#it's all these hidden little things that when you think twice about it it clicks

[melit0n]

Hands down, Give is one of Sleep Token's yearn-iest songs. Ever. It's not on par with TLYW, Jaws etc. (because that's a whole different layer of Sleep Token's yearning onion), but it's got a kick to it.

When I say that song is the epitome of desperate, I mean it.

Without thinking about it too much, the first time I listened to it my first thoughts were 'ah, okay, wanting to give all for your lover and be able to trust them, got it', but then I thought about it a bit more.

Like with all Sleep Token songs, it has a bit of an eerie undertone, which borders on slightly obsessive, depending on who you're talking to, with the lyrics. We have "I picture you when you are all alone", "I am the shadow, you're a passenger", "I'll be the limit of your light again" and, of course, "give me all that you can give" with "and if you want to give me anything, then give (give in again)".

Vessel is describing himself as literal darkness; he's a shadow in the gloom and whoever this is is a star glowing in the darkness. A light he aims to dampen because he wants a taste of that light. A taste of them.

However, it's this desperation for attention that gets me. "Give me all that you can give" is an easy example; he's desperately giving all he can possibly give in hopes of getting the same, or more, back. It's repeated over and over, half begging half demanding with soft dulcet tones and promises that he'll be watching for their enemies, to let them know that they contend with him etc.

Give becomes this two-faced thing of someone giving with all their might to someone who is afraid to trust, bringing up empathy from us, and someone who will not accept anything except everything. It's this sexually charged fight between who is a victim (or if there really is one here) and who is the abuser.

Further, to "give in" is to 'cease fighting or arguing; admitting defeat.' It's something primal and angry hidden under, or rather, mixed with passion, and it's incredibly well hidden.

[the-travelling-witch]

I’m gonna kiss Scaras neck tattoo <3

The whirring of the coffee machine rang through the tranquil morning air, filling your kitchen with the rich scent of ground coffee. Scara was leaning against the counter as he waited for the machine to finish its job, groaning as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

You approached him slowly, feet shuffling over the floor in a sleepy daze before you came to a halt behind your boyfriend. Without giving it much thought, you wrapped your arms around his waist, snuggling into his back as you draped your weight onto him.

“You’re heavy you know,” the man in front of you grumbled without actually meaning it. In return, you pinched the skin of his waist, making him flinch slightly. “Good morning to you too, you brat.”

Mumbling something akin to a ‘Morning’, you sighed as you inhaled the scent of his body wash before your eyes flicked up to see the collar of his sleep shirt had been pulled down in the back, revealing his inked up neck.

With an opportunity like this presenting itself on a silver platter, you needn’t think twice about brushing your lips over the mark, letting them linger there far longer than necessary. You trailed more kisses around it, following the flow of the ink before planting another one right in the centre.

Scara, who had just taken the first sip of coffee, almost dropped his mug when he felt the warmth of your lips against his skin. It was an area he normally kept well-hidden, the only people he let near there being you and Venti. The morning wasn’t chilly, yet he couldn’t help but shiver at your show of affection, the sensation racing down his spine and leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“What are you doing?” His voice was breathless and still a little hoarse from the night. Few people ever treated him so gently, as if he was a doll that would break at the faintest pressure and normally he’d resent the notion of weakness. When you did it, however, he found he didn’t mind at all. Damn it, it was too early for him to be so affected by you, yet here he was, almost white-knuckling the countertop to keep his composure.

“Giving my boyfriend the affection he deserves,” you mused, a lot more awake by now, your voice vibrating against the sensitive hairs raising under your attention. “I’m still allowed to do that, am I not?”

“You’re such a pain sometimes,” he gritted out, keenly aware of his heart jumping against his chest. The coffee sat forgotten on the counter as he dropped his head forward, his midnight- blue hair parting to reveal even more of his nape.

You rolled your eyes in amusement at his antics. Leave it to your stubborn boyfriend to deny himself something he enjoyed. Good thing you knew him well enough to know which buttons to push to get the truth out of him.

“Well, if you hate it that much-“ Hardly a second passed between you peeling yourself away from him and his hand shooting out to wrap around your wrist and keep you in place.

“Who said you could stop? If you start something, make sure you finish it too.” Seriously, he was too cute like this.

[modern au series] || or click the tag ┊holly’s modern au ✩彡 to see all works and rambles!!

[the-writer-arrived]

Inappropriate Behavior in the Workplace

Synopsis: you decide to give your lover a hand in his work as a bartender, helping out as a waitress for the busy friday night. little did he know that your intentions were far from pure...

Characters: diluc ragnvindr; gallagher.

Warnings: afab!fem!reader; explicit smut; established relationship; unprotected sex (please use protection in real life!); semi-public sex (you fuck in the empty tavern); soft men becoming rough men; spanking; reader is a brat; reader wears a skirt; your man becomes a horny mess for you good luck dealing with him; headcanons + a drabble.

A/N: diluc 🤝 gallagher -> hot guys that work at a bar (and fuck their lover there post-work hours) that make my brain go brrrrrr.

<<This work has sexual themes and is not suitable for minors. If you click on read more, I am not responsable for any discomfort you may feel reading this. You have been warned.>>

He should have known. He should have listened to his gut feeling that you were up to no good, when you were suddenly very insistent about helping him out at the bar that friday.

But nooooo, you had to bat those little doe eyes of yours at him, like the purest, sweetest angel that you are for him to give in to your whims.

After all, that would mean spending more time with his beloved woman, instead of having her wait for him all alone back home.

Oh, if only he could look past the rose-tinted lens of love and adoration to realize the perfect trap you had prepared for him...

There were essentially three main situations that should have given you away, but that fool (/affectionate) is too much in love with you to have realized in time:

The first being your insistance of wanting to work with him in one of the busiest nights of the week. Your reason? He's been too busy lately with his other duties, so you wanted to at least be beside him... (Critical hit in his heart).

The second, your unusual choice of clothing - a skirt. Now, he isn't one to tell you what you should or shouldn't wear, he's simply surprised by it, considering it's a rare sight for you to use it. And hey, you looked absolutely beautiful with it.

The third and most obvious one - your smile. But not any smile. The one you specifically have on your lips when you have some mischief up your sleeve. Like a cat ready to pounce on an unsuspected bird.

When everything clicked inside his head, it was already too late...

You had gone behind the bar to help him clean the counter, the rush of customers dying down for the moment. While distracted wiping a glass, he accidentaly bumped into you, causing you to drop the empty cans left by some customers.

He quickly apologized, but you reassured it was fine, which really was! (He unbeknownst set the scene for the grand finale of your nefarious plan).

You, helpful as always, bent down to pick up the cans without thinking twice, causing the hem of your skirt to raise up a bit too much. Your man, gentleman as he is, was about to warn you to be careful, but any coherent thought was thrown out of the window.

It was a just glimpse. He could argue that it was just the work of his dirty imagination. A trick of the light. Anything.

But no. He knew exactly what he saw. And the wink that you gave him as you sauntered away was all the confirmation he needed to know he wasn't mistaken.

You're not using any panties.

You're working in his establishment, looking stunning as usual, with your pussy hidden only by your skirt.

Oh he feels light headed... due to all the blood going straight to his crotch.

It all makes sense now, your behavior, your choice of clothing... And now you're suddenly taking care of the tables, knowing that he can't leave the bar anymore with the big tent in his pants.

...Is this punishment for not paying attention to you the past few days? If so, he never knew you could go to such lengths to teach him a lesson...

Still, you should know that your lover isn't one to take things laying down. So, you better enjoy yourself making him squirm while you still have the advantage...

And enjoy yourself you do, much to his dismay.

He follows you with his eyes like a hawk, mind swirling with a myriad of feelings: annoyance, for being teased so cruely like this; worry, that someone might accidentaly see what they shouldn't; impatience, for the damn clock to stop dragging its hands and reach closing time already; and arousal, for having being tricked into a situation which you are the one in control.

As the night goes slowly by and the number of customers begins to decrease, the tension between the two of you grows more and more, like a volcano about to erupt.

Until finally, at long last, it's time to close the tavern.

It's time to show you the consequences of your actions.

----------

After bidding his employees a good night, he wastes not a single second more, locking the door behind him as the last inch of his patience snaps.

You're wiping one of the tables, pretending not to hear his steps coming closer to you from behind, a shiver of anticipation running down your spine. Before you can utter a word, you see his shadow falling on you, like a predator ready to pounce on his cornered prey.

He takes the dirty rag from your hand and throws it away, wrapping a strong arm around your waist to pull you flush against his chest. His other hand goes to grab your chin, turning your head to the side before stealing your breath with a kiss.

Actually, it can't even be called a kiss, but more like a two pairs of lips mashed together. It's messy, desperate and intense, his tongue invading your mouth with the objective of claiming every single part of you. Your lover's touch is rough, but not without care. Even when he's lost amidst the fiery passion that has consumed his usual composure, he never fails to make you feel loved.

As intoxicating as this moment feels, the need of oxygen is still a necessary thing for the both of you, prompting him to finally release your lips with a gasp for air. But not a second later he latches his mouth on your neck, nibbling, kissing and licking the tender flesh that soon becomes warm by his attention.

"Do you have any idea of what you did to me today?" His question is a rhetoric one, aware that your ability to think straight isn't working anymore to string an answer. "What am I saying, of course you do. In fact, you've came up with your little plan wanting things to turn out this way, right?"

Your only response is a moan when he grinds his clothed erection on your behind. Honestly, you didn't expect your plan to work so well like this, witnessing a side of him you're not used to, but still very turned on.

"Walking around all pretty like this, serving customers and helping the other employees out, with no panties on..." You let out a gasp of surprise when you're suddenly pushed down on the table, your skirt flipped out to expose your bare private parts, your cheeks flaring up as he caresses your buttock. "...Who knew I had such a lewd girl for a lover."

The harsh slap on your ass forces a loud yelp out of you, the pain of the sting mixing with pleasure that makes you shuddering. The sight of the plush skin jiggling at his action leaves him hypnotized and with his pants even tighter.

"I was tense the whole night, you know. Worried that some scumbag would try something funny and end up seeing what is for my eyes only." Another slap, now on the other asscheek, and he notices your pussy glistening with arousal at each hit. "You're getting even wetter... You're enjoying this, huh?"

A pitful whine of his name paired with the teary look you throw at him is enough to convince him to give up on his previous idea of dragging out this teasing and go straight to what you both have been desiring all evening.

Your lover grumbles in frustration at his vexing belt and pants, pushing the garment down enough to free his throbbing cock from its confines, the tip angry red and with precum.

You're so pent up with need that he doesn't even need to prep you further, seeing that you spread your folds yourself for him, impatient to have your wish fulfilled at long last. So, doing both of you a favor, he doesn't waste any more time and slides himself in, eyes rolling back at the warmth enveloping him.

"Fuck, so tight darling..." He massages your waist, trying to get you to ease up a little. You feel so fucking good, he fears he won't last at all.

His hips pick up the pace as your moans and pleas grow to a crescendo, your voice like a siren that beckons him to dive head first into this addicting chase for carnal pleasure, enhanced by the love shared between you two.

Sooner than he would have preferred, your lover reaches his peak, head thrown back and hips grinding hard against your behind, his cum filling you to the brim. You can feel your climax coming as well, his orgarsm bringing your own...! Until his cock suddenly slides out of you.

"W-Wha- Why did you-- ah!" Your words are interrupted by two fingers of his intruding your fluttering hole, him putting his weight on your back as he shushes you.

"You didn't think you get what you want so easily, did you love?" His voice is husky in your ear, fingers pushing his release back inside your pussy. "No, no, you've been a bad girl tonight. And bad girls don't get to cum now."

You whine in protest, attempting to wiggle your hips to get any sort of friction as you feel the waves of your impending climax waning.

"Please, love, please let me cum, please! It's been so long since I've felt your touch, I need you!"

His breath hitches when he listens to your begging, not expecting the neediness in your tone. It seems like his busy schedule the past few days took a heavier toll on you than he thought. He sighs, his heart is too soft for you to continue his original pay back.

"Alright, you win... But know this is the only time I'll let you off the hook for your little stunt, you hear me?"

You nod your head quickly, thank you's and promises to be a good girl falling easily from your tongue. However, you knew none of what either of you said will remain, you will continue being your teasing little self and he will continue letting your brat behavior slide, because that's the kind of couple you are.

But that's the least of your concerns right now, your mind returning to the foggy state of pleasure as you continue your inappropriate actions in many different surfaces of his bar, adding yet another secret item to your list of things one shouldn't do in the workplace.

thanks for reading <3 likes, reblogs and comments are very appreciated <3

heart divider made by @/cafekitsune

red diluc and gallagher banners (smut) made by @/the-writer-arrived aka yours truly ;)

[cherryheairt]

Dragon Dreamer pt. VI

tags: @beebeechaos @r-3dlips @emery-aka-emmy @watermel0nsugarhigh @hueanhdang @delaynew @purple-1995 @littleblackcatinwonderland @fall-winter-heart97 @mandeepandee1997

With the fourth day come and gone with no ground behind them, the little party wasted no time in packing up their belongings and trudging on once again.

Daenys was awoken from a dreamless sleep by a suffocating feeling. She was jerked awake by her own breathlessness, opening her eyes to be met with the brown fur of Dusk, who had grown impaitient with her sleeping in and made her chest his one personal bed. "Off, boy." She grunted, wheezing at the weight. She swore he could rival Morningstar in weight alone.

Cregan, at the opening of the tent and pack over his shoulder, snickered at the sight. He clicked his tongue twice, shooing the direwolf away. He leaned over Daenys, who was rubbing her eyes. Her hair lay around her in long, unruly waves, surely something that her handmaiden back in Dragonstone would have scolded her for. She usually slept in a loose braid but had forgotten her nightly routine in favor of passing out cold.

"Morning, Princess." Cregan greeted softly, watching her groggily wake herself up. He had been ready and packed long-ago, wanting to let Daenys sleep in and not worry about packing her belongings, most of which were tied to Mylo's saddle.

"Good morning," she mumbled back, stretching out under the furs. The scent of him lingered pleasently. She sat up slowly, the cold of the North making her body ache in the mornings more than it ever did in the South.

Daenys' hair fell around her shoulders and back, nearly to her waist. She cursed the fact that she'd have to spend another morning doing the entire thing all by herself, knowing her arms would be aching before she could even mount her horse. Just when she was contemplating chopping it all off, Cregan offered–"Would you like my help with...all that?" The offer was polite, not wanting to push any boundaries that might make the Princess shy away.

A man doing hair? That was almost laughable. If Daemon made the same offer to Rhaenyra, the whole family would be squaking with amused chuckles, knowing he had no clue how to do something as gentle as that. Perhaps that was why he chopped off his own long locks—or so Daenys heard.

"My hair?" Daenys questioned, looking up to him. He nodded, and she took a moment to think. How did he know how to braid? Briefly, she wondered if he had ever courted someone, perhaps in his youth before he was busy in his lordship.

"My sister, she insisted that I learn by practicing on her. Said it would help with my 'husbandly' responsibilities, whatever that means." They both laughed, while she guiltily felt a sense of relief. She rummaged through her bag briefly, searching for her wooden brush.

"Hm, I would have thought you might have a secret Lady Wife hidden away in Winterfell." Daenys mused, turning her back to him and sitting up straight. He sat behind her, taking the brush she had handed him in a big hand. Their hands touched for a moment, his bare hand making contact with hers for her first time. It was warm, though calloused from years of swordtraining, opposite of her own perfectly manicured ones. Had he taken off his gloves for this? It would be easier, she thought.

"Who's to say I don't? And perhaps a few heirs are already running about, playing as squires." When she glanced behind her, brow raised, he only chuckled and guided her head to turn back.

"I jest, of course. If I had a wife, she would be no secret." He said, grabbing small portions of her hair at a time, brushing from ends to scalp. The white mess quickly became calm waves once more with his handywork. Cregan paused a moment, "what braids would you like?"

Giggling, "how many can you do, Lord Stark?"

"You underestimate me. I have had all sorts of requests from Sara. The least I can do is try."

Daenys pondered what might be a quick one for him to do, deciding on her front pieces being pulled back into a crown, braided in a curving line together across the back of her skull. The rest hung down, providing a small shield against the wind on her neck. Cregan's hands worked smoothly, dexterous, and surprisingly gentle. He apologized for every tug, and was done quickly.

🗡

A young Daenys sat in front of Laenor Velayron, both of them on the floor in front of the lit hearth in Rhaenyra's chambers. Rhaenyra had left a few hours ago, leading young Jacaerys to go play with Aegon while she went to spend time with baby Luke in the nursery.

Laenor had some downtime, recently returning from a voyage to Dorne. Even though he rode the loyal Seasmoke, Laenor was a seaman at heart. He never went too long between being on his ship, which was gifted to him by Lord Corlys of Driftmark. After Daenys' fifth nameday, he lovingly allowed her to name the ship Eveningstar to match her dragon's name.

"How does the mighty Princess wish to wear her warrior's braids this morning?" He asked her in a dramatically knightly voice. "I can do anything you command."

"Dragon!" Daenys exclaimed excitedly, wishing for her hair to be done in the shape of her dragon, who was growing like a weed and already not allowed to be in the Red Keep due to terrorizing Alicent Hightower's children.

Laenor paused, brows high on his forehead. "Perhaps...the Princess overestimates this lowly knight's skill. Maybe a simpler design would appease her?"

Straightening up, Daenys glanced back up at him and scrunched her nose playfully. "I thought you said you could do anything."

Her father chuckled nervously, the scrutiny of the young girl reminding him much of Rhaenyra's sharp gaze. Luckily, Daenys' wrath was much more forgiving than her mother's. "I can do anything, within human limits." He mimicked her whining tone.

Daenys sighed loudly, thinking about what she wanted again. "What about the gems? Can you put them into the braid, at least?"

Laenor grunted as he stood up, joints in one place for too long. He rummaged through Rhaenyra's vanity, knowing she wouldn't mind if it was for Daenys. He plucked out some bright blue ones, with small holes carved in the middle for hair to poke through. "Blue?"

Daenys nodded, hair ruffling out of place from the jerking movements. Blue reminded her of the skies, the view she was gifted when she rode through the clouds on Syrax or Seasmoke with her parents. It was also quite like the sea, which she saw often at the docks with Laenor. It was perfect for today.

As Laenor returned to his position, he started his work. Different sized braids adorned the back of her hair, with the front pieces in bubbled loose strands separated in inches by the stones. The rest hung down in its usual waves, more stones hanging down from them. They twinkled when Daenys moved her head side to side.

"All done, my girl." Laenor told her, patting her shoulders.

"Can we go on a boat ride?" She pleaded with her father. She had been wanting to be out on the sea all morning, wishing to spend time with her father in one of their favorite places. Even if it meant dealing with the fishy scent of their catches, she loved the sailor's life and the boisterous people who lived it daily.

"I don't think so, Daenys. Your mother gave me an earful about letting you near the crew, last time." He told her, petting her hair back comfortingly when she frowned.

"Can we swim, then? At the beach?" She changed the question, knowing her mother's word was absolute. 'The Beach' was a little island between Dragonstone and King's Landing, which the dragonriders oft visited because of its seclusion from court and fisherman.

Laenor thought for a moment. Rhaenyra wouldn't be upset about it, surely. "What about your hair? We spent so much time on it."

She shook her head, the stones sparking together in turn. "It will be fine, I won't dive today."

Likely story, Laenor thought, but bit his tongue. "Very well, we'll take Seasmoke to the beach." He gave in, as always. No one could resist the little girl's charms, especially her father.

Daenys thought for a moment to bring along Jace but decided against it. He couldn't yet swim, and would only feel left out on the shore. Ever the jealous boy, Aegon would have to be his company for today.

Laenor took Daenys to the dragonpit, packing a small picnic for two and their swimclothes. The two spent the majority of the sunlight frolicking in the sand and salty water, enjoying small sandwhiches that the maids prepared beforehand.

Upon the Princess and Ser's return, Rhaenyra was gifted with many pretty seashells in a sincere apology for Daenys losing many of the blue gems. A small white sand dollar was placed next to Luke's crib quietly, Daenys knowing better than to place objects on his soft bedding. Jacaerys was given a sturdy red shell, but all-too-quickly returned it to Daenys' sandy hands as a crab popped its little black eyes out of it.

"Father!" Daenys called after Laenor, who was on his way out of the keep and to the docks. "There's a crab in this one. Can we return it to the beach?" She begged, jumping up and down and tugged at his sleeve.

Sighing, Laenor knew it would be a while til he made it to the docks. He couldn't resist that face, after all

🗡

Daenys felt the soft braid with her fingertips, satisfied at the evenness. She looked behind her, a grateful smile meeting his eyes. "Thank you, Cregan. I appreciate it."

He hummed, gathering her bag for her after putting her brush back into it. Cregan parted the tent flaps again, allowing the sunlight to peak through once again. Dusk was sitting outside of the tent, lying on her discarded dress. Whether he or Cregan moved it there was a mystery. They left the tent, Cregan folding it up while Daenys went to Morningstar.

The beast greeted her with a small chuff, though she did not lift her head. "What's the matter, pretty girl?" Daenys asked her lifted a hand to pet her cheek. The dragoness turned her head away, setting it on the clear ground below it. All the snow had long melted away around her in a ring, the dragon's body heat not giving it a chance to return. "Morningstar?"

A huff.

Daenys rolled her eyes at the dragon's brattiness. "I'm sorry, please forgive me. I promise It won't happen again, Cregan has looked after me." She spoke the apology in her mother tongue, sincerely. She never got a chance to last night, falling asleep right after the hunt.

The she-dragon lifted her head, eyeing Cregan as he walked up to them. "I heard my name?" He asked, an amused smirk on his lips.

Morningstar and Daenys turned to him together, four violet eyes squinted at him as if to say, 'stay out of it.' The dragon grumbled, shifting the stand on her wings. Cregan looked to Daenys, wondering why she wasn't happy to see her rider, as she usually was. Daenys opened her mouth to answer, only to be knocked down into the snow by a shove of Morningstar's snout. Confused, Daenys looked up to her, mouth agape. The dragon playfully nudged Cregan, asking for his attention.

Traitors.

Cregan laughed loudly at the display, giving in to the dragon's whims. Not like he had any choice, he feared what an angry dragoness might do to him if he rejected her so rudely.

Dusk sat himself next to Daenys, who had since sat up. The direwolf growled at the affection display, jealous of Cregan giving his attention to another creature, more specifically the dragon who had been hovering their whole trip. She ruffled his thick fur, enjoying the softness compared to Morningstar's smooth scales. Morningstar seemed to eye the two on the floor, grumbling again into Cregan's fur-coated chest.

Cregan helped Daenys up from the snow, letting her brush herself off before they untied the horses. Mylo greeted her with a lick to her palm, happy to see her again. They both sat upon their horses, eyeing the spot where Seamus' tent had been.

"Where's Seamus?" Daenys asked him, in a hushed tone as she leaned toward the man.

He sat up straight, not caring if Seamus overheard his words. "He went ahead when I was waking you. Claimed that he wanted to 'scout' ahead. As if Dusk can not do that." Cregan seemed irritated at the mere mention of the elder, so Daenys chose to nod and drop the topic.

The two horses walked side by side, while Daenys and Cregan idly chattered. "Your sister, Sara, where is she now? I never got to see her at Winterfell."

