#endeavour and s/i

[almaadst]

Commission for @kittifer (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ) Christmas is around the corner so I wanted to wish you a safe and calm time with your family, friends, pets, and F/O c(❁´◡`❁) Other: Commission info Santana and Alucard Bunny Trio

PLEASE DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT MY or OWNER PERMISSION!

[time-is-restored]

btw this might be me swinging a bat at a hornets nest but like. absolutely none of my disappointment from the tl finale comes from ship baiting or any relationships that didn’t happen (though to be clear, i think the tedbecca fake outs were meanspirited and served no narrative purpose - in noted contrast to the season's earlier jamiekeeley fakeouts, for example, which were explicitly there to demonstrate jamie's growth + maturity)

tedpendant is a really fun concept for me, and i LOVE the characterisation + thematic potential there!

but as someone who personally resonated with a lot of ted’s struggles, the idea that ted could leave richmond so… seamlessly, for lack of a better word, really doesn’t sit right with me. the thesis of the shows entire first season - assuming it can be said to have only one - was about how everyone needs the love and support of a community, whether that comes in the flavour of someone who hypes u tf up or someone who will relentlessly call u on ur shit (or, as happened quite frequently, both!).

rebecca, roy, jamie are the clearest examples as the characters with the most screentime: they were all deeply isolated and disconnected from the people around them, and that was making them miserable. the connections they made with the team, the vulnerability they finally allowed themselves to express (the ghost banishing ceremony comes to mind!), and them going on to want *more* out of their life are what made their arcs about *progression* rather than *regression*. without that clear theme of compassion + community inspiring positive growth in everyone who encounters it, there is, frankly, no season one.

my personal favourite scene from season one comes right after michelle walks away from ted, when they’ve agreed to get divorced. ted sits down on the bench looking gutted, and a little shell shocked - and beard sits down with him. hands him the drink, and they sit there together. silent, but together. to me, that scene is an implicit promise from the episode, to the audience: ‘it’ll be okay. it’s going to be hard, but ted isn’t alone, and his friends won’t leave him behind.’

it also makes it clear to the audience that ted isn’t the saintly-giver-of-grace who needs nothing in return, as one might assume on first brush, but rather that he’s Also struggling with his own shit (as is everyone, always, in real life!) and he has something he needs from the people around him too.

and looking at the text of s3, and the conclusion to his arc in the finale, i just don’t believe that he got it. he wasn’t just sad that he was leaving (which would be understandable!), he was completely closed off. unresponsive to the people around him reaching out, borderline confused as to why they were trying so hard!

(side note, while i completely respect the read of ted and trents last interaction being rather rude + ooc on ted’s part, i personally read a different motive into it. for me, it was more like… he didn’t understand where trents enthusiasm was coming from? like, he read that as trent being too invested in what other people think of him, and responded in a way that he hoped would emphasise that ted doesn’t *need* to laugh at everything trent wrote, bc trent Already Knows that he’s done something really cool and kickass, and he shouldn’t value anyone else’s reactions above that. basically, based on his demeanour in the episode, i genuinely don’t think it would’ve even occurred to him that trent was more invested in HIS reaction than he would’ve been with anyone else.)

again, looking purely at the text, the show had already established that ted has really strong depressive + avoidant tendencies, as well as panic attacks (largely triggered by his fear of not being ‘good enough’ in various roles, ie: a father). we saw one area he was able to calm HIMSELF abt these fears (worry for henry, which is a Hell of a choice considering the ending…), but in literally every other heightened moment, he had to rely on his support system to help him make the choices that he WANTED to make, rather than ones inspired by avoidance and fear (ie: confronting michelle abt jake, talking to his mum abt why she was visiting + his dads death).

and to be clear, this is a GOOD THING! we’re not supposed to go through life alone, no matter how bad OR well we’re doing. rebecca and keeleys friendship isn’t worth less for all the scenes where they’re both in good places. if anything, the opposite is true - it’s lovely that they both have someone who want to celebrate the achievements in their life!

and fuck it, we’re sure as hell not supposed to go through life with exactly one (1) person whom we expect to fulfill ALL of our emotional needs at all times either! like, im sure i don’t need to labour my point here, but tying everything to one (1) person in ur life doesn’t make u any less isolated than if u were going it completely alone, whether it’s a family member, a friend, or a partner. i won’t pretend to know the first thing abt what it’s like to be a parent, but i don’t think it’s unreasonable to say that no parent would be at their best if they had absolutely no support/camaraderie/general love provided to them from Anyone other than their child.

so when ted is SPECIFICALLY shown to be in a bad place, over and over again (did he come to terms w his fear to be close to henry overnight???????), and then removed from his community? of COURSE the audience is left feeling unsettled, and like the rug has been pulled out from under them. there was no time in this finale dedicated to how ted would still be in contact with anyone from richmond. no promises of visits, or phone calls - fuck, nothing about emails!! according to the text, we might as well assume this is a clean break (and the maybe-dream-sequence does Fuck All to assure us otherwise. if ted doesn’t go to beards wedding, what WOULD he go to????). and since the show has ALSO completely failed to give us even an IMPLICATION of who/what ted’s support system would be in kansas, there’s… a reasonable argument to be made that this is It for ted. that, after two seasons doing NOTHING but attesting otherwise, the audience is supposed to suddenly believe that ted can (and SHOULD!) pull himself up by his bootstraps, and cope entirely on his own.

that, to me, is a betrayal of the show’s premise. we were promised a show about how, no matter how dark things may get, none of the characters would be left to struggle alone. and then they ended the show with ted alone.

i don’t know. i guess if i had to give this post a tldr; if anyone has any gen fic/meta/Literally Anything in the pipeline, i would absolutely love to be tagged/directed towards it. i’ll be endeavouring to write something myself, as well, but it might take a while before i can return to my WIP, lol.

[thewatcher98]

[to-be-frank-i-dont-care]

Joan looking at Morse

(Morse looking at Joan)

[inumakkin]

Look at the birb

[redeemed-wren]

me, venturing into the Endeavour episodes I haven't watch first time around: The season six finale is FUN like yes there's high stakes and higher body count but it feels almost like the earlier seasons before everything went wrong, AND we had a fun scene of Morse covered in dust and dirt, and it's not exactly personally emotionally devastating! We love this!

Thursday and Win with the steal chair: You said emotionally devastating?

[ron-do-i-get-to-sing-my-way]

Big midterm tomorrow and the panic is hitting but as soon as I start reviewing stuff, it’s like, oh this actually isn’t so bad. I just don’t have time to properly review it all :) BUT, I accepted an invitation to a jam tonight instead of studying because that makes me happy. And a post-midterm open mic. Just as a little treat.

[b-blushes]

i'm literally soooo strong and won't collapse into tears if my calls to the pharmacy continue to not go through 💪💪💪

[sandfordsmostwanted]

*drops into the fandom and runs away*

[taegularities]

entertainer | jjk (m)

Summary: Growing singer Jeon Jungkook is as charismatic as he is self-absored – that is, until he meets you. Caught in a web of secrets, he finds a riddle in you he urges to solve; even ready to turn the spotlight towards you until nothing remains… but regret.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: strangers to lovers (or something); angst, bits of fluff, smut!! ➳ warnings: do not fall for this jk i repeat do not f– 🚨 he's kinda hot though; (not so) silent yearning, flirting, a shit ton of sexual tension, sexual fantasies, some jealousy from his side, he is very VERY attracted to her, mystery, oc is a big question mark, full jk pov!, difficult past(s), (mention of) sexual harassment, mentioned past death of a side character, crying, fear, manipulation, confrontation and fighting, aggression, cursing, cocky and selfish kook, overthinking, secrets and revelations, explicit sexual content: kissing, fingering, teasing, drunk shenanigans, sooo much lust, big dick jk, dom jk, oc is odd, oral (f. receiving), spit stuff, handjob, manhandling, orgasm delay, lip ring…, light choking, bit of hair pulling, a spank or two, coming on oc, some cum tasting mmmh, ass stuff, protected sex, rough sex, various positions, masturbation; as always THE ENDING!! lmk if i forgot something!! ➳ wc: 32.4k ➳ a/n: MHMMM, it's finally time!! i experimented with the trope a little; def not a professional when it comes to this genre, but i tried my best. both oc and jk are odd in this one, and you might be on either's side and hate either of them, i can't say :'D very curious tho, so come and drop a message to lmk what you think. let it aaaall out :P <3

➳ listen to the Entertainer playlist! 🖤   

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs 

Jungkook has always wanted an audience to perceive him.

Not just to perceive him, in fact. To worship him.

Jungkook doesn’t consider himself a bad person. Spoiled, a little selfish, but not necessarily bad. He enjoys attention, no matter how temporary or who the giver of it. Feasts on it like an incubus.

What’s wrong with that? Nothing.

Or. 

Maybe there is. Maybe he’s coming on too strong.

Because you’re not part of his audience, sitting over there, middle row, middle spot, with your eyes lowered to the notebook. And when you do look up, there’s nothing but indifference in your eyes.

It irks him. Maybe he is a little narcissistic, and maybe he can’t quite deny it after all — but as part of his future team, you should at least fake a smile, right? Display a certain amount of enthusiasm, the joy of working with aspiring artists.

But no.

You’re occupied, scribbling into your notebook. Jungkook, cognisant of the fact that he hasn’t issued much of significance today, understands that you cannot be taking notes of his words. And he also understands that… if that is true…

You’re not granting him as much fascination as he’s used to.

General admiration thrown into the same bucket as his unwavering talent — that he’s well aware of — might just be the reason he climbed up so high in no time. Sometimes, gentle livestreams and vlogs do the trick — locals have found reasons to adore him already.

At times, a good song and strong vocals aren’t necessary to woo people.

Jungkook, however, is insatiable — that’s what keeps him pondering at times. That it’s just the locals, and on an international scale, there’s still much to achieve.

But he’s not a quitter, he’s a conqueror.

And he’ll reach that mind-boggling status of a well-known, global icon, name flowing as naturally through the seam of people’s lips as a still-lying, tranquil lake.

Jungkook knows it’s cocky of him to praise himself to the skies and to rely on his resolute hopes so much. He knows life backfires sometimes, and that endeavours don’t always pay off. He only started as an insignificant city boy, too.

Survived the cruelty of elementary and middle school; shared a room with his brother, relying on him until he grew and learned to finally rule over high school; every single soul at his beck and call. Then, trudged through college before any of where he’s standing even existed.

But he’s here now. And people acknowledge it.

Except you.

And it throws him off his balance. Which is probably why he shortens the end of his speech, close to slurring distracted syllables before he realises he’s forgotten a prepared sentence or two.

No matter; the relevant and main message should have been delivered by now.

So he leans back in a chair in the back, flashing a captivating smile and waits for the applause. Somewhat proud when the praise needs a moment to cease for his manager to reclaim the mic, freeing the metaphorical stage, much in the form of a simple pult, for the CEO of the company.

Taehyung is savvy of how to regain control over a stage; Jungkook doesn’t know whether he fucked up his final remarks, but Taehyung summarises his ideas well. But the clapping does say a lot.

And between those raising their hands to appreciate Jungkook’s speech, you were, too. He knows because he looked directly at you; still is. And when your eyes drift to his, the two of you hold each other’s gazes for at least a couple seconds longer than the others.

And your smile, while present, is somewhat tight-lipped, a bit awkward but confident, too. Odd, as well; hard to explain, but as though you know what you want. As though you have your priorities set straight and cannot be swayed by anything the world might throw at you.

He doesn’t have a word for it. Poised? Self-reliant? Fearless? Can a single look even say this much or is he being delusional?

But this can’t be true, honestly. Nobody is this unperturbed or passive. He’ll find out.

Your stare aligns with his a couple more times over the next minutes, staying there before continuing the journey over the crowd. Jungkook’s eyebrows twitch just a little whenever your eyes pierce into his, so tantalising and deep, big sweet ires, but so conniving at the same time.

He doesn’t know your name, but he’s sure that it defines intrigue. And maybe, just perhaps, it might serve as the synonym for drop fucking dead gorgeous, too.

When Taehyung leads you to Jungkook’s stuffy studio, the latter hears your voice through the open door several seconds before you come in. Or actually, it’s not quite his studio.

More like a collective office that a couple of the newcomers use. Jungkook has been part of this crew a little longer, but he needs the additional success, more prosperity; he’s been told to yield more results to earn his very own four walls. Carrying his signature flavour.

But it’s okay. For now, this suffices…

The stench of coffee and the sound of the AC. The pot and plants that always rest in some corner of the room, courtesy of Taehyung who insists on some colour in the grey-white, small room. Jungkook has gotten used to it all.

Which is why it’s strange, seeing your splendour enter the small space, delighted by whatever Taehyung might be explaining. Your grin is the widest Jungkook has seen since yesterday.

He didn’t get to meet you properly yet, so he can’t say where your humour lies. Nobody introduced you, despite your new position as his very own, personal work partner. A second manager, here to guide and aid him when Taehyung can’t; and apparently, you’ve found some charm in Taehyung that you didn’t see in Jungkook during the stupid meeting.

Not that Jungkook would ever dare to doubt his friend’s appeal, but you’ve stormed into his life like a present, and so silently, too; and he wanted to be the one to open it. To reveal it.

Not Taehyung. Even if it’s his job.

Okay. Calm down. Jungkook sighs. That again.

A motherly blanket of praises and fatherly pats of pride. That’s what’s gotten his head so riled up. He was coddled too much as a child. Made felt special. That’s over now, Jeon, you’re in an industry filled to the brim with competition.

Chill chill chill.

But now?

With that alluring smile staring up at Taehyung, only hints of it left when your eyes move to Jungkook. Fuck.

But Jungkook’s stance remains steadfast and self-assured when he greets, “Hi there. Welcome at last, huh?”

Jungkook notices when your mind snaps out of the conversation with Taehyung and into the one he started; a gentle hand frees your face off your hair to enable a proper view to it. The other is still dug deep in the pocket of your leather jacket, covering parts of the white top underneath.

Semi-long, silver earrings rest right below your ear, against your neck when you tilt your head a little; your expression so respectful and inviting when you smile. Jungkook inhales you in that one split moment, details stinging into the eye without much effort.

And perhaps he’d observe more, appreciate your stunning, obvious beauty and elegance further; but time passes as it does before you finally utter your very first sentence to him, “Hi. Didn’t think I’d ever be saying this, but… thank you for having me.”

That’s sweet.

Your words are reminiscent of the adoration his fans grant him, but your expression is as cool as a refreshing autumn wind. The perfect balance, possibly.

Jungkook gestures to a small couch in the back, right next to the door, but you raise a rejecting hand, claiming, “Been sitting all day observing Taehyung. Need to walk a bit.”

And you do. Deliver a last farewell nod to Taehyung who waves a little, gripping the handle and locking you in the room with the younger man nearly drooling over you.

The hand hidden in the jacket before has emerged, arms loosely folded as you take in the interior of the studio, allowing no more insight into your thoughts than, “Nice.”

Jungkook hums in distracted agreement, standing at the wall, watching you roam around the humble space in small steps. It’s odd, being in here with you; the atmosphere fizzles, a little less like electricity, just a bit more than carbonic acid.

But the moment was to arrive anyway; you’ll be a close link to Jungkook from now on. Of course you need to familiarise yourself with his space, too. So far, you seem to have an opinion on it already.

“Easy to trigger claustrophobia, but,” you walk through the open door to the darker recording room, tapping the mic for a moment, “cosy, too. Very cool equipment.”

“Yeah. I agree.” Pause, eyes dropping to your fingers grazing the stand of the mic. Then, “I would’ve come to you today… or yesterday for that matter, but things were so chaotic and—”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you assure, waving his concerns off, “I could see people rushing around and preparing the moment I got here. I’m probably not the main concern right now among everybody.”

“Nah, that’s not it. We have a great team here.” You step out again, hands folding behind your back until you’re leaning against the wall opposite of him, mirroring his stance. “I’m sorry you arrived at such a stressful time, though.”

“Not your fault. I decided so myself fully knowing you were in the middle of something.”

Ah. So you’ve seen his interviews, read the news. You came here with sufficient knowledge about him, alright.

“Really though,” you continue, blinking slowly, “I’m just glad to be here at all.”

Ah. Yes — about that.

“What brought you to our company anyway?” Jungkook asks, coating his voice in sugar to decrease the risk of unintentional and prying rudeness. “I mean — it’s been a while since somebody joined the main team, is all.”

“Oh. What brought me here…” You slide down the wall just a few inches, staring at your feet before you meet his eyes again. Something flashes in them for a miniscule second, albeit too brief to be caught and analysed. Then, you say, “Sentiments?”

Jungkook gathers words of confusion the moment you utter yours, a question already on his tongue. Has he been here long enough to evoke sentiments in his followers? Or do you veil a whole different connection to this company than he might understand?

Who knows. It doesn’t feel too deep, at least, when you speak again, elaborating when his eyes reveal his bedazzlement before he can, “I mean, I like your work.”

Okay. So much he interpreted; and he must admit — the feeling of pride is a thoroughly unique one.

“I think you’ve been deserving of your growth, and I just,” you speak, shrugging your shoulders, digging one heel into the solid ground, “I could never stop thinking of what I’d say or do if I was here or how I’d try to help, even though I’m not a true musical genius like you.”

This is so excitingly new.

How poised you remain as you talk about your fascination for him; how carefully you choose your words. He’s met fans before, but he doesn’t think any of them has ever practised such control over themselves.

And harbouring such emotions for a tiny little celebrity like him while simultaneously treating him like a human being is an art you’ve well mastered. Despite Jungkook’s urge to feel loved and worshipped to a dependent degree, you’re an incredibly attractive change in pace.

Ugh.

Dependent degree.

Although, he does wonder what you’d be like if you fawned over him.

Jungkook contains the fantasy; suppresses his sigh.

“So,” he starts, “you’re here because you’re a fan.”

“Mmmh. Kind of. My friends started it and then pulled me into this. Honestly, at first I couldn’t imagine ever getting into your stuff.”

Your gaze moved down to your trainers a mere moment ago; whether to hide your expression or give into a habit, Jungkook can’t say. But the honesty surprises him; even stings a little as he voices, “Oh?”

Your head shoots up, lips forming a circle before you imitate, “Oh. Wait. That was… pretty rude.” You seek confirmation or denial in Jungkook’s eyes, and when his slightly wrinkled forehead, tight-lipped smile reveals the answer, you immediately opt for an apology, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“How did you mean it then?”

“Just that.” You fiddle in your position, bringing your digits to waist level. Then, you laugh; a rhythmic sound. “Okay, don’t hate me, but. I was one to judge a book by its cover, and you had this young adult too-confident-too-sly something about you. But your music’s surprisingly sentimental.”

Jungkook halts for a moment, moving his head to side-eye you; producing a hoarse Uhhh before he admits, “I’m not sure whether you’re complimenting me or fully destroying me.”

Another lovely laugh. “I am complimenting you. To be fully transparent, I was probably, uh, biased? Because my friend. They have a knack for usually pulling very questionable men, so I probably just didn’t entirely trust their intuition.”

“Fair enough. I guess?” Jungkook matches the softness of your giggle, nodding towards you, “And now you do?”

“Mmmh, well, we’ll see.”

Jungkook must be stupid. Of course you won’t be able to deduce much from the first meeting yet; perhaps the flirting needs to slow down for just now. You seem the patient kind; much like now, letting the quick silence prevail without much struggle.

No sign of awkwardness surrounds your aura; only a hint of… suspicion? Flashing into your eyes when you let them move through the room again, freezing right next to Jungkook’s head. You’re not looking at him, but at something past him; but you don’t question nor voice anything.

Merely return to his stare with a smile, and he uses the moment to pour some courteous manners into the mix, asking, “Do you want something to drink? Coffee, water? A Red Bull?”

But you immediately raise a hand, shaking your head, “Oh, it’s okay. I’ve already got caffeine flowing there instead of blood,” you slide a finger along your arm, indicating a vein under your layers, “I just mainly came to say hi and to introduce myself. And to ask if I can help anyhow.”

“Ah… well, uh,” Jungkook halts mid-sentence, throwing a look around as though he’s searching for something to appear before he concludes, “don’t think so. I was in the middle of some production work, but don’t think I need much.”

“I see. Okay! Then I’ll leave yo—”

“But,” Jungkook intervenes immediately, adamant on keeping you around. Maybe he can wrap up work earlier today? Bring you home? Probably not — not on Taehyung’s watch. “Maybe you can tell me what you think once I’m done?

“Of course. It’d be my pleasure.”

“Would have an excuse for your company, too, then.”

The laugh that follows is so subtle that Jungkook barely hears it. It doesn’t leave your throat, stuck in there, just a tiny sound reminiscent of amused bafflement. 

Jungkook knows his way around words — understands what his utterances and implications usually apply. But somehow, not too many people have been the calmer ones in the room; aside from his superiors at work, not having the upper hand is new to him. 

So you set a fuse loose in him; destroy a nerve in his brain, changing up his communication habits. Because he certainly did not mean to say this out loud. And not in such a sense either.

He adds quickly, “I mean, it gets lonely here.”

“Right…” you concur, albeit weakly and with somewhat… entertained mystery in your eyes? He can’t say. It’s as though you’re wearing your face as a mask, undecipherable. “I get it. Even though your studio is cosy enough to enjoy your own company at times, right?”

“Not mine. But we’ll work on that.”

He cards his fingers through his hair, aware that he is probably more than an open book right now; his usual perfect poker face does not work with you.

Why? 

Weird.

“Got a couple things here that are mine, though. Yoongi and the others allowed me,” he adds.

“Ah… Like…”

Surprisingly enough, you take another look through the tiny room, possibly trying to detect something you didn’t see before. Regarding details. Then, you settle next to his head once again… and once Jungkook moves his eyes off you for the first time since you came in, he sees what you see.

Which is to say, nothing much out of the ordinary. In fact, the most trivial thing in the room.

“Like that?” you voice, pushing yourself off the wall to near his relaxed body. The scent of your perfume wafts through the room before you’re close enough; tenderly grazing his senses. “What’s that?”

Focus.

Your finger points to the object next to him, hanging at a nail at the wall; dark blue with white letters on it. Pretty mundane, pretty basic design.

“Just… a cap I bought back in college.”

You read out the name, pronouncing it perfectly, yet slowing down as if you’re learning a new foreign term. The sudden inquiry is strange, too: you don’t seem as truly curious about it as your question did; perhaps you’re playing for some time with him, too?

He wouldn’t hate it if you did.

“Do you know that one?” he questions.

You nod; a main hint as to why you wanted to know, yet indicating that the knowledge wasn’t of much significance. You say, “Isn’t it a popular one? I had a few friends who went there.”

“Hm… yeah, I mean. I guess it’s a known one. I got a degree there in broadcasting and entertainment like… four years ago.”

You exhale a barely audible puff of air before you whisper-murmur the most infinitesimal, petite, “Damn,” underscored with one indecipherable tilt of your head. He can’t see your eyes too well, so the reaction remains as transparent as you have been thus far.

Until he raises a thick eyebrow, confusion hidden in a somewhat relaxed yet awkward smile as he wonders, “What?”

“Hm? Oh, nothing, just. It’s impressive how much you’ve achieved in just four years, right?”

“…Well. If you say it like that, it does sound pretty neat.”

The bubble of pride expands alongside his ego; right beneath his chest. Somehow, the feeling changes his posture, makes him feel bigger. 

Perhaps you notice what your praise elicits; perhaps you’ve already fathomed his persona that he usually doesn’t dare to reveal this fast. But whatever he conceals with his fans, lies in front of you with an open access.

You make it easy to feel comfortable; he doesn’t need to know you too long to acknowledge this much.

“I graduated not too long ago, too. Three years?”

“Oh… then look at you,” Jungkook compliments, using the moment as an excuse to examine you further; head to toe and back. Your legs are crossed, upper body and face confident, but the position somehow delicate. Hm. “You’re quite awesome, too, don’t you think?”

“I mean— took a while to get here.”

“Right. So what have you been doing during this time since graduation?”

Whatever distraction you have found in the cap seems to break as you silently forage your brain for a response; possibly attempting not to divulge too much. And your answer is accordingly hesitant, though never dubious.

“Saving up? Preparing for life, I guess. And waiting for a good opportunity.”

For what? Do you usually keep your statements in fragments?

He prods, “To do what?”

“Well, to do,” you gesture to the wall in front of you, albeit clearly hinting to the situation, “this. Hoping to change everyone’s lives around here.”

You smile wide, the joke obvious as can be, but Jungkook can’t help but think that you might not be too far off. Unique minds alter brain chemistries; there’s something unforgettable and magnetising about them, and Jungkook steadfastly believes his intuition that you might just be one of them.

For the first time ever, he murmurs your name, delighted by how easily it melts on his tongue. It falls out breathier than he intended to, but when you tilt your head, the intrigue in your pupils inexplicably matches his tone.

He adds to your name, eyelids drooping just a bit, “So… you’ll turn out a long awaited surprise, huh?”

And you, against all expectations, lean in for just a minimal, not too inconsequential moment, hands back in your jacket. It’s a playful, harmless motion as you move back on your heels, then steady yourself again, bodies and faces still far away. You could’ve just as well given him a pat on his shoulder.

But there’s something in the way you look at him, tempted and ominous at the same time. He can’t say what you’re thinking because every feature in your face implies something different.

Even more so confusing what methods for success you came into this company with when you finally say, no pretext or further clarifications, “I really do hope so.”

“Do you come here a lot?”

Everywhere he goes, the lights are bright.

The white walls in the rooms of the company building reflect the sun in the summer and maintain a sense of optimism in the winter. They’re what Jungkook imagines waiting halls before Heaven to look like.

Then the fluorescent vibrancy in his apartment. And the sunlit sky, albeit cold in this winter, giving way to the planetary system’s star through the floating, parting clouds.

Even this modern art museum with its complex design, winding staircases, glass walls and high ceiling. It lets through an abundance of light, unaware of the balance Jungkook usually craves.

Dark and light — a healthy mix.

It’s why he cherishes the comfort of the recording studio so much. Its dim walls and the silence, so unlike the hallways outside of it. Or why he prefers his apartment unlit, often merely allowing the few lava lamps to illuminate his rooms.

But again… it’s only a balance he usually craves.

Today, he doesn’t mind the brilliance.

Because you’re part of it.

Clad in a beige long-sleeved cotton top, slight turtleneck included. It doesn’t fully cover your neck, still revealing a mole similar to his. It’s tucked into your light brown skirt; your legs are covered in sheer tights, crossed. A gentle hand holds the strap of your bag. Light academia at its finest; somewhat soothing, and somewhat radiant.

You look at him with an initially neutral expression, surprised that someone spoke to you, but more relaxed when you realise it’s him.

“Oh,” you voice; the faintest autumn-tinted smile tugs at your lips. “Hey! I, uh…” Your gaze flits to the painting in front of you, then back to him. “Not at all actually. Which… surprising.”

You gesture towards him before you grant him more of your silky voice, asking, “Do you? Come here much?”

