#so if that’s the case I’m really sorry

[duckidrawzz]

a new stream opens, and the footage looked like it’s being filmed on a phone.

I am not dead.

SpookySpaceEats

0 viewers | 0 likes

Danny: ok, um, let’s see… invite people to stream… CoffeeLover, iamnotafish… robot69… ok, that should be enough for now.

I am not dead.

SpookySpaceEats

3 viewers | 2 likes

*The streamer runs his free hand through his hair nervously* Danny: so… everyone thinks I’m dead.

*he laughs in a slightly crazed manner* Danny: I… am not dead. I’m sorry if you thought I was…? *he seems to reconsider his words* Danny: Well, I didn’t die to food. I’m much too adept at fighting food to die to it.

I am not dead.

SpookySpaceEats

3.5k viewers | 3.5k likes

Danny: wow, that’s… a lot of people, haha. I, um, never really realized I had such a large audience! Heh…

*he looks a bit startled at how many people are watching* Danny: well… in any case… I’m sorry if my, quote unquote, ‘death’ affected you in any harmful manner. It was never my intention to have any of you mourn me, and I should have thought through the way I ended my streaming career. I should’ve thought about… how…

*he seems to see something out of frame, and muffled talking is heard. He nods along with what the person is saying* Danny: well, my sister and I have something to do, so goodbye! I just wanted people to know. That I’m not dead. So yeah. Bye.

<-The stream has ended.->

I am not dead.

SpookySpaceEats

9.7k viewers | 9.7k likes

<-<- ->->

Dc x Dp prompt #1

Danny open a YouTube channel teaching how to cook.

Bonus point : During the live, the food came to life. And he had to fight the food while chats were watching him.

[kristanlayne]

Hello! It's my first time asking, so forgive me if it isn't the right place,

Since seeing the moment between Time and Wind (Timeline talk), I do wonder what your interpretation would be if a similar moment happened between Time and Legend! Sorry if it's too much, and thank you! God bless!

(P.S. if you need info, Legend only comes in if Time loses in the official timeline)

Hi Hi!!! Don’t worry about it, this was the right spot to ask! I just wanted to say thank you so much for the request. I’m really happy you wanted to see how I’d handle this scenario!

But I’ll elaborate a bit below in case my comic doesn’t translate my thoughts well enough:

I believe that with something as heavy as the topic of timelines, legend would do a lot of internal battling with his thoughts and feelings on the matter. He isn’t the type of person to just jump out and blurt his feelings to another individual. But when he does, it’s more of a softer and genuine conversation. To me he is someone who would also need more evidence before addressing a heavy topic such as this. So to put it shortly, I think they will eventually talk but legend would need far more time to himself to mull over his words.

(In this comic, he does come to the realization that time may have potentially passed in his timeline. But his mind is also juggling with all the whats and whys of the situation.)

Btw I’ve been a Zelda fan for years so there is no need to worry about any lore related stuff when requesting

[parkitrighthere]

The Black Orchid Project

Pairing: billionaire CEO!Jeon Jungkook x Secretory!Reader Genre: Dark Romance, Mystery, Thriller Word Count: 19k Trigger warning: This chapter contains morally grey characters, toxic characters, dark romance, trauma, violence, mentions of murder, death, and conspiracy. Reader discretion is advised. Summary: Jungkook is the enigmatic CEO of a major conglomerate with a haunting secret—he can hear everyone’s thoughts. But when Y/N becomes his new personal secretary, she’s the only person whose thoughts remain silent to him. Intrigued and unsettled, Jungkook is drawn to the mystery she presents, not realizing that their connection will unravel secrets neither of them are prepared to face. a/n: This story is entirely a work of fiction and is the sole property of @kookiewithluv. The characters, events, and scenarios depicted are products of the imagination and are not intended to represent or reflect real-life situations, nor do I wish for anything portrayed here to occur in reality. I kindly ask that my work not be copied, translated, or reposted as your own on this or any other platform, including YouTube. Please respect the effort and originality behind this piece. Thank you for your understanding and support. a/n: So, I finally posted. Yeah, I know, shock of the century, right? You were probably out here cursing my name like, 'Where the heck have you been?' Well, I guess I just decided not to post this time. Don’t ask me why, I don’t even know. But hey, I’m sorry for that. I know, I say sorry a lot, it’s like my default setting at this point. But I swear, I’m really going to try and post more. I promise. Maybe. Also, a super huge shoutout and a massive thank you to my absolute favorite person @closer-to-jungkook. She beta-read this mess for me, and gave me so many amazing insights, but guess what? I didn’t do a single thing with them because, you know, I’m a failure like that. So, yeah, basically I let her down as my beta reader. Sorry, girl. But next time, I swear, I’ll actually listen and make you proud... unless I forget, again, in which case... whoops. Anyway, love you guys, and I’ll try not to disappear again... maybe.

PROLOGUE MASTERLIST 02

CHAPTER TITLE: Work, Words, and Wrecks

You shifted uncomfortably in your chair, your hands gripping the edges of the table, knuckles white as you tried to appear composed. But your patience was wearing thin. He was overreacting, making a mountain out of nothing. Sure, you’d made a mistake—who hadn’t?—but this? This was ridiculous. What was his deal with the room’s capacity? Why on earth was he so bothered about having more than four people in a room? Seriously, what kind of control freak rule was that? You chewed on the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress the urge to roll your eyes. Was he scared of crowds or something? Honestly, with his attitude, he should be. If he kept ticking people off like this, one day, someone might snap—and if there were enough people, they’d form a mob. The thought almost made you snort, but you swallowed it down, biting your cheek. It was a silly theory, but it was better than trying to untangle the nonsense of his rules.

The meeting dragged on. Time seemed to crawl as if the clock itself was protesting against the sheer monotony of the discussion. It hadn’t been long since it started, but to you, it already felt like you’d been trapped in this room for days. You lost count of the times his gaze—no, his glare—scorched into you. Each glance filled with condescension that felt like a slap across the face.

He glared at you again. His soft, doe-like eyes narrowed, dark and piercing, with a keenness that made you shrink back slightly. His jaw tightened, the muscle jumping under his skin as he ground his teeth. You flinched instinctively, your body betraying you with a subtle jerk, as if bracing for impact, suddenly aware of how small you felt under his scrutiny. Your hands clenched in your lap, fingers feeling like they might snap, as you tried to focus anywhere else.

You quickly averted your gaze, your eyes darting around the room, desperate for an escape.  Your eyes landed on Taehyung. He leaned back casually in his chair, one arm draped casually over the backrest, his long fingers drumming against the table in a slow, lazy rhythm. As soon as he felt your gaze, his lips curled into a subtle smirk. He raised his brows and blinked at you—once, deliberately.

You felt your face heat, and not from embarrassment, but frustration. God, all these men are insane. You clenched your fists tighter, nails digging into your palms to calm yourself.  You swore they all had some kind of mental dysfunction. Jungkook with his silent rage, Taehyung with his infuriating charm—maybe Jimin was the only sane one in this room besides you.

You sighed, shifting in your seat again, your foot tapping nervously against the floor. Mental health courses exist for a reason, you thought bitterly, your gaze flickering between Jungkook’s scowl and Taehyung’s irritating grin. Maybe they should sign up for all of them.

 As your thoughts spiralled, you dared a glance at him… again. Only to catch the faintest twitch of his brow—precise, calculated. It wasn’t just anger in his expression; it was something darker, something… personal? And it scared you, even if you’d never admit it.

The moment you had been dreading finally came. The meeting was over.

Chairs screeched against the floor as everyone pushed back from the table. The sound grated on your nerves, but you rose from your seat anyway, hands trembling, legs wobbling as though they might give out beneath you.

 Your breath hitched, shallow and fast, a knot tightening in the pit of your stomach. Your heart pounded against your ribs, a viscous thud that made your chest ache.  Was this fear? Anxiety? You couldn’t tell anymore, but it clawed at you, gnawing at your insides like a predator circling its prey. You clenched your fists at your sides, trying to calm yourself, but the uneasy tremor in your chest refused to fade.

You risked another glance at him, keeping your gaze low, peeking through your lashes, a fleeting, nervous look that you immediately regretted.  His gaze locked onto you, soft yet paradoxically so sharp and firm, as if he could see right through you. The weight of his stare felt like a physical force pressing against your temple. You quickly looked away but it was too late.

 Your throat tightening as your heart slammed against your ribs. But it didn’t matter—his eyes stayed on you, burning holes into the side of your head like he could feel every breath you took.

There was something in the way he looked at you—a mix of curiosity and disdain that made your skin crawl, like you were an unsolved puzzle he hated having to deal with. It was as though he were studying you, dissecting you piece by piece. He looked at you like he couldn’t stand the thought of breathing the same air as you, as if being in the same room as you was a personal insult he couldn’t forgive. The corner of his mouth twitched, but not in kindness. A cold, predatory smirk curled his lips, one that made your blood run cold.

His soft brown boba eyes never left you.

And then he smiled. Cold, shrill, and entirely without warmth. A smile that dripped with obnoxiousness and delight, as though he was basking in your unease, feeding off it like it gave him some twisted satisfaction.

 You weren’t sure what scared you more—the venom in his gaze or the fact that you couldn’t look away, no matter how much you wanted to.

"Jungkook," Seokjin’s voice cut through the fragile silence like a gentle breeze, calm and soothing.

Jungkook’s head snapped toward Seokjin, and in an instant, everything about him changed.

 His shoulders, tense and rigid moments ago, relaxed, and his piercing glare melted away, replaced by something soft—gentle, even. His lips curved into a smile, one so sweet and genuine it left you completely dumfounded. You blinked, your mouth falling open in shock.

What the hell?

Your eyes widened,  as you stared at him, disbelief etched across your face.  How... how is this possible? This was the same man who had spent the entire meeting glaring daggers at you, exuding nothing but cold enmity. How could someone so rude, heartless, and obnoxiously infuriating smile like that? It didn’t make sense. It felt like a trick, some cruel joke the universe was playing on you. But there it was—his smile, warm and dazzling, as if he hadn’t spent the past hour glaring at you like you were dirt beneath his shoe.  And now? Now he looked like a painting come to life—a vision of warmth and beauty that shouldn’t belong to someone so cruel.

Your heart skipped a beat as you noticed the faint crinkle at the corners of his eyes, the way his smile softened his entire face. For a brief, fleeting moment, you found yourself mesmerized. A small, traitorous voice whispered in the back of your mind, He’s stunning. Beautiful. Perfect. And he was. That smile made him look like something out of a dream, his dark orbs soft and almost shy under the fluorescent light. He was cute too, you realized, in that infuriating way that made you want to scream. And hot? God, no one could dare bring up the concept of hotness without mentioning him.

How can someone so horrible look this… beautiful? The whisper in the back of your mind grew louder. This man is the definition of beauty.

Your cheeks flushed at the thought, and you shook your head quickly, breaking free from whatever spell he’d cast. No. Absolutely not. Don’t go there. You shook your head slightly, muttering a quiet mantra in your head. No, no, no. He’s an idiot. A rude, wicked bastard. Stop it. This is the same guy who’s made your day a living hell. Remember that. But it was hard to ignore the way your heart raced, or the strange flutter in your chest.

Jungkook didn’t respond to Jin right away. Instead, he moved. His long strides carried him around the table, each step smooth and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. He stopped beside Jin, his posture instantly relaxed as Seokjin patted his shoulder in a way that felt natural, familiar.

Jin began to speak again, his lips parting as if to offer some kind of reassurance, but Jungkook cut him off before he could finish.

“Hyung! Let’s go to my office,” Jungkook said, his voice low and soft, almost tender. “We’ll talk there?” His voice was softer than you’d heard it, polite and calm. It was so different from the cold, harsh tone he had threw your way.

You blinked, staring at the two of them as your jaw threatened to hit the floor again. This can’t be real. Him? Soft? It was like watching a lion purr—a sight so contradictory it didn’t feel real. His tone was polite, his demeanour respectful—words you would never have associated with the man five minutes ago

Your eyes darted back and forth between the two of them, struggling to make sense of what you were seeing. Jungkook, the same man who had made your day a living hell, now stood before Seokjin like an obedient younger brother. It was unsettling, to say the least.

He wasn’t just polite—he was soft. Gentle, even.

You couldn’t stop staring. The way he tilted his head slightly when he spoke to Jin, the way his hands relaxed at his sides, no longer tense or clenched. It was so different from the version of him you knew, it almost felt like you were looking at a completely different person.

Your fingers twitched at your side, itching to pinch yourself. Maybe you were dreaming. Or hallucinating. Because the Jungkook you knew? He didn’t do soft. And yet, here he was, proving you wrong with every breath. The man who had made it his mission to make you feel two inches tall was suddenly soft and sweet with Seokjin? It didn’t make sense.

But the warmth in his expression lingered, and for reasons you couldn’t explain, it made your chest tighten. He was more than what you’d seen so far… wasn’t he?

Jin’s face lit up with a bright smile as he nodded at Jungkook. Turning away, he gave Namjoon and Taehyung a light nudge to follow him.

Namjoon responded with a quick nod, a broad grin spreading across his face as he moved to join them.

Taehyung, however, didn’t move. Instead, he slumped further into his chair, crossing his arms loosely and leaning back with a loud, exaggerated sigh. His lips pressed into a pout as he stared at the ceiling like the very idea of moving was a personal offense. It was no secret that Jeon Enterprises and Kim Enterprises were very close; both companies worked hand in hand. Even Jungkook, Jimin, and Taehyung went to the same school and college together. Their entire childhood and teenage years were spent together, and they were still together. All three of them were always in the news, and always together too. Jungkook knew Taehyung like the back of his hand along with his antics.

Namjoon glanced over, eyebrows furrowing in that “here we go again” way of his as he caught sight of Taehyung’s antics. “Seriously?” he asked, his tone half amused, half exasperated. His hands found their way to his hips, as he watched Taehyung flap his arms against the chair’s armrests.

Taehyung raised his hand in the air, palm out, as if announcing something grand. “No!”  he exclaimed, dragging the word out as he slowly pushed himself up from his seat, slowly, deliberately, making it as dramatic as possible before turning to Seokjin. “I won’t, hyung. I refuse.”

Seokjin didn’t react right away. He merely tilted his head, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly, making it clear he wasn’t impressed. His lips pressed into a thin line as he let out a quiet sigh, shaking his head. The slight twitch at the corner of his mouth suggested he was trying very hard not to roll his eyes. His gaze shifted to Namjoon, wordlessly asking, Is this brat for real?

Namjoon only shrugged, an almost conspiratorial grin spreading across his face, as if he found the whole thing more entertaining than annoying. . They both turned their attention back to Taehyung, who didn’t care—if anything, their reactions only fueled his theatrics.  "NO," Taehyung declared, his voice firm, though his lips twitched with the hint of a smile.

“What now?” Seokjin asked finally, his voice calm, dangerously calm, but the words that tumbled out were tight. It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be—it was the kind of calm that warned you not to push your luck. His piercing eyes bored into Taehyung, sharp and calculating, a reminder that behind the soft features was a mind you didn’t want to cross.  The sharp edge to it made you flinch, even though the question wasn’t directed at you.

The tension in the room shifted as even Taehyung hesitated for a second, his hand dropping to his side as he shifted under Jin’s obdurate stare. But within minutes he was back to his usual self.

You stood in the corner, half-forgotten, watching the scene unfold as if you were invisible. For a moment, it felt like you were intruding on a private family argument. They were so lost in their little world that none of them seemed to notice you lingering.  The ridiculousness of the scene was almost enough to make you forget the tension lingering in the air. Almost.

Seokjin’s calm demeanour held stable as he waited for Taehyung’s next move, the silence stretching just long enough to make even you hold your breath.

But Taehyung, being Taehyung, jabbed his finger in Jungkook's direction without even sparing him a glance. “He didn’t invite me! Just you, hyung. Just you,” he said, voice laced with mock hurt. Namjoon sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair as he shook his head, but a soft smile tugged at his lips. How could he stay mad? Taehyung was his little brother, and no matter how ridiculous the stunt, even when they bordered on absurd, he couldn’t help but find it endearing.

Taehyung’s arms crossed over his chest, his pout deepening as he stuck his bottom lip out, eyes narrowing as he watched Seokjin expectantly.

“An invitation? Really? You want an invitation?” Seokjin asked, his voice flat and deadpan, like he couldn’t believe he was even entertaining this ridiculous request. “What is this, a wedding? You want calligraphy and wax seals?”

Taehyung’s pout deepened, his gaze shifting dramatically to the side as he huffed. "Please would do," His voice a mix of childish demand and mock offense, his eyes flicking to Seokjin for any sign of approval.

 “A proper invite,” he huffed. “With manners. A simple please.”

Jimin couldn’t hold back his laugh, it came out bright and loud, like he’d just heard the funniest joke. "What?!" he snorted, stepping forward with an amused glint in his eyes.

 His laughter only grew as he straightened, wiping a fake tear from his eye before stepping toward Taehyung. “From Jungkook? Oh, Tae, you’re delusional.” he said, his voice a mockingly sweet coo.

Taehyung’s brow twitched, and he shoved Jimin away, glaring at him. “Don’t call me delusional,” he snapped. “And stop laughing. It’s not that funny.”

Jimin, still laughing, straightened up and threw an arm around Taehyung’s shoulders. “Oh, but it is, Tae-Tae,” he teased, dragging out the nickname with enough sugar to cause cavities.

Taehyung immediately shoved him off. “Don’t call me that!” he barked, though his glare wavered when Jimin stumbled backward, his laughter echoing in the room.

“Let’s be real,” Jimin said, wiping a fake tear from his eye. “Jungkook saying please? You’ve got better odds of him baking us cupcakes with love letters on top.”

Seokjin watched the entire scene unfold with a quiet sigh, his arms falling to his sides as he shook his head. “Bloody idiots,” he muttered under his breath, though his eyes betrayed the fondness he felt for them all.

Jungkook, who had been leaning against the wall with the air of someone far too cool to care, quirked an eyebrow. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t need to. The faint smirk on his lips said it all: “Not happening.”

“See?” Jimin said, gesturing toward Jungkook with a wide grin, as if the smirk was proof enough of what he’d been saying.

Taehyung huffed, rolling his eyes as he glared at Jungkook. "He’s insufferable." he muttered, his voice flat but dripping with monotony. He threw the words out with the kind of disinterest that only Taehyung could manage, as though even arguing was beneath him.

“Always has been,” Jimin agreed cheerfully, giving Taehyung a playful pat on the shoulder.

“You want an invite?” Seokjin deadpanned, cutting through the noise like a knife. “Fine. Jungkook, invite him.”

Jungkook didn’t even look up. “No.”

The room fell silent for a beat before Jimin broke into another fit of laughter. “I told you!” he howled, practically doubling over again. “That guy would rather eat his shoe than say the p-word.”

“Don’t encourage him,” Taehyung muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

Jimin grinned, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “What’s the matter, Tae? Expecting something special from him? Maybe a song, a serenade, flowers—”

“Shut up,” Taehyung snapped, his face turning red as he swatted at Jimin His glare faltering just enough to reveal a flicker of amusement behind his annoyed facade.

Namjoon, trying to keep it together, clamped a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking slightly with suppressed laughter. Seokjin did the same, clearing his throat to hide the grin threatening to break free. You couldn’t hold back either, a soft laugh slipping from your lips. The sound of it made everyone snap their heads in your direction, and you immediately went still.

“Oh, for the love of—” Taehyung groaned, standing up abruptly, the chair scraping loudly as he shoved it back. “This is ridiculous. Forget it. I’m not playing this game.”

“You’re still mad, aren’t you?” Jimin pressed, a laugh already escaping as he took a step back, clearly enjoying pushing Taehyung’s buttons.

