#notebook aspire 3

[zehlinks]

Notebook Acer Aspire 3 Ryzen 5 A315-23-R0LD

[nerdybouquetpeanutworld]

Review Completo do Notebook Acer Aspire 3 Ryzen 5 A315-23-R0LD

https://tecparatodos.com/acer-aspire-3-a315-23-r0ld/

[taegularities]

entertainer | jjk (m)

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

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

➳ listen to the Entertainer playlist! 🖤   

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs 

Jungkook has always wanted an audience to perceive him.

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

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

What’s wrong with that? Nothing.

Or. 

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

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

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

But no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not Taehyung. Even if it’s his job.

Okay. Calm down. Jungkook sighs. That again.

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

Chill chill chill.

But now?

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

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

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

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

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

That’s sweet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah. Yes — about that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is so excitingly new.

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

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

Ugh.

Dependent degree.

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

Jungkook contains the fantasy; suppresses his sigh.

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

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

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

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

“How did you mean it then?”

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

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

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

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

“Mmmh, well, we’ll see.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I see. Okay! Then I’ll leave yo—”

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

“Of course. It’d be my pleasure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not mine. But we’ll work on that.”

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

Why? 

Weird.

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

“Ah… Like…”

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

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

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

Focus.

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

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

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

He wouldn’t hate it if you did.

“Do you know that one?” he questions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I mean— took a while to get here.”

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

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

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

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

He prods, “To do what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you come here a lot?”

Everywhere he goes, the lights are bright.

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

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

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

Dark and light — a healthy mix.

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

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

Today, he doesn’t mind the brilliance.

Because you’re part of it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But maybe your guard can be broken, too.

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

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

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

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

Or even… scared?

You can’t truly be.

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

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

“So… I’m not pretty?”

Oh. Oh?

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

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

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

Why is there something so devilish about you?

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

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

Barely ever.

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

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

“…The art won’t be mad if you do.”

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

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

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

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

Like now.

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

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

Right. Right; of course he’s right.

But… what is that?

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

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

“Sure.”

“Behave, though.”

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

“Right.”

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

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

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

Which doesn’t help his case.

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

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

“Fuckbo—”

“Nevermind.”

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

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

Yet.

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

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

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

“Well, shit.”

“Don’t overthink it. Enjoy the art.”

“Sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And it’s not, yeah?”

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

Interesting…

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

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

“Ohhh. Like what?”

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

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

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

Earn it? How? 

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

And then…

If that’s what it is.

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

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

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

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

Poetic minds carry a certain pain in their eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He inquires, “Are you always this open?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” you make, “don’t you want one?”

“I do.”

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

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

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

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

He sighs.

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

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

And he watches.

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

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

And then… God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wishes he could.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re just a person.

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

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

Wants to be the colour green for you. 

“Ah—” you voice.

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

“…How come?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another sip of the seething liquid.

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

Are his advances kindergarten to you?

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

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

“And you separated from him because…”

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

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

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

“Because I found you.”

There it is.

The slightest of reactions.

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

“So you did follow me,” you say.

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

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

You smile.

Genuinely, thoroughly, wholeheartedly.

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

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

Green, green, green.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And…

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

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

You… you…

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

No, you made that mess.

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

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

“Fuuuuck.”

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

Too long, is all he knows.

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

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

And he feels just a little guilty.

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

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

But just for a bit. Just a little.

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

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

Just one touch, please.

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

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

Should he wait? You did, too.

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

Screw it.

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

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

Good.

[6:53PM] You: Your music?

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

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

Because then, the thoughts flood in.

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

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

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

All this must mean something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

Goddamn.

You’re so thoroughly you.

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

And that’s it. You disappear.

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

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

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

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

Oh shit.

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

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

How embarrassing.

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

Embarrassing. He should focus on more important things.

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

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

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

You could’ve waited inside, too. Unless…

Maybe you’re excited to see him, too.

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

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

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

All he knows is that he needs to say something.

“Hey.”

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

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

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

What are you hiding?

If he could, he’d speak it out loud.

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

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

“Yeah. Sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

If he did, you might realise.

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

And Jungkook observes you. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay. Not that tough of a topic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How would you?” he asks.

“As a rockstar?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

You blink, frozen in place.

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

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

Why don’t you want him?

Goddamn it.

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

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

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

It must be on purpose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh damn. Sorry then, boss.

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

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

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

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

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

Do you feel the same?

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

Maybe.

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

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

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

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

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

And he wants to know about yours.

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you sure?”

“Of course.”

“You zoned out.”

“Which is a good thing, I promise.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I see.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s good to have dreams.”

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

“This determined, yeah?”

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

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

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

What?

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.”

That’s it.

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

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

Maybe he doesn’t need to.

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

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

Only to crave. To look.

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The sense of failure overwhelms him. Failure. Failure.

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

Control was never his domain, after all.

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

And then, he says, “Uhm— I’m sorry.”

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

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

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

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

“Me too.”

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

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

“Jungkook… it’s honestly very good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What question?” you ask.

It’s just.

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

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

Yeah.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh?

“Why?”

“Just because — the Wembley answer was better.”

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

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

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

“For sure.”

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

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

“Oh? Kinda did not expect this.”

“No?”

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

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

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

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

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

“…Maybe you’re right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh… damn.”

“Yeah.”

“…I don’t know what to say.”

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

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

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

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

He can’t win.

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

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

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

Unbelievable, and truthfully, frustrating.

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

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

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

“How so?”

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

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

And somehow, it was never the prettier option.

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

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

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

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

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

It’s like you’re mirroring his thoughts.

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

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

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

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

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

“How would you know?”

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

“Ahhh—”

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

Your ears perk up, eyes suddenly wide.

What was that?

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

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

And all you say is, “I understand.”

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

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

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

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

Vulnerable.

And it makes him want you more.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“…I’m not sure.”

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

Yet…

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

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

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Should he? Maybe, maybe—

Not yet.

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

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

You’re burning up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No, it doesn’t.

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

“What do you want me to do?” he asks.

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Okay. What if he does… this…

Thought so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So inwardly. So desperately.

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

And then…

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

Okay.

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

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

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

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

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

No… this is ruining him just as much.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he pauses.

Oh, this treasure…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course I am.”

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

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

“I…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hmmm, you want more?”

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

His secrets?

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

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

And you don’t hesitate. “Everything.”

…Hmm…

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

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

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

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

“What?”

“Cold. Don’t know how it got there.”

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

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

“You’re so…”

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

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

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

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

Right into his lap. Right onto his cock.

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

But…

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

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

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

Fuck, how…

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

“What are you…?”

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

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

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

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

“It was just sudden,” you conclude.

“Is that bad?”

“Not at all. I’m just curious.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh my God.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He’s doing this to the both of you.

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

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

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

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

No. He knows he is. But…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He wants to, too.

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

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

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

Maybe he should slow down. Just a bit.

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

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

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

“Spit on it,” he orders.

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

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

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

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

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

The view is… worth diamonds.

Do you even know?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And…

“Holy fuck.”

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

Okay… okay…

Wait. You’re saying something.

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

“I’m already so spent.”

“Ah… do you want to stop?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So maybe this is good enough for now.

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

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

Shit. Expected it.

But okay. Okay.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s that?” he asks.

“Stop… stop talking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay. Then I’ll sto—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Until…

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

“I… I’m—”

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

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

“Good idea. Very good idea.”

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

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

Right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wha—”

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

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

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

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

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

It’s like putting a key into its lock.

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

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

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

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

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

And then, everything happens crazy fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally, finally he’s gotten to this point.

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

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

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

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

And then—

“Ohhh, fuck,” he whispers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay. Okay, where was he?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah? Why?”

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

Concert preparations. Organisational things. The company.

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

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

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

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

Ah… okay. Sure.

Where’s your mind right now, he wonders?

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

Concert preparations. Organisational things. The company. Tae.

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

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

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

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

Wait.

THE FIC ISN'T OVER YET!! PLS READ 👇🏼

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

[vitaminseetarot]

PAC: What Hobby Should You Begin Next? 🎨🛶📯

Sup y'all, it's time for a new pick a card reading (this one's especially for you night owls out there as I'm posting this at midnight lol). Ideally, I'd like to post one PAC every week after this but eh, lettuce see about that. 🥬👀

This pick a card was inspired by the remaining energies of late Taurus season. The grass is bright, the air is warm, the flowers are blooming, and it's brought out the artist in me. While I've been finishing a leisure painting, I stopped to draw out some cards to help out anyone who's in the mood to do something fun in their spare time but could use some direction or guidance.

Pick any one of the four Prism Oracle cards below, or its corresponding crystal/emoji, to see what hobby you could explore next, or if there is a hobby you enjoy that is calling for your attention:

Pile 1 - Consciousness + Moonstone 🌙 Pile 2 - Happiness + Carnelian 😊 Pile 3 - Creativity + Amethyst 🎉 Pile 4 - Determination + Citrine 🧭

Pile 1 - Consciousness + Moonstone 🌙

77 Beginnings, Sound+Resonance+Frequency, The Musician, Capricorn Rising - Aspire; Page of Swords, Page of Wands, 9 of Cups, Knight of Swords, XI Justice

Wow, pile 1, I think you have the most obvious answer of all four piles. You're very drawn to pursuing something musical. It could be in a variety of ways. You might try singing, writing a song, playing an instrument, learning to dance, or perform in musical theater (the purple curtain in the Justice card definitely brings theater to mind). You could enjoy collecting vinyl records, or producing music through special programs and apps. You may desire to publish your music online, or dream of going big on stage and signing major contracts with labels. Two Pages tells me you're most likely into more than one thing, as plenty of musical artists can multitask.

Your pile was the only one to get two Prism cards at first as Anxiety initially wanted to pop out. It's also clear that with two Pages and the Beginnings card, you're very new at this hobby. There's an over awareness of this fact, that on some level you may not know where to even start. There's some doubt I sense that you feel you can't be at the level you wish to stand on. Capricorn energy wants to reach for the very top of the ladder in accomplishment; it is a steady energy although not intent on settling. I get that there are many people here who greatly look up to an artist and wish to have their same talents. Try to look past the smoke and mirrors of all the top 40's singers and know that music is way more accessible than it's made to look.

Try embracing the newness of this pursuit, pile 1. It's okay to be a little lost, or feel that there's a long way to go. The only way to go pro is to start small and grow. There are a lot of free resources online for learning music (try out musictheory.net for free lessons) and free vocal technique lessons on Youtube. Some people are very lucky to have the chance to start learning at a young age, but if we were to set a rule stating that only those who did so could play, that would leave a lot of creative geniuses and successful musicians out of the frame. If you're learning to play the keyboard, practice one song or even one note at a time (doesn't have to be Chopsticks, lol). Consistency is key.

When the inspiration and joy to explore music finally strikes you, take the time to really dive in and make something small. If you're trying to write a song, start with a jingle. If it's music theory you want to go over, start with just 1 lesson and see how it feels. If you're learning to dance, begin with warm ups and slow music before working on the more intense songs. Are you looking for writing inspiration? Keep plenty of notes on hand and learn how to identify music so you can easily write a melody down (there are empty music notebooks for this). If this is something you would like to do in the long term, then continue to practice with that perspective by not overdoing it to compensate for "lost time". You are exactly where you need to be on your creative journey.

Pile 2 - Happiness + Carnelian 😊

66 The Selves, You Belong Here, The Wise One, Cancer Moon - Intuit; X Wheel of Fortune, Sagittarius ♐, VI The Lovers, 9 of Pentacles, XVI The Tower

What's going on, pile 2? With the Selves card above Sagittarius, I'm getting that a lot of you may be interested in pursuing theater or comedy, whether that's stand up or it's simply channeled through the projects you create. Your next hobby may involve incorporating a lot of humor into what you do. This pile is the most multifaceted of the four, with many differing hobbies, so I'm going to list a variety of different talents, but what binds them all together is the need to express one's own (very) strong opinions for the world to see.

You may want to be a photographer who documents unusual things, or write something that makes a powerful statement. There's a need here to let go of any of the anxieties that come with expressing your authentic self, because while those feelings are natural, listening to them too much will dampen your creative drive. This is the group that wants to make very surreal graffiti art or provocative dance routines. With the Tower card, here, I feel there's a need for the shock and awe to get your inspiration buzzing. On the gentler side, I can see some of you getting into something nature based like flower printing and permaculture but the caveat is that it's a reflection of your genuine self and beliefs in some way. With Wheel of Fortune, some of you may feel an urge to learn about tarot or pendulum reading, as these things are typically categorized as "unusual".

You may also get into traveling to stay involved in your hobby, or it requires roving about in some way. To break down creative blocks, it might help to actually move yourself to a different location. It doesn't necessarily involve moving to a whole new place, it could just refer to another part of your home or you may benefit from walking or dancing to decompress. I feel that moving your body will stimulate your creative ideas to flow through. A small number of you may have considered trying out extreme sports like free climbing or parkour. I don't really need to mention that these can be incredibly dangerous, so some of you may like something similar like skateboarding or gymnastics as well. It doesn't have to be intense, just active.

