#or the devil calling up his hoards to hype him

[mids-stupid-shit]

Just whatched Tenacious D and the Pick of Destiny and i need like a minute

[dearly-somber]

get high | h.it

-> pairing. it-boy!intak x female reader

-> genre. high school!au, acquaintances-to-???, pwp plot what plot (this fic is vibes only)

-> rating. 13+

-> w/c. 2190

-> warnings. weed, making out, kind of dub-cony ngl 😭, suggestive ending

-> a/n. I’ve never smoked weed before, so if anything’s inaccurate feel free to edumacate me🤡👍🏻 Also: I have nothing against weed or the people who smoke it as long as it’s done responsibly and in a safe environment 😌

-> collection. misc

-> started. Mar. 19th, 2024 @ 22:40

-> fin. Sun., Oct. 20th, 2024 @ 22:48

-> edited. Tues., Oct. 22nd, 2024 @ 13:20

-> divider credit. @xxbimbobunnyxx

You‘ve never understood the “hype” around weed.

Granted, you’d grown up in a very anti-drug household, so you went into high school with the mindset that whatever long term negative effects occurred after smoking weed would far outweigh the momentary high you’d heard people talk about on so many occasions.

Except, you’d never expected yourself to acquaint yourself with Hwang Intak: one of the most popular kids in senior year, Intak was well-known for his chill house-parties and phenomenal dance skills—a total catch and in with the so called “it-group”, he wasn’t someone you saw yourself ever interacting with, let alone befriending.

That was, of course, before you realized you shared nearly half your classes with him.

You weren’t very popular—sure, people knew you (it was impossible not to when you’d befriended a hoard of social butterflies and were known at least visually for your intimidating, no-nonsense RBF), but you’d never truly made friends with any of the kids higher up in the social hierarchy than “is friends with popular kids but isn’t actually popular themselves”.

So imagine your surprise when, on a seemingly random Tuesday morning during one of your double accounting periods, Hwang Intak strolled up to your desk with a friendly smile on his face, his voice light and airy as he asked, “You’re Y/N, right?”

From there, you’d started talking more and more, until one day he cornered you on your way to your locker after your sixth period, leaning against the wall as he spoke.

“You free this weekend?” he asked.

You raised your brow skeptically, looking warily over your shoulder at people making grouchy faces at having to step around you to get to where they needed to go. “I don’t think so, why?”

He grabbed your forearm and pulled you into his bubble and out of the way of the bustling student body.

You gulped up at him, cursing the heat you felt crawling up your throat at the closeness between you.

“I’m having a small get together with some friends to celebrate my birthday,” he said, putting his hands in his pocket as he tilted his head against the brick wall next to you. “I was wondering if you’d wanna join.”

Your eyes widened. “Me?”

“Yeah.”

“Uhm… I mean, I—yeah, sure, I’ll be there,” you coughed, thanking the heavens above he seemed not to be focusing on your neck; you could feel how hot you’d gotten without needing to check first.

“Cool,” he said. “I’ll see you this weekend.” He smiled charmingly and began walking towards the staircase (where you belatedly realized a group of his friends were waiting for him), but panicked a little realizing you had no idea where to meet him.

“Intak!”

He turned around with a hum, his eyebrows raised ever so slightly.

You cleared your throat, rocking on the balls of your feet. “Where are we meeting?”

“Ah,” he laughed, walking back to you with a grin so captivating you were surprised your mouth wasn’t hanging open. “You have a pen?”

“A—uh, yeah, hold on, lemme just” —you dug around in your bag for your pencil case before pulling out a black pen and handing it to him, perplexed.

Your eyes widened when he reached once again for your forearm, ducking his head as he shook the pen out and began writing what you assumed was his number on your exposed skin, drawing a weirdly symmetrical, grinning heart with little devil-horns and a tail at the end.

“There we go,” he said, tucking the pen into your emblem pocket with a boyish grin.

He laughed at your bewildered expression as he backtracked toward his friends, the look he gave you sending a hoard of butterflies loose in the pit of your stomach. “See you soon, Y/N! I’ll text you the details!”

“I, uh” —you pinched yourself— “yeah, okay!”

Now, you’re probably wondering—what does any of that have to do with weed?

Well… maybe it’s easier to just show you.