“Like I care!” Taehyung shot back, his hands gesturing wildly before he turned on his heel. He glared at Jungkook one last time. “Who’d want to spend time with a jerk like him anyway?”

You couldn’t help but agree, nodding your head. It was truly, genuinely, sincerely, honestly the most truthful statement you'd heard all day. Even Jungkook chuckled at Taehyung's behaviour, and your gaze snapped back to Jungkook. You stared at him in disbelief; you never thought you'd see this man smiling. Yet here he was, standing in all his glory, proving you wrong.  Jungkook? Laughing? Relaxed? It was like spotting a unicorn in the wild. For the first time, he didn’t look like the insufferable boss you were growing to despise. He looked...earth-shatteringly handsome. You cursed under your breath, clenching your fists to keep from staring too long.

It made you feel like your brain was short-circuiting. Here was this asshole of a man, acting like he was above it all, and yet… he was smiling. It made him look almost… normal.

Why was he so ridiculously handsome? He was a jerk, a complete ass, yet... there was something about him. He was perfect boyfriend material, especially with those tattoos. You'd seen them in magazines, but you wouldn't mind seeing them in real life.

He was a jerk, but otherwise, he was perfect boyfriend material, especially with those tattoos. You'd seen them in magazines, but you wouldn't mind seeing them in real life.

You shook your head abruptly, as if physically trying to dislodge the thought. Nope. Absolutely not. Stop it.

Why were you thinking all this nonsense?

Because no matter how annoyingly perfect he looked in that moment—relaxed, smirking, and effortlessly magnetic—you knew better. He wasn’t your type. Not even close. You were way too smart to fall for someone as much of a piece of shit as he was.

As soon as your eyes met Jungkook’s, your heart dropped into your stomach.  Your legs wobbled, the ground beneath you suddenly felt unstable. You felt like the world had stopped.  The only thing keeping you upright was the edge of the table you leaned against, gripping it so tightly your knuckles turned white. It was like he had forgotten you were even there, but now that he remembered... you were in trouble.

Your thoughts were a mess, a rush of panic flooding your veins. Please, don't fire me. Please don't fire me, you repeated over and over in your mind. His stare made you feel like a sheep waiting to be devoured by a wolf—helpless and small.

Jungkook opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Jimin’s voice cut through, loud but tensed. "Why are you still standing here?" he asked, his eyes darting nervously between you and Jungkook. "I'm sure you have work to do."

You nodded quickly, too quickly, your head bobbing furiously in agreement.

“What work, Jimin?” Jungkook snapped, his voice low and brimming with frustration. “She’s fired,” he declared, sending a shiver down your spine. His words felt like a physical blow, the weight of them crushing your chest. You could barely hear the rest of his sentence as panic drowned out everything else—I've had enough of her…

What to do now?

Cry, a voice whispered in the back of your head.

Jimin, however, wasn’t having any of it. “Enough, Jungkook!” he shot back, his voice hard and commanding. The sharpness in Jimin’s words was like a shield between you and Jungkook’s anger. You could see the way Jungkook’s expression shifted—he was still seething, but Jimin left no room for argument.

“She isn’t fired, and it’s final,” Jimin said. You could see the muscles in his jaw twitching as he tried to control his temper.

Jungkook opened his mouth to retort, but Jimin cut him off with a simple wave of his hand, motioning for you to leave. You didn’t need to be told twice. You bolted from the conference room, not even daring to look back. You weren’t sure whether to be more terrified of Jungkook or grateful to Jimin. You knew you’d messed up—it was your fault—but Jimin had chosen to take your side, and you couldn’t understand why.

You sprinted down the hall toward the elevator. Your hands trembled as you jabbed—no, banged—the elevator button for the 26th floor. The wait felt agonizingly long.

When the elevator finally dinged open, you stumbled out, half-running to your desk. Collapsing into your chair, you let out a shaky breath and buried your face in your arms on the desk. Your head fell onto your desk with a loud thud.

What had just happened?

God, your first day almost became your last.

You took a deep, steadying breath and pushed yourself upright, gripping the edge of your desk to ground yourself. This isn’t the time to wallow, you thought, brushing your hair back from your face with trembling fingers. You couldn’t afford to crumble now.

You can’t mess up again, you reminded yourself, wiping a hand over your face. Jimin might’ve saved you today, but luck won’t always be there neither… he. Luck was fleeting. It wasn’t something you trusted. Not with your history. You let out a dry laugh under your breath—luck and you were like oil and water. You were the ultimate symbol of bad luck, and that delightfully beautiful director of Jeon Enterprises had simply taken pity on you. Yes, it wasn’t luck. It was Jimin’s mercy, and you couldn’t count on it happening twice. Especially not when your boss—the arrogant bastard himself—was likely already sharpening his knives for round two.

The thought of Jungkook—his dark, piercing gaze—still lingered in your mind, but you forced yourself to focus. He was a devil, no doubt, and you... you were just the unlucky fool who happened to cross his path.

You couldn't afford to mess up again. Play it safe, you told yourself. Do your job right and keep your head down. You couldn’t give him another reason to unleash his wrath.

Your eyes fell to the stack of files in front of you, and a sinking feeling hit you hard in the stomach. The pile seemed to grow taller with each breath you took. The next meeting was only thirty minutes away

You glanced at the files scattered across your desk. Focus, you reminded yourself, slapping your cheeks lightly to snap out of it. The next meeting was in thirty minutes, and you didn’t have the luxury of time to curse your misfortune or that insufferable man.

Your eyes darted over the papers, frustration bubbling up as you began sifting through them. The previous secretary—whoever they were—had left behind a tangled mess. A spectacularly awful mess.

 How was this even possible?

You could almost feel your blood pressure rise as you examined the glaring errors.  The deadlines were completely out of sync with the client’s expectations, the budget allocations were so far off it was laughable, and one section even referenced an entirely different project altogether. If this wasn’t fixed in time for the meeting, it would be a complete disaster, and you were the one who’d have to face the consequences.

“This is a joke,” you muttered. You grabbed a pen, tapping it furiously against the table as your brain raced to come up with a plan.

Half an hour. That’s all you had to fix this disaster before you had to present it to a room full of people, including him.

"Fuck you! Whoever you are." you muttered under your breath, pushing your sleeves up, ignoring the beads of sweat forming on your forehead. Get it together, you scolded yourself. “This isn’t rocket science.” Your voice cracked slightly as you muttered the words aloud, as if hearing them would calm the storm raging inside you.

You grabbed the laptop, pulling up emails and client notes to cross-check the project details. The keyboard clacked furiously under your hands. Your brows furrowed in concentration, your lips pressed into a tight line. You clicked open the soft copy of the file, eyes scanning the screen quickly.

You stole a glance at the clock, and your heart nearly stopped. Twenty minutes left. Fuck.

The dull throb behind your temples was growing each passing minute, but you didn’t have the luxury to slow down. Tears? Not an option. You didn’t have time for that. Not when your whole career was teetering on the edge of disaster.

Get through the day without Jungkook turning you into his next verbal target.

 The mistakes were too obvious to miss, too dangerous to ignore. If the client saw these errors, it wasn’t just your job on the line—it was Jeon Enterprises' reputation. And that would mean your boss, Jungkook, would tear you apart, slowly and painfully.

 what have you done to deserve this.

Your fingers slammed against the keyboard as you raced through the sections. The section referencing the wrong project? Gone, replaced with the right one. The mismatched deadlines? Adjusted. The budget allocations that didn’t even make sense? Rewritten, recalculated, and double-checked.

You needed to print the corrected version. Your hands trembled as you stared at the screen, unsure of where to even begin this process. This wasn’t just a small mistake anymore—it felt like the whole day was falling apart in real time. You stared at the screen with mounting dread. Print. Where?

You slapped the print button, watching as the computer confirmed that it was printing, but your brain was far from settled. Printer? Where’s the damn printer? Your heart pounded as you stood, snatching up your blazer and dashing out of your office.

The hallway felt endless as you looked down the corridor. You felt a wave of frustration, the kind you’d never experienced before. You could have screamed, a sound that would shake the walls, but you couldn’t. Instead, you forced a deep breath through your nose and tried to calm yourself.

Finally, you spotted the printer at the end of the hall—right by the breakroom, its small glowing light blinking. It should have been a simple solution, but when you saw the machine, all you felt was pure, hot rage. Why is it always this difficult?

Why did it feel like everything was against you today?

Because of course, it jammed halfway through. Your fingers gripped the edge of the counter as you leaned down, yanking at the paper slot with all your might. The printer groaned, then jammed, and you let out an angry sound that came out as a strangled groan.

“Come on, you stupid thing—work!” you hissed, muttering curses that seemed to make you feel worse. Stupid thing!

You slammed the print button again, your fingers stabbing at the machine. Finally, the printer whirred, clicked, and then began its slow, steady rhythm. You let out a shaky breath, pressing your hand against your forehead to steady the dizziness threatening the edges of your focus.

Finally, the documents started coming out. You grabbed them. You ran your hands over the pages, smoothing them down compulsively as though that would make them more trustworthy. You clutched it like it was your lifeline. Not perfect, but it'll have to do. Once back in your cabin, you shoved the papers into a folder, your chest still tight.

The clock on the wall caught your attention.

Ten minutes left.

 You could barely breathe as you walked out of your office, your feet moving almost on autopilot. In no time, you found yourself standing in front of Jungkook’s office.

You knocked. Once. Twice. And then… you waited.

 You closed your eyes briefly, took a steadying breath. You bit your lip, and raised your hand to knock thrice.

"Come in!" Jungkook’s voice rang out, gruff and loud, cutting through the air. You hesitated for a second before pushing the door open, and every head in the room snapped toward you. You stepped inside, your heart racing as you greeted them with a polite but fake smile, trying your best to keep it together. Only Jimin smiled back. The others... they just stared, like you were some strange creature. Jin and Namjoon looked shocked—why? What was going on? And then there was Taehyung, his eyes wide with what could only be described as disbelief.

Jimin spoke first, his voice light and effortless, and you couldn't help but thank your lucky stars—or maybe it was just Jimin being Jimin. “You need something?”

You gave a short nod and turned to face Jungkook. His eyes narrowed, his arms crossing over his chest, his whole posture screaming annoyance.  His jaw was clenched so tight it seemed like he might snap any second. You swallowed hard, trying not to show how much his stare rattled you.

"Yeah. I was merely here to remind Mr. Jeon that the meeting starts in… like ten—no, seven minutes now," you managed to say, your voice wavering just a little as you spoke. Your hands were clenched at your sides, and you forced yourself not to fidget.

You stole a quick glance around the room. Jin and Namjoon had gone back to their own conversations, but Taehyung was still staring at you, mouth slightly open like he couldn't believe you were standing there. Jungkook still hadn’t said anything, his eyes still boring into you.

"Thank you," Jimin said, his smile soft and genuine. "He’ll be there."

You nodded once, trying not to let your relief show too much. You gave a quick, polite bow of your head, then turned, making your way to the door, your steps hurried but controlled. As you left the room, you couldn’t help but think—Jimin was an angel, working for a devil. You weren’t sure what you would’ve done without him today.

As you walked out of his cabin, you caught the faintest sound of Taehyung’s voice drifting behind you.

“Damn, dude! She’s something. She must be… to get you this worked up. Wow! I loved it.”

You didn’t linger to hear the rest, though. It was like your feet were moving faster than your brain, the urgency propelling you back to your cabin. You sprinted to your desk, your hands shaking as you skimmed through the pages one final time. You stapled them together. You had to present this with confidence, one mistake and Jungkook would tear you apart.

Five minutes left.

“You’ve got this. Just fake it. Fake it all the way.”

Your heels clicked sharply against the marble floors as you made your way to the conference room. Your grip on the file tightened, your knuckles white. When you reached the door. With a firm push, you stepped inside.

Walking to the table, you laid down the stack of updated project files, replacing the older copies. Once every seat had the corrected file, you finally slid into your chair. The leather seat creaked softly as you sank into it, and you folded your hands tightly in your lap to steady them. You darted a glance at the door, waiting for everyone's but specially Jungkook’s inevitable arrival. You flipped through the files for what felt like the hundredth time. The numbers blurred slightly before your eyes, but you forced yourself to focus.

The sharp sound of the door opening made your head snap up. Jungkook walked in with the same air of authority that always seemed to announce his presence before he even spoke. His eyes locked onto you, narrowing instantly, and his jaw clenched so tight you swore you heard his teeth grind.

You stifled a sigh, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your face neutral. What now? You wondered bitterly, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. Jungkook didn’t just dislike you—he hated you—like, deep, unrelenting hatred. For what reason? Who knew. And frankly, you didn’t care.  If you could, you would’ve told him to take his reasons, his anger, and his goddamn temper tantrums and shove them up his perfectly tailored ass, but you knew that wouldn’t help you keep your job.

He moved around the room with precision, as he made his way to his seat. His attention was fixed on you, like you were some annoying fly he wanted to swat. You straightened in your chair. He dropped into his chair with an air of casual authority and grace of someone far too confident for their own good.

For a moment, your traitorous thoughts drifted. He was handsome—annoyingly so. Sharp jawline, paradoxically piercing boba eyes, and a frame that looked like it was carved by a sculptor. But his attitude? That was enough to ruin the whole package. If only his personality matched his looks. If only he wasn’t such a pompous, insufferable jerk. Instead of charm, he had an ego the size of the goddamn building. If he had even an ounce of kindness or respect to him, he would’ve been perfect. But no, instead he walked with the kind of arrogance that could suffocate a room, his back rigid and his posture as stiff as the stick lodged firmly up his ass.

You shook the thought from your head. He wasn’t worth your time.

The door opened again, and this time it was the clients. Jungkook stood, but just barely.

He simply stood halfway and gave a curt nod that was so half-hearted you wondered if it hurt his pride to be polite. God forbid Mr. Perfect lower himself to basic manners. His expression didn’t change—stoic and unbothered—while yours shifted into a polite mask. Maybe you were expecting too much. Maybe you were the problem. You slid your chair closer to the table and sat down next to him. You offered the clients a small smile, hoping to compensate for Jungkook’s complete lack of warmth.

But his eyes. God, his eyes. They didn’t stray far from you.

You placed the documents in front of him. You kept your gaze fixed on the table, careful not to meet his boba eyes. “Here! Mr. Jeon,” you whispered, your voice as even and professional as you could manage. The last thing you wanted was to give him even an inch to criticize you.

Before you could pull your hand back, his fingers closed around the file. His hand was warm—too warm—and for just a moment, your cold, dainty fingers brushed against his. The warmth of his hand lingered on yours, and you couldn’t bring yourself to pull away. Your body felt paralyzed, shocked, maybe even mesmerized by the sensation.  You couldn’t pull away—not because you didn’t want to, but because you physically couldn’t.

Jungkook’s hand retreated first, leaving your fingers tingling. You leaned back in your chair, clearing your throat as heat crept up your neck. You turned your attention to the clients, offering a polite smile. They exchanged a few glances, their expressions unreadable.

Why are they looking at me like that?

Before you could figure it out, Jungkook’s voice cut through the silence, quiet and low. "Why are you making that face?"

You turned toward him, startled. “Huh?”

He didn’t look at you, his gaze fixed on the papers in front of him as he leaned back in his seat. His voice was soft, like a whisper, but it hit you like a punch to the gut.

“You look like you’re constipating,” he said, his tone casual, smooth, utterly calm—and utterly cruel and casual, as though commenting on the weather.

Your face fell. What did he just say? Your mouth fell open slightly in horror, heat rushing to your face. He did not just say that. You glared at the side of his face, imagining all the ways you could strangle him with the tie he wore so smugly. Murder was illegal, but maybe, just maybe, you could make an exception.

 Ignore him. He’s not worth it or… should you just strangle him? Oh, you wanted to strangle him. No, you needed to strangle him. Who even says that? You huffed, straightening in your seat and glaring at the file in front of you.

Jungkook flipped open the folder, his sharp eyes scanning the documents.

And then it happened—a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, so subtle you almost missed it. “Let’s begin,” he said smoothly, finally turning his attention to the clients. But just before he did, his gaze flicked to you, brief but searing.

The meeting began.

The meeting dragged on. Your hand ached from jotting down notes, your fingers stiff as they moved across the page. All you could think about was how Jungkook managed to handle these clients—their demands were endless, their standards sky-high. Jungkook, somehow, handled their lofty standards with an ease that almost infuriated you. How could someone so insufferable be so damn good at this? You, however, were drained. Mentally, physically, emotionally. All you wanted was to go home, curl up, and forget this entire ordeal. But the clients showed no signs of slowing, so neither could you. You scribbled furiously, keeping up with the endless stream of requests and comments, your hand cramping around the pen. Every now and then, you stole glances at the clock, silently begging for it all to end.

Finally, after what felt like hours, the meeting came to an end.

 The clients rose, shaking Jungkook’s hand with smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Jeon,” one of them said, their tone oozing professionalism. Then their gaze flicked to you, offering a curt nod—no words, no acknowledgment of your work. You swallowed the frustration bubbling up in your chest and nodded back, forcing a tight-lipped smile. Typical. You bit the inside of your cheek, swallowing the bitter taste of resentment as they exited the room. Well, women in corporate field.

The door clicked shut, leaving you alone with Jungkook. Your mind was hyper-aware of his presence.

He was leaning back, the picture of ease, his chair swinging slightly from left to right. His left leg rested over his right, one arm draped casually across the armrest. He didn’t speak, didn’t make a sound, but the intensity of his stare was enough. You didn’t dare look up. Not after what had happened earlier. Not after what he said earlier.

You stole a glance, his tie had loosened slightly, the top button of his shirt undone. When he did that? He looked like he owned the entire world, and the infuriating thing was—he probably did.

You remembered what you thought while applying for this job: How hard could it be to work for him?

You’d found out the hard way, within mere hours.

Jeon Jungkook wasn’t just hard to work for—he was impossible. A devil in designer suits. A man who had no mercy and no patience, especially not for someone like you. Your first day had made that abundantly clear in the worst way possible.

Jeon Jungkook wasn’t someone to take lightly. He was a storm you hadn’t prepared for, and it was already threatening to swallow you whole.

You pushed the glass door open, ready to step out, but then you heard it—his voice, loud and clear.

"Pebble!"

You froze. Slowly, you turned around, almost colliding with the door in the process. His eyes locked onto yours, and a subtle smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. It wasn’t the friendly kind—it was something else. Something that made you feel both irritated and, disturbingly, giddy.

"What?" you muttered, your voice low and unsure. You weren't able to understand why you gripped it ever so tightly.

He stood from his chair, rising with an ease that felt effortless, his hands casually buried in his pockets. His movements were smooth, deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world to examine you. He was far too good-looking for your sanity, far too composed, far too everything.

 Fuck him, and fuck your good sense.

What was this? Why were you feeling so fragile in front of him? You didn’t have time to figure it out because, in three long strides, he was standing in front of you, so close that the scent of his cologne wrapped around you.  His eyes were still on you, as if he were studying you—no, devouring you with just a glance. You wanted to look away, but you couldn’t. And that, right there, made you even more furious.

Is this guy stupid? you wondered. What was the point of staring like that? It felt intrusive, unnerving, yet somehow, you couldn’t tear your own gaze away.

 Staring, in your book, was the hallmark of cheap behaviour, reserved for people with no manners or boundaries. But he somehow pulled it off, with that smirk and those features and that way he seemed to have everything in the world under control. As if his ridiculous good looks gave him a free pass.

"Coffee. In my office."

"Huh?" was all you could manage, your voice barely above a whisper, still unsure of what was happening.

