#if you get ten million dollars every year you still get to live out the fantasy of richness

[saul-goodboy]

we need a wealth cap bruh how come jeff bezos’s hourly wage is more than some people’s lifetime income

[tavolgisvist]

'Just call him on the phone'

Q: Aside from the millions you’ve been offered for a reunion concert, how did you feel about producer Lorne Michaels’s generous offer of thirty-two hundred dollars for appearing together on Saturday Night Live a few years ago?* A: Oh, yeah, Paul and I were together watching that show. He was visiting us at our place in the Dakota. We were watching it and almost went down to the studio, just as a gag. We nearly got into a cab, but we were actually too tired. Q: How did you and Paul happen to be watching TV together? A: That was a period when Paul just kept turning up at our door with a guitar. I would let him in, but finally I said to him**, “Please call before you come over. It’s not 1956, and turning up at the door isn’t the same anymore. You know, just give me a ring.” He was upset by that, but I didn’t mean it badly. I just meant that I was taking care of a baby all day, and some guy turns up at the door … But anyway, back on that night he and Linda walked in and he and I were just sitting there watching the show, and we went, Ha-ha, wouldn’t it be funny if we went down, but we didn’t. Q: Is that the last time you’ve seen Paul? A: Yes, but I didn’t mean it like that.

<...> Q: You say you haven’t really listened to Paul’s work and haven’t really talked to him since that night in your apartment— A: Really talked to him, no, that’s the operative word. I haven’t really talked to him in ten years. Because I haven’t spent time with him. I’ve been doing other things and so has he. You know, he’s got twenty five kids and about twenty million records out — how can he spend time talking? He’s always working.

(John Lennon, 1980, All We Are Saying, David Sheff)

*It was in 25 April 1976 **it was in 26 April 1976

Well, when I, when I was Just a little baby boy, Every night, every night I would call, Because your number, you know, Brought me such sweet joy. I've called your name, John, Every night since then But I ain't never, no, no, never Heard you calling me, My sweet, sweet babe, So, you know, you better call me back again, I call your operator but I still can't get through to you, Call me back again

(Call Me Back Again, presumably, 10 June 1976, Seattle)

Tell me, is she everything i see Or is she really not the one for me? We know, and though some may disagree But do they know the way we want to be? <…> Building something One thing made to last And holding something Special from the past And do I still believe in stories we've been told***? Are all the things she brings me worth their weight in gold? Oh yeah, (oh yeah) pure gold

(Pure Gold, Paul for Ringo, 1976)

***I remember when John and I were first hanging out together, I had a dream about digging in the garden with my hands. I’d dreamt that before but I’d never found anything other than an old tin can. But in this dream I found a gold coin. I kept digging and I found another. And another.The next day I told John about this amazing dream I’d had and he said, ‘That’s funny, I had the same dream’. So both of us had this dream of finding this treasure. And I suppose you could say it came true. I remember years later talking about it – ‘Remember that dream we had?’; ‘Yeah, that was far out’. So the message of that dream was: keep digging lads.'

(Paul McCartney to The Big Issue, Feb. 2012)

After you've gone And left me crying After you've gone Ain't no deny You'll feel blue You'll feel sad You'll miss the dearest pal that you ever had

There'll come a time And don't you forget it There'll come a time When you'll regret it****

Someday when you grow lonely Your heart will break like mine You want me only After you've gone After you've gone away

(After You've Gone, 1977, Paul's version - 'just for fun' as he said - of a 1918 popular song written by Turner Layton and Henry Creamer, and it's Frank Sinatra's (and Sophie Tucker!) version.

****the line 'Don't you forget it/When you'll regret it' reminds another old (not as old like After You've Gone but old) song -  I Love You And Don't You Forget It by Perry Como. The song, what our lads were singing in their early years so playfully:

Klas Burling: Tell us something about how you find a song… how you get the idea about a song, to write it down. John: Well, sometimes it's the words first, and then the music after. Klas Burling: Very often you've got a title, you know… Me and you, and everything like that? Paul: Yeah. We try to do that, to make it personal so it's… so we really mean it. When we sing a thing about 'I love you,' it's easier. John: (singing) 'And don't you forget it!' John & Paul: (singing together, jokingly) 'I love you and don't you forget it!' Paul: Well, you see, it's easier than singing something about the cat that lives on the hill, man. (laughter) Paul: It's a lot easier just to sing about what you feel yourself.

(August 23 1963, interview with Klas Burling)

Was I just dreaming or was it only yesterday I used to hold you in my arms And now a baby, and a another on the way [Indescernable] in a farm Now must we be alone? If it don’t feel right, don’t do it If it don’t look right, look right through it If it don’t feel right, don’t do it Just call him on the phone

(John Lennon, Real Life, Feb 1977)

We'd had a bread strike over here***** and I rang him and I was saying, What are you doing? He says. I'm baking some bread.' 'Oh! Me too.' Imagine, with the stereotypes, John and Paul talking about baking bread.

(Paul McCartney, May 2001, interview for Mojo magazine)

*****a bread strike in England was in Nov 1978

Q: Do you regret that your life has become so public? A: I realized that a good fifteen years ago. I remember actually thinking when I went on holiday somewhere, ‘God I’d really better start thinking now about keeping a few countries aside where we don’t sell records. I won’t be able to go anywhere without being recognized.’ But now I think, ‘Really, I’ve reached the point of no return. There’s no going back.’ Even if I didn’t want to sing anymore, I’d just be like Greta Garbo or Brigitte Bardot. They both retired but you’d never know it. John said this to me a year before he died. He said, ‘Be careful what you wish for, it might just come true.’ That’s the way I look at it. I wished for all this and I got it. To regret it would mean I’d have to sit here and live with negative thoughts about it. I know that would only sink me. Even if I had feelings of regret my personality would not really let them out. ‘Look mate, you don’t regret it. Look on the other side,’ that’s me. Not to sink. I always used to do that instinctively, and not allow too many negative thoughts to surface.

(Paul McCartney, April/May 1982, interview for Music Express)

The couple of years after the Beatles broke up it was very touchy because I think we suspected each other of business manoeuvres. So anyone would ring up, it would be like, “Why is he ringing?” And when you put up the defensive like that it’s very difficult to say, “I’m not! Honest!” You just don’t know where to put yourself. So we had a lot of those ups and downs for quite a few years. But the favourite thing was that if ever we talked not business – and what we ended doing, actually, was make a rule not to talk business on the phone – and on those occasions, we had really good vibes, man. And it was great; we just talked kids, we talked family, we talked cats, we talked life, rather than, “oh, what songs are doing with x business affair?” And one of the great things for me, one of the consolation prizes after John was killed, the only thing– you know, you find yourself holding on to little bits of wreckage to keep yourself afloat. And with me it was the fact that our last phonecall was really one of the best we ever had together; it was really warm, we were really friends again.

(Paul McCartney, 1984, interview for CBS Morning News)

Q: Do you remember your last conversation with John? A: Yes. That is a nice thing, a consoling factor for me, because I do feel it was sad that we never actually sat down and straightened our differences out. But fortunately for me, the last phone conversation I ever had with him was really great, and we didn’t have any kind of blowup. It could have easily been one of the other phone calls, when we blew up at each other and slammed the phone down. Q: Do you remember what you talked about? A: It was just a very happy conversation about his family, my family. Enjoying his life very much; Sean was a very big part of it. And thining about getting on with his career. I remember he said, “Oh, God, I’m like Aunt Mimi, padding round here in me dressing gown”– robe, as he called it, ’cause he was picking up the American vernacular –“feeding the cats in me robe and cooking and putting a cup of tea on. This housewife wants a career!” It was that time for him. He was about to launch Double Fantasy.******

(Paul McCartney, Dec 1984, interview for Playboy)

******Double Fantasy released 17 November 1980

I was lucky. The last few wee... months that he was alive, we’d managed to get our relationship back on track. And we were talking and having real good conversations. Real nice and friendly.

(Paul McCartney about This One, interview with Bernard Goldberg for the TV series 48 Hours, 1989)

[jhdyuiee]

alibi

★ pairing: childhood friend!haechan x fem!reader

★ tags/warnings: smut!, slight angst, fluff, unprotected sex, nipple/breast play, kissing/making-out, multiple positions (doggy&face-to-face), oral (f receiving), fingering, marking (hickies&biting), pet names (baby) & name calling (good girl), dirty talk, cursing, spanking, squirting, multiple orgasms, rich ceo haechan, haechan was your childhood friend who one day up and disappeared 

★ w.c: 3.7k

★ a.n: hello! as promised here is my story for the week! sorry for the delay, i spent majority of my week finishing up my term paper, but now that, that is over i'm free again!! woohoo, i can finally enjoy my summer ㅠㅠ . anyhow this my first haechan fic, yippie! also thank you all for the massive love and support on wildflower & million dollar baby <3 please stay safe out there during this summer time, i love you berry much, jiji out 🤍

5 years ago.

You're lying… No… This couldn’t be possible… He couldn’t have just disappeared without telling me…

How could he? We were supposed to graduate tomorrow. Go to the same University. We were supposed to be together.

“Why did you leave,” I muttered as tears streamed down my face.

As I headed to school this morning, I stopped by his home like I’ve always done. However I was met with an empty home. Everything cleared, as if no one ever lived there. I thought maybe I’d arrived at the wrong home or I was still dreaming.

So I called Haechan. Once, twice, ten times yet to no avail. He answered none of my calls or messages. I went with the second option, calling my mother. Yet little did I know that, that call would shatter all remaining hope in me.

“You didn’t know? The Lee’s left yesterday. His father was hired in, hmm where was it? Toronto! Toronto, Canada!” my mother said. My eyes widened, hands shaking. Haechan hadn’t informed me of anything.

So he just left. Like that? My legs grew weak, I found myself outside his door; sobbing. Nothing else mattered to me right now, I just wanted Haechan. His bright smile, his sparkling eyes, and warmth. It was like he took my other half, leaving me now half dead.

In all honesty, I loved Haechan. Ever since I learned what love was. Yet, now I never even got the chance to tell him. This would be the end of us. 18 years—since birth—gone.

Present day.

I thought that day 5 years ago would be the end. Me and Haechan would never find our way back to each other, yet why was he standing in front of me now?

“Y/N…” he says, loud enough for me to hear. I snapped out of my trance, remembering I was still on the job.

“R-Right this way sir,” I said, guiding him and the women that held his hand to their table. I set their menus on the table as they got situated. “I’ll be right back to take your orders,” I said, trying to make my exit.

I left without turning back, without glancing back at Haechan. My heart pounded so fast, my body trembling. This couldn’t be… No, he… What was he doing here? Out of every restaurant, why did he have to come to the one I worked at!? Just when I had begun forgetting about him, he reappeared and with a woman by his side no less.

I sighed, trying my best to compose myself. I mean after all he’d be gone once he finished eating and I’d never have to see him again. As I made my way back to their table, the woman he was with smiled so brightly, laughing at whatever Haechan was saying.

“Hello!” I said enthusiastically, putting on a smile. “I’m Y/N and i’ll be your waiter today. Can I get you started on some drinks?” I asked. I felt Haechan’s gaze the whole time I stood there.

“Hello, uhh I’ll get the Strawberry Vodka!” The woman spoke happily. When I finished noting her drink down, I turned to Haechan. Our eyes meeting one another. “And for you sir?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it before opening it up again to speak. “Some water is fine, since I still have to drive us afterwards.” I nodded my head, “Are you guys ready to order or would you like more time?”

“No, no it’s fine we can order now,” he said. And so I took their orders, walking back to the kitchen once I finished. I poured their drinks and walked back over to them. Only this time I didn’t linger there for long. Then after a good while, their food was finally ready. Plates in hand, I walked over to them again, giving them their food. “Anything else that you would need?” I asked. Before Haechan could answer, the women politely dismissed the question.

I continued working, I had no time to just idle around. I served every table I could possibly attend to, until I finally noticed Haechan and the women getting ready to leave. I made my way over there for what I hoped would be the last time. “All ready to go?” I asked.

“Yes, could we get the check?” Haechan asked. “Oh! Yes, here you go,” I said, setting the receipt I pulled from inside my apron's pocket on the table. “Thank you for dining with us!” I gave my last remark, displaying a bright smile. I might’ve been hallucinating but I saw Haechan's lips faintly twitched.

“Thank you!” the woman said, standing up from her seat to grab Haechan’s arm. He happily got up, “Thank you so much for your service, I’ll be sure to tip you generously.” “Oh no, Thank you for being such wonderful customers! Be sure to stop by next time!” I said, only wishing he never sets foot in here again.

He smiles, “Will do,” he says, his words sounding like a promise. Great. I watched as they paid and left. Catching Haechan as he gave me one last look, his eyes filled with longing.

・❥・・❥・・❥・

Finally, my night shift at the restaurant was over! I could finally go home, maybe stop by the convenience store to buy a beer or two. After tonight I could use some alcohol.

I bid my coworkers goodbye, making my way out of the restaurant. “Y/N!” A voice shouted my name. I turned to find the voice. Only now I wished that I simply had just feigned ignorance to the calling.

Haechan stood before me. His body leaned against his vehicle, arms crossed. I stood there, not a single move from me. It was as if time had stopped and we were the only two in this world. He moved first, making his way towards me until we were only an inch apart. His eyes, the same ones that shun so bright, were now eerily emotionless.

My lips quivered, “H… Haechan.” My vision blurred and only then did I realize the waterworks had started. I heard a faint chuckle erupt from him, “Still a crybaby huh?” he asked as the pad of his thumbs wiped my tears away. No, I didn’t want to feel his touch.

I backed away, the two of us just staring at one another. “Wh-Why are you here!” I said, coming out rather loudly. “To get you,” he answered. Confusion overrode my face, “For me?! Haechan, you left me 5 years ago!”

His eyes now saddened; hurt. “I didn’t mean to! I meant to tell you about my father’s job… it’s just-” I interrupted him before he could finish, “So? I had to find out through my mother for christ sake Haechan. Not to mention it was on the day before our graduation!” He sighed, coming closer to me. He cupped my face, “I know, I know I was a jerk but I didn’t tell you because I was going to come back! I was supposed to be back after a couple of months.” Now shock overrode my face. What was he talking about? Come back after a few months?

“Don’t bullshit me,” I spat out. “I’m not!” he slightly raised his voice, causing me to flinch. “Sorry,” he then said, embracing me into a hug. “I really was supposed to come back yet to my surprise when I returned you had already gone,” he whispered into my ear.

His hot breath, his low voice sent an intense shiver throughout my body that I got lost in him. I couldn’t formulate a sentence, a word. I pressed my hands against his chest, trying to push him away but he was too strong. “B-But what about that woman,” I asked.

We locked eyes, a smirk formulated on his face. “She was just some woman my mother set me up with. Why, jealous?” 

I shook my head. Me, jealous?! Please… “No! Why would I!” He shrugged his shoulders, “You tell me.” I gripped his arm, “Wh-What do you mean?”

His expression softened, “You think I wouldn’t know?” I looked at him, confused once more. He chuckled, “That you love me.”

My eyes widened, my mouth fell open. How? How did he…

I detached myself from him, “What… How did you-“ “The way you would always look at me,” he interrupted me. “How would I look at you?” I questioned.

“Like I was your entire world.”

My vision blurred, “How long have you known…” He inched closer, “Since before I even left.” “Bu-But why didn’t you say anything!?” I raised my voice a bit. “Because I knew it wouldn’t work out.”

My cheeks felt wet when he told me that. He inched closer, stopping me from talking. “Before you say anything I just wanted to say that it had nothing to do with you, in fact I loved you too. Heck, I still do. Y/N I love you.”

“But?” I asked, even more tears streaming down my face. He sighed, putting his hands on my face to wipe away the tears. “It was me. I knew I was going to have to leave one day and even if it wasn’t for too long I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t just leave you.”

This man. He sure has a knack for worrying over the simplest things…

“You could’ve still talked to me about it,” I said, embracing him this time. I buried my head into his chest. His hands were holding onto me and stroking my hair. “I know… and for that I’m sorry.” I looked up at him, “You know… It’s okay and you wanna know why?” I asked. “Why,” he replied.

“Because I too still love you. Then and now, Haechan. I have always loved you, no matter how much I tried hating you… I just knew that if you were to ever show up in life again, I would welcome you back. I just can’t seem to live without you.”

He didn’t react. I watched as Haechan stood there, wide eyed like he couldn’t believe what was unfolding. I giggled a bit, finding his reaction amusing. However, now I was the one left wide eyed when he abruptly crashed his lips onto mine.

The kiss was gentle, yet still passionate. I tasted him, finding contentment of how perfectly his lips molded onto mine. He holds my face with both his hands, deepening the kiss. A moan ended up slipping from my throat when his tongue intruded inside my mouth. I wrap my hands around Haechan, enjoying this too much that I didn’t want to let go.

Unfortunately he's the first to pull away, both of us panting. His hands don’t let go from cupping my face as he leans down to my ear. “How about we continue this at my apartment?” he whispers into my ear. And so with a nod of my head, we hurriedly got into his car.

The car ride was silent, but the air felt heavy. Haechan’s hands on your thigh, fondling the flesh. You were sure your panties were soaked by this point. You seriously were growing impatient, you wanted nothing more but to have him within you already.

・❥・・❥・・❥・

Around 10 minutes later you both arrived at his apartment. You both hurriedly take off every article of clothing whilst kissing one another hungrily. You feel as his fingers slip to cup your sex before taking two of his fingers to glide along your pussy lips. The sensation causing you to pull away from the kiss panting and moaning. 

“Feels good Y/N?” Haechan asks as he takes those two fingers to your clit where he begins rubbing it. “Y-Yes!” I say, coming out rather loudly. He smiles before continuing his ministrations on your cunt.

On the other hand, his mouth has found its way on your body. Kissing every part of you from your cheeks, jaw, collarbone, and your breasts. Using his free hand, Haechan fondles one of your breasts while his mouth kisses around your nipple, nipping on the skin which causes you to wince. His eyes look up, “You alright baby?” he asks. Baby, god that has a nice ring to it, don’t it?

“I-I’m fine, just feels so good,” I reply, bringing a hand to his fluffy hair. Taking that as his sign that you were fine he continued. He stuck his tongue out, teasing your bud before bringing your nipple to his mouth. He sucked on it, using his tongue to lick on your bud. Then you watched as Haechan kissed a bridge to your other breast, repeating his actions onto your other breasts.

At this point your brain started becoming foggy, his hands and mouth were god's work. “Fuck,” I moaned. Haechan departs from your breast, ”You gonna cum already?” I nod my head, but then he flips me around. My hands on the door, and when I whipped my head around to look at him, Haechan was already going down. “Spread your legs for me baby,” he says in a sultry voice. I complied, opening myself for him.

I felt as he slapped me on my ass, “Good girl” he muttered as he takes in the wet mess behind me. Gripping onto my thighs he begins to lick up all my juices, letting out a satisfied groan when he finally tastes me. “Taste so good, baby. Can’t believe you’re this wet already,” he says as he kisses the sensitive skin around my cunt.

“Please.. M-More,” I moaned. I couldn’t handle his teasing anymore, I wanted him to make me cum already– to make a mess of me. “My pleasure Y/N,” Haechan says before licking up my cunt in slow strokes. Then bringing his tongue to my clit to give it some licks before using his mouth to suction on it. The sensation leaving me drooling, chanting his name repeatedly like some prayer.

When he finally lets go of my clit, his mouth departs from my cunt. I was left confused for a second before I felt his thumbs spread my lips apart. A second later his tongue intrudes inside me so deep it had me pressing my cheek against the door. The pleasure had me crying out, “S-So good!”

His tongue pushes itself further inside my gummy walls, while one of his hands smacks down on one of my ass cheeks. The smack eliciting more pleasurable moans from me. I felt myself growing close to cumming all over his face, just a little more…

Haechan must’ve sensed it too by the way I began tightening around his tongue as he brought his thumb to my clit. Once more he rubs on the sensitive bud, then pinching it with the help of his index finger.

So close… So close, but then he takes out his tongue. However I didn't get to whine at the loss of sensation because he quickly brought two fingers from his unoccupied hand inside my hole. His fingers stretched me out wonderfully, reaching me deep inside, and the pace kept above 100.

And with one final pinch on my clit, I gushed all over. Taking his fingers out quickly to capture all my juices as they leaked. He drank me up, from my cunt to my thighs. Like a starved man he managed to clean me all up.

Finally getting up, Haechan reaches me. He stares for a while, taking in my fucked out state. “You did so good,” he mutters, pecking my temple. “However, we’re not done yet so don’t fall asleep on me just yet.” As he said that he presses his hard cock in between my ass and rubbing it against my fucked out cunt. I swear I almost went crazy from the way his tip rubbed against my clit. I press myself against him more, wiggling my ass for him. I hear as he lets out a low chuckle before grabbing the sides of my ass and shoving himself in me with one swift move.

I yelp forward against the door, my first clenching. His hands gripping onto my waist, his finger tips sure to leave little crescent moons when all this is done. He pounded into me like a madman, rough and merciless. I was too engulfed in the pleasurable feeling of his tip reaching my womb that I didn’t mind his thrusting. He didn’t falter even after a while, grunting whenever he felt me clench around his cock.

The sounds of skin slapping and the squelching wetness were all you could hear throughout his apartment. You’d secretly hoped his room was soundproof because the obscene noises you two were making were sure to bring the neighbors complaining. However in Haechan’s mind he didn’t care one bit. Your noises were just too beautiful, becoming his new favorite song he wished to listen to on replay every single second of his days. Haechan glances down to where you both were connected, noting the white ring formed around his cock. Weirdly, but not weirdly turning him on all the more. You didn’t know if it was possible, but he picked up his pace.

Both of you growing close to your releases. Guiding one of his hands off your hips and to your swollen clit he works you closer to your second orgasm. All the more kissing his way up to your neck when he nibbles on the exposed skin when you tilt your head to the side. A thrust or two later, rolling your eyes back and fingertips piercing into your palms you have the most euphoric orgasm of the night– no of your life.

Taking his lips off you, he glances down to your gushing hole. Your orgasm coating all over his dick and pussy clenching around him, he twitches inside you before releasing. His cum coating your walls, stuffing you.

Taking his cock out, still half hard, he glances down at you as you collapse onto the floor. Your legs giving in, leaving you weak. He couldn’t stop thinking of how beautiful you look, and all like this because of him. Just those thoughts alone were enough to get him hard again. Haechan decides he hasn’t had enough yet and picks you up.

Hazily, you watch him carry you into his bedroom. He places you down first before sitting on the edge of the bed. He turns around to meet your eyes. “Come here,” he said, signaling you to come sit on his lap. Once again obliging, sitting on his lap. His hard cock resting in between your bodies, you bite on your bottom lip when you feel his tip rub against your stomach.

“Sit on it baby,” he whispers into your ear. Your eyes go wide for a moment before taking his cock in your hand, lifting yourself up so you slide it inside you again. In this position his cock reaches you deeply, fitting snug into you. “All that fucking with my fingers, mouth, and cock but you’re still so tight,” he whispers into your ear. His hot breath turning you on. He kisses his way to your neck, marking you even more. You were his after all.

“Come on baby, don’t be shy,” Haechan urges me. So placing my hands on his shoulders and lifting myself up, I slam down back onto him. My eyes widened at the way he reached me again, his cock feeling as though it was made specially for me.

I continued working my way on his cock, going at my own pace. Although to this Haechan felt as though he was being tortured. He felt as though you were teasing him; the way your face would scrunch up in pleasure, your low moans, your tits bouncing– all of it was torture to him. Having had enough, he brings his hands to your hips again.

He helps you bounce on his cock, faster and faster. The deep penetration, caused you to clench around him once more, squeezing him for all he’s worth. He groans, bringing his hand to your tit, squeezing it and using his fingers to pinch on your bud.