Your eyes are indecipherable to him, cheeks dusted in natural make up. All the damn time, you sport this relaxed, unbreakable mask, and he can’t quite guess what you might be thinking about.

It’s so easy with anyone else. You’re like a scene from BBC’s Sherlock, embodying Irene Adler’s mystery.

But maybe your guard can be broken, too.

“Not really,” he admits, “only when pretty people are around.”

A weak attempt, but it makes your eyebrow cock in amusement. He knows you are, because the hint of mischief that scurries over your face resembles his own.

“Ah, and you happen to know when pretty people are around. Or did you follow me here?” you, however, ask.

It’s an obvious inquiry, but weirdly enough, he didn’t expect it. You exhibit the first sign of a proper, humane emotion. Delivering three quick blinks, voice quiet, suspicion swims in your eyes, slightly irritated.

Or even… scared?

You can’t truly be.

So he backtracks, slightly angling his head. He sighs — hiding how much his lungs crave a breath of air. He doesn’t want to scare you off just yet.

“No,” he defends, “of course not. I was just joking.”

“So… I’m not pretty?”

Oh. Oh?

Perhaps he misinterpreted your expression. Perhaps you’re merely a good actress; messing with him as he is with you. The smirk suggests this much, at least.

Perplexed, he holds his breath before letting out a choked laugh; the head tilt and click of his tongue carry a sliver of scolding before he admits, “That’s pretty frustrating, I won’t lie.”

“I’m just kidding, too. It’s a big exhibition. I expected a familiar face here.”

Why is there something so devilish about you?

He can’t say; maybe he doesn’t need to. Maybe it’s enough to join the game, to be just as cocky and see how you react. 

Perhaps he’s being selfish and too certain of himself, and in the worst case, he might just be imagining the tension buzzing between you like sparks off an electric fence. But does he have anything to lose, really?

Barely ever.

“Then,” he begins, “is it a good face?”

“All the art around us and you want me to admire you, huh?”

“…The art won’t be mad if you do.”

Jungkook is bold, he’ll admit. He hasn’t always been — he remembers a time spent in the back of classes, preferring to eat lunch alone. Did college tug him out of his shell? Was it senior year?

Then again — did that one kill the timidness in his heart or rather the last shred of humanity?

Maybe his cold matches yours, too. Is that why he feels so drawn to you?

Because you’re as bold as him; you don’t sugarcoat words and thoughts. And Jungkook appreciates the honesty, the ingredient to actual success — even if it’s achingly direct.

Like now.

You uncross your legs; your hips move in an elegant curve, and Jungkook attempts his best to keep his eyes off the arcs of your body. Focuses as you say, “You shouldn’t be flirting with a coworker, Mister Jeon.”

“Wait. I thought we were warming up to each other. Don’t demote me from Jungkook to Mister Jeon now.” You chuckle; that’s something, right? “Besides, I was just conversing. We need to spend all our time together now, so better get along, right?”

Right. Right; of course he’s right.

But… what is that?

It lingers for the faintest of moments, just a glimpse of an unspoken feeling, gone with the next blink. In this crowd of unsuspecting visitors you’re the closest to him physically, but your thoughts are miles and centuries away.

“Maybe you’re right,” you still say, as if whooshing away all unwelcome sentiments, “then I should not… dodge your conversation, right?”

“Sure.”

“Behave, though.”

He’s so confused — but not deep in this enough to question it. So he merely shrugs his shoulder before he responds, “I have been. I can converse, alright.”

“Right.”

“Like… first of all,” he steps closer, raising a hand, gesturing for you to walk on as new admirers of the modern piece approach, “tell me, have we met before? Feels like I’ve seen you somewhere.”

You halt in your steps, but immediately resume to the stroll when a stranger nearly bumps into you. “You’re doing it again.”

He’s honestly not. The aura surrounding you like an ominous fog is omnipresent and eerie, yet… you carry a sense of familiarity. But you’re a presence too distinct to ever forget.

Which doesn’t help his case.

“Yeah,” he still agrees before potentially embarrassing himself, kissing his teeth, “sorry. I’ll stop.”

“Why are you the textbook definition of a fuckboy, honestly.”

“Fuckbo—”

“Nevermind.”

If he wasn’t well acquainted with this little game, he would’ve missed your subtle, nearly veiled intent to tease. But he’s done this a million times before — hence, catches the faint twitch of your gorgeous lips immediately.

You’re enjoying this. So he should join… right?

Yet.

You’re not being entirely insincere. In fact, he hates how he picks up on the note of truth in your velvety voice.

Trimmed nails scratch the back of his head, and he barely notices when the two of you halt in front of another piece. Distracted, he doesn’t bear the art any mind, instead asking, “You really think of me that way?”

You shrug a shoulder. Nonchalance a constant feature, but so natural, even somewhat gentle, that he can’t help but feel drawn to you. “A little.”

“Well, shit.”

“Don’t overthink it. Enjoy the art.”

“Sure.”

Reluctantly, he glances to the canvas. It’s a mess of hues; a random arrangement of spontaneous emotions. Resembles the masterpieces he used to create in Microsoft Paint, back when his legs would still dangle off the chair.

“Then,” he starts, nodding towards the painting, “what do you see in this?”

You hesitate. Or maybe it’s not hesitation — more like… a thinking pause. Sometimes, when Jungkook notices a whirring mind, he sees a steaming brain through a skull. Working at full blast.

But somehow, he only sees a calm ocean as he observes you gather your thoughts. Everything about you is gentle, but wrapped in dark mystery. How much mental training does it require to become this inscrutable?

When you finally speak, you’re saying similarly strange things.

“I see… colours.” Right. Stating the obvious. Jungkook chuckles, delivering a head tilt. “And am wondering how the painter got to create this at all. I mean, this looks so meaningless at first, doesn’t it?”

“And it’s not, yeah?”

“We’re fast to think that. Most of the time, there must have been a trigger, or a thought about something, no matter how small. Something might have been bothering him. This is—” A soft hand gestures towards the painting. “Such a chaotic mind.”

Interesting…

“Is this what you usually think about all day?” Jungkook wonders.

You scoff. “I’m just a person, too. I think about a lot of random things.”

“Ohhh. Like what?”

“Like… seeing all the green in this exhibit made me realise how this colour makes me cry.”

Jungkook takes a haphazard look around. Now that you say it — there’s no hint of a nature theme, but the abundance of green is striking now. It’s as calm as you. No wonder you’d immerse yourself in a showcase such as this.

You continue, as if tracing and reading his mind like an open novel, “It’s soothing, right? And unique. These earthly things sometimes make me feel like not all of us are deserving of seeing such beauty. Like it should be reserved for those who earn it.”

Earn it? How? 

Jungkook can’t see your thoughts as clearly as you’re apparently capable of doing, but he has an inkling of what you might mean. Truly dazzling souls merit the stunning bloom of the world, right?

And then…

If that’s what it is.

He wonders — do you think he deserves to see the colour green? Or is it already over if he has to ask? Perhaps, should he be perceiving it as grey right now? He doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know how you think of him — doesn’t know anything about you at all. You’re a tough nut to crack. 

“Hmm… that’s a way to think about it,” he says.

“Only because it’s the same for people. And I’ve had this thought about humans a lot… I…” You hesitate, blink, and then grant him your stare. “I knew someone who was the colour green. Not everyone deserved them, either.”

Poetic minds carry a certain pain in their eyes.

He’s been seeing it in yours. He just doesn’t know how to handle it. So he doesn’t.

Instead, he asks, “What else are you thinking about?”

“Uhmmm,” you voice, straightening your back a little, as if waking up from a dream — nightmare? “I’ve been thinking about trying that, too. Painting, I mean. It doesn’t have to mean anything or be good. Just a great way to capture something that resonates with what I feel.”

Every word you’ve uttered today was otherworldly. You didn’t talk like that when you were in his office, or at the meeting. Your soul is somewhat free-floating here, and he doesn’t understand why.

And it’s a behaviour he usually strays away from. The vulnerable ones can be dangerous.

But somehow… you’re too strong of a magnet.

One who shrugs all the mystery away — and he sighs in despair. Maybe it’s not time to find out what you feel just yet. What resonates with you — even though he’s dying to hear it.

He inquires, “Are you always this open?”

“No. Not at all.” Of course not. Rhetoric question — he knows this much. “But I like thinking out loud sometimes.”

“I’m glad to be a sounding board then.”

“Yeah. I was also thinking how I appreciate that I met you here.” Pause. Oh? What a surprise. Out of the blue, too. Strokes his ego, though. And then, unexpectedly again, “You wanna go to the museum restaurant?”

Jungkook has barely seen half of the exhibition yet. But just for today, he couldn’t care less.

Perhaps it’s enough for now, sitting in this overpriced restaurant, watching you from afar as you inspect your nails calmly. You’re not busy on your phone like the rest of the crowd — entertained by the same media that he’s part of.

Maybe he can be a bigger part of their lives one day — be the one flitting over their screens, the one they adore. The one they worship.

But you don’t seem to indulge in those mind-numbing devices for now. You might be an addition to his team, but privately, you float in your own world. Distracted by the thoughts you won’t disclose.

Your hands retreat, arms crossing on the table and lips curling into a smile once he strolls back to you. Satisfied, he informs you, “One cake with the coffee. As the lady suggested.”

“Oh,” you make, “don’t you want one?”

“I do.”

“So…” You stall, and he waits until it clicks, your head tilting in understanding. “Are we sharing?”

Jungkook lifts a thumb, pointing over his shoulder, back to the register, “Those chocolate cakes are sweet as heck. I’ve got a sweet tooth, but believe that it’ll be enough for the two of us.”

You laugh — a sweet, disarming chuckle before you breathe an, “Alright.”

Jungkook doesn’t know you well enough to feel any skip in his heart; yet, you stir something else in his mind. It’s always people like you who intrigue him the most — those who veil themselves in a coat of secrets.

He sighs.

“That was fast,” you note, eyes at a point behind him.

And he understands when the waitress arrives a couple moments later, two perfectly prepared lattes and a mouth-watering chocolate fudge slice. You thank her with a gentle smile, tuck a hair behind your ear, fingertips grazing the dangling earring.

And he watches.

Watches as you nod towards him, urging him, “Start then.”

Observes your smile as he signals you to start instead. And he gazes at you as your delicate digits reach for the fork, tearing off a piece, wrapping your lips around the utensil.

And then… God.

He feels his guts twist; hears all background noise fade; blood rushing away from his head, through his body as you slowly relish the sweetness and then drag your tongue over the fork. Licking away the leftover chocolate.

Jungkook swears it happens in slow motion. And witnessing your elegance at snail's pace… makes him sick.

When your eyelashes flutter, gape lifting to meet his, the sounds around him come alive again — as does he. He averts his stare from your mouth, covered in the same colour as the coffee, but you notice.

You see him looking. And it makes you… smile? Shit.

But you don’t boast your effect; only digress as you say, “Well… tastes as fancy as it looks. Try it.”

You’re as relaxed with him as you can be. But you always are; with everyone. He craves that bit that’s only reserved for him — then again, maybe he’s too zealous too fast. He hasn’t known you for long.

But making you smile must be an achievement. If only… you didn’t think of him like…

He nods, and then leans over the table ever-so-slightly. His knees brush against yours, a soft but deliberate move. He places an elbow on the table, grasping the fork, close to you. If he lifted his hand, he could touch your cheek.

He wishes he could.

His eyes meet yours through his bangs, the cake’s taste irrelevant to your presence. And when his ego doesn’t let him relax, he finally asks, almost as if insulted, “Do you actually perceive me as a fuckboy?”

The question catches you off guard. You hesitate, furrowing your eyebrows, and then giggle before questioning back, “Jungkook… it’s bothering you this much? Mmmh. How would you like to be perceived?”

“Just. As a decent guy who wants to get to know you. And I know you know.” You blink, but he doesn’t buy it. So he elaborates, “I’ve been trying to make clear that I find you lovely. And somewhat attractive.”

People usually display a flicker of glimmer in their eyes upon hearing such praise. But you don’t quite budge; in fact, your eyes remain the same, if not a little darker. Why?

Yet, you cock an eyebrow, sporting a teasing, playful tone, “Somewhat, hm?”

He shakes his head, clicks his tongue. “You’re pretty and I think you know,” he blurts, “and I don’t want to screw up right away.”

Is it the habit of never failing? The urge to solve an enigma? The chance to dive into you until you’re bared to him? Why are you so interesting to him?

You’re just a person.

Maybe it’s just the unsettling need to discover what you’re hiding — it won’t let him rest in peace. There’s something about you that screams to him to unravel. Makes him want you more.

He doesn’t know what it is. Doesn’t know if you’re even from the same world as him — even though you seem to have crossed his realm before. No matter what it is; Jungkook merely understands for now that he wants to take off your layers.

Wants to be the colour green for you. 

“Ah—” you voice.

“In fact, I’m not supposed to hang out here with you.”

“…How come?”

“I should be with Tae,” he admits. Maybe he’s revealing more to you than he should — maybe he should adjust to your level of secrecy and wait. But this is frustrating him. “He dragged me here, so I could get inspiration from all sides.”

You listen; perhaps not quite loving the idea of seeing him in such a way?

Fuck. Maybe it really was a mistake. No turning back now, though.

“He said artists find motivation in art, too, and I do like to paint, so…” He looks at his cup, still left to be tried from, and then stares up from the cream leaf that the barista formed in his coffee. “I didn’t wanna come here, though. I already have an idea of what I want to do.”

“And…” you start, still not addressing the issue on hand; choosing to talk about something else for now, “he doesn’t like what you’ve come up with?”

“I don’t know. He doesn’t know about it yet.”

You take a sip of your coffee, softly smacking your lips once to relish the taste. You’re living proof that subtle gestures can make a mind race. Then you say, “Maybe you should introduce it to him then.”

“I will. Just… mmh, need a better grasp on it.” He throws a nod towards you. “I can’t wait to show you either.”

Another sip of the seething liquid.

If the gentle hint of him being bent on your presence flatters you anyhow — stirs anything in you at all — you don’t let it show. Are you, by chance, used to being swarmed from all sides?

Are his advances kindergarten to you?

You don’t budge as he waits for you to respond, setting the cup back on your saucer before you inquire, “Where is Taehyung, anyway then?”

“Uh, I’m sure he’s going around admiring the art?” Jungkook guesses, head reflexively moving to the side, as if his friend and co-worker could materialise out of thin air. “He enjoys it even more than I do.”

“And you separated from him because…”

Because Jungkook ascended a spiral staircase. Because he turned right and halted in front of the second instead of the first room. Because he recognised the familiar curves and edges, as intriguing as ever, from this far distance.

And told Taehyung to continue without him; that Jungkook was going to explore a different corner of the museum.

He tilts his head; his left eyebrow raises just a twitch, fingertips tapping the hot surface of the coffee cup. And then, charisma gathered in the middle of his pupils, he tells you—

“Because I found you.”

There it is.

The slightest of reactions.

Your eyes widen barely an inch, but he sees it. How your lips part a bit, even though you should’ve expected his answer after the conversations hitherto shared. Hm…

“So you did follow me,” you say.

He can’t say if you’re joking or not. But all of a sudden, he wonders if he’s creeped you out. He opted for flirting so clearly, but… maybe you interpreted it vastly differently.

But he keeps himself relaxed; not faltering now when you aren’t either. Answers, “If you want to call it that. I call it finding you and then sticking with you. You’re interesting, Miss Manager.”

You smile.

Genuinely, thoroughly, wholeheartedly.

The beam reveals more than any word could’ve today — that humanity slumbers somewhere in the crevices of your heart. Your eyes suggest it as much as your stance on art did.

Whatever might have scarred you in life, behind all that ache, you hide a delicate soul.

Green, green, green.

And your cryptic worry, uttered a moment later, doesn’t bring him down from his sense of victory. No. Not now.

“Yeah?” You cross your legs, letting out a breathy sigh. “Then I sincerely hope that doesn’t change.”

[6:43PM] Jeon Jungkook: i’ve been thinking about something. and of you

For a bedroom as sparsely decorated and light-coloured as Jungkook’s, he should be surrounded by a brilliant glow. And usually, he is.

The windows occupy half of the wall, the bedsheets a perfect white; had he texted you a couple hours prior, he would’ve found himself in the gleam of a pale blue late winter sky. But if he’d tapped your name on his device earlier, he would’ve indulged in a whole different mood, too.

Wouldn’t have given into fatigued, delirious fantasies. Daydreaming about the curves of your lips and about the single strands of hair kissing your cheeks. Or the way you love exposing your neck, as if to taunt him.

It’s right there, but you can’t touch it, Jeon.

And…

And the mounds of your chest, slivers of it visible whenever you put on those heaven sent dresses. Their cuts are almost as deep as the ones damaging Jungkook’s brain. And not much for the sake of his sanity, the thirst isn’t quenched just yet.

Crossed legs badly hidden under your see-through tights. The movement of your hips when you walk into his studio, placing yet another gruesome schedule onto his desk. Your scent when you lean into him, pointing to another meeting he barely recalls.

You… you…

If Jungkook hadn’t already cleaned up the sloppy mess previously covering his knuckles, trickling down his thighs, he’d possibly give into the urge to sneak his fingers back to where he craves them to linger.

No, you made that mess.

Of his sheets, of him. And you never needed to be here in the first place.

Jungkook is no fool — unlike many of his friends, he doesn’t deny the way his body winds. He knows what he wants; and right now, he hungers for you. Wants you to eliminate the drought on his tongue; wants you to replace it with some taste instead.

“Fuuuuck.”

The word drags into the emptiness of the room, filling the silence that someone else should be lifting. But you’re not here, and you’re not answering. Not yet, at least. Has it been seconds or minutes?

Too long, is all he knows.

His digits are cleaned thoroughly, but he can’t shake the persisting feeling of sheer, dirty lust as they reach his phone again. Lighting up the screen, then curling inwards in frustration.

He repeats the desperate attempt of manifestation a couple times until he throws the device aside, nearly missing the mid-air vibrations, indicating the long-awaited message. Jungkook’s heart falls out of his ribcage and squeezes his guts; your name elicits far more than it should.

And he feels just a little guilty.

Because he doesn’t deny himself any pleasure — so he knows this isn’t love. This isn’t starving for emotionality. Not for sentiments. What you pull out might be his ugliest, beastliest side; his mind is filled with images of you that he shouldn’t be having.

You’re so respected. So tender and kind. Intriguing, a riddle, but inhabiting secrets probably far darker than his thoughts. So he feels odd about the wanton desire; feels guilty.

But just for a bit. Just a little.

The message you sent back is too humble, too innocent. Sometimes he reckons you’re aware of your power, and sometimes he assumes you think of yourself as… ordinary.

But you’re not. And he wants to show you.

Just one touch, please.

“Fuck, shut up, you creep,” Jungkook whispers to himself, scolding his treacherous mind before he reads again.

[6:52PM] You: Oh? Why would you be thinking about me? Of all people?

Should he wait? You did, too.

Or should he make as crystal clear as he can muster that he’s been waiting for you?

Screw it.

[6:53PM] Jeon Jungkook: what else should I be thinking of?

Your next response is immediate — you’re online. Waiting for him to answer.

Good.

[6:53PM] You: Your music?

[6:53PM] Jeon Jungkook: my music doesn’t talk to me as much as you do these days

He smirks. Keeps the beam plastered to his face until the waiting becomes a little too long. Message on read, you leave the chat room empty of you and full of a nervy Jungkook. He opts out of it the same second, keen on patience before it fades again, bit by bit.

Because then, the thoughts flood in.

Are you rolling your eyes? Throwing the phone into a corner of your couch? Has he fucked up before anything could start?

But it’s been going so well. You talk to him every single day. Ever since the museum, the two of you have been orbiting each other; partly due to work, partly because he’s caught you smiling, too.

Your words are too sickeningly often accompanied by a soft touch of yours against his shoulders; against his arms. Sometimes, you brush his back, his eyes wide awake, the smile timid yet crushingly losing against your confident gaze.

All this must mean something.

“Nah. Fuck it,” he mutters again, sighing over his own constant use of curses. “Come back.”

[6:55PM] Jeon Jungkook: actually… I did come up with one tune. It’s just a skeleton of a song tbh, but I need a sounding board.

It takes another one minute for you to come back, and Jungkook angles his legs, relying on the movements of his body to ease the impatience. But then—

[6:56PM] You: Oh, and? [6:56PM] You: Sorry, I had to step away for a sec

Sigh of relief. Even though embarrassment annoyingly adds itself to the mix, an uninvited guest.

[6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: …do you wanna come to the studio?

[6:57PM] You: Right now? It’s like… [6:57PM] You: 7pm

Unconsciously, Jungkook shrugs his shoulders, unbothered to the bone, just craving, craving, craving…

[6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: a true artist never rests. [6:57PM] Jeon Jungkook: and I’d rather die than stop hustling for my passion

As the next message appears at the bottom of the screen, Jungkook can’t help but bite into his lower lip with a certain pride. He nods as if he caught his prey, trapping it between his fangs.

[6:58PM] You: 😂LOL. now that, I admire, mister Jeon :) [6:58PM] You: I’ll finish my wine and be on my way

Oh.

Are you tipsy? Maybe he’s reading too much into it, but the emoji seems so unlike you; yet, you somehow manage to capture the core of what and who you are in the rest of the message. Six coherent words. That’s all it takes.

Goddamn.

You’re so thoroughly you.

[6:59PM] Jeon Jungkook: wait. really?

And that’s it. You disappear.

Perhaps you’re joking; perhaps you’re messing with him. The sun has already set; and he doesn’t think he’s ever stayed with you much longer than dusk before.

If he met you in the evening, or on other nights, would you make more sense than you usually do? Are you the type to unravel when the world quiets down? Or the one to blend with the darkness more, drawing back further?

If there’s pure truth in what you just said, devoid of all mockery you could revert to… he might find out. And it seems you’re in the right mood today, earnest with your intentions when he feels his phone vibrate against his thick thigh again, making him flinch.

[7:11PM] You: Yes? I’m already dressed. Get your ass up

Oh shit.

Despite your order, his limbs still shut down. His muscles and bones melt into the bed, a fleeting image of your sly smirk crossing his mind and an assured voice surrounding his eardrums.

And if he didn’t overthink each of your movements; didn’t fantasise about the possible rise and fall of your voice, he would’ve discarded his phone and gotten dressed a lot earlier.

How embarrassing.

The fact that his mind doesn’t want to categorise this as a crush, no matter how much he asks. That his body responds to you like that, superficial and intrigued.

Embarrassing. He should focus on more important things.

Yet, he can’t be bothered with the intruding sentiment, shame shoved aside and trampled under his feet as his car turns into a parking lot, perfectly in front of the building’s entrance. Your form is crystal clear in the dark; not even the shadows and lack of light can hide your silhouette.

The radar sensor beeps when he creeps too close to the hood of the car behind him, and he mumbles a curse, averting his eyes from your unmoving self to focus on proper parking. Letting the roaring engine die.

Your shoulders are slightly raised when he approaches you at the door. One hand is stuffed in the pocket of your thin, baby pink coat, the other curled into a fist, possibly resisting the urge to enter the building and combat the cold.

You could’ve waited inside, too. Unless…

Maybe you’re excited to see him, too.

You smile, lips reaching far up; he tries his hardest to believe he’s right. Takes the gesture as a good omen, and the hair pulled up in a loose bun as a sign of hurry. You look domestic, comfortable in your skin, no matter who’s around.

But somewhere between the comfort and the softness, there’s that everlingering intrigue, too. And… some timidness. Showing in the crossed legs his eyes drift over, up to the short skirt barely visible underneath the coat.

And your face… so natural. More than usual. Mascara only? He doesn’t know.

All he knows is that he needs to say something.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” you throw back, tilting your head in tease, “where were you? Took you long enough to get here.”

He steps closer; fiddling with his jacket’s pocket, fishing for the keys. And his proximity changes something about you so subtly, a miniscule movement. Hand digging deeper into your coat.

You’re on guard for some reason. And he can’t help but admit he’s on guard with you, too, albeit in a less physical and more mental way. The unfathomable, dichotomous sensation of wanting you near, wanting you far is killing him.

What are you hiding?

If he could, he’d speak it out loud.

“I had to freshen up,” he finally responds, “I honestly didn’t expect you to say yes.”

Your body might be in protection mode, but your voice is as composed, even somewhat amused, as always, “Well.” You shrug your shoulders. “I don’t see why. But I’m here now, and honestly… a little cold?” Nodding towards the door, “Should we go inside?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

He sniffles, fishing for the chip to unlock the door. For an ephemeral second right before walking inside, your breath lingers incredibly close to his own, grazing his lip ring. “Don’t forget to dress warm this season.”

Near enough for his fingers to succumb to the impulse and sidle to you, skimming your thigh so featherlightly. He thinks he hears the sharp inhale you suck in. His skin tickles, the shiver icy on his body. He watches you smirk, lowering your head; his fingertips insist on the vicinity just for the tiniest seconds before he says,

“Okay. Let's go inside before you catch a cold, silly.”

But the bitter frost permeates the hallways of the company in the same ruthless manner. Perhaps somebody’s still lingering around in the daunting dark. Revising steps in the mirrored practice rooms or hovering above lyrics and tunes, neck bent and back tired.

But the building isn’t heated; and it shows in your rather quick steps, an arm wrapped around your chest to rub the layers above your arm. The guarded demeanour doesn’t match your usual confidence; aside from the hollow hallways, it seems that you’re scared of more than just the cold.

He doesn’t point it out. And he doesn’t stare for too long.

If he did, you might realise.

Instead, he saunters to the elevator with you in tow, delighted about the light that never changes in the small rectangular space. You let your hand drop to your purse, lazily toying with its zip, and turn your head to observe the closing doors.

And Jungkook observes you. 

The glow of your cheeks in the bright beam, half of your face devoid of the hair tucked behind your ear. As you breathe in, your lips split a fraction, and their gentle, soft curves mesmerise him for a moment too long.

It’s difficult and cruel, being around you. Haunting, agonising, aggravating.

And when your eyes align with his again, sparkling a little in line with your tender smile, Jungkook realises that he’s been holding his breath. Because it escapes between the seam of his mouth in a sudden push, his knees nearly buckling.

He resists the urge to bite into his fist, instead disguising his thoughts when he covers his mouth, teeth digging into his plump, lower lips.

“So,” he quickly adds, leaving no space for you to question his eccentricity, but you initiate another convo in the same tiny second, “It’s…”

You pause, withholding your statement in order to listen to his. But he shakes his head, lifting a hand to sign for you to continue. So you say, “It’s a little scary here at night.”

Okay. Not that tough of a topic.

“Right?” he confirms. “I always imagine getting here and hearing a hum that’s not really there.”

“Uh…” You blink in disbelief, lifting your eyebrows, but when he shrugs your confusion away, your hesitation marker turns into a chuckle. “Why the hell would you say that?”