"She is residing at Mormont Keep now. A good friend of mine, the third son of Lord Grendys Mormont, proposed marriage a year ago. I'm expecting good news from Sara soon." Cregan smiled at the mention of his only living sibling. It had been nearly a year since she'd found her love match and left Winterfell for good.

"Eager for a niece or nephew already?" Daenys asked, corners of her mouth lifting. One day, she hoped for many nieces and nephews to surround herself with if she truly did end up a spinster. If so, she was comforted with the fact that she had only brothers, thus would have all their wives be moved to Dragonstone or the Red Keep to allow everyone to be close together.

"Indeed. It's been a while since Winterfell's keep has been graced with younglings."

Daenys almost snorted at the strange name for children but kept it to herself in hopes of not offending him. Northerners and their strange vocabulary. "I quite agree, it is rather quiet in the Great Keep."

"That is partially my fault, I must admit. My council and bannermen have been urging me to take a wife since I was but three and ten. For heirs, they say. I see it as them anxiously anticipating my early demise." He snorted.

"Perhaps a noble's real duty is to tolerate their council's nagging. I envy your patience, Lord Stark."

He turned his head toward her, a questioning look in his eye. "My patience? I have not seen you pushed to anger once in our time together, Princess."

"Whatever is there to be angry for?" She fired back. She'd never been a snappy person, except perhaps when her brothers stole her desert one too many times, but never was she considered an impaitient person.

Cregan stumbled slightly, trying to find the right words, "nevermind." he mumbled, cheeks pink.

Daenys bit her cheek, holding another laugh. Seeing the young Lord flustered amused her greatly. "Cregan," she began.

Perking up, he tilted his head towards her, "yes, Princess?"

"Do you think we ought to have spotted Seamus by now?"

He hummed, looking forward with careful eyes. "Mayhaps, but I think he is avoiding us purposefully to calm himself. He was quite humiliated last night."

Daenys snickered, remembering the taught look on the older man's face, red all the way to his neck. "Serves him right. Slaughtering an animal is one thing, but dishonoring it entirely is another. It is not right. Any respectable man would have left its head with its body so its soul could rest easy."

Cregan was silent for a few beats after her words. "I agree, the animals killed in defense have as much right to respect as the ones we hunt for food. Is that a Targaryen or a Velayron belief?"

Daenys shifted in the saddle, twitching at the mention of her blood. "Velayrons believe that we shall return to the sea, where we come from. Targaryens burn their dead, in the way of our ancestors."

"Which would you have to honor you after your death?" The question surprised her, seeing Cregan's sincere gaze upon her like a calmness in a storm.

"It's hard to say. My father burned when he died, and we could only lay his ashen bones in the casket that we sent into the sea. He never got a proper Velayron death as he would've wanted." She told him. "Perhaps it would be my fate to die like a Targaryen, on my dragon and being burned by my opponent. I must admit I have always been partial to the sea, though. Or, if the Gods will it, Morningstar and I would fall together. If such a thing does happen, perhaps buried in the crypts alongside her." She rambled on. Faces flashed in her mind. Drunken Aegon, spiteful Aemond, sweet Helena, even young Daeron. All dragonriders on the opposing ride, all her potential killers.

"Do not say such things, Princess. You will live to be an old dame, I am sure." The Northerner said, tapping his foot out of his stirrups to her own booted one.

"Apologies, my Lord. It is an awfully morbid topic for a Lady." She rescinded.

An awkward silence washed over the two, neither knowing if they offended the other nor what to say next. Curse her stupid big mouth. What kind of Princess talks to a man about her own death? Not one that will gain any prospects, surely. Daenys kissed her teeth, biting back a sigh. She wished to withdraw into a tent, or better yet, the skies atop of Morningstar.

It was hours before the two stopped for a break, watering and feeding the horses. Dusk rounded back to them, content with taking a break after his watch. He laid his large head on Daenys' lap, and she struggled not to tense at the reminder.

Cregan stole many discreet glances at her as she stretched out under a large tree. Her silence had worried him greatly, and the Lord feared that she would tuck herself back into her deep shell. Maybe literally, with all those coats over her shoulders. The roots were robust, sticking out of the ground and study enough to sit herself on.

He approached her after allowing her some minutes of respite. Offering his hand, Cregan lifted her to her feet, though he did not let go of her hand. Daenys stilled, wondering what he wanted.

"Do you have the dagger on you?" He asked.

Daenys nodded, "are we going hunting?"

He shook his head, backing away a step from her. "We have the spare rabbits still. Grab it." Suddenly, his voice seemed to change from his gentle one to a more firm one. Like the one he used for his men rather than for Daenys.

Bemused, she grabbed the dagger from under her skirts—she had decided that the belt of her garters would make a fine shealth. Cregan's gaze flittered to her exposed legs for only a moment before he forced it back to her face. Holding it out for him to take, she was surprised when he closed it back around her fist.

"It is still yours. I want you to attack me."

"Attack you?!" Daenys exclaimed, clutching the dagger toward her chest. "I will not do such a thing."

Cregan chuckled shortly, shifting on his feet. "I am asking you to, Princess. You will not hurt me, I assure you."

"I am well confident in your skills, my Lord. But, anything could happen, even accidentally. A Lady does not wield weapons against her own bannermen–or at all." Daenys stammered out.

Even Rhaenyra, who was made heir for the throne at seven and ten, was not made to learn the ways of weaponry. She had her loyal guards to protect her at all times, and that's not to mention Daemon, who is one of the best swordsmen Westeros had to offer.

He sighed at her stubbornness. "Humor me, just this once. I want to show you how to wield it without losing your grip, at least. As long as your weapon stays in your hand, you are still in the fight."

"I have my dragon." She insisted, sniffing.

"And where was she when you were wandering the woods, Princess?"

Daenys clenched her teeth, knowing she couldn't argue with his bite. Morningstar couldn't always be there to help her, something that she learned the hard way. In the woods, indoors, underground: all places that her dragon could not defend her in unless she wished to burn with the enemy.

"Come on, my Lady. This is what is best for you. I wager you will need to use such skills against an opponent some day soon, without the shield of Morningstar." He seemed tense, similar to his state when first coming across Seamus Knott.

"Cregan..." She pleaded, looking up at him with her dagger limply hung at her hip.

"Daenys." He was unmoved, though his eyes flashed with a unique softness briefly. Daenys' name coming from his lips made her belly fill with butterflies, a warmth spreading throughout her at his low tone.

She sighed, giving in to him. How could she not, when he looked at her like that? Every bit the ruggedly gentle Northern man she had grown to know well.

She shifted her stance, pulling the hand holding the dagger in front of her face, eyeing him over it. He had not moved, only observing her carefully, noting every breath she took.

Daenys stepped forward, swiping the knife towards his chestpiece, the safest option, only to stumble on her feet when Cregan grabbed her wrist and tugged her into his chest. "You were staring at my chest the whole time. Don't make it so obvious where you want to strike."

He kept her tight in his grip, the other hand on her back firmly. "I shouldn't be able to pull you off your feet so easily. If I can simply hold you like this so easily, imagine what a lesser man could do without breaking a sweat."

Daenys flushed at the implication, face warm with embarrassment. He paid no mind to it, releasing his grip and allowing her to stand straight again. Cregan shifted behind her, breath hot against her ear. "Stand lower, center yourself so you can not be felled so easily." He placed his hands on her shoulders, pushing down gently until her knees bent slightly. He pushed her with one hand, appeased when she only bent instead of falling into the snow. Cregan traced a hand down the expanse of her arm, reaching her hand and taking it in his own. He adjusted her grip on it, folding his larger hand around hers, "hold it like this if you wish to swipe instead of stab, like you intended."

When she obeyed, he nodded satisfactorily. He backed away again, standing in front of her. "Again." His voice was hard, rougher than he perhaps knew.

Daenys gritted her teeth, frustrated at his attitude. Was he angry with her for being so green with a weapon? Did most Northern ladies know all this stuff by the time they could walk? She hated the way he looked down at her, as if she was one of his soldiers instead of just Daenys.

Hours passed, with Daenys panting and exhausted from her exertions and Cregan perfectly unharmed in front of her. Daenys improved slightly after every attempt, much to Cregan's approval. They had lost track of time, well into the afternoon before they had eaten and set off riding again. They rode in a deafening silence, the only sounds being the horses' clompering steps. She wished to speak with him to understand why he suddenly was so stressed for her safety. He had promised to stay by her side. Why would she need to protect herself unless he was planning on leaving her?

He hadn't humored any of her longing glances, gaze as straight as his regal posture. In the sunset's glowing light, he looked quite like a Northern Prince sat upon his steed. She wondered if she looked the part of a Princess on her own, or ever. If she didn't have the signature Targaryen white hair or purple eyes, would anyone guess what she was? Jacaerys was always recognized, even without the sigil on his tunics. He always fit his role as heir perfectly. If she had shared his plain features, Daenys guessed that she would be mistaken for a random noblelady of a forgotten house. Her face familiar but none quite able to recall her name.

The two settled in a small clearing, the biggest they had been able to find for hours. Morningstar hovered for a bit before settled down in their find. She had been gone for the entirety of their little training session, most likely to hunt her own meal in the pause. The dragon curled up near the tent, already melting the surrounded area. Maybe the tent would be warmer tonight thanks to her.

Cregan and Daenys sat in front of the fire, roasting the skinned rabbit. Daenys glanced at him several times over the flames, only to be pointedly ignored. She sighed, standing to her feet. "I'll be back." She told him, getting a small hum in return. He assumed she was using the bathroom, so he made no move to stop her. Daenys wandered slightly in the wood, stretching her legs and enjoying her moment of peace. Whilst she was plotting her next words to Cregan concerning his silent attitude, she was stopped by Seamus, standing imposingly in her path.

"You've been gone quite a while." Daenys greeted with a short nod, shifting uncomfortably. He only stared back. "Are you going to set your tent up with ours?"

More silence. He didn't seem to have his pack on his back anymore, only his sword on his belt and a dagger's shealth on the other side to mirror it. She tensed, mouth drying up. Whatever his intentions might have been, none were good.

"Princess Daenys." He started, voice dark with spite. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting for an opportunity like this. For twenty long and painful years, I served the Watch. Patient, biding my time until I can be restored to my rightful place as Lord Knott."

Daenys stepped back, reaching slowly to bunch up her skirt, trying to reach her knife without drawing much attention to it.

He mirrored her step. "I won't let that little brat take his place as pretender any longer. Because I have you, now." He grinned, baring his teeth down at her. His black beard was a stark contrast to his shining teeth, saliva parting at his lips. He reminded her of a rabid dog, slobbering and desperate to bite down on anything to relieve its own pain. He slowly unsheathed his dagger, pointing it at her from his spot yards away. "If I take you to the King, I will be bestowed with riches and titles above anyone. He will have to make me Hand in exchange for giving up the usurper's daughter!"

Seamus laughed at his own proclamation. It was a good plan, she admitted. Aegon would be generous enough to give him back his seat at House Knott. Daenys shook her head, taking more slow steps back. When she was about to attempt to reason with him, he lunged. Seamus wasted no time pinning her to the floor, covering her mouth with a dirty hand. "Oh no, Princess. Can't have that little brat ruining this for me. Just like his damned father."

She thrashed, kicking and clawing at his face. Even with the small lines of blood dripping from his face, he never faultered. He placed the dagger at her throat, pulling her roughly to her feet.

He pushed her in front of him all the way to the campsite, where Cregan was already looking to the treeline to spot her return. He stood immediately when Daenys came back, steel placed deadly close to her neck. He drew Ice to his hand, pointing it at the older man.

"Release the Princess, Knott." He growled.

The man chortled behind Daenys, hot breath on her neck, making gooseflesh rise to her arms uncomfortably. "Put that down, boy. You know you cannot harm me without hurting the little lass."

Cregan grit his teeth harshly, jaw ticking. He glanced to Daenys, who guiltily blinked up at him. Sorry, she seemed to say. For wandering off stupidly once again.

Dusk was gone, hunting his own dinner for the night. How convenient for the kinslayer.

Seamus slowly walked to the dragon, who had long since awoken when she spotted Daenys at the mercy of her aggressor. The dragon roared when he approached, hot breath washing over them both and the wind strong enough to make him stumble back slightly. "Command your beast to obey, or she will not have a rider to listen to anymore. Remember, Princess, I need you alive, not unharmed." He sneered.

"I will find you, Daenys." Cregan spoke firmly, standing at the base of Morningstar's wing.

Daenys, with the steel still cold at her neck, commanded Morningstar shakily. "Lykiri, Morningstar. Rual īlva naejot kipagon." She nodded stiffly when the white dragon whined, distressed at what she was being forced to do.

Reluctantly, the dragon lowered its wing to allow both onto her saddle, Daenys still sitting in front of him. He pressed himself tight against her back, one hand squeezing her waist in an almost choking manner. She felt nauseous, glancing to Cregan for reassurance. For the first time, the man looked helpless. Ice was discarded onto the snow, and his throat bobbed with tension.

"Fly, girl!" The man snarled, making Daenys flinch at the loudness. Cursing, she commanded Morningstar to lift off. "You will take us to King's Landing. Anywhere off course, and you will lose your little fingers one by one."

Daenys nodded, gaze straight at the dark sky, the blackness of the night providing her a lonely comfort. She knew Cregan was watching her disappear into the cloud's cover, not being able to do a thing.

Morningstar furiously roared and growled and cried out into the skies, helpless once again to help her rider.

Daenys patted her scales softly in a comforting motion, whispering to the dragon, "īlon jāhor ērinagon."

🗡

Rual īlva naejot kipagon - allow us to ride

Lykiri- Calm

īlon jāhor ērinagon - we will/shall win

Cregan's guilt for not being there for Daenys is eating at him 🙂‍↔️ and coming off all wrong. Whatever shall the young lovebirds do?

what is it that one post said a few weeks back, "paws that he calls hands"? I always think of that when writing about his hands its suck in my head

I should probably establish ages. With Laenor's flashback, its kinda wonky. Joff and Rhae + Daemon's youngest kids' age don't matter because they will have no importance to the story sorry not sorry

Cregan - 21

Daenys- 20

Jace - 18

Luke - 14

Joffrey - 5-7

Aegon and Viserys - Under 5

[rintoorou]

ALOHA, HAWAII — xxii. don't fall (literally)

(wc: aroundd 1.1k)

click. flash! 

you whip your head to the source of the sound, watching as suna lowers the camera from his face before inspecting the image he took of you. 

"is that me?" you ask. suna gives you an affirmative hum, leaning forward before you can even ask if you could take a look.

you're not exactly sure if it's because of his hidden talent in photography or the fact that he had known you for quite some time, but the way he perfectly captured your angle makes your lips part in awe. "that's a nice picture," you praise. 

"it is,” he answers contentedly.

your eyes glaze over the picture once more. it takes you a moment before you realize how little the distance got between you and suna—your eyes flicker up to his, still trained on his camera, and you’re so close you can count every one of his thin eyelashes.

you immediately sit up on the speedboat, back straight and hands politely on your lap. suna doesn’t notice. he keeps his eyes glued to the screen, pressing a few buttons to zoom in on the details. his actions make you a little nervous.

"you still use the same one?" you ask, referring to the camera in his hands. suna meets your gaze with innocence, his lips pressing into a slight pout when he nods yes. he looks like a kid caught red-handed, yet you're not exactly sure why. not knowing what else to say, you divert your eyes from him and settle on the islands you pass by.

"you still remember," he states rather than asks. his eyebrows raise inquisitively when you let out a low chuckle, a soft smile gracing your lips as you did. "of course i do," he doesn't have to think twice to know what you're talking about, "there was a time where that thing was in my face, like, every day."

a shy smile tugged at the corners of suna's mouth, eyes softening at the memory. it was during your sophomore year in college, a bit after kuroo's birthday party, when he asked if you'd be willing to be the centerpiece for his project in one of his elective classes. he came to you under the guise of needing to pull his grade up, but, really, all he wanted was an excuse to get you to talk to him again; to know you more without the speculating, teasing eyes of the miya twins.

“can’t believe you still continued that,” you murmur more to yourself, but it reaches suna’s ears.

“what do you mean?” his brows draw together, confused. the waves are getting stronger now, you notice.

adjusting yourself in your seat, you turn to face him once more. all the amusement and nostalgia drain from your features when you blink back at suna. “well, it seemed like you didn’t have time for anything else besides volleyball,” you shrug like it was obvious.

his eye twitches slightly in annoyance. is this really where you’re going? “i have a life, you know.”

“yeah, on the court,” you scoff.

“that’s not funny.”

“i’m not trying to be.”

“well, maybe if you stuck around, you’d know that we didn’t really have to sacrifice anything.” suna narrows his eyes at you, staring you down like an opponent on the court. it makes you uncomfortable, small. he had always looked at you this way whenever you two fought and you hated it. you hate it even more now.

your grip on the seat tightens as the boat rocked slightly. suna sees the second hurt flash in your eyes but it disappears quickly, replaced by something more distant and cold. guilt brews in the pits of his stomach but he doesn’t let his true emotions show through.

“hey,” you say, tone laced with guilt, feeding more onto the heavy burden knawing at his insides, “do you actually blame me? for the breakup?”

no. “i do.” suna pushes away the regret as soon as the words leave his lips, “we were supposed to talk. you had my hopes up.”

“i had your hopes up?” you croak back to him, almost lurching forward when the waves push and pull on the speedboat. suna kept his expression stoic, hands stubbornly glued to his side even as the boat rocked violently.

“you didn’t even—“ you cut yourself off with a frustrated huff, struggling to grasp how, until now, suna couldn’t even at least think about your side of the breakup. the boat operator pushes the throttle forward, prompting you to tighten your grip on the seats as the boat moves faster. “you didn’t even say the words!” your voice wavered, rising with the clash of the waves.

suna’s hand flies to the railing for balance. his eyebrows creased as more water droplets landed on his face, frustration evident in his eyes. “what words?”

“those words—“ a particularly large wave crashes onto your side of the speedboat, “fuck! the words you never said!” the words you wanted to hear. the words you needed him to say.

suna throws you a sarcastic smile, “that’s great, genius! i clearly know what you’re talking about.”

your jaw drops to the floor, mind deciding whether to categorize your ex as insensitive or just plain stupid. “are you fucking doing this on purpose?!”

the man across you tilts his head to the side, puzzled. plain stupid it is.

you try to stand up—tell the operator to turn back because clearly reuniting with your ex is a bad omen enough for weddings—but as soon as you get up on your feet, the operator pushes the throttle once more, cheekily shouting, “we’re speeding up!”

you tumble backward. the cold water engulfs you before you realize you’ve fallen off the boat. some of the water enters your nostrils but you kick your feet, eagerly persisting to the surface. you gasp for oxygen once you’ve broken through, heaving as you tried to stay afloat.

luckily, you see the boat just a short distance away from you. a few feet behind it was suna, speedily swimming in your direction.

“you fell off too?” you ask once he’s an arm’s length near you. you had to remind yourself that you were mid-argument when he pushes his hair back with one hand, gulping as you try not to stare so much.

but you quickly become confused when he shakes his head no. “i went to get you,” he tells you breathlessly.

a moment of silence dawns over you, save for the sound of the speedboat getting closer and suna trying to catch his breath. the egotistical part of him cheers silently, thinking that he had finally done something right. but you break that thought down when you suddenly hit the water between you, suna having to shield his face from the splash.

“i can swim, you idiot!” you exclaim.

though the ocean is freezing against his skin, it dissipates into nothing when he flushes a dark red. “i don’t know!” he tells you, seemingly annoyed at himself for diving into the water almost immediately—embarrassingly—after you did, “i mean, i know, but i just— i just did, okay?”

is he seriously mad right now? he looks mad, and it only fuels your frustration even more. he narrows his eyes at you before sharply looking away, huffing. you do the same.

the sound of the speedboat grows louder, as did the worried shouts of the operator. the man gives you his coat, apologizing to suna with the promise of getting you back to the hotel as quickly as possible.

you refuse to look at suna the whole time, not when you’re just as red as he is.

prev — masterlist — next

notes angry pouty blushy sunayn served! sorry for the long wait i had a bit of a writer’s block + college T__T

tags @ilyless @strxwberri-s @bbybibi @trash-master-3000 @milesmoralesluvs @hanniemylovelyquokka @nbcvs @crispchocolates @cnnmairoll @tojirin @ryuverse @megumiif @chemiru @theycallmenanamisgirl @neoclb @krissiekris @nyxlai @tsukiran @frvppe @le000xxgrd @kr1nqu @kunihaver @toges-cough-syrup @myromanempiree @baskin-robinhoods @jeongintwt @itsdragonius @moucheslove @ichcocat @miiyas @samuel1004 @reignsaway @sonicsolos @httpshoyo

[sanjisboyfie]

when you know, you know.

-> basketball player gojo satoru x male reader

requested!!! a rlly old req from an anon in my inbox <3 ty for the req and jm so sorry it took so long however the 6k+ word count hopefully makes up for that. + listen to margaret by lana del rey on repeat for the full affect

-> prev

warnings : satoru ooc (i do NOT agree w that warning but i GUESS I could see why someone would disagree 🙄🙄🙄), very fluffy to the point it seems angsty!!! talk about the homosexuals!!!! satoru mentions small familial conflict in the interview portion

diamond on your ring

cause when you know, you know

when you know, you know

“thank you so much for agreeing to a sit down interview, gojo-sama,” the interviewer politely bows to the tall man the second satoru walks into the room. immediately, he bows in response, finding the sudden formalities almost abnormal.

at this point, he was so used to other interviews he’d done be super quick, informal and just reporters looking for answers to their questions with little regard for things such as respect.

this was a breath of fresh air, but satoru couldn’t help but feel bad for the interviewer whose back must be hurting now with how long they’d been bowing.

“oh, please, no need for such strong formalities,” satoru chimed in, gently resting his hand on their shoulder to goad them into standing upright, “gojo is fine, too, no need for the honorifics. it’s not like i’m royalty,” he joked, hoping to lift the mood in the room.

it seemed to work as the interviewer finally cracked a smile and dropped their shoulders from being so stiffly held up to their ear.

“then, gojo-san, please take a seat and we can get you all mic’d up for the interview. it should take no longer than a half hour, longest running an hour and a half, but we really don’t want to take up too much of your time,” satoru shook his head, assuring them that it was fine and then taking his seat.

he noticed that the cameras were already filming, but didn’t think twice on it. technically, from the moment he stepped foot in the room, the interview already started. that’s what it said on paper, at least.

“erm, to just go over what we might be discussing in this interview,” the reporter said, clearing their throat as they looked over their list of questions, “since this is a very specific interview, the questions are going to mainly be centered around your romantic relationships and very personal questions,”

satoru nodded, moving in his seat to allow the staff better access in getting the microphone to stay hidden in his clothes, “yeah, my manager sent me the general idea of questions of stuff you’d be asking, it’s alright with me,” he said, taking off his sunglasses, “plus i think i’m pretty familiar with the publisher and the audience, so it’s alright. really, ask me anything, this would probably the only time i’d do something like this,” he encouraged with a friendly smile, trying to show his genuinity.

the interviewer nodded in understanding, clicking their pen and writing a note in their notepad.

satoru had done his research beforehand. the publisher that was interviewing him, or rather the person interviewing him in steed of the company, was a pretty vocal LGBTQ+ company. it was a rare occurance in japanese media, especially as a standalone party, but they proved successful. satoru knew why they were interviewing him, obviously because he was gay and very outwordly apart of the community. he also knew that they were always respectful individuals, which is why he didn’t hesitate in accepting the interview.

if he was going to be asked about his sexuality and his very much gay relationship, he’d rather it be done through a respectful, and most likely very understanding, person rather than those that would shout at him invasive questions.

