kasturidiamond10-blog

[micamicster]

My favorite thing in the untamed is how at their core all of the relationship conflicts are about fighting for the right to care about each other

[kamiversee]

➶-͙˚ ༘✶ 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙁*𝘾𝙆 𝙇𝙄𝙎𝙏

✧.* CHAPTER 9 || The Professor and His Student

[ { SYPNOSIS } ] ➤ A tale in which Gojo Satoru blackmails you into seducing a list of people to clear his debt. Sounds easy enough, right?

[ { CHAPTER CONTENT } ] ➤ language.

[ { WORD COUNT } ] ➤ 3.9k

[ { PAIRINGS } ] ➤ jjk men x f!reader. gojo x f!reader. geto x f!reader. toji x f!reader. choso x f!reader. sukuna x f!reader. nanami x f!reader.

[ [ chapters mlist } ]

——WITHIN THRITY MINUTES, you're back in Gojo's company. Shoko wasn't home when you got to your apartment so there was no one for you to rant to and you were left still pissed off because of Gojo.

Actually, even if Shoko was home, it's not like she knows anything about the list. And you're not sure if you even want her to know anything about the list. It'd be too embarrassing to explain to her how you got yourself in this position so, you really have no plans on doing so.

The most your roommate knows is that last night you went out on a date. She doesn't know that it's Geto you went on a date with, or that you've slept with both of her friends and you'd like to keep it that way for the time being. There's way too much to explain for you to talk to her.

So ultimately, that leaves you alone in your situation. You have no one to talk to about this, no one to cry to about how Gojo is nothing more than a manipulative dickhead, and no one to release the buildup of emotions he's just given you.

The worst part of it all is that you were starting to put the blackmailing aside. You were starting to even like the idea of playing this little game with Gojo where you have to sleep with some hot guys and get paid for it. But when Gojo reminds you that you don't have the luxury of being comfortable in your situation, you just go right back to disliking him.

When the man showed up at your door to take you with him to his class, you barely exchanged any words. Gojo carefully explained the things his professor was attracted to, saying how he seemed like the kinda guy to be into a woman who looks like she needs help but is actually smart.

You asked Gojo what kinda clothes you should wear, resulting in you wearing a short skirt with stockings that hugged your thighs nicely. You felt a little uncomfortable in it, especially with Gojo's eyes all over you as if he you and him didn't just argue with one another minutes ago.

"Stop staring, you don't have that privilege anymore." You spat out to him as you adjusted the buttons on the shirt you wore.

Gojo's at your room door, leaning against the frame like always. "Come stop me from staring." He blurts out.

He's so used to flirting with you that he couldn't even help himself.

You send him a glare, "You're making things worse, y'know."

He knows. But he doesn't know how to fix it and still get what he wants at the same time. "I'm sorry-"

"Don't." You say simply.

Gojo falls quiet, watching as you move away from the mirror and over to your dresser to spray perfume on yourself. The scent makes its way into his nose and he has to bite back the compliment he nearly gives you.

After that, you put some shoes on and walked over to Gojo, looking up at the man with distaste in your eyes. For a minute, he simply peers down at you.

"...Can you please move?" You sigh tiredly.

Gojo doesn't budge. "Can you hear me out for a minute?"

You can't even believe the audacity of this man. "No."

"Please?"

"What is there to hear out? If I don't do this, you'll expose me. What else is there for you to say?" You ask.

He doesn't even know the answer to that question himself. "It's not what you think it is," Gojo says in the softest voice he can manage.

"Yeah?" You scoff, moving to fold your arms at him. "So what is it then, Gojo?"

"I just..." He trails off for a long moment.

You watch as he glances back and forth between your eyes, clearly having no words for you. You can see the clear regret in his eyes but you ignore it completely-- refusing to let yourself be manipulated by any of his looks.

Slowly, you lean closer to him. "You just what? Spit it out." You urge.

He swallows but remains silent, which leads you to roll your eyes at him. You then shake your head and move him to the side, stepping past him and exiting your bedroom.

"That's what the hell I thought. Now let's go." You say with a sigh.

Gojo's behind you cursing at himself for being unable to tell you the truth.

He's so scared that you'll never help him without the blackmail and, well, he has every right to be because you're pretty sure that if it weren't for those videos he has over your head, you wouldn't be doing any of this.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ .　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

The walk to his class isn't long once the two of you get onto campus. It was on the third floor, in a section of the school you don't typically go down. You're not sure if you imagine it but you swear that every person you pass in the halls is insanely attractive.

The men, the women, literally all of them. For a moment you wonder if you're in the fashion department of your school based on the looks of those around you. It makes you wonder what Gojo's major is for a second, realizing you never actually asked him.

Your lips part to do so but... what's the point? You no longer care about getting to know the man anymore. Knowing his major won't help you complete this list any faster so, you end up closing your mouth and keeping quiet as you follow him.

When you get to the class, you notice that most of the room is full and Gojo is within the last group of people to arrive.

You're behind the white-haired man so, his professor lays eyes on him before you. You try to appear as inconspicuous as possible and thanks to the department of attractive and well-put-together people surrounding you, you don't stand out much.

Gojo makes a left to head up the stairs toward, what you assume to be, his seat, and you make sudden and direct eye contact with a tall, overly muscular man you swear isn't the professor.

Oh, there's no way in hell that this dark-haired man with a scar on the right corner of his lips is teaching this class. You refuse to believe that the man standing not too far away from you in a button up shirt that looks like it's seconds away from popping off him, is the damn professor.

Surely, you'd expected the blond man you saw in those pictures Gojo showed you to be a teacher. Definitely not this guy.

Those brown, maybe green, eyes of his skim over your entire body in one quick motion, an eyebrow raising the very second he realizes he's never seen you in his class before. In your hands are a binder and a book that you keep pressed against your chest, slightly fidgeting where you stand with the male's eyes all over you.

You wonder if you should say anything but when the large man looks back down at the papers scattered on his desk in front of him, you get the idea that he doesn't care too much about you being there.

With a sigh, you turn and follow after Gojo, quickly arriving at his seat and sitting beside him. Luckily for you, he's in the very back of the room so you get to sit in the corner with him.

You hadn't planned on learning anything today but, here you are, having no idea what you're getting yourself into.

"Gojo," You whisper and he turns to you. "What subject even is this...?"

"Uh, economics." He hums.

You freeze. "You're joking right?"

"I'm not."

"How the hell am I supposed to explain why I'm here?!" You whisper shout at him.

He shrugs casually, "I dunno."

You scowl. "Of course you don't."

Gojo grimaces at himself for his words, "Okay, well maybe-"

"Nope, save it. I'll figure it out myself." You cut off as you organize the few items you brought with you.

He sighs heavily beside you but you ignore the sound.

The class is steady to begin and your heart increases tenfold in nervousness when the deep baritone voice of the professor hits your ears. It was nothing but a lazy 'afternoon everyone' to greet his students as he went to shut the door but for some reason, it made your nerves spike.

As the professor, whose name you end up figuring out is Mr. Fushiguro, began his lecture, you couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. The room was filled with students who so obviously belonged there. You, a psychology major, genuinely have no excuse to be here right now.

Okay, sure, you may have taken an economics class in high school but, that was high school and it was a required course for you at the time. Now, it'll be a bit difficult to explain why you're there.

Luckily for you, you've been in a similar position before. Except, the last time you were in a situation like this, there were real reasons behind it. You had slipped into one of Shoko's classes and attended that class with her for about three weeks straight-- having needed to use the interactions of her class for a report you were working on.

So in this case, you hope you'll be able to do the same thing and pull this off.

With that in mind, you made sure to actually pay attention to the lecture to ensure that you had something to talk about if or when Mr. Fushiguro questions you.

As you did that, Gojo sat beside you unable to pay attention to anything aside from the woman attentively taking notes beside him. He couldn't help but stare at you with his cheek resting against his knuckles, watching the way you were taking real notes on the class.

He gazed at the side of your face, getting lost in his mind as he tried to think of ways to fix things. He wondered if the two of you could just brush over the argument. It's not like he didn't blackmail you before and you guys didn't move on from that.

Or maybe it was just him who'd moved on. Perhaps you're still worried about the situation you were in. It'd only been a few days since it started, not even a full week yet.

Gojo's so busy thinking that he hasn't realized he's still staring at you. When he does realize it though, he doesn't stop. Instead, the male goes on to admire you. This is probably one of the only times he'll get to be near you going forward.

I hate you, the words still echo in his mind. He's so pissed at himself for it. He should've never even done this. Maybe he could've found someone else to go and seduce these people for him, not you-- Gojo likes you.

Wait, he... likes you? Gojo blinks at his own thoughts, wondering if that's what's wrong with him. Maybe that's why he felt these urges to kiss you or be around you or even make you smile and laugh...

He finds himself replaying the events of that morning over and over. It was perfect. To wake up to you kissing him so softly, to have you in his arms all night, and to even bond a little with you without it being about the list.

It was-

"Gojo," You hummed, breaking him out of his mind entirely. Your gaze was down on the paper in front of you as you spoke, "Do you like your eyes?"

His brows pinch together and you hear him scoff a little bit, "Yeah...?"

"Wanna keep 'em?" You question sarcastically.

He blinks, "Uh, yes...?"

You turn your head to him and your voice is low and an agitated whisper, "Then stop fucking staring at me."

Gojo doesn't even look away yet. His eyes remain on yours and the eye contact is intense for a second. He hates to think about it but, you're rather hot when you're mad, as toxic as it is to think about...

The way you're eyes are all narrow and the tenseness of your face is oddly attractive to the man. Under different circumstances, Gojo would've teased you about it like he normally does but, right now, you look like you might stab his eyes out with the pencil in your hands.

Instead of taking the warning you have him seriously, Gojo only grins at you, "Make me." He whispers back, voice teasing.

You glare for a moment, and then you start shaking your head in utter disbelief. "You're an ass."

"An ass?" Gojo chuckles quietly, "What happened to asshole?"

"I might change it to a piece of shit." You say with a shrug as you turn your head away and multi-focus on both him and the lecture.

Gojo tilts his head, "Doesn't that take too long to say?"

"Dickhead." You say simply.

He frowns, "Ehh, doesn't have a nice ring to it."

With a sigh, you glance at him through the corner of your eye, "I'm not gonna play this little game with you."

"Nono, keep going," Gojo pleads, now smiling at you as if he isn't aware that he's only annoying you even more. "I like hearing all the mean names you can come up with."

You roll your eyes at him, "I hope you fail this class."

"Woahh, I need this class to graduate, sweets." He argues, pouting a little bit at your sudden words.

"Enough with the pet names," You sigh. "Hearing anything affectionate coming from you is revolting."

"You liked it this morning."

"That was before you pissed me off."

Gojo smirks, "I do that quite often though, don't I?"

"Yeah, you do."

He hums and inches a little closer to you, "And yet you still hung around me."

"I was forced to." You reply, trying to take notes on the subject ahead at the same time.

"Were you forced to kiss me this morning too?" Gojo says.

That question made you scoff. He definitely pushed all the right buttons with that one, "Were you forced to be born as an insufferable asshole who likes manipulating women into clearing your debt for you?" You question, anger embedded into your tone.

He pauses. The worst part of what you said was that you weren't even looking at him. You said that without batting an eyelash. And it came out your mouth faster than he expected.

Gojo opens his mouth slowly, almost carefully, "I-"

Before he gets the chance to say anything, the abrupt sound of his professor speaking louder is heard. "Gojo Satoru," The professor calls out with an annoyed sigh.

You think you see the hairs on the back of Gojo's neck stand up and you watch as he grits his teeth and turns his head to face his teacher.

"Plan on talkin' through my whole class?" Mr. Fushiguro questions.

Gojo looks immediately annoyed as he shakes his head, the sight of him shut up so quickly almost satisfying to you.

That earns a nod from his professor, "That's what I thought." He hummed, his eyes snapping over to you right afterward.

You swear you were shrinking under the man's gaze, even though he was on the other side of the damn room. It was so intimidating that you just knew he was about to say something to you.

But, he doesn't. It was nothing more than a quick glance, maybe even a warning glance.

You sigh and then peek over to Gojo beside you, noticing how he looks upset now. A smile graces your face as you see the man in distress, it was quite the satisfying sight to behold-- especially given the hell he's putting you through.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆ .　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

The lecture was a full three hours long, something you surprisingly were able to stay awake for and focus on the entire time.

You have a feeling it was the way Mr. Fushiguro taught the class or maybe it was the way he looks. With a face and body like that, you think you could stay awake and stare for hours unprovoked. That has to be the only plus side to the list you're going through-- the fact that everyone is stupidly hot.

As the class finished, you grabbed all the notes you'd taken and wondered if you should just approach the professor yourself. Gojo waited for you to get your stuff together and then you followed behind him to leave the class.

The halls seemed to be pretty busy with how long it took for students to actually leave the classroom and you ended up waiting for people to walk out. This placed you in the back of the group of people, being one of the last to actually exit.

"You," A deep voice suddenly called from behind.

Your head turns back and you meet the professor's stern eyes. He raises two fingers and beckons you to come to him. With a swallow, you nudged Gojo on the back of his arm, silently letting him know that you were staying behind before you turned and made your way over to the teacher.

As you approached the desk, the man stool on the other side of it, eyes daunting and presence overwhelming. He was far too attractive to be a professor.

"Sir," You greeted calmly, "You called me...?"

His eyes scan all of you in front of his desk. Not in a way that seemed like he was checking you out but, more in the sense that he was confirming he's never seen you before.

He nodded toward a nearby seat, "Sit."

You don't know why your spine goes rigid at his sudden command. Perhaps it was the authority in his voice? Or the deep undeniably attractive tone of it?

Slowly, you move to sit down in the seat he's told you to. After that, you quietly watch as he awaits all the students to leave. Once the classroom is clear, the professor takes a seat at his desk and all of his tension-filled focus goes to you.

You were nervous. Ridiculously so.

And it wasn't even because of the situation itself but because of the sexy-ass man staring at you. Okay, maybe this list isn't that bad... especially if you get to interact with people you normally wouldn't.

The man leans forward, moving to rest his arms on the desk in front of him and clasping his hands together. "Well?" He asks, clearly expecting you to just explain yourself.

You instantly look down to your lap, "Uh..."

When you take too long, in his eyes, to answer, you hear the man sigh heavily. "You gonna tell me why you're in my class?" He questions.

You look up at him and take a deep breath, "Yeah, sorry. I'm a uh, psychology major and I have this project coming up soon where I have to analyze large groups of people, preferably in different classrooms, to see how different goals and aspirations differ the actions of people."

That was by far the best and cleanest lie you think you've ever given in your entire life. It's usually not hard to explain just a little bit of your major to people, the explanation alone always brings confusion.

The man blinks slowly, kinda like he didn't understand what the hell you just said. "Okay." He sighs, "Two things. One, what does that have to do with you being here without permission, and two, can you explain that in simpler terms?"

A light smile grows on your face, "Well, I meant to come here before the class started and ask if I could sit through a couple of your lectures to study everyone but uh, I forgot... A-And, in simpler terms, I'm just here to see how certain subjects affect certain people."

Mr. Fushiguro nods his head, pausing to think about what you just told him. He has no reason not to believe you, he's actually had plenty of students do this in the past.

"Psych major, huh?" He asks.

"Yes sir."

"That's uh," He clicks his tongue, "Surprising."

"How so?" You scoff, quick to take a bit of offense.

The man shrugs, "I don't usually get Psych majors in my class, you're the first."

"Oh." You chuckle, "Well, I was also curious about how the economy specifically would alter people's way of thinking."

"Yeah?" You think you see him grinning at you. He appears to be intrigued, "Why?"

"I mean, when you're talking about the economy, you're talking about money and, well," You shrug, "Who doesn't like money? I just wanted to see if that made any difference in the way people think and act in terms of education."

"Right," He nods again, "And what class is this for?"

Shit. "Uhm, sociology." You manage to say.

The male opens his mouth to comment something but he's cut off by a light knock on his open classroom door, prompting both of you to turn your head. Your eyes go wide at the man you see standing there.

Blond, tall, neutral facial expression, and, above all, mouth-wateringly sexy. Good god, where the hell does Gojo find these men? The male at the door is someone you recognize from the pictures.

"Mr. Fushiguro," The blond calls, voice stoic.

"Nanami." The professor in front of you replies, "How can I help ya?"

The man at the door takes a few steps into the classroom, "I had a few questions on the assignment from last week."

Your mind is all over the place at this point. Is this who Gojo was talking about when he said there are two people on the list in the class?

"I might have a few answers," Mr. Fushiguro, whose first name you notice is Toji based on the nearby nameplate sitting on his desk, responds playfully.

You then watch as he stands and walks over to Nanami, your heart spiraling out of control. Spotting two people from the list in one day? It's nerve-wracking.

The two stand not too far away from you and quietly go over something. You pick up on tidbits of their conversation but it's all about an assignment you know nothing about so, there's not much you can do with the information you hear.

Nanami's glance strays over to you for only a second, long enough for you two to make eye contact, and long enough for him to look away. It was a glance of simply acknowledging the fact that you're there-- not even the kinda glance where he's checking you out.

The look he gave you and the one you initially received from Toji are similar, it's like neither of them was even interested in you-

Holy shit.

You think you know why too. The way they look at you is nothing compared to Geto's first glances at you, even though the situation and setting are much different.

That's when you realize...

That asshole Gojo never told you what level of difficulty these men are considered to be.

GOJO SATORU ✔︎

GETO SUGURU ✔︎

TOJI FUSHIGURO ☐

NANAMI KENTO ☐

mlist || previous chapt || next chpt

[hellyeahsickaf]

You know how you look back at past shitty connections, friends, family dynamics, and relationships and you're like "I can't believe I let them treat me that way"? I think it hits differently with disability because when you're disabled you don't always even know that you're being mistreated and/or abused in regards to it.

I know statistically disabled people are more likely to be abused but sometimes there's an additional type of abuse that's hard to identify even in hindsight because no one tells you how abusive it is.

But ableist abuse relating to your disability can look like:

Pushing you to do things beyond your limitations despite their awareness of them.

Blaming you for the "inconveniences" brought on by things beyond your control (ex: missing a movie because you had to wait for your pain meds to kick in).

Not allowing you to take breaks or antagonizing you when you do.

Bullying or making fun of things you can't help like gait, a lisp, an embarrassing symptom.

Trying to "cure" or "fix" you, often framing it as "helping" you. Sometimes they look similar and you might be able to tell by their reaction towards lack of improvement.

Holding over you the things they have to do for you (cooking, cleaning, driving, working, etc).

Giving ultimatums that demand things of you that you can't do (getting a job, keeping up with multiple chores).

Using insulting terms, language, and/or slurs that you have not permitted them to or in a context where there is intent to harm you.

Interrogating you about your disability or trying to find discrepancies between your experiences and what they've heard/read/seen about it.

Implying or saying anything along the lines of you faking, being lazy, or exaggerating. Reducing you to a hypochondriac, saying you enjoy being disabled because you seem to like having things done for you, or that you're lazy or abusing them by depending on them for things.

Asking you about it not to learn more, but to use it against you in some way.

Having a martyr complex, acting as if they're a hero for giving you the support you deserve.

Calling you a burden, implying you to be one, or treating you like one.

Acting like you owe them a debt, sometimes even demanding some kind of repayment. Keeping track of money they spend on you that you won't be able to pay back, feeling entitled to things like control, sex, a portion of government benefits, etc.

Self victimizing. They act like you being disabled causes more suffering to themselves than you.

Accusing you of being addicted to your medication. If you genuinely develop an addiction a normal response is concern not rage, finger pointing, etc. if you don't have one baseless claims are very harmful

Trying to force you to stop "depending" on things you need like medication and disability aids

Comparing you to others that are doing "better" than you. Maybe showing you inspiration porn of someone with no legs for example doing incredible things- which is great for them but the "I don't let my disability stop me so you can do anything" shit is harmful. Some of us will get very unwell if we try, and some just can't.

Trying to make others also see you as dramatic, faking, or lazy. Often embarrassing and mocking you as well.

Withholding things you need like medication or disability aids as a punishment

Saying your disability is karma or something inflicted by a divine entity/religious figure. Maybe as punishment for not praying, being queer, or something else they disagree with.

Saying that it's a result of being "promiscuous"/LGBT. For instance if you have HIV or ME/CFS that was a result of something like mononucleosis ("kissing disease").

Shaming you for things related to your disability beyond your control or expressing embarrassment over these things. including but not limited to: appearance (general but also things like say a lupus butterfly rash or weight gain/loss), having to lay down in public (ex: with POTS), inability to keep up with hygiene, etc.

Lacking boundaries and acting as if they are entitled to information or intrusion of your space/belongings due to the power they hold over you and assistance they may provide.

Implying/saying you're living an extended vacation. Maybe one they say they wish they had because they have to do x y z while you "sit around"

Abandoning you solely for your disability (ex: because you can't hang out, they don't want a disabled partner, think you're faking, etc)

Note that someone doing one or two of these things a few times doesn't always mean they're abusing you (also depends on which). It's about the patterns and frequency of this behavior as well as refusal to improve once aware that they're hurting you. People who care about you don't want to hurt you and the normal response is to do their best not to repeat the action that negatively affected you

There are more examples and you can feel free to list some

✨This is about physical illnesses and disabilities, please don't derail✨

[mychlapci]

okay ❤️

yay ❤️

Barbarian AU where Ostaros is banished from the esteemed kingdom of Praxus after he’s discovered to be the bastard child of the Praxian guard captain and a barbarian warlord from a neighboring tribe… 

Ostaros slowly learns to fend for himself in the badlands; Hunting petrorabbits, crudely treating his own wounds, and finding shelters to keep him safe from the elements… Which is how he eventually stumbles upon a barbarian clan.

After a sudden downpour that lasts for days on end, Ostaros has no choice but to seek refuge in the mountains. Freezing, feverish, and exhausted, he barely makes it past the maw of a cave before collapsing… As his vision swims in and out of focus, a figure emerges from the darkness, heavy peds coming to a stop in front of his helm…

Ostaros wakes up in a warm bed of furs, the scent of smoke and strange herbs thick in the air as he gradually comes to his senses.

The cave, as it turns out, is the entrance to a massive cavern occupied by a clan of barbarians… Ostaros finds himself in the leader’s tent, an imposing hook-handed mech with a permanent frown etched on his face… Impactor.

Still disoriented and running a high fever, Ostaros is in no shape to run away as the warlord starts rebuking him in a language he can’t understand… The ‘conversation’ that ensues is one-sided and tense, with the barbarian becoming more and more frustrated as Ostaros fails to understand a word he says. 

