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vintagegeekculture · 6 months ago

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So, a friend of mine on Discord said something interesting, and I feel like you might have thoughts on it. So. What do you think of the idea of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles as being "The Shaw Brothers for kids", a sort of gateway drug for "the kung fu genre"?

Not the Shaw Brothers, but Golden Harvest. Let me explain:

I’m going to sound like a conspiracy theorist when I say this, but I believe the New Line Cinema “Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles” (1990) movie was actually a money laundering scheme by the Chinese Mafia, specifically, the Sun Yee On Triad.

Looking into the role of organized crime in martial arts cinema is a rabbit hole that goes very, very, very deep...and comes out somewhere very shocking at the end.

You mention the Shaw Brothers, but there was another Hong Kong Producer who was the only credible rival to the Shaw Brothers (and who eventually surpassed the Shaws) in martial arts movies: Golden Harvest’s Raymond Chow….a man who started off as the Shaw Brothers’ talent division, but who eventually founded his own rival studio to the Shaws (with rumored triad financial backing), and who made Bruce Lee, Angela Mao and Jackie Chan stars. Raymond Chow is widely, and extremely credibly, believed to be a middleman for the Hong Kong Triad, the Sun Yee On, who used Golden Harvest as a front facing money laundering scheme, as claimed by Frederic Dannen in "Hong Kong Babylon," and Yiu Kong Chiu in "The Triads as Business," books I recommend if you are at all interested in the topic of organized crime in the Hong Kong film industry.

Raymond Chow was also the producer and primary funder of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movies. I mean, what does it mean when your movie is entirely produced and funded by a guy well known for being a triad middleman and money launderer?

And all of this happened at New Line Cinema, a borderline independent film company…one known for having dodgy financials it’s entire existence, no less, which ultimately doomed it? One of the most extraordinary things about the 1990 Ninja Turtles movie is that it was, essentially, an independent film. New Line would later become a powerhouse as a studio and created Lord of the Rings, but at the time, it was a mainly low rent operation, rather like Cannon films, known for the success of the slasher series “Nightmare on Elm Street.” So yes, I do believe "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" (1990) was a money laundering scheme by the Chinese Mafia.

The triads in Hong Kong, Macao, and Taiwan take enormous interest in financing martial arts movies for the same reason that they take a tremendous interest in financing porn movies: they’re quick, cheap, dirty, and can be used as a mechanism for laundering money, and a way to claim money from illegal sources (say, heroin) comes from a clean and legal source that can be claimed on taxes, like say, a movie studio. In addition, Hong Kong’s strict rating system, the Category III (equivalent to a far stricter R-rating) meant that very violent movies were handled in ways that were outside the law in ways similar to pornography. And according to several Senate investigations in 1991 ("Hearings on Asian Organized Crime"), the triads were actively involved in money laundering as well outside of Hong Kong, including currency trading and real estate, and the idea they could back a studio is entirely possible.

Everyone working in Hong Kong cinema has a story of dealing with the triads, who are interwoven into the city. Anita Mui's manager was was shot dead by mafiosos. Jimmy Wang Yu, the first Kung Fu star, was a suspected member of the Bamboo Union triad, and once borrowed money from one triad to pay another....and may have used his reported connections with the Triads to get Jackie Chan out of his initial contract with Golden Harvest, a favor Jackie repaid. Golden Harvest studios were actually firebombed in 1984, an event suspected to be due to Triad activity. Raymond Chow’s fellow producer and good friend who discovered Steven Chow, film producer Charles Heung, is well known to be the son of Heung Chin, who founded the Sun Yee On Triad, the largest in Hong Kong with over 25,000 members. And you don’t have to take my word for it; a US Senate Committee in 1991 on Asian Organized Crime identified Cheung as a leader of the Sun Yee On along with his brothers. Because of his association with Charles Heung and the Sun Yee On, Steven Chow, director of Kung Fu Hustle, cannot enter Canada legally.

Jackie Chan asserted Raymond Chow’s triad connections in his autobiography, and also claimed that he only hired triad members and other people who were mobbed up at Golden Harvest. One example would be producer Ng See Yuen, who produced Once Upon a Time in China for Golden Harvest, and who Jet Li refused to work with ever again after his manager was assassinated by triad gunmen (Jet Li blamed Ng See Yuen for his manager's death).

There's also Lo Wei, a Shaw Brothers director and known “Red Pole” enforcer of the Sun Yee On Triad, who came over to Golden Harvest, where he directed Bruce Lee’s Chinese Connection and Big Boss, and also directed Jackie Chan’s earliest “period” historical movies for GH. Jackie Chan, in his autobiography, stated that the reason he initially left Hong Kong to go to the United States for an American career was because Lo Wei, his director on Laughing Hyena, put a hit out on him for refusing to make Laughing Hyena 2, and Jackie had to flee the city when Lo Wei sent gunmen to his house to abduct him. When arriving in the United States, he had to avoid some men with machine guns at the airport. To this day, whenever possible, Jackie Chan goes out in public armed for fear of gangsters.

Even Jackie Chan though, never made the assertion that Raymond Chow and the Sun Yee On had Bruce Lee killed. This is important to mention because if you talk to any Chinese person, nearly all of them believe with unshakable, absolute certainty that the Chinese Mafia killed Bruce Lee, which is literally the plot of Game of Death (which, incidentally, Raymond Chow produced). Everyone around Bruce was mobbed up, because everyone in the Hong Kong film industry was mobbed up; in fact, it’s an open question how much it existed for its own sake. It’s notable Bruce Lee died at the home of Betty Lo Ting Pei, Golden Harvest actress, and his known mistress…who was married to a triad gangster. It’s also known that the first person that Betty Lo Ting Pei called when Bruce died was not medical services but Raymond Chow, something that to this day, she has not attempted to explain.

It can be hard to imagine what the motive is for Raymond Chow and the triads to kill Bruce Lee. After all, wouldn’t Bruce Lee be more useful to Raymond Chow alive than dead? I never saw the angle, here. But then, you consider that in the last few months of his life, Bruce Lee started to set the stage for his transition to behind the scenes roles like producer, and was assembling a lot of stunt talent around him (a lot of productions down the pipeline intended to have Bruce Lee in producer roles, like Circle of Iron). The rumor among the stunt players, as recounted by Sammo Hung, was that Bruce was attempting to form his own stunt and film production company (as Chiba later did successfully in Japan) and that would involve organizing and peeling off half the talent in Hong Kong….in a deeply triad controlled industry, no less. There was also a story recounted by witnesses that Bruce Lee, a temperamental and explosively violent man, physically assaulted Raymond Chow in his office with punches and kicks when he heard Chow had two sets of books in their shared production company, as Bruce was always keen to keep the triads out of his films. Ten days later, Bruce Lee was dead. And for weeks before his death, Lee told his friends "Hong Kong is getting too hot, I have to get out."

And you know something? A Ninja Turtles movie from 1990 is probably the least of it. In 2020, a few documents were declassified by the Taiwanese government that showed that the members of the Bamboo Union Triad had 19 top governmental positions in Taiwan from 1955-1984 (the era when Taiwan was in a complete state of military rule), including the National Security Bureau and all branches of the armed forces. In other words, Taiwan during the military rule era wasn't just corrupted by the triads, the triads were the government.

I never cease to be amazed at the incuriousness of the journalistic professions. Governments don't declassify documents - especially something as damning as triad involvement in government - unless they have to. So why would the Tsai Ing-Wen government reveal this now in 2020, especially when anti-corruption is the driving force of Taiwanese politics, and anti-corruption sentiment pushed the KMT out of power since the 90s? Outsiders believe that the single biggest question in Taiwanese politics is their relationship with the mainland. Kinda...the status quo is more or less a settled question. It's actually anti-corruption and anti-triad infiltration, which is why the DPP are the ruling party now.

The answer, I suspect, is that the triads are no longer working with the Taiwanese government, but with the mainland government. In the 1980s, Wong Man Fong, editor of the Xinhua paper of Hong Kong, said in several interviews he was asked by the People's Republic of China to reach out to the triads to help make a deal: no government interference in their activities, if they pledge to keep order in the city after the handover in 1997. I strongly suspect the mainland now has a similar arrangement with the Bamboo Union, Green Gang, and the Si Hai Bang they did in Hong Kong, especially since so much money is going back and forth with the release of trade to the mainland. In other words, the triads in Taiwan are active agents of the PRC.

Backdoor deals between government and the mob aren't out of the question, just ask the CIA, who used Giancana Crime Family assassins sent to kill Castro as a key plank of the Bay of Pigs Invasion, the role of the mafia in the Kennedy Assassination, or how control of opium was a key under-the-table reason for the invasion of Afghanistan.

What I suspect happened is, the Taipei government is turning on organized crime now after decades and decades of ludicrous and obvious corruption, because to the triads, the money to be made with the mainland and unification is far more lucrative. It's no coincidence that the largest pro-unification party in Taiwan is led by a triad gangster who spent time in jail for racketeering, Chang An Lo, nicknamed "the White Wolf." Like John Gotti, everyone knows he's a mobster and that's even part of the White Wolf's coolness and appeal (if you could vote for Tony "Scarface" Montana, boy, I bet a lot of guys would), but nobody can touch him. In fact, combined with how the "light world" financial institutions are intertwined along with the underworld, there's an argument to be made that the reason the PRC hasn't tried to take Taiwan is that for all intents and purposes, they already have it.

In other words, the triads have gone from using the Ninja Turtles to money launder to essentially setting global geopolitics.

#organized crime #triads #chinese mafia #bruce lee #teenage mutant ninja turtles

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makapatag · 1 year ago

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On Posture In Gubat Banwa

So the sixth version of Gubat Banwa's First Edition "returns" to the ideal that HP as a pacing mechanic, an Action Economy limiter, and a resource pressure. As always, in Tactical Combat games, resource management is a major aspect of the gameplay. Management of action economy, management of distance, management of other currency (such as Class-specific Resources). Most of a Tactical Combat Grid game revolves around the manipulation of these mechanics: reducing, regaining, adding, changing, force multiplication/division of these resources, and more. In Tomian Design (that is, Tom of LANCER RPG and ICON RPG), costing.

For the first 5 versions of Gubat Banwa's design, we worked with lower HP values (across the board) and with Dice Pools. The idea was that each dice in a dice pool was an attack launched, or a moment of concentration. Every die in the defense pool was a parry or evasion attempted. While the fantasy of that worked pretty great, the maths on the other hand did not. It worked almost counter-intuitively against the high-flying martial arts x deliberate tactical combat that I was trying to strike a balance for. My white elephant, my Shambhala, was to strike a good balance between that.