“then, are you ready, gojo-san?” the interviewer snapped him out of his daydream, making him nod his head. “let’s test the mic really quick, then we can jump into it,”

“i am gojo satoru,” he recited, looking at the staff for a thumbs up on the feedback. when he got a positive thumbs up, the interviewer followed with their own test and then they were able to get into the interview.

“let’s start with introductions, i’m ishii haruto and i’ll be the one interviewing you today, gojo-san. lovely to meet you,” he bowed his head in greeting, making satoru follow suit.

a relaxed grin was on his face as he introduced himself again, “i haven’t said it before, but i’m gojo satoru,” it was a small joke that uplifted the mood of the room once more. haruto appreciated it, laughing to himself at satoru’s subtle charisma.

”well, to get right into the interview, let’s start with hard hitting questions,” satoru braced himself, clenching his fists in his pant’s pocket, “how are you?”

satoru smiled, shooting a fake warning look haruto’s way, “i’m wonderful, how are you ishii-san? i hope you’re doing well, too,”

“i’m doing very well. it’s an honor to interview you, thank you for giving us this opportunity,” haruto said, subtly bowing his head once more, “you truly don’t understand how inspiring it will be for the rest of japan to hear your story, you’re doing such a big thing for all of us in this room, and for those that will read this interview later. so, really, thank you, gojo-san,”

satoru pursed his lips at the sentimentality, realizing quickly that this interview was going to be really different than anything he’d ever experienced before. “sobering” up a little bit, he smiled at haruto and nodded his head, “i’m happy to be here, too. i hope whoever reads this learns something about themselves,”

“yes, that will be the end goal,” haruto agreed before looking down at his notepad, “well, i guess we can just start off with this one — when did you know you were gay?”

satoru hummed, “i don’t really know. for me, i guess it was always in the back of my mind? i mean, i never had a crush on a girl growing up. and i thought it was normal. my parents did as well, seeing how driven i was from a young age to be successful in basketball, i think they wrote it off as me just being determined to make my dreams come true. no time for distractions, or something like that. but deep down, i think i always knew.” he paused, crossing his legs as he decided to add one more tidbit, “and i never thought it was wrong, either. to me, having a crush on a boy wasn’t a big deal. i just thought, huh, this sucks i like someone, i might get distracted from basketball now,”

the two shared a laugh at his joking remark at the end, but until that point the interviewer was very immersed in the personal story. he was even humming in acknowledgement of everything he was saying, as if he related.

“so when you began pursuing your current boyfriend, it was not a big deal for you? even given your position as a famous basketball player?” then haruto looked at the camera men and held his hand up, a signal of some sort that satoru was cued in on, and leaned forward, “would it be alright if we refer to him with his name?”

satoru quickly nodded, understanding now that the hand gesture meant for their mics to be cut so that they wouldn’t receive any audio.

then they were back on and satoru answered the original question, “no, it wasn’t a huge deal. well, it was to everyone else, i guess. but to me and my close friends, it wasn’t. they already knew i was really into him and had a big crush on him before i did, so it really wasn’t a big shock when i made my efforts more obvious. well, as obvious as you can get with having everyone watching you. i tried to reel it in a little when my friend’s told me he may not be comfortable with all the attention, that was the only time i really was aware of it and began to calm down on my advances,”

“oh, so it wasn’t a big deal to you, but in consideration of his feelings, you kind of held back a little bit?”

“yeah, because if things ended up not working out, then all the neutral attention we were getting would have become negative. rumors could’ve started that would’ve hurt him, and i definitely didn’t want that, so yeah,” satoru said, reiterating his main point from earlier, “i just wanted him to be comfortable whenever we were in public,”

“that’s really considerate of you, gojo-san,” the interviewer complimented, making satoru laugh with a wave of his hand.

“he never asked for all the attention in the first place, i definitely didn’t want to make our already secretive position more hostile than it needed to be,” satoru explained, “so everything had to be toned down. fortunately, he was very understanding and could see where i was coming from.”

“what do you mean by that? did he ever say anything about it?”

“well, we’re just like any other couple. we just want privacy and respect, some people don’t want to give it to us. those people that just want to hurt our relationship just because we’re both guys. if i wasn't as famous as i am, i’d imagine it’d be easier to mange. not that it still wouldn’t be stressful — but at least, not the entire country would be breathing down our necks,” satoru explained, choosing his words carefully. “no matter what, though, if you’re in a relationship with someone of the same sex, it’s going to be hard.”

“that’s true, but you two have faced a lot of very hard obstacles. it’s sad how many times people have wished to see you two broken up,” haruto said, an angry look on his face, “how did you two manage to overcome those obstacles?”

“well, we had each other, loved ones, and close friends as support systems. they were really helpful and sweet, they were the most understanding. but i think, the most important one, was that we had each other. we were in it together. not to say that all the negative attention was good or even worth it, but it made our love for one another stronger,” satoru sighed, thinking about the early days when he was first officially dating [name], “i just wish they were nicer to him. he didn’t deserve any of it,”

there was a pause of respect from haruto before they continued on, “you said you had support of loved ones and close friends — were they supportive from the get-go or did it take “convincing” for them to understand?”

“most of them were really understanding and could see that my love for him was too strong to be denied, so that was nice. but there were definitely instances of family members not understanding or simply refusing to support,” satoru answered with a grim look on his face.

“how did you deal with that?”

“well, it was mainly family members, unfortunately, that rejected my lifestyle. so i had to do the best thing and cut them off. i couldn’t have them in my ear telling me that i wasn’t meant to be this way or that [name] and i’s relationship had to be put to a stop. so i cut them off completely and haven’t spoken to them since. i could afford to make that sacrifice since i had [name] and others as support. he really helped me through that and the realization that not everyone will understand or see it as we do…you just have to learn how to deal with it in each situation and circumstance,”

haruto hummed in intrigue and understanding, “was it hard? cutting them off and coming to that realization?”

“i would say it wasn’t as hard as one would think…not when i love [name] so much i’d sacrifice anything to be with him. i wasn’t going to settle for anything passive aggressive or half-assed when it came to support of my relationship with him. like i said, i wasn’t going to let anyone bad mouth him or our relationship, i wouldn’t settle for that in exchange of keeping blood relatives around. even if someone is family, if they hurt someone i love, it still counts for something. they’re still hurting him and in turn hurting me. that’s not family anymore,” satoru said definitively. he had a hard look on his face. almost the one that was only mirrored whenever he was on the court. it showed how serious of a topic it was to him.

“seeing you so be so openly protective and in love with your boyfriend has gotten you two a lot of attention over the years, most of it is praise from others since they do think it’s adorable. does affection that you show [name] come very naturally?”

“of course it does,” satoru grinned, happy to move onto more lighthearted topics. he had the widest grin on his face now, thinking of when he would go home and cuddle his boyfriend, “i’m a very affectionate person, anyway. ask suguru, he’ll tell you,” with the reference to his best friend, who plays on the same team as him, haruto grins, “but i made sure that [name] was comfortable with it first and then went on from what he was okay with, until we got to the point right now where we both don’t really care,

if i know i’m in love with my boyfriend, i want other people to know as well. there was a bad rep surrounding me, in my early days especially. everyone thought i was a playboy, for some reason,” he shyly scratched the back of his head, “so i thought that me showing that i was very loyal and very much in love with my boyfriend, people would stop thinking that of me. and it worked! so, it was a win-win situation,”

haruto nods, looking at his cue cards with a grin, “and you two have had a really long relationship-”

“almost coming on 5 years now,” satoru giggles, a blush evident on his pale cheeks, “it doesn’t feel that long, though,”

“yeah, it’s as if it was only yesterday the two of you made it public and sent everyone into a panic,” the two laugh at the memory. the headlines that day going hysterical over the basketball player’s very much gay personal life. “and since you’ve been in a relationship for so long, has it ever crossed your mind to tie the knot permanently? settle down with [name]?”

satoru paused, the smile on his face faltering ever so slightly as he repeated the question in his mind.

marriage with [name] always was the answer. but, the idea of when and where and how never crossed satoru’s mind. well, it did. in repeated passing thoughts. but, never long enough for him to commit to the idea. he’s thought of how he would do it, where, but never really when. and even then, the how and where were never set in stone. he wanted it to be romantic, definitely had to be something that the two would retell to their kids one day as the most romantic and loving gesture satoru has ever done.

but “when”…satoru never put a pin in the calendar on what date.

he hummed where he sat, resting his chin in his palms as he thought about how to answer.

“huh, well…i know i’m going to marry him someday,” satoru assures the interviewer, who was silently panicking that they had accidentally asked a question too invasive, “but, i think i’ll keep the details of that to myself, haha,” satoru played it off as a tease, but internally he was sweating bullets.

there was never going to be a right time. a right time insinuates a moment where satoru is so overwhelmed with love that a proposal would be the only verbal indicator of that feeling.

but, satoru has been so madly and deeply in love with [name] for so long already that the “right time” feels like every waking moment.

when the two moved in together, made that huge, empty house a home for themselves. when he took [name] on their first overseas trip and they learned even more about each other. when satoru takes him home for the holidays where he just so perfectly matches with his family members and comes even more out of his shell.

satoru’s been so in love with [name] for so long it feels like they’re already married. [name] knows him like the back of his hand and vice versa.

it was as if he always knew. he just knew in the back of his mind that they’d end up standing in perfectly tailored suits at the end of the aisle, saying heartfelt and cheesy vows to each other. satoru knows he’ll probably end up crying more than [name] and he knows that that day will be the happiest he’ll ever be.

the question made his head spin around as a flurry of questions of when he would propose filled his head, but it did solidify one thing. the fact that satoru just knows that one day he’ll end up being [name]’s husband and [name] his. and he wants that day to come sooner rather than later.

”well, i think the final question for our interview today that can wrap this up, will be: do you have any advice for young aspiring individuals that might read this and see this side of you?”

satoru gulped, suddenly feeling as if the temperature in the room had gone up twenty degrees. he tugged on the collar of his button up, swallowing as he spoke carefully, “just always be true to yourself and your dreams. it doesn’t matter what other people think because if you know what you want and you know that it’s your dreams on the line, there shouldn’t be anything standing between you and that goal. whether it be a person you want to pursue or if it’s your dream career, don’t give up.” he attempted a smile at haruto and it seemed to have done its work as the interviewer bowed his head deeply in gratitude.

the two finished the closing remarks of the interview with fluidity. he handed the mic back to the staff, who thanked him with their heads bowed. but before he could leave, he pulled haruto aside and lowered his voice, “uhm, could you hold off on publishing this for a while?”

haruto blinked rapidly, a nervous look coming onto his face, “well, the editing and transcription of the video will take some time, probably a little over a month…how long were you thinking of keeping it under wraps, gojo-san?”

it was a plead to not make him push the publication date back further. satoru hums, “a little over a month?”

“yes, that is what my advisor gave me as a “grace” period in editting everything,” haruto nods, the nervous look on his face not disappearing once.

“that should be alright then, sorry for worrying you. a little over a month is fine,” satoru grins, feeling his chest bloom with warmth. “thank you so much for the interview, have a lovely day,”

and with that parting farewell, satoru rushed out of the building with his mask and sunglasses on and practically jumped into his car.

in the safety confines of his car, satoru rested his head against the wheel. his breathing was rapid and his cheeks were ablaze. was he really going to do this? he looked at his phone that had the directions sent to the nearest luxury jewelry shop, his eyes flitting across the screen to take all the information in.

“seriously, satoru?” he panted to himself, leaning back to his seat and looking up at his car roof, “it took some guy interviewing you to grow the balls to do this? really?”

he cursed himself for waiting so long, setting his car into reverse and speeding his way to the shop. he had his sunglasses, hat, and mask on as he exited his car, careful to try and not attract too much attention. if the media caught light of this before he could properly do it, he would have someone’s head on a spike - he didn’t care.

no one was ruining this for him. for [name], too. satoru wasn’t going to let the stupid papparazzi tarnish this moment, as they had done for so many other intimate ones before this.

satoru grit his teeth, pushing the shop door open and breathing a sigh of relief to find that it was empty. he looked at the displays they had out, acting calm when on the inside he was sweating bullets.

“looking for anything in particular?” the attendent asked him, not at all acknowleding his appearance which meant that his disguise had worked.

he cleared his throat, still looking down as he shakily replied, “wedding rings, wedding rings for men, please,”

thank god the attendent wasn’t an asshole or else satoru might’ve really just slammed his head into the wall in frustration. because the attendent just guided him in the direction of where the men’s wedding rings were. he didn’t speak more either, just hovering around in case satoru needed help.

“fuck,” he cursed under his breath, trying his hardest to focus and think about which one [name] would like the most. “fuck, what if i get him one he doesn’t like? what the fuck does that mean for us? oh my god,” he panicked.

and it was almost funny. a 6’6 lean guy practically clutching his chest to stop his heart from jumping out of his ribs and flopping around on the floor. he was seriously getting heart palpitations, satoru swore this is the most nervous he’s ever been in his life.

what the fuck would he say when he actually proposes?

“i love you, marry me?”

fuck no. gojo satoru wasn’t going to settle for a shit proposal like that. and he certainly wasn’t going to settle for a shitting ring either, but it was so stressful thinking of whether or not his boyriend (manifest: soon to be fiance) would like the one he picked out.

satoru never was the one with good fashion or style sense in the relationship.

he was freaking out.

some of the rings on display were too loud and extravagant that he knew [name] wouldn’t enjoy it, but then going for someting super, duper plain was out of the question.

“do you have a particular agenda in mind?”

“i have nothing in my mind right now,” satoru snapped at the worker, apologizing seconds later, “i’m sorry, i’m just really stressed right now.”

“it’s alright, many are when they come in. they see the displayed rings and get self-conscious of the one that they choose. well, just go with your gut feeling on what you and your partner would like. that’s the best advice i can give you. you know them best, after all,”

this fucking attendent was right, satoru knows his own boyfriend (manifest: soon to be fiance) better than anyone. he just has to see something to spark an inspiration in him.

and he thinks he’s found it when he looks at a particular timeless piece that is cushioned on a small red velvet pillow.

“what can you tell me about that one?” satoru asked, although he’s almost completely set on just buying it right now. it was perfect. the coupled ring that pairs with it was also so effortlessly something he would love to wear as well.

”that one is in the style of an eternity ring, with the VVS diamonds cut into an emerald shape, obviously. the metal is platnium with 11 carats,” the attendent skillfully answers, “goes for about 9,871,750 yen ($70,000 USD). we offer installment plans, though-”

“no, i’ll just take it, thanks, though,” satoru said, easily sliding his card over. “i also want the paired one too,”

“that one is-”

“you don’t have to tell me about it or the price, just box them pretty for me and i’ll be on my way,” satoru grinned, looking at the bills he had in his wallet and pulling out a couple 10,000 yen notes, (adding up to about 200,000 yen - $1,417 USD). as the attendent very meticulously packaged the rings safely, satoru slid over the cash to him.

“thanks for helping,” satoru said, tapping his card and approving the transaction before walking out of the store. the hefty cash tip left on the counter for the attendent to gleam at.

and if he thought that the picking the ring part was hard, now he had to come up with how he was actually going to propose.

he always said that he wanted it to be romantic, but with [name] already waiting at home there was no way he could set something up at their own house. and, honestly, he wanted this to not be so public in fear of it leaking to the headlines. so he would have to settle with making it romantic in his home.

but, the more he thought about it, the more carefree he felt in the atmosphere. as long as [name] was just there exisisting, that was all he could ask for. satoru carefully pocketed the velvet box into his pant leg, keeping the pair safe as he drove back home completely undetected by papparazzi.

when he got home, he had to stop himself from automatically calling out to his boyfriend (manifest: soon to be fiance). the “honey, i’m home,” died in the back of his throat, thankfully, so his arrival home was still a secret. he took off his shoes and walked up the stairs to their shared bedroom where [name] was most likely resting.

it wasn’t too late, but by now his bedtime routine was probably done and he was getting comfortable in bed.

and satoru’s assumptions were right because when he gently pushed the bedroom door open, he saw [name] cuddled into a pillow and watching the TV that was set up against the wall. upon closer inspection, satoru saw that the pillow he was cuddling was actually from his side of the bed. he was cuddling his pillow as he waited for him to come home.

that, unfortunately, made satoru breakdown in tears almost right away. his eyes stung with the salty fluid breaking through his composure. [name] was too far to notice, though, simply lifting his head and waving him over with a loving smile, “you’re home! wow, you were so quiet i barely heard you come in,”

and when satoru just silently stood at the doorway, his hand covering his mouth, that made [name] get up out of bed in worry.

“hey, are you okay? what happened?” then he saw the way satoru’s broad shoulders shook, rushing over and holding him in his arms in an instant, “was it the interviewer? are you okay, satoru? talk to me,” satoru only broke down more, making [name] comfortingly rub up and down his back with “shh”s slipping from his mouth every now and then.

“satoru, are you okay?” [name] worriedly asked, gently pulling him towards the bed and urging him to sit. once the tall man was sat down, he immediately wrapped his arms around him again, hugging him as tight as he could to give him some sort of comfort, “you’re scaring me, satoru, what happened?”

satoru took a couple of seconds to collect himself, holding onto [name] in his arms as a means of grounding himself. but if anything, it made it worse. he was reminded that [name] was really real and not some figment of his imagination. he wasn’t just some “dream” guy, he was real and he was his.

[name] was sitting in their bed with him and comforting him lovingly. he was real and satoru never felt as lucky as he did than right now in this moment.

“nothing happened,” satoru breathed out, pulling [name] back from his torso so that he could properly speak to him. “i’m okay, really,”

“satoru, you’re crying. it’s okay, you can tell me,” [name] said softly, pushing his wet bangs aside and looking into his teary blue eyes, “it’s okay,”

satoru bit his lip, admiring the features of his boyfriend for a couple more seconds. how gentle his touch was, the hand caressing his face only having the lightest featherlike feeling against his skin. how concerned his e/c eyes were, staring into him and understanding him like no one else ever has.

he is so beautiful, satoru thought to himself. he squeezed [name]’s hand that was resting in his lap, making the man look down at their joined fingers.

”satoru?”

“i just,” he took in a deep breath, “i love you so much, you know that right?”

he almost laughed at the suggestion, but [name] politely nodded instead, “of course i know that, you show me everyday. i love you, too,”

satoru nuzzled his cheek further into [name]’s touch, relishing in the way the man’s warmth fell onto his skin.

“i love you so much, i’d do anything for you,” satoru breathed out, looking past his wet white eyelashes and into [name]’s concern eyes, “i’d do anything, i mean it. i love you so, so, so much [name],”

“satoru, you’re really scaring me. what’s going on?”

“nothing bad, i promise. just, please, let me?” satoru begged, voice hoarse and tight as he pleaded with [name]. and with a patient nod coming from the man, he continued on, “you’ve made me so happy, happier than i’ve ever been, these past couple of years. you deal with me and my annoying bullshit everyday, you make sure i’m healthy and happy even when you’re so tired. you always take care of me, more than i give you credit for and i’m sorry that i’m so selfish sometimes. but, i promise i’ll do better. i’ll be better, for you. anything you want me to be, i’ll work so hard in becoming, for you. i want to make you as happy as you make me,” satoru gulps, feeling his throat closing up and his tears welling back up, “i love you so much, [name],”

taking in all of his words, [name]’s eyebrows furrowed in confliction. he still didn’t know if he should be concerned and worried or just let satoru go on. but then he felt his own eyes well up with tears when he felt how sincere satoru was being. how tight his large hand was holding his own, as if he were afraid that he’d slip away if his grip on him loosened even the slightest.

even when he tried lifting that hand up to wipe his tears away, satoru didn’t let him, keeping a steady grip on his hand. instead, his slender fingers came up to the side of his face and wiped the tears away with a calm smile on his face.

“you make me so happy, [name]. and i'm so happy to be here with you. you make everything worth it,” satoru said softly, “you love me so gently, so softly — unlike anyone else in my life has. you’re my entire world. i don’t know what i’d do without you here. i know i’m meant to stay by your side forever. i know my place in the world is wherever you are.”

there was a pause as now both of them were crying messes.

[name]’s eyes were shut as he tried to wipe his stream of tears away. so he didn’t see the way satoru dug through his pocket to take out the velvet box. and he didn’t see the way his hands shook as he propped the box to be open, didn’t see how nervous satoru looked in the moment of unveiling the ring.

what he did see though was the ring blaringly presenting itself to him and a grinning, crying satoru behind it. he heard the words leave his lips, “let’s stay together forever, okay? please, marry me, [name],”

and [name] didn't react.

not immediately. he was too shocked. his jaw had dropped and he looked between the ring and satoru, who was still happily crying. then, finally, he snapped out of it and enclosed his arms around his boyfriend’s (fiance’s?) neck and sobbed into his skin, “yes, yes, yes,” over and over.

satoru cried more, this time a smile on his face as he cried into the air. he felt the stream of wet tears go down his neck, but he didn’t pay them any mind. he only held [name] closer by his waist in a suffocating embrace.

he didn’t know if he believed in multiple universes theory, whatever that was, but he just wishes that if it were true: he’d find [name] in every single one. [name] was his one and only comfort in the hectic life that he lives, the one stable root that keeps him grounded.

the two seperated, smiling and laughing with each other as they messily kissed in celebration. when they pulled away, [name] and satoru watched as the latter shakily slipped the ring onto the former’s ring finger. and the h/c haired man had to cover his mouth once more at the sight. it was slightly loose, running on the bigger side, but it was perfect. he didn’t care. it could have been a paper ring and it would have been perfect.

“i love you satoru, so much, you don’t understand,”

“i love you more,” the other softly breathes out, staring at [name]’s ringed finger with pride, “more than you’d ever know.”

the two smiled and laughed at their confessions, joining in another hug as they were high off of their dopamine. wordlessly, satoru collapsed onto the bed with [name] laying on top of him. and as he took the other velvet box out, he tried slipping the ring onto his finger. but it didn’t even fit on his ring finger, so he had to work with it on his pinky.

“it’s kind of cute that way,” [name] says in amusement, comparing their hand size and laughing at the difference, “i like it,”

“if you like it that way, we can keep it this size, then,” satoru said simply, kissing the top of [name]’s head.

“wear it however you want to, satoru, it’s your ring,” [name] chides him, looking up to softly glare at him.

“the ring doesn’t mean anything by itself, you're the one that gives it meaning,” satoru says, squeezing [name]’s shoulders to bring him closer, “if you like it on the pinky, it stays on the pinky.”

rolling his eyes and deciding that nothing is going to get through his fiance’s head, [name] gave up on challenging satoru. instead, he cuddled closer into his side and breathed in his faint cologne and natural scent.