Letting go of his shoulders you bring your arms behind you, resting your hands on his knees. Thrusting into him this way on your own, he lets go of your hips now playing with your tits with both his hands. Later bringing his mouth into the mix as he licks on your nipples again, occasionally biting on your buds.

Your pace begins to falter, growing closer to your release again. Feeling too as Haechan’s cock twitches inside you, you bring one of your hands to your clit where you begin to play with it. His eyes begin watching you, enjoying the view in front of him. He hopes to engrave this memory into his brain forever.

“Le-Let’s cum together,” I moaned. “Mmm, cum on my cock for me again baby,” Haechan says. Your pussy obeying him, cumming on his cock for a third time tonight as his hot white seeds fill inside you again. Overwhelmed and exhausted from the pleasure, you both collapse on the bed, Haechan’s cock still inside you. He didn’t wanna slip out just yet.

・❥・・❥・・❥・

Eyes fluttering open, the morning sun peeking in through the curtains. You’ve finally awakened from your slumber, turning to your side but are met with nothing. The memories of last night's activities flood into your brain. You feel your face heat up. Oh god, I thought. Glancing down, I noticed I was now dressed in an over-sized shirt. It’s probably- “Sleep well,” he says, walking into the room. Well, well speak of the devil.

I tuck my hair behind my ear, smiling at him. “Mmm, best I’ve ever slept!” I say cheerfully. He smiles– that smile I knew from all those years ago. Walking over to me, he cups my face. “I love you.” I swear my smile reaches my eyes at his words, “I love you too, always have and always will.”

“You’ll be the death of me,” he mutters before bringing his lips onto mine. Kissing delicately and with so much love.

When he parted, he asked me something– “Will you be my girlfriend?” I didn’t hesitate as I jumped into his arms, “Yes!” I repeated.

Sharing another kiss, we spent the rest of the morning and day with one another. Enjoying one another like a couple of teenagers in love, making up for lost time.

© jhdyuiee

2024.07.21

final a.n: as promised, the fic of the week! i’m truly sorry it took longer than anticipated, i was working on my final the whoke week ㅠㅠ but now i should be free for the rest of the summer!!! anyhow im rlly excited for next week, kcon && seeing 127, practically sobbing ahhh! anyhow i hope to be back soon with doyoung’s story next, stay tuned! please continue supporting “WALK” !!! 🤍

[hungermakesmonsters]

(Once Bitten) Twice Shy

Chapter Fourteen

Plot summary : Desperate to get away from your controlling family, you take a job in New York as a wealthy vampire's blood source. A million dollars awaits if you can make it through a year, but life with Billy Russo is not going to be as simple as you think.

Pairing : Billy Russo x Reader

Story Rating : R  Chapter Rating : R

Warnings : [This is a fic for 18+ only, minors DNI] Slight smuttiness and angst that might make you scream. All chapters will contain mentions of blood. Please check the warnings on each chapter if you choose to follow this story. 

Word Count : 5.4k

A/N : I'm dialling the angst up to 11...

CHAPTER ONE | CHAPTER TWO | CHAPTER THREE | CHAPTER FOUR | CHAPTER FIVE | CHAPTER SIX | CHAPTER SEVEN | CHAPTER EIGHT | CHAPTER NINE | CHAPTER TEN | CHAPTER ELEVEN | CHAPTER TWELVE | CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MASTER LIST

Chapter Fourteen

Everything changed.

It felt like it had when you’d first taken the job, like you were alone in the penthouse with no idea of where Billy was or if he’d even come home the night before. The only indicator was the blood you left for him; if it was gone, that meant he was home but some days it would collect until there were three or four days worth waiting for him.

Those days were the worst.

You hated not knowing where he was or if he was drinking someone else’s blood, wondering if you weren’t enough for him anymore, if your blood wasn’t enough. If he stopped taking your blood, you knew you’d have no purpose there.

Day after day, your thoughts spiralled, and you hated yourself for how much of your time was spent thinking about him.

Despite her promises, Karen hadn’t been to see you. Instead, when Thursday had rolled around you’d been greeted by a note from Billy, lacking all the charm and feeling of his previous notes.

Karen asked me to let you know that she can’t see you today because of work.

B.

The next week there was a similar note. It made sense, you supposed; she’d missed work to look after you for a week, she probably had to make up for lost time. Or, maybe she just didn’t want to see you again. You wouldn’t have blamed her, not when you’d caused so much chaos in the lives of her and those around her. Either way, it meant you were stuck in the penthouse. Alone.

It wasn’t long before you fell back into old habits, following a little routine every day to try and keep yourself from losing your mind; exercise in the morning, followed by a shower, preparing and cooking dinner, and some reading and baking in between. 

You still sat out in the penthouse during the day, in your favourite spot on the sofa, alternating between taking in the view and reading, but you didn’t dare linger until sunset anymore.

Every few minutes you found yourself looking at your watch, knowing exactly when to head to your room, knowing with almost pinpoint precision how to avoid him. By day the penthouse was yours and, once late afternoon started to give way to evening, it was Billy’s. As it always should have been. As per your contract.

So, when he chose to slip out of his room far earlier than expected, you weren’t sure whether to be shocked or annoyed.

It was the first time you’d seen him since he’d tried to pay you to leave, and being near him again was enough to remind you that that wound still hadn’t started to heal. You tried not to watch as he made his way to the kitchen.

For a moment you waited, expecting him to do whatever he was doing and then return to his room. Only he didn’t and that prompted you to start moving.

“What are you reading now?” He dared to ask, watching you as you closed your book and started to gather up your things.

The question caught you off-guard, it made you think of how things had been only a few short weeks before, it reminded you of all the times you’d sat and discussed literature, the way he’d always wanted to know your thoughts and feelings on whatever you were reading.

But things weren’t like that anymore, and the question felt weighted, like he was trying to draw you back in, even though he’d been the one to try and send you away.

“The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde,” you answered, your words coming out sharper than intended, making it sound almost like an insult. And, a moment after you said it you realised how it might seem to him, how he might draw parallels between the book and his own situation.

Billy didn’t respond straight away and you took it as your cue to leave, tucking the book and the pack of Oreos under your bad arm. You heard him sigh as you turned away but didn’t think to look back.

“Hummingbird,” he called after you and, then, your name when that didn’t work, a hint of desperation in his tone.

It made your heart ache.

You kept walking, speeding up, wanting to reach your room and close the door on this uncomfortable experience. But Billy didn’t want to give you that.

Your breath caught and you flinched as his hand wrapped around your wrist, reminding you of the night he’d lost control. Billy noticed your panic immediately and let go of you before taking a step back, giving you a little bit of space but nowhere near what you wanted. It took a moment before you could bring yourself to turn and look at him and, when you did, you found that you hated the look of anguish on his face.

“What do you want, Billy?” You asked, barely holding back a sigh.

“This is unbearable,” he told you.

It was. Everything about the last couple of weeks had been so much worse than you ever could have imagined when you first decided that you were going to stay against his wishes.

You quickly found that you couldn’t look at him, that you didn’t want to see the torrent of emotions from behind his dark eyes.

“This is what you wanted,” you muttered.

“I didn’t want this.”

“No, that’s right, you wanted me gone completely,” you said, your voice betraying the pain you still felt at that fact.

The last thing you expected was for him to take your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him. Seconds ticked by and he just stared, his gaze seeming to look right through you. His head shook.

“That’s not what I wanted,” he replied softly.

When you tried to look away, his hold remained firm.

“You didn’t want me anymore,” you told him. “You tried to send me away.”

“You think I don’t want you?”

“Of course you don’t.”

His head shook again and, before you realised what he was doing, he’d closed the distance between you, pressing his lips to yours. He stepped closer, trying to eliminate the space between you, causing you to step back. Billy didn’t let you pull away from him, continuing to kiss you until you felt the door at your back.

“Billy -” you managed to pull your lips from his for a moment, but anything that followed was quickly muffled by another kiss.

It was easy to surrender to it. Far easier than you would have liked. For a moment you kissed him back, feeling his hand drop from your cheek to your neck, fingers over your racing pulse. He pressed closer, filling you with a longing that you’d been trying so hard to forget. Your lips parted, allowing him to deepen the kiss, allowing him to make you want.

You wanted to melt into him, to lose yourself in his embrace, in his kiss. In him. 

For a few wonderful seconds, you forgot everything that wasn’t him, allowing yourself to believe that the moment would continue to escalate. Your thighs clenched at the familiar press of his erection against your hip, and you let your hand grip his shirt at his waist, not wanting it to end. 

For a moment you felt wanted again, like you could really belong here, in his life. For a moment it almost felt real.

But it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Not now, not after everything that had happened.

Reluctantly, you placed your hand on his chest and pushed him back. Billy choked back a desperate noise, giving you only a fraction of the space you wanted. His hand remained on your neck, fingers curled against skin, as if wanted to hold onto you in any way that he could.

You watched as his tongue ran over his lower lip as he struggled to find the words.

“Please,” he muttered softly, his voice causing your stomach to knot, “let me...”

He leaned in again and you allowed his lips to ghost yours before turning your head. The shuddered sigh that left him was almost enough to break your heart completely. As much as you wanted to be strong, you wanted to give in just as much. You wanted to close your eyes and let him kiss you, you wanted to pretend that the last few weeks hadn’t happened.

His hands pulled away from you, though not by much. He placed each on the door on either side of your head, keeping you boxed in as he lowered his head in shame.

“I just...” He started and stopped just as quickly.

You weren’t sure you even wanted to know what he wanted to say or how he was feeling. It felt like too much to bear, like you couldn’t carry the weight of your own emotions along with his.

It took a few seconds for you to realise that your hand was still pressed against his chest, over a heart that barely gave a beat.

Finally you shook your head.

“This isn’t fair,” you muttered.

Billy finally dared to look up, the flicker of hope on his face quickly extinguished when his gaze met yours. You didn’t dare ask what he thought you’d meant by the comment but it was clear he now understood what you really meant; he wasn’t being fair.

“I can’t do this again,” you confessed, your voice little more than a whisper, and almost immediately regretted the words when you felt him tense beneath your hand. “It hurts too much when it doesn’t mean anything to you.”

“Don’t say that,” he said as his chest lurched. “Of course it means something.”

“It means something now, because you want something now,” you said, trying so hard not to break down completely. “What about tomorrow, or next week, or the next time something bad happens? The next time you decide it’s better for me to not be here anymore?”

The change in him was visceral, his hands finally pulling away from the wall, the corner of his lips curling. When he pulled back, he stood at full height, making you feel impossibly small, practically looking down his nose at you. Gone was the pleading look of desperation and the flashes of shame, leaving a nothingness on his face as he looked at you a moment longer.

It was as if a mask had dropped and you were finally seeing him for the first time. Your hand dropped lifelessly to your side and you bristled, holding your breath and ready to move at a moment's notice. 

But nothing happened.

“Fine,” was all he said before pulling away from you and heading towards the elevator.

You remained pressed back against the door, barely daring to draw breath as he left, running away instead of daring to admit that you were right. Even though you knew it was for the best and that you’d done the right thing, there was a pang of regret deep in your gut and a feeling of inconsolable loneliness that you weren’t sure you could handle.

The next few days, you watched as the blood in the fridge started to pile up, and there was no sign of him in the penthouse. Another Thursday came and, this time, there wasn’t even a note to tell you Karen wasn’t coming. You waited, daring to hope, but by mid afternoon you’d given up on ever seeing her again.

Another week passed and you continued on, refusing to give in and give him what he wanted. You kept drawing blood and leaving it for him, content to fill the whole damned fridge just to prove a point. You weren’t going to stop doing your job just because he’d rejected you. It became something of a passive aggressive statement, making sure you wrote the date on the jar in big, bold numbers, even going as far as to start doodling little smiley faces on them.

You didn’t allow yourself to think about him, to wonder where he was or what he was doing for blood. The thought of him having someone else’s blood still turned your stomach and caused a jealousy inside you that you couldn’t quite temper.

But, when your period hit, you found you couldn’t help but miss him. You missed his notes, his little gifts, and the way he’d always be waiting for you. Now you were alone, with nothing but the stupid bear and stuffed beagle for company. It didn’t stop you from drawing blood, didn’t stop you from doing your job, but it was definitely the closest you got to quitting.

Somehow, you made it through, refusing to feel anything when there were thirteen jars of blood in the fridge. It was just your job to provide blood, you told yourself, if Billy chose to waste it, that was on him.

The only problem, you realised, was the cast on your arm; it had been about six weeks, and you hadn’t seen a doctor since. You knew that, eventually, you’d have to use the intercom and ask Lissa about it if Billy didn’t return, otherwise you could be stuck in the cast for the rest of your year there.

At around ten on Friday evening, you finally heard the sound of the elevator and movement in the penthouse.

You pressed your ear to the door separating your rooms from the penthouse, trying to build up the courage to face him, practising what you were going to say while your hand gripped the door handle. But, then you heard something else; a laugh. A woman’s laugh. Your heart sank at all the possibilities, a thousand terrible scenarios playing out in your head.

Wasn’t this what you wanted? For Billy to give up on you and move on? 

Yes.

No.

Your chest tightened and it got harder to breathe, your stomach threatening to turn itself inside out. You loved him, but he didn’t love you. That  had been painfully clear for weeks now.

He’d found someone else and he’d brought her home. You didn’t know whether to be jealous or worried about what might happen. Would he fuck her? Would he hurt her?

There was only a slight sense of relief when, about twenty minutes later, you heard the elevator again and more voices. Music started playing, like there was a party going on out there - a party that you weren’t invited to.

You moved back to your room, settling on talking to Lissa about your arm and your need to see a doctor, resigning yourself to avoiding Billy for the foreseeable future. You got comfortable and tried to ignore the noise from the party that only seemed to be getting louder and louder as the minute passed.

Less than an hour later, a knock on your door startled you, and you were slow to go and see who it was. Your mind racing over what you might do if it was Billy standing out there, what you might say to him. 

“Hey, there you are,” Karen smiled at you, “we were looking for you.”

Matt was at her side, his arm looped with hers, smiling.

“What?” You answered, obviously confused. 

“At the party. We were looking for you,” Karen stated, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Why are you hiding in here? Aren’t you feeling well?”

“No, that’s not -” you shook your head, more confused than ever, “- I wasn’t invited.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she told you, not giving you a chance to protest as she grabbed your arm and started to pull you out of your room. “Of course you’re invited.”

“She dragged me here too,” Matt said, barely holding back a smirk. “It’s best not to fight it when she gets like this.”

“No, wait, you don’t understand -” you protested, voice threatening to break.

They both stopped, attention fully on you. For a moment you felt like you might burst into tears. It was overwhelming. You felt suffocated by the situation. 

There were so many things you wanted to say, so many thoughts and feelings that had been bottled up inside you over the last few weeks, but when your mouth opened, all you were able to say was; “he doesn’t want me out there.” 

“Yeah, well, fuck what Billy wants,” Karen said. “If he has anything to say about it, he can say it to me.”

You relented realising it was futile when she started to pull on you again, leading you out into the penthouse.

The party wasn’t quite what you expected. There was none of the style and propriety of his vampire night party and, instead, it looked more like you’d wandered into a frat party. You glanced around uncomfortably, easily finding Billy in the kitchen with two beautiful women hanging off him and a third looking at him like he was the only other person in the room.

It took a moment or two, but he eventually looked your way. You held his gaze for a split second before his attention returned to his guests, as if you didn’t even exist. As if you didn’t matter. And Karen didn’t miss the exchange.

“Okay, what’s going on?” She asked, finally seeming to understand that something was seriously amiss.

You glanced at Matt who seemed just as interested to hear your answer, even though he didn’t really know all of the details like Karen did. Your cheeks warmed and your gaze dropped.

“It’s nothing. It’s stupid,” you answered with a forced shrug. “We had an argument a couple of weeks ago and I haven’t really seen him since.”

“He’s been avoiding you?” Matt offered.

“He hasn’t even been here,” you answered. 

“Wait, what?” Suddenly it was Karen’s turn to act surprised. “If he hasn’t been here, how did he know you were still sick?”

“What? Still sick? I haven’t been sick...”

Karen looked like she’d been hit by a sudden realisation, the smile dropping from her face completely.

“That son of a bitch...”

Before you could even ask, Karen had let go of your arm and had started striding across the penthouse towards Billy, looking angrier than you’d ever seen her.

“I wouldn’t want to be Russo right now,” Matt muttered under his breath.

“I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

“He told Karen that you were sick from the stress of everything that’s happened lately, and that the doctor had recommended complete bed rest,” Matt explained. “We were all kinda worried, so when Karen heard he was throwing a party, she thought that meant you were finally feeling better.”

An awkward sound managed to claw its way from you, something so painful that it almost sounded like a sob. He’d deliberately lied to you. Again. He’d gone out of his way to isolate you, and left you feeling unwanted and alone.

When you took a step back, set on returning to your room, Matt’s hand took yours. “Don’t give him the satisfaction.”

“He made me think no one wanted to see me...” you muttered in little more than a whisper, not expecting Matt to even hear it over the loud music.

You watched from across the room as Karen stopped in front of Billy, quickly clearing away the women who’d been hanging on his every word. He looked annoyed, then just as angry as Karen. Her finger was jabbing at his chest and your heart nearly stopped when Billy took hold of her wrist to force away her hand. There was no telling where Frank had come from, but the moment Billy laid a hand on Karen, he was at her side making sure Billy didn’t repeat the mistake.

And, while you couldn’t hear what was being said, it was very clear that Karen was explaining what Billy had done to you when all eyes looked your way.

You took another step back and felt Matt’s hand squeeze yours, trying to reassure you.

“I should go, I should -”

“You have every right to be here,” he told you, “he has no right to keep you prisoner.”

It didn’t strike you until Matt said it that that was precisely what Billy had been doing. You’d been willing to agree to the idea of not going out alone, but by stopping anyone from taking you out, he was effectively making you a captive.

Billy’s gaze burned into you for a few moments before returning to Frank and Karen, obviously trying to respond and defend himself from whatever criticisms they were levelling at him.

“I need a drink,” you decided, moving towards the library and pulling Matt along with you.

Billy had a small liquor cabinet in there, no doubt for the rare occasion he worked from home and made use of the desk in the library. You picked the bottle that looked the most expensive, and the most full, before grabbing two glasses, filling one for Matt and then filling one for yourself. He took a drink the moment he had his glass and then let out a huff of laughter.

“I always suspected he was hiding the good stuff.”

His little joke almost managed to bring a smile to your lips.

Ordinarily you didn’t drink whiskey. Growing up it had been classified as a man’s drink, and it wasn’t proper for you to drink it. The moment you took your first sip and felt it burn down the back of your throat, you found yourself almost believing it.

“Oh god,” you muttered, “that’s awful.”

Matt laughed fondly before taking another drink, seemingly unaffected by the burn.

“You get used to it,” he shrugged.

“I’m not sure I want to.” Though that didn’t stop you from taking another large gulp from the glass, coughing as it set your throat ablaze.

Matt was quiet for a few moments before he finally asked; “do you want to talk about it?”

You shook your head and didn’t say a word.

“Did you shake your head?” He asked a few seconds later, and you realised your mistake.

“Oh, Matt, I’m so sorry,” you said, feeling your cheeks start to burn.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he told you, still smiling at you, like he was glad to just be around you. “I think it might help, though - talking about it, I mean. I think you’ve been in here on your own so long that maybe an outside perspective might help you figure things out.”

There was nothing forceful about his comment, nothing that seemed to suggest he’d keep pushing if you said no. And, after a moment of thought, you wondered if maybe he was right.

So, you started to explain.

You used broad strokes, not giving away any part of things that weren’t yours to tell; you told him how alone you’d felt when you’d first arrived, how you and Billy had bonded over literature, and how spending time together had developed into something more physical. You made sure to tell him that you’d always consented, that you’d wanted it and had even agreed to it being something purely physical. Leaving out mentions of his illness and times he’d lost control.

Once you were done, Matt was silent, thoughtfully sipping his drink.

“You fell for him,” he stated softly, and you didn’t have it in you to argue.

“We agreed it wouldn’t be like that,” you sighed. “He doesn’t know, I didn’t tell him. He doesn’t want me here anymore.”

Again, there was silence. You drained your glass and quickly refilled it, before topping up Matt’s glass for him.

“It’s not your fault, you know?” He offered. “Billy keeping you here, keeping you isolated - that’s on him. Especially since he already knows how it affects you.”

“He’s trying to make me quit...”

“Maybe it’s worth considering,” Matt said, shrugging. “Do you really want to keep doing this? Letting him play these mind games with you?”

“It’s... complicated,” you sighed, knowing better than to tell a lawyer about your predicament. “Anyway, it’s not like he could do anything worse...”

“That’s a terrible way of looking at things,” he said with a hint of a smile on his lips that almost had you laughing.

He was right, of course, but the ridiculousness of it all made it funny in an awful sort of way.

Grabbing the bottle again, you decided to take hold of Matt again, telling him that you were going to find Karen and have your own party in your room with Billy’s expensive whiskey, and seemed more than willing to oblige. 

You took a deep breath before stepping out into the party. More people had arrived in the half an hour or so you’d been in the library with Matt, and the party seemed to be in full swing. Looking around, you tried to stop Karen, instead finding Billy, surrounded again by his trio of beautiful women.

As they spoke, one leaned into him, pressing her lip to his, and you felt your heart shatter in your chest. 

“What’s wrong?” Matt asked, feeling your arm involuntarily tighten around his.

“Nothing,” you muttered, your eyes fixed on Billy and the woman kissing him, watching her fingers running through his hair and -

The kiss broke and Billy looked your way, an indiscernible look on his face, and you felt sick.

“Come on,” you told Matt, starting to lead him towards your rooms. “Karen can come find us.”

Matt agreed and you quickly pulled him through the door and closed it behind you, not daring to look back at Billy again.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” He asked once you were both settled on the sofa in your room.

“I’ll be fine,” you lied, betrayed by your own voice.

You knocked back another drink before refilling both of your glasses, content to sit silently. Matt didn’t try to push for conversation. He was just there. Silently supportive while you tried to rationalise what you’d seen.

Billy wasn’t yours. He didn’t want you. It shouldn’t have mattered that he was kissing someone else. But it did, it hurt so fucking much.

Soon enough your glass was empty again and you could feel the effect of the alcohol. It didn’t numb the pain like you’d hoped, in fact, it seemed to be making it worse. But that didn’t stop you from pouring yourself another.

“Maybe you should slow down,” Matt offered gently, placing his hand on your arm.

“Why did you ask me to go to dinner with you?” You asked abruptly, ignoring his suggestion.

“What?”

“The night we met, you asked me to go to dinner with you... or for coffee...” 

He’d been so kind that night, keeping you company and making sure you felt included, and you - you’d be so caught up on thoughts of Billy that you’d barely noticed. Matt was alway so kind, so attentive, and all you did was think about Billy when you were around him.

“Because I wanted to take you out,” he shrugged.

“On a date?”

“Well, yeah -”

Before he could finish, you let go of your last scrap of common sense and leaned towards him, surprising him with a kiss. Despite being stunned for a moment, Matt didn’t push you away, instead he indulged the moment, letting you deepen the kiss. You quickly lost yourself to it, trying to hide from your pain by pressing yourself closer to him.

“Are you sure you want -” he said against your lips, only to be cut off by another kiss. And it seemed to be all the answer he needed.

You weren’t sure who moved first, but you soon found yourself on your back with Matt on top of you. Your hands slipped beneath his shirt, fingers finding taut muscles as you pulled him closer.

He didn’t kiss like Billy and, when his hands started to explore the curves of your body, you realised that he didn’t touch like Billy either. He didn’t steal your breath away or make you feel like the world could end at any moment.

