be busy talking to Quinn, he did an interview that I think she’ll find particularly enticing,” Trevor says, fixing Honey’s hair so it covers the mark blooming on her neck. “I’ve never made a girl come in a hot tub before, but I think tonight is my lucky night.”

Honey hums. “Probably not, unless you want a load of blood to taint your hot tub water.” She fixes Trevor with an evil smile. “I’m on my period.”

“I thought you were ovulating last week,” Trevor says. “Doesn’t it usually take two weeks for your period to start after that? You’re not lying to me, are you, Honey?”

Her distraction tactic didn’t work– she seems to think that Trevor would be put off by her period talk, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. The truth being that he doesn’t care– he’s attracted to her all the time.

“My hormones are out of whack and someone fingered me for the first time in years, and he wasn’t exactly gentle about it,” Honey replies, making a face at Trevor. “So I, for one, am not surprised that my period came early.”

“Well I’ll make a note that we should be fine for the next month,” Trevor teases with a grin. “And that you’ll be trying to jump me two weeks from now because you’ll be ovulating again.”

Honey rolls her eyes. “I can’t wait until the boys get back so that Quinn can bruise your ego and keep you in check,” she says. “But, really, Trevor. You can’t follow me around and be all close to me. It’s too obvious.”

“But I like you and I can’t hide my feelings,” Trevor says innocently, blinking at her with wide eyes and a little pout.

“Learn to,” Honey snaps. Her voice is hard, but she pats Trevor’s hip as she walks away, snapping the waistband of his underwear before she gets out of arm’s reach.

Trevor rejoins the group in the hot tub shortly after, but he takes his time getting there. Contrary to Honey’s belief, he does care about his own subtlety because it makes her happy when he’s not being obvious. Just like how it should make her happy when she gives into his advances– because it makes him happy. 

Cole makes it until 10pm. By then, he’s far too drunk to stay in the hot tub. Bea goes to bed with him, although she takes Trevor’s phone with her so that she can talk to Quinn into the night. They’re coming back in the morning, but Bea and Quinn are impatient. They enjoy talking to each other too much to spend a night away from the other.

It leaves Honey and Trevor in the hot tub, but Honey just pushes him away when he gets close and climbs out. 

“Really, Trev, I’m not in the mood,” Honey says. 

“Okay, that’s fine,” Trevor says. “Do you want to hang out?”

“Not particularly,” Honey replies with a little laugh. “We only really hang out when we’re hooking up, don’t we?”

“Well, yeah, but that’s not how it has to be,” Trevor says. “We can hang out without hooking up.”

Honey hums. “You know, I don’t think we can,” she tells him. “Especially in a world where you don’t care about our privacy.”

Trevor’s taken aback at that. “What do you mean?” He asks, eyebrows furrowed in concern. “I haven’t told anyone.”

Honey mocks his voice– “‘Who’s to say I would’ve stopped even if we had been caught?’” She says, voice deep and stupid-sounding. “Your hoes might’ve found that hot, Trevor, but I don’t really think our interests align if you’re looking to keep fucking me when someone else walks in.” 

Trevor stares at her, not sure what to say.

Honey clears her throat and continues. “Considering… everything.”

Trevor’s not sure what she’s referring to. “Considering… what? I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I just said it because, like, I wanted to make you feel good…”

Honey sighs, then nods. She forces her first couple words out, then pauses again. “You did. It’s just– I mean, I don’t want people seeing me like that. I already had one whole ‘leaked nudes’ thing, Trevor.”

Trevor’s stomach drops. He didn’t realize that his line in the car the other day had implied that he would be okay with other people seeing Honey so intimately. That’s not what he meant.

“I’m not really looking to be so exposed when people walk in on us.”

“I didn’t mean that, Honey, no,” Trevor scrambles to tell her. “I didn’t mean, like, I’d keep fucking you with them watching, it was just… heat of the moment. I wanted you to come.”

Honey presses her lips together into a line and flares her nostrils. “I get that, Trevor, I do, but it’s the way that you didn’t even think about it.”

“I’m sorry,” Trevor apologizes. “I really didn’t mean anything by it.”

Honey ducks her head and raises a finger to silence him. She’s already climbed out of the tub and donned her sweatshirt, hiding herself from Trevor’s wandering eyes. “I know you didn’t. That’s why I didn’t blow up at you in the car. You just need to think before you speak, Trevor.”

She crosses her arm over her stomach and Trevor climbs out of the tub, sopping wet. He nears her, but makes sure that he’s not dripping on her. “I will,” he promises. “I’m just not used to– well, having to try so hard.” He ducks his head.

Honey scoffs, a breath of laughter leaving her lips. She tucks her index finger into Trevor’s waistband and pulls him closer. He’s standing right in her space and she slots her lips over his, pressing against him for a sweet, blissful, too-short taste. “Just– don’t be such a fuckboy,” she says. “I hate you less when you’re an idiot.”

“So, all the time?” Trevor jokes, finding her hand and holding it. He’s holding back, but only because he’s uncertain. Honey has that effect over him– she knows exactly what she wants always, even though she doesn’t always explain it, and Trevor is just trying the best he can. He won’t say it out loud, but he knows that she likes him and she won’t admit it. He’s just not sure how to make her like him all the time.

Honey fixes him with an unimpressed look and smiles when she shakes her head. “You’re not an idiot all the time,” she says. “You’re very perceptive. I’m the difficult one.”

Trevor mirrors her actions, shaking his own head. “You’re not difficult at all.”

Honey hums, but says nothing. She pops up onto her tiptoes to give his lips another peck, then she drops his hand. “I’m going home, and no, you can’t come,” she says with a knowing tilt of her head. “But I’ll see you tomorrow for the bonfire, yes?”

Trevor nods, hoping for another goodbye kiss, but Honey just pats his cheek. She wishes him a goodnight before walking into the house and disappearing up the stairs. Trevor hears her car start while he’s trying to figure out how to turn the hot tub off. It takes him a few minutes, then even more to fit the cover over the tub, and by the time he makes it upstairs, Cole’s light has long since been turned off and his phone is locked and plugged in on his nightstand.