The Change

In 1.6, while the Dice Pool didn't entirely go away--much of the game is built around getting tactically advantageous positions so that you can get more dice and a higher chance of dealing greater damage on the target--it went for a more linearly scaling game with the result on the die reducing the target's Health.

It was a hit, mostly, among the inner circle (that is to say, my friends that I run the newer version for). There was an immediate sense of "we know how this game works" now.

On Tactical Video Games

It was more transparent--this information was crucial to making a tactical game work and sing. This is why in video games, almost every tactical game has the "Combat Forecast", like in Fire Emblem and Final Fantasy Tactics, that showcased the expected Hit Rate and the Damage Output.

This is absolutely integral: tactical games are decision point games. Without the proper information (doesn't need to be complete information), no decision can be done satisfyingly. This isn't to say that dice pools can't be used for a tactical game of course--I've done it. But it requires a different kind of design principle and design goal that Gubat Banwa wasn't going for. That sense of martial progression, of spiritual strength and eventual enlightenment.

From HP to POS

During the initial playtests, we were still working with HP. Hit Pearls. The idea was that every hit "shattered" a Hit Pearl. This worked with the Dice Pools, because the fiction was that every attack could be parried with Defense Dice.

What was the problem with this? Firstly, the math of this was inherently fraught, unfortunately: on higher levels, Defense Dice were either horribly impenetrable or did absolutely nothing to defend you. It became a binary thing. That was not the goal: for the martial fantasy to come to life, much of the decisions should not binary but rather, on a gradient spectrum.

To me, the destroyer of tactical grid games is when there's a single best strategy that shatters the tension of the game. My favorite parts of Final Fantasy Tactics and Tactics Ogre were early game moments where the output randomness could make every fight go completely different, even if you redid the same stage more than once.

Secondly, when the outcome of an action is that, really, nothing happened, you used an attack (even worse, the attack was buffed by yourself, an ally, and tactical modifiers) and then the target was able to parry all your hits. The fiction is exciting for a second, but then when you return to the battle grid, nothing changed. The mechanics fed into the fiction, but the fiction didn't feed into the mechanics.

With the math change, the fiction of the Hit Pearls wasn't working because HP values were higher to compensate for the changed math. 12 Hit Pearls could feasibly be visualized as Link's Hearts, for example. But at 48 HP, that didn't work anymore.

Hearkening to the Ancients

So I actually went on a trip to older versions of Gubat Banwa, and found I'd solved that particular problem. Older versions of Gubat Banwa had HP as "Mettle", their ability to stay in the fight. Turning to the game's current version, I realized the Physical Defense stat was perfect: POSTURE. The stance, the guard, the ability to keep fighting, the ability to turn mortal wounds into grazing hits, the ability to ignore the effects of bleeding wounds, of burning pyres, of seeping poison.

Every attack was inflicting damage by chipping away at the target's guard, or forcing their stance into more compromised positions so that they would be open to an actual mortally wounding strike. They were still real hits that the defender was actively still guarding against. And with every attack defended, their guard wore down.

This hit me after watching Donnie Yen's SAKRA (2023) the other day. Reaching back into the high-flying wuxia roots, Donnie Yen's character doesn't even take real hits until after he's overwhelmed because he is such a martial superior against the rest of the Beggar Clan. Because his Posture was so high.

Ten Thousand Earth Shattering Blows

It worked great. Not to mention that it's a great reference to Sekiro, another huge inspiration to the games's intended fiction, which also had a Posture break. Now Staggered for half Posture or lower made sense: your guard is brittle! You court death! Now the Wide Open affliction felt more in genre: your guard is wide open, so you're suffering more!

The Physical Defense stat was renamed into PARRY, while the Magical Defense stat was kept as RESILIENCE (itself a reference to Final Fantasy Tactics A2!) The defenses were there to keep the mechanical bite of an Attack vs Defense interaction, to provide an avenue for another mechanical design space, as well as to shoe in the fact that when an attack targets your Parry you're physically blocking while an attack against your Resilience requires your fortitude and concentration to block against: when your Posture is reduced, when you guard is worn down by these attacks, you know how you were defending.

When enemies hit 0 POS, that attack is the one that gets through their Defenses and kills them outright. When a Kadungganan falls to 0 POS they're not dead, but they suffer a WOUND, which only heals on Downtime (as opposed to POS healing on Repose, ie., short rest).

On Defeat and Victory

While you're Defeated, you suffer the same effects of Stun, but you can still act and do things, even make attacks at full power: you're Kadungganan after all. But every attack against you, despite your PARRY or your RESILIENCE is not met with a stance ready to block. Thus, every instance of damage you suffer, no matter how much, inflicts another Wound. When you eat 5 Wounds, you can pull on your Conviction to stay alive. Otherwise, you are tossed back into the cycle of reincarnation, or into the river to Sulad, or to Lunar Heaven, or to whatever next life your Kadungganan has chosen to ascribe to.

Status Effects

Statuses such as Poisoned, Bleeding, or Aflame, don't break you yet because they must eat through your bodily resistance. But they are still real: an aflame Kadungganan fights on even as flames swathe their body.

They can die later, when they feel the effects of the burn when their POS falls to 0. They can die later, when the Poison finally seeps through and enervates them and destroys their defensive capability. They can die later, when the bleeding takes its toll and they can no longer keep their stance up.

Martial Glossolalia

With a simple terminology change, the fiction changed entirely. Now everyone knew it was their defenses wearing down. Swords didn't cut off their fingers, flames didn't burn through their skin. They know that defenses are a holistic thing: your stamina, your constitution, your composure, your reactive ability, your dexterity, your presence of mind, your focus.

"It's not realistic!" The game is not meant to be realistic, and realism is not an inherent ontological good nor is it a goal for most TTRPGs, you will notice. Experiences, feelings. The fiction Gubat Banwa draws upon--SEAsian Folk Epics, Asian Martial Arts Cinema--is filled to the brim with the CLANG CLANG CLANG of sword-on-sword action. Often these clangs happen so quickly that you cannot process them, they are abstracted to you when it resolves in your brain--so is it abstracted by Gubat Banwa. Posture going down is the CLANG CLANG CLANG that resonates across a fight scene. It's not realistic because it's not meant to be, and even then, we must argue what your conception of reality is!

I could be argued that much of Tabletop RPGs (and, I would argue, most of games in general) is an exercise of language. Exploiting its vagaries, its ability to connect. When you go into Gubat Banwa, learning the mechanics of the game is learning a new language. And what is language but the foundation of culture?

#gubat banwa #ttrpg #filipino #fantasy #writing #rpg #gamedev #dnd #southeast asia

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signode-blog · 1 month ago

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How the Rise in Dollar Index Can Affect the Stock Markets in the U.S. and Worldwide

The Dollar Index (DXY) is a key measure of the value of the U.S. dollar relative to a basket of six major foreign currencies: the Euro (EUR), Japanese Yen (JPY), British Pound (GBP), Canadian Dollar (CAD), Swedish Krona (SEK), and Swiss Franc (CHF). Investors and policymakers closely monitor the Dollar Index as an indicator of the strength or weakness of the U.S. dollar in the global economy. A…

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marlynnofmany · 1 year ago

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Finger Talking

Captain Sunlight had said that these clients didn’t speak any trade language she’d ever learned, and as I caught sight of the two intelligent being who looked like the end result of what happens if hummingbirds nudge into anteaters’ ecological niche, I didn’t find that hard to believe.

They were green-feathered, flightless birds, with long beaks, longer tongues, and clawed feet dexterous enough to type out messages on the big keyboard they had laid out on the ground. It looked like the kind of thing I would have danced on as a kid. I pretended that I wasn’t imagining doing that now, as the shorter of the two sent a message onto the display screen that they wanted to haggle.

Mur stepped forward, tapping my ankle with a tentacle to say he had it covered. “Oh, you want to pay more? Double price, please.”

The beaky birds were of course grumpy about this. The short one typed quickly in a fashion that I was amused to realize was hunt-and-peck.

I looked down at Mur, who was cheerfully braiding grass with two tentacles, and waving several others like he was conducting an invisible squid orchestra. He was enjoying himself.

The screen beeped that the message was ready. It read, “We know our rocks are valuable to you. Ten barrels of your rocks for each barrel of our rocks.”

Okay, I hadn’t actually known the price that had been set ahead of time for this little exchange. These folks didn’t use standard currency, so when they sent out a request via random traveler for someone to bring them coal — something that was scarce their planet — in trade for shiny rocks that they had in abundance, Captain Sunlight had gone for it.

And if the rough gemstones bedazzling the cart that these birds had come in were any sign, we were about to make a very good deal no matter what the exchange rate was.

Mur said, “Two for one is already pretty generous. I’ll raise it to three, how about that?”

The birds conferred with each other briefly, making noises that echoed like someone trilling their tongue down a long tube — which was a pretty accurate description of what was happening, really. The short one typed in a reply.

I caught a glimpse of “8 for 1” before the alien technology did what technology everywhere does best: it failed unexpectedly. The screen spasmed wild patterns before going dark, and no amount of punching the keys made it light up again.

“Hm,” Mur said to me. “This could put a crimp in things. Maybe we should call Coals or Trrili?”

“They mostly do written translation,” I said. “And Trrili doesn’t strike me as the tactful sort.”

Mur twirled a tentacle to say I’d made a good point, while the birds tried to revive their tech with no luck. “I guess we just throw out numbers until we hit on something they look happy with,” he said. “This is going to be rough.”

“It shouldn’t be too bad,” I said. “At least they’ve learned the language, even though they can’t speak it. Honestly, I’ve had worse conversations before my vet training covered Gorilla Sign Language.”

He looked up at the unfamiliar word. “Nationality?”

“Species. Long story. Remind me to tell you about Citizen Animals on Earth.”

The birds were starting to disassemble the keyboard casing, using their claws like precision tools (though the tall one gave me the impression that more vigorous smashing was an eagerly-anticipated Plan B). They looked up when I stepped forward, holding up fingers.

“Five for one.” I flicked the fingers one at a time to count. “Five of ours, for one of yours.”

They caught on immediately, and luckily for all of us, they had the right number of talon-fingers to make this primitive conversation work.

Mur was no help, standing two steps back and holding up excessive numbers of tentacles, entertaining only himself. The birds and I managed to ignore him.

We settled on seven-for-one. I could have pushed for six, but I felt bad for them, and anyway I knew that we had the coal already portioned out into fourteen crates. The math was easier this way.

As we walked back toward the ship, to start bringing out the crates that Blip and Blop were unloading at the door, Mur chuckled beside me. “That was fun. I want to come up with ways to communicate like that more. Maybe cheating at table games.”