No matter what he did, or how you tried to lose yourself in the moment, Matt just wasn’t Billy. 

Your hips moved, pressing up against his, moaning into the kiss when you felt his erection.

You weren’t being fair but you were too drunk and heartbroken to care. That is, until his hand slipped into your panties beneath your leggings. Your breath caught, threatening to choke you, but it wasn’t enough to make you stop, even though it was Billy’s fingers you were craving between your legs.

Matt wanted you. Billy didn’t. And that was all you wanted to think about.

You just wanted someone to want you.

His fingers circled your clit, drawing gasped breaths from you, while his other hand had slipped beneath your top to grope your breasts. Your body felt like it was on autopilot, responding because that was what it was supposed to do and not because it desperately needed his touch.

Pulling from the kiss, his lips moved to your neck, and even that made you think of Billy and the way his every touch seemed obsessed with any place he could feel your racing heart.

Your eyes closed tight, trying to think of all the reasons you should want this, why Matt was better for you than Billy, but you couldn’t. In theory, Matt was perfect and, more than that, Matt actually wanted you. But Billy, in all his fucked up glory, was the one you loved so desperately and painfully that you couldn’t even allow yourself to indulge in one moment of pleasure without him.

“What’s wrong?” Matt asked, no doubt noticing the sudden tension in your body. 

“I -” you needed a second, suddenly feeling on the brink of tears at how awful you were being, “- I’m sorry, I-I can’t do this...”

Matt slowly pulled back, and you could feel the shame burning across your cheeks as you righted your clothes. You hated yourself, hated how disgusting the whole thing had made you feel; he’d been so nice and you’d taken advantage of him. You were no better than Billy.

“I’m sorry, I -”

“It’s okay,” he told you, sounding a little breathless but, surprisingly, not upset. 

“I just -”

“You don’t have to explain it to me,” he said, “I get it, you’re going through a lot right now. We both just got caught up in the moment.”

“Why are you being so nice about this?” You asked in a choked up tone, struggling to keep your emotions in check.

“Because you’ve been through a lot lately and I know none of this has been easy for you.”

You didn’t know what you could say to that. There were no words to excuse what you’d done, but there was something you could say to at least explain it.

“He was kissing someone else.” The words tumbled out and, before you could stop yourself, the tears started to fall.

His arm pulled around you as you started to cry, hating yourself for being so weak, for still caring so much after everything Billy put you through. He muttered softly, trying to comfort you, but there was really nothing he could say or do to stop the tears once they started.

At some point Karen appeared, finding you drunk and sobbing in Matt’s arms, and decided to take control of the situation, ushering Matt from the room. She made sure to make you drink a glass of water before putting you to bed and trying to settle you. She sat on the edge of the bed, brushing your hair out of your face - an act that reminded you of your sister and the gaping hole that she had left in your life.

“You’re going to get through this,” she told you softly. “I promise I’m going to be around from now on. He’s not going to pull this shit again.”

As much as you wanted to believe her, you knew that Billy was going to keep trying to get you to leave. You just weren’t sure how much more you could take.

End Note : 😅 I promise that I have a plan, I just need you all to trust in the process. As always thank you so much for reading/commenting/liking/reblogging. Hope you all have a great weekend!!

Let me know if you'd like to be tagged in future chapters! If tagging doesn't work for some reason (aka Tumblr being dumb) I post most Fridays around 7:30 gmt.

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[coeurdalene]

looking for some light

masterlist | ao3

summary: he tells raleigh, “i want to come back from this mission, ‘cause i quite like my life.” he means, there’s still so much i want to do, so much i have to do. (aka chuck wants to make it through this goddamn war so he can finally live a normal life, even if he doesn’t really know what that means.)

pairing: chuck hansen x reader

warning(s): character death (sorry), swearing, mentions of canon-typical violence.

word count: 3.86k

a/n: i meant to have this finished by the ten year anniversary of the movie but uh… anyways, here it is now! this is my love letter to chuck hansen and also a projection of my want for a beach house.

The universe gifts Chuck an unwanted Christmas present in the form of a memorandum. He swears under his breath when you trudge into the Mission Control Center that morning with a dejected frown on your face and shove the crisp paper into his hands. His eyes fall on the letterhead, embossed with the familiar spread-winged eagle, and he already knows what it contains. He’d been expecting it for months. He resists the urge to scream, to crumple the paper into a ball and hurl it at the trash bin with every ounce of remaining strength in his body. He doesn’t envy you when you announce the bad news to everyone else, fulfilling your final duty as Sydney’s Chief LOCCENT Officer.

Days later, not even twenty-four hours after the Shatterdome decommissioning and right at the beginning of the new year, the universe offers him—and the rest of Sydney—another unwanted gift.

Mutavore is an ugly thing. Nearly ninety meters tall and weighing over two thousand tons, it’s hunched over as if struggling to support its own weight, blade-like plates protruding from its head and back.

“I don’t care how many eyes it has,” he says after you read out its classification and measurements, “I’m gonna kick its ass.”

(Six. It has six eyes. Just because he doesn’t care doesn’t mean he won’t pay attention.)

The category four Kaiju plows through the coastal wall like a knife cutting through warm butter and tramps into Sydney Harbour, stopping only to raise its head and let out a guttural screech, as if barging through a metal barrier hadn't been enough to announce its presence. He wonders how many millions of dollars have now been reduced to rubble at the bottom of the bay and how many weeks were spent welding together beams that took only a few seconds to destroy. 

Then, its beady eyes—all six of them—focus on Striker Eureka and her brass knuckles glinting in the sun. It screeches again before charging headfirst into Striker’s swinging fist.

Mutavore dies as quickly as it breached the wall, lying motionless in the bay, blood-soaked missiles lodged in its chest and Kaiju blue staining the water. 

“That’s Striker Eureka’s tenth kill to date. It’s a new record,” he boasts to the reporter in the aftermath. He ignores the questions about the decommissioning and brushes off the look his father gives him. Don’t get too cocky, he looks like he wants to say.

When they return to the Shatterdome, the J-Tech crew cleans Striker, polishing her knuckles and wiping Kaiju remains from the Conn-Pod. Chuck takes a long hot shower. Then, the move to Hong Kong begins.

The Anchorage Shatterdome—the cold and stalwart Icebox—had been the first to close. He remembers how you had stared blankly at the official PPDC statement for hours while he watched the newscaster on the television read it out loud. The Marshal had been on the broadcast, too, brought on for further questioning. When the anchor asked about the future of the Jaeger Program, he had assured her that, as long as the Kaiju kept coming, the Jaegers would keep fighting. Chuck had laughed dryly at that. The dwindling funding from the U.N. would say otherwise and whispers of better opportunities at the wall hung in the air, getting louder with every passing day.

The closure of the Icebox set off a string of shutdowns: Lima and Tokyo later that month, Panama City in November, Vladivostok and Los Angeles a few weeks after. The clock was ticking and it was only a matter of time before that damned memorandum arrived in Sydney, his fate dictated by its contents.

His beloved Sydney Shatterdome closes at the turn of the year, leaving behind its only remaining sibling in Hong Kong. What had once been a robust network of PPDC hubs was now reduced to one. 

And the clock continues to tick. 

“We don’t need a stupid wall,” Chuck declares on the flight to Hong Kong, glaring at the news broadcast replaying footage of the Sydney attack. “We need better pilots.”

He’d expressed the same sentiment to the reporter who interviewed him after Mutavore’s attack, too, blaming the fall of the Jaeger program on the mediocrity of those involved. He isn’t sure if it’s that simple—you had explained something to him about politics and funding and morale, government nonsense he didn’t understand—but he sure as hell knows that the Jaegers would be winning if pilots stopped letting the Kaiju kick their asses.

“Have some respect,” his father chides. “Every pilot has fought tooth and nail to protect the people they love.”

And perhaps that’s the truth—it sure is for him. His days consist of sore muscles from training, never getting enough sleep, and always anticipating another fight. He does it for his father, who has been a soldier for as long as he can remember. For his mother, whose untimely death lingers in the back of his mind every time he sets his eyes on a Kaiju. For you, who frequently pulls all-nighters and agonizes over details to make sure the Shatterdome stays running. And for Max, of course. (Silly little dog probably has no idea what a Kaiju is.)

So, yeah, perhaps it is the truth. But it doesn’t change the fact that they only have eight months left of funding, or that the U.N. thinks a wall will fare better than a Jaeger.

“We won’t be getting more pilots. All we can do is work with what we still have,” you chime in, pulling Chuck out of his thoughts. “But, on the bright side, our remaining pilots are some of the best in program history.”

“Including me?” he smirks. You laugh, cheerful and bright, punching his arm lightly. Max shifts in his sleep at the sudden noise. His father gives him that look again. Don’t get too cocky.

He spends the rest of the flight listening to you read briefing notes on “Operation Pitfall,” the Marshal’s shiny new plan to end the war by detonating a bomb at the throat of the Breach. Somehow, the PPDC had procured a thermonuclear warhead from the Russians, entrusting Striker Eureka to carry it while the remaining Jaegers played defense. 

Chuck is cynical about this plan. They had already tried (and failed) to drop things into the Breach. A bomb would only bounce back at them and kill anything in range.

He quips sarcastically if the Marshal had thought of that. You respond only by flipping through the file again for an explanation. He knows you won’t find one. 

As he steps off the plane and onto the landing pad, he’s met with a grinning Tendo Choi shouting over the patter of heavy rain, “Welcome to Hong Kong!”

The man, wearing a grey suit jacket too wide around the shoulders shakes their hands in greeting before ushering them out of the rain and into the Shatterdome. Chuck sidesteps some J-Techs as he enters, surveying his surroundings.

He had been much younger the last time he visited Hong Kong and much less invested in all the inner workings of the PPDC. He remembers mechanics and pilots shouting and running about, dirt and scuff marks on the floor, and his father reminding him to keep a tight grip on Max’s leash. It had felt unfamiliar then, but he realizes now that it isn’t too different from Sydney. Same high ceiling, same metal catwalks, and almost the same arsenal of Jaegers towering over him. It’s a little older, a little grittier, and a little more worn down, but no longer foreign. 

He spots Cherno Alpha in one of the bays, its stalwart form hunkering and heavy. The Kaidanovskys stand at its feet, engaged in conversation. Crimson Typhoon stands opposite it, brilliant red and regal. J-Techs gather around her three arms, inspecting and cleaning the rotating saw blades. 

“Striker arrived a few minutes before you did,” Tendo gestures to the shiny silver Jaeger standing in the far bay, metal glinting under the bright lights of the hangar. “The crew is getting her settled in.”

Then, Chuck’s eyes fall on the fourth and final Jaeger. That last he had heard of Gipsy Danger was that she had been decommissioned, damaged beyond repair from a mission gone wrong. But here she stands—untarnished metallic blue, left arm intact, and definitely not lying forgotten in Oblivion Bay.

“What’s that old rustbucket doing here?” he leers, very aware that there isn’t a single speck of rust on her.

“She looks brand new,” you remark. 

“She is, sorta,” Tendo replies, “We’ve been fixing her up: a new fluid synapse system, new engine blocks, and a new hull. She’ll be holding the defensive perimeter for you in Operation Pitfall, along with Cherno Alpha and Crimson Typhoon.”

“Does she have pilots?” you inquire.

“Not yet,” Tendo grins. “But she will.”

Chuck hopes that these pilots won’t be incompetent idiots, whoever they might be.

The peaceful moments are rare, but cherished and so welcomed. In these instances, he lets his guard down, breathes deeply, and allows himself to think of anything other than training or fighting.

One of his favorites is somewhere in between Striker’s fourth and fifth kills: a lazy afternoon in bed with your back against the headboard and his head in your lap, sunlight streaming in through the windows with your fingers carding lightly through his hair.

“After this war is over,” he declares, imagining a life without the chaos and destruction that comes with being a Jaeger pilot, “we’ll buy a nice house in the suburbs where we’ll live blissfully for the rest of our lives.”

“The suburbs are nice,” you contend, “but how about a beach house on the Gold Coast? Or Port Douglas?”

He chuckles at that, picturing what living by the ocean without the fear of a Kaiju attack would be like. He would spend his mornings engulfed in the soothing murmur of the sea, gazing out at the unbroken horizon. His afternoons basking in the warmth of the sun, feet buried in the soft sand. His evenings surrounded by music and your melodious laughter, trying not to step on your toes while you lead him through a dance in your living room.

Quiet, he thinks. Serene. The only unrest would be the waves at high tide or the gulls swooping down to steal his food.

“Wherever you want, as long as it’s you and me. And Max. Right, bud?” he grins at the bulldog lying at the foot of the bed. Max lets out a little grunt. Chuck takes that as a sign of agreement.

“Sounds lovely,” you reply, your hand moving to rest against his cheek. He turns his head to kiss your palm, heart soaring at the way you smile softly down at him.

All Chuck knows about Raleigh Becket is that he quit the Jaeger Program. That information alone is enough for him to dislike the guy. He doesn’t trust some washed-up pilot to run defense for him while he carries a 2400-pound bomb on the back of his Jaeger. Doesn’t care that his father fought alongside the guy in Manila or that he single-handedly piloted his Jaeger back to shore. Doesn’t bother to hold back a grimace when Raleigh tells him that he’d been working on the wall for the past five years.

“If you slow me down, I'm gonna drop you like a sack of Kaiju shit,” he hisses at him in the mess hall. He ignores the way his father watches him with disapproval as he stalks away.

His bad mood turns worse when Mako Mori is named Raleigh’s copilot. 

He has known Mako for years. They had grown up in Shatterdomes together, met a few times when the Marshal had brought her to Sydney, and briefly bonded over their love of dogs. He’s close enough to her to know that she can fight well and that she has one of the best simulator scores he’s ever seen. (Better than his, although he’d never admit that.) But, she has no experience in a Jaeger and no understanding of what a drift is actually like, which, in his eyes, makes her no better than Raleigh. He isn’t surprised when they’re both out of alignment during their test run, your concerned tone alerting the rest of LOCCENT of the deviation, or when Mako begins chasing the RABIT, raising apprehensive murmurs from the crowd of onlookers. Or when it ends in Tendo pulling the plug on Gipsy’s power.

“Worse mistakes have happened,” Tendo sighs as Gipsy’s plasma cannon goes offline. Chuck scowls. There is no space for even a single mistake in the plan to attack the Breach, especially amateur ones like chasing RABITs. He knows that the Marshal understands this, too.

Later, as he paces in the Marshal’s office, still brimming with anger from Raleigh and Mako’s failure of a test run, he snaps, “He's a has-been. She’s a rookie. I don’t want them protecting my bomb run. sir.”

His father stands across the room, arms crossed and mouth set tightly in a frown. In the corner, you and Tendo are huddled over a tablet, discussing the drift results in hushed voices. The Marshal warns him to watch his tone. Chuck rolls his eyes in response and thinks to himself, He knows I’m right.

He finds Raleigh and Mako standing silently in the hall outside after his father kicks him out of the room. He rounds on the former, seething and jabbing an accusatory finger into his chest, “I want to come back from this mission, ‘cause I quite like my life.”

He turns to Mako, sneering and spitting out some distasteful things, ignoring the feeling that he’ll regret it later. 

When Raleigh’s fist makes contact with his jaw, Chuck sees red.

On bad nights, he wakes up in a cold sweat, plagued by nightmares of being painfully ripped to shreds by sharp claws and teeth. Some nights he wakes up angry, frustrated with himself after overanalyzing his fights. Other nights, he relives the moment when he found out about his mother’s death, shaking with body-wracking sobs and shuddering with each intake of breath. But you hold him through it, your soothing hands on his back and comforting words in his ear. He focuses on your voice, steady and calm, and syncs his breathing with yours.

“You’re okay,” you murmur. “They’re just nightmares. You’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” he repeats.

On bad nights, you confess your fear that the war will never end, or that you’ll burn out before it does. Some nights, you feel that you’re not doing enough, that you need to get back to work even though it’s past midnight. Other nights, you worry that you’ll spend your entire life fighting, that you’ll never be able to rest. But he holds you through it, his calloused fingers on your cheeks wiping away your tears. You focus on his touch, firm and resolute, and rest your hands on top of his.

“It’s okay,” you contend, voice shaky but certain. “I have you. This is enough.”

“This is enough,” he repeats.

Yet, he can’t help but want more. He wants the beach house instead of the cold metal walls of the Shatterdome. Wants to wake up to the sun, your smile, and Max’s whining for food instead of doomsday alarms and Kaiju attacks. Wants you to be able to sleep in for once. Wants to spend his days sunbathing and learning to surf instead of training in combat drills and preparing for another attack. Wants to give you some peace, and to find some of his own.

He tells Raleigh, “I want to come back from this mission, ‘cause I quite like my life.”

He means, There’s still so much I want to do, so much I have to do.

Chuck has only felt true fear a few times in his life. Standing on top of his disabled Jaeger with only a flare gun in his hands is one of them. In the moment, he tells himself that he isn’t afraid, that a double event isn’t any different from any other Kaiju attack, and that Striker will come back online in just a second. The adrenaline coursing through his veins overpowers the feeling of impending doom anyway. But, later, as he reflects on the feeling of relief that had washed over when Gipsy’s fog lights enveloped him, he admits that he had been scared shitless. And, he admits (only to himself) that he’s thankful for Raleigh and Mako, even if they’re has-beens or rookies.

He holds you closer that night and knows that you’ve already picked up on all the details of his uneasy expression. Still, he musters up the strength to confess aloud, “I thought we were gonna die.”

You’re silent, responding only by rubbing your hand across his back and hugging him a little tighter. The heavy weight of his lingering fear sits in his chest as he continues, “Dad had injured his arm, our comms were out, Cherno and Crimson were gone, and there was a fucking Kaiju ready to swallow us whole. Shooting that flare at it made it even more pissed off.”

“Not your best idea,” you remark playfully. “You’d think all that training to prepare you for situations like this would help you keep calm and think of something rational to do.”

“It was Dad’s idea, not mine,” he shrugs.

“Well, I’m glad the flare managed to keep it occupied long enough for Gipsy to get there,” you reply, a soft smile tugging at the corners of your lips. “And I’m glad you’re not dead.”

“Me, too,” he sighs, the weight in his chest lightening slightly.

When he drifts off to sleep, he dreams of the war ending and a house overlooking the shore.

If, a year ago, you had told Chuck that he would be piloting a Jaeger with the Marshal Stacker Pentecost, he would have laughed in your face and asked why the Marshal wasn’t off doing better things (like convincing world leaders to keep funding the Jaeger Program or figuring out ways to increase pilot recruitment). And, if you had told him that he would hear the phrase “there’s a third signature emerging from the Breach,” he would have rolled his eyes and declared the situation impossible. (“I’d still kick its ass, though,” he would have probably said.)

Yet, here he is, strapped into Striker with the Marshal as his copilot, only three hundred meters from the Breach, watching a category five Kaiju materialize in front of him. He feels his stomach drop as he lays eyes on Slattern’s angular head and the sharp spike protruding from its chest. When it roars, the water around them ripples, and the ground beneath shakes. He barely has any time to think before the massive beast rears its head and charges, swinging its heavy leathery tail directly at them. 

The hit knocks Striker off her feet and sends her crashing into a nearby hydrothermal vent. He winces and swears, body aching and head beginning to throb as streams of water push and jostle the Jaeger. Slattern prepares to charge again just as Striker regains her footing and he easily falls into a fighting stance along with the Marshal, fists clenched and ready to strike. This time, when it attacks, they’re ready—dealing out swift punches that send the Kaiju reeling.

He isn’t sure how much of it is the Marshal and how much of it is himself, but the exhilaration that rushes through him as one of Striker’s sting blades slices across Slattern’s throat reinvigorates him. The other blade cuts into its arms, blue blood spilling from deep gashes. It screeches, and he expects it to rush at them again, but it swims away, blood trailing eerily in the water.

He takes the moment of respite to breathe, and to survey the damage. The harsh red light of the many, many warning messages flashes across his vision. He fiddles with some controls, watches as the Marshal does the same, and sighs heavily when neither of their attempts fixes anything. He resigns himself to hoping that Striker can hold on a little longer. She had gotten him this far, surely she could see him through to the end of this war—and to the beginning of his life at peace.

But–

“The attack jammed the bomb release,” he notices. “We’ll have to manually override–”

A yell from LOCCENT cuts him off. Chuck’s stomach drops even further when he hears someone say, “Striker, you have two Kaiju converging on you fast!”

He curses loudly and immediately knows, There’s no time for a manual override.

The Marshal is on the intercom before Chuck can even begin to formulate a plan, shouting to Raleigh and Mako. 

“You know exactly what you have to do,” he declares. “Gipsy is nuclear, take her to the Breach.”

“What can we do, sir?” Chuck asks, bracing for the hit.

“We can clear a path,” the Marshal answers firmly, a slight smile pulling at the corners of his mouth, “for the lady.”

Even without the drift connecting their thoughts, Chuck understands.

“Well, my father always said, ‘If you have a shot, you take it,’” he remarks, knowing that, on the other end, his father is listening with pride. Chuck can admit that he was an arrogant dickhead with no respect for any of the pilots around him and that he never bothered to hide his resentment for his old man, never gave him a reason to like the man his son had become. Yet, he knows—and has always known—that his father is proud of him. (He is proud of his father, too, for what it’s worth.)

In the final moments, his thoughts drift to you: swathed in blankets and gathered in his arms on cold winter nights, perched on the seat of a stationary bike and reading reports while keeping him company in the gym, wrapped in his brown leather jacket with Max’s leash in your hand while accompanying him for walks around the Shatterdome. He recalls your bright laughter when he’d crack stupid jokes, your serious voice you’d use only over the intercom, and the mischievous glint in your eyes when you’d pretend you hadn’t given Max extra treats.

“I love you,” he had said before entering the Conn-Pod, so quietly that only you could hear him, holding you tightly and kissing away your concerned frown. The warmth of your hands against his cheeks had lingered as he had stepped away.

“I love you,” he says now, loud enough for you to hear him over all the noise, swallowing the lump in his throat and blinking away the tears threatening to spill from the corners of his eyes. “I’m sorry we’ll never get that beach house.”

“But, I had you,” he says. “It was enough.”

When the bomb detonates, he’s surrounded by blinding light and a deafening boom. And, finally, peace.

In his dreams, he can’t tell where he is, only that Max is sitting at his feet, his father is somewhere in the distance, and you’re next to him with your hand in his, fingers intertwined.

[matttgirlies]

Matt & Me🎀

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24

a story heavily based on Priscilla Presley’s Book “Elvis & Me” based in the 1950’s - 1970’s.

fem! reader x singer! matt

disclaimer!! - in no way am i saying matt would ever support or do these kind of things, for the sake of the book certain unethical things do happen at times.

warnings - mentions of guns,, drug use,, threats,, mentions of affairs

y/nn = your nickname for any confusion🩷

Chapter 21

Putting together the best musicians, sound and lighting technicians, costumers, and choreographers, he was taking no chances this time. He scoured the music scene for the top sidemen in the business. Auditions were held and he handpicked each player—names such as James Burton, John Wilkinson, Ronny Tutt, Glen D. Hardin, Jerry Scheff. He loved the sound of the Sweet Inspirations, backup group for Aretha Franklin, and he hired them on the spot as a warmup act and to sing backup vocals. He also hired his favorite gospel group, the Imperial Quartet.

Before leaving Los Angeles, Matt rehearsed at RCA Sound Studios for ten days and then polished the act for a full week prior to the opening. It was the event of the summer in Vegas. Colonel Parker brought the preopening publicity to fever pitch. Billboards were up all over town. On the third floor of the International, administrative offices bustled with activity. No other entertainer coming into Vegas had ever stimulated this kind of excitement. The hotel lobby was dominated by Matt paraphernalia—pictures, posters, T-shirts, stuffed animals, balloons, records, souvenir programs. You’d think Barnum and Bailey were coming to town.