“i love you, satoru. my dear fiance,” he said into the fabric of his dress shirt, smiling against satoru’s ribs as he repeated the phrase in his head.

satoru didn’t bother biting back his smile as he tilted [name]’s head up to look up at him. he kissed him softly, gently moving their lips against each other in a passionate kiss. and when he pulled away, he made sure to keep eye contact as he said, “i love you more, [name], my dear fiance,”

[superhero--imagines]

Dating Luffy Would Include

A/N: Reposting because someone mentioned that Luffy is canon!ace, so these headcanons are just Luffy being Luffy, there's not a need to call it out (Which I see the point of.)

* So Luffy is Ace

* That’s canon

* I am convinced you guys started dating because when you guys landed at a port town, everyone went their own ways, and you and Luffy went together to eat at a busy tavern

* You’re sitting across from him, studying the menu, discussing what you're both going to get

* “This is kind of like we’re on a date,huh?” You say jokingly after he orders for you both

* Something in his head must have clicked right then, that yeah this does feel a little like a date, and yeah, he does like it

* His face breaks out into the biggest grin, “should I order some wine?”

* In his head I think drinking wine is the most date-like thing

* He orders the wine

* You’re half surprised when mid-way through the meal he gets this serious look in his eyes.

* “Can I kiss you?”

* You almost do a spit take, choking on your drink

* “Where is this coming from?!”

* If he wanted a taste of your food he could have just asked not that he ever had before though

* “I want to know what it feels like.”

* It’s a fleeting kiss, nothing more than a peck, but it brings heat to your face

* It’s also at this moment that you realize it’s gotten unusually quiet in the tavern

* You can practically feel the burn of stares

* Luffy feels nothing, instead he grins wide and says:

* “Hey (Y/N), let’s date and be partners.”

* The tavern goes wild

* “Isn’t that straw hat Luffy?”

* “Did he just ask them to be his lover?”

* With your face, as hot as the sun, hidden behind you hands, you nod

* “Okay.”

* He’s such an affectionate baby

* If you guys split up, and he meets back with you again he grins and stretches his arms out, wrapping them twice around you before tugging you towards him

* “(Y/N), I missed you!” He’ll say while nuzzling his face into your neck

* He loves it when you do that thing where you hold his face in both your hands and sprinkle kisses all over his face

* I think his kisses are pretty chaste, just quick, fluttering, pecks

* I think there’s a lot of insecurity on your end at first, because you don’t really know where you stand in his life, and how he feels about you

* He’s only got one thing on his mind — being king of the pirates

* If you had to bucket his ‘love’ in order of priority you’d say number one is himself and his version of freedom

* With his friends as a close second

* And then there you are, a seemingly distant third

* Given his personality you wonder if he knows being your “partner” doesn’t equate to just being your friend

* “Luffy what do you think we are?”

* His head tilts to the side, eyebrows twitching

* “You’re my partner.”

* “Yeah but what do you think that means?”

* “That it’s you and me until the end,” he says without an ounce of hesitation.

* “No matter what happens, no matter where you go — I’ll always be there for you and you’ll be there for me too.”

* In a way, it’s more than you could have hoped for—because when Luffy says it, it sounds like a promise

* You take his hand in yours and squeeze

* His mouth breaks out in a grin

* He loves you so so so much, don’t ever doubt that

* He would literally never cheat on you even though he seems to capture hearts with clueless rizz everywhere he goes

* “You going to go give your girlfriend a kiss before she leaves?” You ask Luffy, swallowing hard to keep from looking at Boa Hancock any longer than you have to

* A woman so beautiful she could give you an entire slew of self esteem and mental health issues at the of her sight alone

* “Why would I say goodbye when you’re right here next to me?”

* And just like that he’s got you blushing and mumbling to yourself

* And just like that he’s laughing

* He’s got you wrapped around his finger

* But don’t think he isn’t wrapped around your finger too

* You look at your plate with increasing concern

* Luffy’s fork slides in and out of view, depositing a glistening piece of fruit with each visit

* “Luffy what are you doing?”

* “You like these right?”

* Yeah, but so does he

* The entire crew shares your sentiment as they watch him with gaping mouths

* Luffy sharing food, you never thought you would see the day

* “Thanks Luffy.”

* “Anytime!”

* You’ll take it though

* God, just the thought of seeing gear 5 Luffy?

* Like he’s laughing up there, his silhouette hangs in front of the moon

* And it feels like you’re looking at a god

* This is what Patroclus must have felt like watching Achilles in war

* You’re brought to your knees at the sight of him

* His gaze swings to you, that same laugh rings in your ears—Luffy’s laugh

* “There you are! I was looking everywhere for you!”

* His arms wrap around you twice, bending space and time to bring you to him.

* “I missed you!” he says, nuzzling his face into your neck

NSFW

Under the cut

* So like I said he’s somewhere on the asexuality spectrum

* I don’t think he’s sex repulsed, but it’s definitely not the first thing on his mind

* So if you want to have sex with him you’re going to have to initiate

* Be direct, because he doesn’t understand any other way

* “Luffy I wanna sleep with you.”

* He grins, “Of course! We can take a nap together anytime you want.”

* “No, like…I want to have sex with you.”

* Oh.

* Ohhhhhh

* “Yeah, sure.”

* He’s willing to try it out.

* His verdict?

* “It was nice but I wouldn’t go out of the way to do it again or anything.”

* His favorite part was seeing you all flustered and panting with that sweet look in your eyes.

* His heart gets about ten times bigger from the memory alone

* He’d take a picture on a Polaroid and keep it in his pocket if he could

* He might get aroused occasionally, and seek you for some ‘alone’ time for stress relief, but it’s few and far between

* He’s a very confident boy, but this one would get to him

* “Am I enough for you?” He’ll ask one night hence you’re alone

* He’s only ever dreamed about being king of the pirates, about ultimate freedom

* So he never realized what a big deal sex was to other people

* And at the end of the day he doesn’t feel sexual attraction

* Maybe that’s a big deal for you

* You put your arm around him and hold him close

* “You’re more than enough for me Luffy, you’re my dream boy,” you promise

* And if you kiss his forehead afterwards?

* He might actually cry

[queer-n-here]

Pt. 2 for Oh Sangwoo and the one more deranged than him.

Read Pt. 1 here.

Contents: Sangwoo becomes suicidal.

Warnings: Kidnapping, mentions of rape, attempted suicide.

Sangwoo was huddled in a corner of your basement when you went down with his food. You paid it no mind, placing the tray in your hands upon the only table top in the room. It was the usual, some rice and a couple of side dishes with a bottle of water.

You went about with the usual cleaning, dusting off the little furniture in the room, avoiding the corner where Sangwoo was crouching, face hidden in his arms. Less of avoiding, really, it was more of saving up the best part of your visit for the end.

Once you were done with everything else, you approached Sangwoo.

"Hmmm, asleep, are you?" You let him think you didn't see his fingers tremble and twitch slightly when you entered the room.

You raised a hand, and ruffled his hair. He wanted to slap your hand off and scramble backwards, but didn't. He would die but he wouldn't give you the satisfaction of having scared him.

"Tsk, tsk," You clicked your tongue. "Such a pity, isn't it, Sangwoo? How you think that corpse in your bedroom wall is that of your mother."

It worked, Sangwoo looked up, surprised, and you burst into laughter.

"Oh, come on," You teased, smirking as if you were joking with a good friend. "You can't be easier than that."

Sangwoo turned his head away, teeth gritted. He hated you.

You knew, and yet you found this sense of peace in it. Because hate wasn't the only thing he felt when he saw you. He was scared, too.

Months passed, and one by one, every single one of Sangwoo's many attempts to escape fell useless. You never punished him when you found him trying to get away; there was nothing he could do that would make you wanna hurt him more than you already did.

But you fucked him, every night. Every single time you left him breathless, pressing his tear-soaked face into the bed sheets as you ripped orgasm after orgasm from him, never the same way twice. It was a dildo now, a vibrator next, and a pile of blankets after that.

Sangwoo stopped struggling, gradually. He didn't have the strength for it anymore. He let you do as you wish, laying back in whatever position you wanted him and letting you do unspeakable things to him. He stopped trying to deny you the satisfaction of having scared him, or surprised him. He felt an exhaustion seeping into his bones that he'd never experienced before.

Every day, he woke up in your basement, and went back to sleep in it. Those four walls were the only ones he saw all day. One day, he tried to peek out the barred window, trying to get a glance at outside life. But the crack in it wasn't big enough, and he found himself breaking down at the thought of normality so close and yet so far.

When you'd originally kidnapped Sangwoo, he'd thought that you would play around with him for a couple days, then kill him. But he was so wrong. You never killed him. You only hurt him enough to make him bleed slightly, or to remind him that his life was a plaything in your hands.

He didn't want this anymore. He didn't want life anymore.

So one day, when you stepped down to deliver Sangwoo food as usual, the sight that greeted you left your scalp numb with shock.

He was sitting on the floor, a shard of glass that he'd gotten from God knows where in his hands, just an inch away from his skin.

"Sangwoo!" You yelled.

You strode over to him, grabbed the shard from his hands and threw it away. It shattered, little fragments flying across the floor.

For the first time since you'd kidnapped him, you were angry. Sangwoo only faintly registered the satisfaction of having gotten under your skin.

"You fucking piece of shit." You grabbed his face roughly, making him look up at you. "You think your life is your own to take? You still haven't realised who fucking owns you?"

Your loud voice echoed in the empty basement. Then, Sangwoo's eyes blurred over.

He didn't say anything. A tear dripped down his cheek, then another, and then he was sobbing his chin in your hand. You let go of him, frustrated beyond belief.

How fucking dare he.

Sangwoo curled up where he sat on the floor, sobs shaking his frame as he huddled closer and closer to the wall behind him, as if he could keep himself together if he merged with it.

You crouched down next to him, pushed his arms away from his face, and forced him to look at you again.

"If you fucking try this shit again, I swear to God." You said, your voice shaky. "I'm gonna make your life hell, Sangwoo."

And, looking up at you, calm as the ocean and unflinching depute his wet face, he said, "It already is."

That day, you knew your time with him was short now. No one can make someone who's insistent on dying live. And you were no magician.

[alphabetboyluvr]

throttle - jjk | five

one / two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / eleven

warnings - jk and yoongi showdown (by showdown i mean they just glare at each other a bit), THE BUSAN CHRONICLES BEGIN!!! anyone who has read throttle know how important busan is for these babies he he, depictions of sex that aren't smut (i'd argue?), hair pulling, she's on top, existential crisis thoughts during it all, unprotected sex, creampie, HELLO KIM TAEHYUNG, he's a sleaze, ANGST, cc watches jk wank himself off <3, a lil mutual masturbation moment, cute kisses <33, cums on her tummy <3, character insight! backstory! ugh! i love the busan chapters! i'll upload the rest of the busan chapters now too

word count - 18.5k

minors dni // posted to wp late 2021 // series masterlist

Jungkook has a face straight from a nineties rom-com. Boyish charm, eyes that linger; teeth that nibble on thin lips, and a smile that breaks like sun through a thunderous sky.

You're convinced that if he actually was a movie star, you'd watch every single film he was in - twice, at the very minimum. Maybe one would even become your comfort movie, for the days when real people felt like too much to handle; solace through the silver screen. 

His nose slopes and points so delicately at its tip, that you always find yourself staring; marvelling. Wondering how an angle so simple could have you at such a loss for words. Eyes are wide and dark, they're like a vat of melted down dark chocolate, slowly hypnotising you with every stir of the rich delicacy. 

It's when he smiles, though, that you really find yourself lost in everything he is. It's radiant, the way those plunging, round eyes of his crease at the sides, a deep line forming beneath them. His brows raise, and the dewy skin on his cheeks begins to tighten as they apple, and then his teeth - pristine, you think, ignoring any imperfection - are on show. You're home. 

Home in his laugh, in his happiness, in the way that he always seems to be like this around you. Home in how he always finds an excuse to be touching you in some capacity, home in the sanctuary of unspoken words, and home in the hopes that maybe one day, he'll be brave enough to say them.

Hope is a funny thing, though.  So much to gain and yet so much to lose - but if you never really had it, can it be considered a loss at all?

You're musing about this when Yoongi comes in through the side door, palms slick with motor oil, a few streaks staining his face and his shirt from where he's been a little bit careless. He cocks a brow, and throws you a cautious, coy smile. 

"What are you doing here?" He angles his body away from you, almost as if he suspects you're about to throw something at him. His tone is slow, reserved, a little bit accusatory, if you do say so.

"My job?" You question - but you know exactly why he's asking such a thing. 

You're always getting Jieun to cover you these days. He thinks you've barely worked enough shifts to cover the rent this month - and he's right.

He just doesn't realise that you have money sitting in the bank from stocks and bonds that had been purchased in your name when you were just a few months old. Rich people shit. Shit you wished you didn't understand, but were thankful for nonetheless. You may not be on good terms with your family, but you're not ignorant of the fortune you've had as a result of their choices. Having the ability to run from them is a privilege in itself.

"You still remember how to do it?" He teases. "Don't forget to offer the customers a receipt, and make sure you always pull up the right pump tab. Don't wanna be charging a soccer mom for some asshole's jeep tank."

"I remember, Yoongs," you say with a roll of your eyes and a narrowly hidden smile. He likes this smile of yours; the one you don't want to give but can't help but deliver regardless. "Thanks for the crash course, though." You thread your fingers together and stretch them in front of you. The way they click together has Yoongi looking at you like you've just shagged his dad. "Sure you don't wanna work my shifts all the time?"

"I'm sure," he nods. "Not a chance in hell I'm covering for you again."

And then there's that look on your face; the one he can never resist indulging in. 

"Don't you dare," he says.

But you've always been up for a challenge.

"Yoooongs," you sing, voice high and sweet, like a hit of coke up his nose and down to the back of his throat, washed clean with Ribena. He knows what's coming, and he knows he won't like it - but he does like the way you bat your lashes for him. "Watcha doing this weekend?"

There's a resistance, but the invisible string that tugs on his lips is stronger than he cares to admit. He smiles, and you know he's where he's always been; wrapped right around your little finger.

"Why?" he deadpans, not hiding his infatuation well. "You asking me out?"

He laughs as if it's not what he wants more than almost anything in the world; as if he doesn't know it's the last thing in the world you'll be asking.

You laugh too, but it's to cover the guilt that weighs down on you. You thought he'd be over it by now.

"Not exactly."

"You should really start dating someone who respects your work schedule," Yoongi jokes, but it's kinda totally not a joke. He doesn't say it, but he'd always respect your work schedule. Would never ask you to make compromises for him; would never ask you to prioritise him.

But Jungkook doesn't do that, either. It's your choice.

"I'm not dating anyone," you say. It's childish because even though you aren't technically dating Jungkook, you're not exactly not dating him either. The 'what are we' talk hasn't happened yet. You're not ready for it. He won't ever be ready for it. You don't know this though, so you just think you're at the same stage, which is a whole lot more comforting. Think that things will progress naturally. Fall into place when they need to.

"But you're about to ask me to cover for you so you can go on a date, no?"

"...No?"

I mean, you're not. 

You're not going on a date with Jungkook. You're going to his childhood town. So you're telling the truth - no dates involved.

But fuck, he'd held your hand as you stood beneath his shower together, telling you all about how he was going to take you to his favourite places, and you'd giggled when he told you that he'd force you to go swimming in the ocean with him, even if it was below zero.

You'd told him that it was fine, that you love winter beaches, and then you'd challenged him to a race from sand to shoreline. He'd agreed, of course, and then your laughter had dissolved into the pitter-patter of his shower, the warm water running over your body like a poor imitation of his hands, which were preoccupied elsewhere.

So no, you're not going on a date.

You're not dating Jungkook, full stop.

But you are existing together. Most nights these days. He works a night shift here and there, and sometimes you just need a little alone time - but more often than not, you'll head to his after work and wait until he finishes whatever he's working on. Your toothbrush has moved from the bathroom cabinet to the pot by the sink. 

Your presence is undeniable, even if you are in denial.

Feels like you're lying to everyone, including yourself. 

Especially yourself, actually.

Yoongi's back stiffens, his soft gaze that once was on you hardening as he glances out towards the forecourt. He nods curtly to his line of vision, and you know. He doesn't have to say anything because you can read Yoongi like a book.

His eyes look green in this light.

Beneath his breath, he mutters, "Speak of the devil."

And what a devil he is; dressed down in a pair of dark jeans with a black raincoat pulled over his head. You're down so bad that you're enamoured with the fact he's dressed for the weather, as if he's not a fully grown man very much capable of making such choices. 

You think it's cute, and imagine him looking out the window as he was getting ready, heading back to his wardrobe for the anorak upon seeing the rain.

By the time you turn back around to tell Yoongi to fuck off, he's gone; snuck out the back to finish whatever work he was doing. He's not interested in watching you play happy families with some fucker he knows isn't worth your time. Jungkook could have been a brain surgeon, a charity worker, a fucking saint, and Yoongi still wouldn't have cared. 

And by 'wouldn't have cared', he'd have been internally seething and ignoring the very existence of him, regardless.

"Just can't stay away, can you?" You say as you turn on your heel to walk away from Jungkook as soon as he enters the store. You're getting around to the cashiers' side of the till, creating distance.

Not because you want it, but because you think it might make him want you more.

It does.

"The cashier at Kang's ain't half as pretty," he flirts, and you swear that smile of his might send you to an early grave.

"Checking out other women, are we?"

"I'm here, aren't I? Not at Kang's?"

You want to argue with him just for sake of the flirt, but that anorak is really doing a number on you. All you wanna do is squish his cheeks and tell him how cute he looks in polyurethane-coated nylon.

"Touche," you grin, but it's muffled as he rests as palm on the kiosk and uses his other hand to pull you closer and steal a kiss. It's a risky move. Something he shouldn't really be doing. Not when there are three windows behind him. 

He's on display like a puppy in the pet shop windows downtown. Anyone could drive by. Pull in. Anyone. Daegu ain't as big as it likes to pretend to be.

"So, I'm lying," he says, voice sweet and low. "I actually do have an ulterior motive."

"Mhmph," you breathe through your nose, rolling your eyes. "You're a boy, Jungkook. I know you didn't drop by just to ask how my day was."

"Okay, one - ouch. And two - I always want to know how your day is."

For a chronic liar, he's refreshingly honest when he wants to be.

"But?" You encourage, not wanting to skip the flirting, but anxious of the outcome for whatever it is he's here for.

He pokes at the bagged sweets like he so often does, his tattooed fingers gently prodding and pushing them about with no real purpose. He appears distracted, but he's anything but. You know this now; know it's just a Kookism.

"Buuuut," he takes his time, dragging out the word because he knows it will drive you insane. "I was thinking why don't we just head over to..." he pauses. Suddenly feels uncomfortable declaring the plans you have so publically. What if he hadn't noticed someone behind a shelving unit? What if your coworker is listening in? He carries on as if he didn't skip it, but waffles so much you don't have a chance to interject. "Straight after work? We go straight from here? You finish round about now, don't you? I know we were gonna wait till the morning, but I got itchy feet, baby. Wanna get outta this place."

You nod as his questions pour out like a broken faucet. You don't have to worry about your shifts, 'cause Jieun's already swapped with you. You'd struck a deal to work her typical early shift that day in return for her covering you over the rest of the weekend. 

Truthfully, you weren't going to ask Yoongi to cover for you earlier - you were just going to ask if he'd watch the shop for 5 minutes until Jieun arrived so that you could escape a little earlier than you were meant to. He'd only just started his shift, opting for a later rota than usual. Weird, but not weird enough for you to question it too hard.

"Lemme just get changed," you smile, having come straight to work from Jungkook's apartment that morning. 

The way you're always in each other's company, it's as if he'll suffocate without you around - which admittedly does feel like it's true, but it's more so that he's scared of what could happen if he's not there watching over you. Scared that someone will interfere with what he's doing. Scared the rug will get pulled from beneath your feet before he's gotten a chance to scatter pillows on the ground beneath you.

Running late, you'd skipped dropping by your place that morning. You weren't feeling all that fresh, despite the shower you'd had at his that morning, thanks to the second-day clothes you'd arrived in, so had opted for the uniform spares in the back rooms. The sizings were all off, and you're pretty sure you felt filthier in them than your own clothes, but it was rare for you to ever feel all that hot in your work uniform.

Jungkook is left alone in the shop as you head to the backrooms. He figures your colleague will be out soon enough to man the tills, so goes about looking a little busy. Eyes up the stale pastries that are definitely past their best in the cabinet next to the till. Reads the magazine covers, and wonders why the fuck people care so much about celebrities.

It's as he's flicking through a copy of Drivers Weekly that he hears a cough. "We prefer it if people don't read the magazines in the shop."

His eyes land in the direction of the voice, towards a man who is shorter than stature than Jungkook, but somehow feels taller. Broader. Stronger. A better man. Competition. 

"You must be Yoongi, right?" Jungkook nods, voice a little hoarse. He's on edge. Doesn't like the way Yoongi is looking at him as if he can see straight into his soul - not that he'd find much there. 

That's the trouble that comes with making a deal with the devil; he'll eat you from the inside out. It won't be long before Jungkook implodes, bones caving in on themselves. He's got a little while left to go until then, though. Maybe some major organs left to harvest. A little bit of liver for all the soju he's gonna need to drink to get over this, and the tiny sliver of his heart that belongs to someone else. 

To you. 

"Heard a lot about you," he continues. 

Yoongi laughs. It isn't kind. "Funny. I've heard fuck all about you."

He stays stoic as he watches Jungkook purse his lips; shoulders rising ever so slightly and dipping again as he nods, letting out a scornful laugh. "Right."

Despite all he's done, all the stupid little mistakes he's made, Jungkook isn't dumb. He knows how to read people - and currently, Yoongi is a pair of burning red capital letters: F. U. 

A petty remark rests on the tip of his tongue, one that could spark and ignite the dry wood of the bridge between the two men. There's no water beneath it yet. Jungkook would incinerate the entire structure.

Best not to. Not yet, at least.

"Hey babe," he calls instead, loud enough for you to hear, and direct enough to crawl beneath Yoongi's skin. You muffle a response to let him know you're listening. "I'm just gonna wait in the car, alright?"

"Okay!"

"Don't keep me waiting too long," he flirts, but he's looking at Yoongi. He's smirking. Eyes narrow. Winning. "We've got a hotel room to check into."

It's childish and he knows it, but he wants Yoongi to know exactly who's gonna be making you cum that evening. 

You're cringing, knowing that Yoongi will be mentally imploding, but you also think that Jungkook is none the wiser. "Go wait in the car!"

"There's a place just off Gwangalli," Yoongi says, his attempt at looking unbothered fairly convincing - but not to Jungkook. He's convinced that everyone wants to fuck you just as much as he does, so would have always figured Yoongi was jealous. "A shoreline hotel. She really loves it. Maybe you should book a room there next time."

The insinuation is clear; Yoongi knows where you like to stay. For all Jungkook knows, maybe he's even stayed there with you.

But Busan is Jungkook's old stomping ground, and funnily enough, he does actually listen to you. He knows all about the hotel you love, and the fact you've never actually stayed there. Just dreamt of it; bridge views over the harbour, sleek marble coating the walls.

He also knows that it's overpriced and that there's a far better hotel just a few blocks up that doesn't get half as much attention. It's the place he's booked - 'cause fuck taking you home to meet the family - for the weekend. 

