#the list of applicable things is fucking endless

[listen-to-the-inner-walrus]

peer reviewed tags via @a-commas-a-pause because there are so many things to make fun of us for and yet you managed to find one thats just not applicable

Too tired to draw but I still need everyone to be aware of this bizarre interaction I had at work this morning

[freelancearsonist]

all that we see or seem

➔ Dieter Bravo x AFAB!Reader

➔ 5.7k words

➔ You moved to Hollywood in hopes of chasing your dreams; you get a lot more than you bargained for from your new boss, Dieter Bravo.

➔ Rated MA // dark fic, reader is afab (female anatomy, no pronouns used) and generally able-bodied, age gap (unspecified, reader is younger than dieter), vampire!dieter, blood/both consensual and non-consensual blood drinking, knife use, slight self-harm, gore of the mouth variety, pet names, takes place in 1983 bc i’m a sucker for changing settings

➔ this was requested from this prompt list by the very lovely @sp00kymulderr!! happy birthday darling, sorry this took so long but i hope it's worth the wait <3 thank you so much to @missredherring for this AMAZING header graphic ily 🖤

Los Angeles is a far cry from the little town you grew up in. It’s a seemingly endless maze, with more possibilities than you ever could’ve dreamed. It’s a little daunting, really. You step off your plane with your suitcase in hand, and you feel like the world is in the palms of your hands.

The harsh reality comes crashing in without warning.

LA is expensive, especially on your own. As the money you’d saved up to get you started dwindles much quicker than expected, your dreams only get further and further out of reach. Life always finds a way to fuck you over, and the city of angels does it quicker than anywhere else. The glitzy neon nightclubs and the glamor of Hollywood swiftly become an omen of doom rather than a beacon of hope. You’re in over your head, but it’s too late to back out now.

Auditions get put on the backburner. You work yourself to the bone as a server in a dumpy little diner, but it’s still barely enough to cover your basic expenses.

You wake up, you go to work, you come home, you go to sleep. The cycle repeats itself so quickly that your days all merge together into one, long, neverending nightmare.

The light at the end of the tunnel appears shortly before the first anniversary of your move. You’re scanning through the paper during your meal break when you see a help wanted ad. It’s normally the type of thing you would ignore, but a few things about it draw you in. The part that really catches your eye is the large, bold letters that proclaim “work closely with one of the biggest names in hollywood!” It seems too good to be true, and certainly something you’re not qualified for. But it could be a start–a way to get your foot through the door of the industry that brought you out here in the first place. Really, what’s the harm in trying?

You go to the library, type up your resume, and mail it in to the address listed in the ad. Realistically, you know that there must be hundreds of other applicants and you probably won’t get so much as a rejection letter back; but the needling little ‘what if’ in the back of your mind gives you a boost of hope that you’ve lived without for an achingly long time.

You get better than a letter–a broad, handsome man shows up at the diner late one night asking for you three days after you drop your resume into the local mail slot at the post office. Janine, the shaggy-haired waitress you work with almost every shift and have sort of become friends with, nudges you excitedly while you’re handing a ticket back to the kitchen.

“Honey, do you know who that is?” She nods her head over her shoulder towards a table in the corner of her section and you try to look over as nonchalantly as possible.

Of course you know who that is. His face is everywhere in this stupid town–magazine covers, billboards, movie theaters. Even with sunglasses obscuring the dark brown eyes that have made thousands swoon, you recognize Dieter Bravo. He’s bigger than Hasselhoff and Swayze combined.

“He’s asking for you,” Janine whispers. “By name. You know him?”

“Not yet,” you answer truthfully. You know without a doubt that he’s here because of your resume and that your entire world is about to change.

You’ve seen him on the big screen before and now you can definitively say that it doesn’t do him justice. He’s more handsome than any man has a right to be. He’s wearing a black hoodie and black trousers, an ensemble that stands out in the brightness of 1983 but yet perfectly complements the tanned tone of his skin. His shoulders could fill a doorway and his smile might actually melt you into a puddle. You can’t help but notice–with a hint of trepidation–that his canines are the sharpest you’ve ever seen, although that thought is quickly pushed from your mind when he greets you by name.

“Your resume is impressive.”

“No it’s not,” you respond with a little laugh before you can stop yourself, then you have to refrain from banging your head into the wall. What a great start to an interview.

But he laughs, and you can’t help feeling you’ve done something right. You’d do a hell of a lot worse just to hear that gorgeously deep, hearty chuckle again.

“Okay, I’ll rephrase. You said all the right things. You’ve got exactly what I’m looking for as an assistant.”

You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, because this is much too good to be true.

“You’re not from LA,” he states factually. “What brought you here?”

You consider lying–coming up with some story that’s less pathetic than the truth. He’s appreciated your honesty thus far, though, and you don’t want to break a streak. “I wanted to act, but… it’s hard to get started when you don’t have any connections. So I’ve just been kind of… getting by.”

He nods and gives you a look over–assessing, you think. “We all have to start somewhere. But this isn’t an easy job.”

There’s something unreadable in his voice, but you choose to ignore it because you want nothing more than a chance to impress him. It’s not about ‘making it’ anymore; it’s about proving to Dieter Bravo that you’re worth taking a chance on.

“Neither is this,” you reply with a vague wave at the diner around you. “If I’m not covered in fryer grease at the end of the day, it’s a good job to me.”

He chuckles again and it washes over you like fresh water after years of drought. You want more of him–more of his charm, more of his warmth.

“When can you start?”

You ask for two weeks to leave your diner gig on good terms, and he’s gracious enough to accommodate you. As the days tick past, the anticipation ramps up and time seems to move slower. You’ve never been so excited for a new job. Normally, your gut twists with anticipation and your mind swirls with every little minute detail that could go wrong–but not now. No, now you’re just excited. The possibilities of Hollywood finally seem to be within your reach again, and it all starts with this job.

You learn a lot about Dieter within five minutes of starting on your first day. For one, he’s incredibly personable. He greets you himself and vows to show you the ropes. There’s no third party to teach you everything you need to know, it’s just him. Just the two of you. You appreciate that immensely, because you’ll be serving him directly as his assistant. There’s no better person to learn from when it comes to his desires and routines than the man himself.

Two, he wears many different masks. It’s a little spooky, the way his demeanor changes depending on who he’s dealing with. He can be the sweetest, most charming man you’ve ever spoken to, then turn to a producer and be a complete hardass all in the name of getting things done. He knows exactly what persona he needs to wear for each person he interacts with–it’s all very calculated. You suppose all actors have to be capable of that; the mark of a good thespian is being instantly able to pretend you’re someone you’re not.

Still, it’s a little chilling. If you didn’t see it in some form or another with every person you meet on set, you’d be a little concerned. Dieter just makes it look like adaptation–fitting into his surroundings as a means of staying afloat. He’s been in this industry for a long time, he knows what works; and, subsequently, what doesn’t.

As far as the job goes, it’s a nice change of pace from what you’ve become accustomed to. You spend nights on set with him, fetching his coffee order or running little errands while he’s busy shooting. The hours aren’t unreasonable, and it pays double what the diner did. Now that you’re not struggling to get by financially, you have the free time you need to start pursuing your dreams again.

You have only Dieter to answer to, which is a definite learning curve. Directors, producers, and even other actors chase after your favors, but Dieter tells them unequivocally to fuck off. You’re his–it’s a heady feeling each time he  reasserts it. It makes for easy work when you’re not being pulled in thirty different directions simultaneously. He asks for what he needs when he’s around and he gives you a list of tasks to complete when he’s not. He’s a little eccentric–he tells you he can only work after dark because his eyes are sensitive–but it’s nice, falling into a routine after so long of working unconventional hours at a job where no two days are the same.

Still, as days turn into weeks by his side, you wonder exactly what version of Dieter he’s presenting to you. Which face is the most authentic? You want to believe he’s himself with you, but you’re not quite naive enough to convince yourself of that. The thing that bothers you the most is that you want him to feel comfortable enough to drop the facades around you. You want to get to know the real Dieter Bravo, underneath all the masks. But you also swore to yourself, when you accepted this job, that you would be nothing but professional–and wanting to get to know him so intimately is definitely a step beyond just being his employee.

To his credit, he’s strictly professional–even if you wish he wasn’t at times. There’s a lot of rumors and gossip about him, about his hedonism and the life he supposedly leads at night, but you don’t see that facet of him. With you, he’s friendly, kind, and respectful. He’s the perfect gentleman–and that’s how you know that you’re not getting a full glimpse of the real him. There’s too much contradiction between the rumors and the Dieter that you interact with. 

No matter how straight-laced you try to be, you can’t help wondering what it’ll take to get a look at the real Dieter Bravo.

You think he starts to peek through when Dieter asks if you would be willing to work longer hours and be more of a personal assistant than a production assistant. You know him inside and out, he tells you, and it would be a pain in the ass to teach a whole new person how to deal with his errands. He even offers you a sizable raise when you pretend to be contemplating it, like you weren’t bursting at the seams to say yes before he even finished asking. 

The sad–maybe even pathetic–truth of the matter is that you’re falling for him. Every facet of his charm, from his darkly passionate eyes to his easy humor, have you completely bewitched and ready to ignore the way your hair stands on end each time his gaze meets yours. You’ll take any small fraction of him that you can get.

He eases you into your additional duties, at least; that much can be said in his favor. He starts you out with small tasks, like ordering his groceries and picking up his dry cleaning. Dieter’s so kind and patient as he explains how he likes everything done–he’s particular, but not unreasonable. He even gives you a grand tour of his home so you can see exactly where and how he likes everything done–it’s like finally getting that real glimpse of him that you’ve been hoping for.

His Sherman Oaks mansion looks like something straight out of a Bram Stoker novel on the outside, yet the inside is a testament to the warm side of his personality that you’re more familiar with. It’s decorated in shades of orange and red, with patterns that are a little out of date but still manage to feel intentional. It gives the impression of someone who was more comfortable and sure of himself in the 70’s, or at least someone who hasn’t quite adjusted to the new trends that came with the turn of the decade. The walls are covered with art–most of it signed with his familiar “DB” in the bottom right hand corner. It’s neat, but not so neat that it feels staged. It fits the Dieter Bravo that you know perfectly, and it even starts to feel like home to you when you start spending more time there with him.

There’s never anyone else around when you’re there. For someone who has a reputation for throwing the liveliest parties in all of Hollywood, he doesn’t actually do a lot of partying. Not when you’re around, at least. It’s almost like he’s trying to hide that aspect of himself from you. If he has to host, he sends you home early or lets you know in advance that you’re getting a paid night off. You’re almost disappointed–parties have never really been your thing, sure, but you feel like you need to experience at least one of his.

Plus, people are starting to talk. You hear it on set first; his co-stars whispering about how he’s gone soft, how he’s gotten boring. Even the tabloids are starting to wonder if they’ve seen the last infamous Dieter Bravo party, which were once highly coveted and exclusive events. The few times he’s hosted lately have been small, quiet affairs–definitely not the big, star-studded shebangs that he’s gained a reputation for.

A rumor even starts circulating that he’s finally decided to settle down with a nice girl, which makes your stomach twist with a little green monster that shouldn’t be there. He’s your employer, you reason. That’s all. No matter how friendly he is, no matter how much he flirts with you, no matter how much he compliments your perfect cup of coffee, that’s all he is. Your boss. And yet, despite your constant self-assertion, your brain just can’t seem to accept it. You know you shouldn’t want anything more than that, and yet you just can’t seem to stop yourself from hoping.

“What’s going on with you?”

You’re in the midst of trying to sort through the files in his upstairs home office so you can find out when his insurance needs to be renewed when you hear the voice, loud and clear due to the open floor plan downstairs. Sound travels like crazy up the double-wide staircase with Dieter’s office door right at the top. You couldn’t shut it out even if you wanted to–and you don’t. God help you, you’re a little nosy and a little curious.

“Nothing.” That’s Dieter’s voice, but you don’t recognize the other.