Back home there was also excitement as we girls discussed what we’d wear to the opening. “I want you to look extra special, Baby,” Matt said. “This is a big night for all of us.” I hit every boutique in West L.A. before finding just the right outfit.

Though it had been nine years since Matt had given a live performance, you never would have known it from his opening. The audience cheered the moment he stepped onstage and never stopped the entire two hours as Matt sang, “All Shook Up,” “Blue Suede Shoes,” “In the Ghetto,” “Tiger Man,” and “Can’t Help Falling in Love.” He mixed the old with the new, the fast and hot with the lyrical and romantic. It was the first time I’d ever seen Matt perform live. Wanting to surprise me, he had kept me from rehearsals. I was astounded. At the end he left them still cheering and begging for more.

Cary Grant was among the stars who came backstage to congratulate him after the show. But the most touching moment was when Colonel William arrived with tears in his eyes, wanting to know where his boy was. Matt came out of the dressing room and the two men embraced. I believe everyone felt their emotion in that moment of triumph.

I don’t think we slept that night. Nate Doe brought in all the newspapers and we read the rave reviews declaring, “Matt was great” and “He never looked or sang better.” He shared credit for his new success with all of us.

“Well, we did it. It’s going to be a long thirty days, but it’s going to be worth it if we get the reception we got last night. I may have been a real tyrant, but it was well worth it.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” we all agreed, laughing. “You were a tyrant.”

The International Hotel was delirious over Matt’s performance and the box-office receipts. The following day they signed a fiveyear contract with the Colonel for Matt to appear twice a year, usually around the same time, January and August, at the then unheardof salary of one million dollars a year.

Matt literally took over Las Vegas for the entire month he was there, playing to a packed house every show as thousands more were turned away. No matter where we looked, all we could see was the name Matt—on television, newspapers, banners, and billboards. The King had returned.

Initially, Matt’s triumph in Las Vegas brought a new vitality to our marriage. He seemed a different person. Once again, he felt confident about himself as a performer and he continued to watch his weight and work out every day at karate.

It was also the first time that I felt we were functioning as a team. I made several trips to New York, trying to find unique accessories for him to wear onstage. I bought scarves, jewelry, and a black leather belt with chain links all around it that Bill Belew would later copy for the famous Matt jumpsuit belts.

I loved seeing him healthy and happy again, and I especially enjoyed our early days in Vegas. The International provided an elegant three-bedroom suite that we turned into our home away from home. During his show I always sat at the same table down front, never tiring of watching him perform. He was spontaneous and one never knew what to expect from him.

On occasion, after his midnight show, we’d catch lounge acts of other performers playing Vegas or we’d gamble until dawn. Other times we’d relax backstage, visiting with entertainers captivated by his performance. This was the first time I’d been with Matt at a high point in his career.

With the renewed fame came renewed dangers. Offstage he could be guarded by Sonny and Red. Onstage he was a walking target. One night that summer Nate and Sonny were tipped off that a woman in the audience was carrying a gun and had threatened to shoot Matt. A true professional, Matt insisted on going on. Additional precautions were taken and everyone was on the alert. Matt was instructed to stay downstage, making himself a smaller target, and Sonny and Jerry were poised to jump in front of him at the slightest sign of suspicious movement in the audience. Red was positioned in the audience with the FBI agents.

The show seemed to take an eternity. I glanced at Patsy apprehensively and she in turn grasped my hand as we comforted each other, longing for the night to end without incident. James remained backstage, never letting Matt out of his sight and praying, “Dear God, don’t let anything happen to my son.”

Because of this and other threats, extra security was arranged wherever Matt appeared. Entrances through backstages, kitchens, back elevators, and side exits became routine.

Matt had his own theory about assassinations, based on the murders of the Reverend Martin Luther King, Jr., and Robert F. Kennedy. He felt that the assassins gloated over their “accomplishments,” and told his bodyguards that if any attempt were made on his life, they should get the killer—even before the police. He didn’t want anyone bragging to the media that they’d killed Matt Sturniolo.

Sonny and Red lived in so much tension these days that they were constantly frenzied. Suspicious in crowds of overzealous fans, they were quick to respond to any sign of danger. Compared to Sonny’s diplomacy, Red’s reputation was to act first and ask questions later. Eventually, numerous assault-and-battery charges started piling up against Matt. When James warned him about Sonny and Red’s aggressiveness, Matt said, “Goddamn, Red. I hired you to keep the sons of bitches away from me, not get me in any legal binds. Somehow you’re going to have to control that redheaded temper of yours.”

Although Matt would joke about the death threats—and there would be several more throughout the Vegas commitments—the fear and constant need for security heightened the pressure of nightly performing.

In the beginning when Matt began doing regular Vegas engagements, we girls visited frequently. We’d fly in over the weekend, sometimes bringing our children, spend three or four days, and then return home.

On the days we were apart I’d take hundreds of Polaroids and home movies of Charlotte. She was growing so rapidly I didn’t want him to miss out on her development. Daily he’d receive his “care packages,” as I’d refer to them, including tape recordings of me teaching Charlotte new words and Charlotte mimicking me. Each week, upon my arrival, I’d paste photos on the mirrors in his bedroom to remind him that he had a wife and child.

During his first couple of engagements he still seemed humbled by lingering doubts of whether the public was fully accepting him. At this point he had no interest in outside affairs or flirtations, his concentration on daily rehearsals and performances every evening excluding everything else.

Later he would become more cocky. The crowds’ admiration took him back to his triumphs in the early fifties and he found it hard to come down to earth after a month of nightly cheers. His name on the International’s huge marquee would be replaced by the next superstar. The offices on the third floor would be cleared out and incoming calls for reservations would stop.

Thriving on all the excitement, glamour, and hysteria, he found it difficult to go home and resume his role as father and husband. And for me the impossibility of replacing the crowd’s adoration became a real-life nightmare.

At home in Los Angeles, there was just the usual group around—strictly a family atmosphere. This abrupt change was too much for him and soon he developed the habit of lingering in Vegas for days, sometimes weeks, after a show. The boys were finding it increasingly difficult to resolve the conflict between working for Matt and maintaining a home life.

Crazed with inactivity and boredom, Matt became edgy and temperamental, a condition exacerbated by the Dexedrine he was again taking to control his weight.

Sometimes, to ease the transition home, Matt would insist we all pile into cars and head for Palm Springs. Since our marriage we had spent-many weekends there sunning and watching football games and late-night television, but after Charlotte was born, my needs changed. The Palm Springs heat was too much for her, the long drive boring, the idleness of resort life wearying. One weekend I suggested, “Matt, why don’t just you and the guys go down?”

From that time on, the guys developed their own lifestyle in our secluded desert home. Occasionally we wives would be invited to spend the weekend, but by and large, Matt now considered Palm Springs his private refuge.

He made it clear that this time away was good for him, giving him a chance to think, to hang out with the guys. In reality Matt was lost. He did not know what to do with himself after Vegas. He escaped in more powerful, unnecessary prescribed drugs to raise his spirits and ward off boredom.

After he had conquered Vegas, it was agreed that Matt should go back on the road. Colonel immediately began booking concert tours around the nation, starting with an impressive run of six sold-out shows in the Houston Astrodome, which earned over one million dollars in three nights.

The night I arrived in Texas to watch the performance, Amber, Judy, and I flew in on a private jet. I looked down on the Astrodome and found it hard to believe my eyes. The length of a football field—and already sold out. It made me nervous. I could imagine how Matt felt.

Matt too found the Astrodome overwhelming. “Goddamn,” he said when he first walked in. “They expect me to sell this son of a bitch out? It’s a goddamn ocean.”

However dwarfed he was by the giant facility, he electrified his audience. Houston was our first run-in with mass hysteria. The limousine was strategically parked by the stage door for Matt’s immediate getaway. Even so, screaming fans surrounded the car, frantically yelling out his name, presenting flowers, and trying to touch him.

If anything, Houston was an even greater victory than Vegas. The King of Rock and Roll was back on top. The strain of sustaining such a hype was just beginning and, for the moment, I could believe that everything would still be all right. I did not realize the extent to which Matt’s touring was going to separate us, that this in fact was the beginning of the end. After Houston Matt began crossing the country, making one-night stands, flying by day, trying to catch some sleep to maintain the high energy level demanded by his performances. From 1971 on, he toured more than any other artist—three weeks at a time with no days off and two shows on Saturdays and Sundays.

I missed him. We talked constantly of being together more, but he knew that if he let me join him, he couldn’t refuse the requests from regulars whose marriages were also feeling the strain of long separations. For a while a group of us would fly in from time to time, but this didn’t last long. Matt noticed that his employees were lax in discharging their duties to him when spouses were present, and he established a new policy: No wives on the road.

I didn’t really miss the one-night stands, a tedious routine at best: Jump off the plane, rush to the hotel, unpack as little as possible, since you had to check out the next day, go to the performance, then back to the hotel for a little rest before heading back to the airport. Everything was the same except for the name of the town.

It was the day Matt suggested I come to Vegas less often that I became really upset and suspicious. He’d decided that we wives would attend opening and closing nights only.

I knew then I’d have to fight for our relationship or accept the fact that we were now gradually going to grow apart as so many couples in show business do. As a couple, we’d never sat down to plan out a future. Matt, individually, was stretching as an artist, but as man and wife we needed a common reality.

The chances of our marriage surviving were slim indeed as long as he continued to live apart from Charlotte and me, and in bachelor quarters at that. It came down to how much longer I could stand the separation. Matt wanted to have his cake and eat it too. And now, as the tours and long engagements took him even further from his family, I realized that we might never reach my dreams of togetherness.

I had trouble believing that Matt was always faithful, and the more he kept us apart, the more my suspicions grew.

Now when we went to Vegas, I felt more comfortable at the openings. He was always preoccupied with the show and I felt he needed me then. On closing nights I always felt uneasy. Too many days had gone by, enough time for suspicions to poison my thoughts. The Vegas maître d’s invariably planted a bevy of beauties in the front rows for the entertainer to play to. Curious, I would scan their faces while watching Matt closely to see if he seemed to direct his songs to any girl in particular. Suspicious of everyone, my heart ached—but we were never able to talk about it. It was to be accepted as part of the job.

Backstage one night James was jokingly negotiating for a key that had been tossed to Matt. She was an attractive middle-aged blonde—James’s type. Matt said, “Dad, you’ve got enough problems at home with one blonde. You certainly don’t need two.”

“Well, okay,” James said. “You’re going to have problems of your own if your wife goes out in the street looking like that.” I had begun wearing skimpy knit dresses and see-through fabrics that were daringly revealing. Steven and Charlie whistled and gave wolfcalls, while Matt proudly showed me off.

The jokes I played on him were also efforts to get his attention. One night, after he’d left early for a show, I put on a black dress with a black hood and an exceptionally low-cut back. When it came time for Matt to give away kisses to the girls in the audience—a regular part of his show—I went up to the stage. Instead of kissing me, he kept on singing his song, leaving me to stand there. With my hair hiding the dress strap around my neck, I appeared from the back to be nude from the waist up. I could hear the “oooh”s and “ahhhh”s of the audience. They were under the impression that a topless girl had cornered Matt and that he couldn’t figure out what to do.

I kept whispering to him, “Kiss me, kiss me, so I can sit down,” but he decided to turn the joke on me, and made me wait in the spotlight for the duration of the song. Planting a big kiss on my lips, he surprisingly introduced me to the audience. I felt a bit embarrassed and made my way back to my seat.

Later in the show he’d strut back and forth onstage, tease his audience, talk to them, tell them stories, even confide in them. “You know,” he’d say, “some people in this town get a little greedy. I know you folks save a long time to come and hear me sing. I just want you to know, as far as I’m concerned, there won’t be any exorbitant raise in price when you come back. I’m here to entertain you and that’s all I care about.”

Matt was having an ongoing love affair with his audience and the next time I was home alone I knew I had no choice but to start more of a life of my own.

It was with that thought in mind that Amber, my sister Michelle, and I planned a short trip to Palm Springs. In the course of the weekend I opened the mailbox to check the mail and found a number of letters from girls who had obviously been to the house, one in particular signed “Lizard Tongue.” My immediate response was disbelief, followed by outrage. I dialed Vegas and demanded that Nate find Matt and bring him to the telephone. When Nate said Matt was sleeping, I told him about the letters and insisted I speak to Matt. Nate promised that he would have Matt call as soon as he woke up. He did, but it was clear that Nate had filled him in on the situation and Matt had his explanation ready. He was totally innocent, the girls were just fans, they were out of their minds if they said they’d ever come to the house, and besides, it was their word against his. As usual, in the end I apologized for putting him on the spot, but things at this point were becoming too obvious.

He said, “Get out and do things while I’m gone, because if you don’t, you’re going to start getting depressed.”

Although my choices were limited—he still objected to my taking a job or enrolling in classes at college—I continued my dancing and started taking private art instruction.

Matt was a born entertainer and although he tried to avoid crowds, disliked restaurants, and complained he “couldn’t get out like a normal person,” this life-style suited him. He handpicked the people he wanted to be around him—to work with and travel withand they adjusted to his routine and his hours and his temperament. It was a pretty close clan throughout the years. A few arguments erupted and a few couples left over some misunderstandings, but they usually returned in a week or two.

My view of life had been fashioned by Matt. I had entered his world as a young girl and he had provided absolute security. He distrusted any outside influences, which he saw as a threat to the relationship, fearing they would destroy his creation, his ideal. He could never have foreseen what was happening as the consequence of his prolonged absences from home. A major period in my growth was beginning. I still feared our separations but felt that our love had no boundaries, that I was his and if he wanted me to change, I would. For years nothing had existed in my world but him, and now that he was gone for long stretches of time, the inevitable happened. I was creating a life of my own, starting to achieve a sense of security in myself, and discovering there was a whole world outside our marriage.

Over the years of playing Vegas, other pressures began to mount. There were more death threats and lawsuits, including alleged paternity suits and assault-and-battery charges. Jealous husbands claimed they’d seen Matt flirting with their wives, and others continued to charge that Sonny and Red were manhandling them. Matt began to get bored with these nuisances as well as with the sameness of the show. Inevitably, he tried to change the format, but then he felt it just didn’t have the same pacing as the original. He’d add a few songs here and there but then revert to the original. Pointed suggestions that he make changes before the next Vegas date added to the pressure.

Bored and restless, he increased his dependence on chemicals. He thought speed helped him escape from destructive thinking, when in reality it gave him false confidence and unnatural aggressiveness. He started losing perspective on himself and others. To me he became increasingly unreachable.

Excerpt from: "Elvis and Me" by Priscilla Beaulieu Presley. Scribd. This material may be protected by copyright.

a/n - welll..🎀

[echoalyssa]

Omg I’m so sorry for some reason I automatically assume people know who I’m talking about 🤦🏼‍♀️ How about Marcus Baker x reader where she lives in another state and they met on like Instagram and one day she comes to see him?

ORRR (just to be safe😉😂)

Where her personality is like sunshine and rainbows so people are shocked that they’re together

Request 3 | Marcus Baker

You're gripping the steering wheel all too tight considering the road is empty and you've been driving for seven hours already.

Your comfort playlist plays through the speakers in an attempt to eradicate some of the nerves. You'd known him for a year, face-timed him every night for the past six months. He was real, you knew that much.

Though all those horror crime documentary's meant that somewhere deep down you were worried he might brutally murder you.

The two of you had met through a Instagram group chat for artists around the United States and had connected immediately. Your lives differed in every way possible.

You were from one of those small towns that barely made it onto the map with three siblings, and he was living in a million dollar house with his twin sister.

Your phone buzzes in your lap and its him.

'Hope the drive is going well! I'm excited to see you!'

You smile.

You're meeting him at a coffee shop in Wellsbury. It would be in broad daylight in a public place so not much could go wrong.

The navigation chimes, telling you to take the next exit.