Apart from the final night.

He's got you the hotel you love for the final night.

He'll say goodbye to Busan with you, just as you feel like you're saying hello.

There's an acute awareness that things between the pair of you won't always end happily, so he's trying to make the memories sweet. Giving you happy endings to daydream about when you forget that you hate him, as you inevitably, eventually will.

He's so caught up thinking about it that he forgets to reply to Yoongi. His train of thought is interrupted by Yoongi once more, his voice low this time. He's trying to avoid being heard by you.

"Just... be careful with her."

Silence in the wake of Yoongi's request deafens them both. His words are weighted. Jungkook knows Yoongi is telling him to take care of you, but part of him can't help but wonder if it's a warning. Maybe he should be careful of you, instead. 

He's not the only one with secrets. Naive of him to assume he is.

"Thought you were waiting in the car?" You smile as you finally emerge. 

Jungkook's eyes are on you immediately, and suddenly you're not the only one with a chime in your stomach. There's one in his too, and it's humming to the beat of his heart.

He'd already figured that you'd stolen one of his shirts before he woke, thanks to the fact your dress was hooked over the back of his desk chair that morning.  It's grey and faded, a billion sizes too big, resting just below your midthighs. You're wearing tights again, because of course you are.

He knows, within about a second, that he isn't gonna be able to make it to Busan without being inside of you at least once. There's gotta be a side lane close by that you won't get caught in. Shit. Maybe he should just take you in the back rooms right now. Yoongi'd get over it, he's sure. 

Cheeks a little hot, Jungkook is cringing at himself as he feels the blood rush to his cock. He can't be getting a semi in a GS-fuckin'-25. Wouldn't be the first time, but-

"Kook?"

"Sorry," he says with a smile, and pretends as if he was listening all along. "Was just talking with - sorry, what was it again? Yooji?-"

"Yoongi," you correct sweetly, eyes so smitten that Yoongi thinks stabbing himself in the eye with a motor oil dipstick would be less painful.

"Yeah, that. Didn't really how much we have in common. Both love our cars, real penchant for good soju..." Both wanna rail you so hard you forget your own name. "Interesting guy."

You look over to Yoongi, and it's clear as anything that he doesn't agree with a single word of what Jungkook is saying -but you think Jungkook is trying, and that only makes those eyes of yours even drunker in lo-

"You not have a hotel to get to?" Yoongi grimaces.

"Pollution's bad today, baby," Jungkook mumbles softly into your hair, ignoring Yoongi. It's said out of concern for you, but also for himself. 

It's easier for him if your face is a little obscured; easier to deny that you're the one he's holding onto for dear life as he leads you out of the shop. You think nothing of it, pulling up the mask that had been resting below your chin before the cold wind gets a chance to hit your face.

He's not wrong - the midday skies are clouded, a thick smog obscuring the mountain peaks that you love to look at so much. You love the winter sun, but it has you wishing for rain. It always clears the skies a little more; brightens the world up.

Daegu is dreamy, in the obscure, nightmarish kind of way that made you eat cheese before bed as a child. The best kind of dreams were always the ones that made you feel something - and as Jungkook starts up the pony, you're terrified. 

It's not a big deal. Going to Busan is casual. But being invited into a world that is exclusively his? Well, that's not casual at all.

It's weighted and deliberate, and intentional. He wants you there. Wants you in every aspect of his life, and yet you haven't even had the 'what are we' conversation yet.

You wait until Jieun arrives, just a minute later, before you make your departure. She says goodbye with a knowing look, and Yoongi is already out back working on breaking up a written-off car that came in for parts earlier that morning.

Jungkook's hand is on your back as he guides you out, the mask he had insisted on you wearing for air pollution purposes obscuring your face. It doesn't stop his eyes from darting all over the place, making sure he hasn't missed anyone lurking. He knows he's getting sloppy; that he could trip up at any point, and fall at the feet of the men who had sent him into your shop all those weeks ago.

But as the pair of you pull onto the highway, your dainty hand resting at the top of his thigh, nothing but the open road ahead of you and the smell of your perfume wrapping around his senses, he doesn't care.

He'd do it all again, he thinks.

In fact, he thinks he'd kiss you sooner, just to get a few more in. Your days are numbered. He knows you're not gonna last long enough to see the cherries blossom, and maybe it's better that way.

When he got into this mess, he was in search of a spring day to break; the seasons to change, and life to renew. The deeper he gets, the more futile he realises that dream was. You're the only thing he wants to see bloom, these days.

Such a shame he has to cut you from your roots, and watch you wilt instead.

────────────

Jungkook doesn't know what 'home' feels like anymore, and hasn't done for quite some time, now. He doesn't know what it feels like to be completely content, nor at ease, within his own body. 

Sometimes, though, when he's behind the wheel, the balls of his feet pressed to the pedals, he thinks it might feel close.

When the scent of gasoline seeps through the vents, and a toxic combination of burnt rubber and wiper fluid clouds the atmosphere behind his tinted windows, it seems like he could have a grasp on what it means to be 'home'. Or to have one, at least.

Maybe that's why he clings to the idea of you so much, and the way that your hair smells like gasoline. 

It's a trick of the mind; a subtle deception that perhaps you could feel like 'home', too.

He thinks of this as his car rolls onto a street he hasn't visited in what must be years, by this point. 

He's silent, glancing over to where you nap peacefully in his passenger's seat. Light scatters through the branches of trees which are yet to bloom, refracting as it hits the pale stone in your necklace. The underside of your chin is painted in rays of rainbow light. Your throat, too. Impossible, he thinks, for someone to be so ethereal without even so much as trying. Thinks that you're magic. 

But magic isn't real. He knows that deep down, beneath the scent of your hair and the taste of your rainbow stained skin, you're not real, either.

You're an illusion; a projection, just like that refracted light. 

Still, he smiles as you begin to stir, neck aching from the uncomfortable position you've had it in for the last thirty minutes. 

"Morning, sleepyhead," he teases, while you squeak and stretch your body out at far as you can. Palms on the dash, your head feels all stuffy and horrible, the nap only serving to make you feel even more sleepy. You bring the back of your hand to cover your mouth as you yawn, brows raised, eyes closed. 

"We here?" you mumble, turning to face the road, only to find the view is obscured by cargo lorries ferrying things to the harbour.

The shipping container next to you is a deep navy blue, its history etched onto the corrugated steel with white chalk markers. It rusts at the joints, paint flaking off and scattering into the atmosphere. It's remarkable, you think, how even things built to sustain the most brutal of weathers can still have areas of weakness.

"Just about," he nods, turning the radio up a little louder now that you're awake. His phone is plugged into the aux for once, but it sounds like it's still your playlist going. It's not. He's been crafting his own, taking note of the songs you like, and adding his own into the mix. Subtle integration of you into his life, perhaps. "About 10 minutes away from the hotel."

You hum a response as you sit up a little straighter, a frown on your face. You hadn't meant to sleep through the journey, but late nights with him and early starts at the gas station have really been doing a number on you.

Jungkooks thinks he's benefitted from your sleepiness, as it made you so bloody endearing that he found himself wanting to let you sleep, instead of pulling into a vacant side-road to sort out the awkward hard-on he's had since the moment he saw you in GS25 earlier on that day.

There had been a brief moment, when the pair of you had stopped by your place to pick up your travel bag, that he'd considered making a move - but you were excited to get going, and so was he.

Why waste time in Daegu? He wanted out of there. Wanted to be elsewhere, anywhere. Wanted to hold your hand in public, with your mask off and your hood down, just to watch the way other men would double-take you. 

Maybe because it's unknown - being with you, without fear of getting caught - or maybe it's because his intentions with you have changed in recent weeks. Whatever reason it is doesn't matter, though. The outcome will still be the same.

You watch as the cargo trucks begin to roll into gear, and then you're chasing the sun, heading towards your destination. Jungkook hasn't told you anything about where you're staying, just that he thinks you'll like it. Part of you hopes it will be that hotel you love along the shoreline, and as he takes a right onto the next road over, edging closer and closer to the shore, you think you might be in luck.

These hopes are short-lived, though, when you see a sign with the branding you know so well - even if you've only ever seen it online - and watch it disappear in the rearview mirror.

Funnily enough, there's no disappointment that follows this realisation. You couldn't care less where you stay. All you seem to care about is who you'll be staying with.

A smile tugs at the corner of your lips when his indicators begin to tick, and his hand, flat against the wheel, begins to pull clockwise. The place he's turning the car in to is nice. Too nice. There's a surface level car park, for starters, not one tucked beneath the first floor of a drive-in motel, like you'd half been expecting. 

The exterior walls are finished with European style red bricks; purpose-built and not in keeping with the dated architecture of its surroundings. There's an attitude to the building; attention-seeking without trying, refined yet unassuming. It reminds Jungkook of you, in a way. Reminds him of how no matter what you do, his focus always seems to be on you.

"Had this place on my bucket list," he says. "Opened up around the time I left town. Always said I'd stay here if I came back with someone else."

His last comment is unnecessary. He doesn't need to tell you he'd never brought anyone home to Busan, and yet he does, because it somehow feels important. 

A hotel resident swings through the front door as you're getting out of the car, and you can't help but notice that the chime is eerily similar to the one of the GS25 door. Identical, almost, to the one in your stomach. 

"Pretty," you muse, adoringly looking at the ivy that trails up and down the side of the building. 

"Prettier in summer," he says, taking your luggage from your hands and tilting his head forward as if to say 'ladies first'. "There's another vine running through it that blooms like nothing I've ever seen before. It's too cold for it to flower, yet, I think."

You smile as you listen to him talk, enamoured that a man so brash and bold can be so delicate and gentle when he wants to be. Mindless chatter fills the space between you as you enter the lobby, and wait for the concierge to check Jungkook's booking on the system, just to find out there's been a free upgrade.

"Wish she hadn't announced that," Jungkook mumbles in your ear as you head towards the elevator. "Totally would have pretended I'd splurged out on the upgrade instead."

You laugh, and tell him that he's stupid - and that you also saw the room rates by the front desk, so in your eyes, even the standard rooms are a splurge.

He shrugs, and insists he got it cheaper online thanks to some bullshit discount he can't be bothered to lie too deeply about. He wanted to experience this hotel, and he wanted to experience it with you. He'd have paid the price, whatever. 

Chances are he'll be making the money back in a weeks time, thanks to you, anyways. 

Thanks to you. Because of you. In spite of you. Whatever. Same difference. 

Same disgusting guilt that coats his skin like oil and drips from his body. Dare you strike a match, he's sure he'll set fire. Ablaze with the glory of whatever the fuck he feels for you; the flames of his failures smoking him to suffocation. Failure to act quick enough, failure to control himself, failure to do wrong by someone that feels so right. 

He shakes the thoughts from his head, his guilt steeped stomach a constant aide-mémoire.

"613," he reminds you of the room number as you reach the sixth floor. 

It's not quite the top floor, but it's far enough up that your view of the harbour will take your breath away, you're sure.

He laughs when you squeal in response, thankful for the fact you don't try and downplay your excitement like he knows you would have done when he first started seeing you.  He assumes you're comfortable now. Assumes you trust him. Assumes you feel safe. Assume, assume, assume. You're rubbing off on him, it seems.

He's got a rucksack on his back, and your own bag hooked is over his shoulder, yet he still uses his free hand to hold onto your waist as he walks behind you. He's so desperate to keep you close; fearful of what could happen if you ever were to part. His fingers grip a little tighter when you take a stride further than he anticipates, and he doesn't shuffle back when you finally reach the door. He rests his chin on your head instead, and watches the light on the door handle flash green when the room key taps against it.

The pair of you walk into the room in the same position, your back pressed to his chest, his strides wide behind you, so that he can walk in time with you. It's clumsy, and awkward, and hard to synchronise, but both of you are laughing so much that you're almost distracted from the view that floods in through the wall-length windows. Almost.

You stop in your tracks when you see it, gasping at the sight. Jungkook looks up from your hair, his arms tight around you, to see what you've noticed - and then he notices it, too. 

"Holy shit," you say, unable to articulate anything else. 

The ocean in front of you spans for miles; endless upon the horizon, with nothing but Gwangalli bridge standing in its way. Boats dapple the vast expanse, tiny and delicate, obscured by the incredible distance between you. 

It's blue. Blue, blue, blue; the skies, the sea, the way you feel sorrow in your chest from never having seen anything so beautiful before.

Jungkook is smug as he whispers into your hair, "Boy did good?"

You've not even looked at the crisp white sheets, yet, freshly laundered on a  queen size bed, nor the decadent hotel decor that you're sure will be identical in every single room. The other rooms don't matter to you, though; just 613, and the boy with bleach blonde hair who had driven you to Busan in his bright red pony. 

The stuff of fairytales, some might argue.

"Boy did good," you whisper back, turning your head to steal a kiss. He smiles into your lips, your body his to move as he pleases, as he begins to walk you to the bed. 

A soft puff of air blows around your body as it lands on the outrageously fluffed duvet. He crawls onto the bed with you, one hand on your cheek, the other laced with yours above your head. 

"View like this and all you wanna do is waste it?" You grin into his lips, voice as sweet as his touch.

He's quiet as he presses his lips to your throat, slow as he trails his tongue down it.

"Not a waste,' he says, as his teeth graze ever so gently. The firmness of his crotch is devastatingly erotic as it presses against you. "And fuck the view. Rather look at you."

You go to argue against him, but he's adamant you're far prettier. Tells you if it means that much to you, though, he'll be willing to take you from behind so that you can look at the view - which is how you end up wrapped in a duvet, hair a mess and mascara a little smudged half an hour later. 

You're sat together on the floor, backs against the side of the bed, looking out at the view as his arm drapes around your shoulders. His lips are nestled into your hair, because it seems to be his happy place, but neither of you are talking. Just existing, like you so often like to do together.

There's an unspoken understanding that this is an unusual occurrence for the both of you. 

He doesn't do romance. He doesn't really do anything that would ever indicate a shag is more than just a shag. He'll compliment, and he'll charm, but he'll never say any words of actual worth. Not like he does with you. He doesn't cuddle, doesn't snuggle, doesn't kiss outside of the realm of a fuck. Again, not like he does with you.

When you turn to face him, catching the countenance in his eyes as he looks at you - chin, nose, eyes, lips, eyes again - you know that any kiss that could follow would be fatal. 

It would seal the deal that neither of you have been brave enough to make.

There's hesitation. His breaths are heavy, prick still a little plump beneath the sheets that covers his modesty, but he's not hard. Not horny. It's not what's leading his thoughts, nor his actions. 

And then, suddenly, but somehow also so perfectly predictable, he kisses you. 

It isn't simple. It isn't just because he can - but it's also not for any ulterior motive, either. It's soft, his lips not as hard against yours as they usually are. They squeeze your bottom lip, then release. And then he does it again. No welcome intrusion of his tongue. No hands roaming to your chest. No smile as he does it. 

But why would he be smiling when he's terrified? 

He just kisses, and kisses, and kisses. He makes no further moves, not even when you let the sheets slip, nor when you hook your leg over his lap and move across to straddle his thighs. You're so incredibly wet, his touches minimal, yet so deeply intimate, that he can feel you leaking all over him. His cock is flushed, stiff, and stood to attention, resting against the base of his abs. 

Still, he doesn't really touch you. His wrists are resting on the top of your thighs, but his palms aren't lying flat. They're open, not balled into fists, and you can't quite figure him out. You feel shy and insecure, because why isn't he touching you? Doesn't he want you? 

But then you go to pull away from his lips, and he whines and shakes his head.

Come back, baby, he wants to say, but it gets trapped in his throat, and all he can get out is a little grunt. 

He knows he's being pathetic. Knows that he must look like a fucking weirdo.

Part of you wants to laugh; wants to ask where the man who ate his own cum out of your pussy and spat it into your mouth is. 

Most of you, though, is consumed by the sheer terror that's encompassing him. You feel it too. All of this is so unfamiliar, and scary, and alarming and yet so... safe. 

His palms finally lay flat, prowling to your ass, where he squeezes as if to say hello. Eventually, he pulls you further up his lap. You're raised above him, the heat of your pussy so warm, and welcoming, and inviting, that he simply can't hold back any longer. 

No words are spoken, you simply nod. 

You aren't kissing anymore. Just looking at one another. He doesn't drop his gaze when he lines himself up with your entrance. 

It's only when you sink down onto him that his eyes close, as his head leans against the corner of the mattress. The expanse of his throat is pristine, not a hickey in sight, and you like it this way. It - you - somehow still feels like a secret. One shared, but one that is safe. Just for you. Just for him. For one another.

Jungkook lasts longer inside of you than he thinks he will. The silence is only broken by hushed whines and dulcet groans. Your hands rest on his shoulders, and stay there the entire time. It's almost like you're both petrified that changing position will change the way that you're feeling. You look at one another like you're holding hands across a tightrope, dependent on one another to stay alive. 

If he falls, so do you. 

But it's not the falling he's afraid of. Not really. He's been enjoying the freefall for the past few weeks, now. It's the inevitable crash and burn that scares him.

There's something about the angle, the way he's got you deep and slow, that has the tightrope tying itself in pretty little bows around the bell that lives rent-free in your stomach. 

Jungkook sees the way that your brows begin to furrow. He grunts as your lips rest ajar, restless gasps shying away, hiding in your throat. His hips keep at the pace he's set. He knows what's happening, and even though he's spent the last couple of weeks desperately trying to not let happen, he knows he's gotta let you come undone. 

He wants you to. Needs you to. Needs to know that it's not just him that can't control himself.

It's euphoric when it happens. His arms wrap around your back, pulling your chest to his, and only then does he realise how hard your nipples are; how much your entire body has begged him for this. He squeezes you so tightly that your back clicks, but he doesn't really worry because you're shaking on him, muscles out of control as the orgasm he was fucking into you finally cascades over your body. 

You're thankful for the way he's holding you close, your pussy so tight that Jungkook finds himself whining into your neck; and then he's kissing it, pressing his teeth to your skin, holding them there as his muffled moans vibrate against you. 

'Shouldn't-' he thinks, even his thoughts stuttering and getting all confused. 'Shouldn't do this. Gonna end in tears. Gonna end - shit. Gonna fucking end. Shit. So good. So fucking good.'

Pussy so good he swears he'll fuck it forever, and then his thoughts catch up with him, and he's spiralling all over again. 

'Fucking disaster. Heaven in human form. Temptress devil dressed as an angel. Shut the fuck up, Jungkook. The fucking audacity,' he begins to scold himself. 'Prick. She never fucking lied -' And then his head is battling against itself. '-but she did though - she didn't - did-'

"Shut the fuck up."

He doesn't even realise he's said it until your laboured breaths and spent body seem to falter, but you fail to muster up anything more than a "Hmm?"

You're sure you must have heard him wrong.

"Nothing. Not you," he husks in your neck, though he can't really get his words out 'cause he's seconds away from spilling into you. "You sound so good, baby. So good. Gonna make me cum so fucking hard." He knows he shouldn't be encouraging it, but he can't stop. "Keep moaning for me, baby. Let me know how good I feel."

You hum a laugh, so sweet and saccharine that Jungkook thinks you must be laced in some kind of addictive substance. It's the only way to explain how he feels. He's an addict, hooked on you. 

The moans that roll off your tongue aren't fake, but you let yourself be a little louder for him. 

"Like that," you tell him. You're already done, spent, but you want him to feel just as good as you do, even if his size has you feeling a little sore by now. You encourage him, knowing that it'll become painful if he doesn't finish soon. 

It almost feels like there's something holding him back, though. You think he's just edging himself. You don't notice the way the lines in his forehead crease together in such a way that they almost spell out words. You'd have studied them, if you had noticed. Would have convinced yourself that you could read 'trust,' in the lines, and not 'traitor,' instead.

You move your hips against his, ass bouncing against the top of his thighs in a way that you haven't done for the entire session. He's been working so hard for you that it's about time for you to return the favour, it seems. 

The way his neck stretches back, eyes shut, lips pouted and perfect as he fails to formulate anything other than "fuck, baby," lets you know it's appreciated.

'I'm going to fucking hell,' he tells himself. 'When I die, which seems like a sooner rather than later kinda thing, I'm going straight down to the pits. Pussy like heaven, so fucking good that it's a sin. Angel. Angel, angel, angel, baby. Gotta have you. Can't let anyone else have you. Fuck, no. Shouldn't. Shouldn't have you. Fuck it. Need you. Oh, god. Like that. Like that.'

He pulls on your hair so that you're sat up straight as he rams into you, your fucked out face the only thing he wants to see when he finally succumbs to your body. He nods at you, as if he's trying to say something that you don't quite understand. Letting you know he's close? Letting you know that he feels the same way, too? It's unclear, but you're in no position to ask - so you just nod back, and let the rapture happen.

"Shit," he all but whimpers, and then he's in purgatory; heaven and hell meeting at some kind of divine intervention as he spills all that he is into a vessel of freedom that he isn't sure he can afford anymore. "Jesus Christ," he chokes, the mess of his load leaking from you and down his shaft. 

The lines in his forehead have smoothed, now, brows open, eyes half-closed. He laughs, once, twice, unable to stop himself. He forgets it all in the wake of his orgasm; his turmoil, your troubles, the turbulent path he knows he's about to go down. 

All he can think about is you, him, the present, the physical. The right now. The way that you're in Busan, and how the dreary streets of Daegu can't hurt you. 

Rather foolish of him to think that little deaths would have you falling in love, when he's the one whose head feels like cotton candy, heart beating like a butterfly bursting from its cocoon. 

The screen of his phone is alight on the dresser, again. You had noticed it earlier, but neglected to say anything; mainly because you didn't want to lose the moment, but also because you feared that whoever was on the end of the line could have you losing him, too.

The freedom of your arrangement, the unspoken boundaries, affords you great comforts, but also leaves you with lingering doubts. You aren't naive. You know that men his age - men in general - aren't ones to be trusted with your heart. Platonic, romantic, familial. Not a single man has ever deserved to hold it in their hands, and any that you have given the chance to have dropped it at the first hurdle. It's a death sentence, you think, giving Jungkook your heart.

So you simply won't.

But in the comedown of a fuck that really didn't feel much like a fuck, more like a meeting of minds, bodies, consciousnesses - fuck it - hearts, you find yourself thinking that maybe it would be nice to try. 

You're still in his lap when he stands, his cock inside of you, even if a little soft, now. He's gentle, and slow, taking you with him, picking you up and wrapping your legs around his hips. There's comfort in his silence as he leads you to the bathroom; familiarity in his feverish need to shower.

His phone continues to ring out on the dresser, silent and sinister, the glow of his screen the only source of light other than the moon that pours in through the windows. He clocks it as he turns to close the door, while you let your body become acquainted with the pressure of the shower on your skin.

And then, he presses the door firmly shut. The world can wait just a little longer, even if only for a night. 

Tonight, he's yours, even if you never asked him to be. 

He's yours, because he knows that come next weekend, you really will never ask him to be.

But you're just as much his. 

He'll wrap you up in a fluffy white towel, and lay down with you in white sheets, that are creased only by the illustrations of your entanglement. He'll give you a tissue, white, to clean yourself up with, after he loses himself inside you once again. He'll laugh with you, teeth on show, white, as you talk into the early hours of the morning. He'll watch the moon reflect in the ocean waves with you, white, until you both fall asleep.