He tsked, shaking his head like you were hopeless. “You heard me. Black. No sugar. Ms…” he trailed off, his brow furrowing slightly.

Your eyes widened in realization. He didn’t know your name. Or worse—he hadn’t even tried to know it until now. Your throat tightened, and you opened your mouth, about to respond, but before a single word could leave your lips, he finished with,

"Pebble."

Your mouth hung open, as you watched him leave.

Pebble.

He had just called you Pebble.

You stood there, staring, stunned, unable to believe what just happened.

He was the most disrespectful, irritating, unbearable person you had ever met.

The anger built up in you until you couldn’t stand still anymore. You stomped your foot hard against the ground.

You would make him regret this.

Oh, you absolutely would.

With a resigned sigh, you turned toward the elevator, dragging your feet. At least you now knew where the coffee machine was—down at the far end of the floor. Great. More walking. You hadn’t even done this much cardio in the past year, let alone in a single day. No wonder all the women here looked so fit—they practically lived on their feet.

When you reached the elevator, you noticed him—Jungkook—already stepping into it. Your pace slowed instinctively. No way were you getting in that elevator with him, even for a single second. He wouldn’t stop the elevator for you anyway—he was too much of a jerk to care.

But when had life ever gone according to your plans?

Before you could change direction, you heard the sound of the doors closing and sliding back open.

Oh, hell no. Your body tensed. You didn't want to step in there with him, but you didn’t have a choice. You dragged your feet reluctantly. The annoyance in his eyes deepened, and a muscle in his jaw twitched, like he was already regretting his decision to wait for you.

Finally, you reached the door.

“Get fucking in, woman.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. You stepped inside, muttering curses in your head, and the doors slid shut with a soft ding.

 You didn’t dare move, didn’t dare look at him, but you could feel his gaze lingering on you, like he was trying to figure you out or, worse, punish you for existing.

Maybe he was pissed.

And you? You couldn’t decide if you hated him more in this moment or if you just wanted to get out of this damn elevator as quickly as possible.

“I thought you had work here,” he said, his tone casual.

“Huh?” you managed, surprised.

He shook his head, as if you were already the most frustrating thing he’d encountered that day.

“Do you know anything else besides ‘huh?’”

You opened your mouth to retort, but he didn’t wait. “I said, I thought you had work here.”

“What work?” you snapped. His eyes flared. But the bastard smirked, like he’d been expecting this reaction.

“What meeting do we have next, Pebble?” His voice was smooth, almost playful.

Your stomach dropped. Pebble. He had just said it again. But. You froze. His words lingered in your mind like a bad omen, but all that filled your head was white noise. The name of the company… where was it? Shit.

He chuckled, the sound low and smooth, just to make sure you knew how badly you’d messed up. “You need to collect some files from marketing and sales team. You forgot.”

The damn files. I forgot? You swallowed hard, glancing around the elevator as if the walls could give you an answer.

“What are you trying to do—break the glass and jump into the sales and marketing floor?” he said, his tone as bored as his expression. His words felt cruel, but you knew there was a bite of truth to them.

You shook your head, cheeks heating as you mentally berated yourself. You could feel the heat creeping up your neck, embarrassed and annoyed. More walking. That’s all you could think about now.

The elevator doors opened, and Jungkook stepped out first. He glanced up at you, raising an eyebrow, and for a split second, you thought—just maybe—he might say something remotely decent. But no, that was far too much to hope for. His lips curled into that damn smirk as he turned away and said, “Coffee. On my desk. In five minutes.”

Before you could even respond, he turned around and walked away.

You stepped out of the elevator, its door closing behind you. You let out a frustrated exhale. . God, I hate him. You made your way to the coffee machine. You prepared the coffee just like he’d ordered, and even the smell made your stomach churn. The bitterness of it matched the bitterness radiating from him.  No wonder he was always so damn miserable. A person who drank this much bitter coffee could only have a bitter heart.

You walked down the hall to his office. The door was slightly ajar, and you knocked softly, holding the cup in your hands.

“Come in,” he barked again from inside.

You pushed the door open and stepped inside, placing the coffee on his desk. He was sitting at his desk, back straight, his sharp features focused on his laptop. The desk was neat, pristine, every paper and pen in its place, a stark contrast to the chaos on your desk.

“Here, Mr. Jeon,” you said, your voice tight with forced politeness.

He didn’t even look at you. Instead, he grabbed the cup, bringing it to his lips like it was the most important thing in the world. His eyes fluttered closed as he took the first sip, and you watched in disbelief as he sighed deeply, as though he’d just tasted heaven.

“Good,” he muttered, but it wasn’t directed at you—it was all about the coffee. Your stomach turned at the absurdity of it. He didn’t even acknowledge the fact that you’d stood there, prepared it, and handed it to him.

“Send Jimin in my office. Now, leave,” he demanded, his voice flat, as if he were speaking to a wall, not a person.

 Every inch of you wanted to pull his hair out, to throw something across his perfectly organized desk. Instead, you nodded stiffly.

“Sure, Mr. Jeon,” you said, forcing the words past your clenched teeth before turning on your heel and leaving.

Once outside, the first thing you did was head straight for Jimin, who was at his desk, buried in papers. His workspace was cluttered with post-its, notes, and scribbles. His eyes lifted when you approached, and though his face showed signs of being busy, his greeting was polite as ever.

“What brings you here, Ms. …,” he began, with a soft smile.

“Mr. Jeon wants you in his office,” you replied, keeping it brief. You didn't have the energy to engage in any more small talk.

"Why?" Jimin asked, as he stood up, closing the file in his hands and sliding his blazer on with a sharp tug. You just shrugged. Jimin gave a small nod.

“Alright,” he said, adjusting his blazer. His tone indicated he didn’t mind being interrupted. “I’ll head in there.” You watched as he walked toward the hallway.

You followed your own path toward the marketing department first. You handed over the files, your hands sore from too much writing, before heading toward the sales department. The constant movement was starting to wear you down, but you couldn’t let it show. You did the same at the sales department, before finally making your way back to your office, your feet aching more than ever. This is going to be a long day, you thought, pressing a hand to your lower back as you settled into your chair.

Before you could catch a break, the clock ticked, signaling that it was time for the next meeting. You picked yourself up again, shoulders sore and heavy, and made your way back toward Jungkook’s office.

You knocked on the door before stepping in, your hand pressing into the wood with slightly trembling fingers. This time Jimin was in there with him, seated on the couch. He looked agitated—hands running through his hair as he exchanged words with Jungkook.

You hesitated at the threshold. You didn’t want to intrude on their conversation. You quickly turned on your heel, shaking your head as you backed out. These guys were insane.

You closed the door behind you with a gentle push and let out a shaky exhale. Your hands gripped your notebook tightly as you walked back toward the hallway.

The next meetings were a blur. For reasons you couldn’t quite explain, you found yourself relieved when Jungkook skipped every other meeting for the day. He didn't show up, and Jimin took over. The clients didn’t seem to mind the change, and in fact, it made things easier. Jimin’s presence was soothing.  His voice was soft, his smile was kind. He spoke in careful sentences, his calm composure like a reassuring presence. Working with him was smoother, quieter—lovelier, even. He made the chaos of the day seem more manageable, and you found yourself wishing you found yourself wishing you could work for Jimin, just him.

But you quickly shut that thought down. That wasn’t possible, not when you were stuck in this job, tied to Jungkook. No matter how much you hated it, you had to stick around. It was unviable to leave, even though every part of you screamed for the chance to escape. You have to stick around him.

As the last meeting came to an end, you gathered the files and followed Jimin out of the conference room. He took the files from your hands. You were thankful for his help, but the lingering feeling of being under the spotlight didn’t fade. You hated the attention, and of course, everyone would stare. Having the director of the company himself helping you with your work was far too big of a deal. The eyes of all the female employees had burned into you as you walked out. You couldn’t shake the sense of discomfort, and it only worsened as you stepped into the elevator with Jimin.

"Mr. Park, you really don’t have to do this," you said, offering a shy smile as the elevator doors slid shut behind you.

Jimin, however, seemed unfazed. He gave a lazy smile, his voice light as he answered. "Oh, I’m not doing it for you." Jimin leaned casually against the wall, eyes scanning the floor numbers as they lit up.

You blinked, confused, your brows knitting together. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

He turned his head, flashing you a mischievous grin. "It’s more for me, really."

Your frown deepened. "For you?" You couldn’t hide your confusion, but Jimin just chuckled, clearly entertained by your reaction.

"You see," he began, shifting slightly to face you fully. His eyes sparkled with a playful yet sincere gleam. "I come from old money. I just can't stand the idea of a woman doing something like that when I’m around. Makes me feel like I’m failing somewhere. I’ve got this fragile ego, you know?" His voice was light, teasing, but his smile softened as he continued. "It just feels better to help out. Plus, it’s... good manners."

"Yeah?" You asked, tilting your head slightly, your eyebrows furrowing as you tried to make sense of his words. The slight smirk tugging at his lips told you he knew you were lost but didn’t care enough to explain. Instead, he only shrugged nonchalantly, his expression  so casual it almost felt dismissive.

Before you could respond further, the elevator dinged softly, and the doors slid open. Jimin stepped out first. You followed behind as you adjusted your grip on the files. He led the way to your cabin, his presence drawing a few curious glances from colleagues. You felt those stares prickling at your back again, but Jimin seemed entirely unbothered. He walked you to your cabin, while you struggled to keep up with his pace. When he finally reached your desk, he placed the stack of five thick files down with practiced ease, brushing invisible dust off his hands like it was no big deal.

"All set. Anything else you need before I head out?" he asked, his voice light as he straightened his blazer.

Thanks again, Mr. Park," you said, shaking your head.

Jimin gave a small nod in return, stepping back. Just as he turned to leave, he glanced over his shoulder. "Take care, pretty," he said, his tone casual, yet the words felt deliberate.

Your hands froze mid-motion as your head snapped up, eyes widening in surprise. Heat rushed to your face, and you felt the unmistakable blush spreading across your cheeks like wildfire. You stared at the empty doorway where Jimin had disappeared, his words echoing in your mind.

"What the hell," you muttered under your breath. Forcing yourself to focus, you picked up the files, flipping through the pages with renewed determination. It was time to finish up for the day, but not before ensuring everything was in order for tomorrow. Your fingers worked quickly, your eyes scanning schedules and notes, the lingering warmth on your cheeks refusing to fade completely.

When you finally finished your work, you grabbed the file Jungkook had instructed you to complete and headed to his office. As you approached, you noticed the door slightly ajar. Through the small gap, you could see Jimin sitting in one of the chairs in front of Jungkook’s desk. Jungkook, on the other hand, sat with his brows furrowed in a way that seemed permanently etched into his face. It was a wonder Jimin didn’t crack under the weight of his perpetual grimace. If he wasn’t so ridiculously good-looking, you were certain his demeanour would’ve been a massive letdown.

"Are you even human?" Jimin's voice rose, his tone laced with disbelief as he leaned forward, his palms slapping against the desk with a dull thud. His lips pressed tightly together. His words seemed to hit like a quiet plea, but Jungkook didn’t seem to care. His eyes stayed glued to his file as he flipped the pages.

"I am dying over here. I am that tired and you are one of the reasons behind it. Don’t you dare ignore me, Jeon Jungkook!" Jimin continued, his voice a mixture of disbelief and frustration. His words grew louder as he leaned back in his chair, throwing his hands up in the air, as if trying to physically puncture Jungkook’s indifference.

"Huh?" Jungkook’s voice was flat, almost absent, as he gave Jimin just a single glance, his eyes flickering for a mere millisecond before he turned back to the file in his hands. He gave a distracted nod, not sparing Jimin much more attention.

Jimin’s jaw dropped slightly, his annoyance reaching a boiling point. "Seriously!" he exclaimed. His fingers curled into loose fists as he leaned back, pacing a step before planting his hands on his hips. "You made me handle all your meetings and deal with my own workload. I’ve been running around like a headless chicken while you sit here, all cozy with your stupid papers! Do you not have any regard—"

"You're right," Jungkook said, his voice steady and matter-of-fact, cutting off Jimin’s rambling mid-sentence. He slowly closed the file in front of him and placed it neatly to the side. This time, he leaned back in his chair, his posture loosening slightly as he crossed his arms over his chest. His dark, boba eyes locked on Jimin’s. "I am sorry, hyung. You're always picking up the slack for me. I don't say it enough, but… I’m really grateful. I couldn’t do this without you."

Jimin froze for a moment, his brow furrowing as he eyed Jungkook suspiciously. His eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head, studying Jungkook as if he had just grown a second head. "Oh? What’s wrong with you?" he asked, dragging the words out slowly. He leaned forward in his chair, elbows digging into the edge of Jungkook's desk. "Show me your head. You punk, I’m sure you hit it somewhere."

Jimin shot up from his seat and lunged across the desk with inflated urgency, his hand reaching for Jungkook's head like a concerned but overly dramatic mother.

"Jimin-shi!" Jungkook exclaimed, his voice rising in protest as he swatted at Jimin’s hands. He grabbed Jimin’s wrists, prying them away from his head. His brows knitted together as he leaned back further in his chair, out of reach, glaring at Jimin. "I swear, I’ll kill you."

"There you are," Jimin said, a grin spreading across his face as he let out a sigh. He flopped back into his chair, dramatically wiping his brow as if the ordeal had been exhausting. "I was worried for nothing. Glad to see the real  grumpy, homicidal self's still here."

Before they could exchange any more words, you finally stepped forward, your knuckles rapping lightly on the doorframe.

Knock, knock.

The sound broke through, causing both their heads to snap in your direction.

For a moment, you felt rooted to the spot, like a deer caught in headlights. You tightened your grip on the file in your hands, suddenly hyper-aware of how out of place you felt. Clearing your throat, you finally stepped inside. "Sorry to interrupt," you said.

Jimin’s lips curved into a faint smile, and he tilted his head, gesturing toward the file. "It’s fine. Come in. Looks like someone’s got work to do, unlike us," he teased, his tone light.

You tried your best to force a smile onto your face—a polite, controlled, and friendly expression—but as your eyes met his. Your throat felt like it had closed up, your voice thin and wobbly. Why did he make you so nervous? Yes, he was intimidating. Yes, you’d dealt with difficult bosses before. But there was something about him—something that felt wrong, a shrill, intense warning in the back of your mind, like a distant alarm telling you danger was near.

Your heels clicked softly against the floor as you passed Jimin’s chair. He was sitting casually, his hands clasped behind his head, completely at ease as he looked over at you. You stopped beside Jungkook's desk, just behind where Jimin was sitting. "Mr. Jeon, I just finished the tasks you assigned." Your voice was soft but steady as you extended the file toward him. You forced yourself to meet his gaze, though it felt like staring into the eye of the devil. "Here’s the file. I’m leaving now, so I was wondering if there’s anything else you need before I go?"

Jungkook didn’t respond right away. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, slowly and precisely. His sharp gaze scanned your face, lingering on your forced smile before sliding down to the file you’d placed on his desk. A smirk curled at the corners of his lips, and his eyes—soft and doe-like at first glance—betrayed a sharp, predatory glint. "Actually," he drawled, his voice carried an edge that made your pulse quicken. He gestured lazily toward the towering stack of files on the far corner of his desk. "I do need something."

Your eyes widened as they darted to the stack, a silent gasp catching in your throat. The files seemed endless. You swallowed hard, glancing back at him, but his expression was unreadable. You couldn’t decide if you were more nervous or outright afraid of what was coming next. "See those files?" he continued, tilting his head slightly, his tone casual as if he were commenting on the weather. "I need them reviewed and sorted by tomorrow."

And you just stood there for a moment, trying to figure out whether you had a choice, or if you were already drowning. Tomorrow? That was impossible. You turned back to Jungkook, hoping to find some hint that he was joking, but his expression was calm and unyielding, like carved stone.

"I…" you began, but your voice faltered.

"Something wrong?" Jungkook asked, tilting his head slightly as if daring you to argue.

It was your first day, and you couldn’t understand what went wrong. You’d always thought Jungkook was handsome, admired him from the glossy pages of magazines and the distant buzz of news. You'd been excited, so excited to work for the most wanted bachelor in the continent. But now? Now, it wasn’t going as planned.

Too much work. Too much. How could anyone be expected to handle this much work? You thought you could handle challenges, but this? This felt impossible. This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. You’d probably have to sell your soul to some demon and even then, it still wouldn’t feel enough. You couldn’t do this. You shouldn’t have to do this. But the thought of giving up? That wasn’t even an option. You wanted to scream. No. You didn't want to scream you wanted to kick him where the sun doesn't shine.

"To-tomorrow," you stammered, barely able to believe the words coming out of your mouth. You were close to snapping, but something in his gaze made you hesitate.

"Impossible?" Jungkook interrupted, his voice a low, smooth. His eyes locked on yours, the warmth in them replaced with ice. "I’m not interested in hearing any excuses. You need to understand where and for who you’re working. Workload is a usual thing here. You either do it or resign. It’s up to you. Nobody’s begging you to stay."

The words were harsh. There was no softness to them, no room for debate, no compromise. He wanted you to know that you had no power here. His small, smug smile confirmed it—a clear taunt, a game to him, and you could feel it deep in your bones. He wasn’t just being cold. No, he enjoyed this. He was tormenting you, and you knew it. He was such a sadistic being.

"Understood," you said, the words coming out of your mouth with a firmness that surprised even you.

You turned your back to him and grabbed the stack of files from where they were carelessly left. The moment you lifted them, you knew this was going to be hell. It was heavy—too heavy—far heavier than you’d expected. Your arms shook as you struggled to balance them. You almost stumbled under the sheer force of it, but you steadied yourself.

You bit your lip, fighting back the urge to ask Jimin for help. You glanced toward him, only to find that he and Jungkook were locked in a silent staring match, their gazes locked like two wolves sizing each other up.  Jimin looked like he was about to explode. You couldn’t drag him into this. He already looked like he was walking a thin line, and you didn’t want to add to the fire. Besides, Jimin looked angry enough already.

So, you started walking.

You struggled your way out of his office. Your legs wobbled under the weight, and you nearly stumbled into the doorframe as you tried to maintain your balance. You wanted to scream. You hated him. You hated everything about this. Him. His smug smile. His icy tone. His ridiculous expectations. In truth, you’d never felt this much resentment toward anyone. Not even your previous bosses had managed to push you this far. But Jungkook? He was something else entirely. A walking nightmare wrapped in a handsome package, and you were stuck in it.

The moment you stepped into your office, you slammed the door behind you. You were done. You were going home. You couldn’t wait to get out of here. You grabbed your bag and purse. You cursed under your breath, knowing you couldn’t leave without grabbing those files too. There was no way you were going to spend another minute in that sterile, over-designed office. You adjusted the files again, and with a final shake of your head, you stepped out of your office. Your feet moved on autopilot as you walked toward the elevators. You didn’t look back. There wasn’t any point.

You knew you’d have to come back.

You knew you’d have to face him again.

But for now, you needed to get out.

The first day had been hell, all thanks to your devilish boss.

Jungkook and Jimin stepped out of Jungkook’s office. Jimin shot a sharp glare at Jungkook, his brow furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. Jungkook, on the other hand, wore a smug, teasing smile that danced at the corners of his mouth. He could feel Jimin’s annoyance and found it far too satisfying to ignore.

"Jiminshi," Jungkook said casually, but Jimin didn’t even give him a second glance, his jaw clenched as he exhaled sharply.