One thing is clear though, he doesn’t plan to kill Ostaros. At least, not yet. 

For some time, Ostaros recovers from his fever in the warlord’s tent… All the while, more and more members of Impactor’s clansmen come to meet him. Some bring medicine and herbs, others bring offerings of furs and energon.

An elder, Kup, spends hours by Ostaros’s side; rambling stories in his native tongue, often with hunting trophies and scars to show for them. From him, Ostaros begins to learn their language, starting with their names. 

One night, when Impactor returns from a hunt, Ostaros greets him in his language with a bright, proud grin on his face. His pronunciation is poor, but the gesture alone is almost enough to make Impactor smile. Almost.

Weeks pass, and Ostaros finally fully recovers. In hopes of repaying his debt to the clan, he cleans and sharpens their weapons, forages for them, and continues to learn their language. 

Eventually, Impactor takes it upon himself to teach Ostaros how to hunt properly, leading him on his first foxhunt; together, the pair track and kill a pair of turbofoxes. 

Ostaros watches wide-eyed as Impactor bites into the throat of his fresh kill, drinking the still-hot fuel from its lines like an animal. Pulling away and wiping his bloody mouth with his hand, Impactor turns to Ostaros. The warlord watches, pleased, as his mentee follows his example unprompted.

That night, Ostaros is officially accepted into the clan. A feast is held, at the end of which Kup proudly renames Ostaros as Springer.

Springer spends the night drinking, dancing, and exchanging stories with his new family.

Drunk and having the time of his life, Springer hardly registers Impactor grabbing him by the arm before he’s suddenly dragged off and roughly shoved into the center of the sparring pit. He staggers forward, clumsily turning to face Impactor as the warlord steps into the pit behind him. 

For the first time since Springer met him, there's a fierce grin on Impactor's face as he lowers himself into a fighting stance. Springer has only seconds to do the same before the other mech lunges at him. The other tribesmen gather around the ring as Springer and Impactor tumble to the ground in a filthy, sweaty mess of writhing limbs… wildly swinging and scratching at one another in a savage battle. 

Impactor buries his hook in Springer's midsection, and in turn, Springer sinks his teeth into Impactor's throat. The longer they wrestle, the more grime and energon gets smeared across their frames, until the colors of their plating are almost indistinguishable through the filth.

The crowd hollers and leers as Impactor finally pins the smaller mech to the ground, holding Springer's face down in the bloody muck as he pries open his panel. Springer’s optics widen in shock and panic,  he claws wildly at the ground for purchase as he hears Impactor's spike panel depressurize with a quiet hiss... His thick, hard cock springing free against Springer's aft a moment later. 

More mechs tumble into the arena as Impactor sheathes himself in Springer's virgin valve with one deep, hard thrust. Lubricant laced energon drips down Springer's thighs as Impactor immediately sets a punishing pace. Springer’s cries are lost in a cacophony of screams, growls, and moans as the other clansmen fight and frag around them. 

Impactor’s hand stays on the back of Springer’s helm, holding his face down as he relentlessly pounds him into the mud. The sharp barbs of his spike drag against every one of the smaller mech's internal callipers, drawing more blood as he tears the delicate lining of Springer's valve. A low growl rumbles from Impactor's chassis as he curses beneath his breath, uttering crude taunts and praise that Springer only half understands.

Springer’s head swims with pain, shock, and despite himself, arousal. Low, loud moans rip from his vocalizer as he arches his back to meet Impactor's thrusts, clumsily grinding back against the bigger mech's hips as he loses himself in a haze of pain and pleasure.

A low, harsh laugh echos from behind him. Impactor's hand leaves his helm, only to smack against his flank hard enough to dent the metal. Springer yelps at the sudden sharp impact, valve clamping down around Impactor's spike and gushing lubricant around it. Seeming to like that reaction, Impactor does it again and again, leaving Springer’s aft and thighs hot and throbbing with pain. 

Without Impactor's hand on his helm, Springer’s finally able to raise his head, only to be met with the sight of Kup looming over him.

The elder grins down at him as he grabs Springer by the mandibles of his helm, holding onto them as he forces his spike between the younger mech’s lips. Springer has no choice but to take it, moaning around Kup’s cock as each of Impactor's thrusts send him lurching forward onto it. He gags when it hits the back of his throat, tears welling in his optics as he sloppily swallows around it.

It doesn't take long for Springer to overload as he's bounced between Impactor and Kup... vision whiting out as he squirts against the former’s front, tears and drool dripping down his filthy face as his optics roll back. 

After a click, Kup pulls out, taking his spike in his servo and pumping it until he shoots his load across Springer's muddy, bloody face. Impactor shortly follows suit, hilting himself in Springer's sloppy cunt and and biting down hard on his shoulder as he cums deep inside. 

The violent, bloody orgy around them continues as the trio take a moment to catch their breaths.

Sore, exhausted, and filthy… surrounded by his clansmen fighting and fucking each other into the mud, Springer’s never felt more at home in his life <3

oh god, everything about this is perfect…. i’m too horny for this to say anything. augh. they kicked Springer out for being an impure barbarian, well then fine, he’ll find his own tribe :)

They’re sooo nasty, they should’ve told him that part of his becoming one of their tribe was to have his virginity taken, poor thing must have been so surprised :)

[pluppsauthor]

Character Profile Tag

Thanks to @finickyfelix for the open tag :) (this took a while, but I really wanted to do another one of these when I saw your post.)

For this one, I'm going to do my second favourite character, Jesse Graves from my WIP 534ft.

-----

Full name: Jesse Graves

Age: 19

Gender: Transgender Male

Type of Being: Human

Appearance: Jesse stands at 165cm (or 5'5") and has a generally small frame that he covers up with layers of loose cloth draped over him.

His face is soft, though it shows restlessness. He has subtle bags under his brown coloured eyes. His hair, a similar shade of brown as his eyes, is short and unkempt, hidden by his hat. And he has a light, mostly unkempt, beard over most of his chin.

He wears a cowboy hat to cover his eyes from the suns, basic leather and cloth travelling clothes, layers of cloth draped over his shoulders to mask his frame, plain leather boots, fingerless marksmen gloves, a backpack, and a holstered silver revolver on the right side of his hip.

Way of speaking: Jesse speaks slowly, seriously, and with thought behind every word he uses. He goes as deep as his voice allows and shows as little emotion as possible. His natural voice/cadence is something he very rarely shows to other people unless he feels safe around them.

Physical characteristics: Jesse's body language is purposefully reserved, presenting himself as someone serious and not to be messed with. In truth, he just doesn't want to be bothered.

What he cannot hide, however, is his gloomy disposition. He is filled with guilt and regret, and this is evident in how he walks, talks, and acts. No matter how reserved his actions and words are, this part of him still seeps through.

He also doesn't show nervousness, fear, or other strong emotions. He bottles it up and stuffs it down under this mask of unflinching seriousness. When alone, these bottled emotions burst forth in fits of anger, crying, and self-loathing.

Occupation: N/A

Family: Jesse has no surviving family.

Best friend: At the beginning of the story, Jesse is more or less alone. However, during the story he becomes friends with a changeling woman named Claire. The two of them eventually become best friends who would die for each other if needed.

Pets: His horse, Biscuit. Though, he doesn't consider her a pet, but rather a companion.

Relationships: Jesse, mostly due to fear and past trauma, struggles to make lasting relationships. As a result, he only ever has three throughout the story. The rest evaporate as soon as he and them stop interacting.

Claire: Best friends, struggle through similar issues and lift each other up because of it.

Nolan: Is wary of him because of his use of alchemy and infusions of magic, but is on generally friendly terms.

Death: Due to his past, Jesse has a close relationship to Death. He is one of the few who can see Death, outside of their dying moments. Death took pity on Jesse and the two of them have a somewhat friendly relationship. Death wants to see Jesse forgive himself, only helping him because of a "debt".

Describe their room: Jesse never tends to stay in one place longer than a few nights. When he does need to stay in a place overnight, he keeps all of his stuff together directly next to where he sleeps.

Items in their bag/purse: Jesse carries the same few items on him at all times.

A stack of bounties who have the faces of people he's looking for (those connected to his past)

A small bit of mire (name of currency)

Preserved food and water for biscuit (and sometimes himself)

A notebook with the names of everyone he has killed/buried (accidentally or otherwise)

Spare revolver parts, ammunition, and cleaning/polishing supplies

And a fire starter

Hobbies: Tending to Biscuit, carving, polishing his revolver.

Favourite sport: Jesse doesn't really have a favourite sport, but if he did it would be horse-racing, as a racer.

Abilities/talents/powers: Jesse, innately, has no special qualities about him. However, he was given a boon from Death.

This boon grants him endless vitality, or stamina, and prevents him from dying from a few common deaths. This includes dehydration, starvation, exhaustion, heat stroke, and blood loss depending on where the wound is.

He also has the ability to give this boon to someone, at the cost of taking on their vitality instead. He typically does this exclusively with his horse Biscuit so she can ride at full speed near-endlessly.

Fears: Forming relationships, getting close to people, magic, people recognising him (from his past).

Faults: Thinks little of himself, guilt stricken, unsure of himself and his identity, has trouble expressing himself.

Good points: Strong-willed, dead-set determination, friendly.

What they want more than anything else: To be forgiven for his sins.

------

That's Jesse for ya! He's my favourite trans cowboy... by default since he's the only one I have. But he is my seconds favourite character I've ever made so...

Np tagging @creatrackers, @paeliae-occasionally, @sm-writes-chaos, and open tag :)

---copy/past questions---

Full name: Age: Gender: Type of Being: Appearance: Way of speaking: Physical characteristics: Occupation: Family: Best friend: Pets: Relationships: Describe their room: Items in their bag/purse: Hobbies: Favourite sport: Abilities/talents/powers: Fears: Faults: Good points: What they want more than anything else:

[mosmorem]

Blondie and the Toad (part 1)

The damage was worse this time. Not in a, the fire spread to the whole neighborhood, sense. As usual, the work was precise, kept to one building. But this time, this one... burnt to the ground, down to the foundations, traces of melted glass from the windows... The fire was raising in temperature. This was not technology. I was clearly magic.

The man, tall, dark, really fitting with the style of, well, arson in the city, had been standing in the cold for at least fifteen minutes, which he would have considered a short time if it wasn't for that crippling mid-January cold. He hated winter. His breath was fucking visible.

He wasn't even supposed to be coming here to inspect the damage, but—the one ought to was busy puking his guts out (again, fucking winter), and he had sent all of the others to deal with that cargo thief from last week. So... his fault really.

"Uh, excuse me..."

Surprised, he lifted his eyes. A boy, in his twenties, blond, eyes blue like a damn angel and framed with equally blond lashes, which he really wouldn't have been able to see if said eyes weren't so big and round and looking really lost. The boy's arms were folded against him, clutching a phone and a crumbled piece of paper. No gun, non-aggressive body language.

He wore blue jeans and a violently orange shirt. Too visible, and also, why the fuck wasn't he dying from the frost?? He wasn't even shivering.

But that wasn't the weirdest thing. These streets were empty for a reason—few people came here by choice, with all the fires lately. Arson, newspapers said, but who knew for sure. So, a lost boy, no doubt.

"Yes?" he answered, admittedly a bit curious, trying to keep his annoyance out of his tone because, well. The boy was cute.

In fact, he matched his type so well he might also totally be a spy. Damn.

"I'm looking for a, uh..."

Why the fuck was he blushing now.

"...Pickled Toad?"

Oh. That stupid name. Only one person really calls his that, and still it's been a while since he heard it last. Mostly because he thought that person was dead. Who was this boy ? His curiosity grew. Actually yes doubt, because he wasn't so lost after all.

"What do you want with the Toad?", he said, in a totally normal voice like this was a normal name. Normal conversation. Normal fires.

"My sister gave me this for him." And he unclutched his hand to show the crumbled paper, which turned out to be a crumbled envelope. "I'm supposed to give him directly".

He got this little fierce look like you'd have to kill him to get the thing, and the man smiled. Cute. Too bad his sister was a damn fucking witch, and a psychopath. She had a brother like this? No wonder she hid him all this time.

"I'm who you're looking for, blondie, that's me."

The boy hesitated.

"How can I know for sure?"

He snickered and threw him a look. "Cause Betty Greenland's the only fucker to call me The Pickled Toad."

He spit the 'name' like the insult i was, and that made the boy blush like a tomato and give him the envelope without a word. Inside was a slightly less crumbled message.

Hi pickled toad, I'm calling out your life debt. This is my brother, he needs :

And the bitch made a fucking list:

...shelter, food, to learn how to get his magic under control, protection, ideally a new phone, really anything he asks.

Okay this was definitely from Betty; he could recognize that mix of weird and shameless. He lifted his eyes without moving. The boy—the brother—was looking around, eyes wandering amongst the ashes and remains of a burned building...

Was that... guilt in them? Oh, he did not like the picture that was coming to mind.

Don't worry, I didn't teach him to bite. Actually yes, you should worry, because he wouldn't need teeth to hurt you. Don't hurt him. See you when I can (which could be in some time, won't lie), Betty. P.S.: don't ask question but don't make dumb assumptions either.

That... was actually a little reassuring. Still. What the fuck.

"Blondie do you know what this says?"

"I actually don't, but I know I'm supposed to go live with this uh, toad, so you I guess. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. And, well, sorry to be the bad news itself... I guess. Sorry."

His voice had gradually gotten lower and lower, until his last sorry was mumbled. The man softened against his will. Whoever this guy was, his sister's horrible personality definitely hadn't rubbed off on him. He sighted, folded the whole thing together and put it in a pocked inside his jacket, containing the wrecking shivers that threatened to get him before he closed it again. Then he lifted his hand in front of him. The boy, a bit late, shook it hesitantly. That's when he noticed markings on his forearms and hands; very light, lighter than his skin, and just lines and curves following each other.

"Well I guess you're coming with me then. What's your name?"

"I'ts Sael... but what do I call you then? The Toad?"

Cheeky. He started walking away and he followed him.

"Call me, uh, Teddy. It's similar enough."

Sael seemed to gather that it wasn't his really name, either, and made a face but dropped it.

"Where are we going?"

"Well Sal-"

"Sael..."

"-your sister put me in a pretty bad predicament. See, I deal in dangerous business, but I am now obligated to keep you safe and happy. The two won't go hand in hand I fear."

"Do you work for dangerous people?" Sael asked, before tripping on a stone and catching himself last second.

He laughed. "No, blondie. I am the dangerous people. Now come on, we're going home."

[dhampiravidi]

modern royalty - Naela

BASIC DESCRIPTION

Legal Name - Naela Asinia Vesune Antaryos, Princess of Braavos (Heir Apparent) Age - (plot-dependent) 15 to 30 Gender - Cisgender Woman Sexuality - Bisexual (Biromantic) Ethnicity - Arab, Berber, French, Italian Religion - Fuck Around & Find Out :) Family - Ferrego Cogite Saevin Antaryos (father; Lord of Braavos), Ashara Antaryos née Djabou (mother; Lady of Braavos) Languages - Standard Italian, (Moroccan/Darija) Arabic, Braavosi, some (British) English, some (European) French

APPEARANCE (FC is Tristin Mays)

Naela stands at 5'5" (1.65 m). Like the typical celebrity forced into the public frame, she has a healthy build, which is somewhat toned thanks to her athletics. Visually, Naela takes after her mother, inheriting her near-lavender irises, light brown skin tone, & facial features. She wears her dark, slightly wavy hair in a braided updo for formal occasions but prefers to wear it free, resting just below her shoulders.

PERSONALITY

It’s rare that she’s ever truly still or sad. The exceptions to this are when she’s learning history (which keeps her still) or longing for an adventure. Otherwise, she's playing sports (horseback riding or fencing), attending state events, or hanging out with her friends. She’s a hopeless romantic at heart, partly due to the fact that her parents fell in love at first sight. This quality ties into her main weakness–her naivety. Though admirably loyal, optimistic & true, Naela is often warned that her heart will be her undoing if someone with ill intentions tries to lead her astray. Naela likes reasonably spicy or tart foods, horses, furry animals, daydreaming, reading, making people laugh & playing with kids.

COUNTRY

Braavos is a Mediterranean country located between Algeria & Tunisia in North Africa. It overlooks Italy, which it has participated in several cultural & demographic exchanges with over the centuries. It was founded during the High Middle Ages, just after the fall of the Western Roman Empire, by people fleeing Western Europe, chiefly among them, escaped slaves. As such, the country has a long history of having civil rights protections. Braavos is wealthy because of its status as an important European port (which exports oil, electronics & fish) & because it commonly lends money to foreign nations (this always leads to a debt that accrues interest over time). Its national language, Braavosi, is similar to Latin; it is only spoken by 6% of the population, while 97% is fluent in Italian or Arabic. Unlike most countries, Braavos has a monarch who actively participates in politics. Theirs, the Lord of Braavos, has partial legislative & full executive powers. There is no official state religion. Still, there are a decent number of Judeo-Christian Gnosticists (who believe that the goal is to transcend our flawed material existence by reaching enlightenment & reconnecting with the benevolent god who opposes evil) in Braavos. There is also a large group of Sunni Muslims living there. Because Naela's father has not converted to Islam, his marriage to Naela's mother is not legally recognized in Morocco. The flag of Braavos features five small silver stars in a v-shape, all sitting on a navy blue background.

[infowindtech09]

Enhancing Business Security: Exploring flutter's Role in Building Secure Business Software

The market economy has also expanded significantly. In the next four years, marketplace sales will surpass Business Software revenues. By 2027, it's expected that internet markets will be worth $600 billion. Amazon and eBay's rising profits indicate the marketplace industry's general upward trend. Marketplaces are convenient because they allow clients to care for everything in one spot.

These options help customers whether they want to purchase or choose a rental. Choosing the right technology stack is crucial when developing a marketplace app. To provide competent and trustworthy apps, you need a solid foundation to back you up. This tutorial will use Flutter to create, test, and release a market app. We'll consider every facet of Flutter development so you can ship flawless apps.

Flutter Google's Flutter is an open-source programming language and framework. A Security Software streamlines the process of making native mobile applications for both iOS and Android using the same set of tools and code.

With Flutter, programmers can use the DART language to create applications that look and behave like their native counterparts. It has a rendering engine, widgets, application programming interfaces, and command-line utilities. Flutter, developed by Google, is quickly becoming a formidable rival to Xamarin and React Native.

App For Family Finances Many individuals need help keeping track of their daily costs and managing their household budgets. Although there are now several budgeting applications available, there is an opportunity for apps with advanced capabilities that may be tailored to the individual user's needs. You can assist your customers in managing their finances by including tools like a debt payment calculator, a vacation cost tracker, and a financial guide in your app. Users might be given the option of establishing a recurring budget. Your app may incentivize users to rack up loyalty points while striving to go beyond. To maximize their loyalty points, apps might incentivize users to spend less than their predetermined restrictions. Loyalty points may be redeemed for freebies by users.

Web-Based Magazine Reader The popularity of digital readers is skyrocketing. From 2016 to 2020, an annual survey showed that the number of people who read digital magazines in the United States alone was 220 million. The proliferation of online newspapers and e-book readers like Kitaboo and the Amazon Kindle has further popularised digital reading. A unique digital magazine mobile app is a worthy investment in this sector. It will facilitate users' access to magazines through mobile devices and expand the readership for magazine authors.

Mobile App For Language Study One of the most promising app concepts for 2022 is a language-learning app that provides users with a foundation for learning other tongues. The app's complexity may be adjusted from the straightforward (alphabets and basic letters) to the challenging (full-fledged discussions). The software has a voice function that may demonstrate proper pronunciation to the students. People have difficulty communicating with natives and navigating foreign environments due to linguistic barriers.

Online Educational Software Although many local teachers are accessible, pupils would benefit significantly from centralized software that connects them all. App developers may find success by creating a learning platform with a built-in instructor search function. Tutors may be sorted in several ways, including by region, speciality, years of experience, hourly rate, availability, and whether they prefer to teach in person or online. Tutors who meet the needs of the students might be selected from a shortlist.

You may tailor the app to your teaching needs by adding video lectures and virtual study rooms where students can compare and discuss their notes.

Conclusion The capabilities of the Flutter framework are expanding over time. The framework is packed with tools that help build applications for the market. The most recent release of Flutter is optimized for use in building websites. Flutter is a reliable framework for creating apps and guarantees constant improvement. The widget tree may have seen some changes recently. The process of developing an aesthetically pleasing interface is shown.

There is a growing need for frameworks that improve the interface components of specialized and vertical markets. These requirements are entirely within Flutter's capabilities.

You can get a lot more mileage out of your Flutter market app with the help of AI. The Flutter framework's pre-made components and templates make this feasible. Flutter also makes it simple to connect your app to other services. Use proper testing, deployment, and maintenance procedures while creating apps using the Flutter framework. Equally crucial to a successful build is adhering to recommended practices for development.

[infinitelistofcreations]

Alexander Pine

Basics: Age: 24 Sexuality: bi-curious; no preference Current Residence: Russia Height: 6′1″ (185 cm) Nationality: Canadian Face Claim: Rin Matsuoka (Free! Iwatobi Swim Club) Occupation: unemployed

Personality: A bit wary of others, but not cynical of them, either. He isn’t the kind to allow himself to overthink things or stress about unnecessary things. Having used books as a way to escape his former trapped life, he now enjoys reading more than he once had, leaning toward historical mysteries and thriller more than other genres. His temper isn’t easy to set off; it takes quite a lot of disrespect and purposeful ignorance from others to set him off. Overall, he’s got the typical anger triggers as most people, and his hobbies are similar to most others as well.

Appearance: Muscular frame due to his active swimming routines; messy auburn red hair and dark eyes. His attire typically consists of casual opened zipper sweaters over fitted tees, and dark wash jeans and sneakers.  He doesn’t like more formal clothes like tuxes, but when he does wear them for any reason… he makes them look good.

Background: Born in Canada with a younger sister, his father controlled a Canadian branch of a Russia-based international company. His early life was like any other- spending time with his family, going on trips every few years, entertaining his various hobbies both alone and with his friends. However, things changed shortly after Xander’s 20th birthday. He discovered his father had accrued a rather large debt to the founder of the company, who lived in Russia at the company’s home base.

Without any consultation with him, his father and the company’s founder wound up making a deal- the debt would be forgiven and forgotten entirely in exchange for bringing Alexander to Russia and live as a sort of pet for the founder’s son. It wasn’t long after that he was then flown to Russia, despite his protests and clear refusal to cooperate. Since he didn’t know anything about the Russian language, he was basically forced to stay in the home with the founder’s son, who treated him terribly and for his own pleasure and amusement for several years.