“I’d offer to teach you some actual sign language,” I said, “But everything I know is designed with fingers in mind.”

“That’s okay. I don’t need proper language to beat the scales off Eggskin. C’mon, it’ll be great. I’ll win several rounds in a row, they’ll get annoyed and demand to know how, I’ll explain, then refuse to give any winnings back. Perfect plan. Great times.”

I had to smile at that. “We’ll see,” I said. “First let’s finish the actual business.”

“Yep, yep, can’t forget that,” Mur agreed. “Maybe we’ll play table games with expensive rocks as tokens, like the high-society snobs we all are.”

“Sounds like great times to me,” I said.

~~~

The ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book. More to come! And I am currently drafting a sequel!

#my writing #The Token Human #humans are weird #haso #hfy #eiad #humans are space orcs #technology doing what technology does best #fail unexpectedly #that part's my favorite line; no lie #sign language #in spaaace

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missdirection26 · 7 months ago

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I saw this and spouted a couple of thousand words.

Summary: You’re the person in control of Jackson’s alcohol production and distribution.

You’ve been trying not to crush on Joel Miller, and having some time away to focus on producing some drinks for the winter dance in 2038 gives you some much needed time apart.

Until you see his beautifully outgrown hair…

Word count: 2.1k

Rating: Mature (just for swearing and drinking)

Tags: Jackson!Joel, Fluff, Angst with a happy ending, Romance, First Kiss

Chapter One (Chapter two - here)

Joel Miller’s hair was going to be the death of you.

As the person with control over the alcohol distribution in Jackson, you were one of the only people allowed in Joel’s small circle of trust. Years ago when he’d joined the community with his sort-of daughter, he sought you out. You, who’d grown up working in your families distillery Before. You who were strong-willed enough to manage the most popular non-essential resource in town, and the arguments that came along with it. Joel, however, was ever the Southern gentleman.

“Excuse me ma’am, sorry to bother ya, but my brother, Tommy…he said you’re the lady I need to come to to barter for more than my assigned ration of whiskey?”

Despite his size, he seemed small in that moment. Nervous. Perhaps even shy?

“Tommy knows better than to call me a lady, ain’t ever been one of those. But he’s right about how I got the hookup. I got a distillery system set up here, raided the Jackson Hole Still Works south of here a few years back for the equipment, but production is still limited. How much you looking for?”

He stood before you, rubbing the back of his neck and pointedly avoiding contact with your eyes. You figured out later that it was lucky on your end he did that, as your usually steely will had a kryptonite in his baby brown eyes.

“Double the ration amount ongoing? I ain’t got nothing physical to trade yet, but I’ll be a full-time patroller soon if ya need somethin’. Or I’m good with my hands”

You smirked and giggled at him then, secretly knowing what he meant (Tommy had been raving on around town about his brothers contracting skills the months he’d been gone in preparation for his return), but you loved messing with guys. And watching his sun-kissed cheeks redden slightly as he realised what he’d said sent a small thrill of power down your spine.

“I…I meant buildin’. Woodwork and shit, can figure my way around a pipe too if need be. I just…” he trailed off.

That was the moment you think it all started, this stupid schoolgirl crush on a 50 odd year old man. Seeing him try not to be vulnerable with a stranger, in a strange town, in a shit world. So you take pity on him.

“Glass bottles. People are suppose to return them, but accidents happen and we have less and less all the time. They’re also heavy so patrollers don’t like to carry them back, but thats usually the currency I have with the others. Lets say average one bottle a patrol, and I get you on retainer for repairs or building work I need, and you got a deal” you stated confidently, stepping closer and held a hand out to seal the deal. Little would you know, this moment would become your undoing.

For years, you two circled around each other, waltzing around the energy you emitted. He’d come to the small distillery you ran out of an old restaurant every week, with a few precious glass bottles, and had a small stilted conversation as you updated your logs with the exchange. You learned he had a dry sense of humour like yours, that you could make the corners of his lips turn upward with a bit of town gossip, and that he’d set up a woodworking room in his house when Ellie move out to the garage. The last one came along with the first of many gifts he started giving you. Tiny little creatures he’d began whittling after the endless downtime of town living had started grating on him. On the house he’d say every time you offered a bottle of beer in exchange, giving you lip on not understanding the concept of a gift.

For years, you danced. You knew Joel didn’t feel anything like that towards you, he’d been very clear about that. A couple of years back, Tommy set him up on a date with the lady who ran the greenhouse - Esther you think? She wasn’t one for drinking so you had no clue about her really - and Joel spent a good portion of your weekly chat groaning on about the upcoming thing. You bantered back like always, but tiny pinpricks hit your heart at how adamant he was about not needing a partner like that. And honestly, it’s not something you’d ever wanted either, especially after losing Talia sometime before Joel even joined Jackson. You thought you’d had your one love, and the pain of losing another had you bat off any attention with your wit and sass, sticking to harmless flirting. But Joel had somehow nudged his way in. You resolved to start building the walls back up.

It had been easier recently. With the winter being so harsh, socialising as a town had reduced, and the council were worried about morale. Ergo - The Winter Dance.

Social events were regular in Jackson, but the council were determined to go all out with this one, wanting to coax as many residents out and having fun as possible. So for the first time, they wanted a full open bar. Usually there was a limit to keep the town from running totally dry, but some sweet talking from Maria and a promise of another raid of Jackson Hole Still Works had you agreeing to overproduce for a month before the dance to create enough supply. This meaning you and a few trusted ‘employees’ were basically living at your makeshift distillery, no time for any sort-of flirting with a certain bearded Texan.

What this also meant was that after a whole month of not laying eyes on the man, you were not prepared for the fact that he’d somehow decided to grow his hair out a bit for the winter. So when you enter the Church where the dance is being held, and you see the man leaning against the makeshift bar, you’re not prepared at all, and with the exhaustion reducing your self control, the walls came tumbling down.

Thankfully, he didn’t spot you as you entered or you knew your face would have given you away, so focussed on something in the crowd. Your eyes followed what he was looking at, and a small smile upturned the corners of your lips. Out on the dance floor was your old lover's sister Dina (who you also thought of as a sister), with her arms around Joel's now grown kid, Ellie. You hadn’t spoken much to Dina recently, after her turning 18 and joining the full-time patrol team keeping her busy, but after her on-off with Jesse the past few years, you were just glad she seemed to be moving on.

You were so focussed on the young girls, you hadn’t realised you had company.

“So you are alive. Still not used to trustin’ people, so I’m mighty glad to see ya hear tonight to prove ‘em right”

Fuck. That stupid goddamn Texan drawl. You had enough self-restraint to not look over to him, knowing that either his baby brown eyes or the new hair growth so perfect for running your hands through would be your undoing.

“Well, the Council thought it would be good for the town if everyone could get white girl wasted, so who am I to deny that request?”

You heard him snort gently next to you. The next few seconds passed in agonising silence (for you at least) before the man consuming your soul made a sound.

“So does she partake in her own goods?”

You whip your head round to look at him, confusion masked on your face, forgetting about the incandescent curls you were about to see.

He’s attuned to your facial expressions by now.

“I mean, can I get you a drink?” he mumbles, gesturing weakly to the bar in the corner where all your hard work for the past month resides.

If you had to stand there any longer, you knew you wouldn’t be able to resist grabbing those goddamn curls, so without warning, your legs took off, striding you fast and efficiently towards your goal - some fucking liquid courage.

Jeff - one of the bartenders who drew the short straw to work the dance - knew you well enough to have a double whiskey neat, ready for you to slam back the moment you were close enough.

“So you ain’t a nurse your drink kind of gal, good to know”

The fucking Texan drawl had followed you. Of course, he had longer (and so sexy and thick) legs that’d easily keep up with your small stature.

You shoved your glass back toward Jeff, before taking a deep breath and steeling your resolve as you looked back to Joel. Fuck he looks so fucking hot. You can do this, it’s just one night.

“I’ve just spent the past month pouring my blood, sweat, and tears into all this. Think I deserve to drink it however I please thank you!”

Phew. Not awful. Not as witty as you might usually be, but given the fucking hair situation, you were doing your goddamn best,

The heat emanating off him as he scooched closer to you wasn’t helping though.

“Well, I’m grateful for your effort ma’am, this is a mighty fine batch you made”

You couldn’t help but smile at that. With resources slimmer as the years go by, the quality of the alcohol you distilled varied. Joel was always an honest judge, something you’d grown to respect over the years. You knew his words were true, and fuck if it didn’t worsen your resolve.

But he wasn’t interested in you like that - in anyone. So you used the remainder of your self-control to change the subject.

“Didn’t peg you to be a community event attendee Miller, thought this was all a bunch of communist bullshit last I heard?”

He snorted a bit louder this time, somehow still ridiculously attractive.

“I was threatened from multiple angles. Ellie and Tommy together could arguably be more formidable than FEDRA when it comes to forcing me to do shit I don’t wanna do”

Inwardly, you sighed. It was nice that Joel had people who cared about him like this of course, but it just reminded you of what you didn’t have. Dina checked in occasionally, feeling a bit responsible for the woman her sister loved, and although you were friendly with most of Jackson given your role, no one cared enough about your wellbeing to force you to do something you didn’t want to do but would be good for you. Totally your fault of course, you didn’t let many people close enough for that. Still…it ached.

“Woah, hey there girlie, you with me? You started drinkin’ before you got here maybe?”

Fuck. SHIT. You got stuck in your head, and now your stupid hot crush was having to guide you gently out of the church as you slowly came back to your senses.

It was only once you’d turned a corner and were alone with him that you returned fully to your body - realising his large, calloused hand was gently gripping your upper arm.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry Joel, that hasn’t happened in a really long time. I think I’m just tired, with all the extra work and all-”

He quickly interrupted you by turning to face you head on.

“Girlie, you don’t gotta apologise, it’s kinda nice to see you be a bit human for once”

And as you looked up at his face, you saw the softest and kindest expression you’d ever seen on the survivors face, some of his previously slicked back curls popping out in the cold, forming a slightly wild halo to frame him. He was the most beautiful creature you’d ever seen, and you physically couldn’t stop yourself from stepping into his space, and reaching up a hand to gently run through his curls.