34:90 – HONEY

Thwack. 

Honey’s eyes widen a little and she stops chewing on her bottom lip, realizing that she’s pulling at a patch of skin that could start bleeding if she bites it any longer.

Thwack.

She instead pulls her sunglasses off the top of her head and bites down on one of the temple tips, holding it between her front teeth. The tip of her tongue pokes at the very edge, sucking a bit at the silicone tip.

Thwack.

She shifts in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. Bea sits next to her, one leg outstretched like she’s laying down. Her other is pulled up, heel on her chair and pulled tight against her body. One of her hands is closed around her ankle, while her other elbow rests on the arm of the chair. Her wrist bends daintily and her index finger is poised on the wet inside of her bottom lip, hooking it like she wants to tug on it but can’t.

Luke shifts another log up on its end so it’s standing in front of him. He wipes the sweat from his forehead with one hand, his curls dripping. With the other, he holds the ax that he’s using to split the wood. The muscles in his arms ripple as he grabs the ax with both hands and raises it above his head, bringing it down quickly to split the wood.

Thwack.

He’s shirtless. He’s much more tan than he was the first time they went on the boat and he’s put on some weight since the start of the summer. He’s muscular and defined, particularly in his chest and abs, and he just seems to continue to grow. He’s strong.

If Honey didn’t get it before, she does now.

Thwack.

Bea clears her throat, coughing a little bit. “He’s, um…”

“Yeah,” Honey breathes out with a slight nod, eyes still on Luke. He’s got only one log left and she’ll be damned if she misses it.

He hasn’t been quite the same since returning from Las Vegas, where they held the awards this year. He’s been pretty quiet, keeping to himself. Honey had thought they were past this, but Luke has practically reverted to how he was when he first came to Litchton. She hopes it’s just the loss on his mind, nothing more.

Luke posts the log in front of him, kicking aside some of the smaller pieces he’s already cut. Trevor has been gathering the pieces and setting them near the fire pit for the bonfire, while Quinn and Jack are cooking on the grill. Cole is inside, slicing the fruit that Honey brought over from her most recent trip to the fruit stand, but the other boys are barely a thought in the girls’ heads.

He raises the ax and Honey’s mouth grows slightly more ajar, the tip of her sunglasses pressing against the flat of her tongue now, as she watches Luke’s happy trail elongate then fold when he brings the ax down. The waistband of his underwear peeks out of his shorts. 

Thwack.

The wood falls into two even parts, which Luke pushes over with the blade of the ax. He turns and lays the tool against the wall of the rink, then surveys his hands for splinters. He brushes them against his shorts, then wipes his face again.

Bea wipes the corners of her mouth with her thumb, then stands and grabs one of Luke’s hands before he even knows that she’s moving. Honey laughs when Luke trips over his own feet, pulled along by Bea towards the house. 

Honey’s laughter draws Trevor’s attention, whereas Bea and Luke’s stomping feet draws Quinn and Jack’s. Eventually, Trevor realizes what Honey was laughing about and comes to gather the rest of the wood.

“Enjoy the show?” Trevor mutters, stacking the logs in his arms until he can’t carry any more. He stands to his full height, arms bursting with wood. “Should I take my shirt off and chop some wood, too, since that’s the kind of thing that leaves you and Bea drooling?”

“I think Bea would enjoy your shirtlessness much more than I would,” Honey replies, uncrossing her legs and leaning back in the chair. She uses the temple of her glasses to push her hair out of her face, then tucks the accessory back into the hair atop her head. Her least favorite thing about the summer is that it’s too hot to wear her hair down, so it’s almost always up in a half-assed bun. “Jealous much, Trevor?”

Trevor tilts his head at her, unimpressed with her response. “Luke’s not a threat to me.”

“Just like how Jamie wasn’t a threat to you?” 

Honey’s proud of the comeback, smug whenever she makes Trevor quiver in his boots. She likes when she makes Trevor shut up, especially because it’s so rare according to Cole. 

Trevor indeed doesn’t have a reply, just frowning at Honey and turning to deposit the wood into the pile he had made next to the fire pit. 

Jack wanders over with two plates and steals Bea’s chair next to Honey. “What are we talking about?”

“Bea and Luke,” Honey says.

Jack hums, nodding slightly. “Finally his turn, eh?” He hands one of the plates to Honey, a burger and its fixings on the plate. “I wasn’t sure what you wanted, so I brought it all.”

“Do you want my tomato?” Honey asks.

“I’ll take it,” Quinn jumps in, joining them. He pauses in front of Honey, holding his plate out so that she can drop the tomato slice onto his burger, then chooses another seat closer to the fire pit. 

Trevor is kneeling at the pit, a long lighter nudging at a pile of newspaper hidden beneath the logs of wood that he had stacked into a little tower. 

Once he gets the fire going, Quinn reaches out with his shoe-covered foot and kicks the boy in the arm. “Go get your dinner,” he says, then focuses on his own burger. 

The Hughes boys are not the best conversationalists during meal times, Honey has learned. They often are more focused on shoveling food into their mouths than talking to those around them, which she doesn’t really mind. 

There was a time in her life when she had to sit with her parents for dinner every day, no matter what her plans were or if something was bothering her. She would have to make small talk, describe what took place that day, and act polite and happy regardless of how she was actually feeling. Sometimes, she was permitted to eat in silence after she described her day. She preferred those days, even though the majority of them took place after she had decided to leave Charlotte and start anew in Litchton. Her parents knew, then, that she wouldn’t change her mind about moving to the quiet mountain town and they didn’t have much fight left in them.

Her memories of those days usually end like this when she indulges in them– she loses her appetite and her food tastes like stale nothingness, but she has to eat it anyway.

Honey’s phone buzzes in her pocket with a text from Bea.

will you fix two plates for me and luke and bring them upstairs pleeeeease?