The more time he spent with the man intended to be his owner, the more Alexander began to understand the man and the struggles he has of his own- developing a degree of Stockholm syndrome, although he still resented the man for his choice o keep Alexander as his toy at the end of the day. It wasn’t until he was given more freedom and help to learn Russian in order to enjoy said new freedom, and his master started treating him more kindly and sincerely apologetic for his former actions- that allowed them to form a genuine bond and connection to one another, which eventually resulted in their relationship turning more open and trusting and leading to them becoming a proper couple.

While Alexander obviously misses his family in Canada and still has mixed, conflicting feelings toward his father for what he’d done to him, he also is finally enjoying his new life in his new home with his partner, spending his spare time that isn’t used with his boyfriend to basically sightsee the city they were in and rebuild his previous lifestyle.

Relationships: Gavriil Polyak - Boyfriend Julia Pine - Younger Sister

Tag

[soulsuckrrs]

Basic Information

Full Name: Callum Franklin Monroe Nickname: typically goes by his last name Monroe. Cal is also acceptable. Age: 40-44 | several centuries old Date of Birth: December 21st Species: Fae. Body-Jumper. Powers: Callum can possess dead bodies of any kind no matter the degree of decay but the length he can inhabit them lessens the more decayed they are. When this happens he leaves his own body & it is vulnerable so often he’ll hide himself somewhere before transferring from body to body. While possessing a body he has prenatural strength & senses, Callum can also commune with the dead (is considered a medium) but it always depends on how corroborative the dead are. He can absorb any information, skill, or knowledge a person had prior to death while in their body & take it back to his own for future reference. While in his own body Callum’s reflexes & senses are heightened beyond that of a normal human's but only slightly so, nothing compared to some other supernaturals. Hometown: was left somewhere in the UK as an infant, has never been to the Fae realm where he was born Current Location: States | Thread dependent Gender: Male Pronouns: He/Him/His Orientation: Demiromantic, Bisexual, & Polyamorous Religion: n/a Occupation: debt collector & bounty hunter Living Arrangements: he has a permanent address in New Orleans under an alias but typically stays on the move, going from room to room, hotel to hotel. Language(s) Spoken: polyglot but doesn’t let many people know that

Physical Appearance

Face Claim: Dominic Cooper Hair Color: Dark brown Eye Color: Brown Height: 5’10 Weight: 163 lbs Build: muscular, strong, rough. Tattoos: tbd Piercings: none Clothing Style: comfortable, clean, easy to move in. Doesn’t really care about the current fashion but does love himself a good suit & button up shirts, Callum does like to look nice. Usual Expression: bored & disinterested. He makes it a point to make people think he is just constantly not in the mood for anything & that he hates life.

Health

Sleeping Habits: he usually crashes for a few hours, 2 to 6 hours a night if he can get it. Struggles with insomnia. When in a body that is not his own/dead, Callum doesn’t require sleep. Eating Habits: he loves food & will eat whenever he gets the chance. Want a deal to go in your favor? Give him candy, Callum has quite the sweet tooth & often is sucking on sweet things like Jolly Ranchers, suckers, & sour candy. Exercise Habits: he’s by no means a professional athlete or anything but Callum is in very good shape, doesn’t necessarily exercise regularly to keep up his shape but gets into situations that are physically strenuous enough to keep him active & toned. Emotional Stability: he’s prone to angry outbursts but usually needs a good deal of prodding & goating before he strikes out at anyone, otherwise, Callum would say he has a great emptiness inside, when reacting to most things he’s bored or disinterested initially & rarely feels any certain way about things but that is not to say he is completely incapable of feeling something it just takes him a while to feel anything but apathy & disgust usually. Sociability: he hates people, would rather be hunkered down at a bar in the corner or sleeping somewhere. Definitely an introvert & prefers to keep to himself but makes connections for work & the undeniable human need for companionship. Body Temperature: when he’s in his own body he’s warm, sometimes even a little above average body heat. However, when in the body of someone deceased, he’s cold to the touch. Drug Use: he typically sticks weed & cigarettes, a little cocaine here & there but goes on benders where he does a ton of drugs & drinking. Alcohol Use: Callum has had on again off again issues with alcohol since he was a teen. He drinks often & doesn’t keep it to any specific time frame just whenever he wants a drink. Scent: cigarettes, dirt, posies, & ashes.

Personality

Label: The Undertaker Positive Traits: intelligent, quick-thinker, adaptable, curious, & resourceful Negative Traits: nihilistic, apathetic, aloof, callous, & violent Fears: losing his real body or being unable to return to it. Hobbies: reading, listening to music (mostly jazz & blues), Habits: smokes a lot & oftentimes doesn’t care where he lights up, fidgets when he’s bored or anxious or agitated.

Favorites

Weather: cold, snowy, rainy. Color: black & gold Music: rock, punk, grunge Movies: horror, thrillers, scifi Sport: none Beverage: liquor, beer, coffee. Food: has a sweet tooth & enjoys breakfast foods a lot though. Animal: butterfly. moth. rat.

Family

Father: unknown Mother: Aileen Clarke, deceased. Sibling(s): none Children: none Pet(s): none Financial Status: lives paycheck to paycheck but has always been able to make things work out.

Extra

Zodiac Sign: Sagittarius MBTI: ISTP-A (the Virtuoso) Enneagram: the Challenger Temperament: Choleric Moral Alignment: Chaotic Neutral Primary Vice: Wrath Primary Virtue: Patience Element: Fire Kinks: biting/scratching/marking, oral/cunninglingus, bondage, grinding, being handsy, hand jobs/fingering, public, passion/desperation, hair pulling/grabbing, multiple partners, breath play/choking, fingers in the mouth, anal/ass play, being pegged, pain play, wax play. Position: Switch, top/dom leaning.

[beachbabey]

some 1800's Stable Boy!Rhett headcanons

- Rhett's everyday life is quite repetitive, but he likes the structure it gives him. He wakes up at sunrise and sleeps at the same time every night. His meals are as regular as he can make them and so are his hobbies and anything else he decides to do.

- But, when he's with you there's always a tender undertone to everything he does, that only you notice. Whether he's tending to the horses, fixing fences or the stables - you always know where to find him.

- He struggles with his self-worth very often, being born into a low-status household and working for people that are so shitty and disrespectful, yet despite this, could still buy his family's house and land causes him to doubt himself a lot.

- He cannot take gifts at all, in his mind, he’s now in your debt and needs to give you something back in return as quickly as he can to feel ‘even’

- That being said, For his 18th birthday you got him a pair of boots and a new hat, he'd worn the same brown leather cowboy boots since he started working for your father and they had seen better days

- You handed them to him and he just stood there, frozen in shock, after he stuttered out a thank you and you left the barn, He cried for hours.

- They were the first items he owned that weren’t hand-me-downs, they were his and entirely his

- His love language is, unsurprisingly, acts of service, he knows he can't buy you jewellery or even a bouquet with his paycheck or write you the most eloquent and dreamy letters that would make you blush bright red. But he can give you his hands and body, he can fix things, and make things. He can run errands and let you hold onto his arm when it gets dark and you're walking back home.

- He's been riding horses ever since he could walk and you laugh at how he talks to them.

- "Rhett you know they can't understand you right?"

"Sure they can Darlin'. Why do you think she listens to me and none of the other boys?"

"It's because she knows you'll give her an extra apple if she does what she's told"

"See? She understands me"

- Despite the work he does. He's naturally very dominant (in more ways than one😌 ) and is used to being the backbone of his household and being depended on. As a result of this, there are times when you've needed to force him to sit back and take a break. even if it's just for a couple of minutes.

- He is also one of the most affectionate people you know. You'd never expect him to be so gentle and loving with you. His large and brooding frame is enough to keep everyone out of his personal space, but for you, he gives a side of himself that only you would ever see.

[thecameronchronicles]

The Debt~Part Five

TW: Edging, smut, language, and sexual themes throughout. I do not own any of the characters but ask that you do not publish this fanfiction without my permission on any other platform. Please and thank you. 

Summary: You wake up the morning after your bachelorette party beside a familiar torso and a pair of missing panties, your bedfellow all too willing to torment you for what you can’t seem to remember…

Words: 3500

The Debt: Part Five

This was actually the first and only event in the slew of wedding preparations that you didn’t absolutely detest; your bachelorette party. But it wasn’t for the perverted excitement of phallus shaped everything that your friends seemed to harbor, but for the freedom of one night without Rafe, Ward, or the circumstances that held onto you like a vice. You could drink without your fiance’s critique to ‘pace yourself’ and even sway your hips without the judgemental eye of your mother expecting you to exhibit more demure behavior. It was a night in which you could truly release your inhibitions and tension-something you found necessary due to the last few weeks.

But flash forward just shy of twenty-four hours later as the hot pink sash you had wrapped around your torso the night before was now a mere decoration on the chair welcomed first by your gaze meeting with the harsh daylight. The pounding in your head acting as a result of drinking to excess, that you hadn’t felt since six months prior on the morning of your twenty-first birthday as you had sore off alcohol in abundance, left you making that empty promise once again as you pulled yourself upwards to begin your day. But as you attempted to ground your steps, the weight of your head feeling impossibly heavy as your hands came to smooth the unruly hair, the sudden shift of a motion at your back left you to view a familiar set of broad shoulders marked with the evidence of your nails drawing red lines along his sun kissed skin. 

At that same instant that you deduced the identity of your bedfellow to have been none other than your fiance, you realized your own dismantled attire; a bra whose right strap was set under your arm and the absence of panties that left you with the understanding that you had given in to him. But the details of your temporary amnesia made you question if you were more disappointed that it had happened or that you couldn’t remember that it had. You wouldn’t be allowed a moment’s analysis, however, as the bitter twist within your stomach informed you of the coming bile. 

Managing to catch the contents of your last meal in the nick of time, you used the back of your hand to wipe the clammy sweat collecting at your brow. Pulling back to rest against the wall directly across from the toilet, your peripheral vision made note of Rafe standing proudly within the frame of the door; seemingly indifferent to your vomit or current state of dishevelment-almost humored by it. And you hated everything about him in this moment. The way he stood with such arrogance in knowing he had ‘gotten’ you, wielding the memories in which you were deprived-but the one detail you loathed the most had been how badly you wanted an encore of what you couldn’t remember as he was mouthwatering in only his boxers and the seductive lines of his waist pulling your gaze even lower.

“What-what are you doing here?” You inquired, hoping there would be some alternative explanation to the evidence laid before you. But he only seemed to be amused by your question, raising his arms across his chest. He was a jackass to be sure, but you couldn’t deny how handsome he was beneath that dry sarcasm and dominating audacity. 

“You need some coffee…” Before you could object, he was set into the direction of the small kitchenette within the hotel room, as you managed to climb to your feet and follow him until finding solace on the bar stool-having collected a blanket around you to keep from remaining exposed to him. 

“What…uh…exactly happened?” He turned, playing the role of a dramatic thespian by drawing a hand to his chest as if your words caused him pain, only to smirk to showcase his playful nature. 

“I’m insulted…Was I not that memorable for you? I mean YOU were…after all the things you said….” His eyes suddenly darkened. “The things you did…” He sucked in his cheeks, eyes lowering, furthering your torment as you narrowed your own eyes into a glare. 

“I mean…I’m surprised you can even walk…” Your stomach twisted into knots to the supposed actions that he held in strong recollection. 

“Do you always have to be an ass?” You charged, frustrated and losing whatever patience you had beneath each throb of your rising blood pressure and therefore aching temples. 

“Maybe we should start with what you DO remember…” He seemed compassionate to this, but wearing a continued smile of harboring some sense of power. 

“You can’t just tell me?” He leaned forward on his elbows to your question, sliding you a steaming cup of coffee, widening his grin, as if the offer to assist in jogging your memory was enough to keep the scowl you were already giving him, at bay. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” You rolled your eyes as he pulled his own mug beyond his lips. “So?” You wracked your brain for the last memory, finding that cloud of missing time beyond irritating before your mind came to a clear recollection. 

“Getting ready…” You came to the memory of standing before the bathroom mirror, that pink sash set across your torso as a gift from your bridal party, before turning to face them. With the collection of half a dozen girls all dressed in similar glitter eyeshadow and ‘bride tribe’ tattoos on their cheeks, you would stand out for the ‘bride-to-be’ crown set atop your curled locks. But as you were led to the car, the coming relief of a night without the masculine energy of the ’Cameron men’, the younger of the two would summon for you to remain. 

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, yeah?” Rafe inquired, his eyes taking in your ensemble; half aroused and half amused. 

“That doesn’t leave a lot I can’t do…” You teased, offering a wink and rising just enough to brush your lips past his, without making actual contact. 

“I mean it.” He warned just as you crossed the threshold of the house and joined your friends in the lavish car assigned to you for the night. 

“And then?” He questioned in modern time, as you stalled, uncertain to which bar you arrived at first, before remembering how your maid of honor produced a to-do list of requests that had to be completed by midnight for the full ‘bachelorette experience’. 

“Get a guy to sign your boob, get a guy to give you a condom, drink the dirtiest sounding cocktail at every bar-” The list went on as you felt your phone buzz softly at your side, altering your attention to a text from your betrothed. 

“Behave yourself, sweetheart.” Your breath hitched for a moment as you could imagine his voice speaking those words in a sweltering exhale against your ear. And yet, the chills on your skin did not cause the sinister smirk to fade over your expression as you had already prepared a response in your mind before your fingers were even able to tap the screen. 

“It’s no fun if I do…Besides, you seem to like me better when I don’t.”. The moment the message was sent and read, your phone was collected by your friend. 

“No phone’s-too much to do!” She pulled your focus elsewhere as you basked in how he must be coming undone at your flirtatious teasing now turned into radio silence. 

The blur of bar hopping the night before began to fix itself into more of a mosaic of memories as you recalled the items on the list being knocked off one-by-one. But of the more sultry tasks, you couldn’t bring yourself to act on them; at least not without imagining Rafe on the receiving end. Specific tasks included; ‘let someone take a body shot off of you’, ‘grind on someone for an entire song’, and ‘convince a guy to give you a pair of his boxers’-all tasks you watched your friends complete with success, all while you couldn’t do so without longing for Rafe instead. It was infuriating.

This is what made you take your first shot; the way he managed to occupy your thoughts out of pure desperation of a touch you already knew to be pleasurable-but one that only tormented you as he seemed to be in control of your orgasms. You decided on Tequila because you knew it would affect you rather quickly, continuing shot-after-shot until you became brazen enough to finish the tasks remaining on that list. 

“Everything else is foggy…” You exhaled to him with a breath of frustration, all while he watched you in continued amusement. 

“You texted me…” He offered a clue to your mental block as your eyes came into a narrow of pensive silence before he slipped his phone from the counter for you to witness what you had sent him. In the first seconds of reading the cringe-worthy texts, you remembered stealing your phone from your friend’s purse as even Jose Quervo couldn’t keep your mind off of him for too long. 

“It isn’t nice to tease, you know?”, “Are you behaving?”, “I don’t like waiting…”, “I’m getting impatient..!” All missed messages made you glow with fulfillment in believing this rebellion against offering a response had left you somehow victorious. 

“How much have you had to drink?”

“Enough to want some attention…”

“You have mine…”

“No thanks…” You wrote back, reading the text that next morning, rather impressed how he managed to decipher your drunk texts full of grammatical errors and spelling mistakes. 

“You need to stop drinking. You might do something you’ll regret…Something I’ll make you regret…”

“Promises, promises…”

“I mean it-nobody touches what’s mine.”

“I’m not yours. I’ll prove it.” Annoyed at how you knew these words weren’t true as you were consumed by him mind, body, and soul, the ability to refrain from his advances wearing thin, you decided on something reckless and dangerous for your target on the other edge of the bar. Striking up a pleasant conversation, you pulled out all of the stops to gain his temporary interest, long enough to take a picture with him before sending it to Rafe for ‘proof’. 

“Yours? I don’t think so. Maybe I’ll be his for tonight…Maybe longer…” 

In seconds, your phone illuminated once more, but you ignored it, already imagining the misogynistic response awaiting you. And yet now, the morning after, you would read the responses you left unread. 

“The only one you’ll misbehave with is ME, understand?!” “Dammit,-” He wrote your name in all caps, a series of following messages demanding a response, bringing his anger through each correspondence until they silenced. 

“So how did I end up HERE?” To this question, he grinned widely, almost sporting a cheshire smile. 

“Well…when you didn’t write back…I went down and got you…” You suddenly remembered a string of events that returned to you like flashes of lightning. The nameless guy you had wrapped around you, swaying to some muffled version of a recent radio hit, was pulled from you in a violent force, knocked to the ground, and bloodied in seconds. Rafe expressed his intent to keep you from ‘making any more trouble’ to your bridal party, who were too drunk to care or question him, before taking you back to his truck. 

“Is THIS what I have to look forward to being married to you?” You charged at him as he pulled the car into the recess of a driveway before pulling you with little care into the bridal suite rented specifically for this night, before tossing you onto the couch. 

“You represent the ‘Cameron’ name, now…You can’t act like that-” But something inside of you brought your care for his words to a place of nonexistence. Instead of feeling the heat of the threat behind his words, you focused on the pooling heat between your thighs. Days, weeks, and even months of reserved passion keeping you behaved, pulled for you to act out…

“Like this?” You challenged, allowing your fingers to descend the lines of your legs until they disappeared between your thighs, his eyes following every inching decline of your touch as you expelled a simple moan that affected him just as you had hoped. For a moment, he licked his lips in the imagery you offered him, continuing to pleasure yourself in soft circles quickening at the thoughts allowed in your mind. HIS hands. HIS touch. HIM…

“I don’t want to think about you…” You confessed across the small space that now seemed suddenly too vast between the two of you. You allowed your head to rest in the recess of the couch behind you, rising on the balls of your toes while remaining seated, as a twinge of pleasure teased your wet core as you lifted your free hand to your breast, kneading the soft skin beneath your touch, moaning in abrupt gasps and satisfied groans. 

“But I want YOU to think about me…” You continued, your lips pulling open to a stretched oval as you acted as if he simply wasn’t observing you with the silent awe that he was. “Oh God-” At the desperation of your religious plea, you suddenly felt your wrist captured by him as he pulled you to your feet and into the bedroom. A wide smile crept across your face as you imagined the months of tension finally offering some sense of payoff. 

“Get your ass in bed.” He ordered, carrying his heavy palm to your cheek as you turned to face him, a large smile developing on your face, as your fingers teased his shirt. 

“Think of all the ways you could have me, Rafe…” You teased, speaking these words in nearly a whine as he tensed beneath your touch, endorsing you to descend your fingers even further. 

“Not drunk.” His words made you step back for a moment in surprise. 

“YOU’RE turning me DOWN?!”

“I haven’t put up with your smart little comments just to have you not remember the methods in which I finally used to shut you up…” As he spoke, you could feel a sourness rise from your abdomen, travel higher up, and tease the expulsion eventually prompted in your attempt to conceal it; covering you both in your sickness. Your hand came immediately over your mouth in regret, as he let out an exhale before sitting you on the edge of the bed. 

“Here…” He offered you a shirt from your bag set disorganized on the floor beside the bed, as you turned away from him before feeling the urge arrive once again. In his attempt to try and assist you, you fought him, not wanting to feel him touch you unless it was to relieve your tensions. Because of this, you would scar his back-leaving the evidence you would witness the next day. 

“You stayed in the bathroom for about two hours, throwing up everything you ate in the last two days before I took you to bed…” He explained, all humor now drained from his face as he placed his now empty mug in the sink, and moved to the direction of the living room. 

“You shouldn’t drink like that. Especially if you can’t handle it…”

“How else am I supposed to handle all of ‘this’?” You inquired aloud before thinking of the weight of your words, hoping it would be enough for him to forget the events of the night before.

“Maybe NOT throwing yourself at other guys when you’re engaged would be a start-”

“Please! I’m just property-”

“Yeah. But you’re MY property-” You glared at his clarification, shaking your head in disbelief. 

“You don’t agree? I guess I’d be surprised if you did-maybe even disappointed.” To this, your arms crossed over your chest. 

“All you do is play games…give empty promises…you like the chase but never the commitment…” He cocked his jaw, allowing a moment’s rest with his elbows on idle at his knees, before rising to tower you. 

“If this is about last night…I want you to remember when I’d fuck you-” But to your scoff, his expression twisted in temporary confusion. 

“I’m starting to think you’re defective…” You berated. “After all, you’ve had chance after chance to make good on your empty threats…but that’s all they are…” You took a step closer to him. “Empty…” You casted a wicked smile of victory before pushing him one inch closer to the madness rising behind his eyes. 

“I guess it’s not a loss…as it is only a ‘little’ disappointment-” Your eyes shifted to the bulge forming behind the fabric of his boxers, tenting at your teasing words. “And I do mean ‘little’-” In your attempt to leave the room with the final word, a grip to your hair suddenly brought you to sit on the couch, where he pinned you into the corner-all sense of reservation absent from his face. 

“The only reason I haven’t fucked you quiet is because that was the ONE stipulation my dad had me make-no sex before marriage-just in case…” His eyes motioned to your stomach to hint at a pregnancy as you scowled at the idea. 

“But there are other things I can make you do…Get on your knees.” Your brows shot up as he retracted just far enough for you to make out the details of him undressing before you, teasing his Adonis belt so close to your eager lips, parting in anticipation to his taste-his width-him. 

“I’ve been wanting to shut you up with my cock the second you told me off on our first date.” He now altered from one thought to another. “Little disappointment-” He scoffed. “I’ll show you, ‘little’…” His grip returned to your hair, pulling you to the edge of the couch as his second hand lowered his boxers until he was suddenly naked before you. Even though you had felt him within your palm before, he was somehow more intimidating before you now, your doe eyes looking up to him with uncertainty of his impressive erection. 

“Nuh uh…You want to act like a slut for a stranger like that asshole last night? You’re going to be a whore for me…” He teased your mouth with the tip of his leaking head, endorsing your lips to part as whatever came over you when you were in his presence had done so tenfold. That desire to prove yourself, to bring him to his edge and have him dependent on the release only you could give…

Your hand wrapped around the base of his impressive anatomy, stroking the remainder of what you could not press beyond your throat, twisting as he would grunt to your experience. But he would allow only a moment of adjustment before suddenly taking command and forcing you to take the extent of his length, making you desperate for breath as he taunted you from above. 