Those baby brown eyes widened slightly in shock, but otherwise he didn’t move for what felt like eternity as your fingers were buried and surrounded by his brown and grey locks, pushing through them reverently.

Slowly, one of his hands found your waist and gently tugged you forward as his other hand found your cheek, his thumb caressing your cheek. You were totally aware of your body, every feeling, but you no longer had control. And as his head tilted down to meet yours, his lips grazing on yours, you never wanted control of your body again if it meant depriving you of this feeling. You could feel him moving out of pure instinct like yourself, and despite it just being a kiss, you realised deep in your gut, that this was the start of something physically and spiritually breathtaking

#joel x reader #joel x you #fanfic #tlou fanfiction #joel miller #I need help with tagging pls

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chillybuilt · 1 year ago

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Please help a Black PhD student!

23.8.23 Edit: Thank you so much to everyone who helped out! I'm in the clear with regards to my rent! I still need some help in order to furnish my apartment (we're gonna see how long I can sleep on an air mattress, but it's not the best). Anything would be appreciated. Again thanking everyone so much for sharing this post and giving what they could. It means the world to me.

(18.8.23) Edit: Unfortunately I still need help. They do want the full payment and have emailed me to remind me of my outstanding charges. Please give anything you can! Sharing this would also help a lot.

EDIT: Thank you so much to everyone! I was able to pay off half and I'll be talking to the management company about the rest.

If you still want to help, because relocating countries and furnishing apartments and starting a PhD is so expensive, I would really appreciate it.

Thank you so much!!

Original Post:

I know some people put their identities and stuff in posts like these so I'm sorry if it comes off cringe but

ca$happ: $RCCRD

v€nmo: RCCRD

fuck, so, I'm moving from the Caribbean to the US to start my PhD and I'm so fortunate to be on assistantship but I don't and won't get a full paycheck until the the third week week of September, the first fortnight of work. But because I'm a new international student I need to be there almost an entire month before that, to set up and attend orientation etc. Things in America are so fucking expensive, especially when my local currency has a conversion rate of 7 to 1 USD. And there's so many hidden costs I feel like crying every day. My family is trying to help me but they really can't.

Right now, while I already paid the security deposit for an apartment, they suddenly want over $1000 USD upfront, like by August 15th.. I've called and I've emailed saying I'm a new student, this must be an error or something but they've said nothing. and this is on top the $800 USD I'll need to ship my things. I'm so frustrated because I was so excited but things keep getting worse like yeah I do want to be the first person in my family to get a PhD and but my family is working their ass off to help me and I won't get any income at all from the school until September.

that partial pay check won't help with anything and already comes too late so I would really appreciate it if anyone at all could help even a little it would be so appreciated.

so sorry for another post across your dash. I would appreciate it if you could just reblog this because even that would help.

ca$happ: $RCCRD

v€nmo: RCCRD

#mutual aid #single boost #please help #emergency funds #financial aid

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sprintingowl · 2 years ago

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Flying Circus

Flying Circus is a game that looks extremely normal on the surface.

Okay, sure, there are biplanes and dragons. But the overall cover aesthetic evokes red box D&D, and there's barely a hint of the wild design choices lurking beneath.

Flying Circus is also a pbta game. This means Powered By The Apocalypse---broadly, a group of ttrpgs that are more narrative-y and story-game-y and collaborative in play.

So the last thing you'd expect here would be pages and pages of highly detailed biplane aviation physics and moves that model the affect of G-strain on the pilot and fuel burning at different rates at different altitudes.

Right?

Flying Circus is a game about running a biplane company in a post-WWI Hayao Miyazaki aesthetic german countryside. And like a Miyazaki movie, it's not non-violent. There's conflict and dragons and and ancient technology and horrifying things beyond comprehension---but there's also rolling hills and swaying grain fields and the overbearing beauty of a world un-industrialized.

Every player plays a pilot, builds their own plane (out of a *lot* of different component parts,) manages their stress levels between sorties, and engages in highly technical, heavily researched biplane combat where altitude is a currency and there's a million ways your plane can stall out, crash, and explode.

To say that Flying Circus is audacious is underselling it.

This is a high crunch game wearing the shell of a zero crunch game like an octopus in a coconut.

But it's tightly built, *very* comprehensive in what it lets you do while flying a plane, and tricky to learn but fun to try and master.

I am not smart enough for it, but I think it might be one of my favorite games I've read this year.

#flying circus #biplanes #ttrpg #ttrpgs #ttrpg design #indie ttrpg #pbta

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m3rricat · 6 months ago

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Immortal Coil

Wyllstarion oneshot. It is midday and Astarion rots in bed in his luxurious apartments. His mind is trapped, stuck on his strained relationship with his immortal body. Enter Wyll, to offer what comfort he can. Set post-game with Spawn Astarion and Duke Wyll.

(note that the lack of quotation marks around dialogue is on purpose; experimenting a bit here)

Rating: T

Pairing: Wyll x Astarion

Word Count: 1937

Read on AO3

_____

It’s not like Astarion wants his body to have kept the whole score.

He doesn’t actually want to bear the scars of centuries, to forever be a flayed, disjointed doll with his stilled heart pried from his ribs, presented to him with a sallow smile.

But to have had every bit of it erased every time, like it was all a simple dream? Every incision made with awful care, every rent in skin and muscle and bone made in rage? It all evaporated in the end, like the morning dew, like it never—

Oh, he is being ridiculous. So often when it is too quiet for too long and his thoughts break their tethers, Astarion circles around and around this foolish notion.

But he goes on gnawing at it. He comes to wonder how much less pathetic he would be if the whole of him, including his mind, had been born anew each time. If the horrors, removed from the surface, had not stuck in his brain like knives.

If he was only as perfect as his body.

This body. It is his everything: his currency, his pride, his value. He is a virtuoso in its uses. But it has always belittled him. It has glossed over every hurt that haunted him and made it feel a lie. Destroyed the hard evidence that would prove his suffering, prove that he shouldn’t be ashamed for the tears, the howls, the never-ending fear. Even now, this body silently chastises (stand up straight, boy) while memories threaten to burst out of him obscenely.

These thoughts churn as Astarion rots on his bed, arms hugging around his ribs, fingers brushing the back of his fine linen shirt, brushing against the exception that proves the rule: the marks Cazador permitted to remain. Infernal script circling his spine, marking him for consumption. And the marks on his neck, too: the two punctures through which his master had stolen his natural life.

He had said such brave words in that ritual chamber about being more than what Cazador made. But, in the end, this body is still Cazador’s. Had always been Cazador’s. And even though Cazador has since become a burned-out carcass, still he clings to Astarion’s immortal flesh: his greatest gift to his errant son. Are you not grateful, boy?

Astarion lies on his side, still as true death as he watches from somewhere outside of the body that haunts him. He sees his surroundings: his lavish bedroom in this lavish palace, heavy velvet curtains drawn over the tall windows. Slivers of light shine between them. Their slant tells him it is mid-afternoon.

Weeks ago, now, when Wyll ascended as Duke in deserved pomp and circumstance, he had cautiously asked if Astarion would prefer rooms out of the sun; after all, there were nice apartments in the underground level. Astarion, who had been feeling so easy and gracious that day, reverted immediately back to a grasping, snappish creature. No. He may not be able to walk in the sun quite yet, but he wouldn’t be shoved underground again. Not ever. Embarrassment at his outburst had risen in him like a sickening tide. He feels the echo of it now. But Wyll had only smiled warm as summer and said, of course, and placed Astarion’s apartments right across from his own.

As Astarion’s mind spins endlessly, the body weighs heavy on the gold-embroidered bedspread. Maybe it will sink down to the cellar despite his shrill protests. Sink back to where it belonged.

Astarion has never really managed to escape from under the Szarr palace, anyway.

Because, though his mind is not caught out of time like his body, it still refuses to move forward. It is a sludge-filled, unchanging mire. It still sulks even with the anticipation of the ball tonight. It should be enough to cheer Astarion: lavish events are now a favorite pastime of his after all, now that he is on Wyll’s arm. He relishes watching the great and ridiculous from his safe perch where no one can touch him. Not like before.

Fangs grind suddenly on fangs, catching the inside of his lip as his mind fills with depraved leers, laughter, searching hands passing him around to—

Astarion is tugged back to the present by soft footfalls outside the door. Right on time. So reliable, his Wyll, he thinks testily as he shudders against the touch of memory.

The knock comes. Three strokes.

He can simply call out a refusal. But if Astarion says nothing, Wyll will assume he is asleep and enter. This arrangement had been reached one evening in whispers abed. Wyll wanted to see Astarion in the daytime; the nights alone were not nearly enough. Astarion had slyly said that he did not blame Wyll in the least for his insatiable appetite. Then came the softly serious reply: I don’t wish to disturb; I only want the sight of you. More than their physical exertions, this had made Astarion turn as deep a pink as the blood in him allowed.

Astarion curls in on himself tighter. He has only to say something. And he should, for Wyll’s sake. To keep the one he loves well away from his wallowing.

But he lies still and silent. So the door handle softly clicks. Hinges swing, whisper-quiet.

Astarion is turned facing away, but he can picture it perfectly. Wyll padding in soft leather shoes, enveloped by the eternal twilight of the room. His formal jacket is cast off somewhere, shirtsleeves pushed up and neck fastenings undone, baring his collarbones.

Slowly then all at once, the scent of his lover crests over Astarion. Oh, the slight spice of Wyll’s sun-warmed skin; it makes his eyes squeeze shut in longing. Another saccharine notion that Astarion had tried not to scoff at when Wyll suggested it—him soaking up the sunshine to bring to Astarion in his chambers. In this moment, however, Astarion wants nothing more than to press into Wyll and bathe in the warmth greedily, from both his lover and the sunlight he brings.

But Astarion remains unmoving. It is bad enough he didn’t send Wyll away. He will not let himself drape over the man and take and take. Won’t let this cursed body have what it wants.

I knew you weren’t asleep.