With the Lovers, there also exists a social aspect to your hobby. You may be drawn to share you hobby with a friend or with partners. It will greatly help you to be in an environment that supports your avant-garde tastes and not settle for less. It's not always easy to put shocking art with profound messages out there for the world to make sense of it, though some make it seem that way. It's easy to pretend that negative feedback doesn't get to you, but only accept constructive criticism as that will feed you more than shocked reactions. You cannot afford to have others in your life discourage you, as your skill sets require a lot of space for growth. Nourish relationships that want to celebrate your talents with you. Find a community that loves what you love, and wants to see you happy with what you do. Embrace the wild side of your artistic abilities.

Pile 3 - Creativity + Amethyst 🎉

54 Security, the Messenger, The Aspirant, Aries Sun - Assert; 2 of Pentacles, Knight of Wands, 0 The Fool, Aquarius ♒, Virgo ♍

Hello, pile 3. With the 2 of Pentacles, many of you may want to explore a hobby that is both online and offline, or the internet and social media are major components. If you like making artwork, you could be into digital art or simply want to upload images of your offline work for others to see. With Virgo, some of you may have a lot to say, by starting a blog or online journal documenting your life or interests, or you could try out freelance editing. If you were a youtuber, you could be really good at creating epically long videos about niche topics, or short videos explaining how to do a certain task (like tiktoks that showcase a person's routines and what cleaning products they recommend).

I see that this is the pile of innovation, as the Creativity card shows a lightbulb. You could have various ideas pop up in your head, only to feel unsure of how to approach them. Your attention span could split into a variety of different mediums for getting the idea out. Aquarius wants to take its genius energy and spread it around the world. For a lot of you, social media will support your ideas by broadcasting them. Your hobby may directly involve interfacing with others; your creative spark is not for hiding away. Web design, for example, is a hobby but it involves creating something that others will directly interact with. Your work is meant for a wide audience, should you choose to put yourself out there.

This may not always be easy for you, since there could be a pull towards more stable and predictable activities. There's a nervousness here, kind of like imposter syndrome. You may get a really cool idea for a mobile game app before you or someone else goes "but that's an unrealistic goal to spend so much time and effort on", followed by, "how could I ever make something like that?" The thing is, you can be the most talented, skilled, and experienced person when it comes to a subject, yet still have these same worries. Imposter syndrome doesn't magically go away with a college degree, a new job, or 10,000 subscribers. It's completely normal, but make sure to not let your doubts tempt you into doing something more boring and unfulfilling. This is the pile most likely to try a totally new hobby that is unrelated to your other skills, it doesn't have to be realistic.

But also understand that it can take time for something to get really good. Your first fiction draft is gonna turn out clunky, or your app could be filled with bugs, but it's part of the process. There's no perfect time; when you get the urge to try, just try it! Reach out to a local community or chat group so you can get a realistic sense of how long it takes for projects and skills develop. Slam poetry may be a great outlet, so if you'd like to do that, attend an open mic and see how others do it. You are allowed to be imperfect with your hobby--if you wish to evolve your craft, remember the passion and curiosity that brought you to it.

Pile 4 - Determination + Citrine 🧭

57 Spiritual Guide, What Goes Around Comes Around, The Astronomer, Taurus Rising - Enjoy; 9 of Pentacles, Cancer ♋, Queen of Swords, Knight of Wands, Knight of Swords

How's it going, pile 4? So this is the most active and possibly athletic pile we have here. Staying in the house is not gonna work because something is itching you to get out underneath the stars. Could some of you be majoring or planning in major in STEM? I'm getting a lot of natural science here. With the Astronomer card, you could want to use your telescope to go stargazing or visit planetariums. Are you still feeling the buzz from all the aurora storm and eclipse hype? It would not surprise me if these events awoke an interest for you and now you're looking up when the next meteor shower will show up or when Saturn will be most visible in the sky.

Your next hobby needs or is the outdoors on some level. But Cancer energy is that of a homebody. The most laidback people in this group may enjoy relaxing hobbies like birdwatching or gardening. These hobbies could be spiritually fulfilling for you. I'm seeing someone wearing an apron outside, so could some of you be interested in grilling or being the host to a fun party in the backyard. Do people even have book club meetings in gardens? A lot of enjoying nature is simply finding a good spot and soaking in the scenery with no other goal in mind. Just being near trees and beach sides might be enough.

But I see a lot of you mainly wish to have an adventure and go far out in nature when the weather's just right. You could be thinking about hiking or backpacking out on trails. It all depends on your comfort level as we all have different tolerance levels. I don't know if geocaching and pokemon go are still popular, but they can be unique ways to engage with the outdoors. You could try guided nature tours presented by nature conservationists like the National Audubon, where you can identify and take photos of animals as you wander through the woods and plains. You may like a hobby that is seasonally specific, like swimming in warm waters or skiing down a snowy mountain.

Your hobby may have you think deeply about how humans connect with nature, exploring the ecosystem and how our actions influence our environment. Climate change can be a very serious and, for some, directly impactful topic to mull over. Remind yourself that as long as you're respectful (leave no trace), mother nature enjoys your company as much as you do for her. A small few of you may have the urge to travel to weird locations. Two knights in your reading suggest boldness. If you decide to visit an abandoned or haunted place, Queen of Swords says to please be careful and follow rules if it says no trespassing, and remember that abandoned places can be dangerous from faulty wiring and unstable flooring. Overall, I feel this pile just can't do with an indoor hobby. You have the motivation and courage to explore the vast beautiful world out there. It awaits you.

This reading has not been evaluated by the FDA to diagnose, prevent, treat, or cure any disease or infection. Please ask your physician before going online.

2024, @VitaminseeTarot ™

[too-antigonish]

Endeavour and Fascism

There's a thread of history running through Endeavour that's been on my mind a lot recently. It's a somewhat unified arc that runs through 3 episodes: Coda, Colours, and Raga. I was curious to learn more and did some research.

It's probably nothing new for folks in the UK, but for most of us in the US, it's not something we learned about in school.

So here goes...long post...

S3E4: Coda

We get the first glimpse in in Coda when Thursday comforts Trewlove with the offer of a cigarette as she copes with the murder of a fellow officer:

THURSDAY: All right? TREWLOVE: They just shot him. Like it was nothing. THURSDAY: Here. For the nerves. Keep the pack. Stick 'em behind your notebook and nobody'll know. TREWLOVE: Thanks. THURSDAY: Tip my old governor gave me. Sergeant Vimes. Cable Street. “No Pasarán!” All right? Let’s have that jacket buttoned up, then. TREWLOVE: Sir.

It's such a little exchange, but it delights me in so many ways. There's the sweetness of the interaction between Thursday and Trewlove. There's the irony in hindsight of his "thoughtfulness" in helpfully encouraging her to smoke. There's the nod to Terry Pratchett's Discworld with the references to both "Sergeant Vimes" and "Cable Street." And finally there's the nod with “No Pasarán!”  to the actual Battle of Cable Street that occurred in the East End of London in 1936.

A nostalgic reference to “No Pasarán!” is actually a bit ironic coming from a former Met officer. As the unfortunate party charged with keeping the two opposing sides "peaceful," the Met faced some of the worst violence on that day. However, Fred Thursday would not have experienced it as a police officer.

We know from the episode Home that he didn't join the police until two years later, in 1938. We find out in Cartouche though, that he did grow up near Shadwell Basin—about a ten minute walk from where the main showdown in the Battle of Cable Street occurred—so there's a good chance that Thursday would have witnessed the events of that day and maybe even participated.

Here's my understanding of what happened: The British Union of Fascists—a group openly aspiring to create a British  state in the style of Hitler's Germany or Mussolini's Italy—attempted to stage a march through the middle of London's East End. Their leader was Oswald Mosley, a horrible but charismatic minor aristocrat with a Hitler-wannabe-mustache, his own cadre of paramilitary "Blackshirts," and—unbeknownst to him—a major problem in his ranks with deep infiltration by Special Branch. 

Why the East End? It was the poorest area of the city and thus home to the most recent immigrants—in particular, the UK's largest Jewish population—many of whom had escaped rising persecution elsewhere in Europe. At the same time, the East End was also home to the Londoners hit hardest by the rising unemployment of the 1930s.

Mosley's rhetoric had finally become openly and unapologetically anti-Semitic in 1935 and the idea that Jewish immigrants were the ones responsible for stealing jobs from the "native" British was a simplistic explanation offered by the BUF that unfortunately resonated with many East Enders. So ultimately, the East End was home to both the main target and the BUF and some of its biggest supporters.

In October of 1936, Mosley planned for his Blackshirts and their supporters to march through the heart of the East End. Determined to both defend themselves from threats of violence and stop the march from passing through their community, Jewish leaders and others mobilized, successfully recruiting thousands of their East End neighbors and others allies to assist.

© Jewish East End Celebration Society

On the day of the march, despite a massive police escort, the BUF was turned back repeatedly. The slogan of the day, borrowed from the Republican fighters in the Spanish Civil War was, "They shall not pass" or "No Pasarán!” 

Eventually, things came to a head at the junction of Cable Street and Christian Street. Multiple barricades were erected and the BUF marchers were pelted with rotted vegetables and the contents of chamber pots. It became a pitched battle at one point. Unable to break through the East End, Mosley was finally forced to relocate his followers to Hyde Park.

© Copyright Jim Osley Detail from a mural painted on the side of the former St George's vestry hall

S5E4: Colours

The Battle of Cable Street was a humiliation for the fascists and for Mosley, a victory for the Jewish community and their allies. Sadly, the happiness was very short-lived. Mosley was able to frame Cable Street in the press as an attack by the left on his right to free speech.

There was an immediate increase in support for the BUF in the greater London area, particularly in the East End, and an increase of violence against Jewish people in the UK.  Oswald Mosley himself travelled  to Germany only two days after Cable Street. There he married socialite Diana Mitford in a secret ceremony at the home of Joseph Goebbels with Hitler attending as the guest of honor. 

Mosley and Mitford CC-BY-2.0

However, the increase in support that occurred right after Cable Street was brief in itself. As the threat of Nazi Germany became more apparent in the UK, the popularity of the BUF declined. Once the war began, the Mosleys were interned under a provision that applied to active Nazi sympathizers.

Post-war, Mosley attempted to once more find a place in politics but fortunately never moved beyond the fringe. He and his wife became prime movers in advancing various Holocaust denial theories and later espoused rather unpleasant opinions on topics such as the forced repatriation of immigrants and mixed-race marriages.

If this all sounds familiar, it's because it all crops up in the storyline of Colours where the character of Charity Mudford, Lady Bayswater is a stand-in for Diana Mitford.  RL's dialogue very much captures the sheer banality of the real Diana Mitford's  evil:

BAYSWATER: I can't change the past. If Winston hadn't been so eager for office, all the unpleasantness might have been avoided. My husband had Hitler's ear. We could have persuaded him. Softened his resolve. He wasn't immune to reason.  THURSDAY: Charming conversationalist, no doubt. BAYSWATER: Actually, he was a very good mimic. Terribly witty. MORSE: Sir, is it time for that telephone call? To the station? I can take it from here. THURSDAY: The unpleasantness, as you call it, cost me six years of my life, and untold millions a great deal more.

S7E2: Raga

But we're not quite done yet. The BUF had a successor. The National Front was founded by a former member of the BUF who then joined forces with John Tyndall, the leader of the Greater Britain movement which had a big anti-immigration focus.

As with Jewish immigration a generation earlier, heavy South Asian migration to Britain in the 1970s made it an easy target for those seeking to pin all of the nation's economic and social problems on "outsiders."

The National Front eventually came out with an agenda that called for the revocation of citizenship for all non-whites in Britain and forcible repatriation to their "native" countries. NF rallies were frequently accompanied by violence whipped up by the kind of rhetoric we hear in Raga where the character of Gorman serves as a stand-in for Tyndall and his ilk:

THURSDAY: Well, we're very concerned about young Pakistani lads getting knifed on the street. GORMAN: Terrible. But I can't say that I'm surprised. You cram all of these incompatible cultures together on one small island, of course it's gonna lead to blood. And worse. MORSE: Sounds like a threat, Mr. Gorman. GORMAN: It's just an observation. If the police can't keep the streets safe and defend the indigenous population against outsiders, well, no wonder people take it into their own hands. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a seat to win.

If anyone sees anything that I've gotten wrong here, please let me know. This was my first time reading through any source material on this whole topic and it's complicated (and depressing as hell).

I haven't got any pithy, final point to make except to say that there are certain ideas that seem to cycle back with horrible regularity every time certain conditions are in place. They're wrong. They're simplistic. They're hateful. And they need to be stopped every time.

[frnxhsc]

How to Steal the Heart of Mr. Dimples?