Upon reading the text, Honey cringes. So soon? she thinks. They’ve got to be, like, mid-session. She texts such to Bea, punctuating her text with the green about-to-vomit emoji before taking another bite of her burger. 

Cole joins them before Bea texts her back, dishing a bunch of fruit onto each person’s plate before fixing his own burger and choosing a seat near the bonfire. “Thanks for the food, Norris,” Cole says to Quinn before he digs in. 

Quinn snorts out a little laugh, shaking his head before he thanks Cole through a mostly-chewed bite. Honey crinkles her nose, annoyed at the lack of manners each of the boys manage to have when they’re with their friends. 

Trevor is fixing his plate as she reads Bea’s recent text (“not mid-session. helpppp SOS soooo hungry pls pls pls pls”). Honey looks over to where he stands, next to the plates, and sighs a little. She stands.

“Where are you going?” Cole asks.

Honey sighs audibly this time. “Apparently Bea and Luke need dinner.”

Jack snickers, popping a piece of pineapple in his mouth. It bulges in his cheek as he smiles at Honey. “And you’ve been invited to bring it to them? How lucky.”

“Fuck off,” Honey replies, narrowing her eyes at Jack. “Don’t let the flies get my food and I’ll give you an M&M, eh?” She uses his own mannerism against him, not for the first time, but it is the first time she’s alluded to knowing about Bea’s experiment. 

Now that she’s thinking about it, Cole and Luke are probably the only two that don’t know about the timer. Well, maybe just Cole– Quinn probably told Luke so that they could team up against Jack in Vegas when need-be. She’s vindicated when she sees Quinn hide a smile behind his burger.

She leaves her plate on her seat, trusting that Jack will follow her directions while she’s gone. Honey joins Trevor near the grill, watching him scoop fruit onto his plate and reach for a fork. 

“Come to my room later,” Trevor says at a normal volume, nonchalant. 

Honey throws a look over her shoulder, but none of the other boys seem to have heard him. “What?” She asks.

“Come to my room later,” Trevor repeats. He’s not looking at her, nor is he inching closer and trying to make a move like he did the night before.

“Why?” Honey demands.

Trevor shrugs and walks away.

Honey’s nostrils flare and she grinds her teeth. Who does he think he is? Why does he think he can ask her to do something and she’ll just do it? If she makes it up to his room later, it’ll just be so that she can tell him off and render him silent yet again.

She makes two plates of food with a little anger in her actions, scooping the fruit and plopping it onto the plate. She smashes the bun on top of Bea’s burger with a little too much force, flattening the food. 

She stomps up the stairs, making her presence very known as she approaches the room that Quinn and Luke, and often Bea, share. She knocks, loudly, and waits an extra second after Bea tells her that she can come in. 

When she finally does open the door, she finds Bea and Luke sitting on opposite beds and Luke has gained a shirt rather than losing the rest of his clothes. Bea looks untouched and fine with it, flicking through a magazine and laying on Quinn’s bed. When Honey enters, she sits up.

“Good,” she says simply, tossing the magazine onto Quinn’s bedside table and reaching for her plate. 

Honey withholds it and hands Luke his plate first.

“Why aren’t you fucking?” Honey asks, voice snarky. She’s cutting straight to the point. She’s asking Bea, but she should’ve realized that by handing Luke his plate while she asks the question, he would think that she’s addressing him. He blushes with wide eyes and his gaze falls to the floor. Honey apologizes by reaching up with her now-free hand and ruffling his curls. “Sorry, Lu.”

“What do you mean?” Bea asks, sounding overly innocent. “We’re very busy, Honey. We just needed some sustenance between rounds, didn’t we?”

Her last question is directed at Luke and he replies with a mumble that Honey can’t distinguish. 

Bea finally manages to grab her plate from Honey and Honey sits on the bed with her. Right before she takes a bite of her burger, she explains, “Luke and I aren’t hooking up.”

Honey looks between them. “Why not?”

Luke groans and buries his face in his hands. “It’s embarrassing.”

“It is not,” Bea corrects. “It is perfectly reasonable.”

“What?” Honey demands. She throws her head back and rolls her eyes. “Why does everything have to be so dramatic all the time?”

“Like you’re any better,” Bea chastizes. 

“Zip it,” Honey hisses. 

Bea rolls her eyes. “Luke doesn’t want to compete with his brothers, and when I explained that he wouldn’t be competing with them when he’s with me, he told me I was a liar. To be fair, I was lying, but then as a sign of good will, I told him about the whiteboard. So we’re pretending to fuck for a while and I’ll toss him on the board, pretty high up, and we’ll convince the boys that we are fucking.”

“Seems complicated,” Honey says.

Luke is doing his best to ignore the girls, focusing on his food the same way that his brothers did down by the fire pit. Honey wonders if he and Bea had a conversation about telling her all of this, or if Bea is just talking out of her ass.

“It’s not. He doesn’t want to compete with them, but he doesn’t want them knowing that he’s not fucking me. They’d really chirp him for that.” Bea eats as she speaks, probably picking up the bad habit from the boys.

“They’ll start calling me Viagra or something,” Luke mumbles, the tips of his ears still red. It’s the first full sentence he’s said since Honey came upstairs.

Honey hums, thinking about the situation. She guesses it makes sense– she wouldn’t want to compete against three other guys if she were in Luke’s situation, especially if two of them were his brothers. Plus, sweet Luke has always seemed a little more awkward than his brothers and Bea might just be too much for him.

“Gillian’s granddaughter is coming into town later this month,” Honey says, talking to Luke although he shows no sign that he’s listening. “She just finished her first year at State. Do you want to meet her?”

Silence follows her question for a minute, until Bea laughs a little and Luke looks up. “Oh. Me?” He asks.

“Yeah, you,” Honey says, giggling. She ruffles his curls again. “She’s a sweet girl. A little awkward like you–”

“Hey,” Luke moans, frowning.

“You are,” Bea insists. “But it’s charming, Lukey.”

“– and she’s cute. You’ll like her,” Honey finishes.