“Shut up,” Jimin snapped back without hesitation, the heat in his voice enough to make Jungkook pause for a second. It almost made him laugh, but he quickly held it back, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"Come on, Jimin. We’re already late. And Jin hyung will be mad if we get even more late," Jungkook added, his tone light but carrying an edge of urgency. His smile was easy and easygoing, the kind that always got under Jimin’s skin, and this time, it did the trick. Jimin let out a slow, exasperated breath, his shoulders slumping slightly as he let his irritation simmer down. He nodded once, fingers gripping his phone a little too tightly. His hand flexed as he tucked it back into his pocket, his gaze fixed forward as they walked towards the elevator side by side.

Jungkook pushed the button to call the elevator, and Jimin stood next to him, arms crossed, still giving off that frustrated vibe. But Jungkook could see the edges of his irritation slowly dulling. Even if Jimin was pissed, he wouldn’t stay mad for long. Jimin was always the wise one, and he knew that getting upset over Jungkook's antics wouldn’t help anything. Jin had invited them for dinner tonight, and they both knew this wasn’t just another casual evening. Jimin had told Jin about you—how Jungkook couldn’t hear your thoughts, which still felt weird and foreign to him. It was strange, unsettling in a way, and Jin had wanted to discuss it. He’d called them both over, saying he needed to talk. Jungkook was curious about what Jin had in mind. It wasn’t every day that Jin invited them over, especially not without a reason.

The elevator doors opened, and Jungkook gestured for Jimin to enter first. Jimin grumbled under his breath but didn’t argue. Jungkook stepped in behind him, and the two of them stood in silence. He was looking forward to the evening, not only to talk things out but also to meet Jin's wife. She was a kind and sweet woman. If it wasn't for Taehyung, they would have never met her. Jin had been married for years, but he rarely invited anyone over, keeping his personal life guarded. Jungkook and Jimin always looked forward to her company. Jin, on the other hand, was borderline obsessed with her. It was impossible not to notice the way he adored her. They all had to be on their best behavior when she was around, though—Jin’s protective streak was well known.

The elevator doors closed with a quiet swoosh. They descended in silence, the air feeling heavier as their thoughts swirled. Both knew this night would give them more answers, but they weren’t sure what kind of questions would arise afterward.

Jungkook and Jimin soon stepped into the reception area. The receptionist was seated at her desk, typing quickly, and her head lifted the moment she saw them. She offered a polite smile as they approached.

"Good evening, Mr. Jeon, Mr. Park," she greeted warmly. Jungkook didn’t even spare her a glance. His eyes stayed ahead as he strode past her. He could hear her thoughts—granted, not every single word, but enough. Disgusting. Intrusive. He had no shame in admitting it. He didn’t feel the need to entertain it, so he ignored her completely.

Jimin, however, was different. His easy smile came naturally as he gave her a small, polite nod. His body language was relaxed, his movements smooth as he walked beside Jungkook toward the parking lot. His gaze was neutral, a simple act of kindness that contrasted sharply with Jungkook's indifference.

They reached the parking lot, and Jimin climbed into his car, his fingers gripping the steering wheel a little tighter than usual. He had originally planned on making Jungkook drive, but the irritation bubbling in him from earlier—the way Jungkook had acted with you—made him rethink. He was annoyed, not just because of what happened, but because Jungkook’s behavior had crossed a line. It wasn’t professionalism; it was just unnecessary rudeness. Pure and simple. Jimin had half a mind to lecture him, but instead, he started the engine, the sound of it roaring to life filling the air.

But Jungkook didn’t get in his own car. His eyes weren’t on Jimin, nor were they on the road. They were locked on something—or rather, someone.

You.

You were standing by your car, your arms crossed tightly over your chest, your head bowed slightly. Your shoulders looked tense, rigid, the way they always did when you were tired. You were clearly trying to calm yourself, but your lips were moving. You were speaking to yourself, or maybe the wind, but Jungkook could see it—your face contorted into something that looked like frustration, like rage.

He observed you. His body was suddenly heavy, his thoughts distracted. You looked like you wanted to set the entire parking lot on fire. From the way your hands tightened into fists by your sides, Jungkook could tell you were seething, clearly ready to explode. He couldn’t hear your thoughts, couldn’t read your mind like he could with everyone else, but it didn’t matter. Your expression was enough. You were cursing him out, he was sure of it.

It felt wrong to stare, but he couldn’t stop himself. It was like an itch buried beneath his skin. His entire body ached to know what you were saying, but you were like a closed book—impossible to read. It irritated him. That feeling of helplessness, the itch he couldn’t scratch. He hated not knowing exactly what you were thinking, hated that he couldn’t tap into the storm swirling behind those eyes. You looked like you wanted to strangle him, and the idea actually made him chuckle darkly to himself.

As much as he hated to admit it, there was something oddly magnetic about you. You looked so exhausted, so ready to shatter, your emotions playing across your face like an open book he couldn’t read. And that drove him insane. He wanted to know all of you. Every thought. Every word. Every secret. But he couldn’t. And it pissed him off.

His chest tightened as he studied you, his mind working in circles. Even though you looked like you were about to explode with frustration, there was a strange sense of calm that settled over him. Paradoxically, your anger—your confusion—was like a balm to his restless thoughts. His hands twitched at his sides.

And you, completely unaware of his gaze, kept muttering, your words too quiet for him to catch. The cold wind swayed your hair, and Jungkook wondered if you had any idea what you were doing to him. He hated that he cared. And yet, he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to know.

He shifted his weight, a part of him wanting to walk away, but another part of him... couldn’t. He hated how curious he was about you. You were a puzzle he couldn’t solve, and that was something Jungkook couldn’t stand.

You suddenly turned your head, catching Jungkook’s eyes locked on you. Jungkook’s breath hitched. The shock of being caught sent a wave of heat through his chest. His eyes widened in alarm. Shit.

He knew. He knew you caught him. His face twisted into a mix of panic and frustration, and before he could overthink it, he whipped his head around, his heart pounding. He didn’t wait. He didn’t hesitate. He bolted into his car, yanked the door open, and slammed it shut behind him. Without looking back, the engine roared to life as he slammed his foot on the accelerator, his knuckles white around the steering wheel. He sped out of the parking lot, his focus darting between the road and his rearview mirror, where you were barely visible in the distance.

But before he could even breathe a sigh of relief, the heavens opened up. Rain poured down in sheets, soaking everything in an instant.

And then—he cursed.

He hated the rain. It always made him feel fragile, exposed, as though the world was pressing in on him in a way he couldn’t control. The sound of it pounding on the roof, the windshield, and the pavement—it was overwhelming, and it irritated him that he couldn’t understand why. It was stupid.

He glanced at the road, but Jimin’s car was nowhere to be seen. Of course, Jimin was probably already halfway there, and here he was, alone and soaked in this awful weather. His head was a mess, and his frustration felt tenfold. Great. He groaned, slamming his palm against the steering wheel. Perfect. The rain made it harder to see, the windshield wipers swishing furiously, but still, everything was blurry. Most people would’ve slowed down, maybe even pulled over. But Jungkook wasn’t like most people. So, he didn’t. His foot pressed harder against the gas, not caring about the storm that made the road slippery and hard to see.

Then, Jungkook’s eyes caught sight of Jimin’s car parked outside a convenience store, headlights flickering through the rain. He let out a soft, amused chuckle, shaking his head.

Typical Jimin.

Jimin was probably picking up some random snacks or an odd gift for Jin and his wife. The thought made him grin—what could you possibly find at a convenience store that would be good enough for dinner with Jin and his wife? Not much, he figured. But Jimin would always find a way to make things interesting. There was no way Jimin would have time to get something nice, and even if he did, Jin wouldn’t care. Namjoon wouldn’t even be there; he was off with his girlfriend. It was the kind of casual thing Jimin would do, and Jungkook was sure Taehyung along with Eunji (Namjoon's girlfriend's daughter) would tease him mercilessly about whatever he picked up. He could already imagine the scene: Jimin sulking, pretending to be annoyed, but secretly enjoying the attention. He spotted Jimin emerging from the door, an awkward bag in his hands, and he wondered what he had found.

But it wasn’t enough to make him stop. He didn’t want to be stuck in the rain any longer, so he pressed on, the road slick with water. The roads were empty. His headlights swept through the downpour, and the sound of his engine roared louder, mixing with the patter of the rain. The world felt gray and cold, and for a moment, he wondered if anyone else was even out here. His eyes darted, blinked twice, then three times in quick succession. A sharp flash of light broke through the downpour—streetlights, or headlights—too fast, too sudden. He squinted, trying to make sense of it, but his vision was useless against the storm.

Something’s coming.

Before he could react, he felt it. A sharp, sudden jolt as his car lost control. His hand gripped the wheel harder, his muscles tensed. He tried desperately to turn the steering wheel, left, right—anything to steady the car—but it felt as though the wheels had no grip at all. His breathing came out in short, sharp bursts.

And then it hit.

The sound was deafening—metal groaning, glass shattering. Jungkook’s body was thrown against the seat as the car twirled. He barely registered the impact before the airbag exploded in his face with a loud whoosh, his head slamming into it with force. His vision blurred, and the pain came, biting and sudden. His chest felt tight, his breaths shallow. The car spun—once, twice, thrice. His hands trembled against the steering wheel, and his head throbbed painfully. His heart felt as though it would pound out of his chest.

For a moment, everything went silent. He could feel his body shaking. His head swam, dizziness clouding his vision. His pulse raced as the rush of adrenaline hit, but then, fear—a feeling he rarely ever felt—took over. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He wasn't supposed to feel like this. Not after Mr. Park took him in. Not after Jimin became his family. He wasn’t supposed to feel this vulnerable. But now, the sensation was loud and personal, crawling up to his heart, through his arms, and into his bones.

Jungkook's world spun around him, the blur of the rain and the crash fading into nothingness. Suddenly, time seemed to stop. The sound of the storm, the screeching tires, everything disappeared. He wasn’t in his car anymore. He wasn’t even on the road. No, he was somewhere else entirely. Somewhere warm.

He was seven again.

The leather seats were soft, comforting, and the scent of his mother’s perfume lingered in the air. The only sound was the soft hum of the engine, a calm contrast to the chaos he had just left behind. He glanced around. His father was driving, hands steady on the wheel, wearing his familiar cheeky smile. His mother sat beside him, head against the window, her gaze distant but peaceful. Jungkook shifted uncomfortably in the back seat, squeezed between the seatbelt and the door. His arms were crossed tightly, shoulders hunched in frustration, as he kept his head down to avoid their attention.

“Hun, how long until we get there?” his mother’s voice broke the calm, soft and uncertain, reaching his father’s ears. She turned her head toward him with a small smile, her face lit faintly by the dashboard glow.

Mr. Jeon turned toward her, a subtle smile tugging at his lips. He shot her a cheery look, his eyes soft with affection as he answered. “Quite,” was all he said, but there was a warmth in his voice that made her smile.

But then Mr. Jeon's eyes found him.

Jungkook was sitting in the backseat, his little arms crossed tightly over his chest, his puffy cheeks flushed red. His head was turned toward the window, a frown tugging at his lips.

"What happened, Jung?" His father asked gently, voice full of care.

Jungkook’s gaze flickered up to meet his father's eyes, but he didn’t speak. Jungkook just huffed, his lip curling slightly, trying to hold back more tears. His arms tightened around himself, his small body so tense it seemed like he was trying to disappear into the seat. His eyes welled up again, and he sniffled, looking away.

“He don’t want to go.” Mrs. Jeon whispered softly, her voice light but firm, as though she’d been trying to ease the situation for some time. She shifted in her seat, her hands lightly brushing her white Chanel dress.

"I know that," Mr. Jeon said with a soft chuckle, his eyes flicking back to Jungkook. "But why?" he asked, genuinely curious.

Mrs. Jeon shrugged her shoulders, turning toward her husband with a helpless smile, her eyes glinting faintly with understanding. “You know how shy he is,” she whispered to him, just loud enough for him to hear but not Jungkook. Her voice was soft and wrapped in familiarity, like a gentle assurance.

Mr. Jeon chuckled softly, nodding in understanding. He then turned his attention back to Jungkook, his smile wide and encouraging. “But Taehyung will be there, too. Don’t you want to play with your hyung?” he teased, wiggling his brows playfully as he spoke.

Jungkook’s expression twisted with irritation. He pouted even more, his arms folding tighter across his chest. “No,” he snapped, his voice a little louder than before. “No, Taehyungie.” He refused to even look at his father, turning his head toward the window. His little hands balled into fists at his sides as he sat there.

Mr. Jeon froze for a moment at Jungkook’s sudden outburst. His eyes widened briefly as he glanced back at his son in the rearview mirror, but he let it go. He wasn’t angry—he never was with his son—but the outburst was unexpected. Jungkook wasn’t one to open up easily, and Mr. Jeon understood that. It wasn’t that Jungkook disliked Taehyung; he just couldn’t handle him. Taehyung was too much—too loud, too dramatic, too confident for Jungkook’s liking. His endless antics and unshakable charm always rubbed Jungkook the wrong way. It was easier for Jungkook to retreat into his shell than to deal with someone like Taehyung. Jungkook preferred the quiet, the safety of his own thoughts, while Taehyung was none of those things.

“Park uncle and his son are coming too. You wanted to meet Park uncle’s son?” Mr. Jeon tried again, his voice light and filled with gentle encouragement. He glanced back briefly, his brow furrowed slightly. He wanted Jungkook to at least be excited.

They were heading toward the Kim mansion for a grand party. A formal event with a lot of people, glittering dresses, and chatter. The kind of place where smiles felt like currency and charm was the language. It was important because their families shared good relationships with the Kim's. It was a social obligation.

But Jungkook didn’t bite. His gaze fixed on the rain streaking down the window. He pressed his cheek harder against the cold glass, the coolness against his skin doing little to ease the rising frustration in his chest. He wasn’t interested. His father’s words barely registered in his mind. The whole idea of going to a big event, the crowded space, the noise—it all just felt overwhelming.

“No,” Jungkook muttered, his voice tight, almost as if he were trying to seal off any further conversation. He could feel his father’s eyes on him, but he didn’t care. He didn't want to go. Not to meet Park Uncle’s son. Not to that party. Not anywhere. He wanted to stay home. He hated people. All of them. Parties. Crowds. They made his skin crawl. Even though Park uncle was always kind and brought him chocolate, even though he was gentle and easy to talk to, it didn’t matter. Meeting his son was a thought that felt like a chore.

Mr. Jeon’s face softened with a small, exasperated sigh. He turned his head, catching his wife’s eye for a brief moment. Mrs. Jeon gently tapped his arm, urging him to stop pushing Jungkook. But Mr. Jeon didn’t listen. He could see his son’s discomfort and it worried him. He wasn’t going to let it slide this time.

“Son, listen,” he began, trying again with more patience, his voice firm but not unkind. “You should—”

But his words were cut short by the sudden screech of tires and a blinding flash of headlights, too bright, too fast. Then—boom. Something slammed into their car, a deafening crash that shook everything around him. The impact tore through them, sending the car off the road. The world spun wildly, glass shattered, metal twisted, and screams filled the air. His head smacked against the seatbelt, his shoulders pulled hard by the force as the car twisted and turned like a broken toy. His arms flailed, his hands gripping at anything they could find, but there was nothing.

Finally, the car came to a violent stop and everything felt eerily quiet. The sound of the engine sputtering, the hiss of rain, and the faint, dull ringing in his ears filled his senses. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, but his head spun. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood. His chest was tight, his breath shallow. Through his blurred vision, he saw it—them. Blood streaked his vision, dark and warm as it trickled into his eyes from a gash on his forehead. His breath came in short, broken pants. He couldn’t see clearly—everything felt distorted, red, and wrong.  His mother was there. Her body was twisted, crumpled, unnatural, and there was so much blood. Everywhere but specially beneath her.

“Mom…” he whispered, his voice broken, a thin, desperate sound. His lips trembled, his head shaking as though he could will it away, but the horror wouldn’t leave. His small hands gripped at his seatbelt again, his fingers sticky, his face soaked with rain and fear. All he knew was that his mother was hurt, she was bleeding and wasn't moving.  No, no, no… His chest ached, a desperate pain that he couldn’t understand.

His eyes shifted to his father, still breathing, but barely. His father’s chest rose weakly, blood dripping from a gash on his forehead, and Jungkook’s heart twisted in his chest. “Dada…” His voice cracked, the sound barely more than a whimper as he reached out for his father, his small hands pressing against the seat. The fear was suffocating, but the pain of seeing his father so helpless, so close to slipping away, was worse. His body shook uncontrollably, his tiny frame trying to fight the overwhelming terror that threatened to swallow him whole.

The silence felt unbearable. Everything around him felt like a blur, yet every detail was all real and painstrikingly cruel. His hands trembled, his body shaking, his chest aching as he waited—desperately—for some kind of answer. But before his father could respond, figures emerged from the darkness dressed in black uniforms that glistened faintly under the rain. Their presence felt wrong, but the night itself was nothing if wasn't sinful. Jungkook’s head spun, his ears ringing painfully. The sound was distorted, every word like a distant, broken whisper. But the fragments came through, jagged and broken.

“And, it’s done... Wasn't much. Let him suffer.”

Jungkook visibly flinched at their words, his heart hammering against his ribcage. His ears rang painfully, making it hard to hear, but the fragments reached him like poison.

“He denied boss, after all.”

"Hmm, all he needed was that file. Black orchid project's file."

 "Yeah, stupid motherfucker." They turned to leave, but then one of them paused, looking back at Mr. Jeon’s bloody form, a sinister smile creeping across his face. “You know, since you’re dying anyways, let me tell you something… we found her. We got the first kid from the Black Orchid project. And with her, we’ll get them all. And with you dead, who will stop us.”

Their laughter was cruel and hollow, echoing in the stillness like nails scraping across the floor. Jungkook’s chest tightened, and his stomach churned, bile rising in his throat as they disappeared into the rain. The words haunted him, swirling in his mind, but before he could process them, another sound broke through—the sound of his father’s breath.

Mr. Jeon’s body shifted, his chest rising and falling in labored, shallow breaths. His tear-streaked face twisted with pain as his eyes met Jungkook’s, the weight of everything crashing down in those last, fleeting moments. “Jungkook…” His voice was raw, barely a whisper, but it carried so much guilt that it felt like it could suffocate him. “I’m so sorry, my boy… this… this is all because of me.”

“Dada…” His voice was cracked, shaky, the fear rising in his chest like a storm. His hand reached out instinctively, trembling, but it fell short, his small fingers grazing the air instead of his father’s skin.

Just as Jungkook’s vision began to blur, another sound broke through the haze—the screech of tires and the distant sound of shoes splashing through the rain. Relief flickered faintly in his chest. Someone was coming. But his blurry gaze couldn’t make out who it was.

A pair of feet appeared before him, followed by the frantic sound of someone running, slipping in the rain as they skidded to a halt next to the wreckage.

 It was Mr. Park, panting, his face pale with shock as he took in the horror before him.

Mr. Park dropped to his knees beside the wreckage, his hands trembling as they hovered over the twisted metal, unable to focus on anything but the devastation before him. His breath hitched in his chest as his gaze fell on Mrs. Jeon’s crumpled, lifeless form, and the tears welled up instantly, blurring his vision. He opened his mouth, but no words came out. All he could manage was a broken, “Oh, my... How… what?” His gaze settled on Jungkook’s mother, crumpled and lifeless in the front seat, and his breath hitched. His hands gripped the cold, wet metal of the car, his entire body shaking as he fought the overwhelming wave of fear and sorrow threatening to drown him.

“Hang on! I’ll get you both out, I promise!” His voice cracked as he spoke, his hands fumbling against the seatbelt, desperate to pull them free.