“It’s just something I imagine. It’s terrifying, but my mind goes places, and I never ask it to.”

“Well, it’s a mean thing of your mind to do.” The ding of the elevator distracts you, and when you step out, your thoughts remain at an afar spot. Kept inside your pretty little head until you whisper, “And? Have you ever heard it, then?”

“Hm? The hum?” You nod, and he suppresses the snicker your curious, cocked eyebrow nearly elicits. “No. Only myself. Humming helps me control my breathing, so I do it to practise.”

“Weird. It’s so different from how I’d imagine you.”

Huh. Seems he’s not the only one sketching your entire being to keep himself awake at night.

“How would you?” he asks.

“As a rockstar?”

“Oh?” That’s new. “As a future RnB slash pop sensation I find this officially peculiar. Why a rockstar?”

You cock an eyebrow; either digesting the confident prophecy or pondering his question. The crooked smile matches his own signature smirk a little, and you puff out a breath before your sombre yet sparkling eyes wander an inch further down, right to his mouth.

Your eyelashes are endless, on their way to brush those delicate apples of your cheeks — in reality, it’s an impossible fantasy written in novels and poems, but it’s exactly how it looks. Exactly how much your curious gaze drops.

Only, the tingling sensation in his chest soon subsides, freeing a path to the realisation that he’s yet again misunderstanding. Because you’re not drawn by his lips, but rather considering a response.

He sighs in subtle disappointment when you point to the shiny metal encircling his lower lip, telling him, “Gotta be the piercing.”

“Ah. Ahhh. Well. First off, this is a very stereotypical assumption.” You shrug your shoulders in amusement, watching him cram for his chip until he halts in front of his studio, keeping you in his vision. “And secondly.”

The lock of the door clicks as he swipes the chip across the reader, defined knuckles paling a bit when he pushes the handle down. He raises his chin by a fraction, pulling out the most-assured smile, and asks, “Do you like it?”

And you, composed as ever, respond, “It suits you. I always wonder how comfortable these are, though.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, like. Do they have a metal taste? Do you ever get hyper aware of them and then get annoyed and want them off? Are they… cold?”

He laughs. There’s something endearing about how your voice quietens further the more your curiosity grows. You’re not quite looking at him, pupils focused on a random spot, hands expressive as you vocalise your thoughts.

“Let’s see,” he mutters, jacket thrown over a chair, “sometimes and, again, sometimes. It feels a bit cold right now because it’s cold outside. I mean…”

He rubs the chill off his tattooed arm, fingers diving under the short sleeves of his white, oversized t-shirt. Attempts never faltering, he leans into you in intrigue, parting his lips before running his tongue over the jewellery.

“Do you just. Wanna touch it and find out for yourself?”

You blink, frozen in place.

The room isn’t too spacious; Jungkook will get his very own studio, name tag and all once he reaches a clear peak. For once, he’s glad about the crowded room, girded by a guitar on the wall, chairs standing side by side, a little couch leaning against the back of the wall.

As ever, he can’t decipher your mood; as ever, you’re still quick to answer, “I… no. It’s okay.”

Why don’t you want him?

Goddamn it.

“Okay,” he simply utters, shrugging his vexation away. “Let’s get started then.”

The excitement in his tone dips, seemingly aloof, but as he walks into the dark square of silence, reaching for the headphones he placed right here mere hours ago, wordless curses dangle off the tip of his tongue.

He makes sure you don’t see the clench of his jaw or the fast and steady fall of his ego, but you’re shoving back the chair and adjusting anyway. Crossing tight-clad legs as you place your coat on your lap, throwing your mane to one side to free that damned neck.

It must be on purpose.

He waits for you to settle, the headphones on the table in front of you enveloping your head. They look way too big on you, and Jungkook can’t decide whether to tut at his anguish or swoon at your stellar being.

Jungkook uses his headphones to communicate through the glass, raising a thumb to ask, “Ready?” You nod, matching his gestures with your own. “Be honest, how professional do I look?”

Carding the fine hair back, he pushes a hand into the pocket of his pants, taking a stand in front of the boom microphone. He mimes a typical grimace of an immersed artist, letting out an immediate, sweet chuckle that you chime in joyfully.

You lean in, long earrings brushing your jaw, pressing down the button for the talkback mic to assure through the intercom, “You look like a born star.”

He rolls his eyes, playfully clicking his tongue, “Ahhh, that’s a nice yet basic thing to say, but. I’ll take it.”

“Why did you go in there anyway? Weren’t you just going to show me a song?”

“Adlibs, baby. I’m still missing those.” He adjusts the headphones again, clearing his throat, almost in position. “But I didn’t warm up my voice, so I’ll need to re-record them anyway.”

“And still you’re straining your voice because…?”

“We’re here to impress you, so let me.”

Your finger lifts off the button, but the movement of your lips suggests to him undoubtedly what your teasing self might be mumbling.

Oh damn. Sorry then, boss.

You raise your hands in defeat until you detect his beguiled smile, raising your eyebrows in a clear question that he answers with two words; a simple title of a song, not as glorious as the tune itself but hopefully as memorable.

Eyes scurrying across the now opened laptop screen, you search for the instrumental until you stumble upon it. 3:54 minutes of what Jungkook prays to be blasted everywhere in a couple week’s time before the big concert, chiming in his ears.

The initial guitar riff drowns the room in a mixture of intriguing anticipation and uncurbed sentiments immediately. Jungkook’s eyes dart to your face, attempting to decode a reaction. And when you notice, hands on the headphones, you nod approvingly.

Most of his vocals are already recorded to perfection; a silky voice laments about a lost time with purity. Jungkook largely listens in, searching for wonky bits or moments to be re-tackled. Of course, he will need to discuss the details with Taehyung tomorrow, but whenever the passion burns the hottest, he can’t help but add an adlib here and there.

As he sings, his eyes reflexively close, and for a couple dozen seconds, the melodic current pulls him towards a bigger ocean; the sense of freedom and possibility is astonishing. There’s a certain ardour he feels towards music that nothing will ever be able to elicit.

Do you feel the same?

As somebody spending day in, day out surrounded by musicians, does that phenomenon make your heart surge, too?

Maybe.

When he looks at you again, it’s at least something fervent he detects in your gaze. A bit like the longing he feels. Intense fondness, or perhaps, even zoning out — until you’re barely blinking anymore.

Your features relax a little more as the song proceeds, bit by bit, the calmest when the ending notes arrive. Jungkook observes you; freezes at his spot. The change from the built-up chorus to the suddenly calm ending, instruments dying, are as forgotten as the last touches… because you, behind the glass, are much more interesting.

Just staring. Looking at the screen, its brightness reflecting in your pupils. When you blink again, most of the preceding smile is gone, something indecipherable in your eyes.

He doesn’t know whether you actually enjoyed the entire thing or became consumed by memories he doesn’t know of. Some the song might have drawn out but shouldn’t have. There’s… a past in your stare.

He knows because much like the vast existing humanity, he’s been tending to faraway memories for years, too.

And he wants to know about yours.

Gently, Jungkook grasps the headphones covering his ears, the mane victim to the impact before his fingers fix it again. He frees his eyes off his strands, never directing them away from you, and when he opens the door to the small room you drifted off in, you look up.

Your emerging smile is unsuspecting and polite as always, and you deliver a tilt of your head. Jungkook could sign the previous oddness off as just this, or a sinking into arts just as he does sometimes.

But what’s enough is enough; brushing questions off his mind has become tedious.

So he rolls back the second chair next to you to take a seat, placing his arm on the one of the furniture before folding his fingers; leaning in, asking, “You okay?”

You react with a soft nod, a tender hum, “Yeah! I was listening.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“You zoned out.”

“Which is a good thing, I promise.”

Jungkook looks for a moment. Waits for you to break or admit that the truth you display might not be as pure as you think; waits for his instinct to wind up correct.

But when you do nothing of that sort, eyes a resolute and solid statement, he sighs. Tongues at the lip ring for a moment before he clears his throat and questions, “Good thing, yeah? What else do you think?”

“It… goes deep,” you confess, an impressed declaration in your expressions, “what are you talking about in that one? I mean, I know, but… it sounds so personal.”

“More or less? I’ve spent most of the last few years dedicating myself to this job. The training, the late night sessions, the failure and lost time. I wanted to depict those hardships.” He nods, emphasising his points. “I want this song to help me look back one day…”

He shrugs his shoulders, thumbs slowly circling around each other, “And comfort my older self that despite the hectic life, things are okay.”

“I see.”

Your tone is neutral, but your chest rises and falls a little too slowly. Your sorrow is quiet. He closes the distance further, nudging your arm, “Hey. Did you not like it?”

“I did,” you defend, honesty and reassurance in your voice, “I do. You have an amazing voice, come on, what’s not to like. And the sound is incredible. Should you manage to release it, it will be celebrated a lot.”

“I will manage to release it,” he says with furrowed eyebrows, resisting the urge to touch your elbow again, but settling on simply calling your name instead, “you’re part of my team. Let’s be optimistic.”

“I am. Teamwork makes the dream work. Etcetera.”

“Right,” Jungkook breathes, word close to a yawn. He throws his body back in the cushioned chair, manspreading as much as the space allows; stretches his arms until his muscles crack. “Ahhh… I really want this to be good.”

His gaze falls to the darkening laptop, soon giving way to pitch darkness, potentially to some screensaver. The title of the song remains still in the opened audio file, and he smacks his lips, blinking only when you voice an approving, “Mhmmm.”

His head darts to you the moment you deliver a subtle nod towards the computer, deducting, “You really strive to be big.”

Well, yeah. That’s been the plan. Always, always.

“Shouldn’t I?” he argues. “It’s a dream.”

“It’s good to have dreams.”

“That’s right. Mine is to… Stand on a bigger stage. I think I’ve reached a solid group, but I think if I keep working hard and with the right team, I can make it?”

“This determined, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he responds with a hint of obvious self-evidence, slight confusion shadowing his mind — have you never wanted something so badly? “The audience’s eyes glued to me. Don’t you have a dream?”

Another deep inhale of air, chest working hard, as if you’re breathing out fatigue. He prepares for another vague answer that might leave him guessing; and albeit clearly seeing the usual curtain veiling your true thoughts, what you say next makes his ears perk up.

“Honestly. I’ll allow dreams again once I’ve moved on. That’s all I want.”

What?

Did you actually want to say that? Was it on purpose? A slip of the tongue?

Because it seems so unlike you. Reveals too much. He doesn’t think you’ve exposed your innermost thoughts like this before, even if still not quite transparent.

“…From what?” The previously relinquished distance dies when he inches closer again, digits sneaking close to your knee. A fingertip floats over your tights. “Hey. Is something bothering you?”

“Ugh,” you say; the sliver of sadness seamlessly transitions into an expression of nonchalance when you wave your concerns off so quickly. “Young adult stuff.”

Nevertheless, you speak on. The biggest development in this friendship between the two of you yet. “I once had a friend that moved away. We were pretty close, and now she’s far away. Which sucks.”

“I’m sorry.”

That’s it.

Jungkook offers to listen, but he doesn’t necessarily deem himself the most expressive guy when it comes to emotions like these; even if he so deeply wishes to read your thoughts. Music is different; speaking to an audience is, too. Articulating gratitude isn’t as difficult as extinguishing someone else’s grief.

And while not quite confronted with anguish, he houses demons that still haunt his nights; he can barely obliterate them.

Maybe he doesn’t need to.

Maybe he can comfort you in the only way he’s ever known. The stupid, selfish way; offering relief and distraction in the most sinful manner.

“Listen…” Jungkook starts, but in all honesty — there isn’t much to say.

Only to crave. To look.

At the curve of your lips. The distance between them. The bare wrist needing to be held, tired eyes wanting to replace the sorrow with something else.

Is he an asshole for wanting to annihilate your heavy breaths of dejection and replace them with sighs of his name instead?

He doesn’t know. He barely hears his thoughts. Only the blood rushing to his ears, and then away from his head, down his body.

Fuck.

The levitating finger drops an inch; you gasp almost inaudibly when the tip touches your knee, skin separated by the tights only. Jungkook loves fashion choices like these, but hates the hurdle right now.

His warm palm opens, placing right above your knee, approaching the meat of your thigh. He knows you’re not breathing because he can’t hear the exhales; and when his eyes, hooded and possibly insane, flit up to you, he recognises the change in your pupils.

You gulp; and then finally push out some air again. Your hand moves to his inked wrist, touching lightly, unsure what to do. But when you don’t resist, his other arm lifts, touch moving to your face, holding it.

The world spins, moving like an earthquake as his mouth draws nearer. You let out a miniscule sound that punches him in the guts; sweet and pure.

He wants to shatter and wreck you so bad; wants you to feel the same poison you’ve fed him. Irresistible, deadly.

But just as the metal of his jewellery grazes your lips, the softness and warmth radiating towards him, your breath shakes. Your face budges enough for his upper lip to feel a brush against yours, but that’s all he gets.

Because you retreat without giving in. And he doesn’t know why.

He clenches his jaw. God fucking hell. What’s your problem?

The sense of failure overwhelms him. Failure. Failure.

That’s not the term his mind should conjure. He knows the moral compass hides somewhere in his dark heart; he knows. Yet, he can never give into it. Is he a bad person? He doesn’t know.

Control was never his domain, after all.

But he keeps those intrusive thoughts inside, intending to not scare you off more than he already might have. So he accepts the dodging of the kiss, moving back, immediately leaving you safe from his touch.

And then, he says, “Uhm— I’m sorry.”

You don’t answer, still catching your breath, back to the heavy sighs that he was going to help shove back. Once again, he tries, “Honestly, I apologise, I just…”

“No, no. Please, don’t be sorry,” you reassure, slightly touching his shoulder. A wave of relief washes over him. “I’m just. Not in the right mindset for it yet. But I’m flattered, really.”

“Okay.” He nods. His eyes drop to his fingers; he still feels your heat on his skin, basks in it for a moment. But when the awkward silence lingers, he suggests, “Then. Let’s call it a night and I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sounds good. I’m definitely getting tired.”

“Me too.”

Jungkook rises from his seat, still unable to wrap his head around what happens — or almost happened. Maybe another time. Grabbing your coat from behind you, he helps you into it, avoiding your eyes, trying not to showcase his frustration.

Uncertain what to say, he reverts back to small talk, stating, “Thanks for still coming so late. You really do like the song, yeah?”

“Jungkook… it’s honestly very good.”

You smile; there’s something about your honesty. About the way you say his name. And how hopeful you truly seem for him. How much you seem to mean it when you say—

“If there’s anyone who can manage to wrap the world around their finger, it’ll be you, Jungkook.”

“Alright. I think I have an answer to your question now.”

You down the sip of red wine with a delicate smack of your lips, blinking at the change in topic. The evening has followed a pleasant pace so far, conversations well balanced; even though you still carry a sense of caution that Jungkook sees no reason behind.

Perhaps it’s the fact that after weeks of subtle, flirty undertones and advancing attempts you’ve taken the seat on his couch as he’s imagined for so long now. Maybe he still exudes something that screams for caution; maybe that’s just who you are.

Jungkook, for one, is just glad to receive any kind of recognition from you. But he’d be a fool to not insert all his effort into tonight, from the food to the type of drinks and conversations. He knows where he needs to be and he wants you to want it, too.

“What question?” you ask.

It’s just.

Despite the lightness with which you carry your talks, some of your movements feel off, detached from your body. Not quite matching the grace your face portrays; just that one hint. The one hiding in your fingers, tapping the dark screen of the phone resting on your thigh.

As if you’re waiting for a call or something to happen that Jungkook isn’t aware of. Who knows. Nothing has happened in the last hour, so this might be an unconscious gesture reasoned in nothing but an absent or distracted mind.

Yeah.

You’re probably not even aware of it and he’s just overthinking it.

He takes a breath, inhaling the aroma of the almost finished wine, “What I’d do if I could spend a day in a virtual reality.”

“Wait, does the Wembley Stadium doesn’t count anymore?”

Jungkook smirks, dismissing his own prior answer with a click of his tongue. “C’mon. Does it really? You can ask literally any artist ever and that’s what they’ll say.”

You ponder his response, pursing your lips in thought, and then shrug one shoulder. Nodding along, you acknowledge, “Right. So what is it then?”

“I’d just.” He sucks air through his teeth sharply, leaning back with a signature smack of his lips. “Get into a reality in which this damn song is already finished and mixed and ready to be released.”

This song referring to the concoction of sounds he showed you earlier, yet to be concretised and burnished to what he truly envisions. It’s the only song left that shackles him to the studio; at the upcoming concert, he’ll just sing the demo version as a sneak peak if needed. What a source of stress.

But you don’t see it as much of a struggle; you’ve told him a dozen times that hard work justifies a slip-up. That the progress on his album balances out the artist’s block.

Possibly why you laugh his worry off without mocking it, merely throwing back, “I’m disappointed.”

Oh?

“Why?”

“Just because — the Wembley answer was better.”

Unexpected and sudden — much like the snicker you elicit, throwing his head back just a little. Concurring, he sighs, “Okay, okay. What about you then?” He cocks an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell me what you’d do.”

“You didn’t ask,” you remind him, already slurring your speech a bit, though still remaining a stable and solid stance, “dunno. You want the sappy or the basic answer?”

“Is the sappy one a tear-jerker? Sounds like it.”

“For sure.”

“Then the basic one. Don’t dig being sad.”

“Thought so,” you answer, and Jungkook holds back from prodding again this time, despite wondering what image he gets across, “alright. I’d do things I’m unsure of in real life. Like bungee jumping.”

“Oh? Kinda did not expect this.”

“No?”

“Just having a hard time imagining somebody as calm as you jumping off a building. Or yelling.”

You roll your eyes. “Anyway. I’d love to go, but I’m too scared of the risks. Like, rope stuff. Don’t want to be jumping for the last time.”

“Okay, yeah, but,” Jungkook starts, hesitating, “I mean, you could say that about anything. You leave your apartment and get hit by a car and then you’d be going out for the last time.”

You begin shaking your head mid-sentence, already drawing a breath, ready to disagree. Then, “That’s a bad comparison. These things are a once in a lifetime experience.”

“I’m just saying! Why hold back from things that excite you.”

“…Maybe you’re right.”

Jungkook’s proud nod and hum are reciprocated with a soft smile, fleeting when you roll your eyes back to your phone briefly. Absent-mindedly, you drag a fingertip across the device’s side as Jungkook follows your movements.

Yet, unsure what you might be harbouring in this pretty head of yours, he doesn’t ponder but asks, “What was the sappy thing?”

It’s as if you live multiple lives, hiding them in your innermost parts; because once he finishes his question, your sparkle returns, and you smirk a little, suddenly leaning forward.

Wordlessly, you fish a tissue out of the square, wooden box, puzzling him for a second until he understands right before you clarify, “For the upcoming tears.”

His titter is immediate, a reflex. You might be relaxed as a calm river, but your humour does shine through among your other million traits. He shakes his head in rejection, smile still plastered to his lips, and watches you lean back again, clearing your throat.

“Mhh, I’d say,” you muse, “I’d try to get into a simulation of Heaven. Try to meet those I miss.”

“Oh… damn.”

“Yeah.”

“…I don’t know what to say.”

But despite the dumbstruck silence, his mind does conjure prompt associations. Like when the two of you sat in his studio just two weeks ago, you engrossed in his music yet somehow dissociated from reality.

You spoke about lost and faraway people back then, too. And he didn’t ask then, either.

In the depths of his mind, he wants to believe that you’re trying to lead him somewhere, fishing for his hand but never quite reaching it. Drawing back right before pleading for help; or perhaps wanting to make him understand a thought he can’t fathom in the way you form it.

The pattern is repetitive, loud — but he knows you’ll retract the moment he does lean into you, offering his ear to your worries and thoughts.

He can’t win.

“That’s okay,” you say, making up for his lack of proper empathy, and that’s where you leave it. Not hesitating, not indicating another hint to lead to your mind.

Yet, he clears his throat quietly, licking drying lips, and asks in attempt to grip the truth, your whatever-truth, “And, who’d be there? Do you want to talk about that?”

“Mmmmh,” you hum, pondering, before you treat him with the same disappointment he’s suffered throughout the last weeks, “no. I think I’m good.”

Unbelievable, and truthfully, frustrating.

Are you playing this side of yours? Is it an act? Are two sides of you fighting within you?

“Okay,” he simply responds, clearly agitated but unsure whether you notice. You’re looking at your phone again. He sighs. “And… Do you believe in that stuff? Heaven, Hell, stuff like that.”

You shrug a bare shoulder. “Dunno. I like to think there’s something, but then again I don’t.”

“How so?”

“The way I see it, it’s kinda simple,” you explain matter-of-factly, “some people are good enough to deserve a place in Heaven once they’re gone. And some people are terrible enough to burn for eternity.”

Coming from your sweet mouth, uttered in an equally soft tone, the sentence feels jarring. Jungkook has had these thoughts before; he’d be a hypocrite to judge you for yours, recalling moments when he wondered where he’s destined to land once he’s left this realm.

And somehow, it was never the prettier option.

Still, he utters, disguising his own past pondering, “Wow. That’s dark.”

“It’s true. There’s some serious crime in the world.”

Agreed. Perhaps, compared to the extreme sins, he can be forgiven. Right? Maybe…

“Yeah,” Jungkook accords, “then, why did you say that sometimes you don’t like believing in it?”

“I mean, if there’s actually something like Hell, and I happen to fuck up throughout life… I don’t wanna end up there.”

It’s like you’re mirroring his thoughts.

Even if he never quite thought about it to such an extent. Even though his idea of the afterlife built on what he’s already done, and not what he’s still going to do.

But your words give a subtle hope that redemption is possible. Who knows. Who really knows.

Perhaps it’s easiest to stray away from these thoughts and focus on you at this very moment. Even if it’s you triggering innermost fears; he doesn’t quite have a clue how you do it.

No matter. He’ll focus on you. Altruism might be the first step to vindication. Karma points. Karma points.

“Valid,” he says kindly, “can’t imagine you fucking up, though.”

“How would you know?”

“The company grapevine whispered a lil something about you.”

“Ahhh—”

“Good things! Other than that, I just think. Don’t know.” A small gap, well-hidden so far, grows in the back of his mind, tiptoeing to the very front of his mind. Before he’s thought it through, he blurts, “I’ll be honest with you.”

Your ears perk up, eyes suddenly wide.

What was that?

Okay. Whatever. Can’t stop his speech now, “Uhm, I’ll be honest and say that I’m not the best person I know. Like, I’m aware of that. It’s why sometimes, I don’t really understand how people can be as genuine as you.”

…Has he said too much? Or not enough? Because he could swear your face deflates, expression dimming, as if you expected something else.

And all you say is, “I understand.”

A flicker of slight panic creeps into his overthinking head, not usually a trademark of his personality. But you look dispirited, even if just for a second. He tries further.

“And from what I’ve seen, you go through life gently. The way you do anything is how you do everything, right?”

“Hmmm,” you voice again, pupils hidden until you look up. And when you do, he breathes a sigh of relief; deep and obvious, and he doesn’t care if you notice. Smiling sweetly, you tell him, “You said that really well.”

The way you say it is riddled with woe, but within a second, your eyebrows relax, mouth forming an authentic grin. Displaying real emotions suits you better than the mask of the frigid ice queen you keep plastered to your face; you look different right now.

Vulnerable.

And it makes him want you more.

Does it have something to do with the warm light he chose for this room? No. It doesn’t shine brightly enough to really illuminate your face that much. With the intensity lowered beforehand, some of your features hide in the dark when you lower your head a little.

And it’s not the decent amount of alcohol the two of you slurped.

It’s the usual, mysterious shimmer in your eyes, begging to take off more of your mental layers. The fragility behind the pretence of invincible strength. No doubt, you’re still a textbook definition of a femme fatale.

Still, there’s some sweet urge to surrender, visible in your stance. A fragrance luring him in. Warm skin close to his; calling for his fingers.

And he’s at your beck and call, ready and motivated; giving into your wanting eyes — or is that his own desire he’s confusing? — and leaning in. A little more with each tiny moment, advancing until the tips of your noses meet.

Your warmth consumes him; your breathing quickens, resulting in fitful exhales that he takes in with vigour, much drowning in his own head until you gasp and he realises—

“Sorry,” he mumbles, not yet retracting. His hand touches your knee, carefully but with intention. Waiting, he asks, “Is that okay for you?”

“…I’m not sure.”

Your answer takes a seat on his ego and weighs it down. Harsh, sudden, perhaps not unexpected but definitely breaking a string of patience within him. But consent is consent; he understands. He’s grown now.

Yet…

“Fuck,” he whispers under a faint sigh, dejected and confused.

And you hear it. Bambi-eyed, you ask, “What?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

He’d lie if he suppressed the disappointment. Working towards you for weeks was supposed to end in realising his fantasies into a palpable, actual feeling, with a side achievement of a deeper connection.

You don’t seem to want to provide it; he understands, but the agitation courses through him like a fire burning up a forest. The trees are his nerves; alight with different emotions. You’re fumbling with the soft cotton of your winter dress, and he averts his eyes.

Shutting them for a moment, he ponders his options; does he continue the awkward conversation? Or perhaps, ask you for your opinion straightforwardly? Maybe, after all this while, it wouldn’t be so stupid to swap a penny for your thoughts.

And his mouth opens, but it seems you’re faster. Crushing his questions and uncertainties when he hears you gulp, witness to another change of mind as your knee shifts forward. His eyes open rapidly, and when he looks at you again, you’ve moved closer.

Your leg touches his thigh; your eyelids half fallen, lips an inch apart and fingers hesitating, yet advancing towards him. Hope sparks and sparkles in him anew, and he suppresses the cheeky, triumphant smile.

He feels like an asshole. Oh, he feels so selfish — but he can’t be the only one. He cannot possibly be the first or last to give into deepest desires out of self-interest.

Carefully, he matches your pace, moving into your direction much like you are drawing into his. His hand lifts to your arm, and you suck in a breath as he touches your skin, your chest rising and falling deeply.

And his eyes observe. The motion drives him crazy. He wants to pilot his touch to this spot, wrap his palm around your mounds, desperate to feel your nipples perk up under his skin, your mouth fall wider.

Should he? Maybe, maybe—

Not yet.

Instead, he draws an invisible line with his fingertips, up your arm and to your shoulders until he reaches your neck. The sound you let out is so tiny he barely hears it, and you tilt your head to the other side, giving him free reign over your skin.

A spark lights up under his finger, as if he’s touched a defective bulb. He wonders if you feel the same flame when he charges for your jawline, tracing it for a moment before he moves to your seething hot cheek.

You’re burning up.

So he asks in a quiet, gravelly voice, somehow much lower than usual, “Are you okay?”

Your eyebrows are furrowed, and he starts to worry again; but maybe that’s just the same tension unleashing that he’s felt, too. The temptation runs deep; he could scream it out of his lungs and it wouldn’t be enough.