Luke pouts. “What if I don’t want to meet her?”

Honey frowns at him. “That would be your decision, but I think it would be a shame if you were celibate all summer, Luke.”

“Like you?” He asks. “Hypocrite.”

Honey smiles tightly. Does he know? She looks at Bea for a split second before turning back to Luke and making eye contact. Carefully, believably, she says, “I’ve had more practice. I don’t think a famous hockey player like you is used to being single and celibate like I am.” She holds Luke’s gaze for a moment longer and he’s the first to look away. 

“Fine,” he agrees, but he sounds put-out. “I’ll meet her. But only because you guys won’t tell the boys about– this.”

Honey nods, happy with the blackmail that they’ve all set up for each other. After all, she and Bea are used to blackmailing each other over worthless, trivial matters so often that it’s become one of their mantras: that blackmail is how you know that you’re really friends.

“I’m going back downstairs,” Honey says. “Have fun… talking, or whatever.”

She leaves the room and joins the group downstairs, answering all their questions with easy lies that paint a scandalous picture upstairs. Jack applauds his younger brother, while Quinn just nods along and rolls his eyes at some of Honey’s more embellished lies. Cole is excited for the younger boy and Trevor says nothing– he just sits there and eats his burger.

It’s infuriating.

Honey is even more infuriated when she realizes that Jack took a few bites out of her burger while she was gone, which leaves her silently stewing until Bea and Luke eventually return. 

The sky grows dark and the stars start to twinkle while the bonfire continues. The smell is lovely and Honey hopes it lingers on her clothes. 

The boys are laughing and joking around, quoting movies and retelling stories from their years together. It was funny at first, and Bea is still laughing perched on Luke’s lap, but a weird feeling washes over Honey. It’s a little nostalgic, but in the sense that she wishes she had been there to experience the stories with the boys. Their childhood was much different from her own, where her most normal friendship was with Bea and her sport was just a way to stay involved in school, something that her parents thought was incredibly important. As the stories continue, she just feels the difference between her childhood and the boys’ life, a chasm that’s growing wider with each story and cackle of laughter.

Unable to bear it any longer, Honey gathers everyone’s plates into a neat stack and heads upstairs to the kitchen. She dumps the plates in the sink and starts to run the water, letting it grow hot. She watches the faucet run for a minute, pooling along the plates and leaving a thin layer of water on the bottom of the stainless steel. When she deems the water hot enough, Honey grabs the sponge and starts washing the dishes.

“Get it together,” she mutters to herself, under her breath. The water runs down her wrists and she grabs a dishtowel from the counter behind her. When she turns back around, there Trevor is. “God, Trevor, I thought I told you to stop following me around.”

“You got quiet,” he says with a shrug. “I wasn’t sure if you had snuck away.”

Honey bites the inside of her cheek. She blinks hard, returning to the dishes. “No, I didn’t leave.”

Trevor shoves his hands in his pockets. “Well, good.” He falls silent and Honey keeps scrubbing the dishes, refusing to break the silence first. Finally, in a very timid voice, Trevor asks, “Are you going to come up to my room later?”

Honey lets the plate slip from her fingers and land with a clatter in the sink. She glares at Trevor, chewing on the skin between her teeth until it aches. He’s silent, having stepped back at the drop of the plate, staring at her. Honey turns off the sink with a huff and rounds the counter. She stalks over to Trevor and grabs him by the collar, pulling him along behind her as she climbs the stairs and drags him to his bedroom. She yanks him into the room and slams the door behind them, kicking it closed with her foot. She releases his collar after planting him in front of her and she crosses her arms over her chest, eyes narrowed and hard.

Trevor just watches her. 

Honey starts to tap her foot. She shrugs, gesturing around the room. “Well, I’m here.”

Trevor’s eyes are wide and his lips are parted. 

“C’mon, Trevor. You told me to come to your room. I’m here. What do you want?” Honey continues, her jaw clenched. 

His eyebrows quirk and his expression shifts from surprise to befuddlement. He takes a step forward, licking his lip before he speaks. “Did I do something wrong?” He asks. “I don’t– is this still about what I said in the car? I really, really didn’t mean that, Honey. I’d never– never do something like that.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls his phone out, shutting it down and holding it out to her. “Here.”

Honey pushes his hand away and squeezes her eyes shut, rubbing harshly over her forehead. “No, it’s not, I’m just–” She cuts herself off, shaking her head. “I’m having a day. That’s all. I don’t know.” She rolls her eyes, feeling smaller, so she hugs herself again and looks away from him.

She misses the concerned tilt of his head and the way he mouths something to himself, maybe a repetition of her own words, because she’s too busy tracing the line of where Trevor’s bedroom walls meet the ceiling.

“Honey,” Trevor says. 

“I know,” she says, closing her eyes briefly before tilting her head back and looking up.

“No, baby,” Trevor continues. He has stepped forward enough that he can reach out to Honey. His fingers are nudging at her elbow and when she doesn’t pull away, he strokes his hand along her arm.

“Don’t call me that,” Honey reminds him. “I’m not your baby.”

“Right.” His hand drops, but he still stands close to Honey. He hesitates, then goes for it anyway. “As I was saying. No, Your Royal Highness, you don’t have to explain yourself.”

Honey finally fixes him with a look, reproachful and annoyed. Doesn’t he understand that she needs to explain herself, compulsively, just so that he doesn’t misunderstand?

Maybe he doesn’t, and that’s the whole reason why he’s still talking.

“Do you want me to take your mind off it?” Trevor asks.

Honey furrows her eyebrows. “Huh?”

Trevor makes a motion like he knows he’s going to regret what he says next. “Another one of my lines. I, uh, wanted you to come up here because I… was… jealous.” He squints at her during those last three words, but she laughs instead of cringing with him.

“Of course you were,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

Trevor frowns at her, cutting her off. “So I told you to come up to my room so I could stake a claim on you.” He leans in with a little smile. “Remind you who you belong to.”

Honey’s jaw drops open at that with a loud laugh. “You’re kidding. Really?”