But Mr. Jeon, with great effort, shook his head. His face was pale, slick with sweat, and blood dripped from the corner of his mouth. His voice came out hoarse, barely more than a whisper, but the words cut through the chaos. “No... no... listen to me.” He coughed, his body convulsing from the effort, and blood spattered onto his chest. “I... I won’t be able to make it out of here. Take Jungkook... get him out... and raise him. There’s no one else I trust more than you, Park. You’re like a brother to me. Please... take care of him... like he’s your own.”

Mr. Park’s eyes filled with tears, and he squeezed them shut for a moment, trying to push back the wave of grief threatening to drown him. His chest tightened, and his voice cracked as he fought to keep it steady. “I will. I promise. But don’t say that, we can still—”

“No…” Mr. Jeon’s voice was barely a whisper now, weak and distant, almost drowned out by the rain. The faintest of smiles tugged at the corner of his lips, but it quickly disappeared as he coughed, blood staining his mouth. “It’s too late for me… just save him. Please.”

Mr. Park’s hand trembled as it hovered over Mr. Jeon’s, and he nodded, his lips trembling. He wasn’t ready to accept this, but he knew there was no choice. “I’ll take him,” he whispered. “I’ll take him, I promise.”

With trembling hands, Mr. Park unbuckled Jungkook, his heart breaking at the sight of the boy’s tear-streaked face, pale and bloodied. The tiny body was limp in his arms, and he fought to hold back his own tears, knowing it wouldn’t help. Jungkook’s head lolled against his shoulder, eyes barely open, blinking with confusion and fear, but he couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.

“I’ve got you,” Mr. Park whispered, his voice rough with emotion, his arms tightening around Jungkook as he lifted him from the wreckage. The boy’s head rested against his chest, the faintest stir of breath against his skin. “It’s going to be okay,” he said, though he knew nothing about this could ever be okay. If anything, he himself didn't trusted his words. They felt hollow.

“I’ll be back to get you. And I’ll get you out too, just hang there,” he said, his voice final, desperate, and certain. His hands trembled as he cradled Jungkook against his chest, his gaze flickering back toward Mr. Jeon, whose eyes were barely open. Mr. Park wasn't sure if he was even capable enough to fulfil that promise but at moment it was all he could offer, it was all he had left.

Mr. Jeon’s eyes fluttered, a faint nod the only response he could manage. His body had grown so still, but the tear streaked face, the way his lips trembled, said everything. He knew it was a promise that wouldn’t be kept—but he nodded anyway, and the last bit of hope faded in the silence of the wreckage. With one final glance, Mr. Park turned, his arms cradling Jungkook against him, as he ran toward safety, the boy’s limp body a stark contrast to the life and pain surrounding them. The rain continued to pour, and with each step, it felt like the world was slipping further away.

Jungkook’s eyes fluttered weakly as he was carried to Mr. Park’s car. His small body felt light and cold against the older man’s chest. Inside the vehicle, Jimin sat in the backseat, his wide eyes staring at the scene before him. His small hands gripped the edge of his seat tightly, his knuckles pale in the dim glow of the headlights. When Mr. Park placed Jungkook beside him, Jimin’s shock melted into an visible concern. His little face was a mix of worry and gentleness as he shifted closer, his small body trembling slightly. Without hesitation, he wrapped his tiny arms around Jungkook, pulling him into a hug. The warmth of Jimin’s embrace was so soft, so comforting, but it felt like it wasn’t enough.

“Don’t cry… it’s okay, don’t cry,” Jimin whispered, his voice cracking slightly as he pulled Jungkook closer. Jungkook’s eyes burned, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak. His throat was tight, his chest hollow with loss. The last thing he felt before the world around him went black was Jimin’s arms, holding him tight, and the warmth of a friendship that now felt fragile, like a thread ready to snap.

Meanwhile, Mr. Park’s hands were shaking, his desperation choking his every movement as he turned back to the wreck. His heart pounded in his chest as he sprinted toward the flames, but he didn’t make it. Before he could even reach the wreckage, the explosion erupted in a violent wave, the flames licking at the sky as they consumed the car. The explosion rocked the ground beneath him, the heat so intense it scorched his skin, and the rain didn’t do a thing to stop the inferno. The sound of the blast echoed in his chest, and for a moment, Mr. Park stood frozen, his body trembling from the shock, the image of his closest friend burning into his mind.  His breath caught in his throat, his heart twisted painfully, but he couldn’t move. He watched as the fire consumed everything—everything he had hoped to save. The rain poured harder, but it was useless against the inferno.

And just like that, Jungkook lost everything in one brutal, cruel instant. His mind hung on that moment, the crackling fire and the unyielding rain swallowing it all. The sound of the explosion still rang in his ears as he was pulled from the memory. Another sharp, blinding flash of light cut through his closed eyelids, yanking him out of his haze. His head throbbed painfully, the beat of his pulse a steady rhythm that seemed to match the aching in his skull.

A car screeched to a halt in front of him, the sound cutting through the fog in his mind like a blade. For a moment, he thought it was Jimin. But that couldn’t be right—Jimin was way behind him, far away from this mess, in a safe place. How could he have gotten ahead so fast? Jungkook’s thoughts came fast and fragmented. His breaths came quicker, his hands trembling harder as his body tensed with uncertainty.

What was happening? Was it Jimin? Was it someone else? His mind felt fractured, his body unable to respond. His body felt paralysed, useless.

The driver stepped out into the downpour, his black uniform drenched in seconds, but he moved forward with an unsettling calm. The sight of the uniform—it was like a switch had been flipped inside Jungkook. But his thoughts were too scattered, too foggy, to make sense of it. The closer the man got, the louder the buzz in Jungkook’s head grew, like lightening sissling through his skull. It was unbearable. His hands flew to his temples, fingers digging in desperately, but the pain only intensified. A low, broken groan escaped his throat.

Without warning, a loud, brutal crash shattered the silence. The man had smashed the car window. The sound tore through his body like a physical blow, breaking his fragile focus. His eyes flew open just as he felt the sting of broken glass. The shards flying like tiny stars of pain that bit into his skin. Before Jungkook could even flinch, a rough hand wrapped around his collar and yanked him from the seat. He was dragged out into the downpour, the cold, icy rain slamming into his face, washing away the blood. The cold slapped against his skin like a thousand tiny knives, but he was too weak to react. His limbs were heavy, his body numb, as if it wasn’t even his own. He couldn’t fight back. The man dragged him across the slick road like he weighed nothing, and with a brutal toss, he was slammed onto the wet pavement. His body hit the ground with a sickening thud, and the cold, muddy water instantly soaked through his clothes, seeping into his bones.

He forced himself to push up or at least he tired. His hands trembled, weak and brittle, but he couldn’t hold himself. His body gave out, and he collapsed back into the mud with a helpless, wet sound. His face turned upward, the rain blurring his vision, every droplet a sharp needle that dug into his skin. His chest heaved, his breaths coming in shallow bursts, but the pain in his skull, his limbs, and his chest refused to go away. Jungkook tried again, his body shaking harder this time. His head swayed from side to side as he struggled, but the rain felt endless, each droplet pounding into him, each one deeper, colder, meaner. His heartbeat was an erratic drumbeat in his chest, thudding against his ribs like it might give out at any moment. His vision remained a hazy blur—everything was grey, wet, and cold, and the pounding in his skull grew stronger with every heartbeat.

Jungkook’s eyes fought to stay open, his vision blurring more with each passing second, but the shape of the man in front of him became clearer. The man in the black uniform loomed over him, a dark, shifting figure that blurred in the rain. His face was a shadow, but the smirk on his lips was cruel and clear.

The man’s eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he watched Jungkook struggle beneath him, barely able to lift himself up on one elbow. His hand gripped the gun with a steady, deadly calm, and as he crouched down, water splashed from his chin, droplets falling onto Jungkook’s face. “Look at you,” he sneered, voice dripping with mockery, “pathetic. No high and mighty prince now, huh? Where’s your guard dog to save you?”

Jungkook’s chest heaved in ragged breaths, his heart hammering in his ribcage. He could feel the weight of his body dragging him further into the puddle, the cold seeping into his bones, but his muscles were too weak to fight back. His hand twitched, desperately trying to reach for something—anything—to push himself up, but it shook violently, unable to get any purchase. He gritted his teeth, eyes clouded with pain and dizziness, unable to respond, unable to do anything but lie there and take it.

“today was my lucky day, I guess,”  he laughed.

“You’ve been a thorn in our side for too long,” the man continued, his voice dropping lower as he straightened, standing taller. His form was solid and imposing, his boots kicking mud as he took a step back. The gun rose, glinting under the pale light of the streetlamps. The barrel was cold, steady, and pointed directly at Jungkook’s chest.

“Time to put you out of your misery, kid. Join mommy and daddy. I wager... You’ve been dying to.” A cold sweat broke out across Jungkook’s skin even in shrill rain, and for a brief moment, his breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened, flicking between the gun and the man’s mocking face, terror clawing at him from the inside. His chest tightened, his body frozen as the world spun around him, and he tried once more to move, to escape, but his legs were useless, as if the earth beneath him was swallowing him whole. All that remained was the sharp, unrelenting noise of the rain and the sickening sound of the man’s finger inching toward the trigger.

Jungkook’s body went rigid as the man’s words echoed in his mind. His heart thundered in his chest as the memories of his parents flooded him—their lifeless eyes, the blood staining the night, the terror that gripped him then and now. His hands, slick with cold rain, shook uncontrollably as he stared at the barrel of the gun. His throat constricted, but no words came out—only a choked sob that was lost in the downpour.

The man’s grin widened, cruel and savage, as he inched his finger toward the trigger. Jungkook could see the gleam in his eyes, the satisfaction of finally having the power to take everything from him. The laughter in his voice was sharp, like glass scraping against his skin, and with a slow, deliberate motion, he squeezed the trigger.

"Goodbye, Jeon Jungkook."

The gunshot shattered the night—louder than the storm, louder than the pounding in Jungkook's ears. For a brief, agonizing moment, the world seemed to stop. The rain paused in midair, hanging like frozen tears, the wind silenced as if holding its breath. Jungkook felt the world tilt beneath him, and his body instinctively braced for the impact that was supposed to come.

a/n: So, how’d you guys like it? Hate it? Loved it? I need the feedback, break me, but like... gently, okay? I’m fragile and I’ll cry, like, on the spot. But honestly, there might be some grammatical disasters in there. Why? Because I got sick and just didn’t have the energy to do much editing work on it. So yeah, don’t judge me too hard, I’m basically a walking disaster right now. Also, I really hope you still love Jungkook after reading this. Please don’t hate him. Show him some love. And, like, show me some too, because my ego is starving. Tell me how amazing it was (or, like, pretend it was) and boost my fragile little ego, okay? I need it. Love ya, guys!

[t1red-twilight]

could you maybe write a Spencer Reid x reader where bau!reader always has freezing cold hands and maybe Spencer offers to hold their hands to warm them up and then it kind of becomes a routine thing that they do and they both secretly really enjoy it then maybe a confession is involved? idk i just have freezing hands all the time and i want him to hold my hands 😔

(your fics are wonderful btw! you write Spencer so well! <3)

frigid

content/warnings: gn!reader, fluff, confession, cursing, hoes with anemia rise up, autistic coded spencer

notes: i really really appreciate the compliment, that’s so incredibly sweet. thank you so much for your request! i hope you enjoy it<3

word count: 1.2k

masterlist s. r. masterlist

spencer first noticed it when your hand brushed past his on the jet. you were reaching for something and had to lean over him, so he began to grab the same thing to grab it for you.

your hands touched briefly, and he noted how cold they were. maybe you had poor circulation? “your hands are so cold,” he had stated.

you shrugged in response. “i mean, i guess. i’m just kind of used to it.” to some extent, you were. you regularly carried hand warmers to stuff inside jacket pockets, carried gloves occasionally, and tried to increase your blood flow whenever you could.

after that, he noticed just how cold your hands often were. on the jet he brushed it off due to the altitude or maybe even just the air conditioning, but he couldn’t deny how much you rubbed your hands together or discreetly opened warming packets.

one time on a particularly chilly case in michigan, he saw you digging around in your bag. “what are you looking for?” he asked.

you looked up briefly just to continue to rifle through your things. “oh, it’s nothing.” the brisk air was beginning to become to much to bear, you needed your hand warmers. “i just need to find my hand warmers.”

after a few minutes you gave up and began to rub your hands together to generate some warmth. spencer watched for a moment, and contemplated if he should say anything else. he then spoke before even realizing that he had said anything. “do you just want to hold my hand?”

what first struck you was how odd this was, coming from spencer specifically. you had known about his germ issue, obviously. everyone did. “it’s actually safer to kiss,” he would always say. but, if he was offering, who were you to turn him down? you were no fool.

his eyes widened after he realized the sentiment of what this proposition could mean, and quickly followed it up with, “only if you want to, of course. just because your hands are cold all the time.”

and so, you reached for his hand and gently held it. he then took your enclasped hands and placed them in the pocket on his jacket. your hands weren’t the only thing that were warm that night. you weren’t sure if he could see the red heat that had risen to your cheeks.

from that moment on, spencer began holding your hand or putting your hand in his pockets when he could tell they were getting cold. surely other people on the team were noticing, but it didn’t really occur to you to mind. eventually your wallet was appreciative of the money you were saving on purchasing hand warmers in bulk.

presently you and spencer were walking back to your apartment after a case. you both were quite tired, and you didn’t want him taking public transportation this late at night. it hadn’t snowed yet, but it was still incredibly cold.

spencer noticed the telltale signs that your hands were getting uncomfortably cold, and so he reached for the hand that was closest to him and laced his fingers with yours. “sorry i’m such a frigid bitch,” you joked.

your statement stopped him in his tracks, literally. what could you even mean by that? you weren’t a bitch. frigid, maybe. but definitely not a bitch.

his sudden stop startled you a little. “what do you mean? you’re not a bitch.” his brow was knit together, and his lips curled downward ever so slightly.

oh, he hadn’t quite understood what you had intended to imply. “that’s not what i meant,” you said, laughing lightly. “i just meant that i’m really fucking cold, like all the time. thank you for sharing your body heat, i guess.”

due to his expression, it had clearly dawned on him what you had meant. “i don’t mind at all.” he smiled and squeezed your hand a little tighter. “you can hold my hand whenever you want to.”

you continued walking to your apartment. the lights from the surrounding buildings reflected dimly off the road, creating a soft ambiance. cars drove past every now and then, and sometimes you’d move to the side of the sidewalk for people passing by.

“what if i always want to?” you asked under your breath. he turned to look at you, a quizzical look sitting upon his face.

“what do you mean?”

you paused. “what if i want to hold your hand, even when i’m not cold?” you looked into his eyes, and then something shifted. spencer opened and closed his mouth a few times. you flicked your eyes away and looked ant the ground. maybe you shouldn’t have said anything.

spencer moved his head in an attempt to meet your gaze, but was unsuccessful. “hey,” he prodded, trying to get your attention. his voice was softened; the sound of it vibrating softly in the air between the two of you.

“hey,” he called out again. “do you mean that?” he questioned. the tone of his voice was nothing accusatory; it was curious, maybe even a little shocked.

you gulped down any embarrassment that you could. okay, you were doing this. “yes,” you mumbled. “i really enjoy holding your hand even when my hands aren’t cold.”

at first, his eyebrows raised a bit, but then his expression softened and grew more rapt. this was not what you were expecting. what you had been expecting was an awkward exchange of, “i’m sorry, i don’t like you that way,” or perhaps even a declaration of his purely platonic feelings for you.

his silence was beginning to stress you out. you looked for any recognition on his face of what his next words would be. finally, he spoke. “really? because i do too,” he whispered.

upon his lips sat a small smile that did little to hide his glee. thank god, he wasn’t upset or uncomfortable. “what if i held your hand whenever i wanted to? not just when my hands get cold?” you pondered.

his smile widened. he nodded passionately before speaking. “yes!” he exclaimed, a little louder than intended. he quietened his voice again, “yes. you absolutely can. i want you too. i like holding your hand.”

the remaining tension in your jaw and shoulders finally dissipated. you turned your body to face him completely, and you were met with the backlit halo of light from the street lamps that illuminated him in an almost angelic way. his curls looked softer than ever, and the creases around his eyes made you want to melt.

your free hand reached forward in search of his other hand, and you grasped it tightly. finally you broke the silence. “can i kiss you, spence?”

his eyes bound shut tightly and he smiled even wider, if possible. his eyes opened and looked right into yours. “please. please kiss me,” he declared.

your hands still intertwined, you leaned forward and pressed your lips against his. you tilted your head to the side to get even closer to him. one of his hand let go of your own and cradled your jaw gently.

his breath tickled against your cheek, and despite his typical bashful nature, you felt him smile into the kiss. when you pulled away, a string of salvia connected the two of you. in another situation you might’ve found it gross, but presently you didn’t mind.

you took your free hand and brushed a piece of hair from his face. nothing in this moment mattered but you and him, and you with him.

[askblueandviolet]

Macaca and the Mayor, what's it like to be parents?

Bai Hae, how does it feel to have two more dads?

Do your parents even know that one of your babysitters is the mayor?

[tainebot01]

POV: Mia has a secret to tell you. Or maybe she’s just adjusting her hair?

[imonthemoonitsmadeofcheese]

Surgery

In which the Drifter requests medical assistance from Eris Morn.

Now with art from @h3xxthev3xx !!!

Link to Ao3 if you prefer to read it there

ACCESS: RESTRICTED DECRYPTION KEY: 7CP9SXMO2G$IKO-006 REP#: 062-DERELICT-AUDIO AGENT(S): AUN-326 SUBJ: RECENT VIP#1316 and ERI-223 INTERACTIONS - MULTIPLE RECORDINGS

RECORDING 77455.8 [BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]

“Hey, Moondust!”

“What is it, Rat?”

“Serious question for you. I’ve been thinkin’-”

“A challenge for you, I’m sure.”

“Aww… you ruined it.”

“Ruined what?”

“Can’t tell you now. Maybe later.”

“Clearly it wasn’t that important.”

“Oh it was, but it can wait.”

“Speak plainly. What do you want?”

“Nope. Not telling you now. The moment is gone.”

[END TRANSCRIPT]

...

RECORDING 77456.4 [BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]

“Hey, Three-Eyes.”

“I am returning your call. Your message said it was important.”

“Yeah, so, um… you do dissections, right? Cutting stuff up, like, medically? For science?”

“Generally, yes.”

“So you’d be good at using tweezers to pull bits of shrapnel out from being embedded in human flesh, right?”

“What have you done?”

“I was working on a grenade idea, more of a mine, really, and it worked! It worked real well, actually. I’m proud of it. Misjudged the range a bit, though. Made myself into a bit of a pincushion. Was wondering if you’d be willing to help me out.”

“You have a ghost. Use it.”

“Nope. Not gonna happen. But, if you’re busy, that’s fine. I’ll deal.”

“I… do you even have antiseptic there? Bandages?”

“Yeah, a bright light and tweezers too, just need you to be the hands.”

“I am on my way.”

[END TRANSCRIPT]

...

RECORDING 77456.5 [BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]

“Ow.”

Plink.

“Do you prefer I stop?”

“Nope I prefer you keep going.”

“Then stop squirming.”

“It hurts.”

“You have punctured over one third of your body with foreign objects. Of course it hurts.”

“Ow.”

Plink.

“Upon cursory examination, that appears to be a shell casing.”

“Yeah I threw some in there. Ow.”

Plink.

“And this one… a finishing nail? From carpentry?”

“Yeah, tossed that in there too, whatever I had lying around, really. Ow.”

“A metal screw. Not pointed. For fastening metal, most likely, but rather small. From electronics, perhaps?”

Plink.

“Probably. I wasn’t paying much attention when I stuffed the thing. Oh dammit.”