Astarion peels an eyelid open. Wyll swims into view like a vision, smiling as usual. But there is a crease of worry on his brow. You were too still, he says low. You’re troubled.

Astarion’s usual brush-off sits on his tongue. But he falters. Scrambles for something better. Then, without warning, hard words burst out instead.

I shouldn’t be here.

It isn’t often Wyll’s mismatched eyes widen in surprise. An old young man, his Wyll.

Here? You don’t want us to be in the palace? Wyll says it slow.

I said ‘I.’ Me. I’m not fit for you. Fit for—for a full life like this. I’m a millstone, hanging round your neck.

This isn’t the first time Astarion has flailed with doubt. But it’s the first time he’s let it out in full view of his lover. Wyll hesitates. Then, he crouches down, folding his corded forearms on the edge of the bed, propping up his chin. Eye-level and deadly earnest, as always.

I quite like it when you’re hanging round my neck, you know. Wyll’s voice has that purr to it that runs straight up Astarion’s spine. But the signal gets jumbled in Astarion’s thickening despair. Desire turns to distress. He buries his face in the pillow, so Wyll can’t see. It’s not Wyll’s fault he’s so broken.

Oh, no. I’m sorry. I misjudged—

The honest anguish in Wyll’s voice is too much. Astarion chokes a sob down. Still doesn’t look.

So Wyll waits. With his sage-like patience he sits in the haze of discomfort, in the self-loathing that must be rolling off Astarion in waves.

Time stretches. Astarion’s distress abates, slightly. He peeks an eye out again.

What’s wrong, my love? Maddeningly soft.

You— Astarion stops. Wyll is the farthest thing from the problem. He begins again. I can’t get out of myself. Out of all the memories. I’m a pile of sucking muck. And I don’t want you spending your life trying to get out of it.

Wyll reaches out. Casually places a sword-calloused hand in Astarion’s reach. There’s no demand behind it, like he’s placating a flighty animal. Gentle as he always is with Astarion. And the gentleness grates because Astarion needs it. He loves it, the weak thing that he is. He wants to reach out and take what’s offered, twine between the warm fingers. But he holds firm. He means it, this time.

Oh, Astarion. It comes out of Wyll so quiet, and Astarion hears Wyll’s heart break even quieter underneath. Two hundred years, he murmurs. All that poison. I wish I could suck it out of the wound.

You’re a fool, Astarion whispers. I am that poison.

No, you’re not. The low growling edge that came complimentary with the devilish looks bursts out. You’re not the muck. You’re not the poison. They’re in you. But they’re not you.

Wyll’s conviction is always a thing to behold. Astarion has even been swept up in it himself, on occasion. But here and now, he is too heavy.

I thought I had shut the memories out, you know, he says at last, staring out into the space next to Wyll. Thought I had gotten so good at tucking it all away neatly. But I’ve failed. If I had… if I had just made myself not feel, back then. Made myself forget, like this body does. I wouldn’t be like this.

Wyll tilts his head. How he can still look achingly sweet with great curving horns and those eyes and the ridges under his skin, Astarion will never know.

But if you had, Wyll says. If you had made yourself not feel. If you had been the consummate spawn, the one Cazador wanted, you would not be you.

Wyll’s eyes flicker with disquiet, with the last few words unsaid. Astarion voices them. And you would not have me, then.

Wyll glances away. Yes. But I’m not about to make your burdens about my wants.

Through his murky grief, a smile blooms on Astarion’s lips. Wyll and his want, the thing he tries to hold at arms’ length at all times.

Astarion can see that Wyll has sensed the shift. But still his lover presses on. He will not be stopped when he has a point to make. I’ve always admired that about you, you know, Wyll says. Your sense of self, despite everything. It made me less afraid of what I’d become, after what she did to me.

Praise still settles on Astarion uneasily, despite Wyll’s constant efforts to expose him to it. A thousand self-deprecating barbs spring up. With determination, he swallows them down.

He forces himself to confront Wyll’s words instead. To make himself believe this strange person who so believes in him. Who now looks at him with bare, hungering love.

Astarion levers himself up, reaching forward, past the offered hand. The pads of his cool fingers graze Wyll’s cheek instead. Wyll sighs into the touch, closing his eyes.

So, you want this mess?

I want you. Wyll’s voice quakes in his throat. He nuzzles into Astarion’s hand, pressing it firmly with his own.

The longing touch sets off a fire Astarion’s belly, burning through the creeping despair. The next moment Wyll is clambering forward, and Astarion pulls him in greedily. They end atop the bed in a tangle of limbs. Undignified. Perfect. Wyll holds him like a precious thing. Astarion noses into his warm neck, breathing in the scent of love and sunshine.

#wyllstarion #bloodpact #wyll ravengard #astarion #bg3 fanfic #bg3

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kpopfanfictrash · 2 years ago

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Love to Hate (Extra Scene I: Jungkook’s POV)

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Genre: Fuck Buddies / Enemies to Lovers

Pairing: Jungkook / Reader

Synopsis: Born with a silver spoon in your mouth, you've done your best to rid yourself of the taste since you were old enough to walk. Occasionally though, your mother manages to rope you into an obligatory function – or a blind date with playboy billionaire, Jeon Jungkook. Jungkook stands for everything you loathe about the world you left behind, but you can’t deny the spark of attraction between you. Intrigued by the promise of mutual satisfaction, you agree to one night in bed… and quickly realize you’re in far, far deeper than you ever intended.

Author’s Note: This scene takes place during Chapter 1 of Love to Hate and is told from Jungkook’s point of view. PLEASE READ THE ENTIRE STORY BEFORE READING THIS SCENE (otherwise there will be spoilers lol).

Rating: 18+

Warnings: brief mention of past suicidal thoughts

Word Count: 7,393

Contrary to public opinion, Jeon Jungkook is rarely late.

In fact, he arrived at his best friend, Yoongi’s, restaurant a half hour early to hover in the kitchen and taste-test (read: steal) Yoongi’s latest creations. Eventually, Jungkook was thrown out on pain of death and now, here he is. Seated at a table in the center of Chez Moi, Chez Toi, five minutes early for his date – stomach equal parts dread and hors d’oeuvres.

Casual, Jungkook shakes his napkin over his lap – black, matching his suit. Attention to detail is one of the many areas in which Yoongi excels. There’s a reason the man has a Michelin Star.

Detail happens to be a strength of Jungkook’s, as well.

Attention to detail. Punctuality. A certain kind of ruthlessness necessary for business. All three learned from his father who, while a terrible husband and parent, can’t be denied a savvy businessman. Jungkook learned from the best.

Hiding the twist of his mouth, Jungkook adjusts a cuff beneath the table. Despite his overall apathy for tonight’s date, Jungkook dressed in his favorite suit. Another lesson from his father: never underestimate the currency of appearance.

Scanning the restaurant, Jungkook observes how true this is. The woman in the corner is here with a man who’s clearly not her husband; her covert glances and tapping foot are dead giveaways. Beside them, a besotted man is about to propose – he keeps looking at the kitchen, grazing his pocket to ensure the ring is there.

This rule also holds true for Jungkook. When he agreed to his father’s terms, Jungkook had no idea things would go this far, nor that he’d still be the topic of headlines years later. Leaning back in his seat, Jungkook ensures his mask of disinterest remains.

He was twenty-one when he made the deal with his father.

Hardly old enough to be making decisions and yet, Jungkook was desperate to get his mother out from beneath her husband’s thumb. She hadn’t felt well for some time, and Jungkook’s father refused treatment for one excuse or another. Hot-headed and young, Jungkook entered his father’s office and demanded a deal – whatever his father wanted in exchange for his mother’s freedom.

Jungkook remembers that night with perfect clarity, the same way he recalls all life-changing events. Leaning back, a slow smile spread across his father’s face and Jungkook’s own stomach sank, realizing he’d been played.

Complicity, his father said. Obedience. An heir for the company.

His office was dark; Jungkook’s father often worked late or at least, said that he did. The skyline shone through floor-to-ceiling glass, perforating them from the city below. Always, his father seated himself behind glass. Jungkook couldn’t remember a time when it’d been any other way.

Staring at his father, Jungkook solemnly realized this was his future. A life behind glass, placed on the path he tried hard to avoid – the cost of his mother’s freedom, he realized then, was his own. Still, Jungkook did what he needed to do, and he nodded.

Turning to leave, Jungkook was almost at the door when his father spoke again.

“Another thing,” he said casually. “Before you take over the company as CEO, I’ll need you to assist with some… PR concerns.”

Jungkook paused, one hand on the door before glancing sideways. “What sort of issues?”

With a shrug, his father poured whiskey from a tumbler at his desk. Jungkook’s gaze followed the motion. “This and that,” he said. “I’ll let you know details when I have them.”

Jungkook stared as the glass filled, consumed by a sense of foreboding. He should have inquired further, but that night, his instinct of flight won. By then, Jungkook knew well enough to leave before his father got drunk.

“Fine,” he exhaled as he turned. “But in return, you pay for mom’s doctor visits and any resulting treatment. And an apartment,” he added on a whim. “One for her, and one for me – apartments you won’t have access to and won’t visit.”

His father’s gaze narrowed, but Jungkook swore a slight flash of approval shone within.

“Very well.” His father inclined his head. “We have a deal, son.”

Fighting back laughter, Jungkook opened the door. “Don’t call me that,” he said before walking out.

More than six years ago and still, Jungkook is paying the piper. Things happened fast after that. He soon realized what his father meant by ‘PR issues.’ Jungkook’s father was, indeed, a shrewd businessman. He inherited the company in a state of near-bankruptcy and managed to turn things around in a matter of years. This was accomplished by investing in areas no one else dared touch. Through risky investments and forging back door deals with dubious suppliers.

Each time a new disaster came to light, Jungkook took the fall – in one way or another. For a while, Jungkook embraced it.

It was the only recourse he had. To lose himself in the physical pleasure his life forced upon him. His early twenties were a blur of work, women, and alcohol. His friend, Taehyung – locked in a similar situation – was at his side, drowning in self-pity. For a while, Jungkook thought this was how he would live and eventually, die.

And then, his mom passed away.

Another crystal-clear night in Jungkook’s mind. The scent of her hospital room is with him even now – white lilies on the table, lemon disinfectant, plastic furniture, and the lingering smell of her sweat and his tears. Another nighttime memory, the lights from the parking lot striping the room black and white. His mom’s hand squeezed his, pulling him close for her last words. Words when she begged Jungkook to stop living for other people.

She died soon after and, in the blurred weeks that followed, Jungkook could barely force himself to get dressed, let alone make a change. When he finally managed to shower, he recalls standing on his balcony overlooking the city. Jungkook’s depression wasn’t bad enough to consider the jump, but he stared at the buildings and considered his life.