“Another line that doesn’t work on you?” Trevor teases. “I’m going to keep trying until I find one that works.”

Honey scoffs. “Good luck.”

“Can I kiss you?” Trevor asks. 

He waits with a silly little smile on his face as she considers it. She hums a little, just delaying her answer as long as she can. Trevor knows that she’ll say yes– she likes kissing and Trevor is the only person that she’s willing to kiss at the moment. 

“Fine, I guess,” Honey says like it’s a chore. 

“Don’t sound so disappointed,” Trevor admonishes, but he’s already leaning in. The first touch of their lips is soft, like always, and Trevor smiles into it, like always. He’s so fucking easy and it makes Honey’s stomach flutter. 

She parts her lips against his, letting him lick into her mouth. Honey winds her arms over his shoulders. His hands fit over her hips comfortably and Trevor pulls her closer. 

He kisses eagerly. It’s overwhelming, the way that he wants her. When he has her, he holds her tightly like he’s making sure she won’t pull away until he’s ready to let go. 

That line works, Honey thinks to herself as she kisses him. She considers saying it out loud, but she’s really not interested in admitting that he’s kind-of right, knowing that it’ll make his day, his week, or possibly his whole month. He’ll never stop reminding her if she says it. Plus, it’s too late to respond to his “Can I kiss you?” from minutes ago.

Trevor’s hand distracts her, traveling up her body and underneath her shirt. His thumb sweeps over the skin just under her breast. Honey’s able to keep his lines at bay and stun him silent, but when he gets his hands on her, she feels like putty. His hands are rough against her skin and the sensation tickles Honey, drawing a noise from her throat.

“Pretty,” Trevor murmurs. “Do it again.”

Honey chuckles. “Make me,” she challenges.

Trevor groans at that, walking backwards until he makes contact with his bed. He pulls Honey with him, sitting on the edge of the bed and hauling her onto his lap. He’s petting over her skin, his fingers dancing across the expanse of her ribs before returning to her chest. Trevor palms over one of her breasts while his other hand dips into the back of her shorts. He freezes against her, pulling back slightly to look at her, and Honey bites down on her bottom lip so she doesn’t start to laugh in his face.

“Do you…?” Trevor asks, trailing off. His lips stay pursed in a tiny little ‘o’ and Honey can’t help but smile.

Trevor’s an idiot– Honey’s very fond of that. He’s a jock who likes to talk and flirt, but he’s ultimately at her mercy. She’d secretly been looking forward to this moment, although she’ll never actually admit it. She knew that Trevor would go absolutely boneless when he discovered her piercings.

Instead of replying, Honey just tilts her head to the side and blinks at him. 

Trevor’s calloused thumb slowly starts to scrape against her again, nearing her sensitive areola and the bars that go through her nipples. He groans when he contacts the stainless steel, pushing against her responsive peaks. Thirsty for more, Trevor pinches the hem of her shirt and tugs at it. Honey allows him to draw her shirt over her head. 

Trevor growls at the sight of her bare chest, the sound settling in Honey’s stomach and demolishing the butterflies that had been flying around in there. He abandons her lips to latch onto her breast, running the tip of his tongue over her jewelry and nibbling his way across her chest. 

Honey’s eyelids are fluttering with his movements, her fingers tangling in his hair and using her grip to ground herself. Her head rolls back and her chest presses forward, her hips rocking against his lap.

“Honey,” Trevor moans, cupping her breasts and squeezing them.

“Hm?” She responds.

“You’re so pretty,” he compliments.

Honey’s eyes are locked on his lips, all pink and puffy from kissing all over her. She seals her mouth over his, letting her tongue lick over his, swallowing the moan that rises from his chest. He rocks up against her and Honey sighs at the contact. She rolls her hips down to meet his, feeling more relaxed and lazy with each touch. 

Trevor’s eyelids flutter with each blink, closing briefly at times and recovering rapidly other times. He kisses against her neck, small prints on her skin developing as he sucks, then releases her and moves to the next spot. 

“I want–” Trevor says against her neck, letting his teeth scrape over the curve of her jaw. Honey cuts him off by dipping her head and kissing over his own neck, which leaves him keening beneath her. His hips jerk, jostling Honey on top of him. His hand finds its way completely into her shorts, clutching at her skin and increasing the pressure between the two of them. “Fuck, gonna make me come in my shorts,” he whines. It sounds like a complaint, but he keeps her clothed cunt flush against his bulge and continues to rock forward. 

“You’re worse than Jack,” she bites back, keeping her voice steady although she’s pressing into Trevor. She wants to see him come again, wants to make it happen without using her hands or her mouth. She wants to be able to pull at his hair and kiss his lips and feel him unravel beneath her. 

“Nuh-uh,” Trevor denies. It’s silly and petulant and it makes Honey giggle.

She speeds up, determined to make him fall apart. She bites his neck and he shudders under her teeth. 

“Thought you brought me up here to stake a claim on me,” Honey teases. “But here you are, shivering because there’s a pretty girl sitting on your cock. Seems to me like you’re my bitch, Trev.”

“I’m only letting that slide because I’m about to come,” Trevor grits out, bringing a hand to the back of her neck and rejoining their lips with a clash. 

“Then come,” Honey says. “Nobody’s stopping you.”

“Brat,” Trevor bites out with a venom, stunning Honey for a moment, then making her giggle and double her efforts. 

“That’s right,” she praises, petting his hair out of his face. “So smart, Trevor.”

He ignores her teases and buries his face in her neck, sucking harshly and making her moan. He ruts up, the friction between them delicious and pushing Honey towards her own orgasm, which is just about to crest and bubble over when Trevor breaks first. 

His shorts start to develop a wet patch where the head of his cock rests. Trevor continues to rock against Honey, groaning and nuzzling against her. His cock softens beneath her and Honey wants to whine because she was so close and he bit the bullet. He’s still nipping at her neck, making his way up to her lips, but she doesn’t let him find his mark. 