“Look at you…choking on my ‘little’ cock…My ‘little cock’ making you tear up, huh?” You struggled to respond in any format, but were able to dig your nails into his skin in response, as he would only push you further, leaving you gasping when offering a break. 

“You’re gonna be a good girl and make me come…right? Show me how sorry you are-choke me…” He lowered to you just enough to maintain eye contact, basking in the way tears now stained your cheeks from his length, as you nodded, hoping your acquiescence would act as a reward for the very near future. And so, you returned to him, tongue running the length of his shaft before he would comand control once again, fucking himself into your throat. 

“Fuck!” He grunted through clenched teeth, eyes becoming heavy to the rush of pleasure allowed by your mix of eagerness and acceptance to his depraved thoughts allowed into reality by your consent. 

“You’re only ever going to be on your knees for me, you understand?! You’re taking me so fucking good! UGH!” He groaned through his order, tightening his grip on your hair as you focused on his pleasure in opposition to a response. Feeling this painful pull, you would bob your head as he released an agreeable chuckle. 

Your name left his lips in a mix of curses and groans as he bucked harder into you, allowing you to breathe in the most inopportune of times that left the thrill of near asphyxia making you almost dizzy against him until his hand suddenly drove your heaving focus to him. 

“Swallow.” He commanded as he bucked the final thrusts into you, the ribbons of his release cascading down your throat in spurts as you took in a deep breath following the completion of his orders. And yet, that grip he held would remain in your hair, taking your eyes to him. 

“There are only two weeks until we’re out of excuses…Especially now since I know how beautiful you look with my cock making your eyes water…” He lowered close to you, taking in the gloriousness of your breathlessness caused by his arousal. 

“I’m never letting you go now…” And you realized as scary of a reality these words may be…you never wanted him to, as even in the abandonment of another moment left unsatisfied as his release brought your own sex sopping in anticipation, you were exhilerated for what was next…

Part 6 Coming soon! Be Sure to let me know what you think. Let me know if you want to be put on the taglist! <3 

Taglist: @hopebaker​

[wolferine]

Squid Game - Part 8

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: Squid Game AU. The reader joins a deadly game to save themselves from debt and reunites with an old flame…

Warnings: Graphic violence, blood, language, death. Spoilers for Squid Game.

Word count: 2764

Part 7

AN: Thanks to everyone who stuck with this story. Enjoy the final part.

Natasha wakes up half-naked on the sidewalk, her hands and feet tied behind her back. Her stomach hurts in the position she’s twisted in, and she sees the black line of stitches across her abdomen where you had stabbed her a week ago. She coughs, her whole body trembling in pain, and a gold debit card goes flying out of her mouth.

She eventually wriggles herself free of the ties, and a kind homeless man comes by and gives her one of his oversized, raggedy jackets to wear. She takes it gratefully, covering herself up, and stumbles over to the nearest ATM, shoving the card into the slot. 

It asks for a four-digit PIN number.

Slowly, Natasha presses 0-1-9-0, her number in the competition. The machine accepts and she chooses to withdraw $10 dollars. The machine spits out the bill, and says she has $453,999,990 left in her account.

***********************************************************************

The first thing Natasha does with her newfound wealth, as disgusting as it is for her to use it, is hire a private investigator. Within a day, he locates your address, and she heads there immediately.

It’s in a terrible area of the city and the main doors don’t even have locks on them. There’s a large blue truck advertising junk removal outside the complex, and men carry furniture and other appliances from inside to dump in the back. Natasha walks in and sees a door open on the first floor, where the junk removal team are entering and exiting.

She prays it’s not your apartment, but she already knows better.

As she goes down the cramped hallway, one of the men bumps into her shoulder with the edge of his box. The contents spill to the floor and he cusses loudly. Natasha automatically bends over to help him and turns over a picture frame. The glass is cracked, but the intact picture makes her heart stop.

It’s you and her, back on the first date you ever went on together. Natasha’s face is frozen in laughter as you kiss her cheek shyly.

“Ahem.” The junk removal man holds out his hand. “I’ll take that.” 

“No.” Natasha’s finger close tightly over the frame. “I’m keeping this.”

He narrows his eyes at her.

“Here.” She fishes in her pocket and pulls out the smallest dollar bill she’s carrying—a hundred—and gives it to him. His eyes widen as he accepts it.

“You want anything else?” He lowers the box so she can see what else is inside, but she shakes her head. Natasha tucks the frame under her arm and keeps moving.

“Just take it all, boys. I don’t want any memories of these tenants.” A tall, stooping man with a receding hairline and a thick Russian accent directs the junk removal team from the doorway.

“Um, excuse me?” Natasha approaches him with uncharacteristic hesitance. A strange, fishy smell lingers near the doorway of your apartment.

“I’m busy.” The man waves her away.

“Yeah, I can see that.” Natasha is still weak from the injuries she suffered during the final game and is in no mood to argue with him. “I’m looking for someone who lives here. Mrs…Y/L/N?”

“Why?” the man barks, crossing his arms. “Are you here to finally pay the rent? Because it’s too late for that.”

“How much?” Natasha asks, reaching in her jacket pocket, her fingers circling the wad of 100-dollar bills.

The man chuckles and shakes his head. “I said it’s too late,” he repeats. 

“What do you mean? Did you already kick her out?” Natasha’s stomach twists uncomfortably at the thought of your mother being treated so terribly.

“I was on my way to do that yesterday actually, and when I finally knocked the door down, I found her dead on the floor,” the man says.

“…Dead?” Bile rises in the back of Natasha’s throat.

“Yep. And the other tenant—her kid or whatever—never picked up the phone.” Natasha chokes up when she’s reminded of the reason why you wouldn’t answer. “Anyway, I’m done with this damn family. I’m the one who had to call to get the old lady carted off to the morgue, and now I have to pay for junk removal and cleaning services.”

But Natasha’s not listening to him anymore as she backs away with tears in her eyes. Your mother was dead, her last connection to you. Not only that, but the whole reason you had played those games and unspeakable things was for her.

All that for nothing.

Natasha bolts from the apartment complex with the picture frame and doesn’t look back.

***********************************************************************

The next heartbreak comes with Clint’s son, Cooper. Natasha’s private investigator locates the hospital he’s staying in, and Natasha anonymously pays for every surgery and treatment available, but no amount of money can save him from cancer.

He dies one month later.

Natasha hovers in the background at his funeral. She watches Clint’s wife and daughter cry into each other’s arms and shares their pain from afar. She wants to tell them the truth of what happened to Clint, but knows she can’t bring attention to herself like that.

She just wants to move on.

After paying out Bucky’s crew and attempting to right any other wrong she had caused, Natasha locks her account and doesn’t touch another dime she won from the games.

***********************************************************************

One year later…

Natasha sits on a bench in an empty park. It’s almost midnight and she’s freezing, but the cold numbs the pain in her soul. She’s wrapped in layers of old clothing, refusing to spend money on new ones. She had found a part-time job at a diner, which was barely enough to pay the bills. She didn’t indulge in luxuries, even with almost half a billion dollars sitting in a separate account.

There was nothing she wanted that could be bought.

“Hi, there, Miss.” An older man shuffles up to her. “For you. Merry Christmas.” He offers her a single rose.

Natasha nods and takes the flower. She notices a card tied around the stem. There’s a stamp of a circle, triangle, and square on one side of the card. The other side reads:

Stark Tower Top floor December 24, 11:30 P.M.

From, 001

Her blood runs cold when she sees the signing on the card.

***********************************************************************

Natasha’s surprised that Stark Tower is even open on the holiday, but there’s no one in the lobby to greet her. With some difficulty, she locates the elevator and presses the button for the top floor, floor 7. Her stomach starts hurting again, but this time she knows it’s from the sheer anxiety. 

The seventh floor is just one giant room, the wall-to-wall windows offering a spectacular view of the city. Especially for this time of year, nearby businesses went through the extra effort of decorating their buildings with festive lights, inflatable snowmen, and Santa Claus statues. 

In the farthest corner of the room, a tiny light glows over a hospital bed. Natasha approaches it with some hesitance. When she sees a person lying in the bed, her heart beats faster.

It’s Tony, Player 001, alive in the flesh.

He’s even thinner and paler than when he had been during the games. But as far as she can see, there is no gunshot wound to show that he had even been shot during the marble game.

“Hello, Natasha,” Tony whispers, reaching out to her with a trembling hand.

“Who the hell are you?” Natasha whispers, unable to believe what she’s seeing. How did he survive? Why did he wait almost a year to make his presence known? Why had he called her here?

“My name is Anthony Stark.”

Natasha realizes immediately why he had seemed so familiar from their first encounter. The Starks were self-made billionaires, and Anthony/Tony had made a name for himself within the family as an infamous playboy. Now that she thought about it, she even remembered hearing about the factory accident that sent shrapnel through his chest, almost destroying his heart and removing him from the work field. 

If he came from one of the wealthiest families in America, why had he chosen to play the games? He had money. He had everything that most people could only dream of.

Then it hits Natasha, especially with the things he revealed to her over the course of the games.

“You…You were…” she chokes on her words. “You were the one behind the games this entire time.”

Tony doesn’t answer, staring at the ceiling with dull eyes.

“Why?” she says, barely able to contain her anger. She grabs his collar and chokes him. “Why?” she repeats, shaking him roughly.

“If you kill me,” Tony grunts weakly, “You’ll never get your answer.”

She backs off.

“How come you stopped spending your money?” he asks.

“I can do whatever I want with it,” Natasha responds. “And if that means not spending it, then that’s my choice.”

Tony adjusts his head on a pillow. “But the things you did to earn it—” 

“I didn’t do anything!” she protests. “Y/N…Y/N’s the one…” She bows her head, unable to finish her sentence. You were the one who had made the ultimate sacrifice in the end. She was just the unlucky one forced to live with the memory of it all.

“Y/N wasn’t the one who walked away with the money. You were,” Tony points out. “You earned it fair and square, Natasha.”

“But I have no use for it,” she argues, looking out the window.

“That’s not what you thought going into the game.” Tony sighs. “You asked me why I created the games. People are so obsessed with money, but once they get more than they know what to do with, they realize that’s not what they really wanted in the end. They want friends, they want a family, they want love, they want meaning.

“Take me for example. I grew up with everything I could have ever wanted. Everything was given to me on a silver platter. I worked for my dad’s company all my life—in a job I never had to interview for—but no amount of money made me feel the way that belonging on a team, being relied on by others, did,” Tony explains. “But after the factory accident, the company cut me loose, and I didn’t know what to do with myself. I had all the money I could ever spend, but I didn’t have a purpose.”

Natasha can hardly wrap her head around his reasoning.

“The winners of my games fought and killed for money that most of them would later never even spend. They’re no different than you,” Tony says. “You had nothing before you entered the game, Natasha. And you emerged a multi-millionaire. So, tell me why you’re still unhappy,” Tony says.

Natasha feels sick to her stomach. “Because I lost things money could never replace.”

“Like what?” Tony turns his head to stare at her tauntingly.

She narrows her eyes and presses her mouth into a hard line. “You know what.”

“You were the one who cheated on Y/N, right? You probably thought you would never even see each other again. My game brought you back together. How are you not grateful for that in the very least?” 

Because the games turned you into a completely different person than who she fell in love with, Natasha thinks.

“My game makes people realize what’s truly important to them and who they really are,” Tony says. “Were you not happy with how Y/N turned out?”

Natasha suddenly remembers your last living moments. “Y/N forgave me,” she says, almost to herself.

“What?” Tony asks.

Natasha repeats herself louder.

“Is that so?” He smirks. “Did that give you peace of mind?”

“A little,” she admits. Natasha wants to focus on the good, not the bad, as difficult as it is.

“Do you know why I called you here?” Tony asks. 

She shrugs. “To prove to me that you’re not really dead and that you’re a sick motherfucker who’s responsible for the deaths of thousands?”

Tony ignores her last comment. “I have something for you, Natasha.” He coughs, and it’s a raspy, painful noise that even makes her wince.

“What? More money?” Natasha dismisses. “Because if it is, you can shove it up your—”

“No, it’s…” Tony continues coughing, bringing his fist up to his mouth. He spits blood on his knuckles and his whole body convulses with each of his coughs. Natasha looks around the room for a phone or a button to call for help. But there’s nothing. So instead, she watches him die, utterly numb to the loss of life.

Tony flops onto his pillows, clutching his throat. The heart monitor screams in panic. He lets out a final cough and slumps back, his body going still. Natasha steps up to his side, pressing her fingers to his neck. She feels no pulse.

***********************************************************************

It feels strange to leave Tony like that, but Natasha can’t risk being caught. She walks down the street to the train station, hoping to catch the last one. As she’s waiting on the platform, poorly bundled up against the cold, she looks across the platform and sees one person standing on the other side. 

She rubs her eyes, unable to process what she’s seeing. 

It’s you.

You’re wearing an eyepatch over your right eye and Natasha can see the scar trailing over your eyebrow where she slashed you with the knife. There is also a gruesome scar on your neck from where you had stabbed yourself so she could win. But despite the sacrifice, you were still alive. 

Were you Tony’s present to her? Had he actually saved you after she thought you had killed yourself?

***********************************************************************

One year earlier

You were certain you would die in Natasha’s arms. Blood leaks from your throat, trickling down your chest. You want to tell her to take care of your mother, but nothing but blood bubbles out of your mouth. You try reaching up to touch Natasha’s face, but you’re too weak and your arm falls back to the ground.

You feel yourself torn away from Natasha. She screams for you, but is suddenly silenced. You’re placed in a box and carried out of the arena. No one even realizes you’re still alive until Tony himself opens the lid.

Wait, isn’t Tony supposed to be dead? Natasha had beat him in the marble game. 

Tony reaches into your box and presses his fingers against your neck before barking orders to the pink jumpsuits.

Instead of taking you to the furnace to be burned, you’re taken to some semblance of a medical facility. The doctors are good enough to keep you alive, but they can’t save your eye and your voice is permanently ruined.

Tony joins you for “dinner” one night, sitting by your side as you’re fed an unappealing gray paste through a tube in your nose. You pick up your little whiteboard and scrawl the words “Why” on it.

“For Natasha,” he says.

You point again at your “Why.”

“You gave her a second chance, so now I’m giving you yours,” Tony says.

“I want my mom,” you write.

Tony looks you in your surviving eye. “Your mom is dead.”

You shake your head. 

“Yes. She’s dead.”

You won’t believe him; you can’t. The only reason you played the games was for her, and if she was really dead, then it was all for nothing. And you didn’t even have the chance to say good-bye to her.

During your slow, painful recovery, the only human interaction you receive is from your doctors, nurses, and Tony. You’re given old books to read and a notebook to write in. But it’s not enough stimulation for you and you want to leave (or die, you couldn’t really be picky).

When Tony makes his next visit to you, you write on your whiteboard, “Can I see Nat?”

“Not yet.” 

“When?”

“When I’m ready.”

You don’t know what he means by that, but you have no choice but to be patient.

You wait almost a year in Tony’s captivity. As you grow stronger, Tony weakens, and you know his end is coming. He sends a nurse to bring you a new jacket and a debit card, and you know it’s time.

*********************************************************************** 

You stare at Natasha across the platform. Slowly, you raise your hand and wave to her. A train on your side of the platform rolls by and you board, still watching Natasha from the inside.

She finally waves to you as the train takes you away.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tags: @dumpaccdontmindme @zombies1ayea @marrymemcgrath @percabethsolangelo929 @sarahthegod @marie45019 @korekiyosredrose @upsidedowndanvers @3and30aresoultwins @norwaynatasharomanoff @rosha-raj @lovelyy-moonlight @caroldanvers2 @diaryoflife @ic-4u @wandaswifeyforlifey @simpfornatasharomanoff @magically-queer-stuff @thewidowsghost @sillyroadstudentflower @when-wolves-howl @alianovnam

AN: The end! I tried to put a hopeful little twist on the ending, as angsty as the rest of the story is. Whether or not you think Nat and R will get back together is completely up to you. 

Thanks for reading, and until next time...

[travelling-on-the-octopath]

S Plays 'Golden Wildfire' - Part 1

I tried to play with the Japanese voices and English dialogue, but it looks like changing the language does both? So that's. Irritating lol. I love Claude's JP!VA

We've all caught up with the demo, yes? No? I'll give you the rundown if not

Almyra launched an attack on Leicester back in the Academy days.

Shahid, Claude's brother, led the attack; likely the only reason they didn't succeed was because Nader didn't want to launch an attack on Claude. He wants the crown, and successful application of militaristic force seems to be the way to do it.

Hm. We'll see if that comes up in correlation to the leaks I've seen.

Holst is around; doesn't seem to bear the Crest of Goneril, despite Hilda claiming Freikugel was his birthright in Houses (she says he tried to pawn off his whole inheritance and only settled for giving her the Relic).

This will set the tone for all the infuriating retcons to come <3

Claude implies he's toyed with the idea of consolidating power in the Alliance because a multi-faceted higher power does not suit wartime. (Shez C-support)

Almyra seems to have stayed their hand for now.

Shez was left kicking around and unemployed for two years. Good for the Alliance, indicative of Claude's leadership, bad for Shez.

And now we're in it, folks! Get ready <3

The Defence of the Great Bridge

Claude's already talking about abandoning the Bridge if it really comes down to it. He's framing it in a way that talks about saving lives, but, uh . . . he manages to do it just fine in Houses? Aside from CF? So . . . hm!

I should say: That's me being nitpicky because I know where this goes, but also . . . Hopes!Claude has another full game of his character to stand as contradiction, so he has to get good.

All right so I have to go save Count DILF--I mean Count Gloucester's ass.

Regarding gameplay--OH FUCK OH LINHARDT BABY I'M COMING FOR YOU

Regarding gameplay: You can pre-pick strategies that are executed in battle. Picking of strongholds, recruiting people, etc etc.

AGAIN he mentions surrendering the bridge. I'm fucked.

Count Gloucester very much prioritizes the safety of his men :') what a guy

Acheron being a slime-spined bitch as always.

Oh DAMN Shez can warp-warp.

Okay so because Acheron was a bitch they have to forfeit the bridge. Sigh. Fucking hate this guy.

CASPAR???????

Linhardt warped Caspar to safety. That's so

They're being so cute. I do feel a little bad about taking Linhardt from him but oh well.

"YOU WERE NEVER THE TYPE TO FIGHT TO THE DEATH ANYWAY :( IF ANYTHING, I'M RELIEVED" CASPAR I'M SORRY OKAY

FERDINAND BABY NO I CAN'T RECRUIT YOU PLEASE LEAVE :(

Oh yikes, Gloucester surrendered.

Uh oh. "It's time to redraw the battle lines." Claude honey baby think about what you're doing here--

Okay so we skipped over the attack on Garreg Mach. Wonder when those lord cutscenes are gonna come into play?

DIMI DIMA DIMITRI LION MAN I LOVE YOU HELLO

It should be said: Rhea believes the church to now be in the Kingdom's debt for offering them asylum. Seteth offers the knights to be commanded as Faerghan troops. This is not at all a one-sided relationship. (Keeping note of this in case the writers get any Ideas)

Oh? Count Rowe is the Empire's problem child? Deserved. Asshole.

Hubert hates the obligation to help their vassal territories glkgjdflgj fucking love how awful this guy is.

NEXT CHAPTER

[scripttorture]

You mention in posts how torture doesn’t make people obedient and usually makes them spiteful (which obviously makes sense), but isn’t it realistic for someone to comply out of fear rather than loyalty? Whether that was giving up information or obeying orders or something else entirely. I imagine it depends on the person, and they would probably still be willing to turn on their torturers if given the chance, but would it be possible for them to obey orders in hopes of avoiding more pain?

This is a much more nuanced and complicated topic then we’re taught to assume.

 When it comes to giving up information it’s pretty clear cut. No, torture can’t lead to accurate information for a lot of interconnected reasons. I have about six separate masterposts covering the reasons for this.

 One of those is the antagonism torture produces. Another is the memory problems torture causes. Another is the effect that the use of torture has on organisations and the chain of command. Another is the effect torture has on torturers.

 Torture drastically increases the chances of memory loss and it also increases the chances of inaccurate memories. So not only is a torture victim less likely to talk, they’re more likely to be wrong if they do talk.

 But the effects on victims aren’t the main reason torture doesn’t work as a way of getting information. You’re assuming that torturers have access to people who have information.

 The reality is that torture destroys an organisation’s ability to gather accurate information. Most information comes from volunteers: when torture comes into play less people volunteer information. This means that an organisation which tortures is more likely to be questioning someone who knows nothing. That person is then abused until they start making things up.

 Because there’s less access to volunteered information and because humans are very bad at telling when someone is lying, a lot of these made up stories are believed. And this then effects who else the organisation arrests and tortures. This creates a sort of spiral, with lies leading to more lies.

 Additionally the torturers themselves make things worse. There’s less quality research on them, but the research and anecdotal accounts create a pretty clear picture of their behaviour. They undermine the chain of command, they lose the skills the originally had as they turn to torture, they’re aggressive, incredibly competitive and they have a… fracturing effect on their organisation.

 Basically they’re incredibly difficult to work with and totally convinced of their own importance. And this effects their colleagues. It totally divides organisations. The worst case I’ve read about involved members of the same organisation killing each other over access to prisoners.

 That’s a short run through of the main factors. Torture, in the legally defined sense, means all of these factors are in play. Plus a few more I’ve omitted to keep this shorter.

 With all of that together you just can’t get accurate information.

 If you want longer posts I’ve made on the subject I suggest looking for the ‘torture doesn’t work’ tag and the ‘torture as interrogation’ tag. You can also read the masterposts. If you want a much more in depth look at why torture consistently fails as a way of getting information I recommend O’Mara’s Why Torture Doesn’t Work and Rejali’s Torture and Democracy.

 O’Mara is a neuroscientist and goes through the effects torture has on the brain in a way that’s accessible, explaining the damage torture causes and how that destroys the evidence torturers claim to be seeking. Rejali’s book is a breeze block but it’s really a must, it is the textbook on torture in a broad sense. He ties together information from across the globe creating a broader picture of what torture does, not just to victims but to societies.

 The question of compliance under threat and pain… is more complicated.

 People can be forced to do some things. That much is obvious from a brief glance at human history and things like slavery. But it’s important to listen to what people in these scenarios say.

 And my opinion, based on what I’ve read, is that what these people say doesn’t support the idea that humans will easily obey instructions when they’re hurt or threatened. I think instead these people are making hard headed, rational choices in absolutely awful situations. I think when we don’t have these experiences of torture or slavery, it’s easy to look at the surface of the situation and assume that pain alone assures obedience. I think that happens because it’s hard for use to understand the rationale when we don’t have that lived experience.