“This one is curved and deeply embedded. I am trying to be gentle but if I do not pull it out, it is just going to work its way in deeper. It looks like broken glass.”

“Yeah I put some of that in there too. Ah shit. Fuck!”

“I have extracted it.”

Plink.

“That was probably the worst one. Just a few more and this leg will be done. Do you need a break?”

“Nope. Let’s get it over with.”

“I would let you squeeze my hand through the pain, but I need both of mine to remove what you’ve done to yourself.”

“Yeah, I know, thought’s real sweet though. Sweeter than you normally are. You must feel sorry for me. Ugh.”

Plink.

“Have you decided whether or not you will ask me what you were going to ask me before?”

“Nope. Now is definitely not the time. Ow.”

Plink.

“I am curious as to what has you so reserved. You are not normally bashful.”

“Ow.”

Plink.

“I don’t… I don’t even know what that means. But that hurts.”

“I spoke too soon. This one is another that is much deeper than expected. You are bleeding quite a bit. I recommend we stop.”

“Is that the last one?”

“In this leg, yes. I have not yet examined the rest of you.”

“Get it outta me.”

“Can I convince you to reconsider your ghost?”

“No. You take it out or I will.”

“The cleanest way to remove this will be to cut it out of you.”

“Then do that.”

“Why are you so stubborn about this?”

“Because I am.”

“Will you at least get your ghost to give you something for the pain? I am hurting you considerably.”

“No.”

“What about alcohol?”

“I have plenty of that, yeah.”

“Where is it?”

“Second door on the left, back cupboard up high has the strong stuff.”

“Do you have a preference?”

“Whiskey.”

“In a glass?”

“Nah. This ain’t a glass kinda situation.”

“I will return.”

[END TRANSCRIPT]

...

RECORDING 77456.6 [BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]

“I told you I didn’t need a glass, Moondust.”

“This is for me, when I’m done. The rest of the bottle is yours.”

“I mean, the whole thing is mine, but fine, Doctor Three-Eyes, you can take your cut.”

“I shall, and the alcohol too. Now drink some of that while I clean up the rest of you and prepare the incision site.”

“You say such sexy things when you’re working. What? What’s that look for?”

“You are not normally this careless. What actually happened?”

“I am not in the habit of lying to you, Moondust. In fact, I don’t even know if I can. You see through everything. I do not think I have ever successfully convinced you something was true when it was not.”

“You are not in the habit of lying to anyone. You simply do not state the full truth, constantly deflect conversations, and allow people to believe whatever they want to be true without ever correcting them. It is what makes your methods of deception so effective.”

“You… you really do know me, Moondust. Ain’t no one ever been able to get in my head like you. Ow!”

“Drink more. You are still too sensitive for me to proceed.”

“Get me drunk, in a compromising position, and then stick things into me. I see how it is.”

“Keep insinuating that I’d behave in such a manner as to take advantage of you and you will be left to extract this distorted… spring? on your own.”

“I’m sorry. That was actually out of line. I trust you more than anyone. You know that. I was trying to make a joke and worded that way wrong. Didn't come out as flirty as it did in my head.”

“You are in considerable pain. “

“Don't forget the blood loss.”

“Drink more alcohol you… clumsy fool.”

“That has to be one of the gentlest insults you’ve ever thrown at me. You are being nice to me. What I was trying to say before was more that you are at this point literally trying to get me drunk. I might say anything.”

“Any confessions of undying love will not be held against you when you are sober.”

“Well there goes that plan out the window. How am I supposed to tell you of my undying love so you won't believe me when I'm drunk and I can deny it later if you don't feel the same way so it isn't awkward?”

“I have faith in your ability to be forthright and lewd without chemical assistance. And you have yet to show any reservations about being awkward in my presence so I doubt that is an issue. Also, drink.”

“Yes ma'am. Oh shit that stings.”

“Disinfectant usually does.”

“So let's say, hypothetically, I was truly madly deeply hopelessly in love with you, what would be the best way to go about getting you to love me back? Hypothetically.”

“Let me see the bottle. Not enough. Drink. Hypothetically, your premise is flawed, rendering the logic of the entire question unanswerable.”

“Come again?”

“There is an inherent assumption in what you have asked, hypothetically, which would itself be, again hypothetically, incorrect.”

“And what's that?”

“The assumption that I do not care for you already.”

“Wait what?”

“More. Drink.”

“Did you just say what I think you just said?”

“I said nothing. We were speaking hypothetically.”

“Ah, because I could have sworn you said you love me. Totally am starting to feel a buzz though so that may have been wishful thinking on my part.”

“Clearly someone who shows up in the middle of the night to remove foreign objects from your flesh because you are too stubborn to get help from your ghost does not have any affection for you in the slightest. You obviously imagined that. Do you have scissors?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I'm cutting off your pants.”

“Now I know I'm dreaming.”

“Hmmm…”

[END TRANSCRIPT]

...

RECORDING 77456.8 [BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]

“Are you ready?”

“Ready as I'll ever be to have a beautiful woman scar me for life.”

“You have more than one life. This is a non-issue.”

“Point.”

“I am beginning now.”

“Fuck.”

“Pausing for a moment here. I've got the object. I have a mostly clear path to pull it free.”

“Ok.”

“I'm going to have to wiggle it. This will be painful.”

“Eris Morn, mistress of pain, I submit to your will. Hurt me you beautiful three eyed witch.”

“Is it the alcohol or the pain that's making you so eloquent?”

“Probably both, plus that undying love.”

“Hold on to something that is not me. Three… two… one...”

[INTERMITTENT SCREAMING 43 SECONDS]

“Did you just freeze my ass with stasis?”

“To stop the bleeding, yes. You have needle and thread?”

“Yeah desk over there, bottom drawer.”

“And I'll find a pot within which to boil water within your kitchen area?”

“Yeah.”

“A clean pot?”

“I ain’t the one that leaves a burned wok lying around unusable for a month. I use my pots. They’re all clean. Trust.”

“Be still until I return.”

“You’ve got me frozen to the table. I couldn't move if I wanted to.”

“You're a resourceful creature. I'm sure you'd find a way if you wished to be free, but please don't.”

“I'm staying put. You say stay, I stay.”

[END TRANSCRIPT]

...

RECORDING 77456.8 [BEGIN TRANSCRIPT]

“You keep doin sweet gentle stuff like brushing your chin against the top of my head like that I’m gonna start thinking you like me or something.”

“It is difficult to express reassurance to you any other way when my hands are coated in your blood.”

“If I’m good will you nuzzle my head again? Or is it if I wiggle? What gets me more head nuzzles, Moondust?”

“Be still, Rat. You are messing up my stitches.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you’re weirdly good at sewing human flesh?”

“No, but I accept the compliment.”

“It barely even hurts where you’re sewing. You really are good.”

“Thank the alcohol.”

“I’m thanking you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You know, there ain’t no one else I trust like this.”

“I know. It is an honour to have your trust. One I do not take lightly. I know how rarely it is given.”

“If by rarely, you mean pretty much not at all, yeah.”

“Are you going to tell me what you were going to ask me?”

“Now’s really not the time.”

“I think we have cleansed the last of your blood off of most surfaces and ourselves.”

“You patched me up real good. You make a fine surgeon.”

“Usually my subjects are not still alive.”

“You gonna stay and finish that drink?”

“I had forgotten. Yes. I shall. But first would you like help to your bed?”

“You and me in my bed? I like this.”

“Avoid putting weight on that side. You can, and will, rip the stitches if you exert it too much before you’ve healed.”

“I like this side of you, all sweet and nurturing. If I’d known you’d be this nice to me I’d… nah that was stupid and I won’t be doing that again.”

“Thank you.“

“Still proud of how well it exploded though. Gonna give some of them to Devrim to put around the farm. Should very effectively shred anything that comes to mess with the civilians. I really didn’t think I was in range. You know how careful I am.”

“I know. Sit. I will return.”

“You gonna come back and cuddle me? I’d like that.”

“No, but if you wish, I will sit with you while I finish my drink.”

“I’ll take what I can get.”

"I'd expect nothing less"

[SILENCE 8.25 MINUTES]

“Woman of my dreams, bringing me the bottle after putting me to bed. You really are the best, Three-Eyes.”

“Sit up.”

“Ok. Oh hello. You let me lie in your lap like this, you must feel sorry for me.”

“No. There is nowhere else to sit.”

“I disagree, this is half-way to cuddling right here. You like me. Ain’t no one sit like this with someone they don’t like.”

“I sewed your skin. That’s considerably more testament to me liking you than this, and this is at least comfortable for both of us.”

“It’s real nice. ‘Specially when you touch my face like that.”

“Hmmm…”

“I propose a toast.”

“To?”

“Why, to the most excruciating and intimate experience you and I have shared to date. The night Eris Morn sewed up the Drifter after he blew himself up.”

Clink.

“Hmmm…”

“You like it?”

“It tastes like… wood and paint thinner.”

“That’s just the first few sips. Flavour changes as you go.”

“Hmmm…”

“You should visit my bed more often, Moondust, it’s nice.”

“If you wish I will return tomorrow and change the bandages to make sure you aren’t getting infected.”

“I’d like that. You know… you could… stay.”

“And sleep with you in your bed?”

“Yeah. Don’t tell me that doesn’t sound real nice to you too. Not when you’re running your fingertips through my hair like that, like you’re already considering it.”

“Perhaps now is the time to ask me what you were going to ask me?”

“You sure those eyes don’t give you mind reading powers?”

“One does not need to read your mind, when they can read your body language, and between the lines of what comes out of your lips. You have not been discrete.”

“No, I have not. But, if you already know what I was going to ask you, what’s your answer then?”

[SILENCE 3.75 MINUTES]

“That… is worth getting blowed up for.”

“Please do not. Multiple lacerations and shrapnel from improvised explosive devices are not a prerequisite for my affection.”

“Can you let me know what the pre-”

“The pre-”

“The p-”

“You know, Moondust, it’s been a very long time, literally longer than I can remember, since someone was able to make my head spin with just a few kisses.”

“That is more likely being caused by a combination of shock, blood loss and alcohol.”

“Nah. Had all three lots of times. This is all you.”

“You’re trembling.”

“Yeah, it happens.”

“Let me get you under the blankets.”

“I ain’t cold. It’s just you feel so good. You feel so fucking good. Wait, where you going?”

“To take off my boots. Move over and get under the covers so that I may join you.”

“Oh hell yeah, you’re just making all my dreams come true right now.”

“Be careful of your stitches or you’ll bleed all over both of us and your bed.”

“Worth it.”

“Behave yourself or I will leave.”

“Yes ma’am. Ah shit, Eris, I can’t handle how soft and warm you are when I’m this drunk. I’m gonna cry.”

“You are inebriated and injured and I am choosing to stay. Alcohol induced emotional outbursts are to be expected and are a reflection of your trust, which is precious to me. I consider it an honour to hold you as you cry.”

[END TRANSCRIPT]

[r0tting-rat]

Happy Christmas!

Pairing: Sun x Moon x Gender Neutral Reader Warning: None Words: 1900+ Au: Midnight Overture: Cotard's Delirium (by me) Summary: It's Christmas Eve, and you do the mistake of sleeping-in while in the same house as two very strict robots. As a result to your laziness, you are forced to help out one of your bitchy employers in the kitchen. (Sun-centric, Sun's name is Sonne)

The walls of the manor were quiet, despite it being Christmas Eve. No child was running through the halls, no shadow or whisper could be heard behind closed doors or seen peeking behind corners—the rooms were all empty of their usual inhabitants, for Moon had taken all the kids outside to play in the snow. You had woken up late that morning, groaning in pain as your back and arm muscles complained and screamed at you to relax, with no automaton to knock on your door or scream at you to get dressed and come down for breakfast. In fact, after sending a glance to the clock hanging on the wall next to the door, you realized that you had skipped the meal altogether. Did Sonne really let you sleep that long? Seeing the clock’s hands pointing at 10:35, you immediately jumped up to your feet, cursing under your breath as you hurried to get dressed before any of the two automata caught you slacking off, throwing on a random sweater you had found at the foot of your bed and attempting to slip inside a pair of jeans you had left laying on the floor next to the drawer. Sonne was going to kill you for being late—seriously this time. He didn’t like when people left him waiting.

“Sonne?” you began to call after finally leaving your room, searching your brain for a plausible excuse as to why you were still sleeping past 10 am while running down the hall. You almost jumped down the stairs leading to the second floor, turning right and expecting to find the automaton sitting in the living room, in front of the fire, like he liked to do on cold winter mornings like that one. “Sonne, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t…!”

The automaton wasn’t there where you were used to find him; the fire was lit, the couches and comfy armchairs were surrounding it just like you had left them the night before, but no sun-themed robot was sitting on the one closest to the burning brazier with a soft blanket covering his shoulders and arms, complaining about the cold freezing his wires and locking his limbs in places. You looked, confused, outside the windows, expecting to see the large backyard covered in snow staring back at you, finding instead the three kids playing in the white coat of winter with their lunar guardian. Basil, the youngest, was trying to sneak up on Moon, as his older sisters Blanche and Annabel threw snowballs at the laughing automaton. Where else could Sonne be? Your second guess turned out to be the right one; the kitchen, rummaging through cupboards and drawers, dancing around the burning stoves and grilling pans like only someone who had cooked in the same house for 30 years could do.

Standing in a corner of the dining room, which opened on the left from the stairs, you hid from the automaton, squishing your body behind the white arch that separated the kitchen from the dining room. You listened to him working and let your body be surrounded by the enticing smells of his cooking, afraid to let your presence be known in case the robot was mad at you for being late. You were supposed to sweep the snow off the front yard that morning, but incredibly, you had messed up and slept in.

Peeking around the corner, into the bright kitchen, you let your curiosity conquer your mind and attemted to get a glimpse of what Sonne was cooking, daring to take a step forward when your eyes couldn’t see what was hiding inside those saucepans and bowls. 

The automaton was dressed in fine brown trousers and a cream-colored sweater, layered over a white button up which peeked up from under the collar, paired with his usual black dress shoes. A red apron hugged his front, closing tightly in a perfect knot around his extremely thin waist, but you could bet your head on the fact that no drop or stain would have been found on the red fabric, were you to go and check right in that moment. Your eyes wandered down, to the place where you often found them lingering, enchanted; to the ever-working robot’s hands, which moved with such grace and precision over the kitchen’s counter that you could barely understand what he was doing. Slim and long, the metallic brass-colored fingers looked delicate and kind under the bright lights of the room, but you had seen them lifting furniture and wood logs heavier than you in the past to know better and not be fooled by how gentle they might have looked at first sight. Sonne, in general, looked overall like a pretty delicate automaton, but that had never eased your fears and worries enough to allow you to relax in their presence.

“Would you come in and help me?” he asked, startling you and almost making you lose your balance as you leaned against the arch. You hadn’t expected him to see you so soon, turned around as he was, too! Did the robot have eyes behind his head? Sonne glanced over his shoulder, his pale blue optics fixing on you with all the intensity they always held, and you shivered on the spot. 

“So? You’re just going to stand there and do nothing as I cook supper for tonight?” Sonne asked you again, and just then you realized that he wasn’t mad at you for sleeping in, despite the usual cold expression on his face. “Cut some parsley for me, will you? Enough to fill that bowl over there.”

He pointed at an orange bowl sitting on the counter next to him, then he resumed stirring something with a wooden spoon inside the huge pot in front of him. Steam rose up from it, slightly fogging the small, circular glasses sitting on the slight edge of his nose. You were pretty sure that the glasses had been glued to his faceplate, because there was no way they could stay still on his flat features.

Slowly, you began to walk towards him, hesitant to stand too close to his tall frame and get in the way of his work. After a few seconds, you managed to summon the words you needed to express your confusion.

“Aren’t you mad that I didn’t sweep the snow off the porch and yard this morning?” you wondered, and the robot rolled his eyes in his dramatic manner. “I slept in, and…”

“No, I’m not,” replied Sonne, “Wash the parsley before cutting it, and remember to make sure it’s finely minced, or Basil will refuse to eat and start to pick at it.”

You hadn’t forgotten about the little picky eater, but that didn’t answer your question.

“So… It’s not a problem if I woke up, like, fifteen minutes ago?” you continued, and once more the automaton sighed, annoyed. 

“Do you seriously think I’d force you to wake up and work on Christmas Eve?” Sonne asked, turning around to send you an offended glare, “Yesterday you went to sleep late after helping mein Mondlicht in the library, so it’s only fair we’d allow you to sleep in this morning. I’m not a monster, liebling.”

After that last sentence, you felt a little bad for assuming the worst about your employer, but at the same time he had proved to be quite cruel in the past, so you weren’t entirely in the wrong. Shrugging, you went to stand next to him, grabbing a handful of parsley and moving it to the sink to wash.

“Mondlicht took care of the yard and porch a few hours ago,” Sonne explained, resuming his previous task and turning around, giving you his back once more, “Which means that you can stop moping around and help me out in the kitchen to prepare for tonight.”

“What are we making?” you asked him, taking out a knife from one of the drawers. At your question, the automaton hummed gently, like your curiosity had pleased him greatly.

“Since last year we followed the German tradition, this Christmas we’re going with the Italian one. You wouldn’t know, since this is your first Christmas with us, but it's common in this household to take turns on who gets to cook for the other,” replied the automaton, leaving your side to go and open the fridge to take out some butter. “I’m cooking for mein Mondlicht a dish from his hometown: creamed codfish with polenta.”

As you began to cut the freshly washed parsley, you stole a glance in Sonne’s direction, not missing the little smile on his face and the shine in his eyes; a shine you had seen on very few occasions, and never directed towards you. He looked happy just at the thought of cooking for his family. 

“What if I said that I’d rather not eat fish?” you grinned, bringing your eyes back on the knife, “Would Moon hit me on the head for not following his tradition?”

You didn’t hear Sonne moving closer to you, in fact, you didn’t even see his shadow looming over you before his hands were grabbing yours, stopping your movements, and his chest was pressed against your back.

“Of course not,” he replied, taking hold of both your hands and carefully beginning to maneuver them on the cutting board, correcting your stance and showing you the proper way to mince herbs. All the while, you were staring down at his fingers entwined with yours with wide eyes, unblinking, unable to even breathe as the robot’s voice rumbled against the back of your skull. “Me and Moonie love to teach the little ones about all the interesting traditions of our different cultures, but that’s not where we stop. They’re such smart little humans, they’re always eager for more, so more is what we give them. We cook dishes from France, Belgium, Turkey, Spain; what’s wrong with adding another? I’m sure we’d easily find something you’d enjoy as well, liebling.”

Your heart was beating so hard in your chest that you could barely be able to hear the robot’s words over it. You weren’t sure, at first, if your sudden panic was caused by fear or embarrassment, but you found out quickly which one of the two it was when Sonne chuckled and your face turned a deep shade of pink. With amusement, the brass automaton took a step back, releasing your hands from his hold, and watched as you blinked a few times to regain your composure. 

“I’m sure you can go on from here without my help,” he said, smiling, even though you were visibly more lost than before, “Given that you have carefully watched and learned from my demonstration.”

Still blushing, you looked up at him over your shoulder, involuntarily letting him know with your large, panicked eyes that you hadn’t followed his advice at all. With a theatrical sigh, Sonne pushed you aside and took place on the cutting board next to you, rolling up the sleeves of his sweater and then taking out a second knife from the drawer on his right.

“Alright, I’ll show you once more,” he declared, tilting his head back to stare down at you like he often did, “Don’t get distracted this time though. Understood?”

Silently, you nodded, and that seemed to be enough for Sonne.

“Good,” he hummed, “Hope you’re actually the fast learner you claim to be in your resume.”