Honey climbs off of him, but Trevor keeps his arm around her waist and pulls her back down onto the bed. He rolls into her space, covering her with his body and kissing over her face. “Where are you going?” He asks. “Stay with me tonight.”

Honey pushes his face away and glares at him. “I can’t.”

“Why not?” Trevor whines, letting one of his hands find her boobs again. He toys with her nipples until she’s squirming. “I want to make you come. Then we can cuddle all night long and go again in the morning.”

Honey rolls her eyes. He says it like the most enticing thing in the world is hanging out together and hooking up, but it’s not. She’s annoyed that she didn’t get to come and he did, so she just wants to go home. She wiggles out of his grasp and slinks off the bed, finding her shirt on the ground and pulling it over her head. “I’m okay. I can make myself come, thanks.”

“Honey,” Trevor complains, drawing her name out and standing to follow after her. 

Her hand is on the doorknob when she turns to face him, looking him up and down. “Trevor, I promise you don’t want to follow me with that wet spot on your shorts.”

He stops. He looks down. Then, he cringes and adjusts himself over his shorts, folding his hands over the patch of cum and blushing.

Honey’s hair, now a little looser in its bun, whips around as she leaves. She sneaks out of the house easily, hearing laughter ringing in the backyard as she goes. The sky is dark and the drive home is quick, with Honey speeding around the curves of the mountain the way that only a practiced Litchton resident can. 

She slams each door that she encounters when she passes through it, stomping up to her lofted bedroom and crashing onto her bed. She doesn’t even want to come anymore, too annoyed with Trevor to give into the gnawing tension in her stomach. Plus, she’s still on her period. She doesn’t feel like going to get a towel to lay on, even though it’ll keep her sheets clean. Also, she’s still feeling weird after the boys’ childhood stories around the bonfire. If there’s anything Honey hates, anything that can ruin her mood, it’s feeling like she’s out of place.

She’ll just go to bed instead of dwelling on it, she decides, and closes her eyes. She falls asleep right there in her clothes and she won’t wake until Bea breaks in the following morning to gather up her whiteboard and expo markers.

35:90 – TREVOR

Trevor wakes to a loud bang, like someone is smashing into his bedroom door. He scrambles up and gathers the covers against his chest, cowering in the corner of his bed as the same noise sounds again. 

“Maybe try the knob,” Bea suggests sarcastically. “I mean, come on, Cole. It’s not like he locked it.”

The knob jiggles and Trevor quickly drops the covers to his lap to make a lump that hides his morning wood– he’s lucky Honey didn’t stay like he asked her to, especially since she doesn’t want anyone to find out. 

Cole crashes into his room, looking disappointed that there’s nothing scandalous taking place in Trevor’s room. Bea stands behind him, arms crossed over her chest. 

“I expect you to be downstairs in no more than five minutes,” Bea announces. “I have a special presentation and it requires your presence.”

Trevor rubs his eyes with a fist and yawns. “Noted.”

“Get a move on,” she tells him, then beckons Cole and they leave. They don’t close his door, to Trevor’s annoyance. He can hear them moving down the hall to Jack’s room, where Cole begins the same routine of barging against Jack’s door until Bea tells him to check the knob. 

Trevor thinks that he wants to knock the door down in front of Bea as a feat of strength, but he just doesn’t have the momentum or body mass to do so.

Trevor grumbles as he crawls out of bed, digging for a shirt after applying his deodorant. He scrubs over his face again, evaluating himself in the mirror. He needs to shave whenever Bea is done with her special presentation. 

He comes down the stairs a few minutes later, teeth freshly brushed and hair combed. He delayed as long as he could, but he knows Bea will come looking for him if he doesn’t make his way downstairs.

He’s the last to make it to the living room, where Bea is standing on the raised edge of the fireplace, next to an easel that holds a board, hidden beneath a fitted sheet that she probably pulled out of the laundry. There are no seats left for him– Cole is reclining back in the La-Z-Boy and the Hughes brothers are squished together on the couch. Glowering between Quinn and Jack is the object of Trevor’s affection, a Honey that’s still clinging to sleep and wearing the skimpiest pajamas known to man, a tiny white tank top with the thinnest spaghetti straps Trevor has ever seen and old boxers that are rolled at the waistband to fit her hips.

And ratty old slippers that look like cows.

If this is how she looks when she rolls out of bed in the morning, Trevor’s got a pretty good life ahead of him.

Then, he realizes what he just thought and shakes himself out of it. Life? he asks himself. You’re still not sure if she’ll let you kiss her again, moron.

“Now that you’re finally here, Trevor,” Bea says pointedly, frowning at him. “My presentation can begin.”

She whips the blanket off of the easel just as Honey yawns and lets her head fall on Jack’s shoulder, so Trevor misses the reveal of Bea’s whiteboard. He’s too busy watching how Honey smacks her lips lazily after she yawns. When Trevor does turn to look at the board, he’s assaulted by large, bright block letters that read: “Bea’s Definitive Favorite Boy!”

Bea is grinning wide, running her hands over the edges of the board like a game show host presenting a new car.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Trevor complains, rolling his eyes. “This is what you woke me up for?”

He could’ve been asleep in bed for another hour. Hell, he doesn’t understand why Bea had to do this first thing in the morning when she could’ve just come over after her normal church trip. He also doesn’t understand why he has to be here– he and Bea are barely friends. The only thing they have in common is Honey and the only thing Trevor has that the other boys don’t– when it comes to Bea– is her phone number.

Bea’s smile drops. So do her hands, landing limp by her sides. She frowns. 

“Shut up, Zegras,” Quinn snaps. It’s nothing new for him to make Quinn mad, so his reaction doesn’t faze Trevor. What does faze Trevor is the reaction of the girl next to him.

“That’s not very nice, Trevor,” Honey murmurs quietly, still sleepy. She’s cuddled up against Jack’s arm now, head still on his shoulder, and her eyelids are drooping. 

“Yeah,” Cole agrees. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. Go on, Bea, I want to know why I’m an 8.0.”