ᴛʀᴏᴘᴇ: ʜɪʀᴏᴛᴀ ʀɪᴋɪ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ (ɴᴏɴ-ɪᴅᴏʟ ᴀᴜ)

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: (ᴡᴄ:1204) ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ, ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴄᴇ, ʙᴀʀɪꜱᴛᴀ x ᴄᴜꜱᴛᴏᴍᴇʀ

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ɴ/ᴀ

ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀ’ꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ: ʜᴏᴘᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴍʏ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ &ᴛᴇᴀᴍ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ, ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ꜰᴇᴇʟ ꜰʀᴇᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏʀʀᴇᴄᴛ ᴀɴʏ ɢʀᴀᴍᴍᴀᴛɪᴄᴀʟ ᴍɪꜱᴛᴀᴋᴇ! ʀᴇQᴜᴇꜱᴛꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴏᴘᴇɴ <3

You had always enjoyed the hum of the morning café rush. As the head barista at Bean & Brew, you thrived on the rhythm of coffee orders and the familiar faces that frequented the café. Your days were filled with the comforting routine of brewing coffee and exchanging smiles with regulars.

One chilly morning, a new face appeared at the counter. He was tall with an effortless, disarming charm that was accentuated by his deep, endearing dimples. His eyes glanced at the gold name tag on your brown apron before he glanced back to your face.

“Good morning!” You greeted as you wiped down the counter. “What can I get started for you?” 

“Morning!” The customer replied, his smile widening to reveal those irresistible dimples. “I’ll have a caramel macchiato, please. And could you make it extra caramel? It’s one of those days.”

You chuckled, noting how his smile seemed to brighten up the entire café. “Extra caramel coming right up! May I just get your name?”

“It’s Maki,” He replied, his dimpled smile still on his face as he placed the payment on the counter, sliding it to you. 

You nodded, writing his name on the paper cup before turning back to prepare the things to make his drink. 

– As you worked on his macchiato, you couldn’t help but glance over at him. He was casually flipping through a notebook, his dimples appearing every time he looked up or smiled. When you handed him his coffee, your fingers brushed lightly, sending a small jolt of electricity through you. 

“Thanks,” Maki said, his dimples deepening with his grin. “You’re welcome. Enjoy your drink”

Over the next few weeks, Maki became a familiar face at Bean & Brew. Every morning, he would come in, order his caramel macchiato, and settle into his favorite corner table with a notebook or a book. You looked forward to his visits, enjoying your brief conversations and the way his dimples seemed to make your day better.

One morning, as you prepared his usual order, you decided to experiment a bit. You added an extra swirl of caramel, and, for a touch of whimsy, drew a small heart on the foam. When you handed him the coffee, Maki’s eyes lit up with delight.

“Hm? Is this your special touch?” he said with a playful tone, his dimples deepening with genuine appreciation. You smiled, feeling a bit shy. “Just a little something to brighten your day.”

Maki took a sip, his expression becoming even more animated. “How cute.” He said amusingly as he stared at the drawing before he went back to writing in his notebook.

From that day on, you made it a habit to add a little extra creativity to Maki’s drinks. Sometimes it was a simple design on the foam, other times it was a personalized note on the cup. Maki seemed to genuinely appreciate these small gestures, often complimenting you and sharing his thoughts and stories.

As their friendship deepened, you learned more about Maki. He was an aspiring writer, working on his first novel while holding down a part-time job at a local bookstore. He had a passion for storytelling and often shared snippets of his work. You enjoyed hearing about his characters and plot twists.

One rainy afternoon, Maki came in looking particularly stressed. You noticed and decided to check in on him as you prepared his drink.

“Everything okay?” you asked, concern evident in your voice.

Maki sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been hitting a bit of a writer’s block. It’s frustrating, especially with a deadline approaching.”

You set his coffee down with a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry to hear that. Sometimes a change of scenery or a fresh perspective helps. Have you tried taking a walk or talking it out with someone?”

Maki looked thoughtful. “I haven’t tried that yet. Maybe you’re right. Thanks for the advice. I’ll try it sometime.” He then smiled at you

As weeks went by, Maki’s writer’s block gradually lifted. You continued to be his sounding board, offering encouragement and feedback on his writing. Your bond grew stronger, and you both found yourselves spending more time together outside the café. You went for walks, explored local events, and shared many laughs over coffee.

As the holiday season approached, Bean & Brew was decorated with festive lights and cheerful decorations. You enjoyed the lively atmosphere, and Maki’s presence made it even more special. Both of you planned a small holiday party at the café, inviting some of your regulars and friends to celebrate together.

On the day of the party, Maki surprised you with a thoughtful gift. As you were preparing for the event, he walked in with a neatly wrapped box.

“For you,” he said, his dimples appearing with a warm smile. “I hope you like it.”

You accepted the gift, your curiosity piqued. When you unwrapped it, you found a beautiful leather-bound journal with a handwritten note inside. The note read:

“To: —, 

for the countless ways you’ve brightened my days and inspired me. I’m grateful for your kindness and friendship. Here’s to many more adventures together. 

From: Maki”

A soft gasp emitted from you, looking at him with sparkles in your eyes before looking back at the gift  “This is wonderful, Maki. Thank you so much. It means a lot to me.”

Maki’s dimples deepened as he watched your reaction. “I’m glad you like it. I wanted to do something special for you, especially after everything you’ve done for me.”

As the party came to an end, you and Maki's friendship had developed into something deeper. Both had shared countless moments, supported each other, and became very close. You realized that your feelings for Maki had grown beyond friendship.

 As you were cleaning up after the party, Maki took your hand gently. "—, there's something I've been meaning to tell you."

Your heart raced as you looked up at him. "What is it?"

Maki's dimples appeared as he spoke earnestly. "Over the past few months, I've come to realize how much you mean to me. Your kindness, your smile, and the way you've always been there for me— it's all made me fall for you. I'd love to see where this could go if you're interested."

Your heart fluttered with happiness. "I feel the same way, Maki. You've become such an important part of my life. I’d love to experience new things with you.”

Maki's smile grew, his dimples deepening with relief and joy. "I'm really happy to hear that."

The new year brought the promise of new beginnings for you and Maki. Your relationship blossomed as you supported and cared for each other. You celebrated your first official date with a romantic dinner followed by a walk through a winter wonderland. 

As both of you walked hand in hand with snow gently falling around you, you reflected on how your life had changed since Maki walked into the café. His dimples had not only stolen your heart but had also brought warmth and joy into your life. 

Both spent many more mornings together at Bean & Brew, where their love story had begun. Their shared moments became treasured memories, and their connection grew stronger with each passing day. 

[thefallennightmare]

Just Pretend-sixteen

*gif created by me. feel free to use, simply give credit*

Parings: Noah Sebastian x Musician! Reader

Warnings/Tropes: language, angst, fluff, smut, star-crossed lovers, right person/wrong time, cheating, talks of mental abuse.

Summary: “I can wait for years, heaven knows I’m not getting over you.” A story about two star-crossed lovers, that always find their way back because their souls are entwined. The universe desperately attempts to bring them together, no matter what the cost.

Authors Note: Please listen to Eyelids by PVRIS during this chapter. Thank you very much.

Collaborating With: @thescarlettvvitch(better give her all the love as well)

Tags: @thescarlettvvitch @ozwriterchick @waake-meee-up @notingridslurkaccount @niicoleleigh @sammyjoeee @xxrainstorm @dominuslunae @notmaddihealy @malice-ov-mercy @crimson-calligraphyx @iknownothingpeople @writethrough @thebadchic @blackveilomens Claudia on Tumblr @tobe-written @blacksoul-27 @loeytuan98 @loverofagoodbeard @comfortcharactercraze @lma1986 @plutonikchaos1 @spicywhenspeaking @lyschko666 @somewhere-diamond @hi-fancy-seeing-you-here @koskeepsake @bngurngheart @shilohrosechicken @emzandthevoid

READER

With the notebook in my lap, as I sat cross-legged on my bed with Salem curled up next to me, purring away, I watched intently my laptop screen. My heart pounded so hard in my chest it made it hard to breathe. Noah and Jolly were currently performing a live stream on Veeps and from the moment I clicked on the video, I couldn’t stop staring; with his long hair cascading down his face in perfect waves. His face stone with concentration but yet soft with the features I loved.

“Do you think he’ll mess up like the last stream he did?” I asked Salem while scratching his belly.

Noah’s voice was something extremely distinctive, not just anyone could hold a tune or lit a candle to how he sounded. The way he effortlessly went through every emotion in his body. I looked at Noah as he was pretty still, with thick hair and soft eyes, and he swayed so gracefully that it almost seemed as though he was gliding. I’ve seen beautiful men before; men who caught my eye, but to my mind, they usually lacked the traits I found most desirable. Traits like intelligence, confidence, strength of spirit, passion, traits that inspired others to greatness, traits I aspired to myself, all the traits he had.

I hung off the cliff for Noah for a long time until recently, when I fell to the depths below.

It sparked something in me as I watched Jolly and Noah’s performance. I wanted to do something like this too; to showcase my real voice. I was better without Trey; the band was better. Trey wasn’t the end-all, and I wanted to prove it further. I understood the fans; I knew their positions; I understood their inner turmoil and their panic. Change is actually horrific under some circumstances, not all, but surely a few. This one was big.

Hollow Souls was never supposed to be a 3 piece. Hell, we didn’t even have a guitar player and our tech had to fill in when we recorded My House. Which is why I was learning how to play guitar so I could take Trey’s place. A lot of change within a few months and while it was scary, it was also exciting. But that didn’t stop me from questioning once again if we needed another person. What if I wasn’t strong enough to do this alone? Just the three of us? 

What the hell were you worried about, angel?

I was thinking so heavily about what Noah texted me. He was proud of me. Of me! And my friends. That woke me up, he always could. I wanted to grab my phone to call him, and ask him for more reassurance. Our 2:30 conversations were slim and in between and I was struggling with that. I didn’t want to push my luck; he had Bailey.

Bailey.

Bailey.

I rolled my eyes, at the memories of the party. Ridiculous. I was tiptoeing around Noah; I knew if I called him I’d so desperately try to stay on the line. But what if she showed? It was killing me.

Therefore, I was hesitant to perform Eyelids; I was worried Noah’s reaction would warrant further frustration, considering he was in the arms of someone else. I couldn’t handle it because it fucking hurt seeing him with her. I wanted Noah to myself, as selfish as that sounded. I could only hope that in the discovery of my lyrics, he’ll at least know I meant everything we did and said that whole tour, meeting him changed my life for the better; before I hurt him.

I miss him and I only wished I was in his arms.

As the livestream ended, I smiled warmly as Noah and Jolly waved goodbye at the camera and then tried to focus my attention on the paper in my lap.

Amongst the idea of our own live stream, I couldn’t help but want more out of me. It was small; it was something just dying to purge out. However, the more I looked at the lyrics on paper, the more it didn’t fit; it wasn’t me. It was as if these lyrics were meant for someone else.

Letting out a deep breath, I sang a harmony I thought would fit with the lyrics. “Evened the scores, then I let it all go fall apart. And every step forward put a little more sword in your heart, yeah. Looking sideways when I say I’m okay with the past but I’m afraid of what I might say if you ask.”

The more I read it, over and over. It was good; I’ll say that. But, surely it didn’t belong to me. I could feel that. But I didn’t give up yet. I wrote another verse, hoping this one would speak more of me.

“I did it to myself, tried to be someone else. I let it tear me down, and I'll never be the same. I did it to myself and tried to be someone else. And you didn't notice 'til I finally got, finally got away.”

Fuck, even singing these lyrics didn’t feel right. My heart knew that this didn’t belong to me, it was meant for someone else.

Making a rash decision, I pulled out my phone and clicked on the name I needed help from.

“Hello?”

I perked up at the accent immediately. “Jolly! Hey, it's me. Y/N.”

A light chuckle echoed in my ear. “I know who it is, doll, I have caller ID.”

“Ok don’t be smart,” I teased.

“Sorry,” he laughs, “What do I owe the pleasure?”

I bit my lip, wondering how he would take my idea. It sounded rash in my head but if anyone were to listen to my idea; it was Jolly.

“I have something to run by you. Well, actually a few things.”

NOAH

My knee bounced as I sat in my chair, phone gripped tightly in my hand, as I glanced at the clock on my computer.

2:28.

It has been almost a week now since our last 2:30 call and the last one was short as she was running around Japan with her dad. Things were awkward to say the least at the party the other night and I wanted to make sure that things between us were still good.

Good? What’s considered good anymore? You’re dating someone else, dumbass.

Ignoring the voice in my mind, I let out a deep breath before clicking on Y/N’s name; the ringing echoing loudly in my quiet room. It rang and rang and rang. It went on like this for a few more times until, eventually; I hung up the call with a groan. But I wasn’t ready to give up yet and I typed out a quick message to Malcolm.

ME: Is Y/N around? I tried calling her.