He thought about everything he’d given up – happiness, love, family, a career that he chose. Friendship, too because despite having Yoongi and Taehyung, Jungkook hadn’t told them everything. They suspected about Jungkook’s arrangement with his father, but each time they inquired, he pushed them away. They knew about Liam, but not the disaster which followed.

Lips tight, Jungkook realized that, for all his accomplishments, his mother was right. Everything he’d done was for someone else and God, did Jungkook want to change that. Turning around, he went inside and promptly dumped his whiskey down the drain.

Jungkook often divides his life into three parts. Pre and post the PR deal with his father and then, a third segment after his mom died. In the two years since, Jungkook has done his best to live up to her memory. He decided he wanted to stay with Jeon Energy but not as it is.

Enlisting the help of similar minded individuals (Kim Namjoon in particular), Jungkook sat down and created a plan. A slow-moving plan, which – if it doesn’t destroy him – will lead to success, and the removal of his father from the company entirely.

Exhaling roughly, Jungkook smooths his expression. The plan is why Jungkook doesn’t have time for things as trivial as dating, but his aunt insisted. If Jungkook has any moral compass, it’s her and so, he couldn’t help but agree.

Although Jungkook has tried to reverse his image, the process has been akin to wading through quicksand. Especially since the bad press doesn’t stop until Jungkook becomes the CEO. The Board votes on his father’s successor at the end of next month, meaning all Jungkook’s energy should be focused on that and not –

You enter the room, and his cacophony of thoughts goes silent.

Jungkook recognizes you, having thoroughly researched before tonight. Another habit from his father: always know more about your opponent than they know about you. Perhaps most wouldn’t apply rules from the boardroom to bedroom, but most people aren’t a Jeon. Thinking fast, Jungkook recalls the dossier on top of his desk.

Y/N Y/L/N. 29 years old. Estranged from family excepting brother, Jason. Lives alone in an apartment of little value. Scratch that – lives without roommates, but with one dog. Founder and CEO of Clean Ocean, an organization dedicated to the earth’s natural waterways. Outspoken critic of Jeon Energy.

Although his assistant showed him your Instagram, none of the photos of you were clear. Most were of scenery or of your dog, the occasional group shot with friends. Up close, Jungkook can’t help but feel misguided because you’re –

Stunning. The thought occurs before he knows what to do with it and Jungkook watches, baffled as you lean across the hostess stand. Everyone watching – which is nearly the entire room, Jungkook realizes with a sharp stab of jealousy – is afforded a stellar view down your dress.

Abruptly, Jungkook pushes himself to stand. In his haste, he bangs his knee on the table, knocking over his water and spilling across the cloth.

“Shit,” he exhales, frantically trying to scoop up the water when a waiter appears.

“I’ll clean that up, sir,” he says, calmly removing Jungkook’s glass and blotting the fabric. “I’ll be along shortly with a new water.”

“I – thank you,” Jungkook exhales, forcing himself to sit.

Face heated, he scans the room for you again. No one seems to have noticed Jungkook’s lapse, which is good. Instead, all eyes fixate on you, scanning the tables before landing on Jungkook.

Jungkook watches you drink him in. You blink, slow and long and Jungkook’s heart races. But then – smile disappearing, your lips pinch as you turn away. Before Jungkook can register the sudden change, you’re crossing the room with all the enthusiasm of a funeral march.

Forcing himself to look away, Jungkook exhales. The fact that you’re attractive changes nothing. Based on your expression, you feel the same way about this date as Jungkook. Admittedly, Jungkook can’t help but be curious about why that is.

He isn’t trying to be arrogant, but most people enjoy what they see when they look at him. Jungkook doesn’t date, but he does take women out. To dinner and then back to his place for a single night of fun. Occasionally, multiple nights if the person doesn’t cling but overall, Jungkook isn’t a relationship guy. Hard not to be, with his father’s deal hanging over his head.

Your reasons for being unhappy about tonight are less clear.

Coming to a stop at the table, your gaze dips to Jungkook and he can’t help but feel he hasn’t measured up. “Hi,” you say politely. “I’m Y/N – your date?”

You phrase this as a question, as though Jungkook wouldn’t know, and he can’t help but stare. Wondering if this is some sort of strategy, Jungkook narrows his gaze, but you seem genuinely unsure.

Realizing he still hasn’t spoken, Jungkook shoves back his chair to stand. “Yes – hello,” he says, moving to pull out your chair. “I’m Jungkook, but you seem to already know that.”

Ducking your head, you avoid a response. Once seated, Jungkook pushes you forward, his fingertips brushing skin at the base of your neck. Goosebumps dot your skin as Jungkook pauses, taken aback by his own reaction.

Your skin is soft, smooth, and this close, he can smell whatever perfume you decided to wear. A hint of citrus undercut by deeper musk which makes his jaw clench.

Forcing himself to keep going, Jungkook crosses to his chair and sits as the waiter returns. “Thank you,” Jungkook says, accepting a fresh glass of water.

Nodding, their waiter folds both hands over the front of their uniform. “Can I bring you any drinks before dinner?”

“A glass of Moët,” Jungkook says, not bothering to look.

“I’ll have the same,” you say, closing your menu.

Jungkook watches you turn to face him, head-on. The waiter disappears, leaving him alone and for the first time in his life, Jungkook is at a loss for what to say. Well, maybe not the first time, but it’s been a while.

Usually, Jungkook knows what to expect from his semi-date. His reputation tends to precede him in certain circles. A date with Jungkook means three things: 1) that he’ll pay, 2) that the night will likely end in sex, and 3) that the woman is guaranteed at least one orgasm. It’s Jungkook’s way of blowing off steam but faced with you, he finds himself unsure. With this date being set up by his aunt, it’s highly unlikely you know the rules.

Casting about for small talk typically reserved for business meetings, Jungkook lands on the weather. “So,” he says, reaching for his water. “It’s been unusually warm this month.”

Whatever you expected, it wasn’t that. Face scrunched, you look down, scanning the menu as though its contents are fascinating.

“It has,” you agree, declining to add anything of substance.

Jungkook blinks, floundering for what to say. It’d help if your dress were less distracting, he decides. The velvet is so soft, it’s impossible not to think about how it’d feel beneath his palms. A single diamond hangs around your neck, practically drawing an arrow to your delectable cleavage.

Forcing himself not to stare, Jungkook takes a sip of water. He can’t allow his most recent thoughts to show on his face – barely ten minutes have passed, and good etiquette decrees this meal lasts at least ninety.

“I hope traffic wasn’t bad getting here,” Jungkook says, wondering if you drove yourself.

From what was provided by his assistant, Jungkook knows you’ve separated from your family in all but name. Jungkook wondered when he saw this, interested in what perks – if any – you were allowed to keep. He wondered other things, too – like how you broke free and why. Whether you’ve any attachment to either parent or, like Taehyung, despise mother and father equally.

“Not bad,” you murmur, staring hard at your menu. “I came straight from work.”

Jungkook waits for something more, but it never comes. Incredulous, he sits back in his seat. He wonders if you plan on responding like this the entire evening, or if there’ll be a respite at some point. If you’re obtuse for ninety minutes, it’d be one of the longest dinners of Jungkook’s life.

Or, he realizes, awareness prickling, that could be your goal. To bore Jungkook so greatly, he loses interest and leaves before the polite amount of time. It’d be well-played if that were.

Gaze narrow, Jungkook surveys you again. From what he knows, you’re not exactly shy. Yes, you stay on the fringes of ‘good’ society but it’s by choice rather than lack of ability. For some odd reason, it bothers him that you refuse to give him the time of day. That you’ve clearly lumped Jungkook with everyone else in polite company – even if he hasn’t said or done anything to change that, whispers a voice in the back of his mind.

An irrational desire to provoke has Jungkook leaning forward. “So, Y/N,” he says as their champagne arrives. “Do you have any hobbies?”

“I enjoy reading.”

“Oh, really?” Jungkook sits back, trailing his finger over the rim of his glass. “What do you read?”

“A lot of things.” A shrug. “I’m not picky.”

“I can’t say the same,” he says blithely. “I find it often takes something… extraordinary to spark my interest.”

“How nice for you,” you say flatly, the first sign of your annoyance peering through.

Jungkook bites his lip to keep from laughing. Eyes narrowed, you watch him from across the table. Odd – part of the heat to your gaze must be ire, but it’s not alone. Curious, Jungkook’s gaze drops to your collarbone as recalls the sensation when his hand brushed your skin.

There was something there when you touched; something magnetic and strong. Despite it, you don’t seem to like Jungkook, which honestly might be part of the draw. He’s never been able to turn down a challenge and can’t remember the last time someone spoke to him honestly.

For the following minutes, Jungkook carries the conversation and watches your annoyance grow. Fingers tightening on the stem of your glass, the furrow between your brows growing deeper and deeper. Despite the tells, you conceal your true feelings well. If Jungkook weren’t as adept himself, he might even be fooled.

It isn’t the only reason Jungkook finds himself staring. The more your annoyance with him grows, the more impossible it becomes to look away. Lips bitten and heat to your gaze, he can’t not stare – Jungkook challenges any willing man with blood in his body.

“What about you?” he asks. “Any upcoming vacation plans?”

Something inside you snaps. Jungkook sees it in the way you straighten, all trace of politeness vanishing in an instant. Setting down your glass, you take a moment to arrange your napkin before looking up.

Dismissive, you sweep him from head to toe. “No,” you say, reaching for the champagne. “No vacations planned.”

Jungkook watches another moment, mesmerized before looking down. Rather than feel victorious, he feels more like the vanquished. Giving himself a firm shake, Jungkook wonders what he’s doing.

It’s been several weeks since he had sex, which must be throwing him off. Jungkook doesn’t usually go this long in a dry spell, but work has been demanding. It must be why he’s responding to you so strangely.

What Jungkook needs is to get laid. Once he leaves this restaurant, he decides to call Taehyung and head to a club. He can find someone there to whet his appetite. Someone he can sleep with and not imagine your lips, your hands, your –

“Have you both had a chance to peruse the menu?”

Jerking upright, Jungkook nearly knocks over his water a second time. Catching your glance, Jungkook puts down his menu.

“Yes, I’m ready,” you say pleasantly.

“Same here.” Jungkook turns. “I’ll have the steak au poivre. And you, Y/N?”

Handing your menu to the waiter, you add, “Coq au Vin for me. Thank you.”

“And another two glasses of Moet,” he adds, only to wince. You don’t seem like the type who appreciates someone ordering for you. “Is that alright, Y/N?”

Startled, you meet his gaze and Jungkook forces himself not to look away. Eventually, you nod and resume toying with the thin stem of your glass.

Jungkook tries not to watch, tries not to imagine your hands anywhere else on his body. “So, Y/N,” he says, dragging his thoughts from the gutter. “What line of work are you in?”

Exhaling once, you sip your champagne and try not to look bored. “Oh, you know. My parents are in the shipping industry. Lots of international work, travel –”

Jungkook frowns. “So, you work for your parents?”

Abruptly, you cease.