“Bullshit. You’re not yourself.” It’s a deep, rich tone that you’ve never heard before and it immediately has your interest hooked. Dieter doesn’t get many visitors, much less such purposeful ones. Most people like to schmooze him, but evidently not this unidentified man.

“I’m trying to be different,” Dieter explains half-heartedly. “It’s time I cleaned up a bit.”

“No. Cleaning up your act is nothing more than a good way to get yourself caught. Things happen in the party climate, that’s how you fit in. Things don’t just happen to nice rich actors.”

Caught? Caught doing what, exactly? You creep closer to the open door on light feet, curiosity peaked.

Dieter sighs, and you can hear the exhaustion in his voice. “I’m tired.”

“So what are you going to do? Just give up? Waste away after… how long?”

“Maybe I should,” Dieter retorts–there’s grit in his tone now, maybe even bitterness. “Maybe I never should’ve taken the deal in the first place. You don’t see how fucked up this all is?”

“So, what? You’ve gotten everything you could’ve possibly wanted, and now you’re tired of playing the game? Pathetic.” There’s a sneer in the tone of this unidentified speaker and you don’t like it. You want to jump to Dieter’s defense, but something tells you this is a conversation that you shouldn’t be eavesdropping on.

“Whatever, man,” Dieter scoffs dismissively.

There’s noise downstairs now–a slight thud and what sounds like Dieter grunting as if the wind has been knocked out of him. 

“What changed?”

“Fuck off,” Dieter spits.

“What. Changed?”

“You weren’t fucking honest with me.”

“Bullshit,” the stranger growls back. “You knew exactly what you were getting into.”

“No, you said everything I wanted, that was the deal. Remember?” It’s quiet for a long moment, and you wonder if Dieter’s pacing. He does that, when he starts to get stressed. “I’m still alone, though.”

“That’s your own fault,” the stranger replies–voice a little softer now. “I didn’t say I would hand you your dreams on a silver platter. You make your own destiny. Surely it hasn’t been so long that you’ve forgotten that little qualifier.”

“I can’t bring someone else into this shit and you know it,” Dieter replies. The venom is gone from his voice now–he just sounds done. Exhausted and spent.

“You can, but you won’t.” There’s a moment of silence, then a heavy sigh. “Start acting like yourself again before you raise too much suspicion.”

“Fine,” Dieter sighs heavily. 

There’s a few long moments of silence, and then you hear the heavy solid oak front door shut. Presumably the guest has gone, and while you’re eager to sneak down and see if you can catch a glimpse of who it might’ve been, it’s far too risky with Dieter down there. Something tells you that he should never find out about the way you just eavesdropped on that conversation. You don’t know who he was talking to, or what kind of deal they were discussing–you just know that it’s serious, and definitely above your paygrade.

“Did you find that paperwork?”

You didn’t hear Dieter come upstairs–his sudden question from right behind you makes you jump and whirl around to look at him. You fight to keep your calm as you catch your breath; the last thing you want to do is clue him in that you overheard his conversation with his unknown guest.

“Yeah, I’ve got it right here,” you answer after a thick gulp.

“You’re a doll,” he proclaims with a wide smile. How easily he picks up the face he wears with you after a conversation that clearly upset him. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” you hum with a smile. “This entire room is a nightmare. It’s a miracle you ever find anything. You need to get, like… some filing cabinets. At the very least.”

“I’ll, uhh… get right on that,” he says in a way that makes you sure he definitely won’t get right on it.

Despite the nerves still thrumming through your veins, you laugh. “I’ll take care of it.”

“You’re a doll,” he repeats with his trademark grin. “Oh! Hey, uhh… you have tomorrow off. Paid, obviously.”

“Why?” You ask before you can think better of it. 

He seems surprised–you don’t normally ask questions, especially about paid vacation days. “Work stuff I gotta take care of. No big deal.”

“Okay,” you answer with a slight frown. “Sure I can’t help?”

He actually does seem to be contemplating it for a moment–his eyes scan over your body, and it’s like he’s considering you more than the actual offer. “No, honey, I’ll be okay.”

“Okay.” You take a short breath, then head towards the door–this was the last task on your list for the night. “Anything else you need before I head out?”

He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head as he follows you down the stairs. “No. Thanks, sweetheart.”

You feel heat fluttering underneath your skin at the pet name–he uses them often and they never fail to make your heart pick up pace. It’s like he can tell, because his eyes linger on your lips for a moment before trailing down to the pulse point on the left side of your neck. You wonder for a second if he can actually see it beating, but you quickly push that ridiculous thought away.

“You’re sure there’s nothing I can do for you tomorrow?”

His eyes are still trained on your neck like he’s completely zoned out or something. You watch as his tongue slowly glides over his bottom lip, trance-like; it makes your breath hitch in your throat.

“Yeah,” he whispers after a long moment–he’s standing so close now, you didn’t even notice him closing in. “I’ll call you if anything comes up.”

“Okay.” You want nothing more than to grab him and pull him in, to kiss him like your life depends upon it. He sounded so upset and every bone in your body is screaming to comfort him. The way he’s looking at you right now, you don’t think he’d mind at all. 

Instead you take a deep breath, grab your bag from the bench next to the door, and bid him goodnight.

Dieter doesn’t seem to realize that you’re always working, whether you’re on the clock or not. Even on ‘off’ days, you get loads of calls for scheduling requests and other tasks. Your saving grace is your trusty day planner—it holds both of your schedules, all neatly color-coded for maximum efficiency.

The worst thing you could’ve done on a weekend leading up to awards season is leave it in Dieter’s home office—and yet, as you frantically dig through your tote bag and your desk, that seems to be exactly what you’ve done.

You know Dieter’s got whatever event he’s hosting at home, but you can’t keep taking calls and scribbling notes on napkins without your schedule in front of you. The last thing you want to do is overbook him at a time where every single interview counts.

With a heavy sigh, you dial Dieter’s home number. It rings for what seems like eternity, and just as you’re about to hang up an unfamiliar voice answers.

“Hello?”

With a sigh of relief, you ask, “Hi, is Dieter there?”

“He’s busy.” The voice is high and sweet, yet her tone says she couldn’t be more irritated.

“Okay… umm, it’s kind of important.”

The stranger sighs dramatically. “I can take a message.”

“I just… I left something there, and I need to come get it as soon as possible. But I don’t want to interrupt anything.”

This time when she speaks, her tone is considerably more friendly. “Oh! Yeah, come on over. The more the merrier!”

You can’t help your intrigue, although you really don’t want to intrude without Dieter’s say-so. “Are you sure? I could always come tomorrow, I guess.”

“No no, come! It’s a party, everyone’s welcome!” Then the line goes dead without any further discussion.

You consider redialing in the hopes of speaking and clearing your visit with Dieter, but you doubt you’ll actually get through to him–and really, what harm would a quick visit do? You know exactly where you left it, on the desk in his office. It’ll be five minutes tops, a quick in and out. He might never even know that you’d been there.

You shake off the curious sense of foreboding that overtakes your mind as you grab your keys and lock your apartment door behind you.

It’s a twenty minute ride to Dieter’s house–a lot of time to spend thinking. At the forefront of your mind is that peculiar conversation you overheard last night; you’re not entirely sure why, really. Whoever that man was sounded almost as if he was in some kind of position of power over Dieter, and you don’t have even an educated guess at who that could possibly be. Dieter’s his own boss and he doesn’t take bullying–you’ve never heard someone get away with bossing him around like that before. He’s constantly in some weird form of pissing match with the directors and producers of whatever film he’s working on; he’s never seemed to be good at taking orders, even when he’s supposed to. You’ve heard many a rant about how much he values the ‘freedom of expression’. It all serves to make the mysterious visitor more confusing. Who does Dieter have to answer to?

The cab pulls up in front of his gated home before you’re able to find a plausible answer. You instruct the driver to keep the meter running since you’ll only be a minute before you step out into the crisp late-January air.

The grounds are a lot quieter than you expect them to be as the guard on duty opens the gate and closes it behind you. One thing Dieter’s famous for is noise–his parties are always reported as loud and exciting affairs akin to the fraternities in his favorite movie Animal House. There's no noise at all today, though, and it makes you curious. Is it really a party? Or was the stranger who answered the phone maybe his only guest? If the latter is the case, why would she want you to join in?

There’s a pale man in a cheap-looking suit waiting just inside the door, a tray of filled wine glasses in his gloved hands. “Take one,” he instructs, his eyes distant like he’s looking through you rather than at you.

“Oh, no thank you, I just need to–”

“Take one,” he repeats. “Master’s orders.”

Master? Of course Dieter would be into that. 

The wine is a deep red, probably that expensive vintage shit that he’s always raving about. You prefer the grocery store stuff yourself, not just because it’s all you can afford. A drink never hurts, though, and you could certainly use something to take the edge off–because that tingling sense of foreboding has only gotten stronger since your arrival.

You take a glass and swirl its currant-colored liquid around. It seems more viscous than any wine you’ve had before–probably a mark of its age, but that’s just guesswork on your part. You take a small sip, then nearly gag. It’s like drinking a pile of melted pennies. You swallow it down with a grimace anyway since you don’t want to make a scene of spitting it out in front of the server. It leaves a metallic taste in your mouth that you’re eager to wash out–thankfully, the kitchen is on your route to the stairs. You quickly deposit the glass on a table once you’re out of the server’s eyesight, then head down the hall in a desperate search for water.

Once you’re out of the foyer, there are people everywhere. Very subdued people, at that–draped over furniture like throw blankets, some even laying on the floor. You consider checking one’s pulse until he twitches and lets out a muffled groan. Clearly high on something, you’re just not sure what. You nearly trip over one person and they actually hiss at you like some kind of feral cat. Your skin starts to crawl with every step you take. Even more important than your discomfort, though, is finding Dieter. What if he’s like this, too? Do you need to call someone?

You notice a dull ache starting in your gums as you make it to the kitchen–thankfully you’re familiar with his home, and you have a glass of water in your hands within no time. It seems that no matter how much you drink, though, that coppery-bloody taste never leaves your mouth. What the hell was that stuff?

There’s a short-haired blonde woman propped up against the wall underneath the mounted phone; she reaches out a lazy hand in some sort of greeting. She looks vaguely familiar, like someone you might’ve seen on the set of one of Dieter’s films.

“You made it!” She says with a lazy smile. She must be the woman you spoke to earlier, although you’re not sure how she can identify you.

“Yeah. Where’s Dieter?” The longer you’re here, the more worried you become. Something isn’t right, and your skin is prickling with apprehension.

“Upstairs,” she murmurs, then her eyes flutter shut and she slumps a little further down. She’s visibly breathing, at least. 

For a moment, you consider picking up the phone and ringing the police. Would that cause more harm than good? Dieter must be aware of what’s going on here–you know you should talk to him before you do anything.

Your mission to find your planner momentarily forgotten, you make your way through the living room towards the stairs.

You check the office at the top first–there’s a few bodies zonked out on the couch, but none of them are Dieter. With trepidation in your very soul, you make your way down the hall. Each room is more of the same–people in varying states of unrest, no sign of the man you’re looking for. Most of them have red-stained lips and you eye more than one smashed glass along your journey. Your own mouth is starting to get alarmingly sore, but you ignore it in favor of finding Dieter.

Each step you take drives your worries deeper into your skull. What if something’s happened to him? What if he’s knocked out like all of his guests, or hurt, or something worse?

This is the first time you’ve breached the bubble of his bedroom. None of your work has ever involved this room, and while you’re a naturally nosey type of person, there’s something deeply personal and sacred about the space someone sleeps in. 

Ignoring the steady throbbing in your gums, you knock once before pushing open the door.

Dieter’s alone in his room, sprawled out like a starfish in a sea of rumpled sheets at the center of his massive bed. Something akin to a groan of horror escapes your throat as you see the state he’s in. He’s paler than a corpse and drenched in sweat, chest barely rising and falling with breath.

For a moment, you’re frozen in place. Your entire body breaks out in a cold sweat as you notice the knife in his right hand and the deep gash in the crook of his left arm, right where an IV would normally be set. You can smell the blood draining from him, you can even taste it in the air–or maybe that’s just the lingering taste of whatever you drank downstairs.