Happy Christmas to those of you who celebrate <3

Mein Mondlicht= my moonlight

Liebling= darling/dear

[stripedstarsblueflags]

Sunshine boy

Word count: 3.5k

Pairing: Landoscar

Rating: T for substance use

caught in the rain

omg did blueflags just write fluff?

“Wait, wait, hold on,” Oscar says. “Remind me how you got this number?”

On the other end of the line, Max Fewtrell is not amused. “Mate, I’ve had it,” he grumbles, huffing into the speaker like he’s struggling with something. Oscar winces at the static and pulls the phone away from his ear. “And, seriously, you’re worried about that now? We’ve got bigger problems.”

From the background, a giggling voice slurs, “Hi Osc!”

Oscar allows himself one second of blushing and butterflies at hearing Lando’s voice; then Max’s concern spreads to him as well. He listens as Max attempts to calm him down from… whatever’s going on. “Hey, Lando, come on, look at me… take some deep breaths– no, no, don’t eat that–”

“What’s going on?” Oscar interjects, standing up and pacing. His anxiety is immediately conjuring up worst-case scenarios, and it’s not helping. He walks to the window and looks out at the night outside; some fresh air would be nice, but it’s been absolutely pouring for the last few hours and shows no signs of abating now. “Is he okay?”

“I’m okay!” Lando sings, so loud into the speaker that Oscar flinches and nearly drops the phone. There’s some more scuffling on their line, presumably as Max swipes his phone back. “He’s not,” Max contradicts firmly as Lando whines petulantly in the background. He has to raise his voice over a white-noise roar in the background, Oscar notes.

“Did he take something?” Oscar asks. He looks to the front door where he’s left his shoes. He thinks about driving fast in this kind of rain– it’s not that he can’t do it, it’s that none of the other drivers on the road can. “And where are you guys?”

“I found him in a park, stoned out of his mind,” Max tells him. The roar in the background gets louder, like a busy street. “I don’t know who he was smoking with, he’s not really giving me complete sentences, but–”

“That’s because you’re not nice,” Lando complains. “See? That’s complete. Tha’s very complete…”

As worried as he is, Oscar can’t help but feel an almost painful sense of endearment. As cute as he is, though, Lando has apparently had some lapses of judgement tonight.

“Are you outside?” Oscar asks, just as a roll of thunder rumbles overhead. “In this?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Max says, urgency creeping into his tone. “He’s locked out. No keys, no wallet. He called me on a payphone. I mean, thank god I know his spots…”

Oscar swears under his breath. He can’t take his eyes away from the storm outside, the way the rain slices through the air in cold sheets and spills over rooftops with whitewater force. “Okay, okay,” he says, mostly to himself as he tries to thinks. “You drove there, right? Can you at least–”

“We’re walking to my car right now,” Max confirms. “And normally I’d just let him crash at mine, but I’ve got family visiting this weekend. They can’t see him like this. Fuck, Lando, I told you to keep your arm around my shoulders– sorry,” Max apologizes. “He’s a lot to handle right now. Listen, Oscar, I’ve already called half a dozen people. If there was anyone else, I wouldn’t–”

Oscar puts the pieces together over Max’s fumbling. “You want to drop him off at mine?”

“I’ve got a spare,” Max says quickly, talking in a rush like he’s scared Oscar will hang up. “Somewhere, I mean. I didn’t have time to find it before I went out to get him, I can go back to my place and look for it properly but I don’t know how long that’s gonna take and I don’t want to leave him alone in the car too long and–”

“Max, it’s fine,” Oscar interrupts. It’s only when Max sighs, full of relief, that he starts wrapping his head around what he’s just agreed to.

“Thank you,” Max tells him sincerely. “You’re a good guy, Oscar. Knew I could count on you.”

Oscar bites his lip against the sudden warmth in his face, overwhelmed by the compliment, and tries to push his embarrassment aside. “Right,” he mutters. “Um, don’t mention it. How far away are you?”

“I need your address, first.”

Lando, sounding no less coherent, pipes up: “‘S in my phone already.”

“What?” Oscar and Max say at the same time.

“Lando, you don’t have your phone,” Max reminds him. Then, to Oscar: “Why does he have your address?”

“Um–” Oscar is uncharacteristically flustered at the interrogative tone in Max’s voice, which seems to imply something far beyond the mundane situation. “Uh, he dropped me off from padel, once, we were playing with–”

“Okay, yeah,” Max concedes. Whatever that edge was in his voice (suspiciously like jealousy) is smoothed out before Oscar can make sense of it. “Listen, just text me your address and I’ll tell you when we’re close. Also, uh–” Max clears his throat. “He’s, like, soaking wet, so–”

“I’ll take care of him,” Oscar assures him.

“Oscooooo,” Lando coos happily.

He hears Max open a car door, and the call ends sometimes in the midst of Max trying to manhandle Lando into the passenger seat, which is a relief. Oscar doesn’t think he can say a single word without stammering now.f

If Lando sounded out of it on the phone, Oscar is definitely not prepared for what’s standing on his doorstep.

Both Max and Lando are drenched to the bone, water pooling under their shoes and into the hallway carpet. Max must’ve given one of his layers to Lando because he’s only wearing a t-shirt, which is plastered to his skin and nearly transparent. Despite the extra jumper, Lando’s shaking so badly that Max has to hold him upright.

“Shit,” Oscar say. “You guys look terrible.”

“Nice to see you too, Oscar,” Max grumbles, slinging Lando’s arm over his shoulders right before he starts sliding.

“Nice to see you, Oscar,” Lando mimicks dopily, eyes glazed. His cheeks and the bridge of his nose are a blotchy red like he’s been badly sunburnt, while the rest of his skin is frighteningly pale. His teeth are chattering too hard for him to keep his mouth closed, and there’s a slight glisten of drool on his chin

Oscar quickly opens the door wider and beckons them both inside. Max struggles to get Lando to coordinate his feet enough to walk; Oscar reaches out instinctively, then immediately draws his hands back like he’s been burned. He aches watching the two of them struggle, but it’s one thing to agree to help Lando, and quite another to… what, cradle him? Carry him? Surely if Lando were sober he’d have objections–

“Did, uh,” he starts eloquently. “Did he, like, OD? Is that even a thing with weed?”

Max shakes his head and braces himself against a wall so he can adjust his grip on Lando’s waist. Lando watches the dark handprint spread under his palm and drip rainwater onto the carpet, mesmerized.

“He didn’t, and no,” Max says, in answer to Oscar’s questions. “But his tolerance is practically nonexistent. Worst I’ve ever seen. And knowing him he probably forgot to eat…”

“Sorry,” Lando mumbles, confirming.

Max sighs. “We’re gonna have a talk about this, you and I. Don’t think you get off easy just cause you’re with Oscar.”

Oscar’s taken aback, but before he can begin to wrap his head around what that might mean, Max nods at him. “Thanks again for your help. I’ll be back as soon as I can to take him home, just gotta remember where I left that fucking key.”

“Okay.” Max is clearly exhausted. Oscar finally reaches out without second-guessing himself; Max looks at him gratefully before stepping closer and finally shifting Lando’s dead weight from his own arms to Oscar’s.

Lando stumbles, nearly knocking them both off balance, and then curls into Oscar immediately. Oscar flinches and draws in a sharp breath; it’s like hugging a block of ice. Lando is absolutely freezing, and his rain-drenched clothes are quickly soaking Oscar as well. He shivers so hard Oscar can hear the spasm in his breathing, everything too tense for him to catch his breath. He closes his eyes and makes a sound like a mewling kitten and burrows into Oscar’s chest, tucking his face into his shirt.

”You got him?” Max asks, flicking water out of his eyes.

Oscar’s got him. One arm wraps firmly around Lando’s waist, maintaining their balance despite the actual pain his bare skin experiences from how cold Lando is, and the other cups the back of his head in his hand and draws his face closer to his own body heat. Lando hums against him, and Oscar can feel the vibration at the base of his sternum.

“Yeah,” Oscar answers belatedly. “I can find some clothes for him, something comfy…”

“Good. You do that.” Max gives him one pained smile, failing to suppress his own shudders, and steps back over the threshold. “I owe you one.”

Before Oscar can explain that Max doesn’t owe him anything, that he’s happy to help, that he would’ve offered without being asked if he’d have known, that’s he’s actually rather irritated that he wasn’t higher up on the list of people Max had called, come to think of it–

Max leaves, closing the door behind him.

Oscar is left alone with a very cold, very wet, very stoned Lando Norris.

Lando’s ragged breathing is the loudest noise in the flat. He’s squirming in Oscar’s arms, nuzzling insistently at his chest like he’s trying to climb inside of Oscar. His hands are so cold they leave painful stinging impressions wherever they touch Oscar’s skin.

“God, Lando,” Oscar murmurs. “You’re freezing.”

Stating the obvious. Lando moans miserably in agreement.

“Yep, okay. Follow me. Uh, can you walk?”

Apparently Lando can, as long as he’s allowed to cling to Oscar like a giant half-frozen octopus at the same time. The walk down the hall to the bedroom is agonizingly slow, but every time Oscar tries to detach himself to get them both moving quicker Lando cries out. He’s very much not in his right mind, but he still sounds so pained that Oscar lets himself be nearly frozen along with him in the simple quest to get to the end of the hall.

He has to physically pry Lando’s arms off him in order to sit him on the bed. Lando whines and reaches out into the air, trying to pull him back and missing atrociously. Oscar peers into his eyes; there’s not a spark of recognition or self-awareness. All Lando understands is that he’s cold, and the only bit of warmth is going away.

”Lando, please, just stay here,” Oscar pleads, only belatedly realizing he’s using the same voice he used with their family dog. “I promise I’ll be right back, I just need to get some extra clothes for you, okay? Something warm.”

“Mm’kay,” Lando mumbles, nodding too many times. He wraps his arms around himself, but his strength is visibly fading. His lips have darkened to a bruise-like blue. Not a good sign.

“Stay here.” Oscar moves quickly, digging through his drawers to find the warmest possible outfit. He gathers everything he needs and turns back to Lando, sitting near-catatonic on his bed, and stalls.

“Um,” he says, clearing his throat when Lando shows no response. “Hey. Lando.”

A flicker of awareness. Lando’s eyes focus on him for a split second, then cross.

Oscar approaches him, tentatively holding out the clothes like he’s holding out a treat to a stray dog. “Bathroom’s over there,” he says, gesturing with his chin. When Lando doesn’t react, he adds, “You need to get out of these clothes. You’re soaked, you’re gonna get sick.”

To his relief, Lando finally seems to hear him; unfortunately, some crucial parts of the sentence have evidently been missed as Lando starts trying to wriggle out of his shirts right there.

“Woah, uh, you sure–“ Oscar squeezes his eyes shut, which is stupid since Lando’s got so many layers on that he’s not even a little indecent, but he finds it easier to talk without looking. “You sure you want to do that here? And not in the bathroom? Or I could like, step out and–”

”No-o-o-!” Landos’ voice is so broken by shivers that Oscar’s resolve simply melts. He steps forward to help his friend.

It’s a lot quicker with the two of them working together. When Oscar finally pulls Lando’s last shirt over his head, exposing his bare chest and arms, he makes such a pained yelp that Oscar scrambles to get the dry clothes on him like he’s being timed.

With a lot of fumbling and strategically averted glances, they finally manage to get Lando completely redressed. His hair is still dripping, but he looks much more comfortable in fleece pajama pants and a hoodie so big it goes down to his thighs. His fingers don’t even reach past the sleeves; it looks like he’s got big paws instead, floppy when he reaches for the hood and pulls it up.

Oscar’s teased Lando about their height difference a few times, but right now he looks tiny. Red-rimmed eyes blinking up at him from the shadow of the hood, shoulders all but swallowed up in the fabric, hands tucked primly inside the sleeves as Lando rocks on his heels.

It feels only natural when Oscar opens his arms and welcomes Lando back into his embrace. Lando, to his credit, seems a lot more coordinated now that he’s not wearing half his weight in rainwater. He slides his arms under Oscar’s and holds him around the waist, letting his head rest on Oscar’s chest like it’s his new favorite pillow. “Thanks, Osc,” he sighs contentedly.

The nickname that can seem so mundane in the media activities feels suddenly, vulnerably intimate. Well, Lando’s never said it with his lips pressed right up against him, has he?

To distract himself, he tries to focus on just getting Lando away from the brink of hypothermia. He tightens his grip and rubs up and down his back with open palms. “You’re still so cold,” he frets, just to have something to say.

“Nmshph’ you,” Lando protests.

Oscar places his warm hand over the back of Lando’s neck, still refrigerator-cold. “What was that?” he asks.

Lando mouths at empty air a few times before he speaks, like he’s trying to form the sentence before his mind is ready. “I said ‘Not with you’,” he answers.

Oscar inhales a little too sharply.

This does not mean anything this does not mean anything this does not–

He just needs to keep the tremor out of his voice. He just needs to be normal about this.

He closes his eyes. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll keep you warm.”

To describe Lando’s response as anything other than a purr would be simply delusional.

Oscar’s hands move without his permission, seeking up to run shaky fingers through Lando’s hair. He’s careful to be gentle around the tangles. It’s still wet, but no longer dripping in small waterfalls into his eyes, so that’s an improvement. Lando sways his head from side to side, like he’s encouraging Oscar to keep going.

So he does. Lando’s breathing evens out, the shivering smoothed over. His eyes flutter shut.

“Do you want to lie down?” Oscar asks.

Lando nods tiredly against his chest, so he carefully walks them both over to the bed. Stripping back the covers proves to be a challenge, because Lando is putting more and more weight on him by the minute. His shoulder is starting to cramp up, an unpleasant stiffness making its way into his neck.

“Lando,” he huffs tiredly. “This would be easier if you could just step ba–”

“So pretty,” Lando murmurs.

Now Oscar might be the one turning to ice, with how quickly his whole body falls into stillness. “Uh,” he begins gracelessly, a pillow slipping out of his hands and back onto the mattress with a thwump that makes Lando giggle. “Erm, what was that?”

He’s asking in the confused, self-denying hope that Lando will either realize he didn’t mean what he just said or will have forgotten the thought entirely. No such luck, though, as Lando finally leans against the bed and allows Oscar’s shoulder a much-needed respite. He turns a bit and tries to arch his back to lean away from Oscar without completely detaching himself, but he doesn’t quite have the coordination. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he places his sweater paws on Oscar’s waist.

Looking down at the position, Oscar’s brain short-circuits.

It looks like they’re dancing. Not even in an elegant, romantic way, more like two school kids who are trying not to get caught by the chaperone.

Oscar brings his eyes back to Lando’s upturned face, bedsheets all but forgotten. Lando still looks so small, swimming in Oscar’s clothes, looking up dazedly through his eyelashes. The smile flickering on his lips could light up the whole room. “You’re so pretty,” he hums contentedly. “What are we doing?”

“What?” Oscar snaps himself out of it seconds after the question leaves his mouth; he does not need to give Lando any more prompting. His face is burning. He’s a little out of breath. He needs to find some way to neutralize this situation, to get himself and his own live-wire feelings away from this…. what, danger? temptation?

“We,” he says, answering Lando and talking over his own spiraling stream of consciousness, “are getting you ready for bed. And then Max is going to come back and take you home.”

“Tu tu tu tu…”

“No, not that Max. The other Max.”

Lando nods sleepily and, to Oscar’s immense relief, finally starts climbing into the bed. Oscar puts his hands behind his head so he doesn’t death-drop it into the wall.

Then Lando’s brow furrows. “Why?”

“Wh– because he has a key. To your flat.”

Lando shakes his head. “Why,” he repeats again with a petulant frown. “Got a bed right here.”

Oscar swallows. “Yeah, but that’s my bed.”

Lando shakes his head again and opens his mouth like he wants to argue, but instead settles for reaching into the air and making weak grabby hands for Oscar. “‘s your bed,” he reasons.

Oscar allows himself a split second of imagination: the two of them, curled together under the covers, the whole room blanketed in the shushing sounds of the rain outside. Lando curling into him like he’s finding some sort of sanctuary in Oscar’s arms.

Then he decides his best escape plan is going to be lying through his teeth: “Um, that’s okay, actually, I’m not tired…”

“Yeah, but I am.”

Something about that last sentence sounds scarily sober all of the sudden. Oscar peers into Lando’s eyes, trying to discern the bloodshot threads that mean the drug still has a dominant hold over his mind. In the dim lamplight of his bedroom, it’s hard to tell. Lando seems to like the attention, though, staring back with what can only be described as awe.

“Pretty,” he whispers, his voice barely audible on the edge of a sleepy exhale. His eyelids are starting to slide shut, slow and heavy as syrup. “Come to bed.”

He sounds tired, but he doesn’t sound nearly as out of it as he did even ten minutes ago.

Something between excitement and panic ignites in Oscar’s chest like a gas fire. His mind races two steps ahead of him, providing an onslaught of horrifying what-ifs: what if Lando comes to his senses and pushes him out of the bed, what if he realizes what’s going on and thinks Oscar is trying to insinuate something, what if he changes his mind about what he means when he’s obviously delirious and half-frozen to death, what––

What if he means it?

Whatever the case, the regretful, abrasive Lando in Oscar’s head is nothing compared to what’s curled up in his bed right now. Longing eyes, reaching hands. Rain-matted curls making little loop-shaped impressions on the pillowcase.

Who would he be to say no?

Oscar climbs carefully into the bed.

His initial plans to stay within the narrow strip of space between Lando and the edge of the bed are dashed immediately.

Lando finds him under the blankets and goes full koala. Within seconds of lying down he’s wrapped in so much Lando that the blankets feel like an afterthought. Lando’s practically lying on top of him.

Oscar tries to keep his breathing under control. He can’t remember the last time he was this close to… well, anyone. Their legs are entwined. Lando’s arm is slung across his waist, head back on his chest like he could build a home there.

And the thing is, it doesn’t feel dangerous. It doesn’t feel like temptation.

There’s no fear here, no second-guessing anxiety or hysterical self doubt.

He’s under the covers with Lando, and it feels right.

Lando’s still a little cold. Oscar shifts up just enough to free one of his arms and wrap it around Lando’s shoulders. Lando curls into him, purring again.

It’s nice.

“Thanks, Osc,” Lando sighs, voice muffled by Oscar’s shirt.

Oscar finds his free hand lifting to card through Lando’s hair again. He can’t help it. “Yeah,” he says as Lando nestles in, savoring all the warmth Oscar has to give, “anytime.”

[daaehq]

Landoscar Christmas WIP - Just Like the Movies

This has been on my mind for months but I simply don't have enough time to develop this further which,, sucks. Anyway! Merry Christmas to those who celebrate and happy holidays for everyone!

Please let me know **kindly** if there is any spelling mistakes. I'm pretty stressed out and I don't think I can handle harsh criticism today, or ever. (lol)

Landoscar / 2.6k words / Inspired by Hallmark moves + my old post from my old acc / not beta read / Original!male!character / TW: toxic behaviour(Making someone cut off their friends), cheating(Not between the main characters)

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

Lando yells over the phone. He is inside the comfort of his office but everyone outside seems to notice his rage. He could most definitely murder someone right now. He hasn’t felt this angry in a minute and it must show. Everything at work went incredibly smoothly for the holiday season so obviously something had to go wrong.

“I’m sorry! It’s just- I had something come up last minute.”

“Mark, we are going on this vacation because you insisted. I was fine- no, I wanted to stay in London for Christmas. I practically broke my parents’ hearts because you wanted to go to a fucking tree farm.”

“Come on, you know how important my job is-”

“Are you implying that our promise means less than taking a client?” Lando knows that argument is flawed and unfair but screw Mark and his workaholic tendencies. This isn’t the first time he broke off a commitment to go and mingle with a client, both professionally and literally. 