And you'll feel all pink; rosy cheeks, blushed lips, bubblegum heart and peachy pigmented skin from his kisses that bloom like posies. Pink like the early dawn skies over quiet ocean waves, and pink like your favourite wine that can get you tipsy with just a few sips. Pink and pretty like his lips that pout even when he's asleep. Pink like the pads of your feet as you tiptoe to the bathroom to get a glass of water as quietly as you can. Pink, like the faint light next to the plug socket where his phone is plugged into a charger. Pink, like the tiny light at the top of his screen to let him know he has a flurry of unread notifications; missed calls. 

Except it's not pink at all. 

It's red. 

Your eyes are just tired, and you're deluding yourself. Just like you have been of every single red flag that Jungkook has presented to you so far. 

But when you look at the mess of blonde hair that belongs to the man hidden in the white sheets which have kept you warm all night, everything is pink again. 

"Sleep," he mumbles as you crawl back into bed, his arms wrapping around your waist to hold you close. His lips rest in the crook of your neck, a lazy kiss delicately finding its home there. 

"I'm sleeping," you whisper, the white lie nothing more than a joke that you're both in on.

"Promise?" he sleepily humours you, to which you smile.

"Pinky."

────────────

There's a magic to sea air.

It's not quite Disney, and definitely isn't Hogwarts, but it's something. It makes you feel all excited, and giddy, and like the world is at your feet. If you say the right words, or swish and flick a little bit of driftwood in the right order, then maybe you'll find that the world isn't all that hard to acquire.

Because maybe it's not the sea air that's magic. Maybe it's just what comes with being beside someone like Jeon Jungkook.

You quickly learn that there's a side to him you never knew. It's one that's incredibly mundane, but just as refreshing as the peach teas he points out to you on every cafe menu, 'cause he knows how much you like them, and doesn't want you to miss out on the opportunity to indulge in something you find such simple pleasure in.

Jungkook smiles.

He smiles a lot.

He smiles at the harbour views, at the elderly as they walk past, and at the market stall owners who charge him far too much for a stick of strawberry tanghulu. He smiles when you ask him about his life in Busan, and he smiles when you get distracted by every single dog you walk past, regardless of the conversation you've been engaged in.

He smiles when you tell him you fancy Italian for dinner, instead of engaging in an awkward back and forth of 'what do you want?', 'no, what do you want?'.

He smiles when you reach the halfway checkpoint of the Igidae coastal trail. You're leaning on the wooden bannister, clearly out of breath but pretending to look at the view instead - and it's a beautiful view, at that. Clear blue skies, waves that crash and mellow within the same second, and an endless cerulean sea.

He thinks about all the possibilities out there, and half-wonders if maybe he could just get on a boat with you and say goodbye to the choices he's made.

The only choice he's been sure of lately is you, and when his horizon is blocked by your sloping shoulders and claw-clipped hair, he's pretty sure you're the only opportunity he wants to experience from now on.

He's never walked this trail before, but he wanted to show you the best of Busan, hoping it would convince you that you're also seeing the best of him. As he pulls on your hand, pointing out the little numbers some poor soul had scribbled on the stairs to reassure other hikers how many were left, you're positive that you'd walk the trail a thousand times over, just to be met with his smile at the end.

Because Jeon Jungkook smiles.

He smiles and he smiles and he smiles.

He smiles over dinner, in a tight little hole-in-the-wall pizzeria, that at least attempts to make pizza authentic, even if they do have '+corn, 500w' next to every single option. He smiles when he tells you to put your card away, 'cause it's on him, and then he smiles when you trip on the ledge between the restaurant and the street.

You don't fall because he's holding your hand with a grip so tight you swear your fingers might actually fall off.

"One beer and you're legless," he teases, his hold on your hand tightening as he loops his arm over your shoulder. It's a warm embrace; one that fills your nose with the scent of his aftershave, and plasters an equally large smile on your face. He's infectious, it would seem, and not once has he insisted that you wear a mask since you arrived in Busan.

"Fuck off," you laugh, walking down the street together as if this is how it's always been.

Not a single person gives you a second glance, not even the middle-aged men sat drinking outside of the bar at the end of the street. It's dark, lamposts and decorative fairy lights guiding you home, the city alive with the hustle and bustle of whatever happens after dark. The noraebangs in the area are all hostess bars, and the actual bars are packed, so home is where you're headed. There's no company you'd rather keep than one another's.

"I love this place," you muse. There's a vibrancy here that you've been missing in Daegu, but if you were to take a moment to think about it, the cities have nothing to do with it. It's the boy, and the lack of distractions from him, that you really enjoy.

"Home sweet home," he replies nonchalantly. "Ain't nothing like it."

"You miss living here?"

Your question is met with silence. You leave it a moment, thinking that Jungkook is just debating his answer. Perhaps it isn't something he's ever given much thought to before. That seems like a safe assumption to make.

The answer would reveal a truth that Jungkook isn't quite ready to admit to just yet - but he wants to admit it. Wants to tell you everything.

All the things you should know, and all the secrets he wishes you'll never find out.

It's inevitable that one day you will find out, and he wonders if it would hurt more coming from his tongue. Regretfully, he thinks it will. To lie is to be merciful, or so he tells himself.

"You're so-" he begins so decidedly that it's almost a surprise, yet he cuts himself off. It's like he shocked even himself with the outburst. He glances down to his hand - the one you're holding onto - laughs, and then gazes back to the end of the street, where the dark tide is rolling onto a shallow beach. With a shake of his head, he says 'fuck it' to his reservations, and tries out a little honestly. "You're fucking with my head, you are."

There's a smile on his lips despite the accusation, and it has you smiling, too. You think nothing of it more than flirtatious banter.

"Oh yeah?" You toy. "How so?"

He knows this tone of yours, and knows you've taken it well; knows that all he can do is play along, so as to not raise suspicions. He doesn't mean to be so erratic with his thoughts, and in turn, his words - but he isn't kidding. You really are fucking with his pretty little head.

"How are you not?" He flirts back. "Can't think straight when I'm around you."

He watches as you drop your head, your nose all scrunched up, in the same way his own nose scrunches up whenever you're too kind to him. The only difference is he doesn't believe he's being kind at all.

You deserve more than he can - or is willing to - give you.

There's untapped potential between the pair of you, that will sadly remain that way. He figures he should make the most of this while it lasts; hold your hand as much as he can, get lost for days in the scent of your hair, and make you laugh for hours on end. He knows he'll miss hearing it when it all ends.

You don't know it yet, but you'll miss it too.

Maybe you'd do things differently if you knew that your time was limited.

"You're stupid," you reply rather childishly, because it's the best your bashful brain can think of. "Is that why you nearly hit me that night on the bridge? When you were racing? Too distracted by how much of a mindfuck I am?"

"You have any idea how much easier my life would have been if I had just hit you?" He muses, looking down at you.

You wait until he's finished his words to look back at him, but you wish that you hadn't, 'cause there's a look in his eyes which makes you think he isn't lying.

It should scare you - but like an uncomfortably awkward damsel in distress from a vampire movie, crushing on a bloke who is definitely a little bit too creepy for anyone's liking - it doesn't.

"Far easier," you guess, not letting your smile drop. "Waking up next to me must be torture."

"Waking up next you," he nods. "Sharing my aux with you, paying my water bill after learning just how much you like showers hot enough to kill a lobster. Hate it all."

"Oh god, me too," you say quickly before his lips cut you off for a second, only to let you finish a moment later. "Hate it so much. So glad we're on the same pa-"

This time, it's not the lips of the boy you like a little too much cutting you off, but the voice of a boy you're sure you could grow to like just as much, if ever given the opportunity.

"Well I fuckin' never," a voice booms from across the street in your direction.

You ignore it, not really thinking anything of it - just some rowdy lads who are talking amongst themselves after a few too many beers, you assume - until Jungkook's head snaps in the direction of the voice.

His expression is startled, but quickly softens to his usual boyish disposition. There's a defensiveness, though, to the way his hand tightens around yours - until he drops it altogether.

"Kim Taehyung," Jungkook beams, adjusting his posture so that you're partially shielded from the man across the street, who's checking both sides to make sure it's clear before he crosses.

He's handsome, in a way that's entirely different to Jungkook. His broadness isn't exclusive to his shoulders, but the way he carries himself, and the sleazy smile that rests on his lips where a cigarette fits snug. He exhales, and crosses the road, the grin on his face only getting larger.

"Jeon Jungkook," he nods, greeting him with such familiarity that you feel all embarrassed.

You've no idea who this man is. His name has never been mentioned before. In fact, no names have ever been mentioned. There's little you know about Jungkook.

Sure, you know how he mindlessly fidgets, and how he whines when your tongue strokes against his taint, but what do you really know about him? Nothing of any value. Nothing that signifies you're of any value to him.

"And who's this?" Taehyung asks, but Jungkook's reply only further confirms your assumptions.

The question is addressed to you, Taehyung looking just as dangerous as that cigarette in his mouth is. He's a slow burn, you think, the kind of boy who'll grow on you, and before you know it, you'll be just another victim of his charm. It's unsurprising that he would be acquainted with Jungkook. After all, the company you keep is a reflection of yourself.

You look to Jungkook, who looks over his shoulder back to you. He's not really looking at you, per say, not how he does when you're alone. When he turns back to face Taehyung, you see the way his cheeks rise to smile, and you don't mind his coldness all of a sudden.

But then he opens his mouth and you think if you weren't such stone-cold bitch, you'd cry.

"Just a friend from Daegu. No one special."

It's humiliating, granted, but any reaction would only serve to embarrass you both - so you simply keep quiet, and smile. Your brows lift a little, eyes on Taehyung, who takes a toke as he looks between you and Jungkook.

He's smirking as he exhales, like he knows Jungkook is full of shit.

"Well, fuck me. I gotta find myself some friends in Daegu. Taehyung," he says as he holds his hand out for you to shake, with a look on his face like he hasn't eaten for a week.

There's something about him that's refreshing. He's an asshole, yes - undeniable - but at least he doesn't pretend not to be, like Jungkook does. He's undressing you with his eyes in the same way that Jungkook does with his hands. And for what Jungkook just said? You're pleased. Maybe you should let Taehyung take you home instead - after all, according to Jungkook, you're just a friend from Daegu. No one special.

"Uh-uh," Jungkook shakes his head. He's teasing, but he steps further in front of you, blocking Taehyung from your vision. "I know what you're like, Tae. Hands off this one."

The way he's talking makes you wanna turn on your heels and walk all the way back to fucking Daegu. Whoever it is that's currently shielding you from the danger of a fuck boy isn't Jungkook. Not the Jungkook you know at least.

"I'm just a friendly guy," Taehyung jokes back. "You know me. What brings you back home? Haven't since you since the wake. Been a while."

Jungkook's back stiffens, but Taehyung doesn't notice.

"Just some family stuff. Thought I'd make a weekend of it." He tilts his head back towards you. The movement has Taehyung's eyes on you again. To feel so unapologetically desired is thrilling, but it kind of makes you sick. You want Jungkook to hold your hand. Signify that you're his. Tell Taehyung that he doesn't stand a chance. But of course, he doesn't. "Thought I'd show her around. Visit some old haunts. How have you been?"

"All good," Taehyung replies, not really interested in what Jungkook has to say. It's formality, really. If he cared that much about what Jungkook had been up to, he would have made more of an effort to keep in touch. "Saw your brother yesterday, actually."

God, it's like one sucker punch after another. A brother? You've no idea who this man is.

"Seeing him tomorrow," Jungkook nods, and again, it's bloody fucking news to you. "He good?"

"Baby's keeping him up all hours apparently, he looks fucking exhausted. Met the baby yet?"

"Nah, nah, tomorrow," Jungkook says, and you're surprised by how... mundane the conversation is. You can't tell if they're friends, or if there's something more troubling at play. Everything feels coded, but you're struggling to read into it. You're too fixated on how much of Jungkook's life you're unaware of.

"Oh, nice," Taehyung replies. "You should come by the boxing club while you're in town. Be good to see you. I'm sure the boys would be pleased to see Busan's finest back where he belongs." He looks over Jungkooks shoulder to you, again, and smiles in that sultry way you're sure enables him to never go without a bed to sleep in. "Bring your friend with you. Think we could all do with a new friend."

The way he talks is crude. It's unapologetic, and if it were any other man, you'd probably be repulsed - but you're too busy being pissed off with Jungkook to care.

"Think I could do with a new friend, too," you hum back, lips pouty, chest a little pushed forward. "See you there?"

"Oh, I'll be waiting," Taehyung almost fucking moans.

Jungkook presses the pad of his thumb across the tops of his fingers, one by one, clicking them in their sockets. His frustration is evident, but the grave he's in is one that he dug himself.

You may feel like you don't know him, but he knows you. He should have anticipated that you wouldn't play nice after he said something like that.

But oh, on the contrary - you think you are playing nice. Very nice. For Taehyung, you'll be the nicest girl in the world.

And that's all Jungkook can think about.

It's intrusive, the thought of just how nice you can be.

He's thinking of your hair, all nice and tied up in a ponytail, and how Tae's hand could wrap around it. He's thinking about your pretty little knees, and how good you look when you're on them. He's thinking about your chest - God, he fucking loves your chest - and how it stands to attention when you're cold. And of course, you'd be cold, 'cause he's imagining all of this happening in the back rooms of the boxing club. At least you wouldn't be able to come, but he's barely been making that happen lately, anyways.

If there's one thing he hates more than the idea of you with Tae, it's himself.

Taehyung says his farewells, and lets his gaze linger on you for far too long, and says "you've got a look about you, friend from Daegu. Something familiar," before heading back to where he came from. The gaggle of lads he was with are still waiting for him. It seems as if he's in charge; the ringleader of sorts.

It intrigues you.

But he doesn't entice you the way that Jungkook does.

There's no softness to him, not like Jungkook with his big, round, chocolate button eyes and ever-scrunched nose.

You're mad at him now, though. Pissed. In fact, you begin to walk away as soon as Taehyung is gone, because you simply don't want to be around him any longer. You're even thinking about booking yourself in for a separate hotel room. Fuck his gestures, and fuck the effort he's made. Means fuck all, now.

Who the fuck does that? Who brings you to their hometown - into their life - and turns around and dismisses what you are to them so cruelly? He'd paid god knows what for that hotel, driven the pair of you to the city, paid for everything despite your protests, and asked for nothing in return.

You know full well that if you'd have gotten back to the hotel before the Taehyung incident, and had been too tired to fuck, or just not in the mood, Jungkook wouldn't have cared. Even sex wasn't something he seemed to think he was owed. Not like most guys.

He'd have probably stroked love letters onto your back with the tip of his index finger until you fell asleep, instead.

See, there are - or at least there were - no expectations with Jungkook, which is probably what makes this all so disappointing for you. Foolishly, you thought you had a good one in him.

He's a man, though. How good can they ever really be?

Heels clicking against the pavement as you walk, you sound far more powerful than you feel. You want to take your stupid fucking shoes off and launch them at his stupid fucking head. How dare he reduce to nothingness.

"Hey," he calls after you, as if he hasn't just torn your heart out, hands all bloody while he toys with it. "CC! Hold up!"

There's a trail of blood as you walk that leads to the hole in your chest, and so he follows it like a bloodhound in search of its prey.

He repeats his call when you ignore him, catching up with you far too easily for your liking. You don't like getting caught.

"What?" You snap, arms folded across your chest, but you keep on walking. A gaggle of girls walk by, far too drunk to be in heels that high, and they coo a little bit as they clock Jungkook. You find yourself sneering. "Oh look. Some more friends for you to make."

"Hey, c'mon," he reaches out for you but you shake him off, so he tries again, a little harder. It doesn't hurt, and if you want to, you can pull away.

Shamefully, you can't bring yourself to. Those with the power to hurt are also apparently those with the power to heal - and all you want is for him to put your heart back where it belongs and kiss it better.

"You know I didn't-"

"Didn't what?" You fight, because that's all you're really good at. "Mean it? Mean to say it? Or didn't think that this actually meant anything?"

"Fuck," he seethes a little, teeth gritted and jaw sharp. He loosens his grip on you, and rubs the pads of his fingers against his jaw instead, tongue pressing into the side of his cheek. His nostrils are flared, and there's bite behind his bark. "Don't turn this into something that it isn't."

"I'm not turning it into anything," you say so calmly that it's almost unsettling. "But turn it into what? A lovers tiff? No worries. We're just friends, babe. Can't turn it into one of those."

"You're being unreasonable."

"I'm being perfectly reasonable."

"CC-"

"I've got a name," you remind him. "Maybe use that, instead. CC feels a little... I don't know. More than friendly? And we wouldn't wanna blur those lines, would we?"

"Christ. Can you stop?" he pleads, the frustration he feels overwhelmed by the desperate need to control the situation. "You know I didn't mean it like that."

"I don't think you know what you meant, Jungkook," you shrug, because fuck letting him think you're hurt. "You just let some guy fuck me with his eyes, because according to you, we're just friends. You saw that, right? You saw the way he was looking at me like a piece of fucking meat? And you let him."

Jungkook doesn't say anything for a moment. His body is stiff, as if he's rebooting; calibrating to find an answer. Yes, he had let Tae do whatever the fuck he liked, because it was easier than explaining the truth of who you are to him. Safer. In his eyes, it had been a lesser of two evils, but you're seeing Jungkook as the only evil.

Your chest is beating so hard in your chest that the thump, thump, thump has drowned out the chime that's usually there.

"No," he tries again. "It's not like that. I know what I said, but it's not what I meant."

And then you do that thing again. You calm yourself, your voice so serene and superficial that it makes his skin crawl. He can tell how angry you are, and yet you're so fucking pleasant. It's psychotic - but how can he complain about your anger when you're fucking smiling at him like he just saved a bird from drowning?

"You don't have to explain, Jungkook. It's cool"

"No," he protests, but it's met with vacancy behind your eyes. "I do."

"No," you say, tone firm and assertive. You don't need to be let down gently. Your feelings don't need to be spared. "You know what I'm like. I need to stop making so many assumptions."

Ouch. He can practically feel the dagger you have for a tongue slicing at his heart.

"Well what did you assume?" He asks, because playing along seems like the only way he can get you to engage in conversation with him.

"My assumptions are mine," you say quietly, walking closer towards him, until your index finger can tap against his chest. "Maybe if we were friends, I'd share them with you. But I don't share with people who only know how to take. From the look in Taehyung's eyes, it seems like he knows how to give a thing or two, so who knows, Jungkook? Maybe I'll share with him."

Jungkook is silent.

It's a threat. He fucking knows it's a threat.

All those missed orgasms seem like a terrible idea, now. He thought he'd been helping, thought that you'd just think he was an idiot, like any other guy who didn't know where the fucking clit was. Thought it would help slow the feelings that are developing regardless.

But you knew he knew.

He's a fucking connoisseur. He's had you coming undone in ways that no other man has ever gotten close to. For him to suddenly forget how to make you tremble on his fingers was laughable.

You'd chosen not to mention it, because foolishly, you thought that you were the issue - but if he's gonna hurt your pride, then you're gonna hurt his right back.

You shake your head, and walk to the curb, raising your arm for the taxi that's hurtling down the road. There's a screech as it comes to a stop, almost like a reset button being pressed.

You feel a weight being eased from your chest, glad to have finally put him in his place for the no-gasm issue, but a new weight is just as heavy on your feet. You open the door, think about getting in, but can't. For some reason, the idea of leaving without him has you close to tears.

Asking the driver to wait just a minute, you turn to find him fixated on you, those soft chocolate eyes of his so warm as they stare you down. His brows are lifted, mouth firmly pursed shut, but you can see from the way his chest is beating that he's breathing heavier than his lungs can really manage.

You've never seen him cry, but you think you might tonight.

"C'mon," you eventually say, knocking your head to the side. You've a lot fight in you, but far more fear. You don't know what you mean to Jungkook, and you're not gonna kid yourself and pretend like you feel secure in it - but you know what he means to you. The idea of him staying elsewhere has you feeling all feeble and pathetic. You don't think he would, but you know that he could. "It's late. Let's just go back to the hotel."

He stuffs his hands into his front pockets and looks down, the usual confidence he wears masked by a thin layer of shame. It has a sheen to it; a stain. He's not the man that he wants to be for you, and he knows you're starting to wise up to it.

"Kook," you encourage, but he still resists.

He doesn't deserve this; doesn't deserve you. Doesn't deserve the olive branch you're extending, when he knows he should be on his knees begging like a dog.

He could do that for you. Beg like a dog, in his own, fucked up, kind of way.

On his hands and knees. Begging.

In fact, he thinks it's the only thing can do for you right now.

And so he gets in the taxi as you ask, and stays quiet.

The drive is silent, but taxi rides often are, so he tries to ignore it. When you go to pay, he holds your hand back, and offers up his card instead. The grip he has is gentle, but it burns like the heat of a thousand matches, and when it leaves, you're left smouldering. You don't want to lose the heat, no matter how much damage it can do.

Silence permeates, and dulls the chime in your stomach that you'd expect to hear in a hotel elevator with Jungkook.

So much silence.

Silence as the door to your hotel room clicks open, and silence as you kick off your shoes. Silence when your bag is tossed on the bed, and silence when Jungkook's shoes join your own.

There's silence as he walks to stand behind you while you look out onto the midnight sea, and there's silence when he presses a kiss into the crook of your neck.

There's silence when he whispers your name, and silence when you hum in satisfaction from the way his lips feel against the expanse of your throat.

Silence so loud that you want to scream.

Silence so loud that you wouldn't be able to hear the scream regardless.

Silence, silence, silence that is so fucking loud, you must be deaf.

But you can hear the small intakes of breath that he takes between the kisses he peppers on your skin. You can hear the click of his lips, and the way he whispers 'I didn't mean it,' as if it would eradicate the hurt caused by such a simple exchange of words.

And then his hands of fire are creeping beneath your shirt, and you're all warm and pliable for him.

You so desperately want proof that he didn't mean what he said, and if there's one thing you're sure of, it's that he doesn't fuck you like you're just a friend.

So you think you might just let him.

He can tell you're apprehensive and he knows why, and that he has to prove himself to you. Moonlight pours in through the window, and you're bathed in it like some kind of ethereal goddess that will surely disappear when dawn breaks. He has to make this last.

He strips you of your clothes, and funnily enough, it isn't the most vulnerable you've felt in the last few hours. In fact, you feel confident, now. You know what you're doing when it comes to matters of the body. Matters of the heart? Not so much.

Your capabilities for either of those aren't required now, though. This is all on him.

He encourages you to the bed, so you sit by the foot, and wait for instruction.

"Lie down," he says, eyes remarkably on yours, and not your tits instead. It must be a first.

It's curious how softly he looks at you; almost like you could break.

Maybe it's because he knows he has to be extra careful, because he's the only one capable of breaking you.

And so you nod, because maybe, just maybe, he could fix you, too.

In fact, when he gets to his knees and grips his palms around your ankles to drag you closer to the end of the bed, you can almost feel your heart swelling. Healing.

Y'see, it's familiar, and safe, and certain; Jungkook will fuck you, and you will mistake the way he kisses you when he cums as a declaration of something more than what it is.

For now, though, he's only thinking about ways to get you off. Anything is on the table. He'll do it all. Do whatever you ask. Do things you're too afraid to ask.