Malcolm: Yeah, she’s been in the shower. Has been in there for a while- too long, maybe shaving or some shit. I’ll have her call you.

An audible, deep groan, fell from my lips as I leaned my head back against the headrest of my chair when the thought of Y/N in the shower.

Naked, water, and soap ran down every inch of her unholy skin.

“Shit,” I cursed when my dick twitched in my sweats.

“Noah.”

Y/N’s voice rang in my ear as my eyes fluttered shut, hands in fists on my thighs. My vision was so vivid as if I was in the shower with her, our wet skin ablaze as I wrapped my arms around her from behind to bury my face into the crook of her neck.

“Angel,” I breathed while my palm pressed against my hard cock in my sweats.

My hips raised from the chair as a moan crawled out of my throat, my hand now all but ripping out my dripping cock from my pants. It was red and thick with the mere thought of Y/N in the shower. Gripping it between my fingers, I slowly pumped up and down, thumb grazing over the pre-cum that leaked out from the slit and circled it around the head of my cock.

“Noah, I need you.”

Her name fell from my lips as a prayer while I leaned farther back into my chair as my hand worked faster, the grip around myself tightened as the orgasm buzzed in my lower stomach. The burn felt so good but it wasn’t enough; I needed something else to help me over the edge.

I pulled the extra skin down tight, cock standing straight up in my hand, as I let out a strangled breath. My orgasm was right there, but I wanted to edge myself longer; I didn’t want this vision to end.

Y/N rubbed the soap over every inch of her skin, her fingers teasing over her nipples as he head fell back, water spraying into her mouth.

But after that vision, another one came to mind which made my hand work in faster strokes. Y/N on top of me with her hands gripping my braids as her mouth fell slack with ecstasy. I consistently became a time traveler of that night, the night she rode me into oblivion. A night I’ll surely never forget. Even in these moments, my mind goes there.

“Fuck. Shit.” I cursed as a shock shot from the base of my spine to the top when my body went stiff, orgasm so close to destroying me.

I jerked when my phone buzzed against the computer desk so I stopped my actions but kept my grip tight on my aching cock to realize Bailey was calling me.

Ignore.

With my phone still in my hand, I quickly went to my photos and clicked on one of my favorite pictures of Y/N; from the day we spent on the beach. She was staring straight out into the water, a small smile playing on her sweet, plump lips.

Fuck, I wished those lips were strangled around my cock.

Once the phone was set up directly in front of me, I leaned back into my chair again and worked my hand in fast short strokes, the orgasm once again burning low in my belly.

“Noah.” Y/N’s voice echoed in my mind again.

“Shit, angel. I’m gonna-fuck,” I groaned low, the noise barely audible as it crawled out of my throat when my release finally washed over me.

Cum shot all over my hand and onto my pants but none of that mattered; my dark eyes were stuck on the picture on the screen. Until a different picture appeared which had me cursing and wiping my cum covered hand on my pants before tucking myself back into my pants. Just a simple phone call from her had my dick aching again.

With a few steady breaths, I ran my clean hand through my hair before answering the FaceTime call; Y/N’s bright smile warming my heart.

“Hi Mochi! I didn’t mean to miss your call. I was in the shower.”

She was sitting on her bed, water still dripping from her wet hair, and internally I groaned when the same thoughts as earlier came creeping back into my mind.

“Oh yeah? You-uh-feeling clean?” I flushed while shifting in my chair.

“Well, yeah,” she chuckled. “That’s what a shower is. Water, soap.”

Naked, I know the drill.

I cleared my throat. “Right. Anyway, can you talk or is this a bad time?”

“Actually, I was going to send this in the group chat but since I have you on the phone, I figured now would be the best time.”

I raised a brow as my heart pounded widely in my chest, wondering what she was going to say.

“Veeps offered Hollow Souls to do a stream as well! So I wanted to make sure you were free to watch it, maybe? Totally fine if you can’t, I know you might be busy with-.”

“I’ll watch it,” I rushed out, not missing a beat. “What time?”

“Oh, in about 2 hours?” She bit her lip, hopeful I’d say yes.

My dick throbbed as memories of moments before her phone call replayed in my mind. “I’ll have the tv on standby downstairs, angel. We wouldn’t miss that shit for anything.”

Y/N smiled brightly as she brought Salem into view of her phone, his green eyes staring directly into my soul. “Salem thanks you for the support.”

“I miss him, we really bonded while you were gone,” I smiled a bit.

“Well, you can come by anytime to hang out with him; or me,” Y/N added the last bit slyly.

“Count me in, angel.”

READER

Once dressed, almost ready for the live stream, I was rummaging through my sock drawer to find a pair of socks when my fingers brushed against something soft. My brow raised as I pulled out two small velvet boxes, my mind immediately going back to my birthday.

Biting the inside of my cheek, I opened the box, and a gasp left my lips as the silver necklace and matching bracelet shined under the light of the room. It wasn't anything over the top and there were no diamonds but that didn't matter to me. I wasn't one for over-the-top jewelry, this simple chain and bracelet were enough.

With wet eyes, I gazed up at Noah, who had a nervous look on his face as he fiddled with his wooden rosary. "Do you like it?"

I wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him into my embrace, burying my face into his neck. "I love it, Noah. Thank you so much."

With the haste of break up, the end of the tour, the move, and everything that happened between Noah and me, I almost forgot about the jewelry. I've stared at this bracelet and this fucking necklace for a while now. To think I had almost forgotten it, I shook my head at the thought. I couldn’t, things that were meant for us to find their way back. Well; at least that’s what I told myself. I yearned for him, his comfort, his gaze. I didn’t plan on falling in love with him. But once we met, it was clear that neither of us could control what was happening to us. I gasped when I realized what that burning feeling in my heart took over my entire existence each time I thought of him or saw him.

I love Noah.

I nearly stumbled on my feet as a breath fell from my lips again. “It’s too late now.”

With shaky hands, I opened the box, my heart skipping a beat. It still took my breath away as I opened the box, clasping on the necklace first then the bracelet.

“I have to admit, Salem” I turned towards the mirror in my room so I could stare at my reflection while the cat sat on my vanity. “Noah did pretty well.”

There was a knock on my open door, and I gave a small smile towards Jolly. “Hey.”

“Almost ready?” He asked.

“Yep.”

He then taped a finger to his neckline twice. “That’s a nice necklace. Who gave you that?”

“It was a birthday gift,” I shrugged nonchalantly.

The corner of Jolly’s mouth turned up in a grin. “That’s not what I asked.”

Ignoring his comment, I slid into my slippers and led him out of my room down to the dining room where we set up earlier.

Jolly first arrived a few hours ago for our daily lessons before helping me set up the stream. After I watched theirs almost a week ago, I asked Jolly if he could come over to help me with my stream. I couldn’t play guitar but we could practice the two songs I wanted to perform.

Chase and Malcolm asked if I needed them for this but I could tell they already had plans. Even though this was a Hollow Souls set, it was more of an acoustic version so Chase on drums and Malcolm on bass wasn’t needed; hence why I asked Jolly to help. First off, who else was better to teach me how to play guitar than him? I knew the basics, but he was helping me hone in on my skills. Second, I needed to talk to him about something important.

As I finished making things were in order, Jolly sat on his chair to strum the first few notes of If I’m There on his guitar.

“Feel comfortable enough?” He wondered.

I nodded while looking at the laptop to make sure the stream was ready; all I had to do was hit the live button.

“Yep. We’ve been practicing every day. It helps I have a great teacher,” I beamed at him. “Thanks for this, Jolly. I didn’t know who else to ask and I know you’re Noah’s friend first.”

Jolly shrugged. “You’re my friend as well, doll. I help my friends and that’s something Noah knows and understands.”

Silence fell between us for a long moment until he hesitated.

“How did you feel about our new single, honestly?”

My shoulders went rigid for a second before I shrugged. “I’m fine, why wouldn’t I be?”

“Y/N don’t take this the wrong way, but you can’t be that dense. You know it was about you, right?” Jolly asked.

“I-,” The words died in my throat.

Jolly raised a brow. “Yeah, so tell me. How do you feel about it?”

“Are you my shrink now?” I crossed my arms over my chest, one last ditch effort at shielding myself from admitting the truth.

“No, a friend,” he sighed while setting down the guitar.

Defeated, I fell into the chair with a groan. “I-I feel sad. Noah must fucking hate me.”

“I assure you, he doesn’t,” Jolly said.

“How can you be so sure, Jolly? He went and found someone else. He’s clearly writing how he feels too. I hate feeling like this.” I sat with my hands folded in my lap as I chipped away at the nail polish.

“So talk to him, because I can tell you right now, Noah’s not head over heels for this girl. I think you know deep down what he’s trying to do.”

I refused to meet his gaze as I shook my head. “I don’t know what you mean. I can’t-he seems happy.”

“Y/N,” Jolly sighed. “He’s not happy unless he’s with you.”

“Then he needs to tell me that,” my eyes snapped up towards him. “I was going to express some things I’ve discovered but-.”

Jolly raised his brows. “Discovered what?”

For a split second, I thought about telling him but decided against it. “It doesn’t matter, I can’t mess anything up for him. I need Noah to need me. It works both ways, Jolly.”

“Y/N you’re not understanding you’ve got it all wrong-.”

“Can we move on, please? It hurts enough to think about him with someone else the last fucking thing I want to do is talk about them,” I let out a shaky breath as my bottom lip wobbled.

Jolly gave me a weak smile. “Sure thing, doll. Did you want to go live?”

“Actually,” I bit my lip before reaching over to the table to grab a piece of paper. “There’s something I want to run by you.”

When he nodded, I handed Jolly the paper. “I wrote it about Trey but the thought of recording it scares me. It’s deeper than what I typically write and it's not me. I thought about selling it but that didn’t feel right.”

I watched intently as Jolly read the lyrics, his eyes taking in every inch of the page, the smile on his lips growing with each pass.

“Doll, this is,” he shook his head. “Amazing. Are you sure?”

Our eyes locked as I nodded. “It’s not a Hollow Souls song. But Bad Omens on the other hand, I know you guys can give it the justice it deserves.”

NOAH

“SHUT UP!” I bellowed while tossing a pillow towards Jesse, who was talking extensively to Orie about some shit that didn’t matter. “The live stream is about to start.”

Jesse caught the pillow mid-throw and smirked. “Excited, are we?”

Flipping him off, I sat on the couch with a beer in one hand and my phone in the other, sending another text to Jolly. He’d been M.I. A all day, and we were wondering if he was going to join.

“Has anyone heard from Jolly?” I asked.

Orie shrugged. “I thought he was in his room.”

“We went to lunch earlier,” Michael said while walking into the living room, bowl full of random snacks in his hands before he set them on the coffee table. “But he said he had some things to take care of afterward.”

Just then the stream began and Y/N’s soft voice echoed through the speakers.

“Shit, are we live? Wait, I probably shouldn’t swear on this.”

We all shared a laugh until we saw who was sitting next to her.

“Hi everyone! It’s Y/N from Hollow Souls. You might have noticed that I have a friend here with me today,” Y/N adjusted the headphones before she motioned to Jolly who sat on her left. “Jolly from Bad Omens.”

Jolly waved to the camera. “Hi.”

“I guess that’s what his errand was,” Jesse said while throwing some popcorn in his mouth.

Ignoring him, I wondered why Jolly was with Y/N right now. I wasn’t jealous he was with her. I was jealous that I wasn’t there instead. She looked breathtaking with her long hair pulled back in a tight bun to showcase the sharp features of her face, her plump lips glistening with the lip gloss she must have applied before the stream started. Her bright eyes shined with the excitement of what she was about to perform which in turn made me sit up straighter in my spot on the couch, a proud smile on my face.

“So, the reason Malcolm and Chase aren’t here is because this set is more of an acoustic one. I recently saw some friends of mine do something like this and wanted to try it,” she smiled over to Jolly.

“I’m here for moral support,” Jolly said.

“He’s actually been teaching me guitar the last week because I wanted to do more for this band since we kicked Trey out,” Y/N revealed.

At the mention of his name, I felt my face twitch but kept it as stone as I could, not wanting to give anything away to the rest of the guys. They were the only three of the entire group that didn’t know the truth about Y/N’s relationship with Trey.

“Did you know Jolly was teaching her guitar?” Jesse asked me.

I shook my head while running a hand through my hair. “I had no idea she wanted to learn. I mean, I knew they had to figure out a guitarist moving forward but didn’t know she wanted to play.”

“She didn’t ask you?” Orie wondered.

I shrugged, wondering the same but did my best not to dwell on it as I went back to watching the feed.

“So, I’m going to sing two songs for you guys today. The first one is a cover, and the second is something new. It’s nowhere near ready for release but it’s been weighing heavy on my heart the last few weeks since I wrote it.”

Y/N adjusted her headphones before glancing over to her laptop. “Woah, the chat is going crazy you’re here, Jolly.”

He hummed in amusement while tuning the guitar. “What are they saying?”