Your stomach churns violently with the sudden realization of what you’ve done, of what you’ve drank.

“Dieter!” You manage to choke out while your brain tries to remember how to send the signals required for your body to fucking move. 

He lifts his head shakily, brown eyes widening after a long moment of trying to recognize the face he’s looking at. “No no no,” he whispers hoarsely, “you’re not supposed t-to be here. You’re.. y-you’re supposed to be a-at home.”

A sharp, shattering pain in your top gum snaps your brain back into action. In a flash you’re crawling across a seemingly endless desert of mattress and it feels like you’ll never reach him. Everything is moving so slowly–each movement seems to take a hundred times the effort it should.

You spit out a mouthful of blood as the pain heightens, barely registering the two upper canines that go with it.

“What the fuck have you done?” You sob, uselessly pawing at his slashed left arm. It’s a precise cut straight across the artery–your hands are sticky and soaked with red the moment you touch him. Pressure, your brain screams at you. Put pressure on the wound.

“A real artist must suffer,” he mumbles weakly–then, even quieter, “I didn’t want to be alone anymore.”

“You’re dying.” Your voice doesn’t sound like your own anymore. It’s higher, breathier. 

“You drank it, d-didn’t you?” He asks, ignoring your statement. His distant eyes are trained on the sharp fangs that have pushed your canines out. “Fuck. Fuck! You were n-never supposed to…”

“Shut up, shut up,” you plead. Every shaky breath seems to cost him years. “How do I fix this? How do I fix you?”

“Thirsty,” he mumbles. There’s water on the sideboard, your brain reminds you. You don’t even remember bringing the glass with you, much less setting it down. Everything is so fuzzy. Your arm doesn’t move nearly as fast as it should when you reach for the glass, and Dieter’s hand weakly comes up to stop you.

“Not water,” he croaks. “Need… need…”

He can’t seem to form the words required to tell you what he needs. He doesn’t have to, though. You know.

“You’re not dying on me, Bravo.” You take the knife from his slack right hand before he can stop you and grit your sore teeth together as you slash it across your palm.

“N-no, don’t…” But he doesn’t resist as you hold your bleeding palm to his mouth. His empty eyes flash back to life with the first taste, and then he takes your hand in his own and drinks greedily. You watch with nothing short of disbelief as the cut on his arm seals itself right before your eyes.

“You were supposed to stay away from this,” he murmurs as his tongue sweeps across your palm. “Why the fuck are you here, baby?”

You don’t even remember anymore. Everything is hazy, everything hurts. It’s a chore just to keep your eyes open.

“Damn it,” he growls–pushing your hand away from his blood-smeared mouth seems to take all his willpower. “I never wanted this for you.”

“It’s okay,” you murmur as you slump down against his sheets. They’re so soft and light, and you want to cocoon yourself in them for the rest of time. “It’s just a dream.”

“Why’d you have to come save me? Huh?” His voice sounds so far away that you’re not even sure he’s really speaking. 

“I love you.” It’s okay to say that, because he’ll never actually find out. It’s just a dream, after all; you’ll wake up in the morning confused but totally okay.

“You were never supposed to,” his voice echoes from some plain of existence far, far away. “Damn it honey, stay awake just a minute longer.”

You try, but your eyes are so heavy. He sighs heavily, as if he knows it’s useless.

“Promise you’ll still love me when you wake up,” he pleads through the tunnel that separates you.

Nodding saps the last of your strength, so you let your eyes flutter closed. “Okay.”

You feel his lips against yours and his coppery kiss nearly brings you back from the verge of sleep. In the end, though, your throbbing head wins. Sleep takes hold quickly despite your feeble resistance. 

How strange it is to fall asleep in a dream.

➔ beta: @schnarfer and @futuraa-free thank you my lovelies <3

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[thr4shit]

Intro Time!!!

WELCOME TO OUR HELL BLOG!

Formerly @/thedancingclowns ! Now @/thr4shit !!

(Last updated Nov 21, 2024)

Call us Evan, Vinnie, or Thrash collectively, please!

we use he/they/it mostly! Depends.

USERBOXES AND BLINKIES!! FUCK YEAH!!

HELP PALESTINE 🇵🇸

(and see other blogs for more resources! I do not compile them on this site/app!)

[ list of sideblogs, DNI list, human synopsis, and more below cut!! ]

Human synopsis:

I have AuDHD, I am a system, I like to at least attempt to create stuff and have for pretty much my whole life, I am trying to be a functional grown being, my birthday is April 22. I am interested in film and writing, and plan on making a movie or series at some point in my life.

Tag stuff!! :

If anyone in specific gets very "Yeah, this is something I posted" they'll typically tag it # [headmate name] shenanigans or # [headmate name] posting and their source's tag if applicable/if they want to.

Stuff about me (unshortened):

my name is Evan (I also go by Vinnie for short), I am a (ftm) man, I am here to like fanart and writing and cool people (and also memes sometimes) while posting the most random shit known to humankind, I am legally (bodily) an adult, a system, a polyam quoi demi and nebula pan or omni dude (dunno man, romance is weird), I am also a poly fictkin, therian and otherkin! So I DO identify as nonhuman/alterhuman *but don't mind being called human terms*, I call people man/dude/bro gender neutrally (sorry bout that), I can rapidly or aggressively switch between apathy and CRUSHINGLY high empathy, I have ADHD, ASD, and GAD, probably with some other undiagnosed shit too (considering the experiences we have day to day) and our body's birthday is April 22nd.

DNI/DNF stuff

Racism, Homo/Trans/LGBTQ+phobia, Ace exclusionists, MAP, TERF, pure NSFT blogs, anti-kin/anti-therian, anti-agre, anti-petre, NSFW agre/petre, Syscource, Transmed, Sysmed, anti EDUCATED self dx, try to force religion on others, anyone who is anti-palestine, anyone pro-KOSA, religious extremists, political extremists, anyone "pro-life", anyone pro Trump, anyone pro MAGA

Do not stop fighting, we have to make things right. Free Palestine, fuck KOSA, etc, etc. Do NOT let this world continue its fall to shit.

I never hoped to be political but life is a fucking shitshow right now, so if I don't I'll feel like just another ignorant American ass. I don't want to be just another fucking coward blending in and hoping things will get better without trying.

PFP, and userboxes do not belong to me.

[Excluding the boop king/lord blinkies, which were made by us.]

Sideblogs!!

@thr4shdoes-selfships our selfshipping side!

@connecticut-sexyman a very inactive blog that we don't remember the purpose of other than the silly name.

@iamdevouring-god our Endless One / Devourer of God Sally Face RP side blog (VERY INACTIVE!!!)

@habitual-creatures our emH (Evan and HABIT) rp ask blog [ft. Some T12 people and others!!]

@everymanvenom side blog for all of our EverymanVENOM AU dabblings and stuff!!! this is an EverymanHYBRID x Venom crossover AU sideblog! (VERY INACTIVE, WILL UPDATE THINGS WHEN WE GET MOTIVATION/INSPIRATION!!)

@a-wildkinventure our kin sideblog that we rarely use. Basically just ignore it, lmao.

@thekids-onholiday our request sideblog that we made a while back [that we just now feel comfortable linking back to our main.]

[littlehollyleaf]

OK I have questions...

1. It used to be canon that not all Gallifrians regenerate. Only those who graduated from the Academy were granted the ability and they limited it to 12 because of Reasons. That was A Thing, right? I'm not making that up? So I always assumed Susan didn't have the ability... are we just retconing that whole canon now? Did the Timeless Child plot change it? Or is the Doctor just assuming Susan specifically will have inherited his Timeless Child endless regenerating ability?

2. Sutekh was not an Actual God in Classic Who. I just rewatched Pyramids of Mars and everything - there's all that talk about the alien race of Osirans, who were powerful yes and had strong psychic ability, but they were ultimately 'just' aliens. Like... they weren't Toymaker and/or Guardian level beings I thought. They couldn't reshape reality. But... has Sutekh BECOME supernatural now, due to whatever the casting salt nonsense was? Is that the implication? Or are they still just super psychic and have been manipulating people/events that way?

3. Sutekh gives a whole crazy List of All The Gods. This is what the Doctor casually referred to as the Pantheon a few eps back I assume. But, again, this was never A Thing before, right? The beings referenced, or the ones known in DW mythology, were entirely UNCONNECTED aliens/entities up until now, right? Just wanting to check there's not canon (or EU canon?) I'm missing here... because if there are existing stories out there combining Sutekh, the Toymaker and THE MARA, then frankly I.Want.Them. So spill for me fandom if I'm missing out pls!

(4. I'm fucking lazy - who has a full written list of this Pantheon pls? How many more of the names have been tracked back to Classic villains already? Can one of them be Ragnarok? (is that why Fifteen name checked them specifically in The Giggle?!) Fenric? The Daemons? The Time Monster? I mean... if the Mara is in there, there's scope for just slapping ANY Classic monster that is vaguely religious/mythological/philosophical/godlike under this umbrella surely? What about Omega even? WERE ANY OF THEM APPLICABLE TO THE BLACK AND WHITE GUARDIANS PLSPLSPLS I REFUSE TO ACCEPT THE TOYMAKER KILLED THEM RTD I REFUSE!)

[woxihuanchijidan]

H O U S E K E E P I N G

Greetings, and welcome to my tumblr blog.

You may call me Egg or Bao. Some basic things to know about me are that I am adopted and Chinese, I was born in China and although I was raised in the states, I do not feel any ties to the USA, and I do not consider the USA my "home." I attempted to learn mandarin on my own through an app because I wanted to feel closer to my culture. However, due to being very busy, I don't always remember to practice. I am also nonbinary, pronouns they/them/theirs. My partner is Jewish and Cherokee and I love her very much. She is more active on here than I am.

I do have a degree, in which I also double minored in anthropology and communication. I spend most of my free-time playing video games and, when I have energy, I engage in the Big Art™. But I seldom post anymore because of all the AI bullshit happening.

Furthermore, this blog is, as with most others, for my own enjoyment and education/exposure etc. and if you attempt to purposefully disrupt the peace, I'm just gonna block you because I don't have time to deal with people who can't respect that.

Some rapid facts about me:

I love Bloodhound from Apex Legends and have been playing Apex since it came out, since pre-season

I love randomly watching tech videos because I like learning about it even if it isn't always directly applicable to my life at that moment

I love Riverdance, very formative part of my childhood, and I saw them in person last year and it was so fucking EPIC!!!!

I have developed a hyperfixation on DBD and am a Nicolas Cage main so there's that

I like learning, and due to recent world events, I have learned more about Jewish culture and traditions, much credit to my partner who has been willing to have many endless discussions with me.

0 Tolerance Policy for:

Racism

Homophobia/Transphobia etc

Antisemetic bullshit! I'll even provide you some screenshots of a non-exhaustive list by another Tumblr user to help you because I'm nice, see blow images: (OP is user imnotwhiteimjewish)

Not respecting my peace (I don't mind blocking people lmao)

My own thoughts/rants/vents etc random shit will be under #bao thoughts ♡

If you have any questions send an ask.

Alright, see ya later if you stick around ♡

[random-xpressions]

Love is all good until when it ends. Then you enter that insane questioning phase - was it even real in the first place? And then comes the sulking and whining phase where you just start grinding things inside your head which is by now so fucked up that it can't think straight. Followed by this is the worst of all phases: the self-blaming stage, wherein you end up taking blame upon yourself which ideally had nothing to do with you at all, where you slowly get reduced to something so small in your own eyes that fills with nothing but misplaced remorse and regret. Oh no, its not ended, the roll a coaster after ride has just begun. Then comes the stage where you step into a really low self esteem, no longer taking any courage to step into any other human relationship, just like a child who once accidentally put his hand into the fire and got burns, now you will run away from the sight of fire. Naïve, not knowing that fire has so many good applications if wisely used. But a child is child afterall, burnt once, fear gripped into the psyche forever. So at this phase basically one just cuts off the entire world. Wears thick skin, builds high walls, just so that one doesn't knowingly or unknowingly fall into another relationship blunder. Oh so you think, that's the end of it? There are worse things waiting. You've been stabbed well that you'll see knife in the hands of someone coming with nothing but flowers in their hands and love in their hearts. You've by now lost complete ability to see who's a true lover and who's fake, you mix up the two, turning purely delusional and almost doubting every good soul that comes to you with a pure heart. So you simply shut the door on their face. As they say, hurt breeds further hurt. Are there worse things to happen, the list is endless. The pain, the anguish, the confusion - they'll slowly kill you inch by inch as long as you allow yourself to sink in them. Step out. Make your mind. Don't let the heart cry any longer over the spilt milk. What's gone is gone...