He spreads your legs apart, and spends longer than is normally comfortable staring at you. He's appreciating it; the way your lips slowly part, a little damp and so delightfully warm. He loves your scent. Wishes he could bottle it up - but for now, he'll settle for drinking from the source.

When his tongue strokes against you, it's slow. The pressure behind it feels intentional, the warm studs of his tongue piercing making your toes curl from just one touch. He exhales against you, then inhales because - fuck me - you smell divine. His tongue licks again, languid and flat, his head nodding ever so gently. The change in movement has your hands gripping onto the sheets, a shallow affirmation of 'fuck, Kook, yes' spurring him on.

He hums against you, and you swear it's better than any vibrator you've ever had. It's almost as if he's saying something, but can't get his words out - which would make sense, given the fact his mouth of full of your pussy. His tongue points, as his palms rest on the underside of your thighs to angle you a little better for him.

He pushes his tongue into your entrance, and it has you mewling. Wetness seeps into his mouth, sweet and musky, just how he fucking likes it, and he's doing that thing where he whines against you again, and you swear you might just cum right there and then.

It's noticeable, though, how your grip is on the sheets, and not him.

Your heels are digging into the duvet, not pressing against the top of his spine, and your fingers aren't in his hair.

Still, your pussy is leaking onto his tongue, and arguably, he could be fooled into thinking you've let down your guard for him.

But you haven't really.

He can see this; the way you've detached sex, and the pleasure that it coexists with, from the emotional intimacy he's fostered with you.

It's like he can touch you, but you're scared to touch him. You're using him - and he knows he deserves it.

When he pulls away from you, clear strings of slick connect his mouth to your core. The sheen covers his lips, his chin, the tip of his nose. Moonlight drenches him, and in turn, so do you. He watches how your chest heaves as his fingers come to replace the pressure from his tongue on your pussy.

Your body may be his, but you're not.

'Touch me,' he wants to say, but he's embarrassed by how badly he seems to have fucked up the one good thing going for him - and so he pushes his fingers into you, hoping that he'll be able to get you forgetting about the fact he's no good for you; get you wanting him like you used to.

And you do.

Oh god, you do, so badly.

There's nothing you want more than to have your fingers tangled in his hair, have him hissing when you pull a little too hard, keeping him locked in position against the mess he's made - but you're embarrassed. You fear that by taking any kind of leading role, you'll be forcing him to play along to something he isn't really all that into.

As much as you could pretend like you don't care about what happened earlier, it's chewing you apart, inside out, making it harder for you to get there.

Your body keens for him, though. The sounds of his fingers working your pussy are lewd, and only amplified when he spits on it in that way he always does. It drives you insane, but even now, you're floundering.

"Hey," you whisper, and your hand finally comes to rest against his hair. He leans into your touch, heart stiff in his chest as it appears to stop beating altogether. How a touch so simple can have him so damn wrecked is beyond him. He hums a response, and is met with a gentle tap against his bleached ends. He looks towards you to find you looking back, and the stillness of his heart is replaced with a beat so loud he swears it sounds like a thunderstorm is hurtling across the ocean. "Stand."

Your voice is soft, and Jungkook is confused, but he doesn't question it. He does as he's told, because quite frankly, he'll do anything you want at this point. He'd get on his knees, on his back - fuck it, he'd even get face down, ass up, if that's what you wanted - but you don't. Not now, at least. Maybe another time.

Right now, you want him as vulnerable as you feel.

When he stands, he keeps his fingers inside of you. He's gentle, massaging, making sure the movements aren't too rough. You've never shied away from things getting a little heated, but there's a time and a place for that. You don't want it hard. You want soft. Soft, soft, soft, like his eyes.

"Clothes," you say, almost timidly, unable to string your words together in a way that makes coherent sense. He knows what you mean, though, and slowly pulls his fingers from you, not caring to wipe them off. You're pristine, in his eyes. He couldn't care less about how dirty you could make him. He'd wear it like a badge of fucking honour.

He takes his shirt off first, eyes never leaving yours. He can see the way your heart is beating beneath your chest, and decides pretty quickly that he needs your tits in his mouth at some point before the night is done. His favourite fuckin' feature of his favourite fuckin' person - when he's horny, at least. He could list a million things he likes just as much, but his brain kind of just short circuits when he can see your chest looking all heavy and pliable and like it belongs in his mouth.

There's a clang, the metal of his belt tapping against itself, his tattooed fingers working quickly to rid himself of all his constraints. He pulls it from the loops of his trousers, tossing it on the bed just in case he'll need it later.

Your lips rest ajar, but you close your legs a little, watching him unbutton his jeans. He lets them drop, revealing the white of his Calvins.

He usually wears dark boxer briefs, which are always welcomed by you - but there's something about the white that has you salivating.

The outline of his cock is thick. He's stiff, and there's a tiny tell-tale mark of precum leaking from his tip. The contrast of his honey skin against the crisp white is the kind of visual you'd expect to see on a Hollywood billboard; not in your hotel room with you.

He'd worn them deliberately, expecting this kind of reaction, but had anticipated a far different feeling in the room.

The look on his face doesn't match the confidence that his strong body oozes. His wide eyes are just as vulnerable as yours. You both look like you're gonna fucking cry, which is actually kinda funny, when you think about it - but you don't laugh.

Perhaps that would be the most vulnerable thing you could share with him, and he with you: tears. There's a heaviness between the pair of you, the weight of unspoken words, hidden truths and deceptive intentions, which have led to the cluster fuck that is the relations of which you engage in.

It's just fucking, but it's also not. Not really. If it was just fucking, he'd be railing you right now, just like he did on that very first night you spent together.

But instead, he's cautious as he asks, "Where do you want me?"

You have to bite your tongue and stop it from saying 'inside me.' You're trying to keep your heart safe. Distance is needed. You're scared he's gonna steal it if he gets too close.

Pulling your legs up, cross-legged in front of him, you give him a look that he doesn't understand, but one that he knows means no harm.

He thinks you're asking permission to move, so he nods, and is proven right. You crawl a little further towards him, on your knees, until you're at the end of the bed. You sit up on your knees, shorter than him still, but the height is more matched than it is when you're standing on solid ground.

You give him that look again, and so - of course - he just nods. He's yours. You can do whatever you fucking like to him. He'd take anything you'd give him, pleasure or pain. He's stoic in the way that he stands, but you can see his jugular vein beating like he's just gone three rounds in the boxing ring.

Hooking your thumbs into the waistband of his underwear, right where the V of his hips meets the fabric, your eyes are on his.

It's torture, knowing you could be watching his thick, swollen cock spring free, but this isn't about the sex. Not really.

He bends a little, pushing his underwear to his ankles, kicking them off to the side and resuming his position in front of you. You still haven't looked at his cock, even though the thought of it has slick wetness seeping onto your inner thigh.

Your hand finds one of his, and pulls it to his cock. It throbs as you wrap Jungkook's hand around it, nodding at him, before retreating.

He's stood at the end of the bed, naked, hand tight around his fat, leaky cock, eyes on yours as you sit by the pillows. Your legs are crossed, knees up, covering your chest, light from the moon washing over you both.

He looks heaven-sent in this light. A white halo whisps around his fluffy blonde hair, the thick lines of his tattoos defined, his body carved from marble. And yet there's still a softness to him. It's in his eyes. Big and round; home in human form.

And so, for all the fear, for all the ways he has you scared about his intentions, for all the sheer instances of turmoil you put your heart through, none of it really matters.

In this moment, you feel safe.

"Wanna watch," you say quietly. You can see the way he swallows, his chest doing a terrible job of hiding the fact he actually seems to be a little bit nervous.

"Watch?"

You nod. "Wanna watch the way you get yourself off."

The request is simple, but it feels more complex than that - and it is. You want him vulnerable. You want him weak. You want him falling apart all over you without even so much as a single touch from you.

In his heart of hearts, he knows all this.

He knows, and still, he wants to do it for you.

There are sins to repent, and this feels like a start.

"Wanna see the way you touch yourself when you think about me," you continue, because you like the way his eyes look so pure and chaste at such a request.

There's a shadow to his face, the moon only illuminating half of his body, but it runs deeper than that. Divine feminity is a gift from the celestial body that watches over you, and it overcomes him, too.

Despite the hardness of his muscles, the metal of his piercings and the stiffness of his cock, he's so, undeniably soft for you.

Soft and velvety, just like his eyes. Soft and timid, like the boy who cried wolf and finally got caught. Soft, and softer still, when he says your name in such a hushed tone it barely reaches your ears.

"You do that, right?" You ask, though the answer is granted by how utterly enthralled he is with you - or at least, your body. "You think of me when you touch yourself?"

He nods, licking a slow stripe across his lower lip, before biting down on it.

His tight fist begins to roll up his cock, slowly bringing it back down again to the base of his shaft. There's a hypnotic quality to the way his foreskin retracts, exposing how red and flushed the tip of his cock is. There's desire burning through it, and he needs you - your pussy, your mouth - to soothe it.

He knows he isn't getting it, so instead, he revels in the pain that comes with being refused your body.

He's tepid as he starts, but his pace quickly builds, and so does the way he's moaning. It's a miracle you can even remember how to breathe. His torso is tense as he lets the pleasure run over his body, head tipping back, the expanse of his throat thick and wide, just like his cock.

He hums, imagining the way your pussy is leaking as you watch the show he's putting on for you.

He's not a performer, not by any stretch of the imagination, but the way he moves his body has you thinking that maybe in a past life, he could have been. You'd pay good money to watch him on stage. You'd devote yourself to him. Watch from the crowd as he sold himself to a thousand people every night. He'd be the main event, the headlining act, and maybe if you were lucky, he'd stick around for an encore.

What a shame, you think, that he never took advantage of his boyish charm and deliriously handsome face - but more fool him. You're the one who gets to reap the benefits, as you watch him now, free of charge, front row seat.

And yet, somehow, he seems to adore the crowd more than the crowd adores him. It fills your ego. Has you convinced that you've ruined this poor boy's life. Maybe you have.

"You're gonna think of me for the rest of your life," you tell him of your conclusion from your perch up by the pillows.

He so often talks in definitive certainties, that it's only fair you return the favour - but, remember, you're just friends, according to Jungkook. Best not to get ahead of yourself.

You find yourself prowling down the bed on all fours, stopping just beyond his reach. There's something primal about his gaze now. Predatory - but you aren't his prey. You're not going to get caught.

"Give it twenty years," you simper, rolling onto your back so your ankles are by the pillows, eyes on his cock as you tilt your head back. Kneading one of your boobs, you let your other hand dip between your legs. "When you're married, and your poor wife can't get you hard anymore, it's gonna be me who you think about."

"Shit," he hisses, both hating and loving what you're saying. Hating it because you're probably right, but loving it because, again, you're definitely right.

"It's gonna be me," you repeat. "When you get hard in your car, 'cause another girl has put her hand on your thigh. It's gonna be me you're thinking about."

He wants to protest. Wants to tell you that there'll never be another girl. He'd be lying, probably, but fuck knows why he'd ever give you up. Would have to be insane, you think, or something like that.

You know just as much as he does, that symbiotic energy like yours doesn't occur all too often.

"When your couples therapist asks what you think could be done to spice up your dead marital bedroom, it's gonna be me - gonna be this, right now - that you think of."

"C," he husks, unable to even get the full term of endearment out. There's a clammy sheen to his body now, his arm jerking at such a pace his veins are all engorged and pretty, just how you like them.

"It's gonna be me," you say again, barely a whisper, but it's enough.

And he agrees. "It's gonna be you."

Victory and defeat all in one blow; you're his forever, but it's likely he won't be yours.

He senses the heaviness behind his words, and the weight they've put of your chest, so he tries distraction as a method of easing it.

"Open your legs," he husks, the final syllable catching in his throat. When you do as you're told, he fucking whines.

The slickness pooling around the top of your thighs is sticky and hot, strings of clear fluid connecting your legs - all of you - together as you spread yourself for him. He nods, and it's your turn to obey, now.

Your fingers begin to rub at your clit, and Jungkook almost just give himself upright in that second. He swallows back the saliva that's pooling in his mouth, his cock growing hotter and heavier in his grasp. The way he's pumping himself is gonna have him finishing far quicker than he'd like, but he can't stop.

Not when you're looking up at him like that. Not when you're matching his moans.

"Don't stop," you almost beg as you see him begin to ease up. Returning his eyes to yours, his lips are parted. His hand continues to jerk, just a little slower.

"I gotta," he whines, but does as he's told, his grip a little looser than it had been. The muscles in his abdomen are tight. His balls, too. You want them in your mouth.

He watches as you turn, resuming the position you'd been in earlier.

As you wrap your arms around his neck for support, Jungkook finds himself grunting, picking his pace back up. He can smell you, your gasoline hair and sweet pussy, and it has him unable to think straight. Unable to do anything other than jerk himself off for you, because it's what you want.

The world. He'd give you that. If you wanted it, he'd give you it. He thinks he'd give you anything. Everything. Whatever he could.

The only thing he can't give you, not really, is himself.

And so he'll settle for everything and anything else your heart could ever desire.

But as your lips meet his, he knows that he's fucked, and that the only thing you really want is him.

Your kisses are slow, and tepid; a stark difference from the way his hand is working his cock, but it's everything he needs. How selfish, it is, that he still gets what he wants.

Unaware, you pull away, pressing your foreheads together, lips brushing his as you say, "you're gonna cum for me, now."

He tries to ask where, but you just kiss him instead. You kiss, and you kiss, and you kiss, and he's so fucking consumed that he barely notices when he starts gasping against your lips. His body begins to stall, muscles mirroring the way he begins to stutter, and then it's happening.

The tip of his cock is pressed against your stomach as he begins to unload himself, once, twice, and then he's sensitive, and trying to pull back, but he's still coming and - "Oh, fuck, babe" - he's painting you white with the innocence of the way he feels about you.

It's everywhere by the time he's done; your tummy, the underside of your breasts, dripping down to the mound of your pussy. He can barely fucking breathe, so caught up in the way it always feels to have you kiss him through his orgasm.

His hands grip your jaw, pulling you in for more, because he needs to distract his mouth from the words he's scared are gonna tumble from it. You both ignore the fact they're covered in the seed that's just spilt over onto them. It's nothing new, after all.

It's not like he's gonna declare love, or anything fucking ridiculous like that, he just doesn't know how the fuck he feels - and that's dangerous.

Unpredictability only leads to messiness, which it could be argued is what's happening right now.

Still, Jungkook hooks his hands beneath your ass and moves onto the bed with you, and thinks it's a pretty nice problem to have.

His cock is firm still, nestled in the warmness of your pussy as your legs wrap around his hips. Neither of you care about his cum, and it's interesting how often you seem to be covered in one another, with no desire to rid yourselves of it.

He didn't make you cum, but it was your choice, this time.

It's funny, because you're one who is scared now that an orgasm could have you falling in love. You don't want to give him that power back. Not yet, at least.

Your kisses dissolve into light pecks, the pair of you unable to hold back from worshipping one another. But you must, for it's foolish to idolise mortal Gods.

"This doesn't seem very friendly, Kook," you whisper.

Your chest feels uneasy as you joke. He closes his eyes, hanging his head in shame against yours, knowing that it was him and his inability to ever say the right fuckin' thing that had you refusing to fuck him that evening.

He's not stupid. He knows you stopped him from making you cum. He knows why. And he hates himself for it.

He presses a kiss against your cheek, once, twice, and works his way to your lips. It's goofy, the way he's planting little seeds of love all over your skin, but only time will tell if he'll water them. For now, you think you'd quite like to imagine the wildflower garden that could bloom in their wake.

"It's cause it's not, CC," he admits. "It's not very friendly at all."

And then, you just can't seem to help yourself as you tease, "Even if I'm just a friend from Daegu?"

He smiles, because he knows you're trying to soothe the burn of his words. Naked, spent, and vulnerable, Jungkook rolls off of you, repositioning himself so that you can rest your head on his chest. Still, neither of you care to get cleaned up. There's no disgust, nor discomfort.

More fool the both of you for thinking that this isn't love.

"You're my only friend from Daegu," he whispers, pressing a kiss against your hair. It's not strictly true, but he sort of wishes that it was. Wishes he knew you before he knew them.

"What about your other friends?" You ask gently, because maybe it's your fault you don't know more about him. Maybe you just haven't been asking the right questions.

Jungkook pulls the comforter over your body, 'cause he can feel how hard your nipples are against his torso, and guesses that you aren't exactly still horny now that you're asking him shit like this. Again, there's zero care for clean up just yet. Zero care for anything but one another.

And then you tack on an extra little question that has Jungkook mentally groaning.

"Who's Taehyung?"

Convinced that you're snug like a little comforter-human-burrito, Jungkook holds you tightly. He's still stark bollock naked and doesn't really care to be covered, but he wants you warm. Wants you happy.

And knows that your happiness, now, rests on open communication.

"I knew Taehyung in high school," he eventually admits. "We were both on the boxing team, and we were friends, but -" he stops, and laughs a little. "Well, I kept beating him. So on the days I'd stay behind and work on my form, shit like that, Tae would..." Jungkook sighs. And then he laughs again. "This is so embarrassing." He gently shakes his head, and then thinks fuck it. You deserve the truth, so the truth is what you're gonna get. "I started going to club more often, thought about going pro. I was pretty serious about it. Got to the point where Tae couldn't compete with me - but one thing he could do, apparently, was fuck. And I didn't know, but apparently, he could turn that into a competition, 'cause on the days I trained alone, he'd go hook up with my girlfriend."

It doesn't upset Jungkook anymore. Not really. Annoys him a little - and means there was no way he was letting Taehyung think you meant anything more to him than just casual sex.

"Shit," is all you can say.

"Yeah," Jungkook sighs. "Went on for like, 6 months. I didn't know till my dick started fucking burning. Turned out he'd given her chlamydia from someone else and in turn, me."

"Bastard."

"Right? At least wrap it up if you're gonna fuck about. Anyways, after that, it was rare for him not to pursue any girl I was interested in," Jungkook finally admits, and it feels good to get it out. Good to share. Fucking fantastic, actually. "Me saying what I said... It was a defence mechanism more than anything, and I'm sorry. I just didn't wanna give him any reason to try it on with you."

You nod slowly, because there's a lot to unpack. "What happened? With the girl?"

"We broke up," he says honestly. "That was the nail in the coffin, really. He's done it with a few other girls I've dated or fucked since then, to the point where it's definitely a pattern of behaviour, but I tend to avoid serious relationships. If I'm being honest, I haven't had one since."

"Since high school?"

God, it's mortifying, he thinks. "Since high school."

Heartbreak is a funny thing, though. You're similar in that regard. Neither of you ever want to give another person the power to break the one thing keeping you alive. It's just asking for trouble.

Then again, every single fucking thing about your 'friendship' is asking for trouble. Maybe it's fitting.

"I'm sorry," you say, because you're not sure what else to say. He squeezes the comforter bundle you're in and shrugs.

"Don't be. Just please don't have sex with Kim fuckin' Taehyung."

You laugh, because such a thing feels absurd - but it would do. You trust Jungkook. You care about Jungkook. Care for him. Care for his opinions, his well-being.

Would be a shame if that ever were to change.

But that doesn't feel like a possibility right now, so you simply don't think about it. Instead, you ask the question that you've been holding back, because you wanted to at least look a little compassionate before you got ahead of yourself.

"So what you said to him about me," you begin, and he rolls his eyes, 'cause he knows exactly where you're going with this.

"So what I said about you."

"You lied."

"I lied, CC."

The way he whispers it back to you has you all giddy and docile for him. He's dangerous, in the most delectable way.

"You like me," you accuse, and you're met with a shallow kiss, his lips curving upwards because he can't help but smile at how fucking smitten you look.

"I'm terrified of you," he smiles. "The way you make me feel scares the living daylights out of me, CC. This isn't... I'm not good at this. I mean, hello? Been out of practice since high school."

"Mmmm," you interject, questioning his statement. "You've fucked plenty of girls since high school."

His eyes roll again, because he knows you're just trying to get him to be specific.

"What do you want me to say, huh, CC?" He nudges his nose against yours, his grin prevailing as he sinks them down into a kiss. "That I spend my whole entire fuckin' day thinking about you? You stay at my place all the time. My Netflix account reckons I'm halfway through season one of Gossip Girl." You smile. It's a guilty pleasure. You watch it at his place when he leaves early for work, or on the days you arrive before him. "There's a spare toothbrush by my sink, and it's yours."

The way he emphasises 'yours' has the chime in your stomach ringing like a church bell.

"I haven't been serious about anyone since high school, so yeah, I'm a bit out of practice. I don't wanna put labels on things or move too fast or say things I can't take back. I just know it would really fucking sting if you slept with Taehyung," he smiles, attempting to lighten the fact he's basically just put his heart on the line for you. "So please just... don't."

The issue is, Jungkook's forgetting himself.

He's forgetting that you're not just you. He's not just him. The way you met wasn't organic like you think it was, and he's letting himself get wrapped up in the idea that the pair of you are just normal people who found one another despite all odds.

The thought creeps into his mind, but frankly, he wants it to fuck off. So he kisses you. Slow and deep. Just him, and you.

If he'd have met you under different circumstances, he'd have probably already asked your father's permission to-

And then it hits him. The reminder that he can never have a happy ending with you, all thanks to your fucking father.

Jungkook asked you to come to Busan for a reason. There are things you need to see, things you need to understand before it all goes to shit.

"I want you to come somewhere with me tomorrow," he husks against your lips, your noses stroking gently against one another. "Somewhere important. I've got some errands to run, and I'll see my family alone, but after that, I wanna show you something."

You nod to confirm that it's okay. Of course, you don't mind him seeing his family alone, and you could do with running a few errands yourself, so it works out well. He's opening up. Sharing. And that's all you can ask for.

It has you thinking that maybe you should do the same for him.

"Thank you," he whispers.

It's a loaded phrase, and you're not sure which part he's thanking you for, but you accept it nonetheless.

This is progress, you think.

Funny, 'cause Jungkook's the blonde one. If anyone should be a dumb bitch, it's him.

But the blonde is fake, and he's smarter than he should be after all those blows to the head in the boxing ring.

You're private school educated. Could have been anything you wanted. Could have had the world. Your daddy worked hard to make sure of it.

But as Jungkook leads you to the bathroom, stripped of everything except for the stain of his sex, you think you already have the world.

You think, for once, you finally have something good that isn't the result of nepotism or political fear.

Your daddy worked hard. He worked real hard. He gave you the world, and then some - but the world doesn't come for free, and there's a little collateral that he never counted on caring enough to fuck with his self-made solar system.

Yeah, your daddy gave you the world.

But it's Jungkook's job to give it back to its rightful owners, whether he wants to or not.

And so, as the shower begins to heat up, and the pair of you are doing what you do so well, his phone begins to buzz in the bedroom. It goes unnoticed. It's not Jungkook's priority anymore, which leaves him in quite a predicament.

The outside world can wait for a moment. He's letting himself indulge in the fantasy of you one final time.

What a brilliant, intangible fantasy you are.

But fantasy is just that;

a lie.