“Where’s Noah? When is the collab with Bad Omens coming?”

Y/N snickered before looking back at the camera, giving a wink. “I don’t know. Noah has my number.”

Quickly pulling out my phone, I pulled up the stream to add something to the chat.

“Oh, look who joined the chat. Jolly, Noah is wondering if you could bring pizza home,” Y/N laughed as she read my comment.

I chuckled to myself as we saw Jolly roll his eyes. Then Y/N read my next comment, her cheeks flushing red; something others might not have noticed. But I did. I watched and analyzed everything she did with a careful eye.

The comment I sent in the chat was something simple; something only a few of us would understand.

We can talk about the collab during our next phone call.

She shifted in her chair, a hint of a smile on her face. “Well, my first song might sound familiar to a lot of you. It’s my first time performing it but unlike Noah did last week, I won’t mess up the words.”

Jolly broke out in laughter before playing the opening notes of the song; one I recognized immediately even though I knew which one she meant before Jolly played the first few notes of the song. There was only one song I messed up on a livestream recently. If I’m There.

Her beautiful voice stung deep into my veins as I fell back on the couch.

“Oh. Shit,” Orie spoke. “No offense, man, but Y/N kills your lyrics.”

I nodded, numbly as I agreed with him. It was as if my lyrics were made for her voice, the sultry tone of it sending chills all over my body. She gripped the microphone with a soft touch and my cock twitched as I remembered earlier up in my bedroom.

As she got to the verse I messed up on my own livestream, Y/N’s eyes opened to throw a quick wink and smirk toward the camera when she sang it perfectly; almost annoyingly perfect.

I felt a pair of eyes burning into the side of my head and briefly tearing my gaze away from the television; I shot Jesse a look.

“What?”

He pursed his lips while shaking his head. “You haven’t stopped smiling since she came on the screen. You look like a kid that was given free rein in a candy store.”

Rolling my eyes, I focused back to Y/N just in time as she sang the last two lines of the song.

“And if you're there to catch me when I fall then maybe Hell ain't so bad after all,” she breathed before pushing away the microphone from her a tad.

Shit.

This was different than Hollow Souls. The softness of the song was fucking made for Y/N and something she needed to do more of.

“Fuck yes,” she beamed but then smacked a hand over her face. “Sorry, didn’t mean to swear. I’ll add it to the jar Malcolm has on top of the fridge.”

“He doesn’t?” Michael chucked.

I nodded while taking a long drink of my beer. “He does. I saw it when I was there taking care of Salem. Thing is empty but fuck is in their everyday vocabulary so you know they’re not adding to that shit.”

Noticing she was reading the comments once again, I quickly typed out one.

Great job, Y/N! Feel free to cover any of our songs. I’d always watch it with a proud smile.

Even though she didn’t say she read it, I knew she did with the way the corner of her lip raised and the way her eyes crinkled at the sides.

“Alright, the last song is a new one. We do plan on having it on the next record but it will sound different from what you’ll hear right now. My friends, thank you for watching. This one is called Eyelids.”

This had me sitting on the edge of the couch, elbows on my knees, as excitement filled me.

“I'll face my fear of the evening once I get used to this feeling. I can't sleep. That's when you're torn away from me. While I'm dreaming I feel you leaving.”

My jaw fell slack, hearing the rawness in her voice with the pure emotion being poured out of her soul.

"I'll face my fear of the sunrise when I wake up with your hand inside mine. It's hard to say good morning when it's followed with goodbye. Just wanted to say good night.”

Something glinted on the screen, which immediately took my gaze away from her face down to her neck, my heart and breath catching in my throat. I remained silent as my body leaned closer to the television.

“What are you doing, man? Did you forget your glasses?” Michael joked.

His voice was a white noise as I moved from my spot on the couch to the coffee table, now sitting directly in front of the screen.

What the fuck?

Is that?

I inched closer and closer to that television, I couldn’t hear what was being said to me as I scrunched my face up and began squinting.

No, it can’t be.

“Our eyes fighting the light but I'm not ready to say good night, ooh. I try and hold on tight 'cause it's just not time to say good night. Say good night.”

It hung almost a little well above her cleavage, that beautiful silky neck- my eyes moved quickly to her wrists.

“Let me see,” I muttered under my breath.

I made an inaudible sound from my throat, mouth peering a little open.

She was wearing them; both of them. My heart raced even further, longer, more rapidly.

I was feeling a lot of things at once; I didn’t quite know how to place them. I needed a beer. I needed to talk to my shrink. That’s what I should do, because the panic was setting in, this ache was almost unbearable.

Why, why would she want to wear them after everything? Even now?

I’m hurting her right back, aren’t I?

Everything has become a puddle of mud, a mess of my volition now. I did this. All I could think while seeing the jewelry I gifted her, all I could hear while listening to her voice was “Maybe, just maybe I’ll come back to you.”

She was occupied by her own complicated thoughts - you could tell from the way she was squinting and moving her mouth.

Maybe I was imagining things. Maybe until-.

“I'll face my fear of the cold nights when you leave me behind. I felt your hands in my hair. I felt your breath on my neck. Yeah, I need to feel you again. Just wanted to say good night.”

My body went still, all the air taken from my lungs, as I watched her lips move. Her own personal conflict was clear in the way the muscles in her jaw tightened and her eyes screwed shut.

No, it couldn’t be.

She didn’t.

Did she?

Was this about us?

No, I’m overthinking this.

“Our eyes fighting the light but I'm not ready to say good night, ooh. I try and hold on tight 'cause it's just not time to say good night. Say good night.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Orie smack Jesse on the shoulder and motioned to the stillness of me; still unmoving.

“Our eyes fighting the light. But I'm not ready to say good night, ooh. I try and hold on tight 'cause it's just not time to say good night. Say good night.”

I could see Jolly vibing along to the lyrics next to Y/N but it didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered more than this moment right here as I watched her pour every feeling about that night into this one song. My heart fell deep into the pits of my stomach when I saw her grip the necklace, playing with it between two fingers.

These eyes are closed again for yet another night I wake up and I can feel you by my side. But I can't find you in the dark when you're so far. Yeah, that's the hardest part. Here comes the hardest part.

My eyes dropped slightly in tangent with my shoulders.

Our eyes fight the light. But I'm not ready to say good night oh. I try and hold on tight 'cause it's just not time to say good night. To say good night.

As the last lyric faded into the air, there was a hushed recording playing some words in the background; another small thing I picked up on.

“I mean in what world do I go to sleep after you and wake up before you? I don't even know how it happens. Well, I hope you're having sweet dreams. And you call me when you wake up.”

Fuck.

My bottom lip trembled when I recognized that voice. It was Y/N’s, and it wasn’t just any kind of recording. No, it was a voicemail she left me while she was in Japan. It was right after I missed one of our 2:30 calls. I was asleep but once I noticed she called me less than an hour later; I listened to the voicemail before quickly calling her back.

“Okay, that deserves a curse,” Jolly said. “You fucking killed that, Y/N.”

She was beaming with pride. “Holy shit, guys. You don’t understand how long I’ve had this festering inside of me. It feels so good to get out.”

Y/N clicked on the laptop to read through some of the comments, a small frown pulling at her lips.

“Oh my god. Are you and Trey getting back together?! You were so perfect. No, we’re not getting back together. I grew up since the breakup; I became a savage. But not everything is about fucking Trey. This is just a song about a really awesome guy. That’s it.”

I was still, like a statue, unmoving and unnerving as Joly and Y/N said their goodbyes before the stream ended; a black screen mirror back to me.

Jesse leaned forward in his chair. “Noah-.”

Hearing my name broke me out of the trance and without saying another word, I jumped up from my spot on the coffee table and took the stairs two at a time, my footsteps thundering throughout the house before I slammed myself into my bedroom.

Tears threatened to spill, burning at the corners of my eyes, but I held them in with a choked sob as I ran a shaky hand over my face.

I didn’t know what to make of anything anymore. Maybe just romantics would call this a twisted, toxic beginning to a love story while the cynics would call it a tragedy. In my mind, it’s a little bit of both, and no matter how you choose to view it in the end, it doesn’t change the fact that it involves a great deal of my life and the path I’ve chosen to follow and that I- I love her.

Ripping the drawer of my desk open, I rummaged through the useless crap, already knowing what I was looking for. I tossed the velvet boxes to the side and cradled the jewelry, my large hands encased them. I pressed them on my forehead and let the tears finally spill to the floor as I fell to my knees, resting my back up against my bed.

I cried; actually fucking cried.

The necklace and bracelet shook in my hands as the sobs wrecked through me. I haven’t cried like this in a long time mostly because I hated being this open and vulnerable. It made me sick, knowing that I wasn’t able to protect myself from these feelings right now. I spent my entire life protecting myself from these feelings only for Y/N to sink her claws into me in the best way possible.

“I love her,” I choked out through sobs, realizing what I felt earlier. “I fucking love her.”

NOAH

I wasn’t sure how long I kneeled on the floor, jewelry grasped deep in my palms as it dug into my skin. But it wasn’t until there was a soft knock on the door that pulled me from the despair. Red, puffy, bloodshot eyes glanced up at Jolly, whose shoulders fell as he took in my state; tears dried to my face and hair a mess from running my hands through it.

“Noah,” he muttered.

“Please leave me alone right now.” I whimpered lowly, refusing to meet his gaze again.

“No. Jesse said watching her perform Eyelids fucked you up. What’s going on?” Jolly kneeled in front of me.

“I can’t-,” I choked on a sob. “I don’t want to deal with this.”

Jolly rubbed his jaw. “Was it the song or the jewelry?”

My eyes snapped up to him. “How did you know about the jewelry?”

“You used the band card to charge it, goof. I see everything,” Jolly gave me a small smile.

“Fuck. Sorry,” I sighed.

“It’s okay man, it’s okay,” he reassured me with a strong grip on my shoulder.

“No, no, it’s not. I’m tired of feeling. I want to disappear, just disappear.”

Jolly now gripped both of my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. "No, you don’t. Don’t say that shit.” 

“I just mean I wish it wasn’t this. Y/N’s been giving me mixed signals.” I mumbled.

“Have you thought you’re doing the same? You’re literally hanging out with another woman out of spite,” He raised a questioning brow.

I leaned my head against the side of my mattress. “She won’t tell me how she feels, I’m trying to show her. I’ve always tried to show her.”

“There’s a saying.” Jolly paused, trying to think of the right words to say. “We are defined by what we do, not just nice words. However, I think you’ve shown enough, Noah. It’s time you use your words.” 

“I don’t know how,” I admitted with a shaky breath after a long beat of silence.

“If you’re not comfortable talking about it with us, Noah. Talk to your therapist about it- but this has to stop. It’s draining you.”

I saw the way Jolly’s mouth twitched, his own emotions close to slipping through his own mask, but he held it stronger than me.

“Once you’re in a better place, come to the studio. I have something to show you.”

I nodded. “Sure, yeah. Might be good for me to write something.”

Jolly gave one last squeeze to my shoulder. “Love you, man.”

“You too. Thank you.” I smiled.

NOAH

An hour and a long shower later, I walked down the hallway toward our studio with a new tune in my head. The lyrics were loud in my mind as I played with the new bracelet on my wrist, twisting it between two fingers.

“There’s not another way don’t let me go, don’t dig another grave today,” I sang under my breath as I walked through the door.

Jolly was sitting on the couch in the room, guitar on his lap and notebook on the floor at his feet. He looked up as I walked in and had a nervous smile on his face.

“Hey, you better?”

I gave a small nod. “Yeah. What’s this?”

As I sat on the couch next to him, I went to reach for the notepad before he placed a foot over it, blocking me from retrieving it.

“Y/N gave me something earlier. I really like it but wanted to run it by you, if you were comfortable,” Jolly said hesitantly.

I tensed, not knowing how to feel. I wasn’t comfortable with whatever Jolly needed to show me but knowing it was from Y/N eventually made me agree.

He removed his foot so I could grab the notebook, eyes immediately scanning over the lyrics on the page.

Evened the scores, then I let it all go fall apart. And every step forward put a little more sword in your heart, yeah. Looking sideways when I say I’m okay with the past but I’m afraid of what I might say if you ask. I did it to myself, tried to be someone else. I let it tear me down, and I'll never be the same. I did it to myself, tried to be someone else. And you didn't notice 'til I finally got, finally got away.

My heart stuttered in my chest as I licked my lips. “Wow, that’s impressive. When did you find the time to write this? Usually, that's my wheelhouse.”

“Noah cut the shit. You know this isn’t my work. I just told you, it’s Y/N’s,” Jolly sighed while pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’m just being a dick.” I snorted a laugh while bumping his shoulder with mine.

“Yeah, you are. Now what do you think? We can use this, no? As inspiration, maybe?”

Suddenly the lyrics I sang a moment before walking into the room played in my mind again; I hummed them under my breath, adding it to the lyrics Y/N wrote.

“One second,” I muttered while pulling out my phone.