“Y/NNNN!” Intak grinned at you from his couch, shamelessly eyeing you up and down as you walked sheepishly into his living room.

You waved awkwardly, feeling heat creep up the column of your throat when he giggled and waved back, a dumb grin on his face.

You fiddled with the hem of your white skirt, tugging the sleeves of your black Kuromi sweater over your fingers as one of Intak’s older friends, Choi Jiung, ushered you to sit between Intak’s legs.

“So…” You cleared your throat, crossing your spread legs at the ankles so you didn’t have to worry about accidentally exposing anything you didn’t want exposed. You forced a relaxed smile. “What are we doing?”

Jiung laughed good-naturedly, pulling a girl you didn’t recognize into his lap. “We’re smoking,” he said with a smile, his eyebrows furrowing in curiosity as he asked, “Have you smoked before?”

You hummed uncertainly, fiddling with your fingers—the heat of Intak’s legs against your arms was making it incredibly difficult to think. “No, I don’t really smoke…”

The girl in Jiung’s lap’s eyes widened. “What? Never?”

You shook your head.

“Not even once?”

“No,” you whispered, resisting the sudden urge to spring up and dash for the door.

“Ash,” Intak reprimanded, shifting in his seat.

Just as you were about to turn your head to look at him, his breath hit the back of your ear, his hands on your shoulders and a smile in his voice.

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he assured you. “It’ll help you relax, though.”

He massaged your shoulders to emphasize his point and you tried very hard not to squeak in surprise.

Since when was Hwang Intak so good with his hands?

“You wan’ a hit?” Jiung offered, holding a joint out to you with wide eyes and raised brows; weirdly innocent-looking considering the situation you were in.

You swallowed a lump in your throat.

On the one hand, you were kind of scared. What if all those things your parents had said were true? That one hit meant you’d be a goner forever and start doing hardcore drugs because you’d started with the “Gateway”? That if you started now you’d become immediately enslaved to the high and never recover?

But, despite those worries, despite those fears…

Intak hadn’t stopped massaging your shoulders—rather, he’d dragged his hand to the base of your neck, gently pressing his forefinger against your pulse-point before sliding it down to brush across your exposed collarbone.

Thank the heavens he chose not to comment on the shiver that shot up your spine, but it was clear in the little huff of air behind you that he found your reaction amusing.

Really, you were curious. And maybe you wanted to impress him.

Just a little bit.

So you nodded, smiling awkwardy as Ash—Jiung’s girlfriend(?)—whooped and clapped with an obnoxious laugh of encouragement.

You took the already-lit joint from Jiung, holding it between your pointer finger and thumb, inspecting it.

Intak giggled, “Just put it to your lips and pull.” His chest expanded with the amount of air he sucked in through his teeth, letting out an exhale with an exaggerated grunt of relief.

You nodded uncertainly, releasing a nervous breath before bringing the joint up to your lips.

“There we go,” he whispered next to your ear, his chin resting on your shoulder as his hands ran up and down your arms; bold from the cannabis or because you were in his house, you didn’t know.

Not that you really cared, anyway.

You mimicked Intak’s movements and set the roll down in a coughing fit, waving your hand in front of your face like it’d stave off the aching burn traveling from the back of your throat all the way through to your lungs.

It took a couple of seconds for you to stop coughing, looking around the room with your hand fisted in front of your mouth and tears pooling in the corners of your eyes.

You met the expectant eyes of Ash and Jiung—and then you… laughed. And you laughed a little more, and some more, until you were giggling dumbly because why were they looking at you like that!

“Atta girl!” Jiung hooted, leaning far back into his chair before taking another hit from his own blunt.

“How d’you feel?” Intak asked, his eyes lighting up when you turned your head to look at him proper. His pupils were visibly dilated, sucking you in a little like a black hole.

You grinned, leaning back against his knee.

“I feel good,” you slurred, letting your eyes roam his face and grinning when he seemed to smile brighter because of it. “Really good,” you admit.

“Yeah?” Intak said, licking his lips. “Calmer?”

“Mmm…” You dragged your lower lip between your teeth and indulged in the wonderful cartwheel your stomach did as Intak watched the motion with rapt attention.

“Now,” Ash clapped her hands together, wiggling her eyebrows with a devilish smirk. “Let’s play truth or dare.”