Just like that, you're ten minutes away.

~~~ You take a breath outside of the door, using the slight reflection to check that your hair doesn't look insane. Your palms are sweating profusely so you have no choice but to wipe them on the front of your jeans.

You push the door open and the bell on top jingles softly.

The place is cute, with low ambience lighting and lounge chairs in the corner. There's plants just about everywhere and a mural has been painted on the far wall.

He spots you first, and he almost drops the two drinks he's holding. Marcus can't cross the small shop fast enough. He didn't even need a second to realize that it was you, he just knew immediately.

You shoot him a tiny shy smile and he returns it.

"Y/N!"

He wraps you in an awkward hug because he's still holding both drinks. Even though he's hugging you with his arms straight because of the drinks you can't help but think about how nicely you fit into his arms.

He smells good, like fresh linen.

His hair keeps falling into his face, and you keep wanting to push it out of the way for him.

"I got you a mocha frappe! I could have sworn that's what you told me you order but if that's wrong I can get you something else."

You're flattered by the fact that he bought you a drink and even more so that he remembered your order. That conversation must have taken place almost a year ago.

"That is perfect, thank you."

"Want to take a walk? You must be tired of sitting from the drive."

You nod, the weather in Massachusetts was stellar today.

He guides you out the door by placing a hand on the small of your back which sends sparks up your spine.

"I can't believe that you're here."

"I can't believe you're real."

He chuckles. "Are you cold?"

You're not really but he shrugs off his jacket anyway and drapes it over your shoulders.

His fingertips brush your neck and you shiver.

The town is cute but is very obviously a place where money is plentiful. Marcus tells you about his motorcycle and his plan to restore it.

You listen intently, your arm bumps against his as you walk.

He stops abruptly and turns to you.

"I feel like I know you already."

"You do! Now you're just putting a voice to the face,"

"I don't want you to ever go back home."

You can feel your face heat up, hopefully he wouldn't notice and would just think it was from the wind.

"You're just so far away." He continues, "And now that you're here I can't imagine you not being here."

Just the way that he looks at you makes you want to pack up all your belongings and move into this town, almost eight hours away.

His fingertips touch the side of your face, and he tilts your head so that you are looking up at him.

"It's a good thing I'm here for a week then." You whisper.

"We should make the most of it."

"Yes." You choke out because he's getting closer to you and you're barely breathing.

"You're beautiful you know."

You nod, scared to break this trance like interaction.

And then he leans the last few inches and his lips brush against yours, hesitant at first but they slowly grow more confident.

You tilt your head up for a better angle because there is no way that you're kissing Marcus Baker right now.

The butterflies in your stomach are doing somersaults.

It's slow and gentle. He pulls you close to him, his body radiates heat and warms you.

You could stay like this forever you think. This was perfect. All the anticipation and build up from the past year and finally, finally the two of you were together.

[heroes-of-olympus-next-gen]

Friends Halloween

To kick off one of my favourite months, I give you this one-shot that was stuck in my drafts for the past year. Hope you enjoy.

Friends Halloween

Nico was still in his bed around 4 pm. He didn’t have anything to do that day, or any place to be. Which meant embracing his lazy sleepy side. That only came around once or twice per year. Will’s illogical amount of energy must be rubbing out on him.

Will still hadn’t seen his text. It was a regular occurrence at that point. Was he feeling neglected by the constant disappearance of his boyfriend? Yes. Was it all worth it when he listened to said boyfriend talking about his shifts and surgeries. Also yes. But it was getting rather lonely and depressing never having him around. He wanted his boyfriend but deep down he knew that he was being selfish, and he should be happy and proud for him.

He heard someone banging his door. Nico didn’t even flinch as he knew who it was. The only person that would barge in his apartment and he wouldn’t care. He waited for 5 seconds before the door opened.

“Get up and go take a shower.” Reyna ordered him. She scanned the room and the expression on her face sent a shiver down his spine.

“I’m fine.” Nico reassured her.

“No, you aren’t. You’re hopeless romantic and want to spend Halloween with your boyfriend who is also hopeless romantic and celebrates Halloween like it’s a real holiday. And because you can’t spend Halloween together and you are cranky.”

“Reyna, you don’t have to worry about me.” Nico argued.

“I do. That’s why you keep me around. I’m your voice of reason.”

Nico raised his eyebrow. “No, you aren’t.”

“Who am I kidding? No, I am not. Anyway, that’s not the point. We’re celebrating Halloween.” She announced and started picking up the clothes from the floor.

“You hate Halloween.”

“I don’t hate Halloween. I just believe that there are holidays superior to the spooky day.”

“Like which one?”

“Christmas for starters.”

“Can’t really disagree with you on that. That’s a great reason to pretend that today is day like every other one.” Nico said in a desperate effort to ignore the day. He was upset Will was on a 26-hour shift, but there wasn’t anything he could do.

“Not happening. I know how much Halloween means to you, so we’re going to celebrate together.” Reyna promised him. Nico got out of his bed and straight to the bathroom.

“Give me ten minutes.”

“I don’t have any other place to be.”

15 minutes later, Reyna was tidying his living room, which didn’t sit well with him. “You don’t have to clean up my messes. You’re my guest.”

“No, I’m your family. Which means I clean up around here as well.”

“That’s not how it works, but I am going to drop the subject as I know we’ll get nowhere.”

“Just admit that I’m right.” Reyna smiled in victory as she put three blankets in the basket near the couch.

“Never. Then, our friendship will be boring.” Nico said and opened his television “Million dollar question: Nightmare Before Christmas or Hocus Pocus?”

“Hocus Pocus.” Reyna replied immediately. “Nightmare before Christmas is more a Christmas movie rather than a Halloween one.”

“That’s what Will believes as well.” Nico said as he put on Hocus Pocus. Reyna had already brought out his Halloween stash that he had in his kitchen. After the movie was over and they were waiting for their pizza to arrive, Reyna found the perfect opportunity to ask the real one million dollars question.

“How and you didn’t shadow travel to him?”

Nico immediately stood frigid like he was busted. “It’s complicated.” He coughed.

“Did you break up?” Was the only logical answer that crossed Reyna’s mind.

“No, no, no, definitely not. We’re good and still together.” He reassured her.

“Then what’s up?”

“I’m going to tell you something that I have only told to Will and Hazel.” Nico paused for a second. “And it has to remain strictly between us. Nobody needs to know.”

“I am not going to tell anyone.” Reyna promised as she realised that Nico was serious, and the subject meant a lot to him.

“I stopped using my powers. Like if it’s in my power, I’ll never use them again in my life.” He announced to his best friend.

“Oh, I didn’t expect that. How come?”

“I’ve come to the conclusion that the more I use my powers the more I disassociate with reality. It might have nothing to do with my powers, but I feel more stable.” Nico admitted. “You know, the underworld is a part of me, but for the past few weeks I’ve been feeling better. Less depressed, I’ve been eating more, working out more, doing homework and shit. It might all be inside my mind, but I think my powers and emotions are linked.”

“I’m proud of you.”

“Reyna-“

“You are getting better. I’m telling you that. Because I can see all the progress you’ve been making me. Nico, a year ago you were rotting inside this apartment, and we had no idea why that was happening to you. I wish it really is just your excessive power usage and nothing else. You shouldn’t be worried about anything else rather than making the Dean’s list this year.”

“I thought you would have a different opinion on the matter.” He said a bit confused. He was relieved Reyna wasn’t disapproving his decision, but it also seemed weird at the same time.

“Because I come from a strict Roman household where powers are important?” She asked.

“Kind of? I don’t mean it in any negative way though.”

“I know. And Nico di Angelo I care about you more than you could ever imagine. And your powers don’t make you who you are. I’m glad you’re getting better.”

“Even if that means pushing aside the godly mythological side of my life?”

“Especially then. It takes a lot of strength to contain the most feral and strong part of yourself. I would never be able to do that, so yes, once again you made me proud.” She smiled. “And since we’re confessing stuff to each other, I guess it’s my turn.” Reyna said.

“You don’t have to.” Nico reassured her.

“I can’t have children.” She announced which caused Nico to remain quiet.

“Reyna-“

“The doctors aren’t exactly sure why. Probably it was Circe’s island, or the pirates or I probably got hurt in battle at some point.” She confessed. “But it doesn’t matter because I’ve never wanted kids on the first place.”

“Not wanting and not being able to are two different things.”

“I know.” She chocked.

Nico pulled her closer and hugged her. “I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry. Now I can’t be your surrogate.”

“Please don’t even think about it. It should be the least of your worries. Will and aren’t even on the same time zone right now. If we ever find the time to settle down we’ll find the way.”

“I just, I don’t know.” She sighed. “I have everything I’ve ever wanted, but I don’t feel like I’ve done it all.”

“You’re 23 years old. You aren’t supposed to know everything.”

“But I feel like I should.” Reyna said a bit confused.

“All I know is that you’re a talented person who has faced so much shit and deserves the world after everything that has happened. And I truly mean it, Reyna. You are the head of New Rome and in charge of Camp Jupiter and you never stop for a moment. I honestly don’t know how you do it all. I struggle with a simple college degree while you manage to put two feet in a shoe. I just want you to be happy.”

“Is it bad that I wish I wanted a simpler life? I wish I wanted to get married and have kids, so that I would feel normal. But I can’t even have kids. My body doesn’t even want to be normal. And I don’t know how to feel about all that.” She said trying to control her voice.

“You are normal. You don’t need to beat yourself up over something you have zero control over. And you aren’t alone. You have me, Will, Hazel, Frank, your sister, and a whole bunch of people who love and cherish you. You’re my sister, Reyna. You helped me so much throughout the years that I don’t even know how it’s possible to ever repay you.” He confessed to her.

“It’s simple. You owe me your first born.” Reyna half-smiled.

“Done.” Nico said and shook her hand.

“Thanks for spending Halloween with me. I really needed this.” Nico confessed as he took the last candy from the bucket in front of them.

“I needed this as well.”

[57hz]

And then you wake up in a slightly worse apartment than the one you have now, almost late for work at a job that's also just a bit worse then what you were doing, and You Know.

You panic for a bit, maybe try to figure out when and how it all went wrong, but ultimately nothing in particular happens. You think about maybe not going in and getting your self sorted but also what else are you going to do? You lost a game you didn't know (or fully believe) you were playing and now you're Here. So you go to your crummy job and spend most of the day half ruminating on All This, half wondering if you live near a decent take-out place (you don't, alas).

And it's not that bad. Not really. You wake up, go to work, come back, rinse, repeat. You'd already been doing it for years and while the location may have changed the rest is basically the same. It's not that bad. Really, it's not.

At least, not compared to what all those out of touch nuts and hateful freaks tried tell you would happen. You see them around every so often, in twos or threes, shackled together in fluorescent jumpsuits like prisoners, big black numbers stenciled on the back and everything. You see them cleaning up trash by the roadside or digging pits that get filled in a couple days later by a different crew or some other backbreaking labor. Watching them you get the feeling their Experience is a lot Worse than yours, and that yeah, maybe this isn't so bad. Not really.

And hey, The Rules (there was a flyer on your door) say you can even leave! It's not fair to keep you here Forever for stuff that was, at most, 60% your fault. You got dealt a bad hand and played it the best you could. They get it, and They're not unreasonable. You just need to save up ten million dollars and you can buy yourself a ticket to Somewhere Else! Why, that guy down the hall did it just last year!

Ah, but you still need to pay rent. And buy food. And pay bills. And while it can't happen again, you can still get sick or hurt, which means going to a doctor and paying to get it fixed (you've seen the folks who don't and it's really not pretty). And this probably isn't the best time to bring it up but your car is making a weird noise (again).

But hey, it could be worse, right? You just need keep plugging away at work and saving your pennies and you'll be out in no time. It's not that bad. Not really.

[princessnijireiki]

money is such a funny thing, bc it's always simultaneously way less and way more than you would think, too.

like there's the easy joke of $5, $20, $100 is HUGE when you're a kid or young adult, but I also fairly recently was in a position where I had like $1K in the bank (in a sweet spot between a TON of major bills hitting) and it was like oh wow so $1K is a lot until it VERY SUDDENLY ISN'T bc it only STAYS a lot if your needs are already met. if your needs surpass your means, or frankly, you've been scraping by below or within your means but really shouldn't have been, that shit evaporates in an instant. car, teeth, emergency vet bills, food. poof!

or I saw a hypothetical, would you rather know every language on earth fluently, or get $3 million dollars? and I had to crunch the numbers, because if you work every year from 18 to 78 (as in well past retirement age/at the end of a lot of people's projected lifespan), you'd have to make $50K per year AFTER taxes, every year for 60 years, to earn an ACCUMULATED $3 million. at $30K/year, you'd have to work 100 years.

and then, the flipside of that is, unless you die at exactly those ages, peacefully and in perfect health, how many people still struggle to make ends meet at $30-50K even when they ARE young and healthy? what's that look like in a hurricane, or after a car wreck, a disability, having a pet, having a KID, a marriage, a divorce, a funeral? how many people make $30-50K and when that check engine light comes on, or their child needs braces, or grandma needs a home health aide, or they get injured or sick and need to take FMLA, they realize that one thing now has them financially fucked? how many people making $30-50K per year do you know who have 6 months' worth of expenses set aside in an emergency savings account?

meanwhile, for $3,000,000, that money as a lump you don't have to touch or live paycheck to paycheck on also means you can accumulate interest, invest money, and so on. the access to lifetimes of funds to provide ease to this one life is a huge privilege most of us will never, ever know, and then you find out some stupid as fuck movie or commercial campaign cost tens or hundreds of millions. those rich people who got squished in the idiot submarine... lifetimes of wealth between them and their imploding stupid boat.

and so you look at all that, and you look at what medical debt looks like, or recovery from a fire or something, and once you see enough of that, the lottery fantasy answers get a lot more boring. like, I'd still have to finish this degree, get and keep a job to carry insurance and max out my retirement— maybe a flexible enough job that you grind for a few years to replace your house's down payment in the lump sum, then pull mortgage, utilities, insurance, etc. out of that interest, and the job income is pure health insurance, 401K, and takeout/walking around money. you pay your debts, help take care of a handful of loved ones, retire them early or pay off a house (over time, so the interest can still accrue on a bigger amount of money than the new sum from X minus $house). splurge on a vacation every so often. set up a college fund for a few kids, or neices, or nephews, or cousins.

and then it's like... go fishing. eat well! learn to sleep without fear of poverty, I don't know. know that if the money can grow, it can help a LOT of people feel safe, and that succumbing to the emotional urge to take care of everybody before that egg can grow bigger is what keeps people in multigenerational poverty, and that it's gonna mean things don't get to be easy for you mentally, emotionally, or even in terms of labor unless you're cashing out your chips right now to take care of yourself (which is also valid!). pick a charity every year to make their day.

and it's bonkers that $3mil feels like such a real number compared to some of these lotteries or very wealthy people/their property in the world, that even though it's cartoonishly out of reach, among the stars, it feels like, "is it even that much?" and like... yes, it very much is lmao, even though if you're under 50 it's not guaranteed "never have to work again" money. but that also means it's not "buy a castle & become a beekeeper slash professional poet as my only sources of income" big dreams & fantasies money, either.

[sassyfrassboss]

I think she spent a ton on PR. Millions most likely. I also would be willing to bet she spent millions on decorating that house. Their security also has to be pricey because it seems like they hire a ton of guards when they go out for events.

Glad to see you back, for however long we have you. sorry to hijack your inbox..

To your point Sassy, I would like to add/point out something... The luxury lifestyle (faux Royal) Lifestyle MM is trying to emulate is expensive as we have all said before. There is a reason celebrities don't spend the way MM does. And those that do, have money coming in by the tens of millions every year guaranteed, be it real estate, Investments, Own businesses, and stuff like that, the likes of Beyonce, Taylor swift, Lady Gaga, Rihanna, Johnny Depp, Kim K and the rest. They can afford the 24hr high tech security because they can rely on their other incomes to generate revenue (Whilst they sleep they are still earning money) i.e Beyonce (doubt this will happen), she can balance it out by doing a concert in Dubai, for 23 million dollars. (there is a reason they were able to buy the most expensive home in California worth 200 million) or release and album and do a tour like other artists. People like Depp can do it because for their own health (drug/alcohol addiction) and they also amassed wealth to the point it wouldn't hurt them one bit to have said security. Lets not talk about Kim K.

There is a reason actors and A listers don't so security, except for specific events, its expensive, attracts attention, and literally screams look at me.

Buying a 14million dollar home, with a mortgage, property taxes, 24hr security, Household staff, Archewell staff, Private Jets, PR management, Lawyers retainer and fees for all the lawsuits they come up with. exclusive packages, Clothes, Interior design of the olive garden... All of this with no guarantee of returns. (because MM is lazy). I wonder which financial/Wealth manager advised them because... I would have fired them immediately. No wealth manager worth their salt would let their client hedge their bets on the spotify, random house and Netflix contracts that have yet to be fulfilled. They would tell you, let the money come in the bank accounts and then make those purchase... especially during the start of Covid.

As much as i don't like Todger at least he is working for his supper. Heart of Invictus, The South Africa doc (should he get someone good to direct it, it could be good), The Spare, and the interviews/promotion of the book i.e Gabor Mate, Job at Better Up.

Madam got 80M and thought that will be enough? What exactly has she done for that money? The bench? Archetypes?, 40 X40?,Pearl? all flops... her Ideas are not generating income of any kind.

The doc was both of them so credit goes to both.

Great points!

Thanks! I will try and stick around for a few days this time. I do lurk on here but tend to come back for the juicy stuff.

They are living a champagne lifestyle on a basic beer budget.

[sortanonymous]

As somewhat of a sports blogger, I wanted to wake up talking about a great Super Bowl and all the congrats and memes and everything. But I'm sorry, if that post does come, it's gonna have to take a while. I can barely focus on it considering the latest in Israel's long line of abhorrent war crimes in Palestine, specifically a deadly bombing in Rafah and hinting at a ground invasion after months of herding Gazans over there as a "safe zone". All the while they fund Super Bowl ad propaganda again painting opposition to their evil as antisemitism (Big difference) asking to "bring the hostages home" after months of them turning down hostage exchange deals. Just as it's clear that this was timed to distract the U.S. from it with the Super Bowl, it's revoltingly clear the hostages are totally expendable to them for the sake of prolonging this genocide. (Not a war, a genocide.) And all the while, the Western world, especially the U.S. government and the Biden administration, are funding and supporting it. Funding a generational display of evil with billions of dollars while acting like there's no money to fix a sagging economy where just about all everyday Americans are getting suffocated by the jaws of late-stage capitalism. No way to fix that apparently, but tens of billions of ways to help Israel deal with the aftermath of an attack they had telegraphed a year in advance. (Gee, it's almost as if Israel put their own people in the crosshairs as fodder to excuse more oppression of Palestine like the past 75+ years since they stole it.) Not to mention them being the one vote in the UN to reject a ceasefire. And also how the vast majority of American corporations are backing Israel in all sorts of heinous ways. Now fast forward four months and the outcome? Tens of thousands of innocents dead, over a third of them children who likely never knew what they were being slaughtered for and never got to live out their lives. Millions displaced and traumatized. A beautiful culture battered. No justice or ceasefire in sight. I know that it's wrong to lose hope, and I definitely do hope that Palestine will be free soon enough, Zionism loses, and that at least a shred of justice hits everyone responsible for this. But man, I'll be honest, it just feels beyond hopeless to do anything. Besides, even if complete witchcraft took over and justice was served and the ceasefire was granted, nothing's going to bring back the people martyred, cure the trauma of the survivors, or reassemble all the rumble. And certainly, nobody should ever forget or forgive Israel and all its allies for participating in these atrocities. It absolutely should haunt all of them forever, and that 100% includes this country's government.

If it helps at all though, still don't forget to give your daily clicks to arab.org to fund UNRWA (which everyone cut funding to because of course they did). (In fact, assuming Incognito mode still gives out ad revenue, which the site uses, you could totally close and re-open arab.org to keep it going. I mean, it hopefully works for me! It's about time we found a great cause to use all those bots on! (maybe)

Maybe soon enough I'll have the somewhat normal posting again, but now doesn't feel like the time. And I know I expressed my pessimism earlier, but then again, history has constantly shown that bigotry and hate can only reign for so long, and hopefully...

From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free!

[dream-critical]

Mercury you are Incredibly fucking correct about the way older people in the fandom act my GOD. I've been in a couple adults only fan spaces and holy SHIT you'd think adults who were here for like allllll of the other youtubers doing horrid stuff, who condemned CMC for doing The Same Thing As Dream. Would find this shit weird but they Don't! Moving from DSMP centric circles to Life Series/Hermit/Empires centric ones was like an ENORMOUS shock bc while there are still bad eggs in those spaces there are FAR fewer adults making every aspect of how they engage with these block guys about how bad they wanna fuck them or see them fuck each other. DSMP spaces I was in went "Nah it's Normal that Dream's giving out a phone number for fans to text him and get a real reply because broadcast celebs did that" and ignore that most celeb replies are automated entirely and also don't typically humor messages calling them sexy gay dogboys or daddy or any of that shit.

Back when that was happening there were Not grooming allegations about Dream yet but it was like a month at most after the CMC situation and anyone who like Thought about it for more than a moment could noodle out that like. Even if there would never be accusations against Dream, he sets the foundation for what a LOT of people will consider normal content creator behavior until the next big thing unseats him in like ten or so years. The idea that private snapchats or a text line that only you and the other person see unless one party publishes the messages are Normal Things to hand out to your primarily tweenage audience is like. Bad. Like even if he DIDN'T groom anyone he still sets the standard that privately talking to a grown man just shy of twice your age with 20 million followers is a normal and good interaction! The other adults in those spaces should have been seeing SO many more fucking red flags in the moment! It should not have been me and three other people who weren't OBSESSED with the man who were the only ones concerned with that!

And by GOD the RPF discussion. I spent months being told that I was just being an anti or a hater for agreeing that Dream repopularized super public RPF and RPF being sent to creators and blockign over RPF being abnormal. Like. My credentials here are I've been in Youtuber fandoms before and since falling in and out with the DSMP. I grew up on DeviantArt in the heyday of Septiplier and Phan getting sent to the content creators. I saw the culture change enough to have a significant pushback against shipping those guys from Buzzfeed Unsolved by 2019. I've BEEN online and I know that Dream and George encouraging ship content being sent to them and made hyper public like Drastically changed how often I found RPF on my timeline. YES shit was bad during SMPLive. It was SO much worse ten years ago and it's getting back to those levels as more kids migrate out of the DSMP/DTeam fandoms and act like content creators need to see their fanfic or fanart of them being used as Sex Objects. And being told I was just making shit up or hatemongering against Dream for noticing the Real pattern in how the public treats RPF? It made me feel unhinged then and it still makes me feel unhinged now.

anyways long rant over it takes me 0 whole dollars to think critically abt how I engage with people's Minecraft DND characters and how I engage with the actual creators and adults who act like that expectation is Censorship Of Queer People are dumb of ass.

I literally couldn't have agreed more with you anon. I wasn't in the fandom back when SMP live was a thing, but i do have experiences with fandoms where RPF is completely normalized outside of the dsmp. I'm kind of gonna go on a rant of my own as well here. But like

It's frustrating to see how these people, Idols, content creators, celebrities etc are dehumanized and often just seen as an object to project all of their emotions, whether it's frustrating, lust etc on to.

Like they genuinely stop seeing them as people, even if they don't want to admit it.

It honestly isn't even just about sexual content, stuff like writing rpf fics and assuming certain people's roles within the lives of the ccs they like is also weird

Like how you can find rpf fics where the ccs parents are abusive. How you can find fics where the significant other of the cc is cheating which is why they leave them for their friend and discover they were in gay love all along. or Fics where its revealed that "actually this specific moment that happened irl on stream was a sign of abuse and the people who claim to be the friend of X cc are actually toxic and don't deserve them" And its just like??????

People are reading into things so hard. And I'll admit when I'm hyperfixating hard it's sometimes difficult to differentiate what I feel and what the cc I watch feels or expresses, but I'm aware that that's parasocial behaviour and I ignore it. It's my brain tricking me into thinking I know that person and that they feel and see everything the same as I do. It's not healthy to indulge in that even if it can feel comforting.

And the problem with the dteam specifically is that they encourage this type of behaviour like a lot, and the only reason they do is profit.

Back to nsfw content though, it absolutely is going to become a lot worse and I'm not looking forward to that

[hungermakesmonsters]

(Once Bitten) Twice Shy

Chapter Eighteen

Plot summary : Desperate to get away from your controlling family, you take a job in New York as a wealthy vampire's blood source. A million dollars awaits if you can make it through a year, but life with Billy Russo is not going to be as simple as you think.

Pairing : Billy Russo x Reader

Story Rating : R  Chapter Rating : R

Warnings : [This is a fic for 18+ only, minors DNI] Violence. A lot more violence than usual. All chapters will contain mentions of blood. Please check the warnings on each chapter if you choose to follow this story. 

Word Count : 4.3k

A/N : if you haven't already voted for what you want to see me write next, you've got a day and a half left

CHAPTER ONE | CHAPTER TWO | CHAPTER THREE | CHAPTER FOUR | CHAPTER FIVE | CHAPTER SIX | CHAPTER SEVEN | CHAPTER EIGHT | CHAPTER NINE | CHAPTER TEN | CHAPTER ELEVEN | CHAPTER TWELVE | CHAPTER THIRTEEN | CHAPTER FOURTEEN | CHAPTER FIFTEEN | CHAPTER SIXTEEN | CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

MASTER LIST

Chapter Eighteen

It felt like the world was unravelling around him, like he was coming apart at the seams. While he’d said the words hours ago, it wasn’t until that moment that he started to feel the weight of them. He loved you. He loved you in a way that he’d never allowed himself to love anyone else. He loved you in a way that was so deep, so visceral that if he lost you, he knew he’d never recovered. 