ME: You sure you want us to have your lyrics?

Y/N’s response was immediate.

Angel 🪽: Nobody could do it better than you guys. You’ll give those lyrics the justice it deserve.

Leaving the message on read, Jolly and I worked tirelessly to rework the lyrics together and when I felt we were in a good position with them, I reached for my phone again. There was still a lingering feeling festering deep inside of me, that I wanted to make sure Y/N was fine with.

ME: I’m taking creative liberty for this, are you good with that?

Angel 🪽: What's mine is yours, Noah. 

Yeah, not everything.

[thegamingcatmom]

Hi! >:3 This one is for the Dimi sisters, for each of them what do you think they enjoy doing around the castle? Like I imagine they are pretty bored esp in Winter where they can't go outside due to the cold, I imagine Dani and Bela could enjoy reading by the fireplace but there has to be something else to do, right? I don't think Cassandra is a bookworm like her sisters, in fact I doubt that one can be STILL for more than 5 seconds XD I have a few HC of my own like I think Bela likes to read but not romantic stuff like Dani I think she'd be mroe into learning new stuff constantly from the books she reads and I think she is into art so she likes painting in the atelier, or just sketching in a notebook while sitting by the window (I once read a fanfic where Bela learned to cook? And I found it so cute and stuff that she cooked for tehf amily etc that i accepted that HC too). Cassandra would be in the armory sharpening her weapons bc theya re never sharp enough or practicing ehr moves against a dummy, perhaps even getting Dani to play some pranks on the staff (who no one finds funny except for the both of them and getting on Bela's nerves which is a plus I guess :p) Dani... Aside from reading her romantic novels and pranking the staff with Cass I thin she'd be into poetry... she'd try her best ok? (I'm kinda lost with Dani's hobbies tbh XD) What are your own HC for their hobbies? :p Have a good day <3

HI HELLO 🫶

I love your thoughts and I absolutely agree that Cassandra is incapable of focusing on anything for too long. Her record is approx. 10 secs, which is exactly how long it takes her to string someone up, slice their jugular and watch them bleed, lmao.

However, I´d like to think that Momma Alci makes sure to keep her unruly offspring entertained, mainly because it keeps them from bugging her. Momma values her me time. 🛁😌

Besides, there´s always the maids to terrorize. That never gets old. 🤭

Reading

Mostly books that expand her knowledge, like you said. She takes after Momma in that respect. 🤭

Another thing she really likes are mystery thrillers. They have her on the edge of her seat in a way no hunt has managed yet.

She´s not that big into horror though, believe it or not. Probably because she more than gets her fill of that on a daily basis in that castle, lol.

Romance? Please. She has neither the time, nor the patience for such mundane things.

Painting, drawing

She enjoys the calm that comes with it (which is rare in that castle), but she also does it to impress Momma. 🤭

Her favorite things to paint are still lifes. Especially fruit. Especially when it´s rotten. She finds that there´s a certain beauty in the grotesque.

Her favorite things to draw are humans. Or, more specifically, their insides. Organs and bones. Or just certain body parts with the muscles exposed.

Being down in the cellar almost every day truly brought out her artistic side. It´s very...inspiring.

Playing the piano

Again, she does it mostly to impress Momma, seeing how the Lady is quite the talented pianist herself.

Her favorite things to play are dark, tragic pieces that capture the haunting spirit of her existence. Such as Beethoven – Moonlight Sonata 1st Movement.

Music holds immense significance in House Dimitrescu, so it was only natural for Bela to prioritize mastering it as soon as she was capable of forming coherent thoughts.

Stringing them up

Slicing their jugulars

Watching them bleed

...I don´t know what else to tell you, lol.

The middle daughter isn´t particularly picky about how she spends her evenings. She simply does what she does best and, more importantly, what she loves doing. That´s all the fulfillment she needs.

It´s as simple as that with her. I aspire to be like that.

HOWEVER-

I do like the idea of her sharpening and taking care of her weapons because she certainly holds them dear to her dead heart. They´re her babies. :3

HOWEVER-

I don´t really see it as a hobby because it still means "work" for her. She doesn´t cope well with that sort of thing, lol. She´d much prefer spending her precious time on actually using her sickle rather than maintaining it.

HOWEVER-

...She might just let a maid do the work for her. While she watches, ofc. Taunting her. Mocking her. Whispering sweet promises of gruesome death into her ear.

"You missed a spot...right here."

*slices that jugular with her newly sharpened sickle*

🤷🏻‍♀️

Reading

I think that one is pretty obvious. Anything romance is her jam. ;3

More Reading

Because why read your favorite book just once (multiplied by 1354641486418431) when you can dive into the manic endless realms of your own imagination OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND OVER AND-

-UNTIL THE END OF TIME!!

Flirting/Roleplaying with the maids

The kitchen, the looming corridors, the cellars, the bedchambers - name any place within the castle, and it can almost always be guaranteed that Dani has left her mark - evidenced by blushing and stuttering maids.

Why hot when evil though?? 😭

Furthermore, as a direct result of her extensive reading, many maids have had the one-time opportunity to participate in one of her famously infamous plays, which focus on recreating her favorite scenes from her beloved books.

...Needless to say, that opportunity truly was a one-time affair.

.

.

.

Thanks a lot for your ask! 💋

[belaephemeral]

The night sky is coloured with you.

Pairing: Kaveh x Reader (gender neutral)

Author’s Note: A little oneshot to guide my favourite architect back home. Good luck pulling for him! <3

Inspired by Love Paint (every afternoon) - NU’EST (my POV Kaveh playlist).

Pressing a chaste kiss against the nape of his neck, you carefully pull and tug free the silky blond locks secured by the rouge ribbon in his hair. 

You pull away to catch him stir from his abrupt nap atop his work desk once again, murmuring nonsensical mutterings into his arms, which he’s propped his head up on, and snuggling into numerous large sheets of drawings and calculations beneath him. Surely, you hope he isn’t drooling onto the plans he’s worked so painstakingly hard on as he shows no signs of rousing from his beauty sleep nor do you have the heart to disturb his well-deserved cat nap. 

Slowly, you gather his curled form into your arms to carry him into his bedroom. Just as you tuck his head into your chest and secure your hold on his lithe frame, you steal a glimpse into the leather-bound notebook open and sprawled on the table. Little remarks and minuscule doodles line the margins of each page, making you chuckle briefly but your amusement bubbles into one of admiration. It happens as a gust of wind left open in the study room flips the book to a spread of graphite depictions of yourself. Your lips curled up and your heart swelled at the thought of how meticulous he was to get every plane and angle of your face just right or how much attention he truly pays attention to your features to capture the way your eyes wrinkle as you beam or the beauty mark you figured many haven’t noticed. 

To Kaveh, you’re his muse, his inspiration and his purpose. he dreams of capturing your beauty in every medium, style and art form. He wants to portray your tenacious character, your gorgeous features and your irresistible disposition, all endearing traits he adores you so much for. He aspires to paint his undying love into your being. Although, the latter is an issue for another night. At least in his dreams, he is able to do the same. Perhaps, when he isn’t too busy with his projects, he’ll turn those dreams into reality.

Planting your lips on the crown of his head, you step away from the graphite drawings and pages of proportions and measurements to exit the study room. You’re intent to bring him back to his room for some proper rest and back into your arms and embrace - back to a place where he’s safe and loved. A place that will always be there for him once he closes his eyes to the rising moon and opens his eyes to greet the morning sunrise. Unfailingly, you’ll always be there no matter what - because he’s everything you could have ever wanted and more. And you’ll protect that, protect him from anything that seeks to hurt him. As long as you’re here, by his side and in his arms, you won’t let anyone take him away from the life he deserves no matter what.

Because luck or not, fate has guided him to you. And who are you to deny the path destiny has carved for the both of you?

EXTRA:

A faint yip resounds throughout the room as it’s swiftly followed by a cacophony of pitter-pattering paws against cold tile floors. One by one, you watch astounded by the sudden barrage of beige and ochre fur leaping onto the bed and treading through the undulating plains of sage green blankets and pillows. Eventually, the three critters, who’ve slowly begun to invade your territory, knead the plush material underneath their forms before circling, and nestling into their designated sleeping spot.

You chuckle at their ministrations, playfully whispering “Hey, leave some space for me!” as they peacefully lay around the dozing blond. The three adorable desert foxes surround your beloved, as though guarding him as he descends into dreams and cuddling into his form for warmth during this chilly night in Sumeru City.

As you draw the covers over your body, you lean over to brush Kaveh’s locks back and place one last kiss against his temple. “Sweet dreams, my love. I’ll see you in the morning.”

[distortedblurs]

mike faist, twenty six, he/him ⟡ — is that JUDE LANDRY i just saw walking around kilmer’s cove? i heard they’re a RESIDENT who’s been here for HIS ENTIRE LIFE. it slipped my mind, since they just tend to hang out at THE CLIFFS. at face value, they’re said to be INGENIOUS and UNYIELDING, but i don’t know… some people have said they can be quite FANATICAL and FARAWAY. just don’t get on their bad side, i guess! don’t tell them i told you this, but i’ve heard they DO believe in all the ghost stories around town. who knows what the future holds for them! / james, they/them, est, n/a.

...content warnings for... nothing at the moment!

profile.

full name — jude dawson landry.

nickname(s) — almost always jd. sometimes jude. never dawson.

place of birth — kilmer, rhode island.

date of birth & age — feburary 15th, 1998. twenty6.

gender / pronouns — cis man, he / him.

sexuality — ...bi....bisexual? married to the mystery. demi - everything.

occupation — store clerk at the oddities museum. boat tour guide. master of disguises. aspiring paranormal detective. amateur inventor. king conspiracy. certified freak. podcast host alongside ziggy. perpetual student with a few degrees under his belt.

astrology — aquarius sun, pisces moon, gemini rising.

residence — the landry's old victorian family home. a room in the upper levels; covered in maps and books and ink and dust. one large window, often drawn shut.

interests — ghost stories, urban legends, myths and fables and the unexplainable. explaining them all. solving mysteries, both around town and within others. reading and journaling. his inventions coming to fruition. hikes, and the deep dark woods. sky - gazing, whether star or cloud. puzzles. yapping, especially when pertaining to his interests. earthy colors and warm layers. wool socks, flannels. a good baseball cap. dancing - but only when alone. singing - especially only when alone. chocolate chip pancakes. black coffee. milkshakes. being right. taking the lead, despite introversion.

aversions — his own perceived insecurities - such as others who do the same things as he does, but somehow better. being proved wrong. disbelievers who are loud about it. his anxieties. parties where he doesn't know anyone and therefore can't cling onto them. going into social situations mentally unprepared. facing his own emotions, or the flaws that come with them. doing deep levels of introspection. losing during both competitions and games. falling from great heights ( has happened numerous times before ). being chased by animals ( has also happened numerous times before ).

quirks — has a tendency to add fillers between words as his mind's always thinking, always churning. talks faster when excited. always has his inhaler on his persons. is hopelessly oblivious to others' emotions, whether they're crushes or upset with him for one reason or another. sometimes thinks only about himself, and can be thoughtless. never gives up; always gets back up on his feet. always has a journal or notebook in hand; always seen reading or writing or building something. has an entire closet of disguises. for what? i don't know. situations.

most played — nine black poppies by the mountain goats.

notable features — a mess of long blonde almost - curls that are undoubtedly treated with 3 - in - 1. a distinctly weasel - like face. baggy layers and clashing patterns lovingly picked out by ziggy.

general disposition — always curious, always seeking; eyes filled with the need to pursue. pursue what? anything. everything.

character study — dipper pines ( gravity falls ) & seth cohen ( the oc ).

upbringing.

jude born into the landry household alongside his twin sister, ziggy, and was instantly drawn into a life of color and wonder. the landry household's always been a restless one; designers and inventors and creative minds of both scientific and artistic pursuits constantly dancing through the hallways. never a moment of silence, of boredom, of inactivity. to others, their chaos is overwhelming - to jd, it's home.

he grew up being able to pursue whatever his heart desired, no matter how practical or impractical, even if his whims were fantastical or improbable. like his father and like many landrys before him - jude was drawn to science, to creation and invention. most evenings growing up were spent sitting beneath a tree, mapping out his next big project, anything to improve the life of himself and others. small things, like a multi - tool for dinner utensils, a pulley system from one balcony to the next; broke his arm in the eighth grade after attempting a grappling hook prototype that's still in works to this day.

it wasn't his only love, or his only passion; where there was the unknown, there was jd. beyond puzzles he needed to know the answer of, needed to solve - the mysteries and myths of kilmer have always intrigued jude. entranced him, almost, to the point of obsession. it's gotten him in trouble over the years - trespassing on private property just to catch the mysterious figure in the woods, casting himself off to sea in the middle of a storm just to capture a blurred photo of what could, theoretically, be a sea monster.

it's paradoxical, maybe - jude's a man of science. of reason and explanation; he shouldn't give old ghost stories more than a moment's thought. but he can't let go; insists on a reason behind every rumor, in truth behind every tale. he has to solve kilmer's cove, no matter what.

personal details.

jude is... the more awkward twin; introverted but yet, still enthusiastic. is passionate about so many different things that it's hard to captivate his attention before his thoughts are drifting off to bigger, better things.

is always managing to rope others into his situations, whether it's being out on his boat at the crack of dawn for "sightings", or in the middle of the woods as he examines blair witch - esque stick figures, or in a pair of matching disguises. it's not always purposeful; jd has the tendency to take things too far.