────────────

one / two / three / four / five / six / seven / eight / nine / ten / eleven

[degloved]

Heyyyy!! I love your hoffstrahm fics, can't get enough of them, the way you do them specifically. Was wondering if you at all took writing requests/prompts? If so, I've been thinking SO hard about a Strahm-lives scenario in which he gets Hoffman out of the bathroom. Doesn't have to be huge!! Just wondered about your take on it. -👾

i won't lie this has made me more excited than i can say !!!!!!! what do you MEAN people want more of MY hoffstrahm. god that's crazy. anyway!! absolutely anon, wrote a little drabble here just for you. hope you like <3

‼️ for the record, there isn't a saw prompt in the world i won't do. btw. if you send in any. for the record ‼️

He'd driven past the house once, twice, three times now, in the past few days. It had to be joke. It'd be ridiculous to think otherwise.

Peter had thought it a joke at first.

A perfectly plain, unremarkable envelope—no return address—and within it, an equally plain, unremarkable piece of paper. Scratched into it in ballpoint pen, a set of coordinates.

The perfectly plain, unremarkable brownstone occupied a plain, unremarkable street corner. Its plainness and unremarkableness set Peter’s teeth on edge. He knew what kind of darkness, ugliness, lay behind those walls—so visceral, his skin crawled on approaching. It didn't sit right with him, not at all, that this shouldn't be reflected on the outside.

He wasn't sure what to expect upon entering.

A newly restored, freshly refurbished, entirely inoffensive interior wasn't it.

Meandering from one room to the next, he called to mind old crime scene photographs.

Here, Xavier Chavez tossed Amanda Young into a pit of needles. There, Laura Hunter fell victim to sarin gas permeating the air. Over yonder, Addison Corday slowly and painfully bled out.

No trace of them left behind. In their stead, an IKEA coffee table bearing a grossly fake plant—and more along those lines. Inexplicably, it angered him.

No matter.

He was drawn to the basement.

He wasn't going in blind, to tell the truth. They'd been hot on Hoffman’s trail for weeks—till the trail, suddenly and without explanation, ran cold. Call it a hunch, but Peter had been with the feds long enough to know when one ought to put two and two together.

The doors, although robust and seemingly heavy, weren't difficult to pull open. The accompanying screech was deafening. The stench might’ve made a lesser man empty his stomach.

A flashlight had been a good choice. Peter flicked it open, unleashed the military-grade light into the decrepit old room, watched it flood and seep into every nook and cranny. (For better or for worse—some things might’ve been better off remaining hidden from view; Peter wrinkled his nose at Gordon's foot.)

Hoffman sat there, a lifeless pile of limbs slouched against some piping. Peter couldn’t tell, not from that far off, whether he was even breathing.

He wasn’t sure which to hope for.

His boots click-clacked against the slightly sticky tile. Hoffman stirred.

His eyes, blue and tired and bloodshot, lingered on Peter. Alert but unseeing, cloudy and unfocused. How long has it been since Hoffman had been left down there?

A while, surely.

Peter could pinpoint the exact moment things snapped into place. Hoffman jerked like a kicked stray, a weak hand reaching out before again collapsing by his side. "Strahm?"

His voice was hoarse; beyond that, really. It crackled around each syllable forced up his raw throat. A haunting realization rattled through him: Hoffman must've screamed. He must have screamed for a long time.

"Yeah." Peter’s mouth was dry.

"Hey."

Peter wasn’t sure what had finally dragged his ass out here, to this accursed house and its rank basement bathroom. He'd have claimed revenge initially, or perhaps that deep-seated drive to see justice through. As it was, none of that seemed to matter much at all. Maybe he'd enact all those fantasies later, but...

For the moment, he found himself rather overcome with the singular desire to haul Hoffman to safety. (Certainly a strange sensation overall.)

Interestingly, instead of reaching for the bolt-cutters hanging off his belt, he reached for Hoffman’s dirty, grimy, cold face. Heaved a sigh upon feeling familiar skin beneath his fingers. (Godamn him to hell. Goddamn Hoffman, too.)

He sniffled—Christ, he sniffled.

"Been a while," he muttered into the pocket of air between them, running his thumbs over Hoffman’s cheeks.

Hoffman smiled an ugly, lovely smile.

Old habits and their hard deaths, and all that.

[darth-sonny]

Can you just imagine if someone else in the family has a kid and Kirby can see how different they're treated. Like loving a new and wanted kid would be so easy for the family and that's something Kirby can't really have.

There was a new addition to the family: a baby, a little girl, named Lita. She’s Uncle Raph’s kid, one he had with a nice lady called Mona Lisa or something. Both of them are standing proudly as everyone holds the baby. She’s pretty and pale and has soft pink markings all over her body.

Kirby doesn’t meet her. They don’t want to meet her.

They watch, from the moderate safety of a doorway, as everyone cooed and fawned over the new addition. They watched as the little baby girl was given kisses, rocked back and forth, cuddled, and nuzzled closely. Everyone was smiling at the baby, loving her.

It’s not fair.

Nothing about this is fair.

None of them are awkward around the baby, no one was stilted, none of them looked at the addition with looks that clearly showed how uncomfortable they were with her.

Even Uncle Donnie was smiling at her – no cold looks, no barely hidden disdain, no nothing.

None of that.

They hate this.

They wished that the baby didn’t exist.

They just want that small illusion back, back when they could pretend that things were slowly getting better.

But as everyone keeps fawning over and passing the addition around, it becomes increasingly clear that the illusion is broken. Irreparably so.

They sniff, feeling their eyes sting.

Kirby leaves before the baby is handed over to Dad.

They’re sitting on their bed, blanket over them, holding two small dolls and playing with them. Or pretending to. They move the dolls around, shake them as if they’re talking, but their mind is somewhere else.

They decide to hide out in their room.

They think about the new addition, and how everyone acts around her.

They move one of the dolls, a small pink and white rabbit, to lay down in front of the other doll. The other doll was a red horse. Kirby raises the other doll and brings it down on the rabbit. Once, twice, three times. Over and over and over again until the pink and white doll is a mess of plastic bits and scattered paint flecks.

The new addition is a newborn, right? Newborns are weak. Right?

It should be easy.

Just go up, grab her, and-!

Kirby shakes their head.

They pick up the broken doll and throw it away.

They don’t feel horrible about what they did. They never do after they have those moments. That’s what makes them feel horrible.

They know why they’re like this, and it makes sense to them why their family treated them like they do. And, in some cases, continue to treat them like that.

But it’s still not fair.

They didn’t do anything.

And yet…

How come they weren’t treated like that? With hugs, cuddles, kisses, and cooing?

Why?

They look at the red doll next to them.

It was the same color red as Uncle Raph’s bandana.

It only takes a second.

Another broken doll is thrown in the trash.

It’s not fair.

They curl up in their bed, using their blanket to hide themself, biting back any whimpers and pathetic sounding chirps that try to escape. Their eyes sting like no other, but Kirby won't cry. They refuse to cry. They won't add more fuel to that fire. They won't.

Leo finds them later, curled up into a ball and crying.

He doesn't say anything. He picks them up and holds them close, rocking back and forth.

He ignores the clicking hiss, or the multiple eyes that glare down at him from the corners of the room. He just holds his kid and mutters that he understands, and that it really isn't fair.

He holds them tighter as Kirby continues to cry.

[localsharkcryptid]

Fuck it, I NEED to talk about a hyper specific headcanon I have for cpunz.

So the sort of precontext for this is that I have this idea for Punz being something called a False Selkie, a concept of mine but to put it simply they're like selkies but substantially more fucked up and predatory (think seal + the loch ness monster). They are like what kelpies are to horses kinda - fucked up predator edition ya know.

Punz specifically is a False Selkie with traits from a Leopard Seal, they may also be the local lake/water cryptid of the dsmp but that's for another post. Either way, I have the idea that they can make vocalizations like a leopard seal - kinda like in this video where people are being sooo fuckin stupid but it's the only thing I've found where you can really here that clunking noise they make. This sound in general for leopard seals (and by extension Punz) basically means "Fuck off", it's a threat, a warning to back up or else learn why they're an apex predator under most circumstances. It is also used to drive off rivals and probably equivalents to "Fuck off, I'm bigger and this (territory or whatever) is mine".

---

Punz does of course have very good control over his emotions and reactions to things, years of training to be able to suppress most things in favor of their job. But they've struggled with being able to stop making that threat sound in the later days of the SMP once the plan is in place, usually no one is ever close enough to here that subtle clunk, clunk, clunk that wells in the back of their throat now and again but it's there. It's a warning, a threat and the only tell they have to show that they are feigning politeness with the idiots of the server and no one ever really hears it. Even if they did who's to say it was coming from Punz? As far as everyone knew, Punz was simply a little off, they had no idea what he was so it would probably be brushed off.

Dream had heard it once or twice before the plan went into effect, but he eventually heard it properly the day he explained what happened in the prison- he had known of Punz's true nature but the sounds caught him off guard, Punz showed little emotion, they were a person of action most days but now they stood before him, slightly hunched over a table and making that deep clicking that almost echoed in the room. A threat but also a promise, a promise to set things right, to break even at the very least - after all the diet of a leopard seal includes flightless birds and well, they sure as hell hadn't ever seen Quackity fly.

Additionally they would no doubt use this sound as a challenge, Punz and Sapnap are more than prone to bumping heads- though their fights never got very far in the original days of the SMP, and even then it was mostly snide comments from Punz that were jabs to purposely get under the blazeborne's skin. But eventually the two cross paths later on in the days of the SMP - perhaps a situation where Sapnap feels the need to be a hero or simply a time where things go differently and Punz has to be between Sapnap and Dream. Either way their jabs, their cold comments purposely made to try and get Sapnap to make the first move are accented with that deep clicking except this time it's practically a threat phrased as an invitation. "Do it, I dare you, give me a reason."

There's one more time where the sound is heard, the first time it's heard in fact. In the dark of a hidden bunker, deafened by screams as those of L'manberg were betrayed. Wilbur is the one to hear it. In fact he heard it in the walls behind him before the button was even pressed. An ominous series of deep clicking sounds that were not human is what also befell the president's ears when he lost his first life.

(this string of thoughts also works with them being a normal selkie too tbh)

Anyways I'm deranged about my cPunz interpretation and my favorite hobby is making them horrifying<3

[thesightstoshowyou]

Maybe a snippet of Asa noticing how much he has sketched Cricket and his following mental gymnastics on how that doesn't mean anything 🤡

😂💀 Perfect, thank you anon.

~~

Papers flutter to the floor to form a pile here, a stack there. Deft fingers rifle and documents swish. Trash, file, address, repeat.

Asa would rather do anything other than organize his office on this beautiful Sunday, but the clutter is about to make him set the whole thing on fire and start over. Cricket is going to have to run the dishwasher twice today with all the half full coffee mugs he’s discovered. Why does he have so many empty pens…?

He pauses, hand hovering over the notebook half hidden under student essays. Tugging it free, he recognizes it as one of the sketchbooks he uses to keep track of the various insect species that have taken up residence in his backyard. Perhaps he can organize the diagrams he’s drawn into something useful.

Flipping to the first page, he finds a smudged sketch of Cricket. It is of her profile, though her face is obscured by the brim of that ridiculous sun hat she wears. Her arms are outstretched as she sifts through the earth. The next page features Cricket as well, knees wetted from morning dew, delicate fingers clutching weeds. The third page….

Asa frowns. Flip, flip, flip. Cricket, Cricket, Cricket. Is there even a single fucking insect in this book?

Finally on page eight, he finds notes and a half finished drawing of a weevil, but then on page nine is Cricket watering the plants. Asa slams the book shut. His teeth squeak when he grates them together.

If anyone else discovered this notebook, they’d think him some lovesick fool.

Asa turns at the waist, poised to toss the notebook in the trash pile, but he freezes. Asa’s fingers twitch, but remain resolutely locked around the little book. He should just let go, just drop it, just forget about it, but….

He can’t.

Infuriating.

Slowly, he turns back to his desk, opens the top drawer, and places the sketchbook inside. It could be useful to have drawings of Cricket on hand, just in case. Perhaps for a future project.

One never knows when something like this could come in handy.

The drawer slides shut with a quiet click.

[dayfalwastaken]

William Afton and the woes of computing.

If it were up to Steve Jobs and Wozniak, he would’ve most likely been called a hobbyist. A hacker if they were being generous. Some poor sod who took apart commercial products so he could build ham radios, but William had long since stopped assembling walkie talkies. It was his kind of practice of taking everything apart that had enabled him and Henry to develop the Springlock suits. The same could be said for all of their creations, including the software. Early on in their work they had discovered just how tedious animating by hand could be, for example. If they wanted as many unique shows to be played for their customers with as little repetition, as opposed to their competitors, they’d need a new method of making Freddy and Bonnie move. That was how they’d come up with the motion capture sensors within the Springlocks. An elegant, simple yet genius solution.

The problem, however, arose from the fact that cutting edge tech build in a garage by two guys in their spare time was still built in a garage. It was prone to failure more often than not. For all of their refinement and attention to detail, the animatronics glitching while in the middle of a performance had been and remained a real possibility. They’d been lucky no glitches had occurred thus far, but William found himself not being very optimistic for the foreseeable future from how things were currently going for him.

Just in the past hour he’d gone through four crashes and had his program freeze twice. Each one of them could’ve permanently corrupted the tape, which would’ve screwed tomorrow’s show. Suffice to say, William had gone and deleted all of his hidden text files. He owed Henry an apology.

Bent forward with his chin resting on his arms, William fought off the sleep as he stared blankly at the ongoing animation. Funny how now of all times he was regretting investing in that coffee machine for his office. He’d always had his secretary bring him his morning coffee… He really should’ve thanked that woman more often.

Wow, William. Missing your last job? You’re getting sloppy.

But it was the little things he longed for. Briefly, he questioned whether the people that had worked under him thought much if his departure from the company. Had they considered him a good boss? A part of him hoped they did. He’d done his best in spite of the menial rewards of his high position. In his opinion.

Though, to his exasperation, and without notice, the replay froze. Grumbling to himself, he made a mental note of the timer beneath the Camera Port and hit the refresh button, hoping to God this wouldn’t be the tape’s last straw. His fists clenched when he didn’t see the loading icon spinning. There was no icon at all in fact, like the screen had frozen along with the app.

C’mon, this shouldn’t be so hard on your graphics card! What more do you want from me? But of course, there was no response. Screw it. First thing tomorrow I’m making some phone calls and getting better parts. I’ll pay for them later. Henry would no doubt complain about it, but if William was gonna have to do this on a regular basis he wasn’t about to waste his time on broken hardware. He’d look into the code later, but if there was something wrong inside he couldn’t afford to make repairs with stuff reserved for the Springlocks. Those two took priority over everything else.

He kept clicking on the refresh circle, thinking that maybe input lag had gotten in the way, but nothing was happening.

Seven minutes in and he was about to drive his fist through the monitor. Thankfully, on the eight-minute mark, his prayers had been answered. Two pop-ups revealed themselves on the screen. He read the first one.

You are running low on memory.

Recommended action: Save your files and restart all open programs.

“Oh, piss of! You stupid, two-bit piece of crap!” Holding the mouse with enough strength to crack its plastic casing, he clicked on the second pop-up, daring it to say something that’d further anger him.

You have one (1) new video.

Play it? Y/N

“…What?” Anger was immediately replaced with confusion and a sense of morbid fascination. This confirmed the computer was bugged, but the programmer within wouldn’t stand not seeing what had been produced. It could be nothing but a black screen and static audio, perhaps created from misinterpreted code, but he had to see. Open Source allowed for pretty much anything to be made so long as one knew what they were doing. It wasn’t unreasonable to imagine a glitch causing statements to be read out of context and be crapped out into a video.

William’s finger inched closer to the Y key. What a ludicrous message indeed. And yet, his gut was telling him he was in for a big surprise.

The moment the video began playing, the entire screen had been engulfed in a white light, blinding him momentarily. The second thing to happen was the music. Blasting at full volume, a company PSA-type melody- the kind usually played in advertisements- rang out, so loud it could be heard throughout the whole restaurant.

William fell off his chair, close to spilling his third drink over the keyboard. Dazed and covering his ears in pain, he pulled himself up, barely seeing enough to turn the volume dial down enough to where his eardrums wouldn’t explode. He spent the next couple of second rubbing at his eyes and groaning. Once he’d regained his vision he propped up his chair, just in time to catch the light fading into something more recognizable. A cartoonish, white bear character with pink round cheeks and purple accents, waving at the camera. On his head was a top hat not unlike Fredbear’s, while on his chest were two black buttons and a bowtie. Below it, a red introductory card. It said; HELLO, my name is Helpy.

[unrelaxing]

an incomplete media list from 26.03.2024 to literally today (25.05.2024)

I kind of fell off keeping track of my media consumption for a little while, so this is not going to be like my previous lists, and is more of a 'these are the ones I remember' list.

I watched a lot of documentaries until Netflix (the villain) kicked me out for not being the main account holder. Downfall: The Case Against Boeing is a 2022 documentary that caught my eye due to the whistleblower that supposedly killed himself while testifying against Boeing. The documentary is about two airplanes that crashed on late 2018 and early 2019, caused by an update that Boeing deliberately attempted to hide in order to sell their new 737 MAX to airlines.

MH370 The Plane That Disappeared is another plane crash documentary - this time trying to solve the mystery of what could have happened to a Malaysian Airlines flight that disappeared in 2014. It mostly goes into theories, because even today we don't really have any answers. YMMV in terms of said theories and whether or not it goes into crackpot conspiracy territory, but I think it's important to also state that some families of the deceased themselves think that things have been hidden from them and that it's not just people trying to make a big deal out of it.

Last Stop Larrimah. This one had me hooked. It's about a 70-year-old man that goes missing in a town with only 11 other people, all of whom hate each other. I feel like if that doesn't intrigue you, the documentary is not for you, because there is no other way to explain how quickly I clicked on this when I saw that synopsis. INCREDIBLY well made, as well, and managed to follow the subjects over a number of years.

Into The Deep: The Submarine Murder Case. I thought this was so unique for a true crime documentary because when the murder happens, a documentary was actually already being made on the murderer, due to the fact that he's an entrepreneur trying to build a rocket. The documentary has been called is an inadvertent "portrait of a killer", and it is super haunting.

Outside of documentaries, I watched the Spy x Family movie Spy x Family Code: White twice in cinemas, a solid 8/10. I listened to The Tortured Poets Department by Taylor Swift (which I actually reviewed, 1/10). I also listened to Bewitched by Laufey, which was a really nice 50's Cinderella vibes album (7.5/10) and The Rise and Fall of a Midwest Princess by Chappell Roan, which took a while to grow on me, but did (6.5/10).

Also, I binge watched PBS Eons on YouTube, because pre-history has always had me on a chokehold.

Hopefully the upcoming month will have me reading more - I dove back into BBC Merlin fandom and Hetalia and as a result stopped reading for a hot minute. Luckily, I have weirdly strict top/bottom preferences for both fandoms that go against the popular fandom trend (it's likely my preferences are BECAUSE of the strong fandom trend, I can get petty like that... though it's more likely to do with who my favourite is not matching who fandom's favourite is because UNSPOKEN FANDOM RULE TENDS TO BE THAT PEOPLE'S FAVES = THE ONE WHO BOTTOMS WHICH PEOPLE SHOULD REALLY TALK ABOUT MORE) and I therefore am likely to run out fic super quickly or get impatient looking for fic that suits me, so! More books. PLUS, Hetalia fandom always gets me re-invigorated to read history stuff, and I actually bought some books from the vintage market today which I'm so excited about.

[carbo-ships]

Good-Night Kiss

Ok. Getting this out of my system. Some of the concert videos have me acting unwise. Like this one. And this one. And of course this one. In my defense, [runs away]

CW: This whole thing is just Papa IV being too affectionate with Ardis and her melting into a puddle until Aether rescues her, so if you f/o Papa IV and aren't comfy with that, don't read this. He's not attracted to her in any capacity, though, don't worry.

With his hand on the small of her back, Aether led Ardis through the monastery towards the residential wing. It was late – they’d dozed off cuddling in the library, and it was time they got some proper sleep. As they passed through one of the sitting rooms, they spotted Papa reading on the couch. “Good evening, you two,” he greeted them. “Off to sleep?”

“Mmhmm,” the angel answered sleepily with a nod. “G’nite, Papa.”

"Ah, ah, ah! Where do you think you're going, signorina?" Papa scolded, setting down his novel and standing up.

Aether and Ardis stopped and turned to face him. She wasn't sure what he meant. “Um… To bed?” she answered awkwardly.

"There's no leaving without a good-night kiss!" Papa insisted with a poorly-hidden grin, waving her back towards him.

Her face suddenly felt warm. After a brief hesitation, she made her way to stand in front of Papa. The man took her into his arms and held her close. Tucking her hair out of her face, he pressed a long, chaste smooch to her cheek with a loud "mwah!" He pulled away and offered the stunned girl a warm smile. Her flustered expression prompted him to bless her other cheek with an equally loud kiss. He then tapped his own cheek, silently demanding one in return. Her halo flickered erratically as she summoned her courage, then pressed the briefest of kisses to his painted cheek. He laughed, hugging her and pressing three more kisses to her forehead. “So timid all of a sudden!” he teased her. “Where has this come from, angel?”

Aether watched in amusement from the doorway. He'd always known she'd had a harmless little crush on the handsome head of the church. Papa was a sweet man, and very affectionate. It only made sense that Ardis had a soft spot for him. Ardis and Aether had chatted about it early on in their relationship just to clear the air, and although she was mortified that Aether had noticed, she assured him that her heart was his alone. Too much affection just made her head go a bit fuzzy, she explained. Even Swiss had made her halo flicker once or twice while getting a bit too enthusiastic during a hug, but Papa Emeritus tended to be the worst offender.

After Papa studied her flushed cheeks, it clicked. "Does my angel have una piccola cotta on her papa?" the anti-pope tutted.

“A– A what?” she stuttered, although from the tone of his voice, she had an inkling.

He chuckled. “A crush, doll.”

Ardi’s cheeks felt like they were on fire. She looked away, embarrassed. She wanted to disappear. "I– I'm sorry, I–" came her tiny voice.

"No, no, don't apologize!" he insisted. "I'll have none of that. Be honest with me, Ardis," he pleaded with a fake sigh. "Is it my ass?"

She gasped, stunned by his crude question. "Papa!"

"I know it's magnificent," he teased, dramatically resting the back of his hand against his forehead with a flourish. His other arm still held her close, preventing her escape. With limited options, she threw her arms around his neck and hugged him to hide her red face in his shoulder. "Ardis. Ardis! I'm just teasing, my love!" he cooed as he hugged her back. He petted her hair comfortingly and pressed another kiss to her temple, apologizing when she let out an embarrassed whine. "I can't tell you how flattering this is, dove,” he assured her quietly. He gave her a moment to calm down, then gently eased her off of him and held her shoulders. “Ti voglio bene,” he assured her. “You’re my precious little angel, sì? Ah, there’s that smile! Che dolce ragazza!”

Before he could start smothering her face in kisses again, Aether intervened. "Alright, alright, that's enough," he huffed, coming to Ardis’s rescue. He took the angel from Papa’s arms and into his own. This close, he could see that her face was covered in smudged papal paint. He’d have to help her clean it off before they went to bed.

“Va bene, va bene, mi dispiace,” Papa apologized with a chuckle, holding up his hands innocently. “I’ll let you two get some sleep. Good night.”