You were inexorably linked, two halves of one soul. You were everything to him and Billy knew he couldn’t go back to the empty, bleak life he’d been living, no matter how many times he’d tried to convince himself overwise over the last couple of months.

His knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel, running a red light to get to Krista’s building. Frank and Madani were talking but, to Billy, it all just sounded like static in his ears.

He couldn’t lose you.

He wouldn’t.

Pulling up, he killed the engine and before anyone could think to speak or question, he was out of the car, clearing the steps to the building two at a time. Frank and Madani had to rush to keep up with him, each still talking, calling after him. But Billy didn’t care about waiting, about figuring out ‘what to do’. No, Billy knew what he was going to do; he was going to make Krista talk, he was going to make her understand why fucking with you had been the worst decision of her life

It was a blur and, for a few minutes he lost himself; he kicked the door open and the next thing he knew, he had his hands around her throat, with Frank yelling at him to calm down.

“Where is she?” The voice that left his lips wasn’t quite his own.

“Gone. I don’t know where,” Krista answered, grinning despite the grip he had on her. “You’ll never find her. Just like you never found Mary.”

Somehow Frank managed to wrench Billy away but Krista didn’t even try to escape. She was enjoying the scene playing out before her, she was taking pleasure in his pain, glad that she’d had some small part in causing it.

“Mary?” It was Madani who spoke, gun drawn, stepping forwards. “Mary Poots?”

“Poor little Mary,” Krista said in a sing-song tone, barely holding back a laugh. “You thought you could replace me with someone so... fragile...”

“You killed Mary Poots?” Madani tried to continue her line of questioning despite the fact that Krista’s attention was fully on Billy.

“Now you’re going to lose the new one,” Krista carried on, all eyes on her. “I’ll take the next one, too. And the one after that. All of them. Every last one, until I’m all you have left.”

“You’re fucking insane,” Billy spat and that drew a laugh from Krista.

“If I am, it’s because of you, because you infected me...” she laughed again. “Or, no, I suppose it was Layla... not that it matters. You fuck up everything you touch, don’t you, Billy?”

“Just tell me where she is!” Billy demanded.

He lunged towards her, but Frank was too quick, too strong, wrapping an arm around him and holding Billy back.

“I don’t know,” she answered, still smiling, seemingly unbothered. “I never asked and he never told. You shouldn’t worry, I’m sure she’ll make a beautiful bride. Her fiance was so happy to finally have her back.”

Billy snapped and snarled, struggling against Frank and against himself, his last shred of control quickly starting to split and fray. He wanted to kill her, wanted to do what he knew he should have done months ago.

“She’s not worth it, Bill,” Frank told him, trying to pull him away.

“You’ve just confessed to murder in front of a Federal Agent,” Madani finally piped up, earning a laugh from Krista, before her attention shifted to Frank and Billy. “If Justin Drake has her and they’re still in the city, we’ll be able to track her down.”

“And what if she’s not still in the city?” Billy snapped. “There’s only a few hours until dawn...”

“We’re going to find her,” Madani answered, her tone sharpening to match his.

“And what about her?” Frank dared to ask, drawing all eyes back to Krista.

“I can send someone to pick her up.”

Krista finally moved, attempting to bolt for the door but, somehow, Billy managed to wrench free of Frank’s grip and lunged for her, knocking into her so hard that they both fell to the ground.

She ripped and tore at him with her nails, sinking her fangs into his shoulder and not letting go until his elbow connected with her face. They rolled, Billy ending up on top before she caught him across the face, clawing at him. She rolled him, straddling him as she landed another hit across his face while Billy’s hands gripped her throat.

By the time Frank pulled her away, they were both bloody and bruised, each bearing the marks of each other’s hatred. She kicked and screamed against Frank’s grip as he pushed her face first into the wall, pinning her there while Madani cuffed her to a radiator.

“You think that’s gonna hold her?” Frank asked, eying Krista as she dropped to the ground.

“It’s all we can do for now,” Madani answered. “We need to move.”

“She needs to die,” Billy snarled.

It felt like his body was vibrating with rage, like the thing inside of him had finally won. But, before he could move, Frank was on him, forcing him backwards, hands shoving him so hard that he knocked the breath from Billy’s lungs.

“You wanna waste time on her while your girl’s out there? You wanna throw her life away and yours just so you can settle a score with this crazy bitch?” He barked in Billy’s face, shoving him again. Billy didn’t have an answer. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Now fucking move, this guy isn’t gonna find himself.”

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

It felt like the world had tilted on its axis and gripping the edge of the table was all you could do to keep yourself from falling. It had never made sense why he wanted you, why he’d been so adamant; you weren’t anything special, you weren’t worth anything (certainly not when compared to the amount of money your parents owed him). But, now you finally had answers, it made even less sense.

He was doing this because you looked like a distant relative who you shared only a fraction of your DNA with. 

He was doing this because she had denied him, just like you were trying to deny him.

He wanted you to be a vampire, to spend an eternity at his side.

“No.” The word fell from your mouth with a certainty that you didn’t feel.

“You don’t have a choice,” he retorted, already sounding like he was done with your denials and insolence.

“Yes, I do,” you answered back, remembering all the times Billy had told you as much.

You hadn’t believed it at the time, you’d thought that it was just a line, something he was telling you to make you feel better but, now, faced with someone who wanted to remove your choice, your agency, you realised that Billy had been right all along. Lifting your head and sitting a little straighter, you silently promised yourself that you weren’t going to cower before him, you weren’t going to let this sorry excuse for a man decide your future.

“You can do what you want to me. I’ll never be yours,” you told him. “Even if it takes my whole life, I’ll do everything I can to escape you.”

“I don’t know what you think you can -”

“I’m not afraid of you anymore,” you interrupted, not letting him get the upper hand, not letting him treat you like the naive child you had been when you last sat across from him. “You will never get what you want from me.”

Anger flickered across his face and it took him more than a few seconds to tamp it down again. Obviously he hadn’t been expecting such resistance from you.

But then came the laugh, a sound that caused dread to coil in your stomach.

“Like I told you; I’m a patient man and I have an eternity to bend you to my will,” he sai, his voice softer than his expression. “There might be nothing I can do to you anymore, but I already told you that your sister, her children...”

“You won’t hurt them.”

“How are you so sure?”

“Because you’ll lose your leverage over me if you do,” you answered, trying to hide the discomfort in your voice, hating that you were gambling with your sister’s safety. “And if you think I’m being difficult now, you’ve got no idea how much worse I can be.”  

Drake let out another callous huff of laughter, a twisted smile pulling at his lips.

“You’re right, but there are other ways to hurt you, aren’t there? Other people close to your heart...” he trailed off for a moment, letting his words sink in. “What about William Russo or his little human friend? Karen is it?”

As much as you wanted to remain defiant, the thought of anything happening to Billy made you feel sick to your stomach. You couldn’t let anything happen to him. You wouldn’t. 

Before you realised you were doing it, your hand was gripping the knife in front of you. 

It took him by surprise when you lunged across the table, aiming the blunt knife towards his chest despite knowing that it wouldn’t be enough to kill him. You didn’t care. The outcome of this didn’t matter; either he would die or you would. Either way, Billy would be safe.

Plates and glasses smashed as you half-fell over the table, tipping his chair back and knocking him to the floor, you on top of him.

His fingers gripped your wrist, stopping you as you tried to bring the knife down, holding the tip only a few inches from his chest.

There was noise all around you and it wasn’t until some time later that you realised it was you, that you were screaming, telling him you were going to kill him, that you wouldn’t stop until he was dead.

The struggle felt like it lasted a lifetime when, in reality, a few seconds after you’d cleared the table, one of his goons had arrived and pulled you off him. Kicking and screaming, you were carried back to your room and thrown inside.

You landed with an awkward thud, pain radiating up your bad arm despite the cast. But, seconds later, you were back on your feet, banging against the door, trying to get out, only to find that you were locked in. But that didn’t stop you from continuing to kick and scream at the door, telling him that you were going to kill him, that the only way he’d stop you was by killing you.

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

After they’d left Josie’s, Frank had text Karen to let her know what was going on and where they were headed. She decided to stick around and keep asking questions around the bar, making sure that nothing had been missed but, after half an hour or so, she decided to call it a night and head home.

She left with your suitcase, having stuffed Bill the Beagle back inside, rolling it along the sidewalk behind her. Her apartment was only a couple of blocks away and, despite the late hour, she’d never felt particularly unsafe walking home from Josie’s.

“Hey, uh, excuse me Miss?” A voice rang out.

Not thinking, Karen stopped and turned, seeing a large man dressed in a dark suit heading towards her.

“Can I help you with something?” She asked, finally noticing the limo parked in front of Josie’s.

It couldn’t be a coincidence; Josie’s wasn’t the sort of place anyone would want to leave a limousine, especially not twice in one night. Karen took a step back, realisation causing her blood to turn ice cold in her veins.

“Yeah, I think that suitcase belongs to a friend of mine,” he answered, slowly stepping towards her. 

The moment he started to move, Karen reached into her purse, trying to find her gun but not taking her eyes off of him for even a second.

“Funny,” she answered, “because this case happens to belong to a friend of mine.” 

Gun in hand, she lifted it, pointing it straight at him, causing him to stop dead in his tracks. She couldn’t be sure if he was a vampire or not, but she wasn’t going to take any chances, and aimed the gun at his chest. It might not kill him, but it would definitely slow him down.

“Where is she?” Karen demanded.

“It’s none of your concern,” he answered back, daring to take the slightest step but hesitating  again when Karen lifted the gun a little higher, aiming for his heart.

“I said, where is she?” She repeated, taking a step of her own.

“She’s with her fiance and if I were you, I’d just hand over the case.”

Karen opened her mouth about to refuse again when he moved, clearing the distance between them with a supernatural speed, knocking the gun from her grasp and into the road. As she moved to grab the suitcase, he struck her with the back of his hand, knocking her off balance and sending her to the pavement.

Karen scrambled for the gun but, by the time she had it, he was almost back at the limo, throwing the case into the passenger side before moving around to the driver's door.

As he started up the engine, Karen noticed a taxi and quickly tried to flag it down. When it didn’t stop, she stepped out into the street in front of it, making it stop for her.

“Follow that limo,” she told the driver as she climbed into the back.

“Listen, lady, I -” the driver started to refuse.

“No, you listen, the piece of shit that owns that limo has kidnapped a friend of mine and I have a gun, so you can either follow that limo and get paid at the end of this, or I’m going to have to take your taxi.”

The threat hung in the air for a few seconds. She could see the driver wearily eyeing her in the rearview, no doubt taking note of the gun in her lap and her split lip.

“Alright, fine, just don’t go doin’ anything crazy,” he muttered before starting after the limo.

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

They were barely outside of Krista’s building when Frank got the call. Billy watched as his friend's expression dropped from one of calm control to absolute rage in less than five seconds. He’d been busy listening to Madani, to all the measures she was putting in place to try and track you down; tracking the limo, credit cards, checking hotel guest lists. It only vaguely occurred to him that it wasn’t until then that he heard your so-called fiance’s name for the first time tonight.

Justin Drake.

Not that it mattered what his name was; he’d be a dead man the moment Billy got his hands on him.

But, for a few seconds, all of that stopped mattering and his attention was fixed on Frank.

“Are you okay?” he demanded of the person on the other end of the call. “Did he hurt you?” There was a pause for an answer that Billy couldn’t quite make out over the sound of traffic. “Where are you? No - no, stay outside and wait for us. We’ll be there in five minutes.”

“What’s going on?” Billy asked the moment Frank ended the call.

“He sent one of his goons after the suitcase. Karen followed him back to the Park View hotel, she thinks that’s where he’s got her.” Frank explained.

A second later Madani was relaying that information on her call, but Billy was already moving for the car, and Frank was quick to follow.

“Wait, I can get back up and -” Madani started, falling into step behind the men.

“We ain’t waiting,” Frank answered.This time it was his turn to be angry. They’d gone near Karen and, now, it was personal for him. 

The conversation continued as they got in the car and carried on until they arrived at the hotel; Madani wanted to wait for back-up. Billy and Frank didn’t. It was that simple. They weren’t going to wait.

“You can help us, or you can stay here,” Frank told her, though his attention was immediately focused on Karen the moment he saw her, his blood starting to boil at the sight of her split lip. “We’re killin’ this fucker.”

“Yeah we are,” Billy responded.

Frank gave Karen some quick instructions, telling her to go wait in the car and to stay out of the way. He tried to tell Madani to wait with her but the Homeland Agent refused, trying one last time to convince them to just wait a few more minutes for back-up to arrive. Before she could even finish, Billy was moving past her and heading for the hotel’s entrance.

He moved through the lobby, drawing stares from everyone that looked his way; blood from the wounds that Krista had inflicted was still fresh on his clothes and he looked as if he’d just torn someone apart with his bare hands.

By the time he reached the front desk, there were already two members of the hotel security team standing there.

“I’m Agent Madani with Homeland Security,” she spoke before anyone else had the chance, and before Billy had the opportunity to do anything stupid. “You have a Justin Drake staying here, I need access to his rooms, now.” 

“I can’t just -” the receptionist started to answer.

“He has a woman with him up there, doesn’t he?” Madani asked, stepping up to the desk. “A woman that turned up earlier tonight?”

Billy took a step forward, getting ready to take matters into his own hands.

“I can’t reveal -” the receptionist tried again.

“He kidnapped her,” Billy snapped, “and he’s planning on hurting her. So you can either let us in peacefully, or we can make you.”

The security guards moved closer but then, at the sight of Frank stepping forwards, they seemed to shy away.

“We can wait for a warrant, or you can let us in now. Either way, if anything happens, it’ll be on you,” Madani explained. “Call Homeland - hell, call the cops, the FBI, whoever you want. Have us arrested when we’re done. But if anything happens, her blood will be on your hands.”

“And we’ve got Karen Page from The Bulletin sittin’ outside waitin’ for her friend to come out, so I suggest if you don’t wanna be named as complicit in this...” Frank let the threat go unfinished.

The receptionist had turned snow white, her hands trembling as she handed over a keycard and directed them to the elevator. The two hotel security members followed after.

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

You heard the commotion before everything went to hell.

There was a phone call; from what you could gather they had a friend in the FBI who’d gotten wind of a Homeland investigation, and there was about to be a raid on the hotel. They needed to get out of there, as quickly as they could.

“Come on,” he demanded, holding out his hand to you.

“No.”

“I’ve had enough of your games,” he muttered, his voice changing, turning softer. “Now, come with me.”

When he held out his hand again, you took a step towards him, wanting to do exactly as he said.

“N-no,” you said, shaking your head, trying to block him out, trying not to let him sway you.

“Come on, come with me. Right now,” he tried again.

Again you took a step, then another. Something inside of you told you to stop, to fight him, but you couldn’t. All you wanted to do was go with him.

“That’s it, come along and -”

“Boss, they’re in the elevator!”

The sudden disruption was enough to snap you out of it. You stepped back, reestablishing the space between you. You weren’t going to make this easy for him. 

“Told you I’d never be yours,” you muttered defiantly, triumphantly.

You both knew that there was no way that Drake was going to get out of this, at least not with you at his side. He’d have to let you go if he wanted to escape.

But you realised all too late what letting go looked like to Justin Drake.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” He asked, starting towards you. “I would have given you everything if only you’d chosen not to act like a tempermental whore. But it’s really no bother. I’m sure when your niece is old enough she’ll be far more amenable, far more grateful for what I have to offer.” 

You stepped back as he closed the distance, until you found yourself against the window.

“At least I get to have one last taste,” he muttered darkly.

“No!” 

Your arms shot out, trying to push him away, trying to keep him from biting you. But he was bigger than you and infinitely stronger. He pushed you back, held you in place despite your thrashing and screaming. You tried everything you could to stop him from pressing closer and closer, trying to turn away as he bowed his head towards your neck.

“Not so defiant now, are you?”

“Please, no - no!” You screamed and begged, tears streaming down your face.

He bit down. Hard. 

Fangs tore through flesh, but rather than lingering to feed, he pulled back, his lips and chin dripping dark with your blood.

It took a moment for you to realise that blood was slowly filling your throat, that he’d left you with more than just a puncture wound.

Your hand lifted as he pulled back and started to walk away, feeling the wound he’d left and the way blood was spurting from it. Lightheadedness quickly over took and you found yourself sliding down the glass and onto the floor. Desperately you reached for the hoodie you’d discarded on the floor when you’d changed for dinner, pressing it against the wound, hoping you’d survive long enough to see Billy one last time.

You weren’t sure what was happening, but you heard gunshots and shouting. Then someone was at your side, her hand holding the hoodie tighter against your wounds and shouting for Billy. 

Madani.

(What was Madani doing there?)

“Hold on, help’s on the way,” she told you, but the words barely registered.

You had so many questions but it seemed too late to try and ask them.

But finally - finally  - Billy was at your side. Dropping to his knees, his eyes filling with tears at the sight of you.

“B-Billy,” you managed to choke out despite the blood filling your mouth and lungs, “you’re h-here...”

You felt him squeezing your hand, holding you so tight, like he never wanted to let you go. There were tears in his eyes as he looked down at you and you knew exactly what they meant; you were dying. In your efforts to save him the pain of watching you die, you’d brought it about decades early.

“I told you,” he muttered softly, “I’ll never let you go.”

Madani continued to press the cloth against your wound but you could tell from Billy’s face that it wasn’t helping.

“S-sorry,” you tried to mutter, wishing that you had more time, wishing that you could apologise properly.

“Don’t,” he told you, “don’t try to talk. Just - just stay still, stay with me, it’s going to be alright.”

“I l-love -” you couldn’t finish, there was too much blood and you were starting to feel so cold, so tired.

“Hey - hey, hummingbird, keep your eyes on me. It’s going to be okay,” Billy told you, but his voice sounded so far away. 

You struggled to hold his gaze, some part of you glad that you’d gotten to see him one last time, but the rest of you hated the agony on his face and the tears streaking down his cheeks. 

“I’m sorry,” he told you, squeezing your hand tighter, like he was trying to hold you in this life and not let you slip away. “I love you and - and I’m sorry, I know you’ll hate me but...”

The rest faded into the sound of your own panic, some part of you knowing what he was trying to tell you, knowing what he wanted to do. You tried to shake your head, tried to pull at his hand but you were so weak you could barely move. 

You were so far gone that you didn’t hear him screaming and pleading with Frank, nor did you hear Frank’s initial refusal and Billy’s threat to do it himself. 

Your eyes went wide when Frank loomed over you, looking at you for a moment, an unspoken apology colouring his features. You tried to speak, trying to say something - though, confronted with your own death, even you weren’t sure what you wanted anymore. But you felt Billy’s hand squeezing yours and some piece of you wanted to hold on, wanted to have his hand in yours for longer than this moment, longer than the six months that you’d had together. 

You wanted him.

You wanted the man you loved.

(It wasn’t fair. You didn’t want to die. You didn’t want to leave him.)

But it was too late. Your eyes fell shut and you let out a gurgled breath, and the last thing you heard was Billy’s shouts.

End Note : So, yeah... I have a lot of feelings about this chapter. I know it jumps around and I'm not the greatest at action sequences (I'm working on it). And I know people won't like the ending and so on, but I'm having fun. I'm not sure if next week will be the last part now or if I'll have an epilogue the week after to tie up loose ends. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this and it wasn't a let down! Also I'm sorry if any typos slipped through, I lost a night of writing to go see Deadpool last night..

As ever, thank you so much for your support/reading/liking/reblogging/screaming at me in the comments! Have a great weekend!!

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[jeonsfrvr]

high-end (jjk) : zibermuda

→ summary: jungkook is a best-selling erotica novelist living in a lavish neighborhood. He spends his days cruising on yachts, tasting the world’s most expensive wines, and fucking bar-staff. But, as soon as you move in next door with your fruity cocktails, tight bikinis, and odd philosophies, his hobbies shift. To put it plainly; you’re sex on legs and he wants to write about you in his upcoming novel. But first, he has to get to know you inside and out. 

→ genre:smut, fluff, angst (erotica-novelist!jk, architect!reader)

→ words: 13,050

Let’s get one thing straightened out; rich people love to do rich people shit. Whether it be deep-throating oysters in the coastal towns of France, raiding designer stores, or pretending to relate to the lower class, they do it and they do it often.

Jeon Jungkook is guilty of most of the above. At 25 years of age, he lives in a multi million-dollar house situated in the privacy and luxury of the Hills. His neighbors live just as lavishly; some actors, some dentists, and some wealthy by marriage. Their problems seem bizarre to the average person, but respectfully, problems are problems. If you’re feeling off about something — even if you’re standing in your ten-acre garden and can’t seem to decide where to build your own personal water park — you still have a problem.

Jungkook has a problem of his own, but we’ll get to that in a moment.

How the fuck did he get so rich and where do I sign up? You might be thinking to yourself. He writes about the intimate and explicit details of sex. Each of his novels revolve around a successful individual dealing with life’s obstacles and ultimately leaving their imprint on the world. The sex scenes are a by-product of the power play. There’s a lot of power in sex, there’s a lot of love in his heart for life and its obstacles, and there’s a lot of money in publishing well-written (debatable), fantasy-driven erotica novels. 

To say he was born with a silver spoon sticking out of both of his ears would be a bit of an overstatement, but not too far from the truth. His parents are the masterminds behind a multi billion-dollar tech company that develops security software. From day one, they drove the tech-fantasy into their sons head, and even though they persuaded him to graduate college with a Bachelor of Advanced Computer Science, things took a different turn once he stepped foot into the real world; he grew a little too cocky with his qualifications, social status, and good looks, and so spent his time entertaining a rowdy bunch of people, partying, having insane amounts of sex, drinking whatever was handed to him, snorting blow off bars, and everything else the champagne life entails.

And then, like most young people, he was inspired by a short-lived summer romance. She was an aspiring solicitor, beautiful, confident, and determined, but her determination made her use people like dental floss. She bat her eyelashes a thousand times, said anything to grow her network, and lied like it was a 9-5 job. But, as much as it hurt him, he never grew to hate her. There was something about her — maybe it was the way she could tame every doubt in his mind, or the way she built herself from the ground up — that made it clear that she knew the world was hers. She was the inspiration behind his first novel.Similar to how musicians write an array of emotional lyrics and dedicate music videos to ex-lovers, he too found a way to tell stories. The difference is that he never writes out of spite.No matter how many chapters of heartbreak he could write, he believes it to be wholly unproductive. He sees the good and the fun in others or he doesn’t see at all.

He knew many fine publishers through his parents, so it wasn’t long before he was an official published author with a new network of literate friends. His novel was a quick success thanks to his advertising team. They worked their ass to the bone to gain a cult following for him. Posters were on bus-stops, library walls, retirement home notice boards, and even on the ‘Do Not Feed the Ducks’ signs at parks. If the ducks and the elderly weren’t already into sexy, but also kind of odd novels, they sure as hell are now.

He was crowned the king of erotica just a week after his first publication.

The average Joe appreciates a little sex every now and then, but this isn’t a story about average Joe’s. It’s about filthy rich savages who can’t get enough of it; in every position, at every time of the day, at every setting. They put rabbits to shame. For all intents and purposes, Jungkook is one of these rabbit-shaming savages. He loves dubious, sweat-inducing, vulgar sex with loose women; MILFS, teachers, models, lawyers, doctors, bartenders, and even the neighbor living in the colonial mansion opposite from him. She’s forty-three years old, freshly divorced, and had been a fan of his writing since the very first publication, so she thought ’what the hell? I’ll just knock on his door, crack open a bottle of wine, and gush about how much I love his work. Maybe I can work on my game, too.’ She came for conversation, but never thought that he’d be spelling it out with his tongue between her thighs.

When it comes to conversing with him, there’s often tension, whether sexual or just plain enlightening, and a tipping point. He always says the right things to aid out unlikely confidence within people; a type of confidence that makes a person say what they truly mean and want. He likes to ask unlikely questions and do unlikely things, sex aside.

Back to his problem, though; writers block. He’s lacking very specific inspiration, but this is where you come into play. He was curious about you from the very moment he saw you chatting with the driver of the movers truck. You’d been standing outside your new house with your summer dress and broad-rimmed hat, and he’d been curiously scoping out his new neighbor from his window. It’s not uncommon for him to feel such curiosity toward a successful person, nor is it rare for him to adapt and characterize them for his novels. Only the devil knows what kind of woman you are. Maybe you’re a teacher of fine arts, a model, a marine, a police officer, maybe you married into wealth, or even a decoy sent by the FBI. He learned many years ago to not judge a person by their cover.

It was only yesterday that he saw you standing on your driveway with a shadow cast over half of your face, and if he hadn’t been preoccupied with avoiding various voicemails and bickering with his lawyer over the phone, he would’ve introduced himself. Today, though, he plans on doing just that. In fact, he’s already half-way down the stairs with a free schedule and the brighter side of your face clear in his mind.

The staircase banisters are glass panes adorned with silver hand-railings, and each step is a thick, hand-cut slab of grey marble. The steps cascade from the second floor to the kitchen, where contemporary wine racks have been built underneath. Stocked on the racks are hundreds of bottles of imported red wine, white wine, and limited edition champagne taken from events and given to him as gifts. Most, if not all, are purely decorative. He prefers whiskey.

Bright, white spotlights are tucked underneath floating wall dividers to brighten up the home and most, if not all, of the walls have been coated in a light grey paint. A theme of dark wood runs true to his home; dark counter tops, coffee tables, and sculptures. His home is very much an open plan, quite like himself.