Random Xpressions

[zorkaya-moved]

Morning, besties. Ya girl is back from her hiatus 1 day early, but only to update y'all beautiful souls about what's going on.

Did u miss seeing me and Zarina on ur dash (say yes 🔪)? ;)

I had the time to just chill out, concentrate on my real life, and understand that I'll be doing some things differently. I over-hoarded drafts and asks. Every year this happens, and I just never fucking learn, but I'll try to take my time to sort out everything. This means that I'll be looking through my endless list of drafts and finally replying to them (thank u brain for finally working).

I have a queue prepared to start tomorrow until 17-18th for now. It's 3 posts per day, but I'll keep it to 2 posts per day after 18th of March. I'll be absent today as well, even though I came back but it's like... Update-update. Still not going to reach out regarding plots because I'm still not back with those thoughts and ideas.

If YOU have ideas for plotting, through them at me!

It was SOOOOO NICE to take a break from Tumblr and just? Play games? Read books? Just vibe. Also re-connect with some of Zarina's personality traits that I've let to float around. Now, thanks to PTN, I finally understand how to write some of Zarina's apathetic sides and it made me super happy. I'll also post some of the metas I finally sat down to write. I just might continue this type of existence for the whole month of March due to how much I need to do.

I probably will be giving myself like week-long rests without Tumblr on my phone. I'll probably still take a bit of a long time to rest and not really communicate with anyone yet because I still feel like I need a bit more time there. I'm still playing games but I'm also especially busy this month (graduate school registrations, essays, recommendation letters, applying, all of that jazz). 'Cuz of that I'll probably full-on rely on queue. And yes, I wrote things over my hiatus because I just cannot leave my girl alone lmao. Thank u Google Docs for existing.

Hope y'all are safe. I've got things already queued. Today's gonna be a busy work day, and I've got a call with one of the universities before my application to ask some questions, yahoo! Have a fantastic day. Just know that the activity will only be continued through queue for now. I'll also try to limit my ooc posting because I think the amount that I posted made ME overwhelmed as well since I want to have more IC content to interact with people and not make others feel like I forgot or worse. I really was burnt out and I'm sorry if I hurt anyone, made them feel forgotten, or I made them annoyed with my activity/words/ooc posts.

I still struggle with replying to people socially/ooc-ly even in real life, but I'll try to do better. Over the course of my previous job, I was over-stressed but I also... lost touch with many people. And I didn't chase them because, yes, I didn't keep in touch and it was my fault. However, I will do my best to not let this happen again. I cannot promise anything as I still do not have stability in my life (and didn't have for the last, what, 5 years?) and I cannot make any definity promises. I promise to do better, but that's all I can do. And I will do my fucking best.

Oof, thanks you for reading this! Take care of yourselves. I'm gonna try to concentrate on drafts instead of asks these days because that's how active interactions go and I want to interact. Let's fucking go!!

[liebgotts-lovergirl]

Fire On Fire: Chapter 16

(Ch. 15) . . . (Ch. 1)

II Gallery II Tag List Application II Symbol Guide II

Summary: The human mind is a fragile thing.

WARNINGS: ANGST ANGST ANGST, injuries, & the usual espionage stuff.

A/N: Come get y'all's angst! 🤭💖

Taglist: @latibvles @softguarnere @lieutenant-speirs @mccall-muffin @holdingforgeneralhugs @parajumpboots @vibing-away @hxad-ovxr-hxart @brassknucklespeirs @bellewintersroe @ax-elcfucker-blog @emmythespacecowgirl @wwhatev3r

Contemporary: September 21st, 1944. Zetten-Andelot, Netherlands.

Alix’s hearing surfaced from unconsciousness before her vision did.

“How bad is it? How did she get here? Is she going to make it?” 

Jesus, she thought groggily, still comfortably enveloped in a thick mental fog. Wonder who's going to kick the bucket?

Whispers seemed to surround her, accented by clinking metal and distant...Were those explosions?

“One question at a time, Captain," a stern voice replied to the other and Alix cracked an eye open, curious to take in her surroundings.

Her vision was still blurry but she could just barely make out two figures a few paces away, the clearer of which was a taller man with dark hair and a frown so deep that it was visible even from the side. 

"Gio?" she croaked hoarsely, the name burning in her throat like she'd swallowed a hot coal. 

Both people instantly ceased their conversation, turning to look at her. But as their faces slowly came into focus, Alix felt her heart sink.

 

One was an old man and the other was Nixon. 

Neither were Gio.

“You took a pretty bad fall yesterday, kid.” The dark-haired man explained slowly and Alix squinted, trying to force her exhausted eyes to cooperate. 

“About two stories, almost a thirty foot drop. How are you feeling?”

The young woman grimaced, her head still pounding mercilessly with every breath.

“Like I’ve been run over by a Mack Truck.” 

Nixon cracked a small smile. 

“That’s fair.” 

His companion approached her bedside, stepping out of the blurry background and Alix noticed his blood-stained coat instantly, flinching away from him.

The older man seemed unfazed but sensing Alix's apprehension, Nixon stepped in to play mediator.

"This is Doctor Vanderbeek," he stated calmly as he gestured to the man beside him.

Vanderbeek, Alix mused, trying to parse through her brain's thick fog. Vanderbeek is Dutch, isn't it…?

"It could have been much worse, you know,” the doctor commented, interrupting her ponderings with his quavering voice. 

His graying hair stuck out in tufts and he held boxes of bandages under both arms. “You are lucky to be alive, Miss…” 

He leaned slightly, searching the yellowing paper tacked to the foot of her bed for a name.

“Martinelli,” Alix responded grudgingly and he nodded before soldiering on.

“You sustained a Grade 4 concussion along with a split lip, a wrist fracture and a dislocated ankle but other than that and a few minor contusions and abrasions, you seem otherwise unharmed, thank heaven." 

"How did I get here?" Alix asked weakly, struggling to sit up but her head ached too badly and she slumped back down in her cot. "Where even is 'here'?" 

Even her eyeballs seemed to ache and as she glanced around, she noticed seemingly endless rows of cots just like her own stretching throughout the brick building, wall-to-wall and door-to-door. 

The occupants were almost exclusively male, each of them coated in blood and sweat like her, each of them outfitted in the same faded blue pajamas she wore...

There was the low rustles of hushed conversation, punctuated by soft groans and the bustle of medical personnel swarming like buzzing bees as they went about their business. 

The air reeked with the metallic stench of blood and rot, smoke and the sharp odor of disinfectants. 

Was this some sort of fucked-up training exercise? Had she failed?

Nixon put his hands in his pockets and exchanged glances with the older man standing next to him, as though they were having a silent debate over what would be best to say. 

"You're at the Zetten-Andelot aid station," Nixon answered finally, seemingly trying to break the news to her as slowly as possible. "In the Netherlands. As for how you got here…" 

He chewed on his thumbnail for a moment, seeming troubled, before finally responding.

"Some guy brought you. Glasses, dark hair, mid-thirties, civilian clothes. Brought you straight up to one of the medics in Arnhem yesterday, then left on his bike. I couldn't catch up in time." 

Alix couldn't help the pity swirling in her stomach as she watched him speak. Nix looked older than she'd ever seen him and more tired, as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders alone. 

She knew he hated her but even still, she felt bad for worrying him. As her handler and an intelligence officer, he had enough on his plate.

"Do you remember your name, young lady?" the doctor asked from his place beside Nixon, interrupting her thoughts. 

"Alix Musetta Martinelli," she recited easily and she could see Nixon stifling a chuckle at the theatrically-inspired middle name her parents had chosen for her. 

"You have a problem with 'La Bohème', Nix?" she challenged and the bemused officer shook his head, shoulders still shaking with unvoiced mirth. 

The elderly Dutchman was not as amused, peering at her through comically-oversized spectacles like she imagined an owl in a newspaper cartoon might. 

"Can you remember your birthday, Miss?" 

"Of course I can," Alix scoffed. "April 18th, 1921." 

"And the current year?" 

"Oh come on, that's easy. It's 194-"

But before she could finish, a commotion from the blurred periphery interrupted her and a young man burst onto the scene, pushing past two nurses and breaking free of a harried-looking medic to make a mad dash for her side of the room.

Warning shouts of "Corporal" and "Goddammit, Joe" filled the air, making Alix's skull pound mercilessly. 

The soldier's head swiveled, his eyes seemingly searching the room for something or someone, before they landed on Alix's crumpled form and his pointed, handsome face cycled through recognition and relief to shock and horror. 

Even her case officer, Lieutenant Nixon, seemed to recognize the urgency because he took a step back, allowing the frantic soldier to rush to Alix's side.

"Fuckin' Christ," the young man breathed, his voice softening immediately as he took in her injuries and registered her weakened state. "What happened, ziskeit? Are you alright?"

Alix blinked in confusion, the dull ache in her head beginning to heighten to a buzz.

Zee-skite...Was that German? 

The soldier tried to take her uninjured hand in his but Alix immediately yanked hers away, the familiarity of the gesture setting her on-edge.

"Don't touch me," she bristled. "I don't know you." 

The young man's deep brown eyes went wide and he flinched as though she'd slapped him, his dirt-streaked face ghostly pale.

 

"Oy Gevalt," he mumbled, running a shaking hand through his brown hair before looking up at her again with fear-filled puppy eyes. "Oy Gevalt, oy Gevalt."

He glanced over to Nixon helplessly but Nixon looked just as concerned and the young soldier turned back to Alix.

"Zees, please tell me you're kiddin'," he begged, his raspy tenor sounding almost pained. "Please God, tell me you're just fuckin' with me." 

Alix suddenly felt a pit forming in her stomach. She didn't know why but she suddenly felt violently ill.

"Why would I be?" she asked, brows knitting in confusion. "I don't know you." 

For a brief second, Alix thought she saw grief flash like lightning across the soldier's handsome face, recognition of the feeling knocking the wind from her like a punch to the gut. 

It was the kind of grief that brings you to your knees, violently ill in the bathroom after the funeral. 

The kind of grief that sends you collapsing to the carpet in the room they once called theirs. 

The kind that leaves you screaming, sobbing, raging against the heavens for robbing you of the only person who ever understood you.

Except…

There was something else there, something more. 

"You really don't remember me...?" the soldier asked, his gravelly voice breaking and Alix could see the tears threatening to well in his warm brown eyes.

"I don't, I'm sorry," Alix replied weakly. "Should I?"

Instead of answering the soldier turned his head away quickly, glaring down at the ground beneath his boots. 

After a second of attempting to gather himself, he tried to dig out a faded carton of Chesterfields from his pocket but his blood-stained hands were shaking too much and the pack slipped from his grasp, landing on the floor with a small plop.

That seemed to be the last straw. 

"Lieb," Nixon had protested quietly, reaching for his arm to take the young soldier aside but the younger man was having none of it.

As quickly as he'd come, the young soldier was gone, tearing out of the building like a hurricane, the only proof of his presence lying next to the cot, on the floor.

After a moment of stunned silence, Nixon finally knelt to pick up the cigarette pack, tucking them into his pocket with a heavy sigh.

"Alix…" her case officer intoned in a voice better suited to comforting a wounded animal and the young woman thought it strange that he was calling her by her first name, as though they were friends. As though he hadn't spent the last year making her life hell during her training.

"Who was that?" the young woman demanded, feeling some of her old fight returning and she managed to push herself into a sitting position.