Relieved as you nod, he mimics the movement, whispering an, “Okay,” before he then dips forward, exhaling close to your neck hotly and… leaves a small kiss right there. He doesn’t know about you, but if you did that to him, he’d possibly faint.

One more kiss, and suddenly, your hand is on his knee. His head spins. Must be the alcohol. Must be you.

And you’re probably in no better state, judging the hot cheeks and the slight sway of your body. Must be the wine. Must be him.

And when his lips graze your jaw, your fingers curl in, clawing onto his knee, and his inner voice celebrates, “Jackpot.”

But not really. He’s going with the flow, exploring your preferences, but this needs to be the night of your life. His mind and ego want you to perceive it that way. So what should he do? What do you like?

Are you one to push him into the bed, holding his shoulders down? Straddling him keenly, pouncing on him, eyes rolled back?

Or do you give away all the power you usually emanate; hands bound with a tie, legs struggling between a rope, screams muffled under a gag? Do you wind and go crazy when somebody has their way with you, edging and then overstimulating, refusing a touch and then slapping your ass wound…

Should he let your siren eyes tempt him into submission or will you be the one drilled into his mattress with a hand around your neck and a trail of black mixed with tears under your eyes?

He doesn’t know. Because you’ve disguised all of you; hidden your mind behind a mask of absolute neutrality, hard to decipher. He can usually read women so easily. They lick their lower lips when they want him under them, and quiver when vice versa.

He’d oblige to either for you. So what does it matter in the end, anyway?

No, it doesn’t.

His tongue that lashes out, however, does matter. Tasting your skin as it drags over your chin and then to your mouth. Insane when he reaches your lower lip and you sigh, then back to your neck, blowing, teasing, still not kissing you… touching your thigh, moving inwards…

“What do you want me to do?” he asks.

And this time, while still a little quiet, you finally say, “More. You can do more.”

“Yeah?”

You nod as if starved, relieved when his hands leave your leg and venture further in. It’s hidden under your dress, but somehow, not seeing your full glory just yet, but observing your reactions to his movements, stirs his thoughts. If any were left, that is.

The touch to your panties is light, tender as he reaches the hem, driving a finger underneath it in exploration. You don’t say much, but he sees the zeal in your eyes, murmuring a little, “Mhm…”

And when he finally presses against the fabric slowly dampening, lightly as he rolls his digits right where your skin so incredibly softens… you moan. You moan.

It doesn’t sound the way he imagined. But it kind of does. He doesn’t remember what he imagined — doesn’t know much at all. Just that he wanted this sound to echo within his walls. For him to be the one to drag it out. Not for anybody else, but him.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Okay. What if he does… this…

Thought so.

Sometimes, human beings have a fantasy unmatched, don’t they? Able to form and reform expressions on people they know that they have never seen. For example, he can imagine what you look like when you cry. Or when you’re mad. Or…

He knew you’d press your lips together, along with your eyebrows, muffling your sound once he sought out your clit and pressed against it. And not because he’s seen other women contort their faces like this; no… it’s an entirely new sensation with you.

You don’t compare to anyone. Nobody compares to you. Nobody, ever.

Sick of watching the invisible movement under your dress, he lets his eyes wander to yours, and you notice, do as he does. Eyes hooded, staring at him as if drunk — possibly, probably drunk.

Just once, he gapes down again, trying to adjust without crushing your knees with his. Comes closer. Then looks back at you. Absolutely astonished by the coloured lips drying up. Seeing your tongue peak behind your upper teeth, pushing against them.

Then you’re blinking, several times, not rapidly, but enough to indicate that you’re losing yourself, too. And then there’s some melancholy behind your gaze; he can’t say where it derives from… you seem to be coming out of a room that you kept dark for long enough.

He can’t say whether he’s further dimming the light in that room or lightening it up — and as he advances, gauging your reactions, he inwardly hopes it’s the latter.

So inwardly. So desperately.

Patience only persists for a moment; Jungkook barely believes in it. People always break. And he does when you lean forward as he drags his finger between your pussy lips, still over the clothing. You balance your weight with your arms, holding yourself up.

And then…

You so tantalisingly, softly, quietly, whisper his name.

Okay.

The snap was expected. The sigh he lets out was expected. And the way his lips finally crash against yours, making you almost fall back onto the sofa was expected, too.

But your taste… Why did he know you’d be as sweet as a cliché, like a perfume made edible? Matches your mystery and your elegance.

And the mellow, yet wanting sounds fit every move he makes. Like the moan-sigh combination when his bold hand wraps around the bun you’ve arranged your hair into. How you breathe into the kiss when he tilts your head a little, and then proceeds to loosen up said bun.

Releases it. Lets your hair fall. Pulls you in, pausing the make-out in the process, and then diving back in with a greed he’s never been met with before.

And as he kisses you, his index finger still dips into the uncharted territory below, ruining your panties some more as he soaks them; fucking loving how you whimper as a result.

No… this is ruining him just as much.

So he draws back from your body, attempting and probably failing not to look at you like an animal glaring down at his prey, ready to devour. He’s never seen this expression himself, but one or two girls have uttered quiet, “Oh-oh,” in such moments before — do you see the danger, too?

Or is he being cocky? But it’s not his fault. You make him cocky because he can never fucking say what you think! Of course he’d need the mental praise to himself — your opinion on him is too difficult to decipher.

He’ll keep the energy up. Make you shrink in his hold.

Hands under your ass, he lifts your lower body a little, amused by your wide eyes and how you wonder, “What are you d—”

Silencing the moment he uses his palms’ position to grab the hem of your panties and pull them down your legs. Over them and then on the other side of the table. The two of you won’t need those tonight.

“What does it look like that I’m doing?” he teases, smirk effective and permanent.

He likes that about himself. Maybe you’ll do, too. If not, then you at least do like how his fingers, impatient, find their way back home again, not before lifting your dress to your hips until you’re bared to him the way he’s craved.

And he pauses.

Oh, this treasure…

“You…” he starts, moving two ring-clad fingers between your folds. Testing the waters. “I’m not letting you go anywhere tonight. You’re staying right here…” He leans forwards, body on body, whispering against your lips. “Trapped under me.”

You want to answer, he thinks. Your eyebrows relax for a second, an inebriated smile playing around your mouth. If he knows you well enough, he’d guess you’re urging to dive back into your witty remarks.

But none of it is possible just yet. Because when he caresses your pussy again, increasing the pace without being too unreasonably fast, you bite your lip. He urges you to release it with his tongue. And when you do, his finger plunges in; as deeply as it can. So easily, too.

He kisses your clavicles the moment your nails get ahold of his arms, wiggling underneath him, but still caged in. And he sees the built-up frustration; how you kept yourself at bay, but can barely do it now. How you yearn for just one or two more right touches here and there before…

But before he can, he stops. Immediately, unexpectedly for you. Once again, mean, but…

“You’ll thank me later,” he utters — and with those four measly words, something awakens in you that was hidden for just the last ten minutes.

“Oh? You… you’re confident like this.”

“Of course I am.”

“Jungkook…” you say in such frustration that he thinks you’ll beg some more. But you don’t. Instead, you shake your head and say. “Men rarely manage to…”

“This isn’t rare. I’m not giving you rare, ‘kay?”

“I…”

“How…” he readjusts your body, pulling you down the couch, shifting until his knee keeps your legs apart. “How fucking insulting.”

Do you hear any of this anymore? Because your eyes are closed again. Hands still holding on; and… and body winding in order for your cunt to shift closer to him, suddenly rubbing against his knee.

It’s all you can get at the moment since his hands are so far out of reach. And the satisfaction of knowing that you’ll strive for anything at all is cosmic.

“You’re ruining my jeans,” he mocks, clicking his tongue as if to reprimand.

“Then…” You hook a finger into one of his jeans’ loops, pulling and then releasing again. “Take them off, coward.”

You don’t have to tell him twice. They say that if you have waited for so long, what’s ten more minutes? But no more. Not another second.

So he obliges immediately as he mutters, “‘Kay,” offering a helping hand when you work on his shirt. Off and to the ground. Pants off and to the back of the couch. He already knows he’ll be finding them all scattered the next morning.

But that’s the problem of just that next-morning-self.

Boxers still on, he returns to give you another initial taste of what’s to explode. The dress moves up from your hip as he slides it over your skin, stopping right under the mounds he’s still so curious about.

He needs to keep this balanced. Rush as much as might be appropriate, but not too much to make things embarrassing. This… the way he leans down again, opening your legs, erection grinding against your pussy and offering the bare minimum… this is good enough for now…

Or maybe not. Because merely a couple seconds later, you halt mid-moan, letting out breathy words that he struggles to understand until you repeat, “Is that… all you’ll be doing tonight?”

“Hmmm, you want more?”

“I— I don’t know.” Pause, a gulp when he presses his clothed length between your cunt. “Are you going to tell me your secrets if I say yes?”

His secrets?

You must be kidding. He has been an open book to you, chasing you around; if anything, he needs to unravel your mind.

But for that, he needs to play along. So he feigns the same mystery you emanate, teasing, “What do you wanna know?”

And you don’t hesitate. “Everything.”

…Hmm…

You’ve never seemed as interested as you are now. Never dove into his thoughts and the dim heart like now. If he agreed now, would you blurt out something specific? Questions that you formed when he wasn’t paying attention?

No idea. Maybe that’s something to worry about later. Pillowtalk. The morning after talk. Just anything… just not now.

He removes the obstacles currently standing between the two of you. The cushion standing against the back of the couch, constantly falling into your face. He throws it on the ground, so you don’t have to keep swatting it away.

Then, the dress covering your body. He gives a sign of wanting to proceed, and you play along, lifting yourself, chasing his lips as your outfit follows the cushion. And then, the phone right underneath the small of your back, having snuck there, undetected until you yelp, “Oh!”

“What?”

“Cold. Don’t know how it got there.”

He fishes out the device, watching it light up, a notification at the top that he can’t decode and that he doesn’t pay any mind to. Puts it on the coffee table. Then… last but not least… the uncertain atmosphere.

He says, “You want to know everything? Then make a list. I’ll tell you if I feel like it… deal?”

“You’re so…”

“You gotta make me. No other way out, baby.”

An answer lies on your tongue, ready to disrupt the moment. He knows because you look distracted all of a sudden, possibly still thinking about the same thing you did before, dissociating as he sat next to you, wine in hand.

It’s probably about work. Or about Taehyung — God, nobody at work but Jungkook would know, but you mention that guy all the time.

But tonight is not the night to think of others. So he shakes your upcoming inquiries away, giving you no time to think about it further as he, thirsty and impatient, picks you up and off the couch.

Right into his lap. Right onto his cock.

Still a layer between the two of you, watching you grind immediately. For a moment, you put him under your spell, urging him to stay right there and not move away until he’s shot buckets of cum into his boxers.

But…

But he’d rather do it in you, with you, because of truly you.

So he wastes no second as he executes his former plan, large hands sprawling over your ass before he stands with willpower and strength. He throws you a couple inches into the air, making you adjust, and then moves.

Away from the couch, stepping onto the clothes on the floor, careful not to stumble and hurt the two of you. The way to the bedroom seems endless, and you so naked… so… so his for the night. Like what, he still needs to wait those couple square metres?

Fuck, how…

No. It must be a primal instinct that hankers him to give up already, having made it halfway through the room and almost to his bedroom when he suddenly stops. Pinning you against a random free spot at the wall, right under a silent clock.

“What are you…?”

Your voice is trembling, for some reason so incredibly small. For the first time since you lay beneath him on the couch, he sees your eyes properly, and they flit back to the couch as if you’re looking where you just departed from — and then back to him.

“What are you looking for?” he whispers. Tantalisingly, he brings his fingers to your chin, pinching it lightly as he raises your head. “Hm? I’m here. Do you want to go back? Missing the couch? Wall might not be as comfortable, huh…”

“No… that’s not a problem. I’m just… surprised by the change.”

You do look surprised. A little cheekier again as your tone rises, your head falling to the side, lips smiling as if to distract him from something bigger. As if there’s anything bigger in existence right now than you.

“It was just sudden,” you conclude.

“Is that bad?”

“Not at all. I’m just curious.”

He doesn’t need to ask what about. He sees it in this expecting gaze of yours that you want to read and decrypt his next steps. And you can have them.

Because he lets you go, making you fall silently on your feet, kissing you once before he falls to his knees. You groan when he grabs your leg, placing it on his shoulder, restless when his lips charge for your open folds.

He offers you, “Curious, huh? No need,” before kissing your clit, adding another, “Just indulge in it… no need to use your pretty brain today,” and then attaching his mouth and tongue to your dripping pussy.

Digging his large nose into you, tickling your nub, he swirls his tongue around, slurping you up like his favourite drink. Holy fuck, you taste good. He could eat you up, down you in one like a shot. Stay right here all night.

You get ahold of a patch of his hair, but don’t pull — somehow, he wishes you would. Instead, you seem to focus on your body, trying not to fall, keeping it upright. You’re winding, your leg moving, and he soon wraps an arm around your thigh to keep you from stirring too much.

And with the other, he targets your cunt, mouth moving up to make space for the digits to easily, effortlessly slide into you. You gasp, just a bit louder when the metal touches your hot sex, calling his name — and for possibly the first time, he hears you curse, “Fuck. Fuck, I’m— I’m going to pass out.”

Oh my God.

If he could lick you to unconsciousness, he’d feel shocked and proud at once. He wants to see you become weightless, wants to catch you in his arms, and then bring you to his bedroom, still delirious, and fuck your brain out of you.

He wants you so bad. He wants to fuck you so fucking badly. His cock aches, godfuckingdamn.

As he rolls his tongue, lips kissing yours, moving his head left and right as he makes out with your pussy, he almost pulls all the way through. Nearly gives into your body language, nose moving over your clit, fingers pumping in and out, breathing into your pussy hotly.

But he has other plans. He wants to see your damn tears; wants you to unleash all your desperation. So, just when your sounds change, less pauses between them, high-pitched, heavy breathing, he stops.

Draws back, watching you press your ass into the wall, head suddenly hanging low. You whisper, “No…” as he looks up in satisfaction, waiting for you to say more.

You’re out of breath, exhaling through half gritted teeth, a palm on his chest as he rises again. You declare, “I’m going to blueball you, too.”

But the adrenaline has poured buckets of confidence over Jungkook already, and he’s drenched in it as much as in your scent, cocking an eyebrow as he challenges, “You can try.”

“I’m gonna suck your dick so fucking slow.”

“Do it,” he keeps the mask up, wondering how much of the effect you saw upon gracing him with such a provocative image, “let’s see if you make it this far. Might just fuck you into space before that, you know?”

He lets out an unsteady breath, a strand of your hair swaying upon impact. His hand taps at your thigh, testing whether you’ve closed your legs again; and as he realises that you haven’t, much to his pleasure, he palms your pussy, heel of his hand pressing against your clit.

“You’re trying to set me off, because you know you can, right?” he questions, for a split moment distracted by the teeth gnawing at your lower lip. “Smart of you. You are truly smart, babe… but you’re also mine tonight. So don’t play games.”

A slap lands on your vulnerable pussy, and he understands your frustration as you open your mouth, the lower lip previously captive rolling back into place. Soft and gorgeous.

No matter the fading distance, there’s still something inexplicable in the air, as if he can’t really separate a dream from reality. As if he needs evidence that this isn’t yet another figment of his imagination; the ones he’s awoken from several times, underwear threatening to burst.

The hand just torturing your cunt wanders up your body and settles around your neck, like a chain or a necklace or a motherfucking leash. He feels home here, just like this. With your fingers on his wrist, gulping under his touch.

Pinned firmly against the wall, he looks down to where you’re dripping and he’s standing tall, gripping the ever-twitching length that is begging for more. Begging for relief. He’s doing this to himself — because his body is burning up, as if scorched by sun flares.

He’s doing this to the both of you.

The kiss underneath your ear as he leans in. And the still harmless yet sinful touch between his tip and your folds. How he holds the shaft firmly, leading the head between your pussy lips, teasing until just an inch intrudes your awaiting hole.

He moans the moment you do, moving, fucking just the first of the tip into you; scrambling his own thoughts as he says, “God, I could just slide in… you’re so, so wet.”

“What… why say this if you won’t do it?”

Guess you’ve figured him out well enough. Guess that’s the cockiness you implied when you called him a fuckboy in that stupid museum. Or how you kept a safe distance — because thinking about it, maybe Jungkook could be someone to break somebody’s heart.

No. He knows he is. But…

He shakes the thought off his brain, returning to this very moment where you’re waiting for his answer, a heart made of steel. You won’t let him hurt you; you know better than that. You could dodge him easily.

Mentally, at least. Physically, you’re under his mercy.

So he uses this weakness, muttering under his breath, “I will, I will… but not here. We can do better than here.”

Wasn’t this just a pit stop after all? What he’s seeking is still waiting in his bedroom, soft sheets spread over the cold mattress, waiting for a body to warm it up. Or two.

Already hot and bothered, Jungkook lets you go entirely; and the next minute happens in a blur, as though he’s struggling with recognising his own apartment. Suddenly self-conscious about everything and nothing at once.

With you in his grip, he walks along the dark, small corridor; then past the paintings, through the door, into a well-managed, tidy bedroom until he’s sat your ass down. It happens within the tiniest moment — he could narrate how you got here but he can barely recall it.

Dick at the same height as your mouth, he wraps his hand around it. You don’t initiate anything of what you promised, looking into his eyes with a question; he knows you want to avenge yourself and provide the same vanity, but you’d rather skip to the best part.

He wants to, too.

So he doesn’t ram his cock into your mouth, hitting the farthest spot until you gag. Instead, he relishes the image mentally and quietly, fantasising about the warmth of your spit, about the tongue swirling around.

And then… then he goes a step further and imagines the even extended pleasure if he dug into your pussy now, maximising whatever your mouth could make him feel.

Are his thoughts too straight-forward? If he spelled them out like this, one by one, would you find him weird? Too eager? Obsessed?

Maybe he should slow down. Just a bit.

Which is why he holds his shaft closer to you, still surprised when you don’t open up, hints of the past confusion alternating with your confident, mysterious, teasing self. It’s weird to witness. But your eyes are still hazy at least. You don’t seem to want to stop.

God. He can’t figure it out. Not figuring out is agitating even in this moment.

But… good energies. Good energies. All the pent-up frustration needs to be morphed into sheer craze. He can do that.

“Spit on it,” he orders.

You only hum. Something in your gaze changes again, eyelids fluttering, as if awoken from trance. But you’re willing. Immediately mimicking him as you bring a thumb to a mole on the protruding veins. Tracing them, all the way back to his balls until you touch them just lightly, but enough for him to nearly lose his shit.

“Fuck, I said,” he reprimands, though delighted by the sudden rapture, “spit on it.”

You nod as if carrying out a task given by your manager; perhaps used to the last days and weeks when he’d command you around. Ask for another meeting, or for your opinion on a song, or just to keep him company to keep him productive.

Or, to keep you close to him. Lost in thoughts. Many thoughts. And even though none of them became a reality in that room, none of the equipment shoved aside to sit you on the desk, this… this right here is more than enough.

You suck in your cheeks, collecting spit, and when you lean forward… you make such a mess. Spitting onto the tip, a string still connecting your lips and his dick, leftover saliva dripping down your chin and then on your tits.

The view is… worth diamonds.

Do you even know?

“Okay,” he utters, no real direction in his mind, no real sentence to utter. “Okay.”

But you’re equipped with ideas, immediately getting onto the trail you left, spreading the spit over his cock, down to the base. The tip and the slit glisten, traces of precum mixing with your drool, but it’s not enough to cover his length all over.

So he mutters a mental, “More,” to himself, tapping your lips until you open, sticking two of his fingers in and pressing against your tongue. Lubricating his digits, he rolls them over your tongue, far enough to nearly make you gag until he draws back.

Watching you work on him rolls a wave of satisfaction over him. He’s proud, enduring like this. Because judging from the creature you are, as if jumped out of dark mythology, he truly expected to give up way earlier.

But he remains steadfast; eager to not explode until he’s filled you up first. Drawn out your own highs.

“Sweetheart, aren’t you a good one?” Jungkook praises, helping you out with whatever his fingers gathered in your mouth. Then, grabs your wrist, pushing you away, hovering above you with a, “Turn around.”

You gulp again. Then shift back on his bed, sighing as you feel the soft silk underneath your skin, kissing and hugging your body. The sight is gorgeous, with you fleeing to the back of the mattress, obliging so easily. Prey.

And…

“Holy fuck.”

Holy fuck, how you look when you finally get into position. Ass up, upper body down. And the arms over your head? What in the world.

Okay… okay…

Wait. You’re saying something.

His knees dig into the mattress, hand unconsciously pumping his cock — he doesn’t even know when he started — as he moves closer, over your body. Kisses your shoulder, bringing his ear close to hear before, “Huh? What’d you say?”

“I’m already so spent.”

“Ah… do you want to stop?”

“No… you made me feel spent. But you’re not done, are you?”

Pause. Bright smirk. Then, “Of course not. Does it feel like it?” Another kiss to your shoulder, wet this time. “Condom or not?”

“Oh.” Seems you hadn’t even thought about this yet. Kind of nice. “I’m… I use an IUD. Have you… slept with many people lately?”

No answer yet. He thinks. Thinks back to the several weeks since he met you. Should he say it? Would you back away if he did? Years ago, there’d be no debate about it — he wouldn’t have told you. Kept it to himself.

Perhaps there’s still a part of him that’d dodge your question, but he somehow feels like you’d see through him. Hear the insincerity. 

Fuck, is that selfish? Maybe. Doesn’t he already know that he is? But he’s not bad; and people are selfish.

So a second later, he truthfully admits, “Once. Two or so weeks ago. Nothing special though, just dumb, drunk shit. Some girl from a club. And I tested after.”

As soon as the sentence finishes, he wonders if you deem yourself just another one of those. But… in all honesty. She was a one night stand whose sounds, name, dirty talk did nothing to him.

All he could imagine was you. Perhaps not out of loyalty, but surely out of curiosity.

He can’t fathom his thoughts into feelings yet; he still wouldn’t describe his attitude towards you as falling in love or anything. That’d be too far stretched. But he thought about it — that maybe he liked you too much.

Yet, his heart remained empty; but his body never did. He feels bad; and still, he won’t deny whatever his skin and mind whisper to him.

Other than that, he could probably declare with quite a firm certainty that you don’t feel any different about him. You can’t be.

So maybe this is good enough for now.

“But know what?” he says, voice lower, repeating his thoughts. “Could only imagine what it’d be like if it was you. This pussy,” strokes his cock along your cunt, “and this body,” touches the small of your back, “these thoughts got me going. And you’re so much better in reality.”

“Mmmh,” is all you utter, nearly hiding your face in the pillow before you say, “maybe… maybe we can still use a condom then.”

Shit. Expected it.

But okay. Okay.

Where are the condoms again… bedside table? No. He used the last one ages ago, before he knew you. He gets up; walks to the closet; somewhere near his socks, there must be a new pack. A moment to think.

For a second, he looks back at you. You’re still the same, only with the ass having dropped again, losing balance and energy. And maybe, you’re still drunk, too — probably, because even he still feels the world spin, careful not to close his eyes for too long.

Okay. One… no, two foils out. As he turns back to you, nearing you, his head is just a little calmer than a minute again, and he wonders… were all the thoughts his own? The past half an hour or however much passed, didn’t he spiral more and more?

Did you notice? He shakes his head. Who cares?

Not him, not right now. He keeps telling himself that with a goddess waiting in front of him on all fours, he probably doesn’t need to worry about anything unless there’s a reason to. You’ve been cooperative and the night has been successful, minus the strange gazes you keep throwing at him periodically.

“Alright, baby. Up you come,” he mumbles, bringing your ass back to his crotch. His hands are already trained and incredibly skilled; doing work on the condom doesn’t take him more than a couple seconds. “I should tell you now.”

You pause. Suck in some breath, as if expecting something in particular. You agree with an unmatched thirst for knowledge, “…Tell me.”

“I don’t tend to go easy. If you need me to be, you’ll have to tell me. ‘Kay?”

“I… I can take a lot more than you think.”

Fuck. He’ll wreck your shit. “Perfect. You’re honestly a good one, huh? Such a good girl for real, no— no, you’re the best.”

Is he just saying whatever now? Perhaps he should stop boring you and get to it. Right? Please, the goddamn, blood-filled tower down there is desperately imploring him to.

He collects spit like you did before, targeting your glinting pussy, one blob right onto it. Then, he brings his fingers back to where they love to be, distributing the filth between your folds. And then, two fingers into the tightening hole.

Right before moving north, between your ass cheeks, thumb rolling over your other clenching hole. 

And you tense immediately, without saying a word, taking it quietly. Then… then he finally starts.

Brings the annoying rubber to your soaked pussy, poking for a second before he gets serious and eventually dips in. The free hand raises your ass some more, and he shifts forwards, your butt backwards, helping him get in further.

He hears the reaction. Hears the almost-screech in a second, nails biting into the pillow over your head. You hold onto it for dear life as he slowly bottoms out, your sporadic breathing and high-pitched moans mingling with his own bursts of lust.

Deep creases appear between his eyebrows, lips bitten sore, and once his waist has finally connected with your ass, he takes a deep, long inhale. Watches your face disappear deeper into the pillow, sounds muffled.

Enjoys it for a moment before he starts moving slowly. Out, in. Concentrating before he might spill too early. Beads of sweat shimmer on his forehead, dampening the hanging strands of hair. You feel good. Too fucking good—

He wants to go off right away. But… focus.

“How’s that?” he asks.

“Stop… stop talking.”

Oh. Bold. But a good sign, isn’t it? If you wanted him to stop, you’d say it. So he keeps going… dares just a little more, courageous, encouraged by your cooperation. Explores your ass and what lies between the cheeks more, groaning before he says, “You stop that.”

His hand reaches for your wrists, keeping you from tearing his pillow and leading your fingers to where his touched your ass before. You keep your touch there, unmoving until he says, “Keep them apart.”

And you seem to understand. His thumb returns to your unoccupied hole as his cock impales your pussy whole, still going at a tormenting pace. Thick and soaked, he’s splitting you in two; maybe that’s why the slow plunges are such a plague. Because both of you know there could be more.

Pulling your ass cheeks apart, you remain with your face in the sheets, arms trembling as he circles your hole again. He doesn’t know if you’re into this; doesn’t know if you’ll protest. So far, he’s been pretty obvious with his intentions, and he’s sure you must understand this one, too.

And you’re not fearful; if something bothered you, you wouldn’t hesitate to voice your displeasure. So he spits one more time, right onto his thumb, using the lubrication to carefully, curiously dip the tip of his thumb into your ass.

You yelp immediately; as your hole tightens around the little bit of his thumb, your pussy narrows around his cock, too, and he nearly loses it. Nearly drools onto your back as his mouth drops open, blinking rapidly for a second.

God, your body reacts with such intensity. Still, he makes sure, “Too much?”

And you, candidly, reply, “I don’t know. I… think so.”

“Okay. Then I’ll sto—”

“No. No, wait… I want to— I want to know what it’s like.”