“Y/N!” Ash yelled, completely indifferent to Jiung’s lips attached to her neck, “truth or dare?”

You hummed playfully, still leaned back against Intak’s leg.

You’d mellowed out considerably since you had your first pull around twenty minutes ago—you were leaning against Intak like it was normal and the hand he was running through your hair didn’t even make you bat an eye.

“Dare,” you said with a grin, light and happy and relaxed—more relaxed than you’d been during summer break!

Ash grinned mischievously, bringing a hand up to pull at Jiung’s hair, looking at him over her shoulder with a vicious smile. “I dare you to kiss Intak.”

“That’s boring,” Jiung panted, his cheeks tinged pink as he licked his lips and watched Ash with a furrowed brow, head tilted back with her firm grip in his hair.

She rolled her eyes, but turned to you and said, “Fine. I dare you to kiss Intak’s tongue.”

You licked your lips with an excited giggled, using Intak’s knees to push yourself up before turning around to smile at him with a happy sway in your step.

Intak watched you with a lazy grin as you walked between his legs, setting your hands beside his waist and leaning forward at a 90° angle to connect your mouths in an easy kiss.

“Yah!” Ash laughed, the sound breaking the two of you apart. “That’s not his tongue!”

You giggled and waved her off, looking down at Intak with hooded eyes.

“Stick your tongue out,” you ordered, staring at his mouth like a starved animal.

Intak grinned, watching you like a puppy watches his owner as he obediently stuck his tongue out, leaning cockily back into the couch.

With a surprising ease, you leant down and touched your lips to his tongue, so intrigued by the feel of it you gave it a little kitten lick of your own.

Intak groaned as he grabbed you by the back of your neck and pulled you in for a very heated kiss, sticking his tongue in your mouth and tilting his head for better access.

You were on cloud nine and vaguely floaty, setting your hands on his upper thighs to keep yourself from wobbling over.

You only pulled away after Jiung let out a low whistle, Intak, lips red and swollen with a possessive hand on the nape of your neck and a hungry, nearly insatiable look in his eyes.

“Well, shit,” Ash laughed, leaning back against Jiung’s shoulder. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Y/Nie.”

You licked your lips as Intak leant up to press a chaste kiss to the corner of your lip, a confused noise leaving you when he suddenly pushed himself to standing.

You felt a little flip in the pit of your stomach at how tall he suddenly felt now that you weren’t towering over him, biting on your lip as he grabbed your hand.

“Let’s go to my room, hm?” he asked, not really waiting for an answer as he lead you to the stairs. “Get some privacy.”

You waved to Jiung and Ash (though neither of them waved back because they’d opted to start sucking each other’s faces off), watching with a growing fire the way Intak’s back muscles moved when he walked.

“You’re a good kisser,” you complimented as he lead you upstairs, laughing when he brought you into his room. He shut but did not lock the door behind him.

“Yeah?” he smirked. “How good?

“Very,” you assured, eagerly standing on the tips of your toes and wrapping your arms around his shoulders so you could keep kissing him.

“Mmm,” he hummed against your lips, guiding you back until the two of you were laying flat on the edge of his bed, his hands running up to trace the bare skin under your shirt. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

You nipped his lip, sighing into his mouth when he gave your waist a little squeeze. “I’m a little out of practice,” you panted.

He chuckled, pulling away to give you a devilish smirk. “We can practice.”

And so practice you did.

[kingsofchaos]