 Let me give some examples. So it probably goes without saying that slavery goes hand in hand with physical abuse. One of the major researchers on slavery, whose data I quote pretty regularly, assumes throughout his writings that pain is the deciding factor which ‘makes’ people obey.

 But he also describes a couple of very obvious consistent patterns in the ways slavers behave. Slavers almost universally do the following things as well as using physical abuse:

Separate enslaved people from their community

Bar enslaved people from other forms of support

Make enslaved people financially/materially reliant on the slavers

Tell enslaved people that going to the police/authorities will lead to the enslaved person being arrested

Try to convince enslaved people that they will be better off if they comply, usually by framing it as a debt to be worked off with promises of riches after a period of time

 Now here’s the thing: we know from studies on cults and studies on ICURE techniques that a lot of these strategies will result in obedience when there is no violence or physical abuse.

 Given that I don’t think we can assume that violence is the deciding factor. In fact I think the evidence we have from forced confessions under torture suggests the violence may lead to less obedience and a lower ‘success’ rate then a set up that used emotional abuse or other exploitative techniques without violence.

 We have two sources of historical data that are used for statistical studies on forced confessions. One is from historical France. We think that this data set only involved torture to force a confession; no other method of coercion just violence. The rate of forced confessions varied a little in different areas but over all it’s about 10%. The second data set is from the ‘London Cage’ a British prison during the second world war. Here we know that torture was combined with blackmail, bribery and other kinds of coercion. The rate of forced confessions there was about 30%.

 And while this is just two studies, while the data is lacking… That is one hell of a jump.

 Let’s circle back to ICURE. ICURE stands for Isolation, Control information, create Uncertainty, Repetition and Emotive responses. It’s a set of techniques which can, sometimes, change someone’s beliefs when it’s applied consistently over a long time.

 Notice the effort slavers put in to isolating their victims. Notice that the behaviour pattern I’m describing means the slavers are creating uncertainty over seeking help and repeating those messages as well as messages that the victims will be better off if they just go along with it.

 Slavers will generally also try to control the information their victims have access to, taking phones and blocking access to news sources and other resources. Now a lot of slavers will transport their victims to other states or countries putting a language barrier in place. They sometimes also use emotive responses in attempts to persuade victims to comply.

 I’ve read multiple accounts where survivors of modern slavery described slavers telling them that the money they were making was being sent to the victim’s family and without it the family would not survive. (Sometimes the slavers do send small amounts to the families of their victims, sometimes they pocket everything.) I’ve also read accounts where gangs of slavers used religion and oaths taken in a religious setting to persuade their victims they’d be punished by God for not complying.

 Even with all of this, all these techniques we know can sometimes ‘work’- lots of people refuse. Lots of people disobey. Lots of people escape. Lots of people actively sabotage the operations the slavers put together.

 And if you look at that same history of slavery, that shows us people can sometimes be forced to work, you’ll see that this has always been true.

 We have records of historic enslaved people attacking slavers, forming organised militias, forming parallel societies, sacking towns, taking over an entire Caribbean island and beating off four European armies in the process. We also have records of smaller acts. Sabotage, worship of banned deities, speaking banned languages, destruction of property, aiding in the escape of others.

 What I’m saying is: this isn’t black and white. The evidence, modern and historical does not paint a clear picture of violence leading to obedience.

 Instead I believe that it shows humans are resilient, stubborn, adaptable creatures. People can survive all kinds of horrible situations. It is more accurate, more human, to assume that people make rational choices.

 Sometimes those choices involve short term compliance while looking for a better option or a way out. But we tend to hear less stories about the people who completely refuse to comply. We tend to treat that as an impossible fiction when it is a recorded historical and modern reality.

 Bringing this back to writing as a general rule the more complicated the act the less likely you can force someone to do it. Because the more complicated it is the more opportunities they’ll have to sabotage it or use it against their abuser.

 I recommend reading up on the history of Haiti pet. Then Brazil via Palmares.

 I’ll end this by bringing it back to those statistics on forced confessions in historical France. Imagine the conditions with me for a moment. Unsanitary, cramped cells. Dehydration, starvation and disease. Plus the kinds of scarring torture that are conjured up in the minds of most Western people when the word ‘torture’ comes up; thumb screws, leg irons that tighten until the bone snaps, whips.

 Picture it. Try to imagine the pain those people went through.

 And remember that 90% of them did not comply long enough to sign their name.

Available on Wordpress.

Disclaimer

[pradaksj]

Break Up With Your Girlfriend, I’m Bored (m.)

♤ pairing: jungkook/reader

♤ genre: 1920′s au, burlesque/clubsinger!reader, infidelity au , angst, smut.

♤ rating: mature

♤ word count: 17,000+

♤ warnings: infidelity/affair [plays a big role in story so please do not read if the topic makes you feel uncomfortable, hint: y/n is not the one getting cheated on LOL], A LOT of angst lol the smut is just an add on to the story basically, explicit language, cigar smoking, degradation, pet names, overstimulation, multiple orgasms (2), dirty talk, unprotected sex, rough sex, sub!reader, teasing dom!jungkook, slight dry humping, mirror sex, fingering, hair pulling, cockwarming, marking, edging, nipple/breast worship, pussy eating, spanking, light choking, possession kink.

♤ summary: Once you were on that stage you were someone completely different, the manifestation of someone’s secret desire, becoming whatever image had of you in their head. Some days you were the innocent girl next door, other days the good girl gone wild, but the days he came you became what you had been for the past year, the other woman.

━ ❝  You got me some type of way, ain’t used to feelin’ this way. I do not know what to say, but I know I shouldn’t think about it. Took one fuckin’ look at your face, now I wanna know how you taste… You can say I’m hatin’ if you want to, but I only hate on her 'cause I want you. .❞

♤ thank u next series masterlist

♤ author’s note: i got the idea to make this story 20’s themed after rewatching 2 Chainz ft Ariana Grande’s which you can watch ☞ here, while the storyline itself is loosely inspired by her song break up with your girlfriend, i’m bored. You can also reference this video ☞ here to see what I reference in terms of style when I say burlesque dancer and what y/n and her coworkers encapsulate because I personally hate the flapper era style LOL, i’m more of a hollywood glam person, so finding this video was a godsend.  

Also fun fact, the Hollywood sign was originally built reading “Hollywoodland” in 1923, which is why it’s referred to as that in this story, it wasn’t until 1949 that “land” was removed. and because i’m setting this story in the mid to late 1920’s, Hollywood is barely establishing its reputation as the land of dreams and heartbreak & alcohol was illegal in the 20’s which is why i refer to Joon’s job as “illegal” lol .

comment, send an anon, like, reblog, and most importantly enjoy! 🤍 

“She’s the girl of your dreams, the sugar to your spice, give a warm welcome to Miss Lola de Ville,” Al’s voice booms across the club. Peeping your head out the curtains, you try your best not to be seen as you scan the audience, until finally you spot what you’re looking for. Immediately you feel your heart skip a beat.

Quickly giddying your way back to Mina’s dressing room, you could feel the anticipation and joy bubbling in your stomach, “He’s here tonight,” you sing, leaning against her door frame, watching her as she did her makeup.

She’s quick to roll her eyes, “Oh when isn’t he,” she says, fixing her lipstick, “he sure does awfully love your performances it seems,” a blush appears on your cheeks, “Is she with him tonight?” she queries, you quietly nod your head no. “And what song are you performing tonight little miss Y/N?” she asks, changing the topic once she sees your face of uncomfort.  

Immediately your eyes light up, “Al’s been playing these songs by some man named Louis Armstrong on the record player all week, and oh how I love his voice, and the lyrics he sings!” you gush.

“Oh tell me about it, he’s going to have to buy himself another vinyl if he keeps playing it the amount of times he does already, it’ll be all scratched up by the end of the week,” she pessimistically says, causing you to shrug. It wasn’t like Al didn’t have the money to buy as many as he’d like, this club of his was bringing him bank.  

“God am I ready to go home,” she complains, taking off the shiny silver ring on her left ring finger and placing it in its case, as men didn’t like giving tips to a woman with a ring on stage.

“How’s the wedding planning going along?” you ask, Mina lets out a dramatic sigh in response.

“Oh you know Joon, he doesn’t like the whole planning aspect of it, so most of it has been in my hands,” she chuckles, “but I know he’s excited, he’s just as much of a romantic as me.”

Namjoon, Mina’s long time fiancé, was not only the illegal bartender of the club you two worked in, but a long time friend of yours, the two of you going back long before he had ever met Mina. In fact it was he who got you this job to begin with, something you’d forever be in his debt for.

Namjoon of course didn’t mind that Mina had to take off her ring because he not only trusted, but respected Mina’s job. Honestly it would’ve been hypocritical for him to be anything but supportive, considering he met her here when he first started working at the club a couple of years ago. At the end of the day he was secure about his relationship, and the person she was coming home to after a night of performing was him and only him.

“Y/N what are you doing here, you go on in five!” a voice interrupts, you turn to see Al with his hands on his hips in a dramatized fashion.

“Sorry, sorry, I’ll be out there right now,” you gulp, grabbing some perfume from Mina’s desk and quickly spritzing it on yourself., “How do I look?” you ask.

“You look good as always,” Mina reassures, despite only glancing at you for no less than a second, “hey and once you’re done tell Joon to have a cocktail ready for me by the time I’m done performing,” you nod, making your way out to the main stage.

“She’s got a voice sent from the heavens above, almost as smooth as a Friday’s glass of whiskey, she can sing, she can dance, she can act, she’s a triple threat of course! And to add to it all, she’s got the face of a doll, give a warm welcome for little miss y/n!”

Slowly, the curtains are pulled open, as you signal to the jazz band to start, another day, another dollar to make. You hear the cheers of men as you slowly take off your fur-made shoulder wrap, teasing the audience in what was hidden underneath. With every holler your ego only grows, knowing that all eyes were on you, including his.

Glancing in his direction, you find him staring at you in the same concentrated, sultry gaze he always did, purposely pouting your lips as you sang. You knew the power you held, the effect you had on those around you. Once you were on that stage you were someone completely different, the manifestation of someone’s secret desire, becoming whatever image they wanted you to be in their head, a figment of their imagination come to life so to speak.

Some days you were the innocent girl next door, other days the good girl gone wild, but the days he came you became what you had been for the past year, the other woman.

Unstrapping the leather of your heel, your feet immediately feel relief, as you kick off the black t-strap heels you had been wearing all night under your vanity desk. Though you loved wearing heels, the constant foot blisters caused by the cheap leather were definitely a downside.

Making yourself comfortable in your seat, you dump out the money from your tip jar, a smile appearing on your lips as you noticed the twenty dollar bill in the pile. Eagerly you grab it, excitedly crisping the sturdy green bill.

“They must've really liked that performance today,” a voice whispers to your ear from behind, catching you by surprise. You were used to him making a knock of some sort. Immediately you feel the tingle of goosebumps now prickling onto your skin, the giddy feeling in your stomach never getting old.

Slowly, he begins to give small pecks on your neck, every kiss lingering longer than the last. His lips then begin to softly suckle on your neck, causing you to push your head back in pleasure.

“Jungkook,” you complain, knowing exactly what he was doing.

“Too bad that tip wasn’t from me,” he shades, clear annoyance coming from his tone. In your distracted state, he snatches the bill from your hands, causing you to immediately get up from your seat in an effort to get it back.

“Hey,” you childishly groan, trying to reach his arm which was now lifted in the air. Seeing that there was no use in trying, you give up. He then relaxes his arm, and begins to inspect the bill, your eyebrow raising at his action.

“What are you—”

He scoffs, rolls his eyes, and suddenly rips the bill into shreds. Eyes widening in shock, you  place a hand over your mouth. But as quick as the shock came, it was replaced by anger even quicker, “What the hell is wrong with you!” you shout, eyebrows now furrowed.

“It was a counterfeit, a fake,” he reiterates, leaving you slightly taken aback, but you try your best not to give a reaction.

“And,” you stutter, “And how are you so sure about that, huh?” you cross your arms, still upset at how sudden his actions were.

“Because this,” he pulls out a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket, “is a real one,” he attempts to hand the bill to you, but is met with resistance on your side.

Pushing his hand away, you scowl, “I don’t want your money, I’ve told you that already,” you huff, feeling a slight tug at your heartstrings, your ego now bruised at both the fact that the bill was fake and that Jungkook felt compelled to replace it for you.

He hugs you from behind, rocking both you and him back and forth, “I know, I know,” he chuckles, “but seeing the way those men kept looking at you,” he pauses, now scowling, “I guess you can say I don’t like what’s mine being spoiled by others,” he ponders causing you to roll your eyes, still in his embrace nonetheless.

“It’s my job,” you jest, “not like I’m sleeping with them,” you shade, a sly smirk now on your face, as you feel his hardened member now rubbing against your ass, a clear sign that you weren’t the only feeling aroused.

“Feisty, huh?” he laughs, his right hand from behind slowly making its way around your neck, softly gripping your smooth skin. Soon enough, he begins to kiss you, your lips parting to let his tongue slowly go down further, the grip on your neck becoming tighter as the kiss deepens.

With his other free hand, he maneuvers under your robe, teasingly grazing over your thigh, almost as if waiting for the green light, “Just say the words,” he whispers into your ear, his fingers now tugging at the hem of your robe.

Without saying anything, you begin to untie it, the silk material dropping to the floor in a matter of seconds, now only in your bra and underwear, you whisper in return, “Fuck me,” and with that he’s quick to release the grip on your neck, turning you to face him. His kisses become sloppy as he signals for you to jump.

Now holding you up by the thighs, you link your arms around his neck as he places you on top of the vanity desk, careful to not push any of your perfume bottles, “I bet those men could only dream of having you like this,” he growls in between kisses, “Take off the bra,” he demands, his fingers now playing with the lace of your underwear.

With no second thought, you unclip the back of your bra, throwing it somewhere across your dressing room, desperate to have him inside you already. With one hand rubbing circles over the lace, the other rolls your hardened nipples in between his fingers, a smirk now plastered onto his face as he hears you trying to suppress your moans.

“Please Jungkook,” you whine, your thighs tightly wrapped against his waist, grinding yourself against his pants. Ignoring you, he sucks on the underside of your jaw, then to your neck, slowly making his way downward, until finally he’s softly sucking on your nipple.

“God that feels so good,” you pant, throwing your head back in complete utter bliss as he marks you, your hand gently tugging at his hair as he elicits the sweetest moans out of your mouth.

“All mine,” he groans, “I’m gonna fuck you so good, gonna have creaming all over my fucking cock,” continuing to suck on your nipples, his finger now slips under your underwear, placing them inbetween your folds, “Already this wet, kitten?” he mocks, “Those men out there have no idea how much of a whore you are,” his fingers begin to move up and down your clit, doing nothing but teasing you.

“Please Jungkook,” your voice shakes, the need to feel something, anything, inside you becoming much too overwhelming. Slowly he sinks his index finger into your pussy, pumping it in and out of you until gradually he slips in another, your wetness making it easy to do so. You arch your back against the vanity’s mirror in pleasure, “Mm, faster Jungkook,” you manage to breathe out, his two fingers soaked with your wetness.

“So tight,” he mutters his pace now quickening at your command, “Look at you, already wanting to cum,” he mocks, “How do you expect to take my cock huh?” he mumbles into your neck, ready to add a third finger, “Answer me,” he demands, bringing his other hand to your neck once again.

“Because,” you’re unable to reply, now feeling your release coming to light,  “I’m boutta—” you whimper, with every movement you feel it coming closer and closer until suddenly he slows his pace, very much denying you from your release only causing you to let out a cry in complaint, the pressure that had built up immediately slowing down, “Jungkook,” you whine.

“You didn’t answer me,” he teases, pulling your underwear off, now having you completely undressed. Getting on his knees, he parts your legs wide open, your pussy being nothing but a glorious sight to him. Gently he swipes his finger across your sensitive folds, knowing that your senses were heightened from the denial, “Such a pretty pussy,” he teases, now rubbing circles onto your clit, “I bet you taste so good,” he pulls his finger away, suckling on the wetness that coated his finger, “so it does,” he says.

“Use your tongue,” you needily whisper, not sure at how long you’d be able to handle all the teasing, “please,” you cry, hoping that he’d do something soon. He drops wet, messy, kisses along your thighs, your skin now prickling in anticipation. He was purposely taking his time, finding pleasure at your squirming. A part of you just wants to push his head for your selfish reasons, but you knew that it’d get you nowhere because at the end of the day he was in full control, and you would just have to deal with the pleasurable torture.

With every kiss, suckle, and lick, you could practically feel yourself trembling, “Please Jungkook,” you beg, but he only hums in response, continuing with his wicked game of torture. Unable to control yourself, you let go of his hair, now maneuvering your hand to your pussy in a desperate effort to soothe the ache that had long been built up.

But just as you’re about to begin to pleasure yourself, his own reflexes are quick to grab you by the hand, roughly pushing it down onto the desk in an effort to stop you, “Mm mm mm,” he coos, “A slut like you doesn’t get to be in control, remember that kitten,” he sings, making a nodding motion with his finger.

Soon enough, you feel his warm tongue on your clit, licking and sucking through your folds, his index finger rubbing at your clit all at the same time. “Oh my God, right there,” you moan, the tension you felt immediately being released as he indulged himself further into your folds, pumping his finger back into your pussy once more, this time rubbing at your g-spot, your folds completely soaked with both your fluids and his saliva. Your orgasm once again was building up and as a result your pussy clenched around his fingers, your muscles going limp as you knew it was coming closer.

“You’re gonna cum for me, kitten?” you vigorously nod your head in response, physically squirming at his words, “Cum for me,” he breathes out, the euphoric feeling overcoming you, as you felt the waves of your orgasm hit, leg trembling at the sensation. Immediately he begins to plant soft kisses among your thighs, softly caressing you as you came down from your high.

He gets up from his knees, beginning to gently place kisses onto your cheek, “What a good girl,” he teases, going in to kiss you. You place your hand at the back of his head as you deepen the kiss, transforming the kiss to nothing but tongue and saliva. The two of you now making out on the vanity once again, his hardened cock rubbing against your bare pussy, the fabric of his pants acting as the only barrier in between.

He groans once you playfully you graze your other hand over the fabric, the idea of having his cock filling you up only exciting you, “I need you to fuck me,” you whisper into his ear, arousal dripping from every word as you played with the waistband of his pants.

“Is that what you want, kitten?” he asks, now unbuttoning his pants, and pulling out his thick, large cock, “Such a little whore, singing and dancing for those men,” he seethes, the look of jealousy presently on his face, “if only they could hear the way you squirm for me,” he chuckles, “just how needy and desperate you become for my cock,” you gasp as you feel his head now teasing the slit of your entrance, “How I have you moaning my name,” he whispers, suckling at the nip of your neck.  

“Put it in already,” you whine, ready to have his cock thrusting in and out of you, and so with that he slowly pushes his head which was covered in pre-cum into your hole, your wetness from earlier making it easy for him to slip it in, while your hot walls take him in with ease just as the many nights before, but still the pressure of the stretch was something you’d never get used to.

“So fucking tight,” he grunts, impusivley pulling your hair from the back as his girth pushed it’s way inside of you, taking a moment to allow the two of you to adjust, his cock now buried deep within you, “Tell me when you’re ready Y/N,” he sincerely says, having seen the momentary look of discomfort on your face.

Nodding once you were ready, he begins to slowly thrust, the items you had on the vanity beginning to jump at the sudden movement of the desk. Your moans and the squelching sound from the movement of his cock and your wetness now fill the room, his pace quickening with every deep thrust.

“Oh fuck—” you cry, his own grunts and moans mixing with yours.

“This is my pussy, you got that?” all you can do is nod in response, his thrust getting harder and sloppier, until suddenly he stops, “Turn around and bend over the desk,” he commands, pulling out and pumping his girth with his hand, not wanting to lose momentum.

It was shocking really, the countless number of times you two have fucked in between show sets, prior, and after, and each and every time it felt as good and exciting as the first time.

Eagerly you turn around, laying your stomach flat on top of the vanity’s surface, your dripping soaked pussy in full view for him, the cold air of the room along with the lack of fullfiness in your cunt causing you to let out a small whine, desperate to have Jungkook’s cock warm you up again, “God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs to himself, looking at your face from the reflection in the mirror as he began to stuff your pussy with his cock once again.

He begins to thrust again, each one feeling fuller than the last, “Fuck Jungkook,” you cry, his cock now hitting your g-spot in this position, “Faster baby,” the friction from his steady rythym now wasn’t enough, as you felt another orgasm incoming.

“Faster?” he asks, “You said it,” he laughs, now pounding against your walls at a pace that was so overwhelming, you were almost sure that anyone within ten yards could probably hear you. “You nasty little slut, just look at yourself,” he groans, yanking you by the hair and forcing you to look at the reflection of yourself in the mirror in front of you, “I’m the only one who gets to fuck you like this,” he quickens his his pace, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room, “And only me, you got that?” all you could do was moan in response, resulting in a hard spank to your ass, “Answer me!” he groans, as you grip onto the corners of your vanity’s desk, his cock pounding harder and harder within your walls every passing second.  

“Mmhm only you Jungkook!” you cry, placing your hand on the mirror, trying not to lose balance of yourself, “I’m so close,” you manage to breathe out, the tight feeling in your abdomen signaling that you were going to cum any moment, his breathy moans also telling you that he was close to bottoming out as well.

He tilts down, the sounds of his panting now directly behind your ear, “That’s my girl,” he whispers, pushing your hair away from your neck to give you a small kiss. Seconds later, your vision goes white as you feel the final rush of stimulation washing over you, as he quickly pulls out and pumps his own release onto your back. The two of you now catching your breath, completely exhausted.

He buttons his pants back up, grabbing your things from the floor as well as a towel from your rack, gently cleaning you up as you remain in your position, too tired to even stand. “Come on,” he whispers, gently pulling you from behind so that he could pick you up, your body always feeling completely limp post-orgasm, add the fact that this was post-work as well, you had every reason to be tired.

Placing you on the small love-seat couch you had in your dressing room, which was generally used for—nevermind that, he helps dress you, guiding your legs through the underwear holes, laughing at your groans whenever you’d miss. “Come on, stop being lazy,” he teases, only resulting in another groan from you. You cross your arms again and pout like a kid, a huge grin now on his face. Gently, he cups your face, playfully squishing your cheeks in the process, just like he always does, only causing you to roll your eyes.

“Why do you always do that?” you manage to say, his hands still squeezing the life out of your cheeks.