Thought so. He knew that underneath all the chic charade, you crave just as much as he does. And if it’s him that you long for, then what even stands between him and the rocket shooting his ego to the sky?

This feels good. Really good… not just physically. You lift his spirits.

Ready with an exhale, he dares his thumb deeper, letting more of it disappear in you. Out of all the women he’s ever been with, not more than a handful has been willing to venture into this part of sexual desire. Most of them can’t stand the discomfort, and some of them don’t feel any particular way about it.

But you lay open to him in every way possible. An open book for once; easy to read, as if calculating how you wind, planning how to sound, guiding him fearlessly.

Soon, he’s adjusting his thrusts to your moans, and you’re adjusting your moans to his thrusts. Synchronised, the two of you groan and cry out together, and he makes sure to keep you filled to the brim, reducing the pauses between the shoves bit by bit.

Until…

“Hey,” he whispers, waiting for you to react, but as he pumps into you, slowly yet balls-deep, you don’t do anything much but scream into the pillow. So he just continues, “How much do you think you can take, baby?”

“I… I’m—”

You’re attempting your best, but you’re tongue-tied. With each push, he catapults your body forwards, but your mind is long lost in the stratosphere. With gritted teeth and a rising, heavily breathing, golden chest, he leans in close to you, hand snaking under you and around your neck as he retries, “So?”

“I don’t know,” you blurt, and as you raise your head and look back at him, he sees a sight to behold — mascara underneath your eyes, lipstick smeared, a quivering chin. He’s fucking you so good; he must be, because you soon add, “Just do an—and I’ll let you know.”

“Good idea. Very good idea.”

He’s fucking you good. But it’s not all he’s got; not all he’s wanted for days and weeks.

No. If he unleashed all he’s been fabricating in his mind, he’d drench your cheeks in tears. And now that you permitted him to, he might just go ahead, right?

Right.

Which is why the next steps come easy to him, naturally, as if you pressed a button he’s been waiting to smash. A big, red one, like the ones in games urging you to not touch or you’d lose. But by God, right now, he’s not losing.

If he looked into his reflection in the dark window, he’d see a winner through and through.

A fiery rage courses through his burning veins. A face contorting when he lets you go, only to move his fingers back, wrapping them around the back of your neck. Shoving you into the mattress, ramming his cock into you, once more keeping the familiar pace and then—

And then he closes his eyes. Matches an expression to your yelps. Drives into your deepest core and picks up speed until, all of a sudden, it turns jarring.

Jungkook doesn’t get enough. He doesn’t know if he ever will; damn the approaching end of this. There shouldn’t be one; he should be capable of ruining you forever. Maybe he will be.

For now, he directs his thoughts fully on how you feel and how you sound, uncaring about the jagged breathing that burns up his chest. Leaning forward, he attempts twice until he catches your ears, nibbling at your earlobe.

At first, he doesn’t know if you register the touch, given that he’s occupying you with far crazier sensations. But then you reach out a hand, panting into the pillow, grabbing a patch of his hair. 

And he, fired up and insane, leans back, gripping your wrist, removing it from his mane and pinning it to your back instead. Your face moves to the side, not muffled by the pillow anymore, and you gasp for air before you beg, “Please, I’m about to—”

That’s all you get, because he soon interrupts with a cheeky, “You can hold on for a bit longer,” pausing on purpose. He wants to see you when you come. Wants to wipe more of your make up across your face. Wants to kiss the colour of your lipstick onto his own lips.

Letting your orgasm fade, he waits, just a couple seconds, allowing you to catch your breath until your eyebrows furrow. You blink repeatedly, then looking up into his eyes, and it’s all he needs to feel his patience dissipate again.

Jungkook gets into a new position, leaving one knee deep in the mattress while angling the other leg, planting its foot on the sheets. He keeps his cock from falling out, leading the tip and the shaft back in before he resumes to fuck you wound.

Your arm is still hostage to his grip, the nails of your other hand gripping the sheet for dear life. It’s gorgeous, the view from where Jungkook looks down at his meal. Crazy how you purr and whine when he leans in, touching your swollen clit, electrifying you. And he keeps looking at you.

At the upper body waving a white flag, too weak to keep yourself upright anymore. And then, the ass in the air staying firmly at its place, his dick aiding you, the flesh of your cheeks wobbling with each thrust, like an ocean wave. Whenever it collides with his hips, the slaps resound temptingly, and Jungkook soon mimics it by letting his hand fall hard on your ass.

You mewl, calling out his name twice, the second cry half uttered, half of the Jungkook omitted. And when you catch the tiniest of your breaths, still working with drying lungs, you say, “L-let me come, please—”

“Wait,” he says again, still sadistic, still masochistic, absolutely out of his mind before an idea lights up his mind. “This isn’t it yet.”

The finger working on your nub was an evil tactic, he’s got to admit. Perhaps he led you to believe something he’s not ready to give you yet, and once you seem to realise, you let out a sob.

And he’s positively delighted once he stops. Lowers his head to look at you. Sees the dark, smeared mascara on his pillow when he digs his fingers in your hair, pulling your head back as he says, “I know. You thought we were done, right? We’re not done, though.”

“Wha—”

He lets his body fall onto the mattress, right next to you, and pulls you in, back against his chest. Hand under your tits, pressing against them, moving them up and down before pinching your nipple once.

“I said,” he repeats, probably unnecessarily, because he doesn’t think you actually demand an answer, “I’m not done. Understand?”

And as expected, you don’t nod or answer. You only push your body further into his, and he reckons that’s a mighty sufficient implication already.

As you lay sideways with a breath as heavy as his, his exhales hot against your ear, you let out sounds reminiscent of marathon runners. You’re exhausted, sweaty, and so is he — but neither of you are finished, and he’d be damned if he permitted the night to end like this.

Diligently, he throws your quivering leg over his; your impish remarks have lessened since he took over, and in turn, his own insolent emotions are reigning supremely. He leads his submerged, rock-hard, twitching cock to your battered cunt, pushing in so easily he thinks he’s dreaming.

It’s like putting a key into its lock.

“Ahh, fuck.” It’s hard to fully bottom out in this position, but he can touch you so much better now. He lets his hands explore your bare body, fondling with your tits, kissing your ear and jaw. “Hold tight. You’re doing so good for me, sweetheart.”

It’s cruel, he knows; the gentle praises as he wreaks havoc down there. He crosses your wrists against your tummy, holding them tight, and you close to him. Fucks you dumb and stupid as you wail in his arms. Moves to your clit and gives it pleasant, gentle rubs, so opposite from the rest of his ministrations.

And the pressure builds. His balls, hard as steel, prepare to shoot their load into you, his cock impossibly stiff, but… but…

You haven’t come yet. And this position won’t do. Can’t do, won’t do, he needs to see you.

So he echoes, “Won’t do,” as he gets up again, keeping the previous position short lived. Doesn’t stay away for too long before he’s on his knees, pulling your legs apart, after the briefest interruptions deep inside again before he leans into you.

And then, everything happens crazy fast.

How he keeps you from wrapping your arms around him; instead, capturing your wrists once again, raising them next to your head. How he moves to kiss you for the first time after quite a while, intertwining your tongues, moaning hard as he feels his high approach.

The fast pace changes a little as he loses his mind and focus, one of the strokes stopping as he almost pulls out, and then plunges in again. Your fingers curl in, nails sharp enough to dig into the digits that hold you, and he cries out in delight, letting a breathy chuckle fall.

He says, “Alright, yeah. Next time… we’re tying you up. Love how you whine.” He lets one hand go, gripping your face again and you move your touch to his shoulder immediately, gasping. “You always p-play the mysterious girl, huh? But you’re so pathetic right now.”

The inhibitions are out the window. The overthinking, too. Whatever he thought might make you run away from him has long exited his mind, because he’s got you right here, under his control, nearing the end.

There’s no going back. No return to his yearning, because you’ve satisfied it so thoroughly.

Time to give it all back to you. One last time before he submerges himself in all his glorious egotism.

“There we go,” he says as he watches your expressions change. You open your mouth but don’t say anything. He doesn’t know what your orgasm feels like, but he knows you’re going through it. “Let it all out. Cream my cock, I fucking dare you.”

He’s saying whatever now, he knows. But he doesn’t have the capacity to think much as creases appear on your forehead and between your eyebrows, tongue mingling with his for a short moment when he goes in for another kiss, barely succeeding.

You’re trembling, lifting your hips as much as the weight above you allows, wanting more friction, more of a touch inside your pussy, on your clit, everywhere. And then, when you do come… when he brings the stars from the sky into your eyes…

Yours roll back into your head. Throwing it back, giving him access to your neck. Lips still apart, and he uses it to push a finger into your mouth, on top of your tongue. And fuck… how your pussy constricts. How it tightens so fucking much.

He’d be lying if he said it didn’t affect him.

So much so that his head spins; and as he feels himself getting dizzy, he buries his face in the pillow next to your head before moving it to kiss your shoulder. Barely looks at you anymore; doesn’t care, it’s his high now, he wants to fucking come, and that’s it.

Finally, finally he’s gotten to this point.

Will he hate himself for these thoughts later? Is this too over the top? He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care, doesn’t care.

His thoughts are occupied, alright, don’t need another string of questions to intervene. His attention remains resolutely on his movements, vigorous, rhythmic, your sounds perfectly matching each of his strokes.

And your hands, the poor little palms, unsure where to settle. This isn’t new; across this broad back of his, every girl’s touch wanders like this. Your nails scratch the small of his back, then up his spine, across the muscles of his shoulder blades.

The fact that you’re a goner as much as him, giving yourself to him is probably the last of reassurances he needs — as if any more were required. Because still panting into your skin, eyes shut tight, he works towards the peak of his sanity, exhausted but eager as he relishes the wet tightness of your pussy; surrounding him just right, still clenching, unclenching from your orgasm.

And then—

“Ohhh, fuck,” he whispers.

His voice is shaking uncontrollably; he barely recognises it. Which… must mean this is new, right? Experience be damned, apparently you spark off phenomena nobody has ever acquainted him with before.

And oh, how you make it worse once he finally emerges again, as if catching his breath after holding it underwater for too long. Your eyes are hooded as he gets on his knees over your body, caging your hips in between his legs. Gripping one of your tits, you nibble your lower lip for a second before letting out laboured breathing, nose flaring.

It’s all he needs. All that’s left when he rips off the condom and envelops his filthy cock with his veiny hand, stroking immediately and hard. Close to the end as he rushes to ask, “Where do you want it?”

You understand what he’s asking, and nod, back to yourself when you utter mysteriously, “Anywhere but inside…” Okay. No time to ask why not — but he wouldn’t have anyway. He obliges, giving his all, one more second left before you tell him just in time, “Here.”

Your palm rubs across your skin, moving over your tits and your stomach. So he’s quick to opt away from your face and redirect his aim to where you pointed, moaning out a couple last, broken vocals before he finally spills.

Milky white, multiple blotches scattered over your skin, like a modern art painting. He’d rather draw these all day than be stuck with you in a museum restaurant, staring from afar, wishing he could reach out under the goddamn public table.

Going until he’s empty, he senses a relief unknown to him thus far, mind suddenly vacant. Once again, the ocean; he feels like the ocean. Like the water as it stills and calms after a thunderous storm. You lifted the waves of his sea high above and have now turned him into a lazy, peaceful lake.

God, he should fuck you more often; you make him a poet.

Okay. Okay, where was he?

When did he unfocus? Dizzy all of a sudden. He puffs out a breath. Then takes another look at you. Watches as you spread the sticky substance over your mounds, touching your nipple, so indecently messy.

The smirk is unintentional but inevitable, reaching far as he shakes his head at you. You smile back wordlessly, and he lets his fingertip run over his cum, too, bringing it to your lips as he asks, “Taste?”

You don’t answer. Thinking for the barest second before you scoff, stretching out your tongue before he puts the finger on it; closing your eyes, sucking it clean. He groans at the feeling; luckily, he’ll be immobile for the foreseeable future, or he’d bend you over again.

“Okay. That should be enough for now,” he breathes, letting himself fall next to you. “I promise I’m a lot more energised on other days. But…” He turns towards you, pinching your chin, bringing your face close. “God, did you take me out there. I’m beat.”

He doesn’t kiss you; only drops back, still filling his lungs with new oxygen. Pity — he still wants you, but his muscles are aching. Eyes shutting.

Then opening again when he hears you laugh, right before you say, “You don’t need to prove your endurance to me. I’ve got a pretty good idea of it now. Besides— let’s be honest. I didn’t do much.”

“Oh, you did more than enough, sweetheart,” Jungkook retorts with a snicker, giving his eyes some relief. He sighs, and then adds, “Your existence did it for me already. Wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.”

He shoves his arm under his head, the other untidily covering the two of you with the blanket; whatever. He’ll wash it tomorrow. For now, the two of you should probably get some rest. Although—

Did you say you wanted to stay? He didn’t catch it if you did. Perhaps he’s also just inattentive; suddenly remembers that he still has a long way to go socially, remembering that permission is courtesy. Selfish, selfish, selfish.

“Uhm,” he starts; this is awkward. He doesn’t do this often — not many stay overnight anyway. Strangely, he didn’t question it with you; maybe because he wants you to. “Do you want me to bring you home?”

“In all honesty, I… I don’t think you can drive tonight. We’re both not sober yet, so I’ll just leave in the morning. Need to be in the office by noon.”

“Ah? Why?”

“Meeting with Tae. I forgot that he wanted to go through a few organisational things for the upcoming concert.”

Concert preparations. Organisational things. The company.

Jungkook forgot about it all. Responsibilities still exist. Of course, he needs to be in the office tomorrow afternoon, too. This is his dream, his goal, everybody’s eyes on him, the biggest source of entertainment in the country.

Feels so stupid, forgetting you’ll leave at some point. That he can’t flip you over again all day tomorrow, that you’ll be occupied somewhere else, with someone else. Jungkook grits his teeth.

“You wanna come over again tomorrow night?” he asks.

And all of a sudden, despite the last hour, you seem lost in thoughts again. Probably tired, but he can’t help but overthink. You don’t answer immediately, keeping him on the edge, and as he thinks you’ve fallen asleep, he looks over, seeing your eyes open when you say, “Don’t know. Might have a couple things to tend to.”

Ah… okay. Sure.

Where’s your mind right now, he wonders?

Maybe circling around work. Maybe your urge to go is as little as his? All these things, they don’t sound too delightful right now, do they?

Concert preparations. Organisational things. The company. Tae.

When did you start using his nickname like this? Weird. Didn’t know the two of you were so close. Then again, does it matter? No. He shakes his head.

Shakes it slowly, making sure you don’t notice, sighing again before he breaks into a smile. It’s okay. You’re next to him. Not next to Taehyung. His friend. You’re covered in him. So he doesn’t let another’s name fog his brain, instead seeking peace and succeeding until—

“Don’t worry, another time,” you say, following up with a goosebump-inducing, “I’ll stick around until my feet tingle.”

Somewhere… at some point in his life… under probably not the best circumstances— 

Wait.

THE FIC ISN'T OVER YET!! PLS READ 👇🏼

as always, tumblr hates content creators and has a 1k block limit. which is why you can read the rest of the story in this reblog hehe we're almost at the end <3

[oatflatwhite]

the inherent homoeroticism of war media: a completely unserious presentation by me

[note: some slides have been removed because they're literally just fancams and also i had more than 30 slides boo tumblr image limits]

BIBLIOGRAPHY (just going in order of slides)

and your knees are driving me wild - mash s02e08

george mackay has found his niche in homoerotic war movies

war stories are inherently homoerotic. that's how we got stucky

hangman you look good - top gun: maverick (gif by babyrooster)

letter of recommendation: watching masters of the air secondhand

it's not just sports - masters of the air e02

1 being not gay at all, 10 being liberace in an f-16

we'll go to chicago - band of brothers e01 (gif by @fkmylif3)

it is the law that every piece of war media

kim is a homoseggsual - kath & kim s01e02

Untitled (You Construct Intricate Rituals) - Barbara Kruger

The Secret History of Australia's Gay Diggers - Ben Winsor (+ Paul Fussell quoted within)

Sexuality, Sexual Relations and Homosexuality - Jason Crouthamel

Soldiers bathing in Malaya - AWM

Private Frank Crocker letters featured in Sebastian Faulks and Hope Wolf, A Broken World: Letters, Diaries and Memories of the Great War (2014), pp. 75-78.

mike's mic screencap my beloved <3

winnix gifs by @bandofbrothers2001 @preacherboyd @galebucky

winnix art by @andromeddog

winnix art by @onefineginger

In storms and at sunset by jouissant

winnix memes/text posts: 1 (@bleedingcoffee42) 2 (@krakerjaksstuff) 3 (@claudycod) 4 (@lewis-winters) 5 (@mon-mothmas-collar)

man is a hopeless creature i don't like much of anyone (@sluttyhenley)

You Create Intricate Rituals: The Homoerotic Action Movie - Rebecca Radillo (Lyvie Scott featured)

val kilmer icemav warrior compliation by @mavernick2

t as in top gun: maverick (@misaothewitch)

which is gayer (@holypowell)

we're fools to make war by whimsicule

all my roads lead back to you by liadan14

m*a*s*h video by @amrv-5 (+ reblog tags)

clegan/buck(y) gifs by @4o4notf0und @rcbertleckie

clegan fanart by @ifapromise <3

clegan memes: 1 (@rcbertleckie) 2 (@season-two) 3 (@ww2yaoi) 4 & 5

bomber's moon by moonrocks

**i tried to tag/link everything, if anything is broken or unsourced please let me know and i will endeavour to fix it! standard disclaimer that a) any discussion about war media based on real life people is based upon the fictional portrayals of those people and not the actual dudes. and b) this powerpoint was made for fun, it is not rigorous academic analysis. all opinions expressed are my own. please do not take it too seriously! that's all <3

[oeuvrinarydurian]

Hahahahahahahaha

Snarky Little Shit Sunday (Late Edition) + Bad LipReading

[milky-aeons]

— 'TIL DEATH DO US PART

ᯓ★ starring: dazai osamu, kunikida doppo, atsushi nakajima, chuuya nakahara and fyodor dostoevsky; what they would be like on their wedding day.

warnings: marriage, swearing, alcohol-intake, wife reader, w.c 3.5k

ᯓ★𝐃𝐀𝐙𝐀𝐈 𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐔

: ̗̀➛ Dazai, who never really acted like a conventional human being, also did not propose like one, either. After dating the enigmatic Armed Detective Agent for, by then, two years, you did not expect him to get down on one knee and produce a beautiful ring, like you had seen in the movies. But you also did not expect him to drop the question like it was a frivolous thing one random Tuesday evening while you both shared a drink at your favourite late-night bar.

Blinking, your glass frozen mid-way to your lips, you turned to him and said, "What did you... just say?" That mischievous smile you were so quick to fall for flashed across his face. "I said, why don't we get married, hmm~?"

: ̗̀➛ There was no other answer in your mind, your heart, than a resounding yes. For he was the thorn in your side as much as he was your other half. Through the whirlwind of months following, you found it hard to discern where one day ended and the next began. Time bled together until you didn't have nearly enough of it, and the day of the ceremony was here. It was a casual affair not bound too tightly by tradition. By the help of the agents, an old, abandoned manor sitting by the riverside had been fashioned into your very own cathedral.

: ̗̀➛ Yosano Akiko fussed over your dress, your hair, your makeup — to a point where you thought she was having way too much fun. And yet, she left no stones unturned, either. As you walked in through the building decorated with bouquets of flowers and rows upon rows of familiar faces, she hooked her arm into yours and walked by your side. Using Thou Shalt Not Die, the doctor instructed fluttering, iridescent butterflies to sit against your dress and your veil, the cornet of your hair, any place she could in order to make you glow.

: ̗̀➛ He stood to his towering height at the alter with his back turned to you in an immaculate suit of white. And when he spun to face you, you fell in love for a second time — with his brunet hair tucked behind his ear, the blue rose pinned to his suit lapel and his eyes; how they watched you. With a type of stunned disbelief that melted into adoration. When you came to stand by his side in front of the pastor, his hand reached down to twine with your fingers, and he whispered;

"You — are absolutely breath-taking."

: ̗̀➛ Kyouka Izumi played the role of ring-bearer, delivering a small white pillow with the two shining bands once it was time to say your vows. Dazai reached out tenderly, slowly, as if to preserve this moment for as long as he could, and lifted the veil from your face. His eyes shuttered. He reached for your hand and slid the smaller band onto your finger, his eyes downcast, his voice low and intimate.

"Through you I have found what it means to love, what it is to feel human, and while I am by your side — I endeavour to protect and earn that title. For as long as I shall live, I am yours. My soul, my name, they are all yours."

: ̗̀➛ As the ceremony reached its closure, when you had both been bound to each other in heart and in soul, Dazai could not wait another moment before he could reach for you. As soon as the words you may kiss the bride left the pastor's lips, Dazai had looped his arms around your waist and bent you back into a dramatic dip. Cheers and claps filled the riverside chapel, you smiled widely against his lips, expecting nothing less of him. Your soulmate. Your husband. Your Osamu, who's name you brandished as your own.

𝐃𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐘 . . .

"Kunikida-kun~!" Dazai's loud voice, a little accentuated with alcohol, swam over the crowd. "Play the thing we talked about!"

Curious, your head turned to the sounds of footsteps shuffling onto the dancefloor illuminated by pale spotlights. The afterparty was in full swing, you had been flanked by a group of well-wishing women when your husband's voice reached your ears. Each of you observed as Dazai, alongside Kunikida, Junichirou, Atsushi and little Kenji took centre stage. Excited murmurs fluttered through the throng.

"What on earth are they doing?" You wondered, and then the starting notes to All The Single Ladies began blaring from the party speakers. Your mouth dropped. Every single one of the Armed Detective Agents began to move in unison to the beat of the music.

And for the third time, you fell in love with him, again. Expecting that there would be many more to come.

ᯓ★𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐊𝐈𝐃𝐀 𝐃𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐎

: ̗̀➛ Kunikida Doppo, who, at first, had not planned to marry you. After all, you only met twenty out of his proposed fifty-eight requirements that made the perfect wife. That was the thing about your relationship, however — you had come into the agent's life unplanned, uninvited, and turned every one of his rigid ideals up on their heads.

: ̗̀➛ Yet it was only telling of the Idealist and his old habits, how Kunikida went about asking for your hand in marriage. It had been early on a weekday afternoon when he had called you into one of the private meeting rooms of the Agency's office. He'd pushed his glasses up the strong bridge of his nose and laid out his terms. He'd even written a business contract for you to sign. The page had gone flying in the air when you had tackled him from across the table. Smattering a thousand kisses against his blushing, flustered face and breathing the words yes, yes, you silly man, yes!

: ̗̀➛ To concur with both your family's wishes and his own, a traditional wedding was set in motion. Kunikida Doppo was always a man to abide by rules and regulations, but it had occurred to you that perhaps he was taking this affair a little too seriously. For your parents, he gifted them the very traditional shiraga thread. During the sake ceremony, the blond sat ramrod straight, moving mechanically to take sips from the three cups. One for past, one for present, and one for your future. Together.

: ̗̀➛ He was so serious, in fact, that you had become nervous on the morning of your wedding — your most beloved of friends helping you into your garments, trying to soothe your thoughts. What if he doesn't want to marry me? You would whisper as they fashioned your hair up. What if I've forced him into this, what if he's unhappy? To one of your many anxieties, your friend had met your eyes in the mirror, and smiled.

"Oh, honey," She chuckled, leaning down to kiss you on the cheek. "You should see the way that man looks at you."

: ̗̀➛ Her words played in your mind as the traditional music was strung during your procession to meet him. The black colours he donned made his long ponytail appear golden, his body strong, his face even more handsome. As he watched you come down the shrine walkway to be by his side, the blond reached up with one hand to push his glasses away and covered his eyes. It had taken you a few months after to realise that in that moment, Kunikida Doppo had shed a tear.

: ̗̀➛ It was not tradition for vows to be spoken, and yet Kunikida asked to say a few words as the ceremony drew to a close. You watched him carefully as he picked up the microphone, curious at the intentions he had. It was in that moment that your newly wed husband faced the crowd and brought the mic to his lips.

"First, I would like to thank you all for gracing our marriage with both your presence and your blessings. It is something we will see not to squander." "Second, I would like to say some thoughts of mine, if you would all be so inclined. Marriage, to me, was initially an agreement of convenience. I had the perfect woman laid out seamlessly. And in my wife that stands with me today, I say that she is not that perfect woman I so wished to find. But she is everything more. She is my best friend, she is my support, she is the person I go to sleep thinking of and wake up searching for. To me, she is my home, and I will take care of her fiercely."

: ̗̀➛ At your small reception, Kunikida was stolen away from you by some affiliates of the Armed Detective Agency and had his sake cup topped up one too many times. He found you afterwards, and proclaimed both his love and adoration for his newly-betrothed to everyone and anyone that was within a five mile radius.

𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 . . .

"Come here," You whispered to him, now in the comfort of your own apartment walls. A considerably uncoordinated Kunikida was struggling out of his Haorihimo, cursing in drunken slurs and promises of retribution to the small sliver of fabric.

Your fingers eased the cloth out from underneath his arms and you began to loosen the knot. Your husband was staring up at you from behind his crooked glasses. He swayed a little, and you stood in front of him, ready to support him if he went toppling forward off the bed.

But then, two strong, solid arms came up to the small of your back and he crushed you against him. Burying his head into your chest, he murmured;

"From the very first day I met you... I loved you. D'ya know that?"

Your heart grew tiny wings in your chest and began to sore. Smiling, you reached up, carding your fingers through his blond locks and undoing the tight ponytail.

"The first day you met me, you told me I was inefficient and lazy, my dear husband." You mused.

He grunted. "Same... thing."

ᯓ★𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐒𝐇𝐈 𝐍𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐉𝐈𝐌𝐀

: ̗̀➛ Your relationship with Atsushi was one that blossomed slow and tenderly. It was a natural progression, after three years of happy dating, for the agent to ask you to marry him. Everything Atsushi Nakajima did in regards to showing his affection for you was always timid and reserved — you never expected it; the elaborate surprise he had waiting in store for you that morning you came into the Agency's offices just like you always did.

: ̗̀➛ Well, perhaps he had a little help from the other agents, for the office was barren when you entered. Your eyebrows had creased at the very uncharacteristic quiet of the usually chaotic area you worked in. You had checked the time, wondering if you had showed up a little too early on accident. But then, there was a voice — the voice of agent Dazai Osamu, shouting at you to come to the nearest window and to do so urgently—!

Each of the agents stood at the sidewalk, all holding up a sign with different characters that made up a whole sentence. A question. And Atsushi — your sweet, kind, caring Atsushi, was perched in the middle, the biggest bouquet of roses in his sheepish hands. Will you marry me?