People like to paint Lando as this dumbass who has zero understanding of his surroundings but he is a silent observer. Although the fact that Mark screws any client that blinks in his direction is so obvious to the point a person living four hundred and eighty-one miles away can probably detect it. Lando kept his mouth shut from October, mainly because of the fact he hates spending Christmas alone. Back in university, he would spend it with Oscar and before Mark, he would spend it with George and Alex but ever since they got together, it’s been awkward being their third wheel at most events. It was definitely a relief when he got himself a boyfriend to spend Christmas with.

“Lando, that’s not fair!”

“You ditching our planned date for the fourteenth time this year is not fair.”

“Please? I’ll make it there as soon as I can. Just, this is really important to me. I told you all about this case! I have to help Barbara,” Mark pleads and it just makes Lando scoff. So this new girl is called Barbara. He genuinely does not give a shit.

“You know what? Fine! Please, spend your Christmas with whoever this Barbara is. As a matter of fact, please don’t even fucking come, I would love to spend some time alone at the fucking farm where I made the reservations. I don’t see a problem in taking your name off the list.”

“Lando please, can you calm down for a second?”

Mark saying that was more than enough to send Lando off the edges. Who the fuck does he think he is, telling him to ‘calm down’?

“I’m hanging up. Unlike you, I have somewhere to go this holiday season.”

“Please, can we just talk like adults here?”

Lando stays silent on the line, fighting back the tears that form around his eyes. He knows that Mark is a serial cheater who uses him to spend time and disappears when he doesn’t need him. It still doesn't change the fact that he really, really did like Mark and was most definitely in love with him for a time. Now, he doesn’t know.

“We’re done, Mark. This can’t go on like this any longer.”

“Lando, please. You’re being irrational again.”

“Good! Either I’m calm and insane or irrational and sane. I choose the latter.”

“Lando, just listen to me!”

“No, you listen to me! We are done!”

“Lando, I swear to-”

Lando hangs up the call without hearing the end of Mark’s sentence. He can feel tears drop down his face and it hurts just a little. 

When George walks into his office, he is basically a ball on the floor, his arms around his legs and just waddling about. 

“Oh my god Lando! Get off the floor!”

“Fuck you, George.”

George rolls his huge eyes and grabs Lando from the back and puts him back on his feet. He sniffs his sorrow and stares at George. 

“What happened? Everyone on the floor heard you scream over the phone, Is it the idiot lawyer again? I told you to break up with-”

“He’s not joining me for the Christmas trip.”

“What?” Alex yells from outside his door. Now everyone in the office is actively looking at Alex who just screamed, George who has his arms around Lando, and Lando with puffy eyes and sniffling nose. 

“Sorry, what do you mean he isn’t joining you? I thought it was his idea to go on that trip,” Alex asks, quieter than before. 

“He has a client to look out for this Christmas, so I called it off. We’re done,” Lando says, feeling his voice quiver just a little.

“Holy shit.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Yup.”

“What are you going to do? You know you should just cancel the thing and spend Christmas with your family instead.”

“They’re going on a trip together to Australia this year. I told them to book without me because, well” Lando gestures to the air just to emphasize he had someone to go on a holiday trip with just a few moments ago.

“You can spend it with me and George! You know, we’re having a double date, Logan with me and Lewis with George. We’re thinking about going to-”

“Alex! Shut the fuck up,” George says, cutting Alex’s sentence. Alex’s face goes just a little pale when he realizes what he has done. Lando just glares at him with murderous urges inside of him.

“Sorry,” he says quietly, patting Lando on the shoulders. Lando flips him off, also quietly.

“I’m just gonna go alone. Spend time with the trees, wallow about the fact that my ex and I broke up literally days before Christmas because he was a workaholic who would rather spend time working than with me,” Lando says. He sounds much more sarcastic than he anticipated. He’s glad that it at least hides the hurt in his voice. 

“Seriously?”

“Yup! Fuck Mark. I was gonna dump him anyway.”

“This is the thirteenth time this year that you’ve said that.”

“And I’ve done it this time!”

George sighs and shakes his head in disbelief. Lando can’t defend himself any further- because it’s true. He has said he would break it off with Mark a thousand times throughout their entire relationship. He couldn't help that he was indecisive about it. Now it’s all done and he is finally free from all of this. 

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

The car ride to the farm was calmer than he had anticipated. He and Mark would always start a fight during road trips- about the smallest things there could possibly be. From each other's clothing choices to the food they chose to eat, they kept fighting and fighting until they just both stopped talking. It was nice to have some peace and quiet with his Christmas playlist during a long road trip to some random location he’d never heard of before.

When he arrives at his destination, it’s just a small, rural town with almost nothing. No tall buildings, no people running into each other with coffees in their hands, it’s rather empty. Usually, Lando would hate being alone but strangely enough, he doesn’t mind it.

He waits for someone to pick him up like they said they would in their pamphlet. The farm is far away enough to not have a proper road going in. Lando hates walking but the air feels different. Freezing cold, but refreshing as well. Something is rather magical about this place and he can’t exactly pinpoint what. 

“Lando?”

A not-so-American accent calls for his name from his back. He turns to find a guy a bit taller than him. Nice, soft-looking brown hair seems to fall perfectly around his face and his eyes look so comforting he thinks he can just jump right into it and never come out ever again. He is dressed a little too light for the weather, contrary to Lando who could definitely be considered overdressed despite the freezing weather.

The guy is so familiar but he doesn’t ring a bell immediately. He feels like he’s fallen for those eyes before. Where has he seen him before? Maybe around London? Maybe during the time he spent in New York a few years ago? Maybe during his time in Los Angeles. Maybe in school? 

Oh most definitely in school. How could he ever forget that face of his?

“Oscar? Piastri?”

“It’s been a minute,” Oscar says in his usual flat, dull voice.

He and Oscar graduated from university together. They weren’t exactly in the same department, with Lando studying Marketing and Oscar engineering, but alas they were close. There were some sparks here and there during their time as friends but they never went further than their hands brushing from time to time. 

Oscar was Lando’s first real love. It wasn’t anything like back in school- children mistaking horny interest for love. He enjoyed Oscar’s company, his laugh, his voice, his comforting arms, his dry sense of humour and just everything about him. He was more than devastated when he had learned that Oscar moved back to Melbourne after his study concluded, just days before he had set his mind to confess his feelings. 

Oscar opens his arms for a hug and Lando invites himself back into his arms for the first time in years. His warmth hasn’t changed and neither did the comfort that comes from his embrace. Oscar always felt like home to him, and that seemed to have stayed after all these years. Oscar gives Lando a tight squeeze and Lando can’t lie, he loves it just as much as he did back when they were in university together. 

“It’s good to see you again, Pastry.”

“Same goes for you, Landers.”

After they pulled away from their hug, they started walking towards the farm.

“So, you're a Christmas tree farmer now?”

“Not me, Mark is. He’s my mentor from back in Australia. He made a move to come here sort of recently,” Oscar says. The name Mark, despite not being his Mark, stings just a little. He can’t help but show it on his face.

“Is something wrong?”

“No! No, it’s just- my ex, his name was also Mark.”

“Oh, um, I’m sorry to hear that. Was the breakup recent?”

“It’s not been two full days, so I guess? I was supposed to come here with him but we broke up right before we were supposed to leave.”

Thinking about it, Lando is pretty glad he called it off with Mark. It would’ve been pretty fucking awkward spending the holidays with his boyfriend and his ex-fling. He would much rather spend Christmas with Oscar and his mentor than fight all day and night with Mark. 

“Oh. Again, I’m sorry to hear that.” An awkward silence falls between them. It gets under Lando’s skin. He quickly breaks the silence. 

“Welp! Enough about me. When did you come back to the UK? Are you staying here just for the winter or?”

“I actually moved to London permanently, last September? It’s been a few months.”

Oh!

That is completely fine. Sure, obviously Oscar could have called Lando or texted him to let him know but nope, Oscar Piastri obviously kept that all to himself. He knows it is no longer his business but still, it would’ve been nice to get a phone call from his old friend, emphasis on friend.

“You could’ve called, you know. I would’ve loved to chat”

“I- actually, I did,” Oscar chuckles. Lando does not find that sentence funny because what the fuck?

“What? What- what do you mean you called? I never heard from you since- since you left!”

“Well, I called you the moment I landed in London, ‘cause you know, I wanted to catch up. A guy picked up the phone and told me that the number didn’t belong to you anymore. I didn’t have any of your socials so I couldn’t exactly reach you.”

The whole story sounds just a little too weird because Lando never changed his phone number after Oscar left. There is no way in hell that Oscar got the wrong number because they used to call each other all the time. So either Oscar is an idiot who hadn’t put down his number correctly on his phone, which is unlikely, or, perhaps someone had lied to Oscar. 

Mark.

Fucking Mark.

Fucking Mark! 

One of Mark’s toxic traits was chasing away Lando’s friends. It started with him banning Lando from going to his favourite cafe because the waiter was getting too friendly. When Lando realised the mess of a relationship he had gotten himself into, he barely had anyone to text after a day at work. Mark even tried to make Lando cut off George and Alex but it did not go very well. Mainly because the hatred was mutual and his two friends annoyed the living shit out of Mark until he backed off completely. 

At first, Lando thought he was just dating someone protective and caring. He never realised that his over-protective boyfriend was overflowing his own little need with any girl(or guy) who looked in his direction. Setting up a double standard like it was an Olympic sport. The gold medal for being a manipulative little shit goes to… Mark!

Now Lando is absolutely glad that he had called it all off. 

“That was probably my ex. He used to do that. God, that fucking arsehole! Why did I even date him for three years?”

“You dated him for three years?”

“Don’t call me out on it. I am also regretting it.”

“Well, at least I won't be in front of my mentor Mark. We're here!”

The farm is huge to the point where the word huge could be an understatement. Endless rows of trees are aligned behind a cosy-looking cottage. It’s what you would see in those hallmark movies, where the main character inherits a rundown farm and has to somehow save the damn thing to rescue Christmas. 

“Wow,” Lando mutters quietly. Oscar definitely heard it, considering his adorable little laugh.

“Yup! The place is huge. It’s also pretty shit to clean.”

Oscar reaches for the doorknob and opens the door to the inside. There are so many things about this place that make his mouth drop. From the gigantic tree in the middle of the living room where you can see the entirety of the farm to the open kitchen that is neatly organized.

“Come on, I’ll give you a house tour in a bit. Let’s head to your room,” Oscar says, tugging on Lando’s arm a little. Lando follows Oscar upstairs where all the guest bedrooms seem to be located.

Oscar opens the door to a room at the end of the corridor. Just like everything on this farm, the room is also spacious. It’s nicely decorated with a couple of Christmas-related decors and a bookshelf filled with ancient-looking books. The bedding is red and green, decorated just for the holiday season. Lando wonders if he is dreaming just a little because the room is perfect. 

“You did book a room with king sized bed but if you prefer a smaller one we can arrange-”

“No, this is perfect. What the- this room is incredible.” Lando can’t hide the awe in his tone. The house feels like something out of a movie and he wants to live in this room forever, just staring at the trees with Osc- Lando stops himself from thinking there. 

“I decorated it myself,” Oscar says, blushing just a little bit. He’s always found that incredibly endearing about the younger one. It makes his heart beat just a bit louder than before and now he feels flushed as well. 

“Oscar! Are the guests here?” A man yells from down the stairs. His accent is similar to Oscar’s.

“I’m showing him his room!” Oscar yells back. 

“You ready to head downstairs?”

“I was born ready, Osc.”

[ye4gerism]

hiii😊 I kinda have a few questions about curly’s mom Ngl and maybe his dad. I think my first question for his mom though is….is she racist or just a toxic boy mom or both. I also kinda wonder like what makes her like jimmy so much. Then about his dad. Ik we don’t really know much about him but I just wanted to know like does he likes us at all or more than the mom. I also kinda want to understand curly and his mom’s dynamic. Like when it comes to the toxic boy mom is she trying to see the husband she wants in curly. Because it kinda just came to point where is like these weird boy moms are kinda grooming or being weird with their son. Or is it more of just she’s jealous like jimmy but they aren’t jealous in the same way. I guys my class question is just why did curly’s mom and dad and how did curly take it. Also sorry if this is a lot😭 happy holidays 🎄

author’s note hi! thank you for your ask. this is a long post and i don’t want to clog up the feed. so click ‘keep reading’ to keep reading lol.

content good luck captain

ok so, here’s the long answer to your first question 😭 as you’ve probably noticed i am a black writer and make it my purpose to write for readers who look like me. the mouthwashing fandom is still so new and i haven’t really seen any black reader stories for curly (or really anyone) except for @grimmsbride who i’ve seen writing for curly and daisuke (check them out!).

because i still want an audience to cater to (and i don’t know what demographic i’m actually pulling from my fics), i would say yes and yes to your question about curly’s mom in good luck, captain. i could definitely see her being prejudice to reader if they’re poc and is most definitely a toxic boy mom. whatever the case is for you, she’ll never really see you as the best fit for her son.

as for jimmy, i’ve mentioned he grew up with curly in happy birthday, jolene. she just sees him as another son just based on shared history and proximity. he’s family.

i haven’t thought much about curly’s dad and just now realized i probably should have included him and his reaction to the tuplar crash in best wishes, curly. i feel that curly really favors his father and i hinted in dream of fish that his mom doesn’t really like that. as it’s been previously mentioned, he lives in australia and had most of the custody over curly. i imagine him as a really chill dude who’s really really funny and charming and likes to explore. he’d probably get remarried to someone who shares his humor and sense of adventure. when reader and curly are dating, she’s only spoken to mr. curly a few times over facetime or skype. but he likes you and accepts you as his son loves you tons. he let curly propose to you in his home.

i would say that during the events of best wishes, curly, he didn’t come visit you in person as it was hard for him to handle the loss of his son but he did call from time to time. even when curly came back, it was still tough for him to see his son but he still maintains a relationship with him.

curly respects his mom but there is a limit to their relationship. he did go to school in australia and came to stay with her on breaks - he didn’t get to see her all the time and as he grew, he tries to maintain a healthy and balanced relationship with her. he got closer to her when he decided to go to college in the united states and she really takes advantage of their proximity. i wouldn’t say she’s grooming him. she left a marriage that she felt wasn’t perfect and would lonve to be involved in curly’s decisions when it comes to who he’s in love with. sometimes she’ll suggest the daughters of her friends from work or church bc she thinks they’ll fit in her idea of what curly’s family and future should look like.

over time, i feel that she would be jealous of reader bc she got the family that mrs. former curly wanted.

mr. curly and mrs. former curly just fell out of their rhythm. they were high school sweethearts and had the perfect white picket fence life and it just didn’t work out one day. after countless arguments, curly’s dad decided to file for divorce and mrs. former curly signed them in a heartbeat. obvs curly was confused and heart broken as his parents did a good job hiding their issues and he couldn’t fathom why they would separate. having to go back and forth between continents was stressful at first but it became a routine for him.

and no worries about the length of your ask. i appreciate your interest in good luck, captain! happy holidays to you too!

[ghouljams]

Hey so, I’m the anon that sent the initial ask with the Sire and Dam terms and I’m just confused and looking for clarification

I’m aware they aren’t dogs. But the term itself isn’t uncommon in the a/b/o community at times; in any case, most terms in the community compares them to dogs or other animalistic sayings. (ie. Calling babies ‘pups’, using the concept of ‘heat cycles’, using the term ‘packs’, rutting, mating, to say a few)

And even you, in the omegaverse headcannons ask said “I think I've called alphas "herding dogs" before and that's such a great way to think about them lol”. You’ve compared them to dogs too, in a way.

I don’t intend to come off as rude, I’m just seriously a bit lost on what you mean considering everything. /lh /genq

The terms sire/dam make me incredibly uncomfortable because in my mind they break so.ething complex like gender into strictly biological parts. I also would call this a recent addition to the omegaverse Canon because I had never heard the terms used until you sent your ask.

Perhaps I don't view mother/father as gendered terms, in my mind it's just the "role" that one fulfills. Not even in terms of mother=birth giver, father=sperm donor, more in terms of labor, emotional education, perhaps a form of distance from the child. Idk

I would say me using "herding dog" as a metaphor is different from using dog breeding terms to refer to human people. Is any birth giver who hasn't been mated referred to as a bitch too?

I have made a concerted effort NOT to use dog/animal terms outside of heat/rut only because those are the accepted terms for the fertility cycle that exists within omegaverse. I don't call them packs, I don't really talk about mates, I don't call children pups, but I'm sorry I used a metaphor to describe an abstract concept that happened to also be dog related.

This is not a reflection on you but it is a little frustrating for me to create what I consider to be an "untraditional" omegaverse au where: betas have an actual endotype, omegas are not weak simpering submissives, alphas aren't sex crazed rapists, and where sortie dynamics are actually interesting and have social implications, and people still will come into my ask box and ask like really aggressively traditional omegaverse questions.

"What if a beta!reader wanted-" then they could do that.

"What if the reader went into heat and alpha!x-" they'd be fine, alphas aren't hormone monsters.

"Can alphas be parents?" Yes because they're people and alpha =/= absent father.

I am sorry, I was more confused than frustrated by your original question I just am a little tired of doing all of this world building and people just seem to ignore that. Like I'm really proud of the work I've put into my au! I wish people would read it before sending me really really "traditional" omegaverse questions. This will never happen though.

[ireadwithmyears]

Shay reporting back in... I got a big headache 🙃 putting all my feelings under the cut just in case you don’t want to be burdened with them

I’m going to talk about Christmas presents, which yes, feels fucking selfish and trivial and even saying this out loud makes me feel like an asshole but, it really just highlights my over arching feelings, and not just regarding Christmas.

I see everyone getting things that they want for Christmas. I get things that I need, things that are nice to have, but never things that I myself want because I just feel like my family doesn’t really know me, doesn’t care to know about my interests, and what really hit that home today was one of my brothers, I’m from a family of five kids, got presents for everyone and just, forgot about me? I don’t know. But regardless, I was there watching everyone get things, and I know, that Christmas isn’t about the gifts and I should be grateful for what I did receive, and I am, and I feel so dumb and childish for being upset over trivial things like this. But I just can’t help but feel that there is something fundamentally forgettable, or uninteresting, or just unloveable about me when it comes to my family. Christmas kind of just brought all of those feelings to the surface, and I just needed to vent about them somewhere. Sorry, I know this makes me look so negative and ungrateful. Would you believe that normally, Christmas is my favourite holiday?😔

Christmas Eve family gathering is already making me want to rip my hair out. According to my mom I’m being rude because I put my headphones on simply to... *checks notes* Respond to a text because I couldn’t hear my screen reader through all the conversation and to block out the noise because I was starting to feel a bit overstimulated by how loud it was getting.

[panda-studiesmed]

Hello!!

Can you share some tips about acing and doing well in biology? I’m having a tough time grasping the material and it’s affecting my exam scores. Any tips you have would help me out. Thanks! (⁠灬⁠º⁠‿⁠º⁠灬⁠)⁠♡

Heyaaaa!! Sorry for my late respond btw :3

Many of the stuff in Biology need to be studied by heart unfortunately :') in this case I highly recommend flashcards!! I know it's cheesy but trust me it works!! Pretty much everything involving Active recall is great!

For understanding the material I recommend drawing or taking "messy notes". It can be for the most little and stupid things but it helps me at least.

ChatGPT is a helpful source too! You can tell it to make a song based on the topic you study, even mind maps and so on!

And don't forget about spaced repetition, cuz the material is sometimes impossible to remember everything for the exam

I really hope this helps 💖🙌

[mishaesque]

[heshemejoshi]

brand new body