“Because it’s cute,” he gives you a peck on the lips before finally letting them go, allowing you to place your robe back on, “You’re cute,” he nuzzles into your neck, the two of you to falling back on the couch, as he then begins to tickle you.

“Stop,” you begin to hysterically laugh, his fingers prancing around the sides of your stomach, “Jun—Jungkook stop,” you breathe out, a toothy grin on his face as he attempted to avoid your playful kicks.

To any other person, this loving moment between you two would cause nothing of the suspicion, hell, they’d probably even mistake the golden band on his finger as the sacrament of your holy matrimony. It was moments like these where you questioned where your relationship with the married man stood, where you’d ask yourself at what point had the line blurred between only doing this for fun and actually having feelings?

Slowly Jungkook stops tickling you once he notices that your laughs had begun to die down, and your face had become serious,“Hey what’s wrong?” he asks with genuine concern in his voice.

You shake your head, not wanting to dwell on your thoughts too much, “It’s nothing really,” you give him a small smile.  Momentarily he stares at you, seeming unconvinced by your answer.

“Let’s go home?” you stare at him wide-eyed, home?

“Wait what?”

“I asked if you’d like me to take you home?” he chuckles, though you knew you must’ve heard him wrong, the sinking feeling in your heart hurt just as much, a part of you secretly hoping that you were wrong.

“Oh um,” you respond, “no it’s fine Jungkook, I’ll just um,” you run a hand through your hair, “I’ll just ask Joon, I think he should still be cleaning up, and Mina is probably bored waiting,” you force a laugh. He furrows his eyebrows, unsure about leaving you here, but relents nonetheless.

“Hm, okay then,” he says, giving you a departing kiss on the cheek, “I’ll see you soon, alright?” you nod your head, the forced smile on your face quickly dropping the moment he walks out the door.  

“You sure are loud, Namjoon was complaining about wanting ear muffs while he cleans,” Mina laughs, now entering your dressing room, Jungkook having left several minutes ago. She expects you to laugh like you usually do, or even throw a smart remark in return, but instead you remain silent, staring at your reflection in the vanity’s mirror. Your eyes were puffy from crying, because in those minutes that Jungkook had left, a feeling of shame had washed over you. “Hey, what’s wrong kiddo?” she walks towards you, quickly grabbing a tissue from the tissue box you had on your desk, beginning to wipe the run down mascara from your cheeks, softly running her other hand through your hair in an effort to comfort you.

Sniffling, you shake your head in refusal to talk, “Hey, come on, you know you can tell me anything,” she reassures, “It’s better to let things out, than to have it build up,” she frowns, the sight of seeing you cry breaking her heart.

“I,” you struggle to say what’s on your mind, “I love him,” you whisper, voice breaking as you finally said what you’d long known. For a second she stares at you, her faint gasp quickly hidden as she continues to comfort you.

“Oh Y/N,” she sighs, sad that she is unable to find the words that could make this all better. If only Namjoon was—

“What’s going on he—” Namjoon furrows his eyebrows as he sees the sight of his fianceé comforting his long time friend, who now had her face buried in her hands.

“I love him so much, and everytime he comes here I just wanna tell him,” you pause, “I wanna tell him everytime he walks out that door that he could be with me, that I want him to love me,” you cry, “that the only reason I keep seeing him is because I hope one day he just magically wakes up and walks through that door to tell me that he wants to be with me and only me, not her.”

You push your hair back in distress, “And you have to understand I never meant for things to go this far,” you quietly mumble, “and at first it was just a one time thing, nothing but a tiny sin, I thought I wouldn’t ever see him again, but now it’s become so much more,” you sigh, “And I know what I’m doing is wrong, but I wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t feel anything.”

Namjoon walks over to you, crouching down so that you could face him, “Hey, we’re not here to judge you,” he firmly states, gently pulling your hands away from your face so that you could make eye contact with him, “you have every right to feel the way you do, you hear me?” slowly you nod your head in response as he lets out a chuckle, “Hell, we wouldn’t be human if we didn’t act selfishly here and there,” he pauses, “but what you do need to do is tell him because you’re right, you can’t keep doing this, or else you’ll be stuck in the same old place forever, and we wouldn’t want that, now would we?” he flashes you his famous old dimpled smile, Mina rubbing small circles on your shoulder as an extra layer of comfort.

“I’m scared,” you whisper. It was true, you were, because what if he didn’t feel the same way? What if he told you that there was no way he’d ever leave her for you? That the feeling of love which had only been growing stronger for the past year would remain as nothing more than a fantasy.

“You’ll never know till you say something,” he gives you a small comforting smile, “Come on let’s get you home little miss Y/N,” he pats your lap, getting up from his crouched position, your Friday night coming to its end.

Jungkook opens the door to his home, genuinely tired from the long week, simply ready to go to bed. “So, where were you?” he hears a voice from behind say. Sighing, he turns around to face his wife of three years, who was currently dressed in her overseas designed silk-purple nightgown, one of the many she owned.

His eyes glance around the room, refusing to make eye contact, “I went out to get drinks with Jimin, you know... the usual for a Friday night,” he wonders how long she’s been waiting for him, honestly it had been a while since she pulled something like this.

“All the bars close at ten, it’s twelve,” she tries to firmly state, but instead her voice cracks, “I have Amelia calling me telling me that Jimin’s gotten hom—”

“Catherine,” he begins, his voice hoarse at how tired he was, “Can we just talk about this some other day? I’m just really tired and,” he shakes his head, combing his hand through his hair, hoping she’d understand.

Catherine momentarily stares at him in silence, an emotionless look on her face before turning and going back upstairs to their bedroom. Jungkook decides to serve himself a glass of whiskey before going to bed in hopes of getting rid of the heavy guilty feeling that weighed over him, and that maybe tonight it’d just be best to sleep on the couch.

“Blue or Red?” you dangle the two outfits from their hangers in front of Jungkook, who was relaxing on your dressing room’s couch, exhausted from the sex you two just had, “I’ve personally been told blue is more of my color, but I feel like red makes me pop out a whole bunch more, and well I need those tips,” you ramble, “So what do you think?”

It had been about two weeks since you last saw him, and since your little breakdown, and though you had taken Namjoon’s words into consideration, the courage to actually go through with it just wasn’t there. Instead you had decided that you needed to wait for the right moment to tell him, and though you weren’t exactly sure when that moment would be, you were definitely sure that when it did happen, maybe, just maybe, everything would turn out how you pictured it to be.

He stretches his arms, releasing a yawn, “Mm,” he hums, “how bout none and you call it a day,” he winks, resulting in a playful hit to the shoulder from you. You gasp as he pulls you to sit on his lap, “And what song are you singing tonight kitten?” he asks.

“Mm I don’t know yet,” you laugh, “might just come up with something last minute,” you joke, but secretly you always did want to venture into composing and writing your own music, weekly newspapers citing that across the country in Hollywoodland, people who could sing, dance, and act, could achieve overnight worldwide fame.

Hollywoodland was a dream, an unrealistic one of course, but a dream nonetheless. Who knows, maybe one day you could make it big out there, but for now you had to focus on where you were locally “famous” : Al’s Melody Noir.

“And become the next Hollywoodland star?” he teases, quickly squishing your cheek before you could knock his hand away.

You shrug, “Hey, you never know,” you smile, “someone in the crowd might just hand me a one way ticket,” you say causing him to roll his eyes and playfully tighten the grip he had on your waist.

“Why not audition for Broadway or something,” he pouts his lips, “they can always use a star like you,” he sings.

“Because I don’t want to be a Broadway star,” you say, “I want to be a Hollywood star,” you grin, “I mean no offense to those Broadway stars, they’re talented and all, but I’m telling you right now that in 50 years from now, the names that are going to be remembered will be the ones who are on that big screen,” Jungkook quietly hums in response, no longer wanting to entertain this topic.

Grabbing his wrist, you glance at his wrist watch, “Ooo, I’m about to go on,” you yelp, quickly getting up from his lap and making any final touch ups to your hair, he gets up as well now getting ready to head out. “Are you sure you can’t stay to see me perform tonight?” you plead, the doe eyed look on your face making it hard for him to say no, but he had to, it was the sole reason why he came to see you before your time slot.

“You know I can’t doll,” he gives you a small kiss on the lips, “I got a whole bunch of paperwork to catch up on tonight,” he sighs, he wasn’t lying either. The stock market was booming as of late, especially because of the newly profound industrial boom, being a stockbroker right now was not only a stressful job but one where any little mistake could cost absolutely everything, “Next time I’ll be there, I promise,” he plants another kiss to your forehead, “And don’t put on too much of a show for em!” he shouts as he walks out.

You look at yourself one last time in the mirror, “Let’s do this,” you whisper, ready to make that stage yours once again.

“Oh you should've seen us having to push that car down the road, whoever this Henry Ford man is needs to learn how to make his cars weight lighter,” Mina complains, you and Namjoon laughing as the three of you were now together at the bar, Namjoon still on the clock of course.

Despite it being a rainy day, tonight was a full house, the club full of upper New York socialites occasionally some of them with their wives and girlfriends. Gambling tables were surrounded by both business men and mafia members. It was clubs like Al’s where you’d see the two different worlds collide and openly interact with one another, but honestly most of these men went hand and hand with each other. Not like there really was that much of a difference between them.

Mina puffs out the smoke from her cigar, “Look, I even chipped my nail,” she flaunts her left hand, Namjoon laughs at her obvious attempt to show off her shiny engagement ring.

“Hey don’t go flaunting it around too much,” he playfully says, but both you and Mina knew that behind that joking tone, he was definitely being serious.

She leans over the front bar rail, dramatically puckering her lips, to which he of course places his lips on, “Hey, get a room!” you complain, “Al sees you two doing that on the clock and he’ll have you two written up!” you laugh.

“Hey I’m on my break,” she clarifies, “And so are you, and if I’m looking at the clock correctly you go on in forty, and you have yet to change.”

Getting up from the bar stool, you dramatically groan in annoyance, now pursing your lips, “Didn’t realize you wanted me gone so badly.”

“Ah you know I’m just joking Y/N,” she passes you her glass of whiskey, “A shot for good luck,” she winks, and so reluctantly you slug down the remainder of her drink, the burning sensation not at all feeling pleasant, as your nose immediately wrinkled at its taste.

“I don’t know how you two drink this stuff,” you say, a childish look of disgust on your face, “it’s banned for a reason you know.”

“You get used to it,” Namjoon comments, “Now get going! Because of all this small talk, you only got thirty minutes left, and we all know how long you take!” he scolds, making a motion with his hand for you to start walking.

“Yeah yeah yeah,” you roll your eyes, now making your way back to your dressing room.

“Remember to show em what you’re made of Miss Hollywoodland,” Mina shouts, as you now shook your head in laughter as you left.

You walk towards your dressing room, still laughing to yourself at Mina’s little comment. Tonight was already a good night, your tips seeing a slight increase after your new performance which of course you’d have to count singularly later to get exact numbers. But for now all you wanted to simply do was change, get your last performance over with, catch a cab, and go to bed. The sound of the rain pouring outside would be nothing but relaxing once you got home, that was for sure.

“Mina, Mina, Mina,—” you mumble to yourself, grabbing the handle to your dressing room, ready to just kick off your heels. But what you see in front of you once you open the door immediately confuses you, as someone was occupying your vanity chair. It wasn’t until you looked at the reflection of the mirror that the heavy feeling weighing on your chest dropped down to your stomach. Because there she was sitting with her legs crossed, fixing her crimson colored lipstick in the mirror.

Standing there in silence, your eyes study her body language. In a way she seemed eerily relaxed, her shoulders weren’t tensed like yours, and her breathing seemed steady. The complete opposite of you.

The tension in the room was so thick, you were unsure of what to say because really what was there for you to say? You knew why she was here, she knew why she was here, so then why did everything feel so uneasy, like a bubbling bottle ready to pop off at any moment.

You want her to scream, to tell you off, to do something that you would expect from her, but instead she hums a tune, continuing to fix her lipstick, not once making eye contact with you, until finally she breaks her silence. A quiet, sly, chuckle coming from her lips.

“You know when I first met Jungkook I remember my heart feeling as if it was going to leap out of my chest,” she calmly shares, “Our respective families had introduced the two of us to one another at some horse racing event in New Orleans, my mother pulling me to the side to tell me that he was an up and coming stockbroker, not that it mattered anyway, I had already been swept off my feet from the moment I laid my eyes on him,” she scoffs at recalling the memory, “and you know I’d like to think that just for that one day he felt the same thing I had felt for him.”

She pauses, hazily looking at her reflection in the mirror, still not having glanced in your direction. “We got married a couple months later, bought our first home here in New York, and every morning I’d make him his cup of coffee and kiss him off for work. I remember thinking about just how perfect my life had come out to be. I was buying custom dresses from Europe, and having my pearls imported from the southern China sea, everything a girl could dream of,” she looks down at the ring placed on her left index finger, shining as bright as ever, “I remember bragging to my friends about my perfect life, and they would tell me that all I needed was the kids,” she laughs, “The other housewives would gossip to me about husbands cheating on their wives’ and I would think to myself how Jungkook would never do that to me, that he loves me too much do something like that.”

“But what I had failed to realize was that I was always viewing things from my perspective,” she shakes her head, almost as if disappointed with herself, “I guess it’s due to the way I was raised, I mean I was a spoiled child who grew up in a wealthy family, never once did I see things from the perspective of others,” she comments, “because maybe if I had I would’ve realized that my husband had quickly fallen out of love with me, or hell he may have never been in love with me to begin with,” the lurching feeling of guilt resurfaces itself from the pits of your stomach, the need to vomit almost excruciating, “but I didn’t,” she bitterly scoffs.

“And so when a friend of mine and her husband invited us to some underground new club in town that was getting all kinds of reviews from the drinks, to the dancers, and the triple threat of a star who could sing, dance, and act. I thought sure, why not? We had gone to many different clubs before where there’d be dancers who walked around with nothing but tiny little stickers across their nipples, and not once did I have to worry about his eyes straying too far,” she finally makes eye contact with you through the reflection of the mirror, “until he saw you that night.”

Getting up from your seat, her heels clack on the wooden floor as she makes her way towards you. Her calm demeanor reminding you of a snake ready to bite at any moment, “I don’t know how you two started off, or who initiated it first because God I honestly stopped trying to figure it out a long time ago,” she pauses, closing her eyes for a moment, trying to prevent herself from breaking down, “At first I thought you were going to be nothing but a phase, something temporary, something he was just doing out of compulsion, that it could’ve been anyone that he was going to commit adultery with.”

She stares at you, her eyes watery, a pool of emotions found in her eyes, “So then when I found myself having to go to that damn club every week, just to,” her voice finally cracks, the pristine glass cup that she was finally breaking, “Just to have to see him stare at you with those eyes every night to the point where he wouldn’t even tell me to come anymore, he’d be going out in the middle of the night just to see you in that damn club for God’s sake!” she cries, her face now red at her lash out.

You stare at her wide-eyed, frozen in place as she’s only inches away from you, an intense chill going down your spine.

“He’s,” she pauses, “He’s my husband,” her voice trembles in hysteria, “My husband,” she repeats, as if trying to reassure herself.

Finally, you manage to stutter something out, “I—I didn’t know at—”

“First?” she scoffs, “Is that the excuse you’re going to give me? What about the second time? Or the third? And the fourth and every other time afterward, huh? All those times you’d spot him in the crowd with me only being a couple of feet away from him, or did you just block me out of your mind so you could sleep at night? Is that it?” she yells. “You just couldn’t do it, huh? You just couldn’t stay away from him, like the dirty tramp you are,” she spat, looking at you with nothing but disgust, “Well say something goddammit! Instead of looking at me with that stupid look on your face!” her voice shakes.

“I never meant for it to go this far,” you whisper, lowering your head in shame, “You have to believe me.”

“I don’t have to believe anything from the likes of someone like you,” she snaps. The heavy feeling on your chest only weighs harder as you realized you needed to tell her the truth, the truth on what you really felt. Slowly you raise your gaze to meet hers, the lump in your throat fighting against the words that were about to come out of your mouth.

“I love hi—”

The sound of the crack of skin contacting skin echoes off the walls, a deafening silence immediately following afterward. As if time was frozen in its place. She slowly looks at her trembling hand which was now vibrating in a pain that etched from the center of her palm to the tip of her fingertips, it’s bright red appearance matching the new welt on your face. You stare at her wide eyed, hand now clutching cheek in pain, no possible words articulating in your head.  

The look on her face is one that’ll haunt you to your grave, it’s the look of someone you had first-hand in breaking. The tears that were currently gracefully falling from her eyes weren’t from a place of sorrow, but the buildup of anger and pain.

She should've felt some kind of remorse. But she didn't. Not one organ in her body could produce a gland of guilt for her actions because at the end of the day this was the least you deserved. She glances at the mark she’s left on your cheek, bitterly scoffing, not because it was big or anything but because it was in fact a cut. A small one where her wedding ring had caught you, a permanent scar that’ll remind you every morning when you look in the mirror of what you’d done. And she hoped, no, she wanted you to feel shame whenever you looked at it.

“You stay away from my husband,” she pleads demands, quickly grabbing her bag from your vanity, and rushing her way out, leaving you there to reflect on everything that just happened.

Jungkook sighs, flipping to the next document on his desk, a night full of work ahead of him. New clients needed to be accommodated, considering everyone wanted a piece of the pie that was the New York Stock Exchange.

Tonight it was raining, a downpour in fact, the prelude to an up and coming storm. The thunder already beginning to cry out from the sky above, the trees around his home writhing and flailing against his window.

Getting up from his desk, he closes up the window as well as shutting the blinds, turning on his shaded glass lamp which provided the dim lighting he always liked working in. The muffled sound of the rain comforting as well.

Catherine was out to God knows where, mumbling something about a girl’s night out before walking out, which of course he didn’t mind, but it was getting quite late. He shrugs off the concern, instead continuing with his work.

Ah she must be back already, he thinks to himself, hearing footsteps coming up the stairs. Suddenly he hears his office door open, “So you’re back already,” he says, not bothering to look up from his paperwork.

He’s met with silence.

Looking up, he’s taken back by the woman standing in front of him. Because there she was, hair and clothes drenched in water along with mascara running down her eyes. A haunting empty look in her eyes.

Quickly he gets up, eyebrows furrowing in worry, “Why are you—Where—What happened?” he finally manages to ask, but she remains silent, staring off at the bookcase behind his desk.

“Catherine you’re soaking! I thought you went to Amelia’s?” he chides, but again she remains silent, until slowly she moves her pupils to his direction.

The two stare at each other for what seems like forever, words not having to be spoken in order to know what exactly was happening. He turns to break the gaze, the feeling of shame that he had been pushing off for so long bubbling in his stomach.

A low staggered laugh comes out of her mouth, steadily becoming louder and louder, booming across the room until tears are now falling from the corners of her eyes, as she goes into a fit of hysteria until finally she begins to sob. “I thought I could live with it,” she whispers in between, “I thought things were going to end at some point between the two of you—”

“Catherine,” he starts, but she’s quick to cut him off.

“But it never did!” she laughs, making a small motion to her head, “and it was there like an itch at the back of my mind all the time,” she lets out a breath in disbelief, “and I just couldn’t do it anymore.”

“Catherine, it’s not what you think it is,” he sighs, causing her to only laugh.

“She loves you, you know that right?” she bitterly scoffs, recalling your words from earlier, “And God help me, because I think you might love her too,” she finally cries out, finally saying the thought she’d kept buried in her mind for so long out loud. The feeling of suffocation finally coming to an end.

“For a wife to have to witness the entirety of her husband falling for another woman,” her voice trembles, “to have to witness the exact moment that you fell in love with her,” she whispers, vigorously shaking her head in denial,“ I don’t even wish that upon my worst enemy,” she lets out a choked sob.

All he could do is stare at her, no words at the tip of his tongue, nothing he could say or do to comfort her. “So,” she grimaces, as if fighting to get the words out of her mouth, but she needed to ask. She needed to hear him say it.

“Do you love her?”

He remains silent. He can’t even bring himself to deny it, she thinks to herself. You could hear a pin drop fall at how silent the room was.

“I’m going to bed,” she whispers, the feeling of defeat draining her as she walks out of the room leaving Jungkook to stand there by himself, the thunderstorm outside finally coming to an end.

“Al doesn’t pay me enough for this,” you groan, scrubbing the wood floors with your bristled brush. Tonight it was your turn to close up the club, and though Namjoon usually offered to stay and help you, he had sadly caught a cold, and so instead tonight you were stuck with Al himself to clean up, which of course meant you’d be stuck doing everything. He was already out front doing God knows what, most likely smoking a cigar or something.

It had been weeks since your encounter with Catherine, as well as your last visit from Jungkook, which you could only assume had to do with said situation. Honestly the whole situation had been anxiety inducing, having gone directly home after the whole ordeal, not bothering to say goodbye to Namjoon or Mina as you left, still stuck in the state of shock that you were in.

Even the usual taxi driver who normally drove you home after work was worried at your silence throughout the whole trip. Usually you kept him updated on the different things going on in the club, especially since he was always interested in, in his words, “innovations you young people are making.”

“She was dame, in love with a guy,” you continue to scrub the floor, now humming the song from a movie you had watched a couple a days ago,  “She stuck with him but didn’t know why,”  

“Everyone blamed her, Still they all named her,” you hear a familiar voice playfully sing, “True Blue Louuuuu,” Jungkook stretches out the final word, now standing in front of you, a warm smile on his face. He was dressed in his usual suit attire, his parted hair with no hair out of place only symbolizing his calm attitude for things.

Quickly getting up, you pat down your skirt of any possible dirt, “How did you—” Before you could even finish asking, your mind immediately answers the question for you, “Al,” you let out a laugh, that man will truly let anyone into his club.

“It’s not like he doesn’t recognize me by now,” he chuckles, opening his arms for embrace, which hesitantly you accept. Jungkook, taken aback by your reluctance, cups your face like he usually does and attempts to give you a pop kiss, which you quickly maneuver your way out of thus confirming something was wrong. “Hey,” he whines, pouting his lower lip.

Gently you push him off, picking up the bucket of dirty water from the floor, silently ignoring his antics, “Y/N,” he grabs your hand as you turn away from him.

Knowing there was nothing in this situation you could do but face him, you sigh, “What?” you harshly say, your attitude causing the dirty bucket of water to slip from your hands, “Ugh,” you groan, a headache now rising, “Look what you made me do,” you hiss.