: ̗̀➛ Both you and Atsushi decide to get married somewhere far removed from the city skyline of Yokohama. You wanted somewhere special to remember this day, and perhaps, the great outdoors and stretching greens spoke to Atsushi's beastly side a little more, too. So you chose the heart of a nearby woodland where a great, ancient willow tree served as your alter.

: ̗̀➛ Atsushi wore a suit of sky-blue. You wore a simple slip dress decorated with accents of lace and flowers, Kenji had twined some wildflowers into your hair. The fauna of the forest acted as your choir when you walked down the small trail of brambles to your soon-to-be husband who waited at the base of the winding trunk.

: ̗̀➛ The reception was held in a greenhouse funded by the Agency's private books — you and Atsushi were members, after all, so Kunikida took a little less persuading than usual to move his ledgers around. For lunch, you served chazuke, and when you took the first dance, Atsushi's eyes appeared more gold than they were violet as they looked at you so lovingly the whole time.

𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐒 . . .

"Atsushi, they'll notice that we're gone." You giggled, bunching your dress up so you could step over the little bush of thickets. When you both reached the winding roots of the willow tree you promised yourselves to each other underneath, Atsushi transformed his arms and legs into their tiger equivalents.

"Dazai-san said he'd keep everyone entertained." He whispered, and then stepped forward to wrap his soft arms around you. "Are you ready?"

"It may be a little late for second thoughts." You teased, but looped your arms around his slender neck and relaxed into his hold. The new golden band on your finger glinted in the moonlight.

And using that tiger-strength, Atsushi dug his claws into the ancient tree bark and began to climb. Higher and higher until you both broke through the canopy cover and could look to the millions of stars winking at you overhead.

"Oh, Atsushi." You breathed in awe, taking in the wonders above. "Oh, it's beautiful."

Your husband nuzzled into your hair and whispered, "Each one represents all the lifetimes I'd still find and fall in love with you in."

ᯓ★𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀 𝐍𝐀𝐊𝐀𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀

: ̗̀➛ It had initially been you and your General lover's plan to keep your engagement quiet and have a small affair away from town. Just the two of you, because Chuuya thought some of his colleagues were insufferable pains in his ass, and all hell would break loose if they were to figure out they had a wedding plan on their hands. It was, however, unfortunate, that you two had been discussing what type of ceremony you'd like to have when Hirotsu was just about to turn one of the corners. It took exactly one hour for the entire Port Mafia to know. Two for it to reach the Armed Detective Agency.

: ̗̀➛ It was no longer a personal affair. This wedding became a spectacle within the Mafia's ranks. From the lowest levels all the way to the boss himself, everyone was abuzz with ideas and anticipation, excited that one of their top brass was getting married and they could all take advantage of the time off to have a grand party. Chuuya threatened to resign several times, you always laughed at how excited the entire criminal organisation became at the prospect of celebration.

: ̗̀➛ True to the boss' word, you and Chuuya's wedding was held in one of the grandest churches Yokohama had to offer — having mysteriously skipped the two year waiting list. The building was laved in gold and stain glass windows. Chuuya wore a fine suit of blood-red and a black tie that contrasted with his wild curls, his hard blue eyes. But when they saw you come down the aisle, they softened, and when he said his vows to you, you never thought anyone would look at you with such adoration ever again.

: ̗̀➛ The main event was held in the bowels of the Port Mafia — one of the largest show-rooms this organisation had to offer, with chandeliers hanging from the ceilings and a private band playing any songs they were requested. Chuuya, for the majority of your reception, could not seem to keep his hands off of you. If you were not by his hip, his eyes would instantly go searching for you within the throng of party-goers. When he did find you, he would place a hand to the small of your back, he'd lean in to kiss you and say;

"There you are, my wife."

: ̗̀➛ There was another reason as to why Chuuya Nakahara was originally so hellbent on taking your wedding somewhere more quiet and peaceful. And it came in the form of a brunet ex-partner waltzing into the organisation's party, a broad simper on his infuriating face. Dazai Osamu took your hand and kissed the back of it, extending his deepest sympathies and that if you ever needed to blow off steam, he could give you his number.

: ̗̀➛ The Port Mafia ballroom had originally started off with three grand chandeliers. After Dazai had purred those taunting words, there was then, only two.

: ̗̀➛ After the many shards had been swept from the floor by a cleaning crew, the private band struck an up-beat quartet. Both you and your newly-wed husband took to the floor for the first dance. Chuuya's hand splayed protectively against your back, his other gloved palm slotting into yours and guiding you to twirl, skip, spin.

𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐂𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐄 . . .

"Shit, sorry." He grumbled when your foreheads were touching, the proximity sending his breath fanning across your cheeks. His pointy canines were jutting against his bottom lip. "That motherfucker — he just makes me see red."

"Hey, it's okay." You said, catching his eyes. "Because I love you. You, Nakahara. I am all yours and no one else's."

Those words touched something deep within this man's chest. Of course, the proof that you were his sat in the form of two stacked rings on your left hand, but to hear it. To look into your beautiful eyes and see the amount of love there.

He surprised you by reaching down to your hips and lifting you up, twirling you around, around, around.

"And I'm forever yours, babydoll."

ᯓ★𝐅𝐘𝐎𝐃𝐎𝐑 𝐃𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐄𝐕𝐒𝐊𝐘

: ̗̀➛ The initial letter you received from Fyodor asking for your hand in marriage — originally, you believed it to be fake. A shallow joke from someone who knew of you and the mastermind's occasional on-and-off relationship whenever he returned to your homeland. But as you traced the delicate loops of the handwriting that looked so much like his own, in the intimate moonlight beams of late night — you'd let yourself imagine. Hope. Only for it to swell and dwindle like ashes of a flame. Because there was just no way he would ask to marry you. That he would marry, at all.

: ̗̀➛ It was fitting then; how palpable your shock was when the slender, pale man you had accidentally fallen in love with — like a fool — was standing on the other side of your door that early morning. You had blinked hard, rubbed your eyes, wondered if you were weary from too many sleepless nights. When the stars had cleared from your vision, he was still there. An amused little smile stretched against his lips.

"So? Are you ready to get married?" You stared at him. And stared. And then dropped your morning cup of coffee onto the tiles of your hallway.

: ̗̀➛ At the news of your sudden betrothal, your family were both elated with a healthy dose of scepticism. Who is this man you are intending to marry, they fluttered around you with questions when you broke the news. Fyodor? I've never heard you speak of him, why do you intend to marry this man, girl? At that, you had smiled, not bothering to hide the small heat of blush on your ears, and murmured;

"Because he's a thief, and he stole my heart a very long time ago."

: ̗̀➛ The wedding was held in an old cathedral of gothic architecture. You don't think you've ever seen Fyodor look so refined; standing there in his simple suit of stone-grey with a black shirt. He had his hair tucked behind his ears, his eyebags were a little less pronounced, his skin brighter — but perhaps that was just the early-morning light. When you stood before your husband to-be and handed your heart over to him, for him, there was a shift in his eyes. You could not explain it, but you knew it ran deep. You knew that in his own way, he was also handing himself over to you. And you would accept all of him, just like you accepted his name.

: ̗̀➛ Much to the dismay of your family, you did not hold a wedding reception after the ceremony, but that was only because Fyodor decided to walk with you through the freezing streets of Moscow. He held your hand, and even though on many nights where you lay together he was stone-cold, today, he felt warm.

𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃 . . .

"Fyodor?"

"Hmm?" He answered, noticing the sheepish tone in your voice. You looked up at him with those big doe eyes.

"Why did you ask to marry me?"

Fyodor held your gaze for a long, pregnant second. It was at that moment that a single flake of snow fluttered down from the grey sky and landed on his immaculate suit. Then another. Each one the same colour as your dress, each one different to the rest.

Fyodor held out his hand to catch them. "Why does the snow fall? Because it is natural. It is meant to be. I married you because it is the way I wish to fall. With you, by my side."

requested by the lovely [ @cocodrilofeliz! ]

[s-sputnik-k]

Fives has been taking some liberty with the GAR uniform regulations. Rex isn't pleased (he supports Fives' fashionable endeavours, but if he could at least save it for 79's and not the kriffing battefield, that'd be brilliant thank you)

Inspired by this post by @obligatorytropeinsert!

Also, would you believe me if I say this took me 9 hours? All that armour is a pain in the ass 😭

[elikajinnie]

Every Move You Make, I See It - P.J

P: Dead By Daylight Killer!Jay X Survivor!Reader (recommended age 17+)

Warnings: Murder, Death, Stalking, Predator/Prey, Blood/Injury, Obsession, Suggestive Content, Feral Behaviour, Psychological Thriller, Graphic Descriptions, the endings a bit fucked up.

Synopsis: The Entity's favored killers are violent, but a new hunter has arrived—and it’s fixated on you. Man or beast, no one can tell. All you know is: you’re being hunted.

a/n: did heeseung, sooo why not jay as well? interested in heeseungs? -> heeseung

disclaimer! all the killers and survivors in this is in dbd the game. I do not own any of them. the idea of jay was a creative endeavour. for educational purposes: mori means killing and it takes two hits in the game before you are downed. And to avoid confusion: when he`s running, his weapon is on his back.

now playing: rock you like a hurricane -2011 by scorpions | daydream by enhypen | chase it by set it off

--

You hated the killers who weren't human or weren't human before they ended up in the Entity's realm. The Xenomorph, the Unknown, the Singularity, the Dredge, Nemesis, Pyramid Head (you weren't really sure about that one), and the Demogorgon—all of them were violent, sparing no survivors, relentless, and merciless. Anytime you found yourself in a trial and they were the killer, annoyance simmered within you because you knew the round would be painful.

Then there were the other killers who weren't human anymore, like the Hag, Freddy Krueger, the Blight, Pinhead and Chucky. You were kind of relieved when the new killer, the Houndmaster, turned out to be more humane—well, unlike her dog, but that didn’t matter.

So when the survivors of the latest trial came back and announced they had just gone up against a new killer, you didn’t think much of it. New killers weren’t exactly rare, and the Entity loved throwing curveballs your way. But then they said something that made the room pause.

“I’m not sure if it was a man or a beast. It looked… human, but it also moved like a wolf.”

Jake, sitting across the campfire with a brow quirked, asked the obvious question. “Like a werewolf?”

You groaned, dragging a hand down your face. Great. A creature killer. The worst kind.

“Are you serious?” you muttered, glaring at Nea as if this was somehow her fault. “So, what? We’re dealing with something that bites again!?”

Nea shrugged helplessly, her face still pale from the trial. “It howled. Loud. I swear I heard it from across the map, and… it was hunting me. Not chasing, hunting.”

That word made something twist in your gut—uncomfortable, sharp. You hated the killers who acted like monsters, but the ones who actually were monsters? They were a nightmare. There was no bargaining with them, no understanding their patterns, no telling yourself they were just people corrupted by the Entity. Killers like the Demogorgon didn’t stop. Didn’t waver. Didn’t quit.

Now, apparently, this new killer—a wolf, a man, something in between—was joining that list.

Jake, always too curious for his own good, looked over at you. “What do you think its power is?”

“I think I don’t care,” you shot back, sharper than you intended. “It’s probably something that’ll tear you apart limb by limb, Jake.”

They looked at you for a moment, your irritation lingering in the air, before turning to the others to explain.

“We’re calling it The Beast,” Nea said, voice low, as though speaking the name might summon it. “It manipulates the map, and it hunts with precision. I swear it knew where I was the entire time.”

A chill crept up your spine, but you crossed your arms tightly, trying not to let it show.

“It had wolf attributes,” she continued, glancing around at the rest of you. “Fangs. Claws. The whole package.” She hesitated before adding, “It’s fast, too. Faster than most killers I’ve seen. The way it moves… it doesn’t just chase. It stalks, like Myers and Ghostface. But it’s worse.”

“How can it be worse?” Lara muttered.

Cheryl swallowed. “Because it runs on all fours. One second you see it watching from a distance, and the next, it’s charging you—low to the ground, like an actual wolf.”

Your jaw clenched as you listened, the mental image piecing itself together in your mind. A hulking figure with glowing eyes, tearing through the map with unnatural speed. It wasn’t just a killer anymore; it was something primal. Something built to hunt.

“Great,” you muttered under your breath, looking away toward the shadows beyond the firelight. “Another killer that moves faster than us. Just what we needed.”

Feng, ever the optimist, tried to make light of it. “Well, maybe it’s like Huntress. You know—scary but manageable.”

“Manageable?” You shot her a look. “Did you not hear what they just said? It stalks. It runs like an animal. If it’s anything like Huntress, I’ll eat my boots.”

“I’m just saying,” she replied defensively, but you weren’t listening anymore.

Nea`s words echoed in your head: It knew where I was. That wasn’t normal. Killers had their tricks—perks, instinctual guesses—but this? This sounded like something worse. Like an instinct that couldn’t be evaded.

“So, what did you guys do?” Ada asked them. “Did you escape?”

They all looked at each other, and their expressions turned grim. “We didn’t.”

The group went quiet, everyone processing the meaning behind those words. You exhaled sharply through your nose and leaned forward, staring into the flames. Another killer to outwit, another trial that would leave you with scraped knees and shallow breaths if you were lucky.

But as much as you hated the creature killers—the ones who weren’t human anymore—you couldn’t deny the shiver of unease curling at the edge of your thoughts.

If The Beast hunted like a wolf, what did that make you? Prey.

It didn’t take long before you were face-to-face with The Beast. Three trials. Three exhausting rounds of barely escaping hooks and killers that felt almost predictable in comparison. You should’ve known your luck wouldn’t hold out forever.

The moment you entered the trial, you knew something was different. The forest was unfamiliar—not the usual suffocating realm of the Red Forest or Mother’s Dwelling. This was something worse. The trees were taller, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal fingers. The underbrush was thick with sharp brambles, and the fog was heavier than you’d ever seen, curling around your ankles like it was alive.

You huffed quietly as you adjusted the toolbox in your hands, crouching low as you moved forward. The leaves crunched softly beneath your boots, and your eyes flickered upward every time you passed a crow perched on a twisted branch. You weren’t about to let those bastards give you away.

Stick to the shadows. Avoid open paths. Survive.

But just as you turned a corner around a massive log, you froze. A distant shout cut through the silence, sharp and panicked. Then came a sound you weren’t expecting: bells. Not the sharp, haunting toll of the Wraith—no, this was something different. Rhythmic and unnerving, like chimes carried by the wind.

Without thinking, you bolted in the direction of the noise. Branches whipped against your arms and face as you ran, your heart pounding in your ears. The toolbox rattled in your grip, but you didn’t dare stop. When you burst through a thicket of thorny bushes, you saw her—Sable.

She was on the ground, her leg caught in a snare trap. But this wasn’t a normal trap. It wasn’t the crude, rusty bear traps you’d seen with the Trapper. No—this snare trap was made of barbed wire, coiled tight around her calf, digging into the skin. Blood dripped from the cuts, staining the ground beneath her, and her face was twisted in agony.

“Sable!” you hissed, dropping to your knees beside her.

“It—it’s a trap,” she whimpered, trying to pull her leg free. The movement only made the wire dig deeper. “It came out of nowhere. I didn’t even see it.”

“Stop moving,” you snapped, fumbling with the wire as you set the toolbox down. Your fingers trembled as you worked, trying to pry the barbed loops apart without hurting her more. The sharp metal bit into your hands, and you hissed through gritted teeth as you felt blood well up along your palms.

Keep going, you told yourself. Ignore it.

The bells rang again—closer this time. You stiffened, head snapping up as your eyes darted around the clearing. The forest was too dark, the fog too thick. You couldn’t see anything, but you could feel it.

Something was watching you.

“Hurry,” Sable whispered, panic creeping into her voice. “It’s coming. I know it’s coming.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. With one last twist, the wire gave way, and you yanked it off her leg. Sable gasped, clutching her bleeding calf, but there was no time to stop and tend to it. You grabbed her arm, pulling her up as gently as you could.

“Can you run?” you asked urgently.

She nodded shakily, wincing. “Yeah. I think so.”

The bells tolled again, louder this time—low and hollow, like they were reverberating through the earth. You felt the hair on the back of your neck stand up as the sound was followed by something worse: a low, guttural growl.

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t.

“Move,” you ordered, shoving Sable forward as you both started running.

You didn’t get far before you heard it—a sound you’d only heard described before, but never experienced yourself. The heavy thud of something large hitting the ground, followed by the unmistakable sound of claws digging into soil.

It wasn’t chasing you. It was hunting you.

The Beast had found its prey.

You and Sable made the mistake of turning around as you ran—and the sight froze your blood.

The Beast stood at the edge of the clearing, partially shrouded in shadow and fog, but you could see enough.

It was a tall man—if you could even call him that anymore. His frame was draped in black, torn clothes, a cloak of thick fur resting over his shoulders, matted and dark with grime. In his right hand, he held a glaive, its curved blade coated with blood, the metal glinting faintly in the low light. But it was his body that made your stomach twist.

His left arm was no longer human. It was covered in coarse black fur, stretched unnaturally over muscle and ending in claws that could shred through bone. The same grotesque transformation had overtaken his legs, fur and sinew wrapped around animalistic joints.

But it was his face that rooted you in place.

Black hair hung wild and untamed around sharp, angular features. His yellow eyes burned like embers in the darkness, fixed unrelentingly on you and Sable. And when he parted his lips, fangs appeared. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Cause then he tilted his head back—and howled.

The sound was deafening, ripping through the trees and echoing in the fog. It wasn’t a human scream, nor was it the howl of an animal. It was something in between, guttural and monstrous, vibrating deep in your chest like a death knell.

Sable gasped sharply, stumbling against you as her hands flew to her ears. “Go! Go!” she screamed.

You didn’t need to be told twice. The Beast lowered his gaze, his lips pulling back into a feral snarl, and then he moved.

It was almost too fast to process. One moment he was standing still, his claws flexing—then he dropped to all fours and charged.

You ran harder than you ever had before, pulling Sable with you as the sound of claws and snapping branches grew louder behind you. Your lungs burned, your legs ached, but you didn’t dare slow down. Each thud of his movement felt like a countdown, and you knew if he caught you, it was over.

Don’t stop. Don’t look back.

But even as you sprinted through the forest, weaving between trees and leaping over roots, you could still hear him. The low growl, the heavy breath. He was toying with you—getting closer, letting you hear him hunt.

“Split up!” you shouted to Sable, shoving her forward as the two of you reached a fork in the path. She hesitated for a split second, fear painted across her face, but she nodded and darted left while you veered right.

It wasn’t long before you realized he had made his choice too.

The sounds of his pursuit didn’t fade into the distance. The thundering steps—furred limbs pounding against the earth—stayed close. Too close. You risked a glance over your shoulder and cursed under your breath. He was coming for you.

“Of course you’re following me!” you hissed through gritted teeth, adrenaline flooding your system. Your legs burned with effort, each step feeling heavier than the last.

Up ahead, salvation presented itself in the form of a wooden pallet propped precariously between two crates. A quick escape. You angled toward it, lungs screaming for air, and forced yourself to move faster. You could hear him gaining on you, his growl vibrating through the air like a warning.

As soon as you reached the pallet, you grabbed the edge and slammed it down with all your strength. The wood crashed onto the ground, kicking up dust, and you whipped around, a shaky smile breaking across your face as you realized you’d timed it perfectly.

You’d stunned him.

The Beast halted mid-pursuit, the heavy pallet pinning him momentarily. His claws curled against the wood, his lips pulling back in a feral snarl. You allowed yourself a triumphant exhale—until his eyes snapped up to meet yours.

Your blood ran cold.

His eyes were no longer yellow. They were crimson—deep and glowing, like freshly spilled blood. The shift was immediate, like something inside him had awakened. The low growl that rumbled from his chest sent shivers down your spine, and for the first time, you noticed something you’d missed before.

The collar.

Thick and black, it wrapped around his neck like a cruel shackle. And on the front—glinting faintly in the dim light—were small silver bells. The bells. That’s where the sound had come from. Every movement, every step, was punctuated by that unnerving chime.

Your breath hitched as realization struck. The bells weren’t just for sound. They were a warning.

“Shit,” you whispered, backing up instinctively.

He growled again, louder this time, the sound vibrating through your chest. Then, in a blur of motion, he brought his clawed arm down on the pallet with enough force to shatter it. Wood splintered and exploded outward, shards clattering against the ground as the remains of your so-called “safety” crumbled at his feet.

You didn’t wait to see what he would do next. You turned and ran.

Your heart pounded in your ears as you darted through the underbrush, branches snapping and whipping against your face. Behind you, you could hear him—close enough that you swore you could feel his breath against the back of your neck.

You didn’t make it far before you felt it.

The whoosh of air as something massive swung toward you. A sharp, burning pain exploded across your back, and you screamed as claws tore through your shirt and raked deep into your skin. The impact sent you stumbling forward, your legs nearly giving out from the shock, but you pushed through it.

Move. Don’t stop. Don’t look back.

Gritting your teeth through the pain, you spotted salvation up ahead: a small, rotting building with a open window. You sprinted toward it, ignoring the sticky warmth of blood seeping through your clothes.

As you reached the window, you grabbed the frame and vaulted over with everything you had, landing hard on the floor inside. The room was dim, filled with scattered debris, the smell of mold heavy in the air.

You turned, panting, your hand pressing instinctively against the wound on your back. Your heart sank when you saw him.

The Beast was already leaping after you.

His massive form vaulted the window with terrifying ease, the bells on his collar jingling faintly as he landed. His crimson eyes—still glowing like coals—locked onto you and didn’t waver. He wasn’t looking around. He wasn’t searching. He was focused, utterly and completely.

“Oh, come on,” you groaned, stumbling backward. “That’s gotta be a perk.”

It had to be. You’d seen this kind of precision before—Killers who always seemed to know where you were, whether it was through a heartbeat, scratch marks, or some cruel Entity-given power. But this? Those eyes were more than just for show. They were locked onto you like a heat-seeking missile.

There was no time to think.

You bolted for the door on the far side of the room, practically throwing yourself through it. You could hear him behind you, his footsteps heavy but fast, the sound of claws scraping against the wood.

As soon as you were outside, you didn’t stop—you started looping the building. It was a classic move, one every survivor knew by instinct. Buildings meant walls, walls meant obstacles, and obstacles meant a chance to survive.

You rounded the first corner, adrenaline surging through your veins. The pounding of his pursuit was right behind you, relentless. You glanced back just in time to see him skid around the corner, his glaive dragging through the dirt with a metallic scrape.

Keep moving.

The building’s loop wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to give you a sliver of breathing room. Every time you turned a corner or ducked through an opening, you’d gain a precious half-second before the sound of claws and bells filled the air again, signaling that he was still there. Still chasing.

You risked a quick glance behind you, just once, and instantly regretted it.

His red eyes were still locked onto you. Even as you looped him, even as you vaulted and sprinted, he hadn’t faltered. If anything, he looked… determined. Like the hunt was enjoyable.

“God, I hate creature Killers,” you growled under your breath as you rounded the building again, already trying to think of your next move.

You couldn’t loop forever. He was too fast, too precise. And worse, the burn of the slashes on your back was starting to slow you down. You needed a plan—and fast.

It wasn’t hard for him to catch up.

You’d pushed your body to the brink, but it wasn’t enough. Before you could make another desperate turn around the building, you felt the glaive swipe across your legs with brutal precision. Pain shot through you as your knees buckled, and you collapsed onto the ground with a groan.

Dust and dirt kicked up around you as you hit the earth hard. For a moment, you just lay there, dazed, trying to breathe through the pain. Your ears rang, your body felt heavy, but instinct kicked in—you had to move.

With trembling arms, you started crawling. You didn’t know where you were going, but anywhere was better than staying there.

Don’t stop, you thought, dragging yourself forward inch by inch. Your blood left a streak in the dirt as you moved, but it didn’t matter. You had to—

A shadow loomed over you.

You froze, your head snapping to the side as you caught sight of it—a massive, bloodied paw. It dug into the earth by your face, the claws curling into the dirt with a sickening scrape. They were long, black, and sharp enough to skewer you where you lay.

You turned onto your back with a shaky gasp, dread settling deep in your chest as you looked up—and up.

The Beast stood over you, towering and monstrous, his hulking form casting you in shadow. Up close, the details were even worse. Sharp jaw. Unnaturally long fangs, his nose perfectly straight but twitching faintly, as if he was smelling you. The red glow of his eyes had narrowed into thin slits, like a predator zeroing in on its prey. Drool hung from his parted mouth, dripping down to the dirt next to you.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

Your gasp caught in your throat when he leaned down.

Closer.

The world seemed to slow as he brought his face near yours, so close you could feel the heat of his breath. It fanned across your skin, hot and heavy, as though he was tasting the air around you. Then he inhaled—a long, deliberate breath that sent a shiver down your spine.

Somewhere deep in his chest, you heard it. A rumble. Low and resonant, like a growl—but there was something else in it. Something almost… pleased.

Your heart hammered in your chest as you stared up at him, wide-eyed, unable to look away.

Finally, he pulled back, just far enough for you to see the edges of his sharp grin. His lips curled as his gaze remained locked onto yours, and when he spoke, his voice rolled out in a deep, guttural tone—one that sounded as though it hadn’t been used in years.

“You… run well.”

The words hit you like a physical blow, your mind reeling. His voice was gravelly, rough around the edges, yet disturbingly clear. There was something undeniably human in the way he spoke—twisted and broken, but human all the same.

You blinked up at him, your throat dry, unable to form a response.

The Beast tilted his head slightly, his crimson eyes narrowing. “But you’re slow now.”

The way he said it—it wasn’t mocking. It was observational, like he was analyzing you, trying to figure you out. He crouched lower, his furred claws pressing deeper into the dirt, his bells jingling faintly with the movement.

You flinched as his glaive scraped against the ground beside you, the noise grating against your ears.

“What are you?” you croaked, your voice barely audible, trembling as the question left your lips.

The Beast’s grin widened, and the crimson glow in his eyes seemed to burn brighter.

“Hunter.”

And with that one word, he reached down. The moment his clawed hand wrapped around you, you knew what was coming.

“No, no!” you gasped, but it didn’t matter. With an unsettling ease, the Beast picked you up as though you weighed nothing and slung you over his shoulder. His grip was firm—too firm—and you felt the sharp edges of his claws pressing into your side, a silent warning not to squirm too much.

Like hell that was going to stop you.

You immediately started wiggling in his hold, kicking your legs and twisting your upper body, desperate to break free. You’d done this before—countless times. It was second nature to fight, to struggle, to buy yourself just a few more precious seconds. But this time, it was different.

Your movements barely fazed him.

The Beast huffed out a low growl, annoyed more than anything, like you were nothing more than a mild inconvenience. His bells chimed softly with every heavy step, each sound growing closer and closer to dread.

“Let go, you bastard!” you hissed, pounding a fist against his back. It was like hitting solid stone beneath that cloak of fur.

Before you could muster another attempt, you felt him stop. Your stomach dropped. You turned your head just enough to see it—the hook, rusty and towering.

“No—wait, wait—!”