Money has never been an issue for him, but it’d be foolish to say that wealth is what got him here in the first place. He has always been smart, has always known the right people, and has always been ambitious to the core. You could give him nothing but an empty bottle, and he’d soon be the best-selling bottle maker in the country.

Jungkook takes a few moments to pick out an expensive bottle of wine — a house-warming gift, if you will — before heading outside. The sky is a pretty shade of blue and almost void of clouds, except for a single cloud spread across the sky like a stroke of white paint. He knocks on your door three times and checks his Rolex after waiting an excess of fifteen seconds. Almost a minute passes before the front door swings open to reveal your shadow-free face. You have light, complementary makeup and a small smile adorning it. If he were younger and a little more naive, he’d drop to his knees.

It’s 4:48PM on a Sunday, yet you have a half-empty, strawberry cocktail in your hand. It’s 4:48PM, yet he has an expensive bottle of wine in his. He already likes you.

“Hello.” You say with those strawberry stained lips. Something about you suggests that you’re a little bit introverted, but it’s definitely not the cloud-white bikini and black, sheer cover-up wrapped around your figure. “I don’t suppose you’re the pool man?” 

“No, but I can take a look if you’d like.” He smiles a true Hollywood smile. “Your neighbor. To the right.”

His home is the biggest in the neighborhood. Many of the other homes are half the size, but just as lavish, including your own.

“Y/N.” You offer out your hand for him to shake and he does so without hesitation. “Architecture is my forte, but that’s not usually the first thing people guess.”

He tells you his name and you repeat it back in a way that makes him raise his eyebrows ever so slightly. And, as you invite him inside, you size him up; from his broad shoulders, slim waist, to his surprisingly perky ass. What is it with men and winning the genetic jackpot for good asses and eyelashes?

You’re not the only one, though. He’s already taken note of your half-naked body, ring-less fingers, and the dimples in your lower back. Your house smells like clean laundry and fresh paint, and an array of gin, brandy, vodka, and whiskey bottles sit on a silver platter on your marbled kitchen counter, right next to a bouquet of deep pink Dahlias. He places the wine bottle nearby, slightly defeated by the wrong choice of drink.

You’re not a wine-drinker, he notes. Cocktails are your best friend.

“Thank you.” You say, genuinely, as you inspect the brand and age of the wine. It looks expensive and by the looks of him, it has to be. “You really didn’t have to bring me anything.”

“I would’ve brought you a pie, but I can’t bake to save a life.” He humors. “You’ll get one, though, just not from me.”

The sun is far too warm to keep the conversation strictly inside. Summer has always been your favorite time of the year.

“What do you do, by the way? I don’t think I asked.” You inquire as you step past the large, glass sliding doors and wander around the great length of your swimming pool. Sundays are the only days where you have the time to lounge around in a bikini and drink cocktails before 5PM, so you make the most of it.

“I’m an author.” Even for someone like him, he’s never seen such a huge personal pool. Are you coaching the Olympic swimming team or something? He can just about picture you lounging on an inflatable pool float, skin wet and glistening in the light.

"What kind of stuff do you write?” You ask with your drink in one hand and his full-attention in the other. “Let me guess.. Science fiction? Business advice?”

His tan skin, wavy hair, and aura yells — practically screams — ‘leisure’, so he could easily be mistaken for a businessman with a habit of visiting the Bahamas every weekend. That’s not far from the truth, to be fair. He isn’t one to shy away from self-indulgence.

“Erotica.” There’s no hidden shame behind his confession, nor is their a flicker of embarrassment. He owns it, just like he owns that white, button-up shirt and that dark, ruffled hair. He’s physically fit, too, thanks to his interest in recreational boxing and high intensity training.

“Erotica?” You repeat, way-off, but entirely captivated by this strange man. “So, you’re addicted to sex?”

Cheeky, he notes.

You tap your finger against your glass and drink in everything about him. The longer you look, the shyer you feel. What’s that about? You’ve never been one to shy away from a hot, single neighbor; that is if he’s actually single and not just a cocky husband of a woman who deserves a whole lot better. There’s something very intimidating about him. He carries himself like nothing in this world could bother him or make him stutter over his words.

He likes that you asked that. It gives him incentive to ask you the same thing. “Aren’t you?”

“We’re living in the hills, Mr. Author.” Your laugh strokes his ears like soft velvet. “I’m sure everybody around here is in some sort of sex ring.”

He touches the bottom of his chin and your eyes linger there for a few moments. His face is perfectly symmetrical; sharp jaw, deep brown eyes, pretty pink lips. A small mole sits directly under his bottom lip, too. “You free Thursday evening, Y/N?”

“Could be.”

“Could be.” He repeats, amused. “A friend of mine opened up a bar down on boulevard. Real fancy shit. They serve $1,000 diamond cocktails and everything else pretentious. I’d like to take you.”

“Sounds fun.” You agree without much hesitation. “I get home from work at 7.”

And that’s how Jeon Jungkook meets you for the first time. He doesn’t stay for too long, though, because he prefers to pace himself. Too much of a good thing isn’t good for anybody. You’ve only spoken to him for twenty-five minutes, but he’s already so intrigued. You’re two years his senior, graduated college twice; first with a Bachelor’s Degree in Architecture, and the second time with a Master’s in Architecture. You love what you do, but you hate where you work, even though it’s one of the best studios in the city. Interior and spacial designs interest you the most, but your boss compresses what you’re allowed to do out of fear that you might be better than he is. Jungkook can already tell that you’re better than a lot of people, especially your boss.

“I won’t be mad if you pour that wine down the sink, honestly.” He wanders past your front door and eyes the way you ever so slightly lean your hip against the door frame. “I mean it.”

You laugh, knowing damn well that that very thought crossed your mind just moments before. “See you Thursday, Mr. Author.”

He heads back home, but catches you again from the same window he’d seen you from yesterday. He observes, slightly hypnotized, as you bend over to place a cocktail glass on the concrete nearby the pool. The sheer fabric of your beach kimono rides up your lower back, revealing the curve of your ass and the white bikini thong clinging to your skin. And then he notices his own novel in your hands. The coloring of the front cover suggests that it’s one of his older novels. He then wonders if you already knew who he was and are just a really convincing actress. You didn’t, really, but his novel was stuffed into a box of books that you had just started to unpack. You recall a friend gifting you the erotica novel for your 25th birthday, but you never even read the blurb. It’s been gathering dust at the back of shelves for two years, but now you just have to know what it’s all about. 

Not expecting much, you flick through a few chapters until you land on a random sex scene. You drink in every word like it’s a new cocktail flavor, tasting the incredibly lewd descriptions of wall sex shifting to wet, shower sex. The way he describes each scene has your imagination firing up like an old truck. You can picture each water droplet sliding down the two bodies, the hand print left on the main character’s thigh, and the thick, misty air in the bathroom. A little warm in the face, you flip the novel and peer at the image of Jungkook printed just above the blurb. He’s wearing that same Hollywood smile.

Monday rolls around far too quickly. You bid farewell to your bikinis and cocktails until next Sunday, and head to work with armfuls of files.

Your boss, David Woods; a man with a passion for development and architecture; ushers you to his large office before you can even make it to your desk. He’s tall and lean; at-least 6′1; with a short quiff that he feels the need to gel back. His hands are abnormally large and disproportionate to his body. Pressed suits, solid-colored ties, shiny shoes, and white button-ups are all that he wears in fear that he could be mistaken for anything other than a rich man.

A dark oak desk sits toward the further end of the room, closest to a blue-grey wall and a painting of something dark and abstract. There are countless awards for god-knows-what lined up on his bookshelves, and a prayer plant is sat on the left side of his desk in a tall, gold vase. If it weren’t for that plant doing regular plant things, the air in here would reek of death.

He takes a seat at his black leather chair and places his big hands on the desk, grinning wickedly at you. The gold light fixtures match the thin, gold necklace that’s half-tucked beneath his button-up.

“A little birdie told me that you’re planning to open up your own studio.” He interrogates. Woods has never been one to mind his business, let alone speak to another human being without a condescending tone. “When was that? Sometime this year?”

“A little birdie?” You’re not afraid to call him out on his blatant dishonesty. “You look through my laptop when I’m at lunch.”

“The company’s laptop.” He corrects. He’s amused by your boldness, but if you squint, you can see the irritation behind his pale blue eyes. “You know how I feel about my people taking clients from The Woods. It’s not good for business.”

No, he’s not talking about literal tree-dominated land, although he does a good job at making people feel as if they’re lost in such a place. The Woods is quite literally him and anything he owns. Once you step foot into the building, you’re in The Woods territory. There’s a difference between being proud of what you’ve made for yourself and being an overbearing asshole who thinks he has a say in everyone and everything.

“I’m just trying to help you out, Y/N. You know that’s all I’ve ever done for you.” He says as condescending as ever. “I just don’t think you’re ready to be your own boss.”

“I’ve been ready for a while.” There’s no reason for you to say this out loud, because, well, both of you are already aware of it. You’re his best. You draw in clients like no other, have a network exceeding 500 professionals, and are a complete realist. You could run five successful studios, but with the right investors, you could run one of the best in the country. “If it’s clients that you’re worried about, don’t. I won’t steal from you.”

“Oh, but you’ve been stealing from me since I let you in these doors.”

Loyalty is a big thing for Woods, but he holds it against people to an extreme extent. He interferes with personal lives, often ordering people to cut ties with others he holds a grudge against or because they don’t ‘fit his vibe.’ If you have an ugly pet, he’ll refer you to the nearest pet sanctuary. If your wife or husband is an under-performer, has one too many blemishes on their skin, or can’t bear a child, he’ll introduce you to somebody he deems worthy.

You leave his office with a plunging feeling in the pit of your stomach and a need for fresh air.

The receptionist greets you as you walk past and toward the revolving doors. She’s a woman in her mid twenties with a noticeable French accent. Light highlights run through her shoulder-length, brown hair. She’s fond of wearing sneakers to work as it makes the train commute a lot more comfortable for her feet, she likes ice-cream scented candles, cats — that’s evident by the few cat hairs stuck to the sleeve of her blouse —, and keeping up with local gossip. She’s good at her job, reliable, and always greets people with a warm smile, even Woods. She’s no-doubt the glue that holds this place together and prevents people from strangling each-other to death.

“Long day?” Mylène, the French receptionist, asks even though lunchtime has yet to hit.

“You could say that.”

“11:11AM.” She says like it means anything to you. “That’s an angel number. I’ll make a wish for you.”

From Monday to Thursday, you work and you work and you work. You have countless meetings with new and old clients, draw up elaborate designs, revise old designs, and visit various construction sites. Your desk grows littered with pens, pencils, cuts of fabric and woods, and random slithers of wallpaper prints. During your lunch breaks, you often grab a coffee with old college friends and colleagues, making the effort to really nourish relationships.

Thursday rolls around faster than usual and you find yourself sitting at a bar with Jeon Jungkook at 8:48PM. He’s wearing a black button-up shirt with a slight satin finish, rolled at the sleeves, black dress pants and shoes, and a Rolex around his wrist. His well built chest strains slightly against his shirt, as do his biceps. You’ve come straight from work in a deep blue pencil dress. There’s not a single casual tee or distressed jean in sight, only high heels, neutral colored ties, gorgeous dresses, and styled hair.

Soft, white down-lights shine from the ceiling above the bar table, illuminating whatever vibrant drink the bartender has served to a customer. Pleasant jazz hums from cleverly hidden speakers. The atmosphere couldn’t get any more intimate. You often find yourself at bars like these after a shit day at work with a drink in both hands. There are specific things that make a shit day, but your boss is always the garlic and onions behind recipes like those.

Jungkook orders a scotch on the rocks and takes the first gulp like a parched man. You order yourself a strawberry-mint gin and tonic.

“What got you into writing?” Is your first question of the night. “I’ve heard that the industry is hard to get into. A friend of mine was rejected dozens of times and told that her plots were all wrong.”

He ponders carefully before settling on an answer. “Life and its shit. I’ve been rejected before, but that’s just how it is out there. Wouldn’t it be boring to be right all the time?”

You chuckle at the notion. “My boss begs to differ.”

Writing — putting your thoughts out into the world for crass feedback — isn’t an easy thing to do. It’s often praised as brave; to open yourself up to such interactions with people who should have zero impact on your self-worth because, they’re, well, complete strangers with a different set of values, literary interests, interpretation skills, and are often just doing their job as a well-paid shit-stirrer.

A handful of people get a kick out of sharing anonymous, hateful comments. Jungkook deals with those kind of comments every day of his life, but if there’s one thing that he’s learned by being in the public eye, it’s that opinions aren’t facts. It’s important to take them and then let them go. Hell, you even have the power to build your own foundation with the bricks people throw at you. His life is his. Your life is yours. It’d be a very big mistake to see your life in eyes that aren’t yours.

People are always going to be cunts with zero regard for other people’s feelings. The difference is that you and him know the difference between being a decent human being and being that. That’s something to take pride in.

“Sure, but how do you deal with criticism?” You ask, intrigued by his extraordinary life. He’s so young for the empire he’s amassed. Sure, he’s two years your junior, but he could teach you a thing or two. “Do you rewrite or try somewhere else?”

He swirls the whiskey in his glass and watches as it glisten beneath the lights. Amusement is written all over his face, but there’s something foreign wavering in his eyes. “I deal with it by sitting in my mansion and not changing a fucking thing about myself.”

“Touché, but wealth isn’t everything.” You challenge. “A lot of people learn to love the money, but hate themselves.”

“I don’t hate myself.” He says and you believe him. “Not always. I try to hate the choices I make instead of hating myself for making them.”

“Smart. You’re your own best friend.”

“I’m never going to know somebody as well as I know myself, so why not? I am my own mind. I know what I’m thinking at most times of the day.”

He makes an interesting point, but you can’t help but challenge it further. “Then again.. you see yourself, but you also don’t see yourself. There are some things that I know about you that you don’t know about yourself. For instance..”

He holds his glass with a limp wrist, listening attentively. “Enlighten me.”

“Well.. I’m sitting in front of you and I can observe the expressions that your face makes during our conversation. You don’t always realize that you’re making them, but you can’t carry a little mirror with you and check what your face is doing all the time. Wouldn’t that be weird?”

“I’ve never thought about that before.” He says with a smile. “You’re a bit strange, aren’t you?”

His answer disappoints you slightly, but you don’t bother verbalizing it. He can tell you feel this way by the slight lowering of your eyebrows. Only, you don’t realize yourself that you’ve taken on this expression. Funny, he thinks to himself. Ignorance was bliss.

You both discuss your the past few riveting days that you’ve had; you speak about your boss in the kindest way possible, and he speaks about the people he recently met in only good tones and smiles. He doesn’t ever poke fun at another persons flaw, or their dress choice, or their intellect. He could sell anyone any product, no matter how shit it actually is, with that talent. You find yourself laughing and cringing like he’s an old school friend. It’s a nice feeling.

“What’s the worst thing you’ve done?” You dare to ask with your straw poking at your bottom lip. You’re on your third gin and tonic.

“The worst thing?” He repeats, amused by your formidable question. He could list a few things that’d shift the mood, but he isn’t ready for you to meet the skeletons in his closet, to evaluate the bad decisions he’s made, or to sympathize with the people he’s hurt.

“Yeah, you know-” You take a sip from your drink before returning it to the bar. You’re in a prying mood. There’s something about him, maybe it’s the way he looks at you with those big brown eyes, that makes you want to try your luck. “The naughtiest.” 

The naughtiest? He thinks to himself. Maybe it was when he bent his lawyer over her desk and showed her what ’taking it from the back’ really meant, or when he fucked a prestigious critic for a better review on his novel. He’s been everywhere, done a little bit of everything, and a little bit of everyone. To choose just one naughty thing would take a weeks worth of contemplation, but then, something of value comes to mind and he leans closer to whisper it into your ear; something so filthy that it makes your breath catch in your throat and your posture improve.

As he speaks lowly, his breath tickles your neck, sending goosebumps down the length of your arms. If you were slightly more sober, and some may argue — smart —, you’d recognize them as warning signs.

“And then..” His voice is intoxicating and has you hooked on every syllable that falls from his lips. He smells like a delicious mix of whiskey, vanilla, and pine. And, during the most telling part of his confession, he runs his palm from your knee to your upper thigh, taking the fabric of your dress with him.

You definitely took him as the promiscuous type, but this is far beyond anything you’ve ever heard before. When he pulls away, your skin is engulfed in an arousing heat. A warm flush had been crawling it’s way up your neck, but has well and truly settled between your thighs. "That’s pretty naughty.”

“Think so?” His confident tone arouses you more. You’re wet. That’s clear to the both of you. “I like the way you’re looking at me.”

You’re way too lost in his eyes and consumed by the feeling of his fingers tracing small circles against your thigh. Your eyes are probably begging for something, a portion of your bottom lip is probably caught between your teeth, and your chest is probably rising and falling quite quickly. “What way?”

“That way.” His eyes flick to your mouth, and then, just like that, his lips are on yours. He kisses you slowly at first, gently sliding his tongue against your own and relishing in the warmth and wetness of your mouth. He craves you; from your bashful smile to every inch of your body that always seems to be wrapped tightly in designer. He wonders what sounds you’ll make when he fucks you, whether or not you prefer to go slow and make love, how wet you’ll get you with just his fingers, and if your panties are thin and lacy and riding up your ass.

He hates wondering, so he takes you home. You unzip your dress and let it fall to the hardwood floor, and he pours himself a whiskey on the rocks. His curious eyes roam all over your skin, from your hardened nipples to your bare thighs, as he guides your lower back against the kitchen counter. Every touch against your skin makes you shudder, whether it be the pads of his fingers or the grey marble of the countertop.

“Look at you. Fuck..” He says, mostly to himself, as he rolls your nipple between his fingers. Your eyes flutter shut at his touch. 

He runs his palm up the curve of your ass and hooks his fingers underneath the band of your panties, tugging it tight against your pussy. The feeling of your skin burns into his memory, and as he looks at your face, really looks at it, he knows he hit the jackpot; your face is as beautiful as your voice, your voice is as beautiful as your mind, and your mind is as beautiful as your body. To him, you’re fucking faultless. He knows he’ll be on his knees for you before the night is over.

The ice sitting in his glass glistens beneath the kitchen light and it gives him an intriguing idea. He wants to see you come undone, to make you so stimulated that you can’t pinpoint where the feeling is coming from. He takes an ice cube between his lips and presses it against the side of your neck. You gasp at the feeling of the ice running against your skin; so cold that it almost stings. Your fingers grasp at the fabric of his button-up as he drags the ice past your collarbone and down to your nipple, pressing it firm against the bud until your back arches away from the counter. A thin sheen of water maps out exactly where his lips have been.

Just like he knew he would, he sinks to his knees and tugs your panties down your thighs and off at the feet. The ice melts in his mouth. His lips are still cold and wet as he presses a hard kiss against your pussy, and the feeling draws a startled gasp from your chest. He spreads your folds with his fingers and teasingly drags his tongue against your pussy hole. His nose digs against your clit as he licks into you. His own saliva coats his chin, and at one point, drools from your pussy to the hardwood flooring.

“Right there.. Like that. Fuck!” You sigh as he alternates between sucking and licking your clit, and curling two fingers inside of you. He touches you right, really making the effort to listen to the sounds you make and taking note of the way you squirm against his mouth.

He licks your pussy and digs his fingers into your ass until your moans double in volume and your breathing turns rapid, and then he stands to steal your breath again with a deep kiss. You fumble with the buttons of his button-up as he fervently kisses you. The pace of the kiss is erratic and you find it difficult to keep up. He bites and sucks on your tongue until your lips are swollen.

His body is dreamy and something you’ve been curious about ever since he turned up in that tight, black button-up; wide shoulders, slim waist, defined abdomen and pecs, and small nipples that harden slightly as you run your hands over his skin. You tug on the zipper of his pants and reach beneath for his cock. It’s stiff and warm in your hand.

He lifts your leg and wraps your thigh snug around his bare waist, eager to feel you. A relieved sigh falls from both of your mouths as he sinks into you. He pulls your hips flush against his own, delving deeper and filling you up until he can’t any more. You feel so warm and wet wrapped around him. It couldn’t be any better.

“You feel so good.” He praises and he means every word. “So fucking good..”

Similarly to the first kiss you shared, he starts off gentle and slow, but is quick to lose himself in the moment and set a quick pace. His pecs and abdomen flex as he bucks his hips against yours over and over again. The sex has you in a trance. Moans drool from your lips, your nails rake across the back of his neck, and your head grows increasingly dizzy. Your lower back digs firmly into the counter top as he fucks you against it, and profanities fall from his tongue in arousing moans. You can’t imagine your night getting any better.

The sex migrates from the kitchen counter, to the doors of the pantry, and finally to the nearby couch. He sinks onto, almost into, the couch as you straddle his lap. Nothing else is running through his mind aside from you; the feeling of your wrapped tightly around him, the sight of your parted lips and low eyes, the sound of your pretty whines and stuttering breath, and the bounce in your tits as you sit on his cock over and over again.

“Oh my.. god. Oh my-” You chant in desperate whispers. “Fuck..”

He reaches for your tits, squeezing the flesh and pinching your nipples between his fingers. Your skin is delicate beneath his touch; he almost feels like he could break you at any moment, but you’re proving to be a bigger girl than he made you out to be.

You come twice that night; once on his cock and the other on his tongue. You’re breathless when it ends and it takes you many, many more moments spent in his arms before you can gather your thoughts and clothing.

Jungkook has had enough sex in his life to understand that sex is never perfect and that’s a very normal and human thing. Sometimes it takes a few different touches and manoeuvres to turn somebody on, and other times it’s a walk in the (water) park. Sometimes he’ll laugh while he’s balls deep in somebody because one of them made a funny noise. He might miss their mouth and accidentally kiss their chin. He might come too early or too late, lose his erection halfway through because a bizarre thought crossed his mind, or even fall asleep before he can take his pants off because he’s had a little too much to drink. Sometimes sex is boring, or silent, or just an itch that needs to be scratched. But he saw no fault in the sex he just had with you. His mind didn’t wander, but his hands definitely did. He liked everything about it; from the sounds you made to the way you slipped your tongue into his mouth. He still sees zero faults in you.

Woods hands you the client on Friday morning. Just like that. He strides to your desk and slaps down a file full of various sketches, building plans, and contact details. You flip through the pages with an abundance of enthusiasm as he glares down at you. He wants you to stay at the studio and he’s hoping that this will buy your confidence. That’s what this is.

“Don’t disappoint me.” Is all that he says.

You meet with those clients on the very same day, introducing yourself and chatting about various design ideas over coffee at a nearby cafe. They’re a married couple in their late fifties and as rich as ever. They carry themselves well and decide on a budget in the millions. They want to build a retirement home for themselves; somewhere secluded and surrounded by gorgeous scenery, open plan, modern, lots of light, white and elegant decor.

“Plants.” The man adds as you’re taking notes on an iPad. He’s handsome; short, dark hair, well-built figure, pretty brown eyes, and a soothing voice. “Lots of house plants. They make the air better.”

“Actually..” The woman adds as the meeting comes to an end. She’s as attractive as her husband; pretty eyes, shiny black hair, and delicate fingers. “We’re heading to a literature event tonight and the venue is exactly in the style we’re looking for. Why not come? It’s a nice excuse to get you out of the office, isn’t it?”

You accept with a smile. Who are you to turn down free champagne during a weekday? You’re not much of a reader, not because you don’t like to read, but because you rarely have the time. Regardless, you put on your nicest dress and your nicest heels, and adorn your face with pretty makeup. 

The venue is stunning; high ceilings with expensive chandeliers, white Victorian walls, indoor ivory hanging from aged wooden beams, huge windows that allow the sunlight to pass through. It really is beautiful here. The other guests are dressed to the nines; shawls, glistening dresses, designer ties and suits, and priceless shoes. As you’re looking around and sipping on a glass of complementary champagne, somebody all too familiar catches your eye. He notices you just moments after and comes bounding over with a handsome smile on his face.

“Fancy seeing you here.” Jeon Jungkook, your neighbor and the man you had literal sex with the other day, joins you by the table of champagne glasses. A huge chocolate fountain and a few vases full of white flowers are sat on the table, too.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, a bit taken aback by how good he looks; black blazer over a tight high-neck sweater, black dress pants, and shiny shoes. His hair is styled neatly and pushed off to one side.

“I was invited-” He quirks an eyebrow. “-to the author’s events because, believe it or not, I’m an author. Why are you here?”

“Right.” You breathe out all of your tense energy in one, long sigh. With little conviction, you gesture toward the middle-aged couple who are enjoying champagne with a slightly younger woman. “Those are my clients. They want a home in a similar style to this. They didn’t have to invite me, but it’s nice that they did. Could’ve just googled this place or visited later in the week..”

“My parents?” He asks, unaffected.

“Your parents?”

He points two limp fingers in the direction of the same couple and you can’t help but remember the feeling of them between your thighs. “The pretentious looking couple, yeah, my parents. I was so sure you were the type to read through my Wikipedia page and draw up my family tree.”

Small world, you think to yourself. It seems like every rich person knows all the other rich people in this world. They all meet at some point, buying and selling parts of themselves in the good name of business. The world makes the strangest connections sometimes.

“If you ever feel nervous, just remember this.” He says. “Their son writes sex novels, so nothing can really disappoint them any more than that. You’ll give them what they want, though. I’ve seen some of your work.”

“They don’t support you?”

“They do. My mom tells people that I write about science and the order of the universe, though. She’s still holding out hope that I’ll suddenly want to work at their company. My dad doesn’t really care.. as long as I don’t overdose on some yacht in Cancun.”