Her head buzzed louder in protest but she needed answers.

"What did he think he was doing, trying to hold my hand? Talk about fresh!"

Nixon studied the ground for a moment before responding, his voice quiet and cautious, clearly trying to avoid shocking her.

"Alix," he said again, in a tone far gentler than she'd ever heard from him before.

"That was your boyfriend. That was Joe."

[supernoondles]

2024

In my haste of class planning and making the most of my time in the bay, as I moved to LA for work in December of 2023, I completely forgot to write my year in review. So now I tell that it was a great year!

It was a year of milestones: I finally finished my PhD and graduated over the summer, spent the fall funemployed and traveling, and the last month moving and preparing for what, at least right now, seems to be my dream job. Yet when things are too good, I harbor a greater fear it could all come falling down.

I write this sitting on a plane from SFO to LAX (wretched airport) because 1) it was conveniently timed with my brother and his fiance (!)’s flight back to the Netherlands, and 2) I had airline credit from when I got COVID and could not make my friend’s wedding in Florida. In 2023 I got a PhD, my brother got a bachelor’s, and I got COVID from my mom when we went to Boston for said brother’s graduation. Last night (which isn't technically 2023, but 2024 starts, for me, when my health insurance card finally arrives in the mail and I get in a classroom with students) I hung out with my friends, who largely live in San Francisco, in the endless Asian strip malls of Union City. “When you get to the suburbs, SF and LA aren't so different,” said a friend. This has helped quell my anxiety about the move: that driving 30 minutes to neon plazas of Rowland Heights was semantically and experientially the same as the imitation mission plazas of the East/South Bay. (Since starting to read City of Quartz, again part of my migration south, I have thought: how funny that the lasting impact of the Spaniards, besides white supremacy, is their architecture. How funny it is that Asian immigrants now occupy these sites of worship.) This year, despite being filled with drama and (claimed) abandonment and reconciliation (or not despite, perhaps because of?) was the year of my mostly queer, entirely Asian diaspora friend group. In LA I believe I will have everything I need except for them (so although I'm scouting, I know what a rarity and a privilege I've had).

To put my move in perspective, I haven't changed geographic regions since I started college. Leaving high school was exciting (I couldn't wait) and for the last decade of my life I've had solid friends and community, as well as my family nearby. Sure, it's just the other major metropolitan area in the same state, but the distance is non trivial! For the first time in my adult life I don't have a reserve of people who are willing to hang out on a moment’s notice. For the first time in my adult life I am also living alone. I have loved the control (especially around having a clean house), but I get lonely very easily.

This year my Canadian partner left the PhD program and moved far away (back to Canada) to my immediate and eminent grief. I'm better now: daily calls help, as does begging for attention, as does turning an old friend into a lover. Japan was a sex vacation. Banff was a sex vacation. Oahu (where my lover’s aunt lives) was a sex vacation. 2023 was the year of having really good sex: public sex in a Petaluma park, sex in a ryokan with paper thin walls, hookups of varying but generally positive quality. As a consequence of my partner leaving, I finally became a real slut. It's been liberating, except for the fact that, even as of writing, I never heard back about my Medicare application so I was fucking uninsured. Out of the many indulgent days of unemployment vacation, two instances have stuck with me: hiking 12 miles while it was snowing in Banff to two teahouses nestled amongst glaciers, and landing at LAX after a sleepless flight from Japan, with a grueling 7 hour drive back to the bay ahead of us.

As I knew I would be leaving the bay area in 2022 (do you sign a year before you start in any industry besides than academia?), in 2023 I whittled away at my bay area bucket list. While I never managed to get up Sutro Tower, I did go to the Fallorons, which, despite my throwing up twice, was everything a birder could have wanted. (I took two boat rides this year, the other at Cape Cod when my brother begged for us to vacate his suffocating studio, and in that one I saw a great white shark attack. How lucky I am!) As usual, I went to many shows. New this year were shows my friends performed in! The past winter had the most rain I’d ever seen in the bay area, so I did a lot of hiking amongst the luscious green east bay hills, which stayed green until May. This made me also really happy, but I don't want my relationship to the bay area (like it is for so many people I know who have moved) to be one defined by lack.

One thing I will not miss, however, is West SF’s fog. This summer, as well as the ending of Daylight Savings time, particularly pushed me to my limits. As I get older my need for two daily hours of direct sunlight exposure grows more dire. The other lowlights of the year were having to replace my phone screen twice, and, after a decade in the bay, finally having my car broken into. I found it ironic that it was not because of petty theft (I also never leave anything in my car), but a TikTok trend encouraging teens to steal Kias and Hyundais. At least they failed with me!

In 2023 I organized a really big (600 people) party for a conference. I wrote a paper with my friends about power dynamics for the same conference (which usually only talks about “technical” things) which was also the last chapter in my thesis. Thanks, advisor, for believing in me. As the party was on Halloween, I hosted a costume contest. The winner for scariest costume was my labmate who put a photo of our advisor (my other one) on a programmable LED screen strapped to his chest.

In 2023 I also started getting paid an hourly wage that made me happy looking at the number doing contract work with an old undergraduate mentor. Beyond this, and the volunteer labor, and the paper/thesis writing, I did not do much of “working” this year: also part of the reason why this year has been awesome.

Thanks to an Asians with dyed hair and pronouns art accountability club, in 2023 I made more art than I had in past years. I did gouachetober and the occasional digital illustration. I did not, however, accomplish what I sought to do during my unemployment: dedicate myself to being a full time artist and making something great. (In retrospect, rest, recuperation, and being excited for my job instead of burnt out from my PhD was the more important goal, and I definitely achieved that!) I feel like one’s relationship to their creative practice is a lifelong evolution (mine certainly is), and at least I had time to slow down and think about how I want that to shape out (the answer which is, more than it has been.) I didn't sew much of significance (a robe with black cat fabric I bought in Japan, a very hungry caterpillar Halloween costume, a Pokémon fanny pack) this year. It was, however, a great year for video games: I really enjoyed Tears of the Kingdom (timed well with my COVID recovery), Super Mario Wonder, Pikmin 4, and I wouldn't say I “enjoyed” it, but I did play the Scarlet Violet DLC. My brother started playing Pikmin Bloom (so I have been playing it more) and I also “play” Pokemon Sleep every night. The best thing I watched was Beef. I listened to a lot of Caroline Polachek.

At a zine making workshop at Sour Cherry I got a 4x6 photo print of a cat that says, Wow! I'm looking forward to the future! That's the energy I'm approaching this new year with (I'm going to hang it in my office for my students). I am looking forward to adopting cats. My only resolution is to work less than 40 hours a week. Recapping how I did with last year's resolutions, I 1) did not really exercise more consistently, but I did run more consistently, and did a 5K with my dad on Thanksgiving! (Middle school me would never imagine.) 2) am unclear if I developed a more methodological way to conduct literature reviews, because my thesis related work was mainly copy/pasted from my old papers, and 3) did very much enjoy my last year in the bay. Here's hoping I can find community, nature, and food (rip China Lounge, I love you so much) as good in LA.

[iamyelling]

saw a post on linkedin about resume tips for people who aren't having any luck. fairly common list of things that "the experts" say, including "you should change your resume for every job you apply to, customize it for the position". made me very mad! started writing a comment then kinda went off the rails so i decided NOT to post it but imma post my rant here ha ha

Many of these points are helpful, but one thing that I see recommended to stressed out, broke job-searchers (usually unemployed folks just trying desperately to make ends meet), is to tailor the resume for each job. Now, a cover letter I can understand, and I agree that it’s super important to write a custom cover letter that makes the company feel special and calls out the applicant’s unique fit for the role. But telling folks to make a new resume for every job we apply to is so out of touch. Maybe you’re thinking, oh, how many different types of jobs are out there? How difficult can it be? Just read the job description closely, research the organization, take a couple minutes to practice your breathing exercises because they’re asking for someone to do what really should be three people’s work for what is not even considered a living wage in most cities and you still can’t even get a job and the search feels endless and hopeless and you’re having an existential crisis, then connect which parts of the job description you want to highlight in your application, then figure out which parts of your meticulously crafted resume you need to take out to make it fit and not be really long, and so on.

Well, as someone who’s been on the hunt for almost as much time as I’ve spent employed (three layoffs at inopportune times), I can tell you that every position (based on the job description) is a little different. There aren’t like, a handful of archetypes I can make a handful of resume versions for. The amount of consideration and time that goes into a resume PLUS a cover letter makes this advice unrealistic. We are out here applying to literally hundreds of jobs. We are qualified and could totally do all of them! The truth is, the folks hiring have hundreds of applicants and can be extremely selective, rejecting people for even the slightest thing. The truth is it’s out of our control, as applicants. All I can do is find positions that I’m qualified for, and put in a reasonable amount of time and effort in. Every job I apply to, I have probably less than a 1 in 500 chance at, often 1 in 1,000. Maybe folks in hiring should be asking themselves questions like, is this really a helpful indicator for the applicant’s fit for the role, or are we making irrelevant hoops for people to jump through? Are these hoops creating barriers for qualified candidates? Is this elimination process discriminatory and further replicating marginalization for already marginalized people? Have you considered that applicants are doing enough already, and blaming us for our struggles is incredibly out of touch and cruel?

is my resume perfect? no. is my cover letter perfect? no. my portfolio? not perfect! but are these JOBS perfect?? are they hiring me for perfection? are they offering perfection pay? are the companies even REMOTELY even just competent??? why do they expect such perfection from applicants who have to do hundreds of applications. they’re not special. i’m not special. i just want enough money to survive PLEASE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

my dad is infuriating. he keeps fucking defending ai. these fucking tech-pilled ai fans are cheese for brains. and he is all “well actually ouycmigjiyfjitvnkghitxbju , i am very smart” 😌 i’m like SHUT UPPPPP!

just realize that it’s stupid and ugly and disrespectful and hopped up on its own fumes. ohhh i was able to eliminate business costs through utilizing ai capabilities (aka - i laid off a bunch of people hon hon !! profit!!) i am very smart. i’m a rich white guy, when i put less or no labor and time and thought and care in, it shows i’m SMART! i’m OPTIMIZING! and EFFICIENT! I’m an inventor, innovating, an engineer, a scientist!!! when everyone else does it, it shows they’re LAZY and STUPID and not HARDWORKING!!! I’ve never tried at something for a long time and gotten nothing out of it so.. if YOURE having that happen its probably because youre stupid and doing it the wrong way… youre probably bad at things too and not even that good at your job anyway. AAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!

EVERY time i say something he has this obnoxious “well actually these people are dumb and stupid and wrong soooo” and it makes me so ANGRY! it’s so OBNOXIOUS he just doesn’t care he takes it all so personally

[knowlesian]

has anyone done a gifset that’s just comparing izzy tearing up when ed chokes him/The Whole Toe thing? 

i only ask because i need to stare at izzy ‘fuck you we were NOT MUPPETS YESTERDAY oh shit, oh fuuuuuck yes it’s happening, glory hallelujah my boyfriend captain is back, i’m done being gaslit by you wholesome felt twats’ hands experiencing the realignment of his fucked up little world on an endless loop.