You screamed as the sharp, unforgiving metal pierced into your shoulder, the pain blinding. Your body arched involuntarily as you were hoisted upward, the hook locking you in place like a gruesome marionette. Tears pricked at your eyes as you gasped for breath, the white-hot sting radiating through your arm and chest.

You forced yourself to look down through blurry vision, trying to center yourself despite the pain. That’s when you noticed it.

The Beast had turned away from you, his posture rigid. His yellow eyes—no longer the deep red from before—snapped toward something unseen, a faint snarl escaping his lips. It was subtle at first, just the twitch of his ear and a low growl that rattled through the air. Then, without warning, he took off.

Fast.

You barely had time to process it. One second, he was standing still, and the next, he was gone, his speed a blur that rivaled the Nurse when she blinked through the map. His bells jingled sharply, fading into the distance like some terrible alarm.

“Shit,” you muttered, panting as you hung from the hook. You had seen Killers leave quickly before—Michael Myers, Ghostface, even Wraith when they heard someone nearby—but this? This was different. His speed was unnatural, like he wasn’t just hunting—he was responding.

Someone had grabbed his attention.

Clenching your teeth, you scanned the area. The thick fog made it impossible to see much, but you knew better than to waste time. With shaky hands, you reached up and gripped the hook, biting back a scream as the movement sent pain jolting through your shoulder. You had to get down.

With one sharp tug, you gasped as you unhooked yourself. The motion sent you tumbling to the ground, your knees hitting the dirt hard as the metallic sting in your shoulder flared hot.

For a second, you didn’t move, staring at the ground in disbelief. You did it.

You turned your head, breathing heavily as you glanced upward, seeing the Entity’s claws frozen—hanging mid-air, its barbed talon twitching as though struggling against something unseen.

You scrambled to your feet, clutching your injured shoulder as you stumbled away from the hook. Pain pulsed with every step, but you pushed through it, dragging yourself behind two massive boulders just far enough from where you’d been hooked.

The moment you were hidden, you sagged to the ground, leaning against the cold stone. Your fingers shook as you fumbled for your med-kit, flipping it open and pulling out a roll of bandages. “C’mon, c’mon,” you muttered, forcing yourself to focus.

You could hear the forest around you, the eerie quiet broken only by the occasional whisper of wind and the faint creak of trees swaying in the fog. But just as you started wrapping your shoulder, the peace shattered.

A distant, loud howl cut through the silence.

You froze, the sound rumbling across the map like thunder. It was long and drawn-out, echoing ominously through the thick fog, sending chills racing down your spine.

Somewhere far off, a generator powered up with a loud hum. You flinched at the noise, your heart racing. The sound was like a signal, bright and sharp against the quiet, a neon sign for the killer to follow.

Then, almost immediately after, you heard it: two survivors screaming.

“Shit,” you whispered, yanking the bandages tight around your shoulder with a hiss. You ignored the sting, forcing yourself to finish patching up as quickly as possible. You couldn’t afford to waste time, not when the Beast was on the prowl.

Sliding the med-kit back into your belt, you pressed your back against the boulder and carefully peered around its edge.

He’s fast, you thought, replaying everything in your mind. Faster than most killers you’d faced. And those howls… they weren’t just for show. He was tracking you, tracking everyone.

And if he had heard those screams—if he was responding like he had with you—then two survivors were about to have a very bad time.

--

You crouched by the generator, your fingers working quickly to untangle wires and tighten bolts as the machine clunked and whirred under your touch. The hum of progress filled the tense silence, but your eyes never stopped darting to the treeline. You scanned the fog for any sign of movement—any flash of red eyes, any sound of bells.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

There were no growls. No howls. No heavy, animalistic breathing. For a brief moment, you let yourself believe you were safe.

Then, a distant scream pierced the stillness, sharp and panicked.

You froze, your hands hovering above the generator as you closed your eyes with a sigh. “Again?” you muttered under your breath. He was relentless—hunting like a wolf with no intention of letting up.

You shook your head and got back to work, forcing your hands to steady. There wasn’t much else you could do. The generator needed to be fixed, and the only way anyone was escaping this hellhole was through powered gates.

The next time you glanced up, you nearly jumped out of your skin.

Sable limped toward you, her form emerging from the fog like a ghost. She looked like she’d barely escaped—her clothes were torn, and fresh blood streaked down her leg from a deep gash. Her face was pale and damp with sweat, but she still managed to flash you a weak grin as she knelt beside the generator.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Sable muttered, already reaching for the wires to help. Her voice wavered, but her hands moved with practiced precision. “I don’t wanna hear it.”

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” you shot back, though your brow furrowed as you spared her a quick glance. “But you look bad. Did he—”

“Caught me near the edge of the map. The bastard’s too fast, but…” She paused to take a sharp breath, wincing as she shifted her weight. “I got away. Barely.”

You swallowed hard, nodding. “He hooked you?”

“No, but it was close.” Sable’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I think he wanted me to get away.”

That made you pause. “What?”

She didn’t answer immediately, her hands fumbling with a stubborn wire. “I don’t know how to explain it. He had me. He could’ve downed me completely. But he just… watched me. Like he was testing me.”

You frowned, unsettled by the idea. “You sure he didn’t just screw up?”

Sable let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Not a chance. He’s too precise. The way he hunts, the way he moves—he knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s like…” She trailed off, biting her lip as the generator sparked briefly to life. “It’s like he’s playing with us.”

You tightened your grip on the wrench, trying to ignore the chill that crawled up your spine. You didn’t want to think about that. The Beast was already terrifying enough without the idea that he was toying with you.

“Let’s just get this gen done,” you muttered, shaking your head. “We can freak out later.”

Sable gave a small nod, both of you falling silent as you focused back on the task at hand. The generator rattled and sparked, the noise jarring in the quiet forest. You worked faster, both of you aware of how loud it was, how easy it would be for him to find you here.

Minutes stretched on, and you let yourself hope. Maybe you’d finish it. Maybe you’d—

A low, distant howl echoed through the fog.

You both froze.

“Shit,” Sable whispered, her face going pale.

The howl was closer this time, vibrating in your chest like the low growl of an engine. You heard the faint jingle of bells somewhere in the distance, growing louder—closer.

Your stomach dropped. He was coming.

The generator sparked again, and you and Sable flinched at the noise. Your hands were a blur, working faster now as dread crept up your spine. Every second counted. Every wire fixed, every bolt turned brought you closer to escape.

But then—

“That’s twice now,” a voice rumbled behind you. Low. Deep. Familiar. “You really ought to pay more attention to what’s around you.”

Your blood ran cold.

You and Sable froze mid-action, your breaths hitching in unison. Slowly—so slowly—you turned around, dread bubbling up like bile.

He was there.

Crouched in the shadows of the fog just a few meters away, half-hidden behind the curve of a tree. His yellow eyes were locked on the two of you, unblinking and unrelenting.

From this angle, you could see him clearer than before. His long glaive rested lazily in his normal hand, its blade still slick with fresh blood. His furred legs were bent as though ready to pounce at any second, his sharp claws digging into the dirt beneath him. And yet… he wasn’t rushing forward. Not yet.

Sable’s breath hitched beside you, her fingers curling tightly around a wrench as if it would do her any good. “You’ve gotta be kidding me…” she whispered.

The Beast tilted his head slightly, his yellow eyes narrowing as a low rumble vibrated in his chest. His gaze slid between the two of you like he was deciding which one to strike first.

“Run,” you whispered to Sable, not daring to break eye contact with him. “On three.”

“He’s too close,” she hissed back, her voice shaking.

“I don’t care—three!”

Before she could argue, you grabbed Sable’s wrist and yanked her with you as you bolted to the side, darting between the thick trees. A sharp, guttural growl erupted behind you, and you didn’t need to look back to know he was coming.

The bells. You heard the bells.

They rang in quick, chaotic bursts, each chime louder than the last as he pursued you. Leaves crunched and twigs snapped under his heavy, relentless strides, the sound too fast—too close.

“He’s on us!” Sable cried out, stumbling as she tried to keep pace.

You pushed her forward, urging her on. “Move!”

The forest blurred as you ran, your heartbeat roaring in your ears. You risked a quick glance over your shoulder, and your stomach dropped.

He was right there.

Running on all fours, his glaive held low, his yellow eyes locked directly on you, his movements unnervingly fluid—unnervingly natural.

He’s toying with us.

“Split up!” you shouted, veering sharply to the right.

Sable cursed but didn’t hesitate, darting left as you broke off in the opposite direction. You weaved through the dense trees, ducking under low-hanging branches and leaping over exposed roots. Your lungs burned, but you didn’t dare slow down.

The bells stopped.

You skidded to a halt behind a thick tree, pressing your back against its rough bark as you tried to catch your breath. Your chest rose and fell sharply, your shoulder aching where the hook had pierced you earlier.

Silence.

Where is he?

You froze when you heard Sable’s scream cut through the forest, sharp and gut-wrenching. You exhaled shakily, your fingers tightening around the edge of the tree as you processed what had just happened. He went after Sable. A pang of guilt flared in your chest, but it didn’t linger long—survival didn’t allow for much remorse. Sable knew the rules of the game as well as you did.

Without wasting another second, you turned back the way you came, darting quietly through the trees until you reached the half-finished generator. It sat there waiting, wires exposed and sparking faintly.

You crouched down and got back to work, your hands moving with a practiced urgency. Your ears were still on high alert, listening for the telltale jingling of bells or the rustle of something heavy moving through the fog.

Above you, the sky let out a deep, thunderous rumble, and the faint hum of the Entity’s claws slicing through the air echoed through the forest. Your stomach sank as you realized what that meant—Sable had been sacrificed.

Hooked twice already, you thought grimly, your expression tightening. I didn’t even realize.

You pushed the thought aside and focused on the task in front of you. There was no time to dwell.

"Sorry, Sable," you muttered under your breath, twisting a stubborn wire until it clicked into place. "Guess you’re out."

The generator sputtered, the sound growing louder as it inched closer to completion.

When the generator let out a loud, jolting clunk as the last bolt clicked into place. Sparks flew, and its lights blared to life, piercing through the thick fog.

You didn’t wait.

The second the generator roared to life, you took off running, your feet pounding against the forest floor. You knew better than to linger.

Two more. Just two more.

The thought became your mantra as you ducked low, weaving through the dense trees and tall grass. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, drowning out the sound of the forest around you.

You needed a new plan. The others were still out there somewhere, working—hopefully—on the last remaining generators. If you could find one, or them, you’d have a chance.

You slid into a crouch behind a massive log, taking a second to catch your breath and survey your surroundings.

Then you heard it.

A faint jingling.

Shit.

You stayed low, your pulse spiking as the sound of bells grew louder, each chime like nails scraping across your nerves. You scanned the trees, your eyes darting wildly, trying to catch any sign of movement.

A shadow.

You flinched when you saw it—a dark silhouette moving through the fog, slow and deliberate. He was hunting again, his glaive dragging faintly against the dirt as he moved.

You held your breath and stayed perfectly still, your body coiled tight like a spring. He hadn’t seen you yet. You could wait him out—let him pass.

The jingling slowed. Stopped.

You frowned.

Why did he stop?

Before you could react, a low growl rumbled behind you.

No. No, no, no—

You spun around just in time to see him emerging from the fog towards you, his yellow eyes locked directly on you. His glaive gleamed in the pale light, slick and ready, his sharp claws flexing at his side.

You didn’t think—you ran.

He was on you immediately, the bells ringing out in chaotic bursts as he gave chase. You zigzagged through the trees, vaulting over fallen logs and ducking under branches. Your lungs burned, but you didn’t stop—couldn’t stop.

In the distance, you spotted something—a structure. Another shack.

You darted toward it, adrenaline pushing you forward as the growls and bells got closer, louder. You risked a glance over your shoulder, and your stomach dropped.

He was gaining on you.

With a desperate burst of speed, you vaulted through the window of the shack, landing hard on the other side. You stumbled but kept moving, running for the exit on the far end.

A loud crash echoed behind you as the Beast vaulted through the same window, his crimson eyes locked on you once again.

“You’re fast,” he growled, his deep, unused voice vibrating through the air, “but not fast enough.”

You ignored him, barreling out of the shack and looping back around, trying to buy yourself time. You knew he was faster but you had experience. Loops. Pallets. Technique.

You screamed as the Beast’s claws suddenly sliced across your back, sharp and unrelenting. Pain exploded through you, white-hot and disorienting, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. Gritting your teeth, you pushed through the agony and darted around the corner of some cages—rusted metal stacked haphazardly.

Your heart hammered as you sprinted, the sound of his heavy steps pounding behind you. You ran around as you desperately tried to put distance between you and him. Each turn felt like an eternity, every breath burning in your chest.

Finally, after what felt like forever, you skidded to a halt on one side of the cages, gasping for air.

The Beast stopped too.

You froze, your body tense as you watched him through the gaps in the rusted bars. He stood on the opposite side, unmoving. His yellow eyes, glowing faintly in the dark fog, stared directly into yours—sharp, unblinking, predatory.

And then, to your horror, he straightened up.

His hand reached over his shoulder, and you watched as he pulled his glaive from his back with a deliberate, almost casual motion. The blade gleamed darkly in the faint light as he spun it around his hand once—twice—with an unsettling ease.

The growl that followed was deep, rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest, but there was something else there. Amusement.

“Done running, little bunny?” His voice was low and rough, the words dripping with condescension.

Your blood ran cold. Little bunny.

“Shut up,” you spat, though your voice wavered.

He chuckled—he actually chuckled. The sound was dark, guttural, but far too human. It made your skin crawl.

“You’re a scrappy one, I’ll give you that,” he continued, tilting his head slightly as he dragged the glaive along the ground. “But you’ve been running for nothing.”

You frowned, your breath still coming in shallow gasps. “What?”

His eyes seemed to gleam as his lips pulled back into something halfway between a smirk and a snarl. “You haven’t noticed yet, have you?”

A sinking feeling settled in your stomach. “Noticed what?”

“You’re alone,” he said simply.

The words hit you like a punch to the gut.

“What—?”

He stepped closer to the cage wall, his gaze never leaving you. “You’re the last one left, little bunny. All your friends? Gone.”

You felt the ground shift beneath you, your pulse pounding in your ears. “You’re lying.”

Another rumbling chuckle. “Am I?”

The weight of his words crashed over you. The distant screams, the sound of the Entity rumbling in the sky—it all clicked into place. You hadn’t seen or heard anyone since Sable was taken. You thought someone else must still be working on the last generators, that maybe you had a chance.

But there was no one.

You were alone.

The Beast twirled his glaive again, the movement smooth and practiced. “You’ve fought well, but there’s nowhere left to run now.”

You tightened your grip on your side, wiping the sweat from your forehead as you met his predatory stare head-on. “Yeah?” you shot back, forcing your voice not to waver. “We’ll see about that.”

His grin widened, showing those gleaming fangs. “That’s the spirit.”

And then he moved.

You bolted the moment he lunged, the sharp whistle of his glaive cutting through the air as it missed you by mere inches. Your legs burned, your lungs screamed, but you pushed through, adrenaline surging through your veins. Run. Run. Run.

The Beast’s snarls echoed behind you, low and feral, punctuated by the pounding of his paws against the dirt. Every sound he made—growls, the snapping of his jaws, the guttural rumble of his breaths—sent chills racing down your spine.

You vaulted through a broken window of an old cabin, landing hard and stumbling but managing to stay upright. Without hesitation, you sprinted to the door on the other side, pushing it open and darting back out into the fog.

He’s still coming.

A heavy crash followed as he smashed through the window, unwilling to waste time following your path.

“Run faster, little bunny,” he growled from behind you, voice vibrating with dark amusement.

You hit a pallet, slamming it down just as he reached for you. The pallet struck his claws and chest with a loud crack, stopping him for a brief moment.

His red eyes snapped to you through the wooden slats, glowing with a furious intensity. Saliva dripped from his open jaws, long strings of it trailing to the ground as his chest heaved. With one clawed hand, he punched the pallet and crushed it into splinters.

You didn’t wait to see more—you ran.

Vaulting another window, you kept going, looping around the same structures, buying yourself time. He didn’t stop. No matter how many pallets you threw down, no matter how many windows you vaulted, the Beast was relentless.

You could hear him—feel him—close behind. The slap of his claws on the ground mixed with heavy breaths and the eerie jingling of the bells around his collar.

You passed through what looked like a slaughtered campsite—shredded tents, broken traps scattered across the dirt. A bloodied deer carcass laid limply on the ground, stomach ripped open. Nearby, a hunting lodge sat in decay, its walls splattered with claw marks. You didn’t slow, vaulting through the shattered lodge window.

As you looped through, your eyes darted across the environment.

A ruined jeep, long abandoned and covered in deep gashes. A pile of deer antlers stacked near an overturned trailer. Rusted cages lined with old bones—animal and human.

Everywhere you looked, the theme was clear. Hunting.

This was his map.

Everything—every structure, every grim detail—centered on the hunt. It was like you’d been dropped into his personal territory, a domain built to trap prey.

And right now, you were the prey.

You dashed between two more carcasses, your breathing ragged as you tried to keep moving. You could hear him still—too close, too fast.

“Run, little bunny.”

The words echoed in your head as you hit another pallet. You slammed it down just in time, hearing him growl as the wood cracked under his claws.

But this couldn’t last forever.

Your lungs were on fire, legs trembling as you stumbled around the thick trunk of a massive tree. His claws whistled through the air behind you, grazing your back just enough to tear the fabric of your shirt but leaving your skin intact.

And then you saw it.

The hatch.

It was nestled behind a massive fallen tree, partially hidden in the fog and decay, but there it was—your way out.

Your heart leapt in your chest as adrenaline surged through you. This was it.

You veered sharply to the right, pushing yourself faster than you thought possible. The fallen tree was a jagged mess of roots and splintered wood, but it didn’t matter. You scrambled up and over it, your hands scraping bark and dirt as you propelled yourself forward.

A deafening snarl erupted from behind you, so close it sent shivers crawling across your skin.

He’s right there.

But it didn’t matter—because you jumped.

You threw yourself toward the hatch, gravity pulling you down into its dark void. For a split second, you heard him—his enraged growl echoing through the trees, his claws slamming into the ground just inches too late.

And then you fell.

Everything went black for a heartbeat.

When you opened your eyes, you were back at the campfire.

The soft crackling of flames greeted you, warm and soothing compared to the oppressive silence of the fog. You landed on the damp ground in a heap, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath.

You were okay.

You glanced around, the familiar sights of the survivor camp slowly coming into focus. The fire flickered, its glow dancing across the empty logs and scattered supplies.

Your hands shook as you pressed them to the ground beneath you, grounding yourself, your heart still racing.

You did it.

You survived.

The realization hit you like a wave, leaving you breathless all over again. You were the first to survive the Beast.

The first.

A bitter laugh escaped your lips as you sat back, wiping the sweat and dirt from your face.

--

After that trial, when you managed to crawl into one of the ramshackle tents at the survivor camp, exhaustion dragged you under almost instantly. Your body was drained, and the adrenaline crash left you hollow and heavy. Sleep overtook you like a wave pulling you down into the deep.

But rest didn’t come easily.

The dream came swiftly, vivid and all too real.

You were back in the forest—his forest. The trees loomed tall, twisted and unkind, the ground littered with sharp branches and the glimmer of moonlight cutting through the fog. You could hear him in the distance: the soft jingle of the bells, the heavy thump of his claws on the ground.

You ran.

Your lungs burned as you tore through the darkness, stumbling over roots and ducking beneath low branches. But no matter how fast you moved, he was always there—just behind you. You could feel his presence, the weight of his stare pressing into your back.

“Run, little bunny,” his voice rumbled, dark and teasing, drifting through the fog like smoke.

You glanced back—and there he was. The Beast.

His crimson eyes glowed in the darkness, locked on you with unwavering focus. He chased you on all fours, his sharp claws tearing into the earth as he moved with an unnatural grace. His glaive was gone, leaving him raw and feral, his fangs gleaming in the dim light.

You screamed, pushing yourself faster, your body aching with every step.

And then���he caught you.

It happened so suddenly, you barely had time to process it. A sharp weight hit you from behind, sending you tumbling to the ground. Before you could scramble away, his body pinned you down, trapping you beneath him.

You froze, chest heaving as you stared up at him. Up close, he looked even more terrifying—wild and untamed, his mouth parted just enough to reveal sharp fangs, his breath hot and heavy against your skin.

But then, something shifted.

He didn’t harm you.

Instead, he scooped you up effortlessly, cradling you in his clawed arms as though you weighed nothing. You tried to struggle, but it was no use—his grip was firm, unrelenting, and yet… gentle.

He carried you deeper into the forest, further into the unknown, until you reached a cave nestled within the hills. It was dark and cool inside, the air heavy with the smell of earth and stone. He set you down carefully on a soft pile of fur—furs like his cloak.

You pressed yourself against the cave wall, unsure whether to scream or cry, but he only crouched before you, his red eyes staring into yours.

“Mine,” he growled, the word rumbling deep in his chest like a purr. His voice was dark and heavy, yet strangely… soft.

You blinked up at him, trembling. “W-what?”

“Mine,” he repeated, his hand brushed your cheek with shocking gentleness. The way he touched you sent shivers down your spine.

He leaned closer, his face mere inches from yours, his breath warm as it ghosted over your skin. “My bunny. Mine to keep.”

The growls in his voice softened into something sweet, almost melodic, as though he were coaxing you to stay calm. It should have terrified you—it did terrify you—but there was something unsettlingly comforting about the way he spoke.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak.

And then you woke up.

You shot up in your makeshift bedroll, a strangled gasp escaping your throat as your heart pounded violently in your chest. Your hands gripped the thin blanket, sweat cooling on your skin.

You looked around frantically, the familiar interior of the cabin grounding you. It was just a dream. Just a dream.

But it felt so real.

You pressed a shaky hand to your forehead, trying to calm your racing heart.

It was just a dream…

A dream.

Sleep was out of the question after that. Every time you closed your eyes, you could see him—his crimson gaze, his claws brushing against your skin, his voice growling.

With a frustrated sigh, you kicked off the thin blanket and stood up, walking out of the cabin. Your thoughts were too loud, your body still tingling with the residual terror—and something else you didn’t want to name.

I need to clear my head.

You started walking, keeping close to the edges of the survivor camp but wandering far enough to feel alone. You let the quiet of the place settle around you, your boots crunching softly against the dirt.

Eventually, you found yourself near the invisible barrier that separated the survivors from them—the killers. You weren’t even sure why you wandered so close. Curiosity? Stupidity? Maybe you just needed to remind yourself where the line was drawn.

But then you froze.

Two figures stood just beyond the thin veil of fog.

The Trickster and Ghostface.

Their presence sent a cold shock through your chest, and you instinctively took a step back. But it was too late—they’d seen you. Trickster tilted his head, a grin already curling across his lips, and Ghostface’s mask turned to you.

“Well, well, well,” Trickster drawled, his voice dripping with wicked amusement. He leaned casually against a tree, his golden eyes practically glowing as he looked you over. “If it isn’t the Beast’s bunny.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

Ghostface let out a low, chuckling hum, his gloved hand tracing the edge of his knife as he stepped closer. “Oh, don’t play dumb. We know. You gave him quite the wild ride, sweetheart.”

You felt your face flush hot with anger and embarrassment. “Shut up,” you snapped. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Trickster cackled, his laughter loud and sharp, the sound echoing eerily in the fog. “Oh, come on. He came back furious after your little escape. Threw a fit like I’ve never seen. It was delicious.”

Ghostface chimed in, his tone teasing but low. “You’re all he could talk about, too. It’s like you’re his personal obsession now.” He mimicked the Beast’s deep growl mockingly: ‘Bunny.’

Your heart hammered in your chest, and you clenched your fists at your sides. “I don’t care what he said.”

“Mm, but you do care, don’t you?” Trickster purred, his smile widening as he leaned closer to the invisible line that separated you. “I bet you’re wondering why you’re so special. Why he didn’t mori you when he had the chance.”

“Leave me alone,” you hissed, taking a step back.

Ghostface tilted his head, the white of his mask gleaming through the fog. “What’s the matter? Didn’t you like his attention? After all, he went easy on you. That doesn’t happen often, you know.”

Trickster tapped a clawed finger against his temple. “You should feel honored, little bunny. Not every survivor gets a pet name.”

You glared at them, your skin crawling under their relentless teasing. You wanted to scream at them, to tell them to go back to their side of the fog and leave you alone, but you knew better. Picking a fight with killers—even ones that couldn’t touch you here—was asking for trouble.

Instead, you turned on your heel and stalked away, their laughter following you like a shadow.

“Sweet dreams, bunny!” Trickster called out behind you, voice dripping with mockery.

You didn’t look back.

Your head spun as you walked further into the camp, their words replaying in your mind. The Beast’s bunny. His obsession. Why didn’t he mori you when he had the chance?

You pressed a shaky hand to your forehead, frustration and unease settling deep in your chest. Why didn’t he?

--

The drop into the trial was as dizzying as always—the world around you materializing in a disorienting rush of fog and cold air. You hit the ground with a stumble, steadying yourself with a sharp breath. But as soon as you looked up, your heart sank.

No.

No, no, no.

Tall, twisted trees loomed in every direction, their jagged silhouettes clawing at the sickly sky. Bushes dense enough to hide anything rustled faintly in the breeze, and the unmistakable scent of damp earth and decay filled your nose. Ahead, you spotted the broken remains of a hunting lodge, its rotting wood and shattered windows familiar. Then, a flash of metal caught your eye—the glint of a rusted, blood-streaked hunting trap half-buried in the dirt.

Your blood ran cold.

You were on his map.

“Damn it,” you muttered, your voice barely a whisper, but the words echoed loud in your head.

Your stomach twisted as you remembered the last trial, his relentless pursuit, the flash of red in his eyes, the scrape of his claws.

“Get a grip,” you whispered to yourself. You couldn’t afford to freeze up now—not here, not on his turf.

Taking a deep breath, you gripped your flashlight and started moving, staying low as you weaved between the trees. Every step you took felt heavier than the last, like the map itself knew you were here—like he knew.

The broken-down jeep came into view, its rusting shell half-buried in leaves. You recognized it instantly—another landmark of his hunting ground. Just past it, you spotted the faint silhouette of a generator.

Focus, you told yourself. Find the gens. Fix them. Get out.

You crept closer, crouched low and trying not to make a sound. As you reached the generator, you knelt down and set your flashlight beside you.

You swallowed and started to work, your hands shaking slightly as you connected wires and tightened bolts. The hum of the generator grew louder with every adjustment, breaking the oppressive silence just a little.

But then you heard it.

A low, deep rumble carried through the trees.

Your hands froze. You didn’t even breathe as you strained to listen. At first, it sounded distant—almost like thunder rolling in—but then it grew closer. A soft, rhythmic growl, paired with the faint jingle of…

Bells.

Your heart plummeted.

Slowly, you turned your head, your blood running ice-cold. Through the thin veil of fog, you saw him—The Beast.