"he loved her to the point of invention" is very real and true for jd. he's a yearner, and a lover, but not an actor. he rarely acts on his feelings, finding them too embarrassing to express - if he knew how to, anyways. love languages include acts of service, gift giving in the form of new things that'll make their lives easier. usually holds onto a few... somewhat pathetic crushes at a time, yet is completely oblivious when the feelings are returned, or otherwise felt for him.

is simply... so preoccupied with his own things. has a podcast with his twin, ziggy, and yeah maybe their only listeners are their parents and their aunts and uncles. so what? it's there where jude talks about his conspiracies, thoughts on kilmer's local hauntings, and the mythical creatures he's determined to prove real.

jd has the worst fashion sense known to man. he usually lets ziggy create clothes for him and pick out things that she thinks would work for him, otherwise... hopeless. sticks to a lot of earthy tones and mild patterns, with a hint of ziggy all over it. a fan of baggy clothes; it hides his - frankly surprising - sleeper build. is somehow still out out of shape.

a big fan of the outdoors, jd only really spends time inside to sleep and to work on his inventions - and even then, there's still a 50% chance that he's doing either of those things outside. loves hiking, loves sitting atop the cliffs. can usually be found with a pair of binoculars - for monster spotting, of course.

he's in possession of at least one degree in wildlife science, and is steadily working towards a second in engineering. jd doesn't really plan on stopping there, either. plans on earning as many degrees as he can, at least, in everything that interests him. until death.

despite his introversion, jd isn't an unfriendly person. he can be a little offputting at times, and awkward, and definitely has a complex towards people he perceives as either "better" or "cooler" than him - but outside of that? he's generally friendly. is open to conversations, and friendships, though large social situations are a bit nerve - wracking without ziggy by his side.

potential connections.

this is going to be a kind of brief list, as jude's very new, and i'm pretty open to anything ( within reason ). i'd generally like any romance - oriented connections to be more chemistry based than anything else.

friendships! i'm like pretty sure jude was homeschooled, however, the landrys are fairly known around town and jude's always been out and about. childhood friends, college class friends, a best friend besides ziggy even. ( infinite ).

an ex partner? jude doesn't date often, in fact, this may as well have been his only partner, and all of his firsts. they could've dated for any length of time, short or long, for any period of his life. they're just not together now... and it's very possible that it's jude's fault as his priorities are misaligned ( dedicated to his work ). but, there could've been other reasons as well! ( 0 / 1 ).

co - workers. whether from the oddities museum, or the boat tours - they've definitely worked alongside jude and have been subject to many of his rambles. whether they enjoyed it, or are perpetually annoyed and he's too oblivious to realize - well. ( infinite ).

a singular friend with benefits. this is a rare thing for jd. it's not super frequent, but it's someone that jd is comfortable with and trusts, and at the beginning - it was just something that happened! maybe feelings are there, or will develop and ruin their current friendship, or maybe they're content in their situation. ( 0 / 1 ).

enemy - ships. the anti friendship. maybe it's not as strong as jd's nemesis, but there's still tension there whether it's hurt egos, a misunderstanding, purposeful sabotage, etc. it may actually be mutual this time! ( infinite ).

more pathetic crushes. while not as prominent as the main object of jude's affections, they still exist. mostly people jude is awkward around, and cannot figure out how to talk to without word vomiting. it could even be the other way around, someone's crush on jude that he's completely unaware of. ( 0 / 3 ).

the rest of the scooby gang. these are people that jude considers his "main" group of friends, even if they don't think the same. it's really because they hunt down mysteries and ghosts and cryptids together, and have been for varying lengths of time. this is a wc on the main as well! ( 2? / 5 ).

literally anything else we can think of. i'm open to anything!

[invisiblequeen]

For @aniraklova 's Yasmine BC: May I Present...Jaylan Gonzalez?

Age: 25

Hometown: Tomorang

Career: Painter

Aspiration: Neighborhood Confidante

Traits: Artist, Outgoing, Insecure

Likes: Blue, Orange, Red, Yellow, Americana Music, Carnival Beats Music, Easy Listening Music, Hip Hop Music, Flower Arranging, Mix-ology, Painting, Writing, Basics, Hipster and Street-wear Fashion

Dislikes: Pink, Purple, Electronica Music, Focus Music, Romance Music, Horse Riding, Knitting, Singing, Country and Polished fashion

Skills: Painting(8), Cleaning(2), Writing(4), Mix-ology(3), Flower Arranging(5), Charisma(2)

Jaylan grew up in Tomorang to some pretty strict property managers for parents. Their focus was money and their motivation was power. Under their tutelage, Jaylan was expected to take over the landlord business and continue growing the family empire until they owned estates all across the country.

That didn't quite work out how they'd hoped.

Jaylan, a sweet and sensitive soul, took up painting more than economics, and longed for friends more than business associates. When he approached fellow classmates, it wasn't to network connections that could help him in the future, but to make real friends. And as part of his "love language," he would decorate notebook and folder covers for FREE.

You'd think he murdered someone when he told his parents he was going to college for (gag) ART rather than business. Their reaction has remained the worst memory of his life. Among shaming him for embarrassing the family and insulting every aspect of his personality and appearance, they threatened to disown him if he continued down this path. "You will get NOTHING from us, for the rest of your wasted life."

Well. You see him now. Selling his art in San Myshuno and offering portraits on the weekend to passers-by. As much as it broke his heart, Jaylan said goodbye to the home and family he loved, to pursue what he knew he was destined for.

He may be insecure about his clothes, his art, his abilities, his very SELF, but he will never change who he is at heart, and he will never try to change someone else. Whoever he loves, he will love them as they are, and paint them portraits framed by flowers he picked just for them.

And that includes Yasmine.

what do we think, @aniraklova?

[zehlinks]

Notebook Acer Aspire 3 a315 Vale a Pena? #shorts

[nerdybouquetpeanutworld]

Notebook Acer Aspire 3 a315 é bom? Um notebook versátil para Diversas At...

[hanilessa]

hi hani! first of all - congrats on reaching the new follower milestone!! as your fellow childe enthusiast and reader, i really hope that more people appreciate your work and efforts <33

for your event, i'd like to post this: childe; i aspire to become a creative writer

thank you for bringing us so many great works, hani, and this event too! sending love and appreciation!! <3

` Author’s notes: hi darling!! thank you very much for your wishes <3 i'm so SO happy! AND FELLOW CHILDE ENTHUSIAST!! IT'S SO CUTE!! i believe you can become an amazing writer. thank u for your request, dear! ♡

Childe chuckled as he found another small piece of paper that was taped to your closet. He smiled gently and carefully peeled off a small piece of paper from the wooden surface to find out what you wrote about.

When a new idea suddenly appeared in your head, you always wrote a little hastily, so the words were written a little unclearly. Some words were written on a white piece of paper in slightly clumsy handwriting.

The main character must have some funny habit. This will help develop him better as a character.

Tartaglia chuckled again, shaking his head slightly. Sometimes it seemed to him that you paid more attention to the main character of your novel than to him.

Stupid jealousy for a fictional character appeared in his chest, but as soon as you appeared on the threshold of your shared bedroom, all his stupid thoughts disappeared from his head when he noticed your absent-minded look.

Ajax's heart began to beat faster when he noticed how cute you looked with a notebook and pencil in your hands, once again thinking about the details of your novel. Noticing the note you wrote this morning in the hands of your lover, you suddenly perked up.

"Ah!" Childe didn’t even notice how quickly you were next to him and took the small piece of paper from his hands. You made a frustrated expression and sighed. "I completely forgot that I made this note today! Do I really have to rewrite the entire chapter?"

Your thoughts were interrupted by the ringing laughter of the ginger man. You pouted offendedly and crossed your arms over your chest. When the man stopped laughing, he pulled you into his arms, hands caressing your cheek.

"You don't have to rewrite one chapter because of one mistake, my love." He spoke calmly to ease your worries and help you feel better. "I'm sure readers will love your character as much as you love him."

"Do you really think so?" You asked innocently, and your heart warmed, feeling the support and love of your Ajax.

"I do, darling." Childe smiled and chuckled, starting to grimace a little again. "But you should remember to give love to me too. I have to admit, I'm a little jealous of your main character! How about a kiss?"

[sagan-starstuff]

Secret Santa Gift Exchange Questionnaire

Starting broad, tell your Santa about your relationship to The X-Files. This could be how you got into The X-Files in the first place, what the show means to you, or just general information you think might be relevant for your Santa to know.

My mother was an X-Phile long before I was, she watched from the Pilot on. She was in chat rooms, on alt.tv.xfiles, in fic groups. I was afraid of the theme song at first, so much so that I made her mute it if I was still awake. I started watching in 1997, when I was 11 years old. I don't really remember my first episode - some time during the cancer arc. By the time the summer of 1997 was over, thanks to my mom's recorded episodes on VHS and re-runs on FX, I was fully caught up and 100% a shipper when Redux I premiered, and I've been obsessed ever since. I lived and breathed X-files, accumulated stacks of spiral notebooks full of bad tween fic and drawings, scrawled quotes and logos on the covers of my school binders. I was in chatrooms and on Haven, reading fic on Gossamer waaaaay too young, but everyone there still made me feel like I belonged. I was a weird, lonely tween/teen who had an incredibly hard time relating to my peers thanks to being skipped ahead a grade, but I could pretend Mulder and Scully were my friends. They were the smartest people in the room, they were outcasts, too. If they could be smart and strong, I could, too. The fandom gave me a community when middle school couldn't. I met my best friend in 1999 when she wore an X-Files shirt the first week of high school. I decided to become a doctor because Scully showed me that I could. I watched the way that Mulder and Scully loved each other with their minds and souls, and decided that I would never accept any less for myself.

I feel like I'm rambling, but I cannot understate the influence that The X-Files has had on my life. It was always a comfort for me, even when I was in college and the chatrooms and boards started to go dark. I lost connection with the fandom by the time IWTB came out, but I never loved the show any less. When my husband and I first started dating, I'd invite him over to watch X-Files with me...and we did, for a while, before we got up to other activities. He says I seduced him with The X-Files. It worked!

I reconnected with the fandom in 2023, and I wish so much that I'd known you all were out there this long. Finding other X-Philes, now in their 30's, 40's and beyond, has been such a treasure. As has been finding out that people in their teens and 20's love the show, too! I love seeing younger fans, people who may not even have been ALIVE for a lot of the original run. This is how we survive, how the show lives on.

I wear Mulder and Scully on my skin now. They'll be with me until I die.

2. Tell your Santa about your favorites! Favorite characters, favorite moments, favorite episodes, favorite seasons, favorite ships, etc.

This is so hard! My favorite will always be Scully but I love Mulder endlessly, even when he's an idiot. My favorite side character is Byers, though it's hard separating him from the rest of the Gunmen. My favorite moments...god, so many. But a moment I come back to again and again is Scully facing down the senate committee in Tunguska to protect Mulder. She displays strength, grace, and integrity that I can only aspire too. Every MSR moment is my favorite. My favorite seasons are 4-6, I cannot choose between them.

3. Tell your Santa about your LEAST favorites! We all love our show, but it also sucks sometimes. Which parts suck the most for you?

I hate season 9 - its like the writers forgot who these characters were. Mulder would never leave his new family after a lifetime of trauma from the loss of his old one. Scully would never give William up. Parts of season 8 are ok, though the way Mulder is written after his return is absolute character assassination, and I HAAAAAATE the secret brain disease. I don't even acknowledge it. I don't like IWTB much. I HAAAAAATE the My Struggles. I have...come to terms with the breakup, though I'll never like it. The Revival gave us a few great episodes and amazing moments. The parts of the show I rewatch most are season 1-7. Oh, and I hate Diana, but don't we all?

4. Tell your Santa your favorite tropes and genres! Only one bed? Friends to lovers? 5+1? Fluff, angst, hurt/comfort? You get the idea.

Ohhh I love first kiss/first time, I love love confessions, I love hurt/comfort. I like angst but only if it has a happy or hopeful ending. I looove Only One Bed, or huddling for warmth. I love fluff. I'm not a big AU fan unless it's a fix-it fic (like Mulder not leaving Scully and William, or Scully not giving Will up). I also love slice of life fic, seeing all their lost moments in rental cars and airports just...existing together.

5. Tell your Santa about tropes you tend to avoid.

Major Character Death, SA/Non-Con. I just want Mulder and Scully to be safe and loved.