I MEAN. if you think about it, izzy’s from the version of black sails Certain Oblivious People thought that show was before the “they’re gay pirates, harold, deal with it or be unable to watch this show because they’re getting their gay all over the main thrust of the narrative as we speak” beat dropped. 

this means he is subtextually gay as shit for blackbeard in freaky/violent, public ways and even fucking gayer still for edward in ...also freaky/violent, but softer and more private ways and all the while textually speaking, They’re Just Good Friends forever and ever amen.

izzy is from a world where there is a rule: you work out the way you wanna fuck the guy you spend all your time with by stabbing things together. other people, each other, all phallic imagery is allowed and indeed, encouraged, so long as you use objects that evoke “soooo, this is supposed to be a dick thing, right?” but never push it beyond the realm of subtext. izzy can have loyalty and shared power, and as long as he cashes in his tokens sparingly meaningful gazes and clasping arms or patting each other on the shoulder and letting the touch linger juuuuust long enough to make it kinda gay are all on the approved list. in izzy’s world you bleed for each other, you kill and die for each other, you are the most important people in each other’s lives—as long as the text retains plausible deniability it’s Not Like That. 

maybe you can have a lil it’s not gay if it’s in a threeway (or a love triangle!) action as a treat and if somebody almost dies/is thought to be dead a hug is allowed, but your love better not even fucking think about speaking its name. 

honestly, even if izzy felt like pushing that barrier, what would he say? the sacred texts to translate what izzy feels for the man who becomes edward when they’re alone don’t even exist where he’s from. they have words for what he might want do in bed and what the world thinks of men like him, but love’s just not applicable. the songs he sings are not ones of love because not to put too fine a point on it, but: in izzy’s world, love is for men who don’t have boners you can see from space for other men. he’s swallowed all the lies the world told him about love whole and made them part of his identity.

with all that in mind, let’s look at how if you tilt your head and squint, ofmd is not just a joyful and affirming celebration of finding your community of equally if not identically bizarre fellows, but also a deeply depressing pirate love story as experienced by izzy ‘the only non-muppet around and not okay with it’ hands.

before i get into the actual meat of the two scenes, i want to stop and marvel at one specific part of the leadup and why ed decides to try and introduce the front of izzy’s neck to the back. quote time!!!!

Not some namby-pamby in a silk gown, pining for his boyfriend. 

like, CHRIST. fucking WHAT IS WRONG WITH THESE PEOPLE. why are they so good? i gotta take a quick structural analysis break to handle the way the writers packed like... a whole fucking essay on izzy’s deeply toxic pirate masculinity and summed up a point i will spend this whole insane post trying to express in one tidy line. i ache to be this efficient a writer.

i’m gonna break it into pieces, because they all deserve attention.

we start out with what’s edging into a gentle slur, but is ultimately defanged by being nowhere close to on par with the uglier ways a modern audience knows he could phrase that. i think it’s worth spotlighting how izzy never quite says anything on its face hateful that i can think of? he’s not supportive, that’s for fucking certain, but unless i’ve forgotten something (very possible, often true) this is the closest he comes to fulfilling the homophobic gay trope in the content of his speech and not just how he says things/his vibes. 

(though let us make no mistake here, his vibes are rock fucking hard homophobic gay. jesus christ with this one, bless his heart.)

i can’t tell if it’s a writer choice or character choice. my instinct says it’s both! anyway, either way i’m into it. could even be a subtle hint izzy’s closer to dragging the canon kicking and screaming into the dark where he feels more comfortable. 

now we move over to izzy mocking edward’s dressing gown. this team HATES ME, because it’s not enough to just have him essentially say “take off that soft fancy shit and rub some dirt on it, real men don’t cry”. oh no, not for these absolute combopack monster/lighthouses! of course they have izzy leave off dressing and just say gown. of COURSE. we understand as an audience they don’t mean gown as in dress because the visuals fill that gap for us, but by deleting one word they effectively have izzy imply edward’s a big fucking girl without needing to have him actually say it.

i mean... come on. come ON.

pining and boyfriend are also excellent choices; pining implies weakness and fading from a former glory, and boyfriend is uh... boyfriend! what it says on the tin, but it also throws in tones of infantilization by leaning on ‘boy’ instead of a more adult-associated choice like lover. 

anyway onto what i’m supposed to be doing: crying about how con is lowkey playing out a grand fucking greek tragedy in the background at literally every second he’s on-screen as izzy and i’ve gone down the rabbit hole about it. honestly they should give that man extra hazard pay, he could have hurt himself going this hard.

look at the way his face softens when edward chokes him. look at the tears in his eyes and the tremble in his hand when he reaches out, the un-fucking-bearable tenderness. the way he doesn’t fight ed’s violence, he encourages and leans into it. (because once upon a time in private, izzy was allowed to know that blackbeard could be edward; he was the only person who knew that, before stede rolled on up in his stupid fucking boat and his stupid fucking pants and unearthed ed and ruined izzy’s whole fucking life.)

speaking of:

Blackbeard is my captain. I serve Blackbeard, not Edward. Edward better watch his fucking step.

the way i feel about ‘i serve blackbeard’ does not even need to be EXPLAINED. if you’re bothering to read this shit you know the face i made when that line entered my ears and lodged itself in my brain, never to leave, because you made it too. i won’t profane even this Most Unholy post with my feelings about the use of that particular verb there. it’s good. i like it. well done team, no notes and the end. nobody fucking perceive me.

more high mindedly: i love how izzy uses edward here, not ed. it reframes the “using edward is a privilege i am given by my captain” to “saying edward is a gift i can take back until you prove you’re my captain again”. as far as izzy is concerned, ed doesn’t even exist. blackbeard’s his captain and always has been and thus commands his loyalty, but edward’s in the doghouse until he thinks long and hard about what he’s done.

there’s also a beat there that i think stands as what izzy considers Having a Talk About Their Relationship.

(...well fuck. well, FUCK. izzy thought they were dating, didn’t he? he totally did. holy shit that’s perfect. they were subtextually dating and stede started actually dating ed and that’s just another level of his reality stede broke. oh my god, this little ratman. this fucking IDIOT. his life is the worst. it’s amazing and so funny and also no-jokes sad. SO GOOD.)

so i guess that means in izzy’s world, that was how you say “we might still have to work together, but you’re sleeping on the fucking couch until i sort out how i feel about your little fling”. blackbeard is his captain and he serves him; that’s business. edward is his Subtextual Boyfriend, and from izzy’s perspective edward has been really shitting the bed lately.

honestly: awww, look at him go! trying to communicate like a real boy. that’s one mangled ‘you tried’ star for izzy.

all that would be enough to make me want to fling myself into the sun, it really would. i would still be screaming about izzy and the way con makes sure izzy’s gaze always comes back to rest on ed in every scene they're in together, no matter what else is going on, for the rest of my life.

but oh wait, it GETS WORSE. because here it comes: the toe scene. buckle up, get ready for this to Go Places because i am going full galaxy brain. let’s talk about love as consumption re: izzy’s feelings about doing the Weird Vore.

there’s the unavoidable jesus shit all up in this scene’s guts so i honestly could stop here and just scream WHY? WHY, WHY DO A FUCKING COMMUNION METAPHOR WITH HIS OWN TOE STANDING IN FOR THE HOLY HOST? YOU’RE SICK. YOU’RE SICK AND I LOVE IT!!! SIT AND THINK ABOUT YOUR CHOICES AND THEN NEVER EVER CHANGE, AND IF YOU FEEL LIKE IT: GO AHEAD AND GET WORSE for a couple hours instead of moving on, but i’ll get there eventually. 

aka: if you ever thought to yourself ‘i wonder if anybody’s gonna talk way too long about the constant and super amazing queering and/or subversion of christian imagery and the religion itself in this show’ i got your back there, just you hold tight. ohhhhh baby i got so! many! thoughts! on! that!

for today though, i’m gonna stick with the way izzy processes love and his relationship with ed.

the way ed gets rid of lucius, layers his armor back on piece by piece, and then sees himself reflected in an implement of violence and names himself a monster, not a lighthouse, before he goes to visit izzy is... A Lot. i want to talk more later! but it felt worth mentioning here as his gateway between the new world he thinks stede denied him and the old world he used to share with izzy. 

similarly, the way we get a shot of izzy’s bare, vulnerable feet and black loincloth thing-y before ed takes his toe makes me want to wade right into the proverbial sea!!! i hate this show.

the mix of tenderness and menace taika flips between here is just... like, i know this post is about con and izzy and i will GET THERE but because taika’s affect entirely changing here is important to izzy, i get to gush about it. he’s just so good. 

anyway, izzy. izzy, who has a mouth full of his own toe and edward all up in his grill and thanks to the Weird Vore is having a religious and a sexual experience all at once. izzy, with a love song for broken men in his heart and tears in his eyes, because in this moment he is full of nothing but awe.

the way we use ‘awesome’ now is pretty casual; it means we like something. that something is good. my lunch was awesome, your hat is awesome, we had an awesome time. good, but not necessarily noteworthy. you forget awesome things that happen to you all the time.

in the bible, when something is worthy of awe, you drop to your knees and cry and beg for mercy because the glory and power of what you have just witnessed cannot be expressed by clumsy human tongues; to be in even an echo of the presence of god is to experience the overwhelming urge to absolutely shit yourself. edward’s hand around his throat gave him hope, but this clicks everything back into place for him because the violent, ugly evidence of edward’s love for him is working its way down his gullet. hurrah! life is good again, and by good izzy means horrifying.

so yeah, izzy is chock-full of awe. edward is the face of his god and real flesh his communion; this is a motherfucking religious experience. bow down bitches, because he is worshipping.

(also, he probably came in his pants.)

the thing that really takes me to “fuck it, i’m out, i can’t anymore” place is the way the method of consumption proves the lie of izzy’s ecstasy. edward isn’t providing him any real nourishment, ed is feeding izzy himself, shoving his own toxic notions of love down his throat and making sure he chews them real good first. he’s not consuming the man he loves, he’s eating his own fucking tail.

i just wanna talk to the person who came up with this idea. maybe i’ll beat them up in the parking lot of a denny’s, maybe i’ll cry on them forever. maybe i’ll buy them a fruit basket so expensive i will have to go into debt forever. who knows! i am both a monster and a lighthouse, myself.

the tatty scrap izzy clutches close to his chest and calls his heart might only exist in metaphor, but it’s just as red as ed’s and unlike our boy, the claret being spilled by izzy’s love most fucking certainly isn’t wine. violent and transactional, nasty brutish and short; these are the words izzy learned for the feelings in his chest. it’s like jack said before buttons took his ass out with what i can only assume is the power of having the most amazing facial expressions i have ever seen: pirates don’t have friends, and they don’t fall in love. they’re just in various stages of fucking each other over and in izzy’s sad, repressed world, they don’t even get to fuck each other in the bargain.

but that’s okay: he doesn’t need that. the story izzy lived in before stede ruined his life told him time and time again: it’s not about that. 

so this is good, and this is right. with edward looming over him, subtextually fucking the shit out of him but not making it gay in a way a straight audience would be unable to ignore, the world makes sense again. he’s got the taste of his own flesh in his mouth and blood on his teeth. he’s home. 

so long to that muppet bullshit about ‘talking out our feelings’ and ‘giving each other hugs’ and ‘oh my FUCKING GOD get some therapy you leather-clad sad sack who is 1000000% going to die alone in a puddle of his own piss if he doesn’t get it together’. fuck emotional literacy right in the ear! who’s she? izzy’s proud to say he’s never met her. 

all that joy, the glimpse into a world where love is a word that could ever apply izzy was all a bad dream, and now he’s awake. this is the real world: this is as close to a love song as men like izzy can ever hope to shape with their untrained tongues. 

hey la, hey la, motherfuckers. his boyfriend’s back.

...so yeah anyway, anybody seen that gifset?

[noteguk]

bad behavior | jjk | m

This is in the same universe as “bad influence.” It can, however, be read as a stand-alone. 

— summary; in which staying late to volunteer at a self-help meeting was the best decision you made in a while. 

— contents and warnings; smut, the endless adventures of badboy!jk x goodgirl!reader, public sex (in a church…), dirty talk, fingering, degradation (name calling) but also praise, unprotected sex, clothed sex, creampie, cum play, there is a window and also reflections, rough sex, cockwarming, jk being a lil shit because that’s his main personality trait, jk smokes (only mentioned), enemies to fuckbuddies: dawn of the first day 

— words; 8.2k

— author’s note; for the anon that asked how their first time was like ;) join me as we explore the lore of this godforsaken couple 

It was your mother’s idea for you to find a new place to volunteer. According to her, it had been a long time since you experienced “the invigorating energy of community work” — last time was when you were trying to level up your college application — and it could really “soothe your anxious soul” during the trying times of college finals. Apparently one tutoring program and two research projects weren’t enough to distract you, but you could see where she was coming from. 