Trevor finally looks at the list and the ratings, having only gotten as far as the title before he had to say something.

Each name is written in black marker, but their numbers are in an array of colors. Bea has even used her markers to draw little symbols next to each person’s name: a heart next to Quinn’s, a star next to Cole’s, a flower with Luke’s, and a little candy next to Jack.

Quinn - 9.4

Cole - 8.0

Luke - 6.9

Jack - 6.6

“I’m not even on the list,” Trevor grumbles, then falls quiet. He does it for Honey’s sake, really, reading through the lines of her statement a moment ago and understanding the unspoken command to shut up. He just had to get one final comment in to express his distaste for being awoken for something so trivial. 

Bea makes a face at him, angry and frustrated with his reaction to her board, then she gestures to the board. “I can’t tell you why you’re an eight,” she says to Cole. “Because I can’t tell you what my points system is. I want to see how long it takes for you guys to figure it out.”

“So it’s not just general points?” Jack asks.

“Wondering how you can get a higher spot on the ranking?” Honey teases, her tone setting off a bomb in Trevor’s stomach. She can’t just talk to Jack like that– she’s only ever supposed to softly tease him, take the piss out of him. Not Jack.

“You’ll just have to be extra good this week,” Bea reveals to Jack like it was some great secret. 

Obviously, that’s how you grow in the ranks, Trevor thinks. You’re not going to get anywhere by being on bad behavior, Jack.

“So what, you’re going to update the board weekly?” Quinn asks, a little smile on his face as Bea turns her attention to him. 

“Whenever I need to,” Bea replies, widening her eyes like she’s flashing them at the boy. Trevor notices that the lines on her face fade a bit when she talks to Quinn and that her shoulders relax. 

“Yeah, Quinn, so your first place isn’t safe,” Cole baits, sticking his tongue out at the boy.

“I think I’ll be okay,” Quinn replies, leaning back into the couch cushions. He places his arm over the back of the couch, practically encircling Honey’s shoulders. Trevor wishes that they were on the ice so that he could trip the boy– and, ideally, get away with it. 

“So you really won’t tell us how we can improve,” Luke says, really just clarifying and making sure. 

Bea thinks on it for a second and looks to Honey, who shakes her head and draws herself up to a position where she’s sitting on her own. She stretches her arms out in front of her with another yawn, then covers her mouth and speaks through the intake of air. “It’s more fun this way. Half the brilliance of the board is that you have no idea and Bea and I do.”

“I’ll give y’all one pass, though,” Bea says. “First boy to be ready for church gets a point-one added to his score.”

Jack is the first person up, shaking the couch. Luke races after him, not wanting his score to drop below Jack’s. Cole and Quinn are much more relaxed about the incentive, meandering up the stairs. Trevor doesn’t move an inch.

“No church for you today, Trev?” Bea asks.

“I don’t see how it benefits me. I’m not on the list,” Trevor replies.

Bea stops what she’s doing– gathering her markers– and faces him. She looks to Honey, then back to Trevor. “Trevor, dear,” she starts sweetly, although Trevor understands that her sweetness is dripping with poison. “You’re not on the list because I’m not having sex with you. I have no interest in speculating about how good you are in bed and I don’t believe anything that Honey’s told me about your abilities. You’re a nuisance and I hope you get a charley horse cramp next time you’re on the ice.”

She picks up her whiteboard and walks away, going down into the basement. 

Honey stretches out on the couch again, cracking her knuckles. 

“You talk about me?” Trevor asks, hoping that Honey will play along and ignore everything else Bea said.

“Well, I’m going to talk about how rude you are with Bea after she gets back from church,” Honey replies snarkily. “Honestly, Trevor, do you have to be a douche?”

“I wasn’t that bad,” Trevor defends himself. 

“You were a jerk and for what?” Honey demands, seeming very awake now. “Because we woke you up? I got woken up too, Trevor, and I had to come all the way over here from my house. You got to walk down some stairs and you have the nerve to complain more than I do?”

Trevor is surprised by her sharp words, taking a step back. “Sorry,” he mumbles. 

“‘Sorry,’” Honey repeats, mocking him. “God, Trevor. You really do piss me off sometimes.” She stands from the couch, which draws Trevor’s eyes. Her tank top has ridden up, revealing a little sliver of skin that he wants to bite. He takes in her nipples, which he can see through her top, and he’s surprised that he never noticed the piercings before. They’re obvious. His eyes come up to her collarbones, and her neck–

Covered in little bite marks.

Trevor grins, staring at her.

Honey’s eyebrows tilt down and her expression grows perturbed, suspicious of him. “What are you smiling at?”

“Look in a mirror lately?” Trevor asks, bringing his hand up and gesturing at his neck, pointing out spots that mirror the location of the hickeys he left on Honey’s body. “Surprised you came over here in so little. I would’ve expected you to wear a scarf, since you don’t want anyone knowing about us.”

“What?” Honey asks, reaching up to feel over her neck like the bruised skin is raised. She goes to the hallway, craning her head to the side and examining her skin in the mirror. 

Trevor goes to stand behind her, still at a distance, and Honey’s eyes meet his in the reflection. She looks downright murderous.

“This is all your fault,” she hisses, whirling around and stomping up to him just so that she can push his chest and make him stumble backwards into the wall. 

“At least you look good in purple,” Trevor says with a cheshire-like smile on his face. He means the compliment earnestly, even though Honey is angry with him and already making her way to the front door.

“You– fuck off, Trevor,” is the last thing she says before wrenching the door open and slamming it behind her.

Trevor can’t help himself– he’s pulling out his phone and using her number for the first time since she yelled at him for texting her at work. He types out a quick little message, one that he knows Honey will hate and probably pretend like she never received, but now he’s got two thoughts running through his mind: one, that Honey does look very good in purple, and two, that she talks to Bea about him. And his abilities.

He sends a picture of his own neck, a big purple bruise that he noticed before he walked downstairs, right at the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder. “It’s a group effort & I’m glad you’re my partner ;)” is the final draft of the text, sent without a second thought. 