Surprise flickers across your face, as though you didn’t expect him to be listening, but Jungkook is understandably confused. Everything he knows about you indicates you run a charitable organization. He doesn’t understand why you’d lie; not unless his information was incorrect.

“No,” you say coolly.

Jungkook’s frown deepens. “Why would you tell me what your parents do, and not you?”

A vein pulses at your throat. Although you seem annoyed by his line of questioning, Jungkook isn’t trying to provoke you anymore. It baffles him that someone like you – someone who got out, who made something of themselves – would fall back on their parents’ accomplishments. Surely, you care more about Clean Ocean than your parents’ company.

Unless Jungkook is the problem here.

Unease settles, spreading through his veins. Jungkook is the Jeon heir, after all – set to inherit Jeon Energy, the worst polluter up and down the coast. Really, the question isn’t why you don’t like him but why you came at all.

“Honestly?” you sigh, your mask of politeness disappearing. “Because I’m on this date as a favor to my parents and have absolutely no desire to see you after tonight. The less you know about me, the better.”

Your admission leaves Jungkook slightly winded. Doing a parent a favor hits closer to home than he’d like and now, he understands your evasiveness. He gets why you’re here and why you might not want to give Jungkook the time of day.

His thoughts snag on the last sentence. Even if you left right now, Jungkook would still know you. He’s not sure why you’re acting as though you’re mysterious when in certain circles, you’re more notorious than he is.

“Oh, don’t look all hurt,” you sigh, misinterpreting the look. “I know exactly who you are, Jeon Jungkook. Playing dumb is beneath you.”

Well, that answers one question, at least. You do know who he is. Forcing a smile, Jungkook sits back in his seat.

“I’m not hurt,” he says honestly. “Although I am curious. What, exactly, have you heard about me, Y/N?”

He purposefully drops his voice on your name, and watches your features slacken. Interesting. This thing between you tautens, as alive as before.

“I’ve… heard you date around,” you exhale. “And I’m not interested in dating you.”

Jungkook stares. If you’d said you weren’t interested in going to the moon, he’d be less surprised. Jungkook doesn’t date – most people know that. And most people try to date him anyway, which makes you an anomaly.

Maybe now he is arrogant, but Jungkook isn’t used to being undesired. Unable to help it, he smiles, gaze dipping to your dress and back up when you frown.

“You’re not interested in dating me?” he asks, taking another sip of his drink. “Then, why did you agree to come out tonight?”

“Like I said, I’m here as a favor to my mother. Why are you here, anyways?” you accuse, turning his question around. “I don’t exactly fit your typical profile of dates.”

Jungkook frowns. You’re gorgeous, ambitious and have successfully undercut him at each turn tonight. If he were going to date, it’d be someone like you – not that he wants to date, and not that he has the option to do so.

“How so?” Jungkook asks.

“Well, for one,” you mutter, “I’m nearly thirty.”

Jungkook stares. “And?”

“And…” You pause, as though waiting for him to catch on. “The women you date are usually closer to twenty.”

Lips twitching, Jungkook sips his drink again. He could refute that point but right now, it satisfies to know you’re thinking about his sexual partners. Yes, Jungkook slept with women in their early twenties when he was in his early twenties but lately, anyone younger than twenty-five makes him cringe.

“Untrue,” he says. “I’m incredibly open-minded, Y/N.”

“I’m two years older than you are, Jeon.”

Odd. Usually, Jungkook hates being called by his last name. Yet another reminder of the family legacy but on your lips, it almost sounds like an endearment.

“In my experiences,” he says lowly, “women who’ve had more time to… live is never a bad thing.”

He pauses at the word live, making sure you know another word should be there. Understanding dawns on your face as, exhaling softly, you look away.

“And then there’s that,” you say, turning back. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but your dates usually end in sex.”

Jungkook is wholly unprepared for the way his body responds.

All the blood in his body rushes to his cock, tightening his trousers in an unseemly fashion. Casually, Jungkook adjusts himself and tries not to think about sex with you. Your indecent dress on his floor, necklace swinging as he pounds –

“And?” Jungkook rasps, his voice embarrassingly hoarse.

“And.” Your brows draw together. “I just told you I’m not interested in having sex.”

“Actually,” Jungkook says, recovering the conversation. “That’s not what you said.”

“I – what?”

Your lips part in confusion and Jungkook suppresses the urge to press his thumb to their indent. Instead, he brushes the back of your hand with his own. Gaze lowering to your skin against his, your breath quickens.

A flash goes off.

Instantly, you stiffen and Jungkook whips around. Withdrawing, he scans the room for the culprit and notes a family celebrating a birthday in the corner. Likely they’re the source but just in case, Jungkook makes a mental note to email his assistant.

Turning around, Jungkook meets your gaze. “What you said,” he continues, “was you’re not interested in dating me. And that you have no interest in seeing me after tonight. Nothing,” he pauses, gaze searching, “about not wanting to have sex.”

At this, your eyes widen. Jungkook waits for you to respond, to say that’s not what you meant but you do neither of these things.

“Are you saying you’re not interested in having sex with me?” he presses, quiet.

Gaze wide, your lips part to respond when the waiter appears. Sinking into his seat, Jungkook curses the timing and sips his champagne.

“Objectively, yes,” you say once the waiter leaves the Moët. “I’m attracted to you. I’m sure the sex would be great – or at least, it’d be adequate. In my experience, male self-confidence is rarely correlated with an orgasm. But I’d sooner drink battery acid than date anyone my mother set me up with.”

This last line is so deadpan, Jungkook nearly spits his drink. “Okay, wow,” he chokes, setting down his glass. “First off, there’s that word ‘date’ again. Second – only adequate?” Jungkook mock frowns. “On behalf of hot men everywhere, I take that personally.”

You don’t pretend to hide your eye roll. “Are you serious?”

“Occasionally.” Jungkook grins. “Usually on accident.”

“You didn’t answer my question, though,” you say as though he hasn’t spoken. “Why did you come here tonight?”

Drumming his fingers on top of the table, Jungkook considers. Usually, he’d respond with some lame answer like, I heard how beautiful you were and had to see for myself, or, how could I be anywhere else tonight? If he said those things to you though, Jungkook gets the feeling you’d dump the champagne in his lap.

Besides, Jungkook doesn’t really want to use lines with you. He’s full of the strange urge to be honest– which is why it infuriates him that you’re pretending to be no one. You’re someone. You’re Y/N Y/L/N, for crying out loud.

A woman who’s gotten deeper under Jungkook’s skin in an hour than anyone has in years.

“Do you seriously think I don’t know who you are, Y/N?” he asks, his voice low. “Your parents own the largest shipping corporation in the world. You’ve been estranged for years, and have a younger brother named Jason. Currently, you run a philanthropic organization. Thing is, though,” he says, the words pouring out. “Where’d you get the money to start it?”

Your eyes narrow, and Jungkook realizes he may have pushed too far. “My organization came from my trust fund,” you say stiffly. “Having built it from scratch, I know exactly how it began. What have you ever done that didn’t include your family name, Jeon?”

This time when you say the name Jeon, it sounds like an insult.

A lone muscle ticks in his jaw, wanting badly to contradict but unable to do so. Not without trusting you and frankly, trust in his world isn’t easy to come by. Everything he and Namjoon have worked for relies on the element of surprise. If his father suspects for a second what Jungkook has planned, he’ll never let him become CEO.

“I know what my reputation is, Y/N,” Jungkook says quietly. “And I know you think you know what my reputation is. But did you ever stop to think maybe not everyone is as forthcoming as you are?”

You pause. “What?”

“Nothing.” He roughly exhales. “So. Back to sex.”

You blink, thrown by the sudden change. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

“Which was?”

“Don’t make me ask again,” you say sternly.

A shiver runs down Jungkook’s spine. Somewhat surprised by his reaction, Jungkook shifts in his seat. Usually, he prefers to be in charge but now, he’s consumed by the visual of you saying the same thing in bed and can’t stop the surge of pleasure it brings.

“If I tell you the truth,” Jungkook says, picking up his glass to swirl. “Will you answer a question of mine in return?”

You hesitate, then nod. “Fine. I’ll answer a question.”

In a moment of utter insanity, Jungkook decides to tell you the truth. “I agreed to come on this date because my aunt asked me to. After my mom died, she’s the only person in my family I’m close to. I planned on waiting the obligatory ninety minutes, then leaving before dessert.” Unable to stop himself, Jungkook’s gaze dips. “Until you walked in, that is. That’s a damn good dress if you didn’t already know.”

Slowly, you blink and Jungkook wonders what’s possibly going through your head.

“Ninety minutes,” you murmur, looking up. “I knew there was a rule.”

Jungkook presses his lips together to keep him from laughing. “Now, it’s your turn,” he says.

You lift a brow and so, Jungkook leans in. From a young age, people have said his gaze is intimidating. Most aren’t comfortable with direct eye contact for prolonged periods of time and so, Jungkook uses this often to his advantage.

Most aren’t you though, meeting his gaze with barely a blink.

“My question,” Jungkook murmurs. “Is – are you really not interested in me?”

The question slips out before he can stop it. Were Jungkook smarter, he might’ve said something strategic to gain the upper hand. Apparently, he’s not smart. Apparently, Jungkook deems your thoughts more important than winning.

Some of your sharpness diminishes. “Really?”

“What?”

“Any question.” The corner of your lip twitches. “You could’ve asked me for my credit card number, but instead you’re asking me about sex.”

Time with you is more valuable. The thought occurs to Jungkook before he can stop it but luckily, he keeps his mouth shut this time.

“Just answer me,” he says.

You don’t answer for a few moments and during that time, Jungkook’s thoughts wander. He’s on the verge of retracting the question when you exhale.

“Truthfully?”

Jungkook nods, holding his breath.

Uncertain, you reach across and lightly brush his suit with the edge of your finger. Jungkook goes still, every nerve ending focused on your touch. When he finally looks up, he finds you staring, and something foreign stirs in his chest.

“I’m not interested in dating,” you repeat and now, Jungkook wonders if you say this as much for yourself as for him. “I left my parents’ world as soon as I could and have no intention of returning.”

Oddly, an unseen weight lifts from his shoulders. In his darkest thoughts, Jungkook wondered if maybe your hesitance was due to him but no. This has more to do with what Jungkook stands for – the world he hasn’t left – which he can understand.

“But?” he presses, sensing there’s more.

“But,” you murmur, gaze dropping to his lips. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interested in… other things.”

Jungkook stares blatantly back. “Like what.”

“That wasn’t part of your question.”

“Indulge me,” he breathes, consumed by his desire.

Slowly, you pull back and settle into your seat. Jungkook mourns the light touch of your hand. “Show me a photo of you and your aunt,” you declare.

Slowly, he blinks. “This is a weird kind of foreplay, Y/N.”

“Just do it,” you sigh, and there’s that tone again.

Removing his phone from his pocket, Jungkook opens his photos. It doesn’t take long to find one that works – Jungkook isn’t exactly a memory saver. Turning his screen around, he watches you study the picture and nod.