In the end, you accepted. The old places you used to volunteer in had either shut off their programs or were just too far away from college for you to consider. At first, you decided to follow your mother’s suggestion and tried to work with children — “small miracles”, as she called them — in a local daycare. Which ended up being a terrible idea. 

You liked giving back to the community, you really did, but it wasn’t long until you realized that working with infants hasn’t been your wisest decision, and that children weren’t miracles at all. You got tired of going home covered in paint and with pieces of playdough entangled in your hair, and that was when you weren’t unlucky enough to get hit with other, less clean fluids. 

So you eventually gave up — both on the daycare and on the faint idea of one day going into pediatrics — and searched for a new place. After having to yell your way through retirement homes, and getting fed up with washing people’s sidewalks, you finally settled in a program that was flexible and light enough for your intense college hours: preparing (and then later cleaning up) a room that was reserved in a local church for weekly meetings. 

The entire ordeal took about two to three hours off your day, and more than half of it was spent as free time: waiting for the meeting to end, cramming piles of information in a small room next door. You didn’t really know what the meetings were about since they changed practically every month — they were, at first, a support group for teenage mothers, then it became an AA meeting, then a group for drug users trying to quit. Lately, you were starting to think that the church just gave away the room for whoever had the money to rent it, so it wasn’t a surprise when it was reserved for a motivational speaker to give confidence lessons. 

You had researched the guy, some old dude with an unpronounceable name and a sketchy background, and found exactly the type of person you had expected. Yes, you were in the house of Christ, but you were still being heavily judgmental of the fact that he was giving those talks when he had no qualifications whatsoever, and was probably making bank off all the self-help books he regurgitated at least twice a year to prey on vulnerable people. You did share your worries with the administrative office of the church, but they ultimately fell on deaf ears, and you gave up on the idea of kicking his ass out of the holy grounds anytime soon. 

It was after one of those pseudo-motivational talks that you walked into the empty room, ready to clean everything up before rushing back to your place, where your roommate had promised to greet you with some wonderful takeout. The chairs were still placed in a circle on the center of the room, where they had been since forever, and you made sure to align them perfectly before you moved on to the litter that had been thrown around the place. 

One good thing about those self-help meetings was that they were a lot cleaner than a lot of other attendees, so the “picking up the trash until your back started to hurt” part passed by surprisingly fast. You had just moved on to the snack table, analyzing what you could still save, when your soul almost left your body. 

“Hey, you,” you heard a known voice behind you. “What are you doing in here?”

You swiftly turned around, heart thumping violently against your ribcage. You didn’t know how you hadn’t let out the biggest, most blood-curdling scream ever, but that was just the first of many miracles of the night. “Jesus Christ,” you wheezed out, taking one hand to your chest. “You shouldn’t sneak up on people like this.” You swallowed dry, some part of your brain recalling that he had asked you a question. “And I’m volunteering here.” 

“I didn’t sneak up on you, you’re just jumpy.” Jungkook scoffed, leaning against the doorframe with that stupid playful smirk curling up on his lips. You didn’t know they allowed demons inside the church. “And of course you are.” He rolled his eyes. 

Maybe a few months back, his mocking tone would’ve stung a bit more. However, you had been tutoring Jungkook for about three months then, suffering through endless sessions of his whining and complaining, and you’ve grown used to his passive-aggressive antics already. You learned that Jungkook was a shark seeking for blood, waiting for any crack that would allow him to jump into a perverse little joke — about how you behaved, your priorities, or even the color of your highlighter. You, of course, always stood your ground and threw his comments right back at him — which was his initial plan, as you’ve come to realize. Jungkook enjoyed playfully arguing with you, and you thought that it was another level of strangeness and masochism you simply didn’t have time to dissect. 

Still, Jungkook (shockingly) wasn’t the terrible person you once thought he was. Every once in a while — when he was trying to talk you out of teaching him — the conversations you two would have were actually mostly pleasant, and he wasn’t awful to hang around when he dropped the whole badass persona to act like a real human being. You would even dare to say that Jungkook could be actually funny at times, and not in the bitter, sarcastic way he usually was. Sometimes, you dared to think, he could actually be reasonably nice. And also kind of cute. Even hot. 

But you would never actually admit any of that out loud. Or even to yourself, really. 

“And you?” You asked, turning back around to face the table full of half-eaten food. That looked like a battlefield, and you could already tell that there were only a few survivors left standing. “What are you doing here? Repenting?” 

Jungkook chuckled dryly. “You wish. My parents want me to quit smoking,” he said. You could not see him, but you could hear him walking closer to you as you fumbled with the large Tupperware. “We settled on this crap instead of a forced intervention.” 

You scoffed. Most of the food before you was unsalvageable — some of the cupcakes had been bitten once and then placed back, and you wondered how someone like that could function in society. “You don’t seem very motivated to quit,” you mumbled. 

Jungkook clicked his tongue. “I don’t really care.” 

His voice was much closer to you, and you felt the air leaving your lungs for a pitiful instant. You convinced yourself you had only gotten scared again. “You should care about the growing possibility of lung cancer.” 

He shrugged. “Maybe. But it’s not really on the top of my list of priorities at the moment.” 

“And what is?” You asked. 

“Amongst other things…” he trailed off and, suddenly, he was standing besides you, pointing at the chaotic pile of sweets. “I actually came back to grab another one of those cupcakes. The chocolate ones are great.” 

You didn’t know why, but his comment broke the odd tension that you didn’t even know that was there, clicking you back into your previous mentality — the one that you just wanted to finish cleaning up so you could leave soon. “All yours,” you told him, “grab as many as you want.” 

Jungkook hummed in satisfaction, reaching out to grab one special brown cupcake — an untouched one, thankfully. “I love when you talk dirty.” He almost moaned before shoving the cupcake inside his mouth, taking a huge bite off it. Dramatically, Jungkook rolled his eyes and sighed in delight. “These are fucking great.” 

You chuckled, glancing at his direction. Jungkook was dressed in all black, like he usually was, and you were starting to recognize a newfound admiration towards his constant use of leather jackets. What? He looked good. “I’m glad the self-help sessions are paying off,” you commented, swiftly placing the cupcakes inside the transparent container. 

Jungkook was paying attention to your actions now, like he noticed you were there working for the first time. “What are you doing with the rest?”

“The church will probably donate it, give it to the homeless or something.” You shrugged. “Or they’ll eat it, I don’t know. I just clean up the place and leave.” 

Jungkook laughed at that, taking another monstrous bite from his cupcake and throwing himself on one of the nearby chairs. Your eye twitched a little at the thought that he had ruined your perfect circle, but you’d have to fix that on your way out. “Sounds absurdly boring,” he sang. “And they’re not even paying you.” 

You sighed. “After all the places I’ve volunteered in, boring is a blessing,” you told him. You had just placed five hot dogs in the container, and you were starting to wonder if it would be a good idea to feed people in need with those suspicious sausages. “But, yeah, you probably don’t care about any of that.” 

“You don’t know what I care about,” Jungkook said matter-of-factly. You didn’t know if he was trying to tease you, but his voice came out so soft and monotone that you couldn’t really be mad about it. It was true, after all: you didn’t actually know what he cared about. Sometimes you thought that he could read you better than you could read him. “Want me to stay here with you? This place is probably empty already.”

You could not hold back your laugh at that, turning around so you could look at him. “Are you offering to be my bodyguard? In a church?” 

Jungkook pouted. There was a thin line of chocolate on the side of his lips, which he quickly licked clean. “I’m trying to be nice.”

You giggled, turning back towards the disgusting food. The rest was mostly trash, but you were happy enough with the amount you had managed to find in a good state. “That’s new.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asked. “I’m always nice.”

“Always is a strong word.” You smiled, closing the lid of the Tupperware. You had managed to fill three small containers with the leftovers and, honestly, that was a big victory. “But you can stay or you can leave, I don’t mind. I’m almost done anyways.” 

He frowned. “Is that your answer?” 

You turned around. “What? You want me to beg for your company?” You smiled. “You’re mistaken if you think I’d ever do that.”

“I’m staying.” Jungkook crumpled up the piece of cupcake wrapping and threw it in the trash can besides your body. He watched you for a moment as you started to throw the leftovers away, your back turned to him and a distracted look on your face. When he broke the silence again, you were throwing the last piece of bread in the bin. “Why are you volunteering?” 

“Because I like giving back to the community.” 

Jungkook sneered at your words. “Seriously now. Don’t lie, we’re in a church.” 

“I do, actually,” you stood your ground. There was a vague sound of crickets coming from the half-open window and the low buzzing of the fluorescent lights above you, but, other than that, the city was covered in absolute silence. Perhaps that was why you felt so at peace. “But my mom told me it would be a good thing to keep myself relaxed. You know, take my mind off college stuff.” 

He hummed, and you heard him getting up from the chair. “You always do what your mom tells you?” 

You met his gaze. “Didn’t your parents make you come here?”

He smiled. “Not the point.” 

Before you could hold yourself back, your lips were curling up. Again: Jungkook wasn’t absolutely awful to be around when he actually acted like a human being. “When she says something I agree with, yes,” you told him. “My ego isn’t bruised when it comes to following someone’s idea.” 

He raised his eyebrows. “You’re saying that mine is?”

“I didn’t say that.” You smirked and turned back to the table. You started piling up the used plastic cups, already eyeing all the used plates, forks and knives that you’d have to throw away. The daycare had better eating manners than that. “Thought we were talking about me.” 

“We were,” Jungkook agreed. One of his inked hands moved to the table, and you were about to tell him that he could eat more of the cupcakes when you realized that he had started to reach for the discardable plates, throwing them away. You really didn’t think he’d help you. “Finals are coming up, though, and you care about that shit. Shouldn’t you be using this time to study or something?”

“I study while you’re out here listening to becoming your real self or, I don’t know... waking up the giant within,” you said. “I’m fine, don’t worry about it.” 

He hummed, his nose cringing up at the disgusting remains of food that stuck to the plastic forks. Jungkook seriously didn’t know how you could do that for fun. “You know there are better ways to relax than cleaning up a dusty room, right?” 

“Probably,” you agreed. The cups were already in the trash, alongside with the plates, and there were only a few crumpled up napkins to get rid of before you tasted the sweet nectar of freedom. “But here I am. That’s what I chose for myself.” 

“Literally any other option would’ve been better,” Jungkook pressed on. “Isn’t that obnoxious friend of yours in cheer or something?” 

“Who? Jisoo?” You smiled at him. No one had ever called her obnoxious, but you couldn’t say that the title didn’t fit. Jisoo could be really… intense when it came to standing up for what she believed in. “She is. She invited me to join her already, if that’s what you’re gonna ask, but it’s not really my thing.” 

“It’s a shame,” he mumbled, leaning against the table. It was a beautiful miracle how clean that room had become just by getting rid of the piles of gross food, and you had proudly thrown the last piece of paper inside the trash bin when Jungkook spoke up again. “You’d look really hot in that outfit.” 

You stopped in your tracks, taking a second to digest the claim he had so mindlessly thrown your way. Just like all-things-Jungkook, a pleasant conversation could not last long, so you weren’t even surprised that he managed to ruin that talk with such a fuckboy-esque comment. 

Also like all-things-Jungkook, he managed to awaken a reaction out of you that you didn’t even know could be there. With a faint heat in your cheeks and a frown blossoming amongst your features, you actually felt a little bit of... satisfaction with the fact that he thought that you’d look hot in that skimpy outfit. At the same time, you wanted to slap yourself for falling into his charms so easily. 

In that conflicting turmoil of emotions, all you could say was a monotone, “You cannot be serious right now.”

Even if you kind of wanted him to be serious. 

“I’m being dead serious,” Jungkook didn’t back down, much to the elation of your ego. You felt like a schoolgirl being recognized by her crush, and the idea alone made your stomach curl onto itself. What the hell were you even thinking about? Yeah, Jungkook was pretty hot, but he was also kind of a douche and you didn’t want to get involved with that mess of a person. Or at least that was what you were trying to convince yourself of. “I mean…” he continued, “you’re even rocking this knee-level dress right now, can’t even imagine how you’d look if—“ 

“You can shut up now, Jungkook, thanks,” you interrupted him. Because you didn’t know how to act when he was so blatantly flirting with you, you switched back to the same passive-aggressive behavior that you had given him for the past three months. Call it self-preservation, call it panic, but your mind simply didn’t know where to go from there. “And I’m also done here, so you can skidaddle back to whatever swamp you came out of.” 