He lifts his hands in his defence, “Hey, I didn’t make you do anything kitten,” your heart skips a beat at the pet name, but you’re quick to shrug the feeling off, huffing as you went to go get the mop from behind the bar stand, Jungkook only following. “I know you’re mad,” he begins, only raising a bitter laugh out of you.

You inhale a breath of fresh air, trying to keep your composure, “Me? Mad? No!” you narrow your eyes at him.

Laughing at your sarcasm, he responds, “And I understand why—”

You cut him off, “How could you possibly understand? You’re not the one who got slapped across the face,” you frown, clenching your jaw, “I even got a left with a scar because of it,” you angrily point to the small cut under your right eye, where her ring had caught you, “and this is my good side!” you throw in.  

“You can’t even notice it—”

“That’s not the point!”  you glare at him, “The point it, is that I can’t keep doing this,” you exhale loudly, “It’s-it’s” you stutter, firmly pressing your lips together, “it’s wrong,” you finally admit to him. Catherine’s words echo in your head, the image of her sobbing in front of you still fresh in your mind, “and so I,” you hesitate to say the next words, but it was now or never, “I think you need to choose, me or her? Because we can’t keep doing this, and you can’t expect me to stay in this position.”  

“We’re getting a divorce.”

“For the rest of my life, because— wait what?” you bring your ramble to an immediate halt, unsure if you heard him correctly.

“We’re getting a divorce,” he firmly repeats, completely making eye contact you, not even a twitch of the brow to signal if he was lying or not, “it’s why I haven’t been coming for the past few weeks, been filing paperwork and all that other time consuming stuff,” the two of you stand there in silence, the words barely sinking in for you as you owlishly stare at the wall behind him, nothing but a blank expression on your face.  

This is what you wanted … you just hadn’t expected the answer to be dropped as a bombshell like this one. Was it wrong to feel … happy? Overjoyed? Excited? He’s choosing you, you tell yourself. He’s choosing you, you repeat to yourself. He’s choosing to try and have a future with you. “Earth to Y/N,” he waves his hand in front of you, bringing you back to reality.

You glance at the ring that’s haunted you since the day you met him, it’s emptiness being nothing but a marvelous sight, the corners of your lips slowly twitching upward. Jumping into his arms, you scatter his face with kisses, the sudden burst of energy you felt was a high you were sure you’d never feel again in your life.

“There’s my girl,” he mumbles into your ear, both his arms grabbing you to keep you steady. A part of you wants to ask him what happened, the itch to know more details almost excruciating, but instead you choose to enjoy the moment, deciding you’d ask him some other day. With this news, you’d have an eternal amount with him.

Gently, he places you down from his hold, “And I have news that’ll have you near passing out,” you quirk your brows, there was more? “So I think you might need to hold on to the bar or something,” he grins, the feeling of anticipation now creeping under your skin.

“Well get on with it,” you rush him, doubting that the grin on your face could become even bigger.

“The firm I work under throws these annual um…” he looks up, trying to find the right word for the event, “balls,” he smugly grins, “and well a lot of Broadway producers attend, who certainly have connections with people in Hollywoodland, and well let’s just say I pulled some strings and,” he dramatically pauses, building suspension, “you’ll be performing a set for them in a week from now, as my date of course.”

Your mouth hangs loose at his words, “No,” you say in complete bewilderment, feeling as if your head was in the clouds, but your feet were on the ground all at the same time, “What am I going to where? Sing? Oh my—” you ramble, “Jungkook I,” you stop yourself from continuing, instead pulling him another hug, the warmth you felt being in his arms being truly indescribable. Things were looking up, and you were definitely excited for what was to come for the two of you.

“So is it a yes?”

“Of course—”

“Not!” Amelia, Catherine’s long time friend and Jimin’s wife of two years, sneers, her teeth grinding at the mention of you, “This is not your fault Catherine! So don’t you dare say that,” she frowns, the two were currently strolling through her garden, Catherine finally admitting everything to her friend.

“I know it's not,” her heels clack against the cemented paveway, her hands softly grazing against the roses next to her, “but I keep asking myself,” she scoffs, “could this have been avoided?” Amelia’s who was already about to say something is stopped by Catherine, who raises her finger to signal that she could explain, “I mean I could’ve saved myself the trouble, leave the first sign there was of not even the affair, but the first sign of him just not loving me,” she chuckles, “I don’t know, I just keep trying to find answers to all my questions when really they’re all right there in front of me … I just refuse to face them,” she tugs at the rose petal she’d been grazing her fingers on for the last minute, watching it as it fell to the ground.

Amelia scowls at Catherine’s words, “Maybe if that whore of a woman learned how to respect marriages,” she snarls, unable to comprehend how Catherine could possibly be making excuses for you and Jungkook, “then this whole ordeal wouldn’t be happening. She’s going to get what’s coming to her one day.”

Loudly, Catherine exhales a breath of air, exhausted of going in circles with this conversation, honestly she didn’t expect any good advice from Amelia, she just needed an outlet to keep herself sane, “I expected to hate him,” Catherine shakes her head in dismay, “ No, I wanted to hate him, something to masquerade my hurt,” the nights of wishful thinking and crying in bed begin to cloud her mind, “It was like I was desperately waiting for the feeling to consume me, hoping the feeling would wash over me all at once,” she blankly stares at the roses in front of her, “the same way the ocean washes over a seashore at night, you know? But instead I was forced to slowly experience every raw feeling that stemmed from this situation.”

Coming to a halt, Catherine pulls out a cigar from her purse, signalling to Amelia that she needed a lighter, only causing her friend’s face to scrunch in confusion. Catherine rolls her eyes, “Why are you acting like you don’t smoke, Jimin isn’t even here,” she callously says, “Come on, I’m waiting,” she murmurs, the cigar in between her lips.  

Begrudgingly she pulls out her lighter, bringing the flame to the tip of the cigar, an exhale of smoke immediately following after, “There’s rumours these things are addicting,” Amelia mumbles, watching as Catherine inhales another puff.

“There’s also speculation in the New York Times that they can kill you, but you don’t see me believing everything I read now do you,” Catherine laughs, the two continuing their stroll, different things on both of their minds.

“Cross, loop, under the bridge. over the loop, and,” Jungkook hums the tune once made to remind himself how to tie his necktie, “secure,” he breathes out, running a hand through his hair as he didn’t exactly picture himself getting ready in his firm’s office building. But today had been a long day and he didn’t have the time to go back home and change, especially since he still had to go pick you up, and well anyone who knew you, knew that getting ready on time was not your forte.

Instead he decided that his black suit, and a color change of tie would suffice. It wasn’t like the two of you were going to be there for too long, your performance was at the near beginning, the opening act per say.

He was excited to see what you’d pick out to wear, your outfits never failing to put a smile on his face, not because most of the time they were over the top and extravagant, but simply because it was you. Had it been anyone else wearing the things you dressed in, and he was sure he would’ve never bothered to spare even a glance. Honestly you could walk out with nothing but your nightgown and he would still do nothing but worship the ground you walk on.

“Tonight is going to be a good night,” he whispers, glancing at his now empty ring finger. It was going to be the start to something n—

A soft knock on the door interrupts, “Didn’t think I’d find you here,” a voice says.

Jungkook steps away from his mirror, surprised to find Jimin here at such a late hour, “Oh I didn’t realize you were still in the building,” he chuckles, “Thought I was the only one who did overtime tonight,” he glances at his wrist watch, time was on the essence, “Well I’ll see you at the event tonight, Amelia’s going with you, right?” Jungkook grabs his suit jacket from his chair, ready to make his way downstairs to the parking lot.

“Yeah, in fact I think Catherine is at the house helping her get ready,” Jungkook awkwardly tenses at the mention of his wife, the air in the room becoming stiff.

“Oh well that’s nice,” Jungkook gives him a small smile, making his way to walk out the door, “Like I said I’ll see you over there, I should really get going, my date is probably already waiting for me—”

“Y/N right?” Jimin casually asks. Jungkook stops in his tracks, mentally sighing to himself.

“Yeah you guessed it,” he gives Jimin an awkward superficial smile, his body slightly rocking back and forth in annoyance. Something about this interaction felt … uneasy.

“Actually I wanted to talk to you about that…”

Jungkook cocks his head in confusion, “Talk about what,” putting no effort to hide his annoyance. Jimin remains silent, as if contemplating his next choice of words, “Jimin I don’t have all day,” he sighs. Whatever this was was better be good, he thinks to himself.

“I,” Jimin pulls out a folded piece of paper from his pocket, “I need to show you something.”

Fixing your bright red lipstick, you hear the footsteps of someone entering the room, “I’m almost ready Jungkook, I just need to make sure these pins stay in place and I should be good to go,” you ramble, “Oh I’m so excited Jungkook! I couldn’t sleep all night yesterday, just thinking about performing was making me anxious, and well I just want to say thank you, you know? I know I wouldn’t be people’s first choice when it comes to performing at such a prestigious event, especially considering what a lot of people think of people who work in jobs like mine, but,” you fumble with your words, “but, it’s just so,” you clap your hands together, “oh I just can’t explain it! And to be your date,” your eyes sparkle. Tonight was going to be the night. Tonight you were going to tell him.

“To finally be given an opportunity it’s just—I don’t think I can thank you enough,” you finally breathe out, the feeling of excitement completely radiating off of you as you place your earrings on.

You wait for Jungkook to reply, to shower you with kisses like he always does when he sees you, but instead you’re met with complete silence, his figure from the reflection of the mirror completely frozen. Quickly you turn around, nose now wrinkled in confusion, “Jungkook?” you uneasily ask, the young man you were so enamored with only staring at you with a hardened gaze, his expression unreadable.

“Jungkook, what’s wrong?” you ask again, your voice laced with concern, “Did something happen? Do I need to change my setlist? Cause I can easily do that, I mean a perf—”

“You’re not performing tonight,” he harshly interrupts, your face falling as you hear the annoyance drip from every word.

“Oh,” your skin pales, your voice failing to hide its disappointment, “Can I ask why?”

“Because I told the committee you’re not, I managed to find a replacement last minute,” your face crinkles in shock.

“Wait what?” What the hell was going on? Why would Jungkook do that? Did you do something? Your heart begins to thud against your chest, the tingling feeling in the soles of your feet quickly spreading all over your body, “Why—Why would … why would you do something like that?” your eyebrows furrow, the feeling of anger now rising from the pits of your stomach.

Jungkook chuckles before pulling out a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, “You really had me fooled Y/N,” he purses his lips, trying his best to contain his anger, “I cannot believe I let things get this far with you,” his voice shakes, every word seething with anger.

“What the hell are you talking about?” you cry out, genuinely lost. Uncrumpling the piece of paper, he turns it towards your direction, “Am I supposed to know what that is?” you snap, your face becoming red at his vague comments.

“You know you could really stop with that whole stupid act of yours,” he spits, “Honestly I should’ve known better than to trust someone like you,” he lets out a dry laugh.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” you clench your fist.

“Well here take a look at it for yourself,” harshly, you snatch the letter from his hands, your eyes quickly skim through the contents of it. 

“You think I wrote this?” your eyes widen in shock, now getting up from your seat and handing the letter back to him.  

“I know you did,” he laughs, flailing his arms in the process, “Really Y/N? Jimin? Of all people? Did you really think it wouldn’t come back to me?” he almost sounds disgusted.

“But I didn’t! This isn’t even my handwriting!” tears of both frustration and anger begin to well in your eyes, “You have to believe me!” your voice booms across the room.

“I don’t have to believe shit!” he finally yells, the veins from his neck now popping out, “Your signature and name are written in these Y/N! You know how embarrassing this is?” he presses, “All because you can’t keep your fucking legs closed!” your mouth gapes in shock,  “And God I can only imagine the amount of men you’ve probably tried seducing, I’m just the idiot who fell for it all,” he laughs, “And you know I kept trying to tell myself that you wouldn’t do something like this, that you wouldn’t try seducing a married man,” his words drip with sarcasm, “But you have!”

Rapidly you try to blink your tears away, refusing to let him see you cry, “You don’t mean that,” you whisper, shaking your head at his words.

“But I do!” he bites back, “But you know what it's fine,” he knew the next words that were going to come out of his mouth were going to be a low blow. And in the back of his mind he knew he didn’t mean them, but he was angry, no, he was furious. He didn’t care what he had to say, he wanted you to feel just as hurt as he was, “it’s fine because I’ll be able to sleep at night knowing you’ll be stuck here for the rest of your life doing God knows what like the who—”

“Can you stop,” you try to scream, but instead your voice comes out hoarse, your lower lip trembling in sadness, “please,” you whisper, no longer being able to take any of this, “I didn’t write those letters,” you repeat, desperate for him to listen to you, “I know you have reason to believe Jimin, he’s your long time friend, I understand that, and I know my job doesn’t exactly have the best reputation,” you ramble with your words, heaving in between, “But I wouldn’t do this to you!”

“And why should I believe you?”

“Because I,” your voice shakes, “Because I’m in love with you,” you cry out, “Don’t you get it? In love,” you emphasize, moving your hands in frustration, “You think I would’ve kept this going for so long if I didn’t feel something for you?” He remains silent, “I fell in love with you, okay? You!” you scream , “The way you kiss me, the way you touch me,, the way you laugh at every corny joke I make, the way you reassure me about myself whenever I feel insecure, the way your eyes light up whenever you talk about something that fascinates you whether it be boring old stocks to future industrial revolutions,” you let out a choked sob, “or the way you have this compulsion to squeeze my cheeks every time you tease me, and I could go on and on.”

“You’re my person,” you whimper, the final plea in this tragic story.

He turns his gaze to the floor, refusing to look at you, “I was never yours to begin with,” he mutters, walking out of the room and slamming the door behind, leaving you to ask yourself, What. Just. Happened?

Leaning against the door frame, Catherine exhales whatever’s left of her cigar, butting the stub on the wall. “You know, I really don’t mind moving to my parent’s country townhouse,” she casually says, calmly watching her soon to be ex-husband pack his office belongings.

It had been two weeks since your argument with Jungkook, and though he couldn’t confidently say that you hadn’t been on his mind everyday since, he was sure he would be just fine. Of course, he had been sad the first couple of days, then the sadness had become anger once again, until finally he was where he was currently at. Numbness.

Distracting himself with loads of paperwork, working overtime, and being in the midst of a divorce was doing wonders. Hell, he wouldn’t be surprised if now at the age of twenty-two, greys hairs started to appear because of the overwhelming stress he had to deal with.

Bringing himself back to reality, he’s quick to reject Catherine’s idea, “No, it’s fine, you picked out this place to begin with,” he chuckles, “Hell, I still remember how excited you were about decorating and the effort you put into all of this,” he gives her a small apologetic smile, “it’s only right that you stay. Honestly, I don’t see why you wouldn’t, you did an amazing job with this place.”

“Still, you paid for this place, it’s under your name,” she responds, “This place is just too much of a—” she hesitates.

“Reminder,” Jungkook completes, now having stopped his packing. The two stand there in what couldn’t be described as an awkward silence, but one of understanding.

“A reminder of what we illusioned ourselves in,” she looks down at her ring finger, smiling at its empty sight, “it’s funny,” she laughs, “even before you started the affair, I used to look down at my ring, and for some reason I never did feel,” she pauses, “what’s the word,” she takes a couple of seconds to regain herself, “I never truly felt… happy,” she states, surprised at how such a simple word could mean so much, “but now I look at the sight of it being gone, and I feel relieved, in fact, I feel... free,” she reiterates, her eyes now watery.

“We were young and pressured, I didn’t even have a sense of my own identity yet, and I mean not that it’s any excuse for what you did,” she emphasizes, “but I’m sure you didn’t have one either, I guess we were just too busy trying to please our respective families,” she scoffs, a smile now on her face, “I still even get your birthday confused sometimes,” she jokes around, causing Jungkook to flash his toothy grin at her, “Never did I bother to learn the small details about you,” she inhales and exhales a deep breath, “but she did,” she says, breaking eye contact with Jungkook, not because she was mad or sad, but because she’d come to realize something.

“I was in love with the idea of you, the things you would buy me, the compliments I would get from everyone around me, the idea of being able to flaunt a perfect life, but I think, no, I know I was never in love with you,” she looks at Jungkook once again, tears now freely flowing from his eyes, a chapter in their life now coming to its end.

“I don’t hate you for what you did Jungkook,” she blinks her own tears away, personally tired of all the crying she’s done, “nor do I hate Y/N,” she says, for the first time saying your name, the name smoothly rolling off the tip of her tongue, no ill feeling behind it, “I just wish things could’ve been different, in terms of us realizing that we were just never meant to be,” she finishes off, the final wave finally washing over her. The feeling of acceptance.

Catherine slowly walks towards him, embracing the crying man into a hug, giving him a small heartfelt kiss to the cheek, “I really am sorry Catherine,” he whispers, the words being nothing but genuine.

“I know,” she whispers in return. Gently, she breaks from the hug, wiping the tears that brimmed her eyes, “Come on, you gotta finish your packing,” she says, rolling the sleeves of her robe, and making her way to his desk.

“It’s fine really,” he starts, but she’s quick to ignore him and begin her rummaging of his things. So instead of fighting against her help, he goes back to continuing with what he was doing, the two quietly organizing things, finally at peace.

“I think that’s the last of it,” Jungkook huffs, taping the final cardboard box of paperwork. The two step back and look at the empty room, feeling proud of their hard work, “Well I’m gonna go take this down,” Catherine nods in response, Jungkook now leaving the room.

Her eyes scan the room one last time, making sure nothing was getting left behind, until surprisingly, she does in fact catch something from the corner of her eye. The edge of a piece of paper below the wooden bookshelf sticking out, “That’s weird,” she mumbles to herself, surprised at how she failed to notice it earlier.

Crouching down, she picks up the torn piece of paper, her eyebrows now furrowing at its incompleteness, with only half of the whole sheet being there. She turns the direction of the paper to where there’s writing, her eyes widening at what she sees, “Oh no,” she whispers to herself, trying to think quick on her feet, “The trashcan,” she says to herself, quickly grabbing it and tossing the remnants onto the floor, her breathing now uneasy as she sat on the floor, beginning to uncrumple the pieces of torn paper, silently hoping what she was thinking was all some twisted joke.

With her burst of adrenaline she somehow reassembles the ripped letter, her stomach dropping at the sight of the complete version, completely ignoring the footsteps that were making their way up.

To Jimin,

I’ve had my eye on you for a while now, you should come backstage sometime for your own personal show, just like your friend. I’m sure he won’t mind. Honestly, I’ve been getting a little bored of him these days. And don’t worry, I don’t mind seeing that ring on your finger. You know where to find me…

XO, Y/N.

“Mr. Olsen seems to have gotten a new ca—” Jungkook stops dead in his tracks, immediately tensing at the sight in front of him, “Catherine what are—” Jungkook doesn’t continue with what he’s about to say, the sight of Catherine’s shocked face now confusing him more than ever.

“Oh Amelia, what did you do,” she quietly breathes out, her face now frozen in place, and her hand covering her mouth.  

“What?” Jungkook’s eyebrows furrow, “Amelia? What does Amelia have to do with—” his face immediately falls, his heart sinking at his realization.

“This,” Catherine stutters, “This is her handwriting,” she says, now looking up at Jungkook, whose face was in just as much as shock as hers, “I swear Jungkook, I didn’t know she’d do something like this,” Catherine rubs her temple, “Last time I saw her, she was bad mouthing Y/N but I didn’t she’d—” she shakes her head in dismay, “Jungkook, if I would’ve known I promise you I would’ve stopped her,” Catherine’s words sound like nothing but echoes in Jungkook’s head, his mind currently racing through a countless number of thoughts. His words from the last time he saw you now echoing in his head, the look on your face etching into his mind, oh how you kept denying the letter. The sudden pang of guilt, much too overwhelming.

“I know Catherine,” he whispers, but  all he could do was stare at the letter on the floor. And as if time was frozen, he slowly glances at the mantel clock, his heart now pounding.

8:15 PM.

You should be performing in a bit, he thinks. Immediately he switches gears, hurriedly grabbing the coat on his desk and placing it on, “I,” he stutters, a frenzy look on his face, “I have to go,” he says, quickly running out the door. The only thing he could do was hope he’d catch you on time.

“Oh look who's back, it seems I haven’t seen you in a while,” the sultry hostess purrs, “oh and that ring of yours is gone, trouble in paradise?” she pouts, guiding him to one of the tables. Politely he makes a motion to her, as if to say that he was fine, “Mm well if you ever need a shoulder to cry on, you know where to find me hun,” she winks, making her way back to the greeting area.

Jungkook, feeling as if he couldn’t breathe, adjusts his tie. His leg now bouncing rapidly in complete anxiousness, feeling the stares of a certain someone. He turns to face whoever it is, finding both the bartender and his girlfriend, whose names he was unsure of, staring at him from the bar.

The woman slyly mixes her drink with her stirrer, eyes narrowing at the sight of him, refusing to look away. The man then whispers something to her, making her finally break away from the intense stare.

Jungkook turns back around, the heavy feeling in his chest making it hard to focus on the current performer, not that he really wanted to, but he needed a distraction, something to prevent him from drowning in his own thoughts.  

The claps mellow down as the curtains close, the famous club owner, Al, making his way to the front of the stage, mic now in hand. Jungkook felt as if his stomach was doing flips, both excited and nervous to see you, as he knew you’d probably be quick to spot him, only hoping he wouldn’t scare you off.

“She’s got a voice sent from the heavens above, almost as smooth as a Friday’s glass of whiskey,” Al starts off your usual introduction, Jungkook’s heart pounding with every word spoken, “she can sing, she can dance, she can act, she’s a triple threat of course! And to add to it all, she’s got the face of the doll,” the red curtain slowly begins to open, “she’s our newest star in the making, give a warm welcome for Miss Sally Rose!”

A young woman appears from behind the curtain, counting off the same way you always did, making the same exact motion you always do to the band. Jungkook could feel himself become sick as he heard the men begin to holler at her with every piece of clothing that began to drop, as long as they had something to satisfy their lust, it didn’t matter who was on that stage, as they were nothing but animals.

Where the hell were you? This was, no, this is your time slot. Maybe you’re out sick, he tells himself, no, you loved the stage more than anything. The same woman from earlier passes by with drinks in her hands, on her way to serve God knows who. He’s quick to flag her down, hoping she knew where you were, “What can I do for you handsome?” she winks.

“You don’t happen to know where Y/N is?” he politely asks.

The question causes her to scoff, “Oh darling, me and the girls have been wondering the same thing,” she chuckles, before walking away with her drinks, leaving Jungkook much more puzzled than before. Maybe you were late, he excuses, trying not to panic.