So there’s this club, right? Everyone knows it’s the place to see, the place to be seen, anyone who's anyone in this wretched town wants to spend their nights dancing and drinking and taking in the sights at FAKE’S. No matter what time, what day, there’s always an endless line down the road, always a hoard of people turned away at the door, the club more than popular enough to be selective about their clientele. Not that this means upstanding, oh no. FAKE’S is a guaranteed good time for sure but part and parcel of its appeal is the ever present undercurrent of something dangerous, the hint of shady business in the background, the aggressively attractive edge of something quietly sinister in every employee, the promise that no matter what happens the night is bound to be exciting. There's a stunning woman at the door, red hair or blonde hair or sometimes pink but always smiling, open and amicable and not at all what one would expect in a bouncer. At least she is right up until someone acts up, thinks to try their luck, disregard the authority of the gatekeeper just because she’s sweet. A mistake no one makes more than once; Lindsay’s ability to near instantly level an arrogant gym-rat jock rivals any stereotypical thug of a bouncer, with the bonus humiliation of her unfazed laughter ringing in their ears as they slink away. Some nights she’s joined by another young woman, as meticulously dressed and presented as the girls hoping to enter but with all the confident command of a drill sergeant, Mica sashays up and down the line picking out favourites and shooing off undesirables before they even make it to the door. For those who pass muster the interior of FAKE’S is no less intimidating; packed dance-floor rolling with the music below an elevated DJ platform, semi-private booths lining the walls, long curving bar rolling out everything from standard spirits and beers to impressively flaming cocktails, and a large cordoned off VIP lounge tucked around the back. Clean, with a great vibe and decent layout, but what really makes the venue and draws in the crowds are the people who run the club. There are plenty of background workers of course, both literally behind the scenes and those who are simply showing up and doing their jobs, casual employees without any deeper connection than a steady paycheque, but it’s the characters who intrigue the clientele. The staff who rule the joint, as tied to FAKE’S as the boss himself, like the oldest of friends who have always been here, tightknit as family with enough authority to conduct themselves and their work just about however they see fit.   It's pretty uncommon to see the big boss down on the floor, normally tucked away behind tinted windows in the office overlooking his kingdom, but Ramsey does make the odd appearance; coming and going, entertaining VIP’s and talking with his employees. Slick and suited he cuts an imposing figure, emanating confidence and near constant amusement though the few times he has lost his temper in public have been notable enough that all know to be wary of his sharp eyes and easy grin. They say the club is only one of Ramsey’s business ventures, though it is surely the most profitable; the man seems to be on friendly terms with near every big name in crime in this city, has even the chief of police eating out of his palm, and it’s a damn near open secret that FAKE’S is not exactly a clean-handed establishment. Not that anyone seems to care, not that it harms their business in any way, Ramsey is sitting pretty on an empire, calling every shot as he sees fit, and he knows it. He’s got no time for fools and all the time in the world for his own people; there is no the customer is always right at FAKE’S – Ramsey’s always on his employee’s side and he’s not shy about making that known. His business partner, Jack, is his right hand and financial manager and she spends nearly as much time tucked away in the office as he does. When she is on the floor Jack strides to and from where she’s going with purpose, smile polite but wasting no time on pleasantries or idle chitchat with anyone who doesn’t work at FAKE’S. The employees have perhaps too much of her attention, told off for skipping breaks and hustled along when she wants them off the floor, clearly affectionate even as they grumble; it seems none are immune to Jack’s disappointed glares. The one exception to her general disinterest in interacting with the clientele is the occasional instance of overhearing anybody refusing to take no for an answer, in which case Jack charitably provides them with a brief, terrifying summary of harassment and the importance of consent as she shows them the exit. Beyond the ladies on the door there are two notable members of security within the club with more authority than the handful of nameless guards wandering around at any given time; Jones and Haywood. They should stand out, forgoing the apparent security dress code of all black suits in favour of jeans and leather jackets, but both are alarmingly talented at sinking into shadows and materialising out of thin air at the first sign of trouble. Jones is always around somewhere; directing the other guards, doing rounds, constantly keeping a keen eye on the floor so long as he isn’t dealing with a problem or being dragged off to entertain the blond haired man behind the bar. He’s not the biggest guy around but everyone has witnessed the infamous fury of his temper and even men twice his size hit the floor when they refuse to abide by his law. Haywood is a bit more sporadic; he’s around most nights, a sardonic looming presence that spikes fear into the hearts of even the rowdiest drunkards, but if Ramsey is absent so is he. It stands to reason that he’s playing guard dog somewhere else, personal security on whatever