6. For your Santa, but also just for fun, describe your ideal X-Files episode. Is it mythology? MotW? A literal porno? 

MOTW with an aspect that emotionally affects Mulder or Scully, with some nice MSR and evolution of feelings. I'm also down with a literal porno.

7. Speaking of pornography, tell your Santa what your spice preference is, using the following scale:

Salt only⁠ ⁠— No spice at all please! I.e. General audience rating.

Black pepper ⁠— A hint of spice. I.e. Teen rating.

Chili pepper ⁠— There’s a bit of a kick! I.e. Mature rating.

Habanero ⁠— Definitely spicy, but most spice lovers can handle it. I.e. Explicit rating.

✨Ghost pepper✨ ⁠— Only for the spiciest of spice lovers. I.e. VERY explicit/kink/POANG rating.

I will read anything Salt-Habanero, for Ghost Pepper it depends on the kink. Not into choking, non-consensual anything, nothing involving urine/feces, not a big anal fan, no physical or mental degradation of any kind. No feet.

8. Those are the most important things, but I want there to be ten questions because it’ll look better, so tell your Santa what ONE song you would pick to describe MSR. (Or if you’re not into MSR, pick a song for your favorite ship, or for TXF as a whole.)

The canonical MSR song is Walking After You by the Foo Fighters. Lovers in a Dangerous Time by the Barenaked ladies is also them in a nutshell.

9. Almost there. Pick your favorite TXF quote. 

"Please explain the scientific nature of The Whammy."

10. Aaaaand, ten. And the last question can be open ended: Is there anything else you think is important for your Santa to know? Put it here!

Thank you for being a part of the best fandom on the planet! Please feel free to reach out to me with questions or even just to chat!

[my-favourite-zhent]

New Tricks - Chapter 19

Status: Work In Progress

Version: 1.01

Pairing: Rugan x AFAB!OC

Rating: NC-17 (This chapter PG-13)

Genre: Adventure/Romance

Summary: Misadventures of Rugan and the original Zhentarim Gate's crew before and during the year of three sailing ships.

Notes: When one chapter becomes three. The main scenes for the next two upcoming chapters were written way back when I was struggling with chapter six. It was meant to be chapter eight but the plot got away from me a bit. This chapter started out as a little extra tidbit at the start but ended up growing into its own thing and for once I didn't delete an Izzy POV chapter.

Thank you to @fistfuloftarenths, @captainsigge, @dustdeepsea for always being my wonderful betas and providing me with encouragement. If it weren't for you all I think I would've deleted this chapter.

Dust also had the great suggestion of including the clip from Izzy's notebook and showed me how to do all the lovely formatting you will see in this chapter <3. (Check the AO3 link for that and additional footnotes as it's not in the tumblr post)

Also a shout out to @coreene for having such a treasure trove of lore on her tumblr! Always super helpful for fleshing out the background world lore.

Table of Contents

Read Here on AO3 or below the cut.

By now rotten luck had coloured most of Isolde’s life. 

It seemed to her that it had all begun after her parents' untimely deaths when she was sixteen.

What had begun as one bad year became two, with her exile to some gods forsaken farmlands and her first heartbreak at seventeen. 

The following year had appeared to break the trend—she had been offered the position of sizar at the university where her parents once taught. Only in reality it had simply been a year spent building the framework for a truly devastating nineteenth year and an end to her academic aspirations. Her first lover came and went. First friends came and went. Corra was the only good thing to come out of her short-lived scholastic career.

The jobs had been like that too. Someone would turn traitor or stupid. Load bearing beams would give way. Priceless urns would be full of fucking venomous spiders. Only now she had been prepared for rotten luck. Moulded by it.

Now she always slipped a spare trinket under her blouse or in her boot just in case the job didn't pay. Now she kept her valuables in a safe deposit box on the off chance her room got ransacked again. Now she slept in her road breeches with a knife under her pillow, and while she'd never been trained to kill, jabbing someone who wasn't expecting it gave you a good head start on an escape. 

Seventeen years of bad luck had taught her to be prepared and to be persistent. She had survived and even sometimes thrived because of it.

So now, as she watched the sailors drag her chest up onto the deck of the ship, she felt especially stupid.

“My tools are in there! I've paid you good coin to transport those!” She screamed, but her voice could barely be heard by the man next to her over the crashing of the waves. 

The ship rocked under another violent tumult of wind. The tempest had come upon them without any warning, clear blue skies had become turbulent greys streaked in black and white in mere moments. There wasn't even supposed to be storms like this on the Sword Coast for another month. It was just her luck. 

Distantly she heard cries to cut the main sail.

The sailor looked as contrite as one could in the midst of a squall. “Sorry lass, bitch queen needs her offering!” 

And despite the pelting hail and whipping winds it was the word lass that made her flinch. 

‘Should have never gotten aboard a ship out of Neverwinter,’ she thought bitterly as she watched them tip her chest into the sea.

The contract she had taken in Baldur's Gate was an easy forgery job. She could've sat nice and safe in a room at the Elfsong scribbling away before meeting Rugan. She would've made a mint for doing hardly anything at all. But now her seals were gone and with it the contract.

Standing on the docks, Isolde weighed her options. It was alright. This was manageable. She still had the clay impressions of her fake seals in her pack. The sheep’s bladder she kept them in had protected them from any water damage from the storm. A half-way competent smith could recreate the seals from the pressings easily. But just how much would halfway decent cost her? More than she had left, it turned out. Most of her coin was now at the blacksmith's, and that was only the first half of the payment.

Her hand strayed time and again to where her insurance necklace would be, but she had pawned it. Pawned it for the same reason she had come to the city. The same reason she was flat broke. At least she could make that bastard buy her a drink. Blame him heartily for her misfortune. And if he smiled at her even once her fool heart would find the whole venture worthwhile.

“Sorry, miss, believe his caravan is on the road right now. Haven't seen him in a tenday.” The man behind the bar at the Elfsong shrugged.

It was just her rotten luck.

In weaker moments of her life she had considered leaving offerings to Beshaba at those little roadside shrines made of antlers and twigs. But no, fuck that deer-headed bitch. And fuck Umberlee too, while she was at it.

The barkeep looked apologetic, just as the sailor had, but that wasn't going to help her out in any way, shape or form.

She would need to find another job to take on. Isolde considered the other local contract she had ignored on account of the risk. There was nothing for it now. She leaned back in her stool and sighed. So long and low and frustrated that the man gave her another sympathetic look.

“Drink might help with that, miss.”

She opened her coin purse and eyed the few bits she had left.

“Give me the strongest thing you've got for two silvers.” She said sliding the coins across the table.

The man nodded and exchanged them for a pitcher of wine and a tall glass.

“If it's not a pressing issue,” he added as he poured the first glass full for her. “Could leave a letter with me if you like. He's in here every night when the caravan’s not on the road.”

Isolde perked up at that. “If you wouldn't mind.”

“Half the point of an inn is to have a place to send letters. I even mail some out if you've got a coin for the ship’s captain.”

Isolde almost took out her pen and ink right there, but then thought better of it. No sense trying to hastily scribble a note at the bar where some other patron would knock their elbows against hers and make the barman regret his offer.

Scooping up her glass and pitcher, pack slung over her shoulder, Isolde tipped her head in thanks and made for one of the alcoves at the far end of the taproom.

The Elfsong was much nicer than she had expected. The floors were worn but well-maintained, the drapes were not frayed and had minimal patching. She had been told more than once this place was a tourist trap, but when Rugan had called it his local she had presumed it to be something more akin to a dive bar. Had that been unkind of her? The Blackstaron and the Prow in Waterdeep had both been nicely kept inns, even if they had managed to get themselves kicked out of the first one.

She was broken from her train of thought when another patron collided into her, the wine from her glass sloshing over her hand.

“Sorry, love.” The man offered though he didn't even bother to meet her eyes as he and his date brushed past and grabbed the seat she had been eyeing. The date gave her a look that was half amusement, half pity, and Isolde muttered a curse under her breath as she stalked down to the next alcove.

Carefully she placed her wine down on the table, mindful of how it still undulated in its confines. With her clean hand she withdrew a rag from her pack and wet it with her waterskin, wiping clean the other before finally seating herself. 

As she unpacked her writing tools she wondered idly if this was the same seat Rugan liked to frequent. Would he have a regular seat? She should've asked the barman. No, on second thought that was a terrible idea. Isolde had seen and chosen to ignore the pitying look the man had given her when Rugan's name had slipped her lips. Didn't need to let him know how badly besotted she was, admitting it to herself was embarrassing enough.

She drained her first glass before setting pen to paper. This one was easy enough to write, and feeling a bit bold she applied a thin layer of vermillion to her lips as the ink dried. She marked the page with her lips and hoped it would make Rugan suitably unhappy about standing her up.

There was another letter she should write, though she wasn't too pleased about it. 

‘It might not be necessary.’ She tried to tell herself. 

She pulled out her leather bound notebook. It was a tiny thing, worn at the edges, about as wide and long as her hand but maybe two finger-span thick.

The contact information for the job had been hastily scribbled on one of the thick pages, just in case.

It had been Isolde's father who had taught her how to bind books, but it had been her mother who had taught her how to spot traps.

There were many things to take into account, but it came down to a few large considerations:

Was this culture known for booby-trapping tombs? Was this a place or person of importance?

An Imaskari noble would have a much more dangerous mausoleum than a Tharrian peasant.

Was there irregular wear on the ground that might suggest its builders walked a specific, safe path?

Pressure plates were a simple trap and thus effective trap. They stood the test of time better than more complex machinery.

Were there intricate patterns on the structure that could conceal glyphs?

Metal lasted long but magic lasted damn near indefinitely and could do far more damage.

One should be wary on any job, but if the answer to any of these questions was yes then doubly so.

Isolde had a similar list of tell-tale signs when it came to selecting jobs.

Was this client known to her network?

One tended to see the same familiar faces handling these operations. Sure muscle and labour would be locals, but the showrunner was usually one of two dozen folks who had the training to identify a site or the connections to fence the goods. Some characters were more trustworthy than others.

And no, the folks named here were not known to her or anyone she had asked.

Was the site near a city centre?

They oft times were—cities tended to grow on the bones of their forebears, like Luskan and Illusk. This meant more secrecy was necessary, but also less violence. Harder to hide a body and its eventual rot. Out in the wilds you didn’t even need to bury a corpse for it to never be found.

This job was definitely not near a city.

Was the pay reasonable?

Too high meant this was a con, you were lucky if you only came out empty-handed. Too low meant whoever was in charge didn’t even know what their goods were worth, if anything, and they didn’t know the running cost of a black market archaeologist.

Too low, far too low.

She had already known all this, but somehow had hoped the details might have changed since she last looked at the notebook. Isolde groaned and threw her head back against the wall of the booth. She was going to have to write the second letter.

Isolde poured and downed two more glasses of wine before she was sufficiently over her shame of having to ask Corra for money. If the forgery job was still around when she returned she’d pay Corra back two-fold.

Maybe she could just wait till Corra’s letter of credit came through, there were cheaper inns in the city, certainly. Gods, maybe a flophouse? But no, after hunting around the lower city and Norchapel it turned out Baldur’s Gate was almost as overpriced as Waterdeep.

‘Should’ve sent the letter and waited before paying for the tools.’ She thought dejectedly.

There ended up being roughly enough coin for a night or two in a flop house, some food for the road and a ride on a caravan heading west. So that was what she resolved to do.

Hopefully, stupidly, she looked for his face amongst the various caravans on the morning she made her way out of Baldur's Gate.

The wagons outside Basilisk Gate were packed end to end—or end to horse as it were. Some people pushed handcarts, perhaps to visit the nearby farms. She also saw oxen hitched to sturdy wagons loaded down with heavier goods. Merchants with lighter goods like the one she accompanied had horses to carry them along faster.

It was a decently nice carriage. Nothing fancy like the wooden conveyances that nobles used, but it had a sturdy canvas roof which was more than most.

The air by now was rank with the dung of a hundred beasts of burden, idling while their masters impatiently waited behind the traffic of a several dozen handcarts.

‘Just like Crimmor.’ She thought with an amused sort of wistfulness.

Isolde noticed then a group dressed in that familiar black and yellow, and her heart struggled to break free from the confines of her ribs. She leaned out the back of the wagon to get a better look. Though she squinted hard there was no one she was acquainted with. Just some red-head with clownish hair, though he had a familiar sort of chin.

“Don't want to be looking too long, dearie. Not a friendly bunch.” Warned the old woman across from her, not unkindly. The merchant’s mother as she understood it.

“Of course, my thanks.” Isolde bowed her head and sat back down on the wagon floor. 

They began moving at last, just as the dawn's early light was obscured by heavy soot coloured clouds. A wry smile twisted Isolde's lips.

“Something funny, dear?”

Isolde turned to meet the woman's gaze. “Just my luck, that’s all.”