“Alright,” you declare.

Pocketing the device, Jungkook lifts a brow. “Going to tell me what that was about?”

“I haven’t decided.”

You seem settled though, as though a decision’s been reached. Before Jungkook can ask what it is, the waiter returns. A meal – which any other night would look delicious – is placed before him, and Jungkook realizes the only appetite he has is for you.

Loudly, a gurgle cuts through the silence.

Jungkook’s gaze snaps to yours. “When did you last eat?”

Scoffing, you pick up your fork. “Please. Let’s not do that, Jeon.”

Cutting into his steak, he cocks his head. “Do what?”

“This weird, overprotective boyfriend thing. That thing where you monitor my meals and scold me for not eating enough. I know my own body, thanks.”

You say this at the precise moment Jungkook swallows and as a result, he nearly chokes again. Swallowing, his eyes water and Jungkook pounds his chest.

“Wow,” he coughs. “I don’t think anyone has ever accused me of being too boyfriend before. This must be a first.”

The opposite would be truer. Jungkook has had several unsettling encounters where women wanted more and refused to take no as an answer. Jungkook has been called many things before – loner, asshole, cold-hearted – but never boyfriend.

“Oh, please,” you say, your lips twitching. “You might not have been a boyfriend before, but you have the whole ‘boyfriend thing’ down.”

Jungkook is baffled. “What do you mean by ‘boyfriend thing?’”

“It’s all of this,” you say, gesturing up and down his chest. “The suit, the tie, the perfectly mussed hair. The way you order champagne and wait ninety minutes before ditching your date. You like to give the appearance of a boyfriend without actually having to be one.”

Jungkook stares at you, his world suddenly fuzzy. His tie feels too tight, awareness crawling over his skin as you see right through him.

“Because your whole world is about appearances,” you continue, completely unaware you’re speaking his mind. “It doesn’t matter if you actually date someone, so long as people think that you are. It doesn’t matter what you do, so long as no one complains. I don’t actually think you’re capable of giving a single person your undivided attention.”

Irony of ironies, since Jungkook currently watches as though you’re the only one in the world. “You have my undivided attention right now.”

“For now,” you admit, picking up your fork. “Anyways, back to your original question – what I’m interested in from you.”

“I’m listening,” Jungkook murmurs – the understatement of the year.

He’s hanging on each word from your lips, waiting for the moment the tables turn. That moment when you prove his suspicions right; when you change your tune and become the rest. When you ask Jungkook for a favor, an introduction – something to make this more than what it is.

The longer he sits here though, the more Jungkook thinks you have no ulterior motive. Which would also be a first.

“I believe we’re in a unique situation,” you say at last.

“We are?”

Smiling, you nod. “You’re only interested in sex from your dates, and I’m not interested in anything but sex from you.”

Jungkook’s lips twitch, taken aback by such a direct assessment. “Why do you assume I only want sex from my dates?”

Never mind that you’re correct – Jungkook wants to hear why you think that. A nagging voice in the back of his mind whispers otherwise and Jungkook shuts down the voice immediately. He can’t possibly be so juvenile as to desire the first woman who tells him no.

“Am I wrong?”

“Well, no.” Jungkook smiles. “It’s just you don’t seem to have a very high opinion of me.”

His response seems to confuse you. “Now who’s the one twisting words? I said you don’t want to date people, not that I think you’re a bad person. I just think… we’re very different people who want very different things.”

The way you say this makes his stomach sink. Jungkook wishes it were months from now, when everything was in the open and he could tell you that yes, you’re more alike than you realize. As it is though, you’re correct and the fact rankles.

“You keep saying that,” he murmurs, leaning in. “And I just don’t believe you. We were both born into the same lifestyle, we’re both currently wearing designer clothes. The only difference is that I’m honest about what I am and you’re not.”

The moment the words leave his lips, Jungkook regrets them. After all, he’s the bigger hypocrite seated around the table – wanting you to see him for who he is but in reality, too scared to offer any piece of himself.

“Honest?” you blurt. “The only honest thing you’ve said to me tonight is you have an aunt that you love.”

“Don’t forget the part about me being good in bed,” Jungkook says, retreating to safer ground. “That was also true.”

“So,” you exhale, shaking your head. “What I’m saying is I have no interest in being your girlfriend. And you have no interest in being my boyfriend. Judging by the way you keep staring at my tits though, I’d say you’re attracted to me. Is that true?”

“Yes,” Jungkook says without hesitation.

“Good.” Sitting back, you lift your glass. “Which is why I think we should have sex.”

Jungkook goes still. Another lesson learned from his father – in moments of turmoil, never let your opponent know how badly you want something. And he wants you very badly.

After a moment, Jungkook cuts into his steak and takes a bite. “You’d have sex with someone you don’t even like?” he asks once he swallows.

Jungkook watches you curiously, unable to wrap his mind around this. There’s clearly something between you, but Jungkook can’t decide whether it’s good or bad. You get under his skin so easily, provoking parts of himself Jungkook thought were long buried.

You shrug. “Why not?”

Hardly a glowing recommendation, but you seem to be sincere. Jungkook watches you another moment, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Things can’t possibly be as simple as they seem.

Your organization despises Jeon Energy, and for good reason. Maybe you’re here to get close to Jungkook and use it as blackmail. Although Jungkook fails to see how sex with him would achieve that. His reputation is known and you’re gorgeous. If anything, the fallout might be worse for you.

Mistaking his silence as reticence, you slowly exhale. “Look,” you say, setting down your fork. “It’s been a long time, okay? Work has been hell, so I’ve had no time to date. My last relationship ended over a year ago and that asshole couldn’t tell a clit from a urethra. You have a reputation for being good in bed and – at the very least – you’re not bad to look at.”

Several thoughts follow this rather stunning rant. First, indignation on your behalf for the asshole who failed Health Education. Second, an odd mixture of relief and disappointment when you say this is about sex. And third, a surge of satisfaction when you admit you find him attractive.

“So, you want an orgasm,” Jungkook says bluntly.

“Amongst other things.”

Sitting back, Jungkook runs his tongue over the backs of his teeth. You follow the motion with your eyes, and Jungkook realizes you’re nearly as turned on as he is.

This is good, he decides. This is safe. Sex is familiar ground for Jungkook. He’s certain he can give you an orgasm – not so certain about anything else. Some of the tension in his chest drains, replaced by sudden confidence.

“What other things?” he murmurs.

“I…” You take a deep breath. “Most guys are too gentle. If we’re only going to do this once, I want it to be good.”

Images flood his mind, and Jungkook feels his balls tighten. “You want it rough, princess? I can do that. Anything else?”

Your features scrunch before you blurt, “No oral.”

He hesitates. “For you or for me? No judgment either way, I just want to know.”

“For me,” you say. “I don’t… like it.”

Jungkook considers. Granted, many people have issues with sensory input, but this doesn’t seem to be the case here.

“You don’t like being eaten out?” he asks, curious.

“It always… sounds nice,” you allow, glancing away. “But then, I just kind of lie there while the guy moves around.”

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “Sounds as though those men were the problem, not you. But alright, no oral – for now,” Jungkook amends.

You give him a look. “There’s only going to be a now, Jungkook.”

“Right. Better make tonight count, then.”

Reaching for your glass of Moët, you finish this in one sip. Jungkook watches your tongue dart to catch the last drop of liquid and suddenly, can’t wait to get out of this restaurant.

“You’re… not what I expected, Y/N,” he murmurs.

You go still, glancing his way and Jungkook recognizes that look. It’s the look of someone waiting for a punchline and in response, his heart cinches.

“How so?” you say carefully.

Jungkook leans towards you. “Tonight has got to be a first for me.”

“Being propositioned for sex at the dinner table?”

“No.” He can’t help but grin. “That happens surprisingly often. No – I’ve never been propositioned by someone who didn’t like me. Someone I’m not even sure I like back. Just one night, no strings attached. It’s… interesting.”

Your lips settle in a pout. “You’re making this sound completely ridiculous.”

“Oh, it is,” he assures you. “But I’m into it. Okay, should we go?” Standing from the table, Jungkook drains his glass of Moët. Holding out a hand, he waits for you to take it.

You stare at his palm, then return to your food. “I haven’t finished my meal.”

“Okay.” Suppressing a smile, Jungkook takes a seat. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to care about what you ate, though?” he teases. “You’ve got to make up your mind. Should I care about your wellbeing, or should I act like a dick?”

Scowling, you push yourself to stand. “Let’s go,” you say, grabbing your purse.

You stride towards the entrance, hips swaying and Jungkook slowly drags his hand down his face. Once he’s gathered himself, he catches up to you and places a hand on your lower back.

“Teasing?” he murmurs, bending so his lips brush your ear.

You shiver, leaning into him. “That’s the general idea, Jeon.”

Your lips quirk, and Jungkook doesn’t hate his name quite as much anymore. Not when you say it like that, with a hint of sweetness.

Several heads turn when you leave, and Jungkook feels your feet falter, then stop as you notice. Panic etches across your face as you turn.

“Is there another way out,” you say lowly.

Jungkook nods, grabbing your hand to pull you along. The kitchen is closest and, pushing through the metal doors, Jungkook ducks a tray and apologizes. Yoongi scowls at this, melting fast to surprise when he notices your presence.

Jungkook tugs you onward. “Hey, Yoongi,” he calls.

You peer curiously over your shoulder. “You know the head chef?” you ask as you exit, the door shutting behind you.

“Yeah,” Jungkook says, coming to a stop outside. “That’s Yoongi, we went to college together. Here we go,” he says as headlights swing into the alley. “For an easy, low-profile exit.”

Rolling your eyes, you enter the backseat and Jungkook shuts the door. Crossing to the other side, he pauses at the trunk to text his assistant. He saw how you looked when you thought someone photographed you and again when you exited.

A pang of understanding goes through him at this. Jungkook knows how difficult it is growing up in the spotlight. While you may have left your family’s business, this invites its own type of scrutiny. Jungkook might be known as an incorrigible playboy, but you’ve been called far worse by his father’s friends.

Jungkook remembers when it happened. Having no skin in the game, he didn’t reach out – not that he could have at the time. Jungkook was brand-new to his father’s deal and not in any position to play knight in shining armor.

Not that he’s in a different position now. Paused with his hand on the door, Jungkook wonders at himself. He’s never considered himself the hero before. It begs the question why – why now and why you?

Jungkook glances down, full of the oddest sensation that if he leaves with you, he won’t be able to go back.

Strangely, the thought isn’t as dismal as he thought it would be. And so, Jungkook enters the backseat and doesn’t look back.

[Series Master List]

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