business the bossman is off to conduct, the gossip mill whirling into overdrive anytime he returns with a visible bruise or bloodied knuckles. There's a third who slips seamlessly into line with Jones and Haywood when a night grows too unruly, or guards the VIP lounge when Ramsey's entertaining, but for the most part Lil J plays the role of in-house DJ. Jeremy is generally friendlier with the patrons than the rest of security but when something’s going down he can have a shorter fuse than even Jones, fierce and scrappy in a fight though there’s no denying that he’s clearly far happier to be up in the DJ booth. He’s good at what he does, part of what makes the club so popular, and the days he's off or playing muscle are often met with hearty complaints from the regulars no matter how competent his replacement is. The one exception to the rule is Axialmatt, who normally works out the back but occasionally takes over the booth; he interacts and plays around with the audience far less than Lil J but has a way with the music that quickly wins over everyone on the dance floor.  Ramsey's got a pet, a ward, the apple of his eye if you believe the hype; lord knows the kid must have some favour to get away with playing the way he does. A crowd-pleaser who is all too aware of his own appeal, all painted-on jeans and fickle affections as he dances with the patrons and teases the staff, distracting security and even shimmying his way up the platform to rile up the dancers and badger the DJ. When they can get him to behave himself Gavin tends bar, and on those nights there is a constant sea of people clamouring to hand over their hard-earned money, outrageous flirting netting Gavin not only an absurd profit in tips but also a wealth of rumours and secrets and all kinds of interesting titbits. Not that the full-time bartender (part-time babysitter) doesn't do well enough on his own, Trevor's wry humour and friendly chatter easily deflects most from the undercurrent of steely self-assurance he carries. It only really slips out in moments of alarmingly confident threats when someone's overstepping the boundaries of what he deems acceptable, cold eyes even with his teeth still bared in a parody of a smile, tone polite and laced with promise; Take your hands off him or I’ll take them off you. It's a theme with FAKE'S employee's really; cocky, amused, deeply concerned with one another’s welfare and seemingly far more dangerous than anyone expects. It's a bad idea to test security at any decent club but FAKE'S muscle seems to miss nothing, formidable and no-nonsense they pull no punches; anyone who acts up or causes a scene is quickly ejected, and anyone caught harassing the staff will be escorted to the alley out back. On the rare occasion Jones or Haywood miss something, busy or distracted or already engaged, the rest of Ramsey’s people are all capable enough to at least hold their own, even the flighty little bartender has something sharp and dangerous tucked behind his teeth, flickering beneath the sneering snarl saved for those who think to take what isn't theirs, but it’s Jack you really have to watch out for. Jack who will appear in a heartbeat, who will cut through the bullshit and run down even the slipperiest, most self-important asshole like a bloodhound, delivering them to security with a demand that they be dealt with or, worse, having them dragged up to see Ramsey himself. Those troublemakers never again darken their doors; forget cover charges, this is the price you pay for dancing with the devil, this is the risk in playing with the FAKE’S. For most, though, the night is just a party, just on the right side of thrilling, and by the time dawn approaches FAKE’S is shutting down and the last die-hard revellers are being herded out into the street. For those very few who manage to stick around a little longer, to duck out of sight for an extra moment as the security team does their best to kick out the last desperate stragglers, the tail end of the night is a completely different experience. The inhabitants of the club are as soft and tired and human as they’ll ever be, cleaning up and resetting for the next night’s work; lights on, music off, and slowly losing their shield of sharp smirking shine. Trevor will be trying to tidy up around Gavin, who’s usually sitting on the bar by now, draped around whichever co-worker has come up to growl and chase off the last of his lingering fans, Jones, Haywood and Lil J all congregating to debrief on the night’s events, Lindsay and Mica slotting in as the rostered guards take over to lock up out front. As the last of the casual staff trickle out a young woman will emerge from out back to flit about taking stock, rolling her eyes at the various voices calling out to her from the head of every area, all ‘Steffie we need more-‘ ‘Steffie we’re almost out of-‘ ‘Hey Steffie did we get the-’ ignoring sweet-talk and puppy-dog eyes but dutifully noting it all down anyway. Finally, Ramsey will descend from on high with Jack at his side, the two seamlessly slipping into the huddle of their most loved and loyal, folded into conversation without a hint of deference from their people. The pair will listen to the latest barrage of complaints and amusing stories, will hand out praise and suggestion and, with tired eyes still bright with something wicked, will share the highlights of the day’s less savoury business conducted behind closed doors. But before then, of course, even the wiliest of stowaway partiers will have been uncovered, hustled out with perhaps slightly more force than strictly necessary, left out on the street as the sun starts to rise and the green neon glow of FAKE’S sign flickers out, nocturnal beast of a building settling down to sleep until its doors are thrown open once more.