He stood just at the edge of the clearing, partially obscured by the shadows of the trees. His black cloak swayed faintly in the breeze, the fur draping over his broad shoulders as if it were part of him.

But it was his eyes—those glowing crimson eyes—that locked onto you like a predator spotting prey.

You couldn’t move. For a moment, it was as if the entire world held its breath.

Then he tilted his head, and his lips curled into something too sharp to be called a smile.

“Found you, little bunny.”

The sound of his voice—deep, rough, and unnervingly calm—snapped you out of your frozen state.

Run.

You shot up to your feet, abandoning the half-finished generator. Sprinting through the trees, you heard the pounding of footsteps behind you—heavy and impossibly fast. The bells on his collar rang softly with each movement, a haunting counterpoint to the blood rushing in your ears.

You weaved around trees and over logs, your lungs burning as you pushed yourself to move faster. But no matter how hard you ran, the growls grew louder, closer.

He’s toying with you.

The thought made your chest tighten with panic. You darted past a deer carcass, its lifeless eyes staring blankly, and nearly tripped over a hunting trap concealed in the leaves. A quick glance over your shoulder made your blood freeze.

He was right there.

Running on all fours, his claws dug into the dirt with every step, his cloak billowing behind him like a shadow. Drool dripped from his snarling mouth, and those red eyes—those damn eyes—never left you.

You turned sharply, sprinting toward a cluster of old crates and barrels. The familiar sight of a pallet gave you hope, and you grabbed hold of it, shoving it down just as he lunged forward. The pallet crashed to the ground, momentarily blocking his path.

You didn’t wait to see what he’d do next.

Vaulting over a window in a broken shack, you stumbled inside, gasping for air. Your heart thundered in your chest, but you seized the moment. The shack was small and dark, its rotting walls barely holding together, but the row of lockers against one wall caught your eye. Hiding was risky, you knew that, but running blindly wouldn’t get you far—not against him.

Quickly, you slipped into one of the lockers, squeezing yourself into the cramped space. The door creaked softly as you pulled it shut, and you winced, holding your breath as you pressed your body back as far as it would go.

You put a trembling hand over your mouth, forcing yourself to stay silent. Through the thin gaps in the locker, you could see into the room—shadows cast from the broken windows danced across the splintered floor. For a few agonizing seconds, there was nothing but silence.

Then you heard it.

The faint clink of bells.

Your stomach dropped.

The door to the shack creaked as it swung open, and the sound of heavy footsteps echoed through the room. Slow, deliberate steps—he wasn’t in a hurry. He knew you were here.

Through the locker’s slats, you caught glimpses of him. He prowled into view, hunched slightly forward as he sniffed the air, his claws scraping the wood with every step.

Then he stopped.

Right in the middle of the room.

You bit down on your hand, trying to control your ragged breathing as your chest rose and fell in frantic rhythm. His head tilted slightly, his crimson eyes sweeping the shack as though he could see through the walls. He growled—a low, vibrating sound that rattled in his chest.

“Little bunny,” he called softly, his voice rough and cruelly sweet.

You squeezed your eyes shut, praying he wouldn’t hear the pounding of your heart.

“I can smell you,” he continued, dragging out the words. “You ran so far… fought so hard… yet here you are. Hiding.”

His footsteps began again, the sound of bells chiming with each movement. You peeked through the slats and saw him move toward the lockers. Your blood turned to ice.

He stopped at the first locker.

The metal hinges creaked loudly as he tore the door open. Empty.

A low rumble escaped him—disappointed but patient.

Don’t open this one… don’t open this one, you thought frantically.

You watched as he moved to the second locker.

Your heart was in your throat, your entire body shaking as you clamped your hand harder over your mouth. He gripped the handle of the second locker door, then yanked it open with a growl.

Empty again.

He chuckled darkly, the sound making your skin crawl.

Then he turned to your locker.

You froze, every muscle in your body tensed as you stared through the gaps. His red eyes locked onto the locker door—onto you. You felt it.

He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, the glaive scraping against the floor as he moved. He was toying with you, savoring the fear that radiated off you in waves.

His clawed hand reached out, wrapping around the handle.

No, no, no—

Suddenly, the faint sound of a generator powering up echoed in the distance.

The Beast paused. His head snapped up, and his growl turned into a snarl. He hesitated for only a moment, then released the locker handle.

You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe.

With one last glare toward your hiding spot, he turned and stalked out of the shack, his bells jingling softly as he disappeared into the fog.

It wasn’t until you couldn’t hear his footsteps anymore that you dared to move.

Your hand fell away from your mouth as you gasped, air rushing into your lungs. You were shaking so badly you nearly fell out of the locker when you pushed the door open.

Slumping against the wall of the shack, you wiped sweat off your forehead and tried to steady your breathing.

That was too close.

“Get it together,” you whispered to yourself, standing up on wobbly legs.

You slipped out of the shack, your steps light as you crept toward the edge of the clearing. The cool air hit your face, but it did nothing to soothe the burn of exhaustion in your chest. Just as you were about to get your bearings, a blood-curdling scream cut through the silence.

Your stomach twisted at the sound of another survivor being hooked. You could almost feel their pain.

Shaking your head, you adjusted your grip on your flashlight and made your way back to the generator you’d started earlier.

The map was eerily quiet now, save for the faint hum of the Entity’s realm and the crunch of leaves beneath your feet.

You eventually spotted the generator up ahead, the same one you’d been working on before everything went sideways. It was tucked between two thick trees, its rusted frame bathed in the faint glow of moonlight.

Crouching down, you wasted no time. Your hands moved quickly, twisting bolts, reconnecting wires, and steadying sparking circuits. The generator let out small electric whines as you worked, and you winced every time it sounded too loud.

Your pulse quickened when you saw the progress bar fill just a little more. You were close—so close. The distant sounds of the map felt muffled as you zoned in on your work. Don’t mess up. Don’t mess up.

Then you heard it.

A growl.

Your hands froze mid-movement. You didn’t dare look up.

The sound was distant at first—like an echo carried by the fog—but it was unmistakable. Him.

“No,” you whispered to yourself, forcing your shaking hands to continue fixing the generator. If you stopped now, it’d all be for nothing.

You twisted one final bolt, and the generator sputtered before roaring to life. Its floodlights lit up the area, and the familiar blaring noise followed, announcing your progress to anyone listening.

Your breath hitched.

And that included him.

Somewhere close by, a howl ripped through the forest. Loud, guttural, and far too close for comfort.

Your eyes snapped up.

The fog shifted unnaturally ahead of you, parting like something monstrous had disturbed it. Through the haze, yellow eyes burned bright as they locked onto you.

Your heart dropped.

“Of course,” you muttered bitterly, turning on your heel and sprinting into the forest without a second thought.

The Beast roared in response, and you could hear the pounding of his claws against the dirt as he gave chase. The bells chimed in time with his steps, their sound twisted and distorted as they echoed behind you.

Trees blurred past you as you ran, leaping over roots and dodging branches that reached out like skeletal hands. You dared a glance over your shoulder and immediately regretted it—he was there, close enough for you to see the gleam of his fangs in the moonlight.

“Move, move, move!” you hissed to yourself, adrenaline pushing you forward as fast as your legs would carry you.

You felt it before you saw it—the sharp, searing pain of claws slicing across your back. The force of the blow sent you stumbling forward, your scream ripping through the fog as blood soaked into your shirt. The Beast snarled behind you, the sound a dark promise that he wasn’t done yet.

Move. Don’t stop.

Gritting your teeth through the pain, you spotted salvation up ahead: a pallet resting between two large trees. You pushed your legs to move faster, ignoring the burning sensation in your muscles as his heavy footsteps closed the distance.

With one final burst of speed, you reached the pallet, and in one fluid motion, you grabbed it and slammed it down with all the strength you had left.

The wood hit the ground with a satisfying thud just as he lunged, the pallet catching him mid-swing. He staggered for a moment, a low growl vibrating through the air as his red eyes locked onto you in fury.

But you weren’t done yet.

With shaky fingers, you flicked your flashlight on and aimed the beam directly at his face. The bright light pierced through the dark fog and hit him square in the eyes.

The Beast recoiled, a guttural snarl ripping from his throat as he jerked his head to the side, blinking furiously against the glare.

It worked.

You let out a shaky breath, a triumphant smile tugging at your lips despite the pain. The flashlight always works. He was blinded, even if just for a moment.

“Sorry, big guy,” you muttered under your breath, already turning on your heel and bolting away.

You didn’t have time to celebrate as you sprinted deeper into the forest, weaving between trees and broken fences.

The pounding of your footsteps against the dirt slowed as you spotted a faint glow through the trees—a generator, partially lit but still sputtering with effort. Relief rushed through you when you recognized three familiar figures huddled around it: Haddie, Ada, and Steve.

You stumbled toward them, blood still trickling from the slash on your back, your breath coming in ragged gasps.

“Hey!” Haddie called, her sharp gaze snapping to you. “Oh!”

“Jesus,” Steve muttered, already pulling out a med-kit and kneeling beside you. “Sit. You’re not gonna last like this.”

You hesitated for only a moment before sinking to the ground, letting Steve’s steady hands work on patching you up. The sting of antiseptic burned through the haze of adrenaline, but you bit your tongue, trying to focus on Ada and Haddie, who were whispering urgently to each other as they worked on the generator.

You opened your mouth to say something, but the words froze in your throat.

The sound came first. Faint, but clear.

Bells.

The soft, eerie jingle carried through the trees, distant at first… but quickly growing louder.

Steve stopped his hands mid-wrap, while Haddie’s and Ada’s both paused.

Slowly, all four of you turned to look behind you.

There, standing just at the edge of the clearing, was him.

His red eyes were glowing in the shadows, piercing through the fog like twin beacons. The glaive in his hand stained with blood, and his massive clawed arm twitched as though eager to tear into flesh again. He tilted his head, his stare locking onto all of you at once.

And then he spoke, his voice a deep, guttural rumble that made something in your stomach tickle.

“I can see you… all of you,” he drawled, his lips pulling back into a sharp grin that revealed rows of teeth. “When you’re together.”

Your heart stopped for a second.

“Oh, shit,” Haddie whispered.

Before anyone could move, the Beast lunged forward, his speed blinding.

“RUN!” Steve shouted, shoving you forward as he scrambled to his feet.

The air erupted in chaos.

You turned just in time to see the Beast barrel into the group, his glaive slashing outward. Haddie screamed as she was hit by the blade. Ada dove for cover behind the generator, her flashlight slipping from her grip.

Steve grabbed your arm, dragging you up as you stumbled.

“Go, go, go!” he yelled.

You bolted into the trees, your legs screaming in protest as pain flared through your back. From behind you, you could hear the heavy thud of the Beast’s footsteps and the ragged sound of his growls.

A scream echoed through the clearing—Haddie’s voice.

You glanced back for a split second and saw him standing over her, his claws raised, his red eyes flicking up to meet yours.

He’s looking at me.

Your stomach twisted, but you forced yourself to keep running, Steve at your side as the two of you crashed through the brush. Branches whipped against your face, the fog curling thicker the deeper you went.

The sound of Haddie's scream suddenly cut through the fog like a blade, sending a shiver of dread through your body. You could barely register the sound of Ada's scream following shortly after.

Tears stung your eyes as the wind howled through the trees, but you blinked them away.

But then you heard it—snap.

The world tilted as a sharp, searing pain shot through your leg, and you collapsed to the ground with a scream.

"Shit!" you gasped, clutching your thigh.

Your hands trembled as you looked down, the panic rising in your chest. You’d stepped into a snare trap. The sharp sting was immediate, its barbed wire coiled tightly around your upper thigh, the more you moves, the more the wire tightened, digging deeper into your skin with every movement, the barbed edges cutting into you like they were meant to hold you there—forever.

“No, no, no,” you panted, struggling to pull yourself free, blood began to trickle down your leg, warm and sticky, as you gasped, the pain making your vision blur.

“Help,” you cried out hoarsely, your voice breaking.

Steve, who had been ahead of you, didn’t hesitate to come back after hearing your scream. He rushed back to your side, his face pale as he looked down at the trap.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he cursed under his breath, kneeling beside you. His hands were frantic as he assessed the trap. “It’s too tight.”

You bit back a groan, trying to hold yourself still, but every small movement made the pain shoot deeper.

“Hold on, just… just hold on, alright?” Steve's voice was steady, despite the panic in his eyes as he worked at the wire. His hands were shaking, but he didn’t stop, trying to loosen it around your leg.

His movements were careful, slow, and you could feel every second ticking by like a countdown. The Beast could be right on top of you, you didn’t know.

“Steve, hurry!” you begged, the tears you had been blinking away now threatening to fall freely.

“I’m trying,” Steve muttered, his teeth clenched as he twisted the snare, trying to get it loose. “You’ve got to stay still, alright? You’re making it worse moving.”

You nodded, fighting against the urge to scream, biting down on your lip as you did your best to remain still.

“I’ve got it,” Steve said finally, relief flooding his voice as the wire loosened just enough for him to work his hands under it and pull your leg free.

You gritted your teeth, ignoring the throbbing pain in your leg as Steve pulled you to your feet. Your muscles screamed in protest, but you couldn’t afford to stop now.

“We need to go—now!” Steve urged, his voice tight with urgency. He glanced over his shoulder, scanning the fog, clearly sensing the Beast’s presence growing closer.

You nodded, swallowing the panic rising in your chest. The last thing you needed right now was to get caught. You limped, your leg barely holding up as you tried to keep pace with Steve, but every step sent a jolt of pain through you.

He kept his pace faster, glancing at you every few seconds to make sure you were still moving. “Just a bit further. We’ve got to make it to the generator—then we can heal, okay?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. You were focused entirely on the uneven ground beneath your feet.

And then, just as the rustle of movement caught your ear, Steve spun around, blocking your path. His face was tight with fear.

“He’s close,” he said breathlessly.

You nodded, trying to steady yourself against the pain in your leg, but it was getting harder to move. Every step felt like an eternity.

“Steve…” you whispered, voice cracking. “I don’t know how much longer I can…”

Before you could finish, a blood-curdling howl echoed through the air, the sound unmistakable. The Beast had caught your scent.

"Go! Run!" Steve shouted, urgency in his voice.

You stumbled, torn between the need to run and the instinct to stay with him. "What about you?" you asked, voice strained as the Beast’s growl grew louder.

Steve shot you a look, his expression grim. He didn’t have time to argue. “You heard what he said,” he panted, pulling away slightly. “He can see us when we’re together. We’re better off apart.”

You wanted to protest, to grab his arm and drag him with you, but his eyes were already scanning the fog, watching for any movement. His resolve was set.

He gave you a slight push, his voice soft but firm. “Go.”

Without another word, Steve turned and bolted in the opposite direction, breaking away from you. His footsteps disappeared into the thick fog.

You hesitated for only a moment before you took off running, forcing your legs to move despite the pain.

You were alone now.

You found a quiet place to heal, between two thick trees. The tension in your shoulders was unbearable as you worked, each slow, painful motion making the process feel like it took a lifetime.

But then, a scream.

Steve’s scream.

The sound tore through the fog, sharp and raw. Your heart clenched. The scream was cut short, but it was enough to stop you dead in your tracks.

Steve was on the hook.

Without wasting another second, you groaned as you pushed yourself to your feet, your leg screaming in protest. You couldn’t afford to leave Steve behind. You couldn’t. Not when he was still alive and needed you.

You looked around nervously, trying to get your bearings, but the dense fog made it almost impossible to see anything clearly. You limped toward the source of Steve’s scream, heart pounding, knowing you had to be quick.

You passed by broken trees and fallen branches, your breath quick and shallow. Each step was more painful than the last, but you pushed through it.

The sound of Steve’s struggles echoed faintly ahead, his voice barely audible but enough to urge you forward.

Hang on, Steve. Please hang on, you thought desperately.

When you reached the clearing where the scream had come from, you saw Steve struggling, dangling from a hook.

Your stomach twisted. You didn’t know where Haddie was—if she was even still alive—but Ada? You weren’t sure.

All you knew was that you didn’t see him close by, and so you took the chance. You rushed forward, limping toward Steve, your heart pounding in your chest as you neared the hook.

But then, you heard his voice—a strained shout.

“Stop!” Steve yelled, his voice tight with fear.

You froze, mid-step. Your eyes locked with his, confusion rushing through you. He was staring at you with wide, frantic eyes, almost as if warning you.

You didn’t understand at first, but then you heard it—the subtle scrape of claws on the ground.

From behind the hook, he emerged, his body low to the ground, his yellow eyes fixed on you. His mouth was twisted in something between a snarl and... a smirk? It was unsettling. He wasn’t even trying to hide his hunger now. He knew exactly what he was doing.

Your heart skipped a beat as he crawled closer, his sharp claws scraping against the dirt. The bells jingled softly, but it felt like they were ringing in your ears, louder with every passing second.

Your eyes darted between Steve and the Beast. The decision was clear.

Without another thought, you spun on your heel and ran.

Every muscle screamed in protest, but adrenaline was the only thing fueling you now. Branches whipped past you, the fog pressing in around you, blurring your vision. The sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind you, each thundering step closer than the last.

You heard him, the low growl vibrating in the air, and then the unmistakable sound of his bells—ting-ting-ting. You thought you could feel the ground beneath your feet trembling, his pace quickening as he closed the distance. You tried to cut left, darting around trees in an attempt to break his line of sight, but he was still behind you.

In that moment, you realized the truth: he wasn’t chasing you to catch you. He was chasing you because he enjoyed it. He was savoring this. The thrill, the fear that radiated off you, the helplessness that grew with every passing second. You were his prey. And he was playing with you like a wolf with its catch—only, you weren’t meant to escape.

You felt the slash against your back, a sudden, agonizing pain raking across your side. The scream tore itself from your throat as you stumbled, falling to the ground in a heap. Blood welled up from the wound, pooling around you, but you barely noticed it, your mind too frantic to focus on anything but the Beast who loomed over you.

You turned your head, gasping for air, your vision swimming as you fought to stay conscious. The Beast stepped over you, his massive, clawed feet brushing the dirt, and for a moment, everything went still. He stood there, towering over you, his presence suffocating, making it feel like the world had closed in. His red eyes locked onto yours, glowing.

He didn’t move, just watched you, his expression unreadable. A low growl rumbled from deep in his chest, the sound vibrating through the ground beneath you. Your heart pounded, your breath shallow and ragged, but you couldn’t look away. His eyes were mesmerizing, wild and filled with hunger.

For a moment, it was as if time stood still, the forest around you fading away into nothing. There was no escape. No hope.

A slow, almost sinister smile spread across his face as he leaned down, his claws brushing against your cheek in a slow, deliberate motion. His breath was hot and heavy, and you could feel the weight of his gaze as if he were searching for something in you—something he wanted to claim. You shuddered under his touch, your body unable to move, paralyzed by fear.

"You're mine now," he murmured, his voice a guttural growl that sent shivers down your spine. His fangs gleamed in the low light, sharp and ready.

You couldn’t fight him. You were too weak, too broken, and all you could do was stare up at him, eyes wide with terror. The Beast crouched lower, his form blocking out the sky above you, and you could feel the weight of his gaze on your soul.

Then, without warning, he licked your cheek, his rough, warm tongue brushing against your skin like a dog's. It sent a shiver down your spine, and you instinctively recoiled, but there was nowhere to go. His hot breath fanned across your face as he sniffed at you, inhaling deeply as if savoring your scent, his gaze lingering on your every move.

You felt an uncomfortable twinge of vulnerability, but you couldn’t move fast enough to get away. His eyes darted downward, now focused on your leg, the one still bleeding from the snare trap. You hadn’t even noticed until now how much blood had soaked through your pants.

Before you could react, he suddenly ripped open the fabric of your pants, exposing the wound. The rough sound of tearing fabric filled the air as his claws made quick work of the material, revealing the injury beneath.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you watched him, confusion and fear flooding your mind. What was he doing?

You gasped when the Beast's rough tongue suddenly brushed against the open wound on your thigh, the sensation shocking you. It felt strange—like something was pulling at you from within, and you instinctively flinched.

"Stop..." you gasped, though the words came out weak, as you tried to crawl away, desperate to get some distance between you and him.

But before you could get far, his sharp claws sank into the soft flesh of your thigh, gripping and pulling you back to him. The pressure was intense, and you couldn’t move. He held you there, unyielding, as his tongue continued to lick at your wound, collecting the blood.

You whimpered, trying to push against his hold, but his grip was like iron, and no matter how hard you struggled, you couldn’t escape.

As the Beast continued, the warmth of his tongue against your skin became oddly less weird. The fear remained, but you couldn’t deny the strange sensation of being so completely under his control. His actions were relentless, but they were also slow, as though savoring something delicate.

Then, suddenly, he pulled back. You heard soft whines escape from him, and it sent a cold chill down your spine. You met his eyes again, and you could see the remnants of your blood, mixed with his saliva, dripping from the corners of his mouth. The sight made your stomach twist.

He slowly licked the blood from around his lips, his gaze never leaving you. His breathing was deep, his chest rising and falling with each inhale. He crawled closer again, his eyes intense, and for a moment, all you could hear was his heavy breathing.

Then, with a low growl, he spoke. “You smell so... good,” he murmured, his voice deep and gravelly. “You taste so sweet...”

The words sent a shiver down your spine. He seemed to be savoring them as much as he had savored the blood from your wound. His voice dropped even lower, his words tinged with something darker.

“You’ve had me going crazy ever since I first caught a scent of you. I can’t get you out of my mind.” His eyes gleamed, hungry and wanting.

He leaned closer, his breath hot against your mouth. “I crave you,” he repeated, his tone possessive, as though the very thought of you was driving him wild.

Fear mingled with something else in the pit of your stomach. You weren’t sure what it was, but his words were like a trap, a pull that made it hard to think clearly, harder to remember why you needed to escape.

His breath was hot against your skin, his presence overwhelming, and before you could react, the Beast leaned in, his face inches from yours. Your heart raced in your chest, fear and confusion coursing through you. Then, without warning, his lips pressed against yours.

The kiss was rough, urgent, as if he were trying to claim you. You froze, unable to process what was happening. His mouth was warm, and for a moment, everything seemed to disappear around you, your thoughts clouded by the shock of the moment.

You felt his hands, still strong and unyielding, keeping you in place as his lips moved against yours. It was unlike anything you had ever experienced, and the unexpectedness of it left you breathless, your mind unable to fully comprehend his actions.

For a long second, time seemed to slow. He pulled away just enough to gaze at you, his red eyes intense, searching for something in your expression. The kiss had left you disoriented, unsure of how to feel, and you could see the hunger in his eyes.

Before you could gather your thoughts, he whispered low, “My little bunny.”

His grip tightened for a moment, and you could feel the intensity of his words as they settled in your chest. "I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice low, but there was an unsettling tenderness to it. "But I have to kill you now."

Before you could react, he flipped you over with ease, pinning you beneath him. His paw pressed down on your back, the weight of it overwhelming as his gaze locked onto you.

You squirmed beneath him, trying to push against his hold, but it was useless. His strength was far beyond yours, and every attempt to free yourself only seemed to make his grip tighten.

"Please," you gasped, voice trembling as you struggled.

But he didn’t stop. His eyes were locked on yours with an intensity that sent a chill through you, and his body felt like a heavy weight, pressing you into the cold ground.

"Can you at least tell me your name?" you asked, your voice desperate. It was all you could think of to try to connect with him, to find some way to understand him.

He stopped for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he considered your words. There was a flicker of something—something almost human—in his gaze before he growled, a low rumble vibrating through his chest.

"Jay," he said simply, the sound of it rough but clear.

You repeated it softly to yourself, tasting the name on your lips. "Jay."

He paused again, almost as if surprised- "You're the first one to know it." A flicker of something—maybe amusement, flashed in his eyes.

But then, without warning, he threw his head back, releasing a haunting howl that echoed through the night. The sound seemed to reverberate through the very air, a chilling symphony of raw power and unbridled emotion.

As the echo faded, Jay lowered himself, his jaws parting slightly as he moved closer to you. There was no mercy in his eyes, no hesitation. With a swift motion, he sank his teeth into your neck. The pain was sharp and intense, but before you could even process it fully, darkness claimed you, and everything around you vanished.

You gasped as you fell back into the survivor camp, unharmed, alive, as if nothing had happened at all.

The others were going about their business, completely unaware of the nightmare you had just experienced. The tension in your body remained, though, a tight knot in your chest that wouldn't loosen.

You knew you couldn't tell anyone what had happened. No one would understand. They would think you had lost your mind.

Shaking the lingering thoughts from your head, you stood up, your legs a bit unsteady. The sharp, eerie silence that had enveloped the camp was suddenly pierced by the unmistakable howl from the direction of the killers' area. It echoed through the foggy air, loud and clear, that it made the other survivors nearby glance up in alarm.

The howl was different from the usual ones. It was the triumphant cry of a successful hunt—an announcement to the realm that the beast had claimed his prize.

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[theoriginalkaminari]

Imagine (before Dabi's big reveal maybe)

Imagine bro

Dabi had a beautiful partner, a beautiful S/O that was his, all his.

They made him feel alive.

They genuinely cared for him.

And then they were killed by Endeavour.

Dabi stares at your burning body, heart breaking every second he sees you like this. He watches as the blue flame flakes off your skin, the smell of charred and rotten skin filling the air.

Dabi found your body in an alley.

Endeavour didn't even take your body to your family. He just left you on the cold ground.

Of course he wouldn't, he fucking killed you. That would ruin his reputation if he brought your dead body to your family.

So Dabi decided to lay you down in the forest and burn your body. After all, he was always curious to see how you would look going up in flames.

"I think we should say some words." Dabi says to no one, spreading his arms out.

"Here lays Y/N. Beloved by all they met. The angel in hell." He growls out, clenching his fists as he continues to stare at the fire consuming your body.

He lets out a laugh, but its more of a scoff. "Thanks for loving a useless fuckin' idiot." He hisses out, venom in his voice as he watches the flames.

He picks up the bottle of whiskey he brought with him, flicking off the cap and taking a large sip from the bottle.

He lets out a breath after he removes the bottle from his lips. He feels like crying. He feels like tearing his fucking hair out, he feels like jumping into that pile of flames with you.

Instead he gulps, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. "I told you you would still look cute even as a pile of ashes." He calls out to your body, extending his arms out again as if to present something.

"I know I said I'd take your ashes to your family, but we both know I'm a selfish prick. So I'll be keeping them." He chuckles darkly, taking another gulp of whiskey from the bottle.

"I still...love you." He then whispers, putting the bottle down. "Even if you are dead now." Dabi mutters, a fake smirk plastered on his face.

"And I'll make sure to kill Endeavour the same way he killed you. Maybe that will jog his fuckin' memory when I'm staring down at his pathetic burnt body." He growls out, clenching his fists so hard around the bottle that he breaks the glass.

Dabi tosses the shards of broken glass into the fire and ontop of your body. "Love you, doll. Always will."

From that day on, Dabi kept your ashes in a small bottle he keeps tied around his neck.