Jungkook’s eyes drag from your exposed neck and arms, to the curve of your ass. Your glittery dress is as amazing as everyone else’s, maybe even better. The soft skin of your back is exposed and a delicate string of jewels runs down your spine. “You look nice, by the way. Really nice.”

The opportunity for mingling comes to a close once a young man — about the same age as Jungkook — steps up to the mic that’s been set up at the front and center of the venue. He’s wearing round glasses and a black, fitted suit. The guests take their seats at their allocated tables. It comes as no surprise to you that Jungkook is seated at the same table as parents. You sit at the table behind with a few other rich women draped in designer. The eldest woman sat around the table taps your shoulder and compliments your dress.

“Stunning.” She says and you smile.

“Thanks for coming everyone. I’d like to start us off with a passage from my latest self-help book.” The young man with the glasses begins after tapping the mic with two fingers. He’s not nervous, just eager to change at least one person’s outlook. “If somebody doesn’t bring anything positive into your life, let them go. You’ll feel bad and question whether you’ve done the right thing, but just give it some time. Don’t check up on somebody who doesn’t check up on you. Don’t try to keep in contact. Stop associating things, music, and people with that person.”

“Maybe they said something mean and you said something back or vice versa, but in reality, it just doesn’t matter. You were both upset. You’re not defined by a petty argument. People in this world kill each-other, steal, abuse power, and assault the most vulnerable. You’re not a bad person for being upset and saying something hurtful, and that rings true if you feel any ounce of regret. It happened and you can’t change it. Sure, you might’ve had some awesome times and genuinely have love for that person, but if they continuously make you doubt your worth, intellect, choices, values, invade your privacy, and lash out at you for being somebody other than who they want you to be, let them go. You don’t even owe them an explanation or a goodbye. Don’t apologize when it isn’t your fault. Don’t apologize for mistakes that you didn’t make. Don’t waste time reflecting on shit that just isn’t worth it. This world is full of people who you will love and who will love you. Don’t settle. You lose part of yourself when you do.”

And then he nods to the crowd and returns to his seat. An older woman takes his place and introduces a passage from her own novel.

“Lessons in love hurt.” She says. “If there was a class for love, nobody would turn up. We’re not lab rats and we’d all prefer to learn without pain. I don’t ever remember feeling like I’d spend life alone after a math class, do you?” 

Despite Jungkook being the most famous author here, he doesn’t get up to speak at all during the night. All he does is listen to the others and clap once they finish reciting their bit. When the event ends and all the rich people have shaken all the other rich people’s hands, he offers to take you somewhere where they serve a lot more than champagne, and you accept without a hesitating thought.

He drives a black camaro and it smells exactly like his aftershave. You don’t bother to ask him where he’s taking you because you trust that he’ll show you a good time. He drives for fifteen minutes down a busy road before turning a corner and continuing down a narrow driveway toward a federal colonial house. The driveway widens five times it’s previous size, making room for at-least twenty decent sized vehicles. He parks among nine other cars and walks toward the large front door with your hand in his; just in case you trip in the dark with those heels on.

Dim, alternating colors of light emit from each of the windows; floor to ceiling on the first floor, and half the size on the second. A huge lawn surrounds the property and is dimly illuminated by outdoor solar lights that are impaled into the soil. Loud, electropop music booms from the walls of the building. You can practically see them shaking in tune with the bass.

“Where is this?” You ask over the volume. Bunches of balloons are fastened around an assortment of topiary bay trees.

“A happy house.” He lets himself in like he’s been here one hundred times before. He has. This is the one place that he won’t ever outgrow. People do every type of drug here, party for three days in a row, and have boatloads of sex. The police don’t bother intervening because too many celebrities are fond of this place and come often. If offered enough money, even the law can turn a blind eye. “You get very happy here, if you know what I mean.”

The air is thicker inside the building and more difficult to breathe in. It doesn’t feel like a home at all. You can smell weed, sweat, sex, and alcohol. The flickering lights illuminate parts of people’s faces and bodies. They’re chatting quietly, touching each-other through and beneath their clothing, smoking cigarettes, and exchanging saliva in the hallway. Some have multicolored hair, streaks of neon paint smeared on their face, missing shirts, cocaine melted into their upper lip, and a light sheen of sweat adorning their skin.

Jungkook takes no notice. He guides you past the bodies in the hallway and toward what looks like a pumped-up, party-haven living room. Two couches sit opposite from one another and in-between a table that’s littered with empty glasses and glow sticks. It’s hard to see much else.

“I was wondering when I’d see you again.” An older woman comes out of nowhere and engulfs Jungkook in a tight hug. She’s wearing a turquoise jumpsuit, lots of jewellery on her wrists and fingers, and bright pink lipstick. The flickering lights make it difficult to make out the true dimensions of her face, but you can tell that she’s very beautiful. She has yellow neon paint smeared down her neck and arms.

“Huifang, Y/N.” Jungkook takes the joint that she offers him and lights it between his lips. The smoke rises to the ceiling and changes color in tune with the lights. “She’s designing my parent’s old people home.”

The woman steps forward and you expect her reach for a hug, but she cups your face and presses a hard kiss against your lips instead. You’re wide eyed when she pulls away, but her smile doesn’t falter. This is definitely a happy house.

“She’s very friendly.. Ever since the divorce.” Jungkook’s eyes sparkle in the light as he laughs. It’s a playful gesture that Huifang returns by nudging his arm.

“Wow.. Yeah.” You pat your lips and check your fingers for her bright pink lipstick.

Somewhere along the flashing lines, Jungkook vanishes beneath the lights and Huifang pulls you down on the the nearest couch. You’ve never been so bewildered in your life. There’s so much going on that you don’t understand, but the three glasses of champagne that you had previously are doing their bit at calming your nerves.

“You’re free here.” She says. “You can do anything around these people; take every kind of drug, have sex on the tables, commit fraud in the hallway. Nobody fucking cares here and I love living this way.”

She points a manicured finger toward two people sat on a dining table chair. Balloons are tied to the legs of the nearby table and confetti litters the floor. A woman, about the same age as Huifang, has the straps of her dress at her hips. She’s hungrily kissing a man whose lap she’s occupied. The flickering lights make what their doing seem slightly more private, but they’re still definitely having sex. There are other people slumped against the wall, some are on the couch, some are cutting up cocaine on the table, some are walking past the couch and into the back garden, where sex is also definitely being had. It all seems very normal here. It’s like a frat party on steroids and Viagra.

“You and I are from the same spaceship. I can tell.” Huifang says, but doesn’t elaborate until she lights a cigarette between her lips and takes a long drag. “Ambitious as hell when shown a little faith.”

“I wasn’t always like this.” She gestures to her styled hair and the expensive rings on her fingers. “I was dirt poor when I had my son and couldn’t even afford to send him to school with lunch like all the other kids. Selfish, right? I got pregnant when I knew I couldn’t take of my own kid. And then it got even harder; I couldn’t afford to pay for his bus tickets when the school fees starting increasing. Something to do with expensive development in the area. That’s when I knew I was in real shit. I thought about pulling him out and teaching him a thing or two around the dinner table, but what the hell do I know? I dropped out of high school to raise him. I couldn’t teach him half the things a decent school could. All I could do was work unstable jobs.”

In the time it takes her to preface her story, her cigarette burns out completely. She takes a new cigarette from the pocket of her turquoise jumpsuit and lights it between her small, pink lips. “Anyways..” She says with a cloud of smoke chasing each syllable. The lights make her dark eyes look like they’re shifting colors.

“I met him during my shift at a bar when I was thirty-two and he was twenty-one. I couldn’t believe how smart and handsome he was. He spoke like he knew the answers to everything.” She doesn’t point to any man, but you know for certain that she’s referring to Jungkook. “He was interested in my life, so I told him everything. I told him how my parents would frown at me for living how I lived. They were rich, but I didn’t want to live off money I didn’t earn. They didn’t understand and scolded me for being selfish. My son wasn’t ever a depressed or spoiled child and he knew the value of money from a very early age. I guess that’s one thing I could teach him.”

“He wrote about me, you know?” She admits. “It’s a complete autobiography, really. He’s a talented writer, always describing things that others wouldn’t have thought to. And he gave me 100% of the profits he made from it. I refused at first, but he insisted that I deserved it.”

You’re so engulfed in her story that you don’t notice when Jungkook takes a seat next to you until his fingers push your hair away from your neck. His hand is smeared in pink neon paint, which is now glowing in a section of your hair. In his other hand is a clear drink. He offers it to you and you smell it; vodka and lemonade. Classy.

“Having fun?” He leans close to your neck so you can hear him over the booming music. “She’s funny, isn’t she?”

“You could say that.”

He watches as you take a leisurely sip of your drink. Your lips are slightly wet and glisten beneath the flashing lights. “Can I ask you something?”

You give him a playful look, the same one you’ve been giving him most of the night, and he responds by placing a hand on your thigh. The silk is smooth against his palm, but so is your skin as he reaches underneath the skirt of your dress. Huifang isn’t sitting next to you when you look for her.

“What’s the worst thing you’ve done?” Jungkook coos against your neck as his fingers dance against your skin. They inch higher and higher as each second passes. The music grows louder.

You’ve had plenty of sex with ex-boyfriends at questionable places, but you haven’t been touched so publicly before, nor have you been so aroused that you’d even allow somebody’s hand to reach any further than your knee.

Your heart slams against your rib cage and you swallow hard. You can’t find the strength to recite your response in anything other than a quiet whisper. You’re no stranger to sex, but you feel like a virgin again. “The worst?”

He can’t hear you. His hand vanishes beneath your dress, now delving beneath the fabric of your panties and running against your wet skin. You sigh at his touch.

The music and chatter has dimmed around you and the only thing your ears listen for is his voice. “The naughtiest.”

Completely void of shame, he eases two fingers into your pussy until his palm is flush against your clit. You instinctively reach for his inner thigh and dig your nails into the fabric of his pants. He moves, slowly pumping his fingers and rubbing his palm firmly against your clit. You’re hazy and light-headed, completely drunk on his touch.

He takes your earlobe between his teeth before pressing a gentle kiss against the sore skin. “I think I can guess.”

You bite back a moan into a whimper that only he hears. Your pussy aches around his fingers and you instinctively push your hips closer toward his touch. He presses a hard kiss against your neck and drags his paint-covered hand from your neck down to your breasts. A trail of neon pink paint vanishes beneath your bra, where he has your nipple between his fingers.

Arousal drools down his skin as he increases the speed of his fingers. Your hips move on their own, circling and following the rhythm of his fingers. A fire grows between your thighs and you have to really, really focus to not drop your drink on the floor and smash the glass.

“That’s pretty naughty.” You can hear the amusement in his voice.

On Saturday, you work yourself to the bone. Jungkook crosses your mind when you’re alone in your bedroom, but you fall asleep before you can do anything about it. On Sunday, though, you just can’t fall asleep. The thought of his touch and the insanely perverted thing you did in that house full of people lingers in your mind. Things like that would usually repulse you, but you can’t help but ache for it again.

Shamelessly, you touch yourself. You run the tip of your vibrator up and down your pussy, spreading your lips and slicking up the toy. You picture the shower scene you had read in his novel; the hand-print on the woman’s thigh, the slapping sounds of wet sex, and the heavy water flowing from the faucet. You picture his fingers rubbing hard against your clit and easing deep into you, just how he had done on Friday night. You picture the dimples in his lower back as he dips in-between your thighs, his wide shoulders, toned abdomen, his voice in your ear.

A whine falls from your mouth as you delve deeper into your imagination. His sex, his moans, the furrow in his eyebrows when he concentrates on fucking you well, the kisses that he likes to press against your neck. Your back arches off the bed as you draw yourself closer to your climax. You can barely contain yourself. Moans and gasps fill your bedroom. You grasp at the sheets and think of him when you come.

From Monday to Friday, David Woods invites you into his office before you reach your desk in the morning and before you step outside at the end of each day, demanding updates on the rich couple you’re working for. They may be Jungkook’s parents, but they’re your clients. You’re smart enough to know that it’s always best to leave personal-life far, far away from work-life.

“Well?” Woods always begins with.

“Well what?” You always finish with. “They’re happy with how things are progressing.”

Sunday is supposed to be the day that you can dedicate to yourself and to your peace of mind, but you find it increasingly hard to wind down. No matter how delicious your cocktail is, how warm the summers night is, or how pretty the pool looks as the water glistens beneath the moonlight, you just can’t seem to settle your thoughts.

“Rough day?” A familiar voice calls from his second story home. You don’t need to lift your head to know that Jungkook is hanging out of his window with a glass of whiskey in hand and a handsome smile on his face.

“You have no idea.” You call back, making no effort to meet his gaze. You’re wearing a short summery dress and he likes the look of it.

“Well.” He lifts his glass like he’s making a toast to God himself. “I’d like to have an idea.” 

He invites you over and you hesitantly accept the glass of red wine he pours for you. A gin and tonic would’ve been nice, but he’s keen on you tasting this exclusive bottle of wine. You take a tiny sip and are pleasantly surprised. It’s not vinegary like all the other wines you’ve tasted. It’s floral and soft on your throat.

You tell him everything about your ordeals at work; from the first time you met your boss, to the time he told you not to wear a particular color because it ‘washes you out’, and now to his constant breathing down your neck. You want to leave and create your own business as soon as you can, but you can’t leave a client before construction work begins. You’ll look like a fucking idiot.

It feels good to vent and it feels even better to vent to someone who holds zero judgement toward you. The conversation shifts and you ask about Huifang. He tells you that her son recently received a scholarship for university.

“What’s your favorite color?” Jungkook asks as he refills your wine glass for the third time that night.

“Why do you ask?”

He’s amused at your sudden defensiveness. Is it that bad? “Trying to get to know you.”

“I don’t have one.” You say without giving it a single thought. It’s such a simple question, but you don’t want to answer it. There’s something much more intimate about telling somebody your favorite color than, for example, drawing them a labelled diagram of your vagina and asshole. You don’t want to be that kind of intimate. Not now.

“Fine.” He says, smile not faltering. “Mine’s blue.”

You decide to ask him a question of your own; one that you’ve been meaning to ask since that night at the bar. “Nothing in this world bothers you, does it?”

“Things bother me.” He admits. “But I see no point in hanging onto things that I can’t change.”

When midnight strikes, you announce your departure. You pick up the bottle of red wine and make a rightful request. “Mind if I take this? It’s better than I thought.”

“Help yourself.”

You leave and he rolls himself a tight joint. His personal phone rings from the kitchen counter and he picks up after five rings.

“Yes?” He asks, wholly uninterested.

“It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” A pretty female voice murmurs through the receiver. “I’m a few hours behind, so I’m sorry for calling you so late at night.”

His joint hangs loosely from the side of his mouth, the filter growing slightly damp. It crosses his mind that this woman behind the phone may be his first love, but that thought leaves his mind as quickly as it comes. He changed his phone number multiple times to avoid a handful of others, so how could it be? “Who is this?”

“You forgot me already?” Her laugh rings in his ears like a high school bell. It is her. Only she has that laugh. It’s beautiful, but also sort of villainous. “How long has it been? three years?”

“I don’t keep track of time anymore.”

“Because you’re so rich, right? Nothing really matters to you anymore. You can do whatever you want.” He can picture her rolling her eyes so clearly in his mind. That was something she often did when she disapproved. “Money is a nice feeling.”

He doesn’t say anything, too taken aback by the exact same person who used him up like a favorite lipstick three years back. He doesn’t understand why she called him.

“I read your novel, by the way. The one about me.” She cuts the silence with a softer tone. “You made me look a lot better than I’ve been. Why?”

He lights the tip of the joint with an old, silver lighter and inhales the smoke deeply into his lungs. The smoke chases his response and then vanishes into the air. “No hard feelings, right? We agreed on that.”

“Did you mean it?” She switches the topic at the very moment he notices the lights to your bedroom flick on. “When you said you’d always love me? Wait for me?”

“I meant it then.” He admits, his vision and mind softening. He checked out of the conversation just moments before. “But that was then.”

You work like you always do. Jungkook crosses your mind, but it’s far too often for your liking. It concerns you how he easily he can creep into your mind while you’re sitting at your desk, waiting in line for a coffee, or driving home. You always look at his house before pulling up to your own. This isn’t seeming like a no-strings-attached arrangement anymore and that bothers you.

Jungkook is presented with countless opportunities, but he doesn’t sleep with anyone during the time spent away from you. He touches himself to the thought of you a few times; a clear picture of your face in his mind as he runs his fingers over his skin. He can’t help it, but he doesn’t quite know why. He wonders what you get up to at work and if your boss has backed off yet. He hates wondering.

You don’t speak for almost three weeks and that irks him. He writes a lot of his novel in that time, but it’s not enough to ease his mind. He wants to see you, to listen to you ramble about your life, to see that bashful smile. He calls you on a Tuesday night, but you don’t answer. He calls you on a Friday night and you answer after six rings.

“Where have you been?”

“Working.” You hate the effect that his voice has on you. “Where have you been?”

“Working. Wanna hang out?” He asks because he wants to touch you and you agree because you want to touch him, too.

For a change, he knocks on your door and you have sex in your house. The sex is just as good and dirty as it had been the last time, maybe even better; he pulls your hair, pushes his fingers in your mouth, and slaps your ass as he fucks you from behind. He makes you come twice, makes you say his name, and ties your wrists with your own panties. You lick his cock from the base to the tip and coat his skin with your saliva. You hollow your cheeks, swirl your tongue, and run your tongue along his slit, and he fucks your throat until tears prick at the corner of your eyes. The both of you let completely loose and crumble beneath each-other’s touch, but when all is said and done, you immediately start searching for your clothes.

“Are you avoiding me?” He asks as he watches you step back into your panties. He’s laying back on your bed, naked, with a hand resting under his head.

This is where he had his heart broken for the first time; not with his dick out, although, that does come to mind whenever he reminisces, but after being avoided for a period of time. He remembers what his ex said to him; ‘I’m moving away. Away from this fucking city. I’ll call you.’ And then he let her. He let her glance at him only once, get on that flight, and leave his heart on the runway. But he’s not a total idiot. He picked it up and shoved it back into his chest where it should’ve stayed and where healing only comes with time. Even after publishing his first novel, he still felt alone. Money, fame, and sex isn’t everything. He was missing a kind of company where he was allowed to be flawed. And then he met you. You let him say the wrong things, drink too much on a night out, have messy and imperfect sex, and express dissatisfaction even toward his wealthy lifestyle.

You hesitate before answering. Have you been avoiding him? You couldn’t say. You’ve definitely been running from thoughts of him. “No, why?”

“Don’t know. Maybe you’re not.” He doesn’t pull his eyes away from your frantic movements. “I like spending time with you, so it sucks that I can’t see you more often.”

To you, he’s just another contact in your phone book. To him, you’re just company that he’s very fond of. That’s what you’ve convinced yourselves, at-least. Maybe you were both raised the same way; taught to not put yourself in risky situations unless they’ll bring you success and fortune. Emotions are messy and complicated, and feelings of heartbreak aren’t worth the trouble. Sex is fun, but falling in-love isn’t. You go from occasionally thinking about a person, to becoming a vessel for their entire existence. You’ll no longer put yourself first and that can be a dangerous thing. After sex, you can just get up and leave. But, when you’re in-love, it stays with you no matter how far you run.

“I’ve just been busy.” You say. It’s not a lie. “You know how it gets.”

“Yeah, I do.” He grins at you and you feel a huge wave of guilt wash over you. Why is he such a nice fucking guy? Why do you never want to see that smile leave his face?

You can’t hold it in much longer, so you just let it all out. You need to make sense of this. “This is just a friendship, right? We’re clearly friends, but then there’s all of this sex. Really good sex, don’t get me wrong..”

Jungkook knows that he has love for you, but he’s not in-love with you. He could be, though, and that’s something that intrigues him. If you would just look into his eyes a little differently and let him see past the shades of your iris’, he knows that he could fall in-love. Seeing you stand in front of him, now, with nothing on but panties and his shirt makes him wonder. He’s seen what’s beneath, but he hasn’t seen much of what’s even deeper. You don’t talk when you don’t want to. You don’t let yourself be wholly vulnerable around him.

“Why wouldn’t we be friends?” He realizes how that sounds as soon as he says it. You’re just trying to draw the lines and he’s really fucking awful at coloring within them.

“Okay. Let’s agree on friends.. Just to be clear.” You hold out your hand like you’re offering him a life-changing deal. It may not be life-changing, but it’s definitely a one-way deal. How can he refuse? If he does, he’ll lose you completely. If he agrees, he’ll lose you in the way he wants you, but you’ll still be around.

This has happened before, something similar at-least. He should’ve seen it coming, but he gets so lost in your eyes and lost in the way your voice envelopes all of his senses. This is how his life will continue to be; others will do great things and he will be the messenger. Willingly, of course. There’s something quite intriguing about being the pawn in another person’s self-discovery plan. Besides, he’s not leaving empty handed; he gets another plot for his next novel. He gets to feel whatever pain he feels and he’ll make millions out of it. People will do just about anything to succeed in this world, whether it be playing the devil or the fool. Both warrant profit and a status of some kind. 

He wants to ask if you’re sure, but who is he to question your choices? He doesn’t know what goes on in your head, what’s best for you, or how you truly feel about him. Some may say that he deserves to know, but he doesn’t. Nobody in this world is entitled to your thoughts, your body, or your time, no matter what they’ve done for you.

His expression shifts to one of amusement — like he’s saying ‘well played’ — as he takes your hand and shakes on it. You’re one hell of a woman, the most intriguing one he’s even met. There are layers to you that are never-ending, depths that are too dark for him to see in. And, until you hand him a torch bright enough, he’ll appreciate the things that you do decide to show him. “Friends, whatever you want.”

No matter how much it hurts, nobody can force what isn’t meant to be. Maybe time will change the story, but for now, everything is how it’s supposed to be. He won’t force any of his feelings onto you and that’s what will make him a good friend. You’ll just look at each-other, exactly how you’re doing right now, with tight lips. You’ll share the warmth of each-other’s palms and bathe in the silence until somebody picks up their pride and makes the easier decision.

Just because two people love each-other, even in the most platonic way, it doesn’t mean that they’re meant to be together. For some, pain is pleasure. For others, pain is pain, and they have a habit of letting it go along with the person who sparked the feeling. Life is a cycle of giving and receiving pain, but it’s also a cycle of giving and receiving love. Without pain, nobody would know love, and vice versa. 

But, before he can pull his eyes away from yours and be the one to leave, to make that easy decision, you give him that very look; the look that makes him fall in-love with you.

“Purple.” You say, holding onto his hand like it’s keeping you afloat. You feel like you might lose him forever if you let go, like you might drown in the most painful way. You don’t want him to leave. “That’s my favorite color.”

He doesn’t say a word, far too afraid of missing one of yours.

“Not a hickey-colored purple, more like a lilac.” Your eyes are wide and desperate. To be friends isn’t what you want, even if it’s what you said. You know that you’ll never feel what he makes you feel with any other person. Maybe he’ll break your heart into a million pieces, or maybe you’ll break his, but you wouldn’t want anyone else to do it. You’ll never trust somebody like you trust him and that’s important to you. “I didn’t like wine until you poured me some, daises spark up my allergies, my parents have been separated for nine years, but can’t be bothered to divide their assets, so, technically, they’re still married. My friends and I have a Sex and the City marathon every Christmas..”

You succeed in your own studio because that’s what you put your mind, body, and soul towards. You rarely question your identity, femininity, and self-worth, but when you do, you take a step back and take a long look at the empire you’ve amassed for yourself. You cry when you need to, you scream at the ocean when things bottle up, you have the filthiest sex with Jungkook and let him kiss every inch of your skin when you want to be touched, and you allow yourself to be wholly vulnerable with the people that love you. You take a look at the kind friends you’ve made, the supportive clients, investors, and even those who despise you in silence.

And, on a sunny Tuesday afternoon, you take a good look at a newspaper article displayed behind the window of a news agency: David Woods, former CEO of Woods Architecture Studio, is under fire for subjecting his employees to bizarre company policies, underpaying, and failing to provide adequate training and feedback opportunities to female employees.

The article displayed on the following newspaper makes you smile just as wide: Jeon Jungkook, author and new-found owner of a whiskey distillery, sold more than one million copies of his new novel in the first seven days, and has achieved the title of Best Selling Author for the third year in a row.

You might be thinking to yourself: did he ever write that odd, sex-filled erotica novel about me? The answer is yes. You just read it.

[alex51324]

Dude, you’d keep working?  I sure wouldn’t!  $500 a day is $3500 a week or $182,500 a year, and per the US Bureau of Labor Statistics would put you in the top ten percent of earners.  You wouldn’t be able to go crazy with riotous spending, but in most parts of the world, that would be plenty to cover all the necessities and a pretty decent selection of luxuries.  

If the money is being disbursed in some way that will pass muster with a mortgage lender, you should, according to US Bank’s mortgage calculator, be able to easily afford a half-million dollar house, which will get you a nice-to-very nice place just about anywhere short of Manhattan or the SF Bay Area.  

Myself, I’d go with living in an area with a low-ish cost of living (such as the region where I live now, where all my family is), pick a regular-nice house, and then have plenty of money left over every month to do fun things and help out my friends/family/favorite causes.  

(I took a quick look on Zillow to make sure my understanding of house prices in my area was still accurate, and I immediately found a house I would, in this hypothetical, snap up in a heartbeat, for $199,000.)  

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