Of course she’ll never reply to him, but Trevor is satisfied with the fact that she’ll have to walk around for the next couple of days knowing that he marked her up and only time will help those marks fade.

[adragonsfriend]

Upon reflection, having it implied that saying "Anakin can both be traumatized and responsible for his actions, (which is not the same thing as blaming him for his trauma)," means that I don't like his character, or that I think anything along the lines of "he's inherently bad," is actually hilarious and I'm no longer mad about it. Like,,,

My dear critics, I did not write over 100k (so far) of fanfic about him going on a time travel redemption arc, in the relatively famous in SW fandom "Anakin actually was already redeeming himself thru stories and being a double agent and is possibly the coolest character ever AU" because I think he's inherently bad person. I am so incredibly down for the fact that he is capable of so much good. For 24 years he makes literally the worst choices possible, and then he is still capable of making a good one. That's the WHOLE point.

His potential for good is why it's sad that he makes bad choices. No one gives a fuck when Palpatine does war crimes because he's presented to us narratively as a force of nature, not as a person. Anakin IS presented to us as a person. He could always choose differently.

But he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't. And he doesn't.

AND THEN HE DOES!!!

Writing a fix it centering on him is largely just a matter of choosing any one of those "And he doesn't"s, and changing it to an "And then he does!"

[albatris]

rentalcar update!

it's been a hot minute since I did one of these!

today's word count is 75,595...... uh oh! "but it was over 100k a few weeks ago, monday!" yes my process is mysterious and unknowable

today I got a lot of work done due to the being at my friend's house where we just sit around and vibe together. I'm really happy with my progress!

today's mood is a severe lack of sleep and today's jam is "little lies you're told" by joywave

taglist and today's excerpt under the cut! it's jumbly and unedited sowwy

She settled on the couch and immediately sprawled herself out, bringing her legs up onto the cushions and cuddling right up to him, her head nestling down on his shoulder. Nat’s heart pounded in his chest in a rhythm he was certain she could hear. Was she coming onto him? What was this? Why was she so close?

The movie seemed to be about a zombie invasion of a small town in Pennsylvania, but Nat was finding it hard to pay attention. Partially tiredness from his night of work and the emotional stress he was under. Partially his hyper-awareness of Ripley’s presence. The longer the movie wound on, though, and the longer Ripley stayed like that, leaning herself against him all cosy, the more Nat suspected that she was simply just more physically affectionate than he was. What had the care package said about vampires and physical contact? They liked it, right?

Did he like this?

Maybe she would think his pounding heart was just exhilaration from the jump-scares, from watching so many zombie heads get blown off, so many entrails get ripped out. The movie was exceptionally gory. He was—uncomfortable. But he was almost always uncomfortable. He found himself wishing he was home cuddling his cat instead, but he almost always wished he was home instead of out. Even when he was enjoying himself, he was never truly enjoying himself.

Did he like this?

Nat tried to untangle his emotions. Fear, shame, guilt, stress, paranoia—oh, there was relief here, too. Relief and affection. Small flutterings of it. Nat exhaled and tried to release all his tension. He did like this. He hated it, but he liked it.

“What—what’s that thing called?” he asked during one of the movie’s lulls in action. “That thing that gets all up in your brain. The Greeble. The Gerbil.”

Ripley wheezed, laughing. “The Garble?”

“That’s the bastard.”

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Do you believe in it?”

“I don’t… not believe in it… I guess.” Ripley reached up to pat Nat’s face, ruffle his hair, playfully. “I mean, do I believe there’s something alive in vampire bodies? Like, wriggling around in the blood and stuff? Something that gives us our power and demands life force in return? Abso-fucking-lutely. Do I believe in—in some big spiritual vampire hivemind god that connects us all? Not really. I think it’s just—a way certain people have of wrapping their heads around the physical. It’s like a comforting delusion, maybe." She stopped for a breath. "Do you believe in the Garble?”

“I don’t know,” Nat said. “I haven’t decided yet. It talks to me. I can feel a presence sometimes. It could be something alive in me, like a parasite. Or it could be a big hivemind god.”

Ripley nodded thoughtfully.

“My friend Alex thinks it’s a spiritual thing, I think,” Nat said. “I wouldn’t call it a delusion exactly. I’ve been delusional. Religion is different.”

“Does your friend think it has, like, a purpose?” Ripley asked. “That’s what I always ask that trips people up. If it’s a religion, if it’s spiritual, what’s the point? What does it all mean? What’s the higher purpose?”

“I dunno. I’ll ask next time I see him, maybe.”

“Here’s a hint: there isn’t a higher purpose,” Ripley said. “It’s all just—just a fucked up medical condition.”

“If it’s a medical condition, why is no one working towards a cure?”

“You think vampires are running around offering themselves up for medical research? We’re not human anymore. If we told people what we really are, that we’re monsters, we’d get cut up into teeny tiny pieces by the government for sure.”

To emphasise Ripley’s point, the lead of the movie ran a chainsaw through a zombie’s decaying chest.

“Yeah,” Nat agreed. “Best not.”

@transmasc-wizard @saturn-iidae @polyaubergine @tracle0 @goosemixtapes @valence-positive @the-one-who-makes-negative-noise @ambiguousfiction @afoolandathief @silverwarewolf @mecharose @vellichor-virgo @plasticseaslug @jetstargenderfuckery @multi-lefaiye @writeouswriter @junoshusband @writing-is-a-martial-art @midnight-and-his-melodiverse @sleepycaprine @cream-and-tea @gailynovelry @lefttigerobservation @indecentpause @somealienquill @cannivalisms @violetfoxsketches @approximately20eggs @mohluskiepedard @desastreus @kk7-rbs @cee-grice @northwyrm @xylophonicsynapse @careful-pyromancer @recapitulation @incandescent-creativity @whole-buncha-snakess @mysticalalleycat @thatonecrowguy @va-nila-bean @televisionjester @excessive-vampires @walkman-cat