But as every performer begins and ends, the more restless he becomes, every drink he takes only causing the echoes from every holler to become more and more irritating, the world around him now spinning.

An hour later, the young woman comes out again, performing the final song of the night, just like you always would do. Truthfully speaking, he would’ve paid no mind to the performance, but something catches Jungkook’s eye. The woman seems to have her gaze fixed on a young man in the crowd, his wife chattering with the other woman sitting next to her. The same way Catherine would—he shakes his head in dismissal, blaming what he was seeing on his drunk state.

He’s quick to get up, deciding that it was best to momentarily take a step outside and catch a breather. You had to be backstage or something, he tells himself, deciding that he’d wait until everyone was gone to see you, just like he always did.

“Things will be just fine,” he whispers, mouth trembling from the cold weather.

Sighing, Jungkook takes one last look at his empty ring finger before making his way back inside, his nerves at an all time high. He knew you were avoiding him, and he knew he was probably the last person you wanted to see, but he needed to tell you that he was sorry. That what he said was something spoken out of anger, that he was hurt, and most importantly that he should’ve believed you.

Walking in, he sees the bartender flipping chairs on top of the table, presumably cleaning up for the night. Most nights, Jungkook would simply go straight backstage, as you had told him early on in the affair that there was no need for him to introduce himself to your co-workers, but tonight, well tonight he felt like an intruder.

He stands there momentarily, the stiffness in the room almost suffocating.

“She’s gone,” the young man bitterly scoffs, not bothering to spare a glance at Jungkook, “I thought you knew that already,” he mumbles to himself, as he continued to flip the wooden chairs and place them atop of the tables, finishing what was left of cleaning.

Jungkook stares at him for a moment, the words slowly processing in his head. What did he mean by you were “gone”? You wouldn’t leave, it was unlike you. Actually, no, you couldn’t leave, where did you have to go?

He shakes his head in dismissal, shooting the brown haired man a quizzical look, “What did you say again?'" he asks. Namjoon finally looks up from what he’s doing.

Jungkook expected a spiteful glare from Namjoon, one full of hatred for what he had done to his friend, but instead his eyes were hard-rimmed and fixed, immobile as the rest of his face. Almost as if he was studying Jungkook. The cold blank look on his face sends shivers down Jungkook’s spine, but he relents on breaking the cold stare, until finally Namjoon lets out a dry laugh.

“I knew you were a hard-headed person,” he nods his head in dismay, a superficial grin on his face, “you’re also a selfish one, so I should’ve known better,” he laughs again, in awe of how someone could be so … inconsiderate? Was that the word to describe Jungkook? Namjoon thought to himself, why were you so in love with this man, simply finding it hard to believe that you could fall for a man so self-centered.

“Haven’t you noticed by now that she’s been replaced?” Namjoon mocks, “or let me guess you thought you could waltz in here like a knight in shining armor, that she was on some kind of break or something and would forget the things you said, and then things would magically go back to normal,” Jungkook remains silent, “Well?” Namjoon deadpans.

“Y/N wouldn’t just leave like that,” Jungkook says, “it’s not like her,” Namjoon was lying, he had to be.

Namjoon shrugs, “Well guess what she’s gone, I could only wish I knew where. She just grabbed her things and left without a trace, no goodbye, no nothing, but go ahead, look for yourself,” Namjoon makes a motion towards your old dressing room.

Slowly Jungkook breaks eye contact, unsure of what to believe. Quietly he makes his way to the dressing room he’d been in a countless number of times in the past year, still in denial of what Namjoon just told him.

He lets out a deep breath before turning the door knob, a churning feeling in his stomach as he recalled the last time he was here, his words ringing in his head.

Immediately Jungkook feels his heart plummet as he sees the empty room, your vanity which was once full of makeup and bottled perfumes was now vacant of anything and the hangers which were once used for your extravagant outfits as well as your fluffy coats now hung unused.

Jungkook crouches to pick up the only thing that remained of you in the room, the golden glass-framed picture you had of yourself performing now shattered on the floor, a small snapshot of the star you were. He smiles in reminiscence, remembering the night the photo was taken, and how you kept rambling on about why Jungkook would spend so much to have the photo of someone like yourself taken, let alone a photo of your worst angle. But you had kept it nonetheless, hell you even hung it on the wall for safekeeping, only for it to be shattered by the same person who gifted it.

“You didn’t!” you gasp, picking up the framed photo which had been placed on your vanity desk, “When did you even take—how—” Jungkook quickly shuts you up by cupping your face, and giving you a kiss, immediately squishing your cheeks in the playful manner that he always did.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, “I thought since you didn’t want to accept my gift last time, a sincere one like this would be something you just couldn’t deny.”

“Those pearls were too much,” you shake your head in disapproval, “and you know why I couldn’t accept it,” the image of Catherine pops in your head as he remains silent, but you’re quick to shrug it off, “but this,” you say, waving the picture he had seen a plenty of times before tonight to his face, “this is special,” you grin.

“I knew you’d love it,” he smiles, giving you another peck on the lips.

“Honestly, you shouldn't have,” you laugh, still in disbelief of the photo of yourself. Hell, to have a portrait of yourself taken behind a plain old wall was already something expensive here in New York, and so to have a photo taken of yourself while performing was truly indescribable. “Too bad they got my worst angle,” you complain, causing him to roll his eyes. Grabbing the framed photo from your hands, he places it over the empty nail on the wall.

“Won’t you look at that,” he smiles, his arm wrapped around your shoulder, the two of you now silently admiring the hung photo.

“Jungkook?” you break the prolonged silence.  

He hums in response, turning his head to face you, your heart feeling as swelled as the ocean once near its moon.

“I—” you pause, just get the words out, you think to yourself. Maybe things would finally change. He stares at you in the same doe-eyed expression he always did whenever he was attentively listening to you, curious as to what you were thinking, “I just wanted to say thank you… for the photo,” you awkwardly smile, Jungkook slightly raising his eyebrow at your sudden behavior, but he doesn’t dwell on it too much, instead placing a soft kiss on your forehead.

The memory being one for a lifetime. 

Jungkook dusts off the glass fragments, carefully trying not to cut himself as his fingers graze over the flimsy developed photo. And as he studies the photo, the realization finally hits him, you were really gone.

“I’ll be fine,” he whispers to himself in a distant, quiet, lifeless voice, “I’ll be just fine,” he grazes the photo again, slowly crouching into his knees, photo still in hand, until finally the sounds of silent muffled sobs is the only thing that can be heard from your dressing room.

Namjoon quietly sweeps the floor, humming some Duke Ellington, trying his best to ignore the thoughts that lingered in the back of his mind. Jungkook had left hours ago, Namjoon having heard the silent cries from your dressing room, and for a slight second even making eye contact with the red puffy-eyed man as he left, who had been mumbling inaudible things to himself.  

He didn’t think he’d cry, was what Namjoon had first thought to himself after hearing Jungkook silently sob in your empty dressing room. He honestly expected Jungkook to do anything but cry, hell Namjoon had even told himself to be ready to throw some punches just in case he tried anything stupid.

And so to see Jeon Jungkook, the man who had been coming to this bar for the past year, never failing to order a classic gin and tonic, and always seeming like he was on top of the world, break down in a tiny isolated room, was almost something unimaginable. And for some reason it bothered Namjoon. It wasn’t that Jungkook wasn’t allowed to cry...

Namjoon momentarily stops what he’s doing, sighing in frustration.

It bothered him because it went against everything he thought of Jungkook, the image he had created for Jungkook in his head. It would mean that Jungkook was someone who never meant to be so selfish, but was someone who was emotionally blind to those around him.

And isn’t the unknown always a bit scary?

The only problem was that being blind was something involuntary, and with the countless stories you’d tell Namjoon from time to time, sometimes it seemed like Jungkook was voluntarily choosing to ignore the feelings of those around him.

Namjoon could only speculate why, but maybe, just maybe Jungkook was the kind of person who had long ago put his personal feelings aside to please those around him, including his wife, thinking that it’d be what was best.That he could live a numbing life as long as it meant those around him were satisfied, that it was enough to feel fulfilled with, until you came into the mix.

And once you did, the conflict of choosing what made him happy versus what made others happy while trying to spare both sides’ feelings and opinions, only did more harm than good, stupidly choosing to blindly believe of a false letter. 

And now Jungkook was left with no one but himself.

Was it deserved? Namjoon was unsure now. Y/N. Y/N. Y/N, Namjoon thinks to himself.

The only reason he would excuse your actions was because to those around you, seeing you happy was like the sun shining after a storm, a shine so bright you’d think those happy days would last forever, but to see you sad, it was as if the world would storm on end.

But what Namjoon should’ve realized was that at the end of the day, what you and Jungkook had done was wrong, and there was no denying it.

Hell, it even went against Namjoon’s personal beliefs. Of course it didn’t mean that he was no better of a person because the same way you two had to face the karma of your actions, he and Mina would have to reprimand themselves one day as well for excusing your actions. For allowing things to have gotten this far.

“Jungkook really did love you,” he whispers to himself, shaking his head at the conclusion of this awful tale.

Namjoon sighs.

All he could do was hope that he had done the right thing lying to Jungkook about your whereabouts, and that the next time Namjoon saw you, you’d be the successful woman you were always meant to be, and that this period in your life would be nothing more than a small chapter to look back at.

“Ticket ma’am,” the conductor approaches you. Pulling out your ticket from your purse, you allow the conductor to both inspect and punch the ticket with his rustic clipper, “Now what is a pretty New York doll like you going all the way to the city of Los Angeles for?” he chimes, “You sure you ain’t lost little lady?” he jokes, causing you to laugh.

“I sure ain’t, I’m going to Los Angeles to follow my dreams in becoming famous! You might even catch me on the big screen soon!” you gush, causing him to let out a chuckle.

“Well little lady, I’ve heard that one before and I’ve told every single person I’ve come across that it’s almost impossible,” he mentions, “And I have yet to be proven wrong,”

“Well Mr,” you glance at his name tag, “Rosco, you better remember my name and face because I’m going to make it big in Hollywoodland, I don’t care if it’s as a singer or as an actress, but just you wait!” you declare, a toothy grin plastered on your face.

“Well little miss,” he glances at the ticket which has your name printed in a red colored font, “y/n, I’ve gotta say, I don’t think I’ve met anyone with the same amount of enthusiasm you got going for yourself,” a genuine smile comes across his face as he returns you your ticket, “I wish you nothing but the best on your endeavors,” he compliments, before making his way to the seated passenger in front of you.

Looking out the train’s window, the fields of grass along with the bright blue sky that were being passed by faster than a speeding bullet, for some reason make you feel a longing for home, it was probably because everything was barely hitting you. From the moment he had said what he did in your argument, everything onward had been nothing but a sporadic adrenaline-rushed blur.

“Jungkook?” you ask to an empty room, the shakiness of your voice coming to realize the reality of what has just occurred. The sinking feeling in your chest was what could only be described as heartbreak, though it felt like so much more.

He’s coming back, he’s going to come back. He has to come back, you keep repeating to yourself. Jungkook loves you. He didn’t mean what he said. He couldn’t.

You stare at the photo you had hung on the wall, which was now cracked on the floor, a result at just how harsh the door had been slammed. You could feel the lump in your throat beginning to take its form, but you refuse to let it out. He’s coming back, he has to.

The sound of the door knob twisting quickly grabs your attention, a feeling of relief washing over you. You knew he’d come back. You were his girl, you were the love of his life.

But just as quick as the relief had come, it had left even faster once you saw that the person you thought walking through that door was in fact not Jungkook, but Namjoon who stood there in silence, trying to hide the look of pity on his face. “Y/N…” he whispers in sadness.

“N-No,” your lips wobble, “No,” you begin to vigorously shake your head in denial, “No!” you quaver out, desperately trying to blink back the floodgate of tears that was begging to be released. Namjoon could feel his gut clench at the hopelessness of the situation, knowing that there was nothing he could possibly do because Jungkook was gone, and he was not coming back.

He watches as the tears slowly begin to freely fall, the silent sobs finally escaping from your mouth. Your chest heaves, until finally a cry so raw comes out of your mouth that you grab onto your vanity chair so that your shaking would not cause you to fall.

Quickly, he makes his way to envelope you in a tight hug, humming small comforting words to your ear despite knowing that you probably weren’t listening. You sob into his chest unceasingly, your hand clutching onto Namjoon’s jacket as he held you in silence, rocking you slowly as your tears soaked his chest, blinking back his own tears. The two of you stand there for what seems like forever, the sound of your muffled sobs filling the air.

The wet mascara that was mixing itself with your tears stinging your eyes, almost as if it was trying to force you to stop crying, but you just couldn’t. With every sob that forced its way out, your chest would rise and fall unevenly as you gasped for breath.

How could he do this? Why? Things weren’t supposed to end like this. Not at all. “Shh, shh,” Namjoon hums, “you’re gonna be okay, you hear me?” he reassures. You wanted to scream, to say something, anything, but nothing could come out. If anything you could feel your lungs scream for oxygen, your airway becoming compressed with every hysterical sob that was let out.

Quickly pushing off Namjoon, you feel as if the world is spinning and that the walls of your dressing room were closing in. You begin to gasp over and over, hysterically tapping on your stomach, “Get this,” you heave out, “Get this off of me!” you breathe out, lifting your dress up, and desperately trying to unknot the corset you were wearing underneath.

Namjoon quickly grabs some scissors from your vanity, cutting the piece of ribbon which held together the piece of fabric that clinched your waist. Immediately, you could feel the air return to your lungs, a feeling of relaxation now washing over you, as the riptide finally mellowed down.

You stand in front of the mirror, staring at the reflection across from you, your tears silently falling from your cheeks. Namjoon makes his way behind you, tucking your loose strands of hair behind your ear, “Hey, listen to me,” he whispers, “you are going to be just fine,” he firmly states.

“Joon?”

“Hm,” he responds.

“Can you,” your voice cracks, “Can you just take me home?” Your question is met with silence because instead he grabs a big oversized coat from your rack and places it over your shoulders.

“Come on, let’s get out of here,” he says, watching you as you made your way out of the dressing room, for what he knew would be your last time.

Waking up to the feeling of a hand firmly shaking your shoulder, your heavy eyelids struggling to flutter open, the soreness from crying taking its toll. You must’ve fallen asleep during the car ride home, you reason, finally managing to open your eyes completely. You rub your eyes, confused as to where you were because this was definitely not the outside of your apartment building.

In fact, you were outside of Grand Central Terminal, “What the..” you turned to face Namjoon, who had a sad smile on his face, “Joon? What’s,” you falter your words, “What’s going on?” you ask, confusion now overwhelming you.

He lets out a deep sigh of sadness before continuing, “You’re going to California Y/N,” if you had been half-awake before, you certainly weren’t now, quickly jolting forward in shock, “Los Angeles or may I say Hollywoodland to be more specific,” he reiterates, a tiny chuckle coming out of his mouth.

“J-Joon,” you stutter, “you’re crazy!” you sputter, “Absolutely crazy!” you hit his shoulder causing him to let out a yelp in pain.

“Y/N I’m being serious!” he turns and points to the passenger seat of his car, “I even managed to pack most of your things while you were asleep, all the essentials are in those two luggage bags.”

“How did you even—” you shake your head, trying to stay on topic, “Joon I can’t just pack up my things and go, I have—” you hesitate with your next choice of words, what exactly did you have in New York that was holding you back?

Namjoon answers the question before you could, “Nothing. You have absolutely nothing here to hold you back, so why not go chase your dream huh?” he exclaims, “It’s what you’ve always wanted to do Y/N and I’m one hundred percent sure Hollywoodland is looking for a doll face like yours to go shake up the scene,” he laughs, “You can dance, you can sing, and you sure can act, especially those days you wouldn’t want to come into work,” he jokingly mumbles garnering him another slap to the shoulder, “Hey, hey, relax! Point is Y/N, you’re one of the most talented people I know, if not the most talented person I’ve ever met, and it’d be a waste of talent for you not to go out there and show people what you’re made of, Hell I even hear they’re beginning to develop sound films over there, and a voice like yours needs to be memorialized for future generations,” he says, as tears to begin to brim your waterlids.  

“But Joon—” you sniffle, “I don't, I don’t have the money to live out there, hell I barely have enough money in my purse to purchase myself a ticket,” you scoff because it was the truth.

“I know you don’t,” he deadpans, causing you to laugh.

“Then?” you chuckle. Slowly, he flips his coat and reaches into its inner pocket, pulling out and handing you what seemed to be a heavy envelope. You peep inside the sealed white envelope, it’s content causing you to let out a small yelp in surprise. There had to be at least 200 dollars in there! You quickly shake your head in disapprovement.

“Joon, no, no, no! You can't. You've been saving up for—!”

“Hey! Listen to me Y/N, look at me,” he demands, grabbing your hands which had been flailing around in denial. “This money right here means absolutely nothing to me if it means that someone like you can get the opportunity to pursue their dreams, especially because I know it’ll mean absolutely everything for you,” he smiles.

“But Joon, you’ve been saving up this money for your wedding for so long, I can’t, Mina’s going to kill you!” you fluster, Namjoon must’ve been going crazy or something. He’d been working so many hours for the past months, doing countless hours of overtime and being on his best behavior for some tips, how could he give it all up for some gamble at fame?

“I’ve already spoken to her about this and she had absolutely no problem with it!” he laughs, “A wedding is nothing but a celebration for a piece of signed paper, it won’t be the end of the world if we wait a little longer,” he reassures, “As long as Mina and I know we’re in this for life, then that piece of paper won’t change anything.”

“Joon I can’t—”

“You can and you will Y/N,” he firmly states, “plus you can always pay me back once you get rich and famous,” he teases, winking at you. “So, what do you say Y/N? You ready to go to Los Angeles?” You stare at him without blinking, a million thoughts racing through your head. This was your dream, the thing you’d spent a countless number of nights only imagining whenever you’d get up on that wooden stage to perform, and now you were finally going to get the chance to make it a reality.

“I don’t,” you hesitate, “I’m,” you feel your skin tingle with the words you’re about to say, now having made your decision, “I’m going to Hollywoodland,” you softly cry out in disbelief, a dimpled grin appearing on Namjoon’s face.

“Atta girl,” tears which weren’t of sadness, anger, but joy now falling from your face, as you quickly pull Namjoon into a hug. Slowly, he breaks away, “Come on, you gotta get going,” he glances at his wrist watch, which read a quarter past nine, “the train leaves half past nine, and I still gotta walk you to the departing area.”

Quickly buttoning up your coat and fixing your hair, you try your best to seem presentable, Namjoon grabbing your luggage from the backseat and exiting the vehicle, as you do the same, but for you it all feels different. Looking up to the building that surrounds the terminal, you soak in the final view of New York which you wouldn't be seeing for who knows how long. Years ago you’d imagine leaving home, but never like this, and for a moment it was as if time slowed down, almost like your brain needed a “photograph” to commemorate this moment,

The man playing on his saxophone outside the station for tips only adding a warm comfort to your fears, a reminiscent sound which was a balm to your mind, a reminder of the nostalgic chapter in your life that you’d look back to, whether it was with a joyful outlook was only for you to decide.

Slowly the two of you begin to walk to the departing area, your legs feeling more and more wobbly with every step you took. This was really happening.

“Here we are,” Namjoon announces, gently placing your luggage on the floor, and then placing hands against his hips in marvel at how gigantic the stationed train was. Your eyes glisten, once again pulling Namjoon into a hug. “You sure are emotional, you know that right?” he teases, causing you to only further tighten the hug.

You pull out the hug, “I’m going to write to you every week, I promise you!” you avow, causing Namjoon to immediately shake his head in disagreement.

“No, no, you have to focus on your career every waking minute Y/N, if anything just save a couple of bucks every month and ring me here and there, I’m always at the club most of the time and it’s not like you don’t know my schedule, plus I’m sure Al won’t charge me for using the telephone machine every once in a while,” he explains, voice slightly wavering, as his eyes were now glossy from trying to hold back his tears causing you to let out a laugh.

“Come on, you know you wanna cry,” you sniffle, pulling him in for another hug.

“Ah, I’m gonna miss you Y/N,” he laughs through his tears, “they don’t make em like you anymore.”

“This is the final boarding call for New York to Los Angeles which includes a stop at Chicago!” the conductor yells out the train, “I repeat, this is the final boarding call for New York to Los Angeles!” Namjoon quickly taps on your shoulders, rushing you to get on board.

Swiftly, you pick up the luggage cases on the floor, and begin to make your way inside the train but not before shouting something to Namjoon, “Hey, I expect to see a pregnant Mina the next time I see you guys, you hear me!” he facepalms himself, his cheeks becoming red at how loudly you announced it.

You quickly run to your seat, looking at Namjoon through the window, who remained where he stood, the train slowly beginning to move, while the conductor pulls the lever for the steam whistle, the final declaration to the new chapter in your life. You anxiously wave to Namjoon one last time, a grand smile on both of your faces, as he waves in return. The (what you assumed) family members of other passengers also waved goodbye, many teary eyed as you could only imagine the stories of everyone else on the train.

Once you were out of eyesight, you made yourself comfortable on your seat, slightly tilting your head against the window, a long unexpected trip now ahead of you.

Los Angeles from what you could currently tell was definitely different than to what you were used to in New York, but beautiful nonetheless. The cab you managed to pin down was currently driving you to the small motel you found on one of the welcoming pamphlets of the city.

Currently, you were being driven down the newly built Sunset Boulevard, where you could only hope you’d be living on sometime in the near future.

“Ah there it is,” the taxi driver points out the window, and immediately a wonderstruck look appears on your face, your heart now pounding in excitement at the sight of the word “Hollywoodland” appearing from the mountains. “Welcome to Los Angeles kid,” the man says, to which you only nod your head in dumbfoundedness, “you better make the most of it.”

“I sure am.”

a/n: i purposely left the ending ambiguous just because i felt like it should be your guys’ imagination as to whether y/n makes it big in hollywood depending on whether you like her or not LOL, so if you don’t like her you could always imagine she flopped or sum, and whatever jungkook does afterward being unknown as well. Catherine a better person than me, cause forgiving a cheater just aint in my heart LMAO.

also I wanted to dive further into namjoon and y/n’s friendship, as well as add a scene where y/n went shopping for her dress but I was burning out and so hopefully I did good conveying the sincerity of their friendship and the importance of the event to y/n + talk more about jk’s and catherine’s families but I think I put enough hints, that you guys would get the point and its effects on them as people. 

Feel free to comment, send me a message, or drop an anon! Anything is appreciated & if you can please like and reblog 💘 till next time.