“Awn, don’t be mean, princess.” He pouted. Jungkook was a master at getting you worked up, and you had just given that to him on a silver platter. Maybe if you had mock-flirted back, he would’ve baked away. You would never know. “I was just fucking with you, you’re too easy to tease.” 

You pressed your lips together, hip touching the corner of the now empty table. “You were pretty much harassing me,” you said playfully. 

“I was not.” Jungkook smirked, shoving his hands inside the pockets of his pants. When had the two of you gotten so close? There was barely any space between your chests. “But it’s okay, I’m not gonna compliment you anymore, don’t worry. You don’t have to be so defensive.” 

“I’m not being defensive,” you said, defensive. 

“What, is it the church setting?” He raised his eyebrows, taking a look around. “Is it making you uncomfortable?” 

“No,” you answered, crossing your arms before your chest. Jungkook followed the movement and his gaze got stuck on the shape of your breasts for a second too long, making a newfound wave of heat rise up to your cheeks. “Not as much as you’re trying to make me uncomfortable right now.” 

He chuckled. “You do look cute when you’re shy,” Jungkook teased, taking a step towards you, and you took another one back, pretending you were just going to lean against the table. You sat on it in a weird diagonal position, with one leg still on the ground and the other dangling over the edge. Jungkook was so close that, when he spoke again, voice just above a whisper, you could feel his breath on your skin. “If you don’t want me here, just ask me to go and I’ll go.” 

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. The atmosphere was filled with electricity, your body drowning in the warmth of his presence, the sharp seriousness in his dark eyes, and you could not bring yourself to say anything. Did you want him to leave? 

No, you realized in a rush of adrenaline, you didn’t want him to leave at all. 

Jungkook raised one of his eyebrows. “Hm? Nothing?” He smirked, placing himself between your legs. Every nerve of your body was screaming for you to touch him, to just wrap his mouth with yours, and you simply could not respond to any of its commands. “You’re full of surprises.” 

You found your voice at that comment, heart hammering against your chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“You’re a smart girl, you can figure it out.” Jungkook placed one strand of your hair behind your ear, his gaze flickering down to your chest. From where he stood, he could see the beautiful mounds of your breasts peeking under the fabric, licking his lips at the sight. “Can I at least say that I like your dress?” 

Jungkook’s palm slithered up your knee before you could even react, moving towards your inner thigh and raising your dress along with it. His touch was electrifying, and you found yourself craving more of it, a sigh caught on your throat at the tenderness of his hot skin. 

“Something tells me that your compliment isn’t so innocent,” you told him, leaning your head back slightly so you could hold his gaze. “Aren’t you gonna complete that and say that I would look better without it?”

Jungkook chuckled. “The idea is compelling, I’ll admit it,” he said, rubbing soft circles on your skin. His other hand slithered around your waist, pulling you closer to him. “But don’t need to take it off to fuck you.” 

Your eyes grew wide at that, brain short-circuiting. You frankly couldn’t believe that was happening — the fact that Jungkook was so shamelessly trying (and honestly succeeding) to initiate sex with you. In a fucking church too, of all places. “What- what did you say?”

“You heard what I said.” His stare didn’t falter. Jungkook was looking at you like he could eat you whole, and you seriously wouldn’t mind if he tried to. You'd deal with the social and psychological implications of that another time. “Just tell me to stop and I’ll do it, princess. No hard feelings, promise.” 

This time, you spoke out and the firmness and certainty in your voice surprised even yourself. “I don’t want you to stop.” 

“No?” His voice sounded like honey, so deep and melodic even through the thick layers of his sarcasm. You had never heard him get so serious, so focused, and the thought that it was all for you was igniting a fire inside your guts. “You wanna get fucked in a church?” 

You bit your lip, blinking up at him. The point was: you wanted Jungkook, of all people, to fuck you. The fact that it was in a church was just the cherry on top, and you didn’t care about it as much as you should — your mom would be weeping blood if she knew what was going on, but you weren’t planning on telling anything to anybody. “And what if I do?” You asked back teasingly. 

Jungkook smiled, knocking the breath right out of you. You could only hope that you didn’t look as horny as you felt, because your pride was still on the line. “Told you that you were full of surprises.” He pushed one of your legs open, making you lose your support on the floor. Now, both of your feet were dangling off the edge, body trapped between his strong arms and thighs on either side of him. “Are you a virgin, baby?”

You shook your head, and your voice reached you a bit later. “No.”

“Naughty,” Jungkook said, leaning in. He stared at you like a lion stalking its prey, his gaze lingering on your parted lips before, at last, he tilted his head to the side, deciding to move towards your neck instead. “But if you have the taste I think you do, you probably had some lame missionary sex with some goodie-two shoes.” 

When he started kissing your neck, you almost forgot to give him a response. You had to bite your lip to suppress a moan, instead producing a low, shaky sigh. “And if I did? What’s the problem with some lame missionary sex?” 

“No need to get mad, I’m on your side here,” Jungkook said, one of his hands navigating up your waist, between the valley of your breasts, before grabbing your boob. That time, you couldn’t hold back the whimper that escaped you. “Did he make you cum?” 

“Sometimes,” you said, slightly flustered. You didn’t think you’d be discussing your sexual history with Jungkook, but, well, there you were. “He was alright.” 

“Only sometimes?” Jungkook chuckled, the vibrations of his deep timbre vibrating through the sensitive skin of your neck, his thumb grazing your nipple. The heat between your legs only grew, your entire body practically begging to feel more of him. “That’s a shame, I could do better.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start getting cocky.”

“I never stopped being cocky,” he responded without hesitation. Well, he was right. “And I do have a good track record.” 

“Doubt it,” you said, the ghost of a smile lingering on your lips. You knew that you were playing a dangerous game, pressing right at the weak spots of his inflated ego to see how he would react. Perhaps you’d be luckier trying to poke a bear with a short stick. “You wouldn’t know the difference between a real and fake orgasm even if it hit you in the face.” 

Jungkook leaned back and looked at you for an instant. You knew he had caught onto your challenge straight away. He liked it as much as you did, there was no doubt about that. “Let’s see, shall we?” he asked. There was no denying the devilish aura that was all around him now, suffocating you with its tempting heat. “How long do we have?”

“I’m locking up the room tonight,” you said, watching as his eyes sparked with an emotion you could not decipher. “But I wanna get home before ten. Have homework.” 

You could see him fighting against the natural urge to ridicule you for saying something like that at such an odd time, but, at the end, he managed to avoid it. “More than enough time.” Jungkook placed one hand on the back of your neck, gaze darting hungrily toward your lips. “Come here.”

And then his mouth was on yours, and everything else was white noise. Jungkook kissed you much slower than you had anticipated, taking his sweet time caressing your mouth with his; hands exploring the curves of your body and teasing their way underneath your dress. He sighed heavily against your mouth when you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss, his soft tongue poking out and entering your mouth perfectly. Jungkook was a good kisser, you had to admit it, and he got your knees weak sooner than you’d like. 

His body was hot and firm against yours and you could feel the outline of his abs underneath your fingers as you trailed your hands down his torso; his quick heartbeat drumming on your palms. Jungkook’s breathing got heavier as you hooked your fingers on the hem of his pants and tugged him toward you. Instantly you noticed the outline of his hard cock against your inner thigh. 

Then, something switched. Just as you had reached out to touch his hardness, squeezing it lightly underneath your fingers, Jungkook groaned against your mouth and bit down on your lip. You had barely any time to react before he was pulling away from the kiss, gaze darkening. 

“Such a tease,” he mumbled hoarsely, his breath hitting your mouth in soft waves. His hand was hovering over your heat, his middle finger pressing down on your sensitive nub, making you whimper. “You don’t know what you do to me.” 

Jungkook was much quicker than your thoughts and, within a second, the motion of your panties being pushed aside made you fumble closer to him; your hands holding tightly onto his shoulders when he finally decided to touch you. 

“Fuck,” he groaned next to your ear, making your mind go blank for a split second. The teasing motions of his digits brushing your entrance were enough to make you whimper, hips thrusting forward in a failed attempt to make him move further. “Look at this, you’re soaking my fingers. Wanna get fucked that bad?”

But he didn’t let you respond. The sudden intrusion of two fingers inside your pussy made your back arch, nails digging in the leather of his jacket as Jungkook opened you up. “I—” you tried to speak, but it was hard to think when he started pumping his fingers in and out of you. The sounds of your wetness were a filthy symphony filling the quiet atmosphere. “Jungkook, what—” 

“God, that’s so tight,” he groaned, speaking through clenched teeth. His voice was enough to shut you up at the spot, a frail moan dripping from your lips. “Relax, baby, you’re too tense. Let me take care of you, alright?” 

You nodded, eyes drifting shut as he continued to pump his fingers in and out of you. You hated to admit it, but Jungkook was already winning against your ex by a long shot: the way his digits brushed inside you, gradually moving apart to stretch you, got you searching — begging — for more. You were sure you could cum around his fingers and, when he curled them up and they dragged against your sweet spot, the idea became a lot more palpable. 

“Jungkook, you’re taking too long, I’m gonna cum like this,” you complained, chest rising and falling under the waves of your upcoming orgasm. You could feel it building up in your stomach, ready to snap, and you didn’t want it to happen around his fingers. “I wanna feel you.” 

Jungkook breathed out at your needy request, placing a kiss against your jaw. “I’m just getting you ready for my cock, baby,” he said. A loud moan dripped from you when he unceremoniously added a third finger, your legs trembling on either side of his body. “I don’t know if you can take it.”

You scoffed. “Don’t flatter yourself,” you said, only half aware of the fact that your voice sounded more like a whimper than a serious comment. “I can.” 

He smirked wickedly. You really were pushing his buttons. “We’ll see about that,” Jungkook responded. 

Within a second, right as your orgasm was about to wash over you, he removed his fingers from your pussy. The frustrated moan you let out was quickly swollen by him, his mouth rogue against yours and the sweetness of his tongue intoxicating you — probably those stupid cupcakes, you thought. 

“Turn around for me,” he asked. 

You quickly did as he requested, putting your feet on the ground before turning your back to him, hands leaning on the table. Jungkook placed one hand on the curve of your spine, pushing you down until you had your chest against the surface, ass perked up and pussy in full display for him. There was a gush of cold air against your flesh when he pulled up the fabric of your dress and tossed it over your waist, exposing your lower body for him.

The boy hummed at the sight, one of his legs kicking your feet apart so he could position himself in the middle of your thighs. “You’re pretty all around,” Jungkook commented, one of his palms grazing your asscheek before grabbing it. His motion was harsh, needy; earning a whimper from you. “Knew you would be.” 

Through the dense clouds of your desire, there was still some part of you that managed to make fun of that situation. “You spend your free time thinking about my ass?”

“Won’t answer until I have a lawyer present,” he joked. 

You felt his fingers hooking around the fabric of your panties, pushing it further to the side so you had your cunt fully exposed for him to see. The drumming of your heartbeat almost drowned out the low groan he produced at the sight of your flushed heat. 

“Princess, your pussy is dripping so much…” Jungkook trailed off, one of his fingers tracing a line between your lips. He felt the urge to eat you out, to lick you completely clean and make you cum on his tongue, but he decided that would have to wait for a different time. “Is this all for me?” 

“Yeah, all for you,” you said, weak. There was a thundering exasperation building up inside you, motivated from your denied orgasm and from the way that Jungkook was taking his sweet time. 

“Good girl,” he mumbled and your chest was filled with pride. “Can’t wait to fuck it.” 

“Then don’t wait,” you practically begged. “Just rush.”

He removed his finger from your heat. “Shh… be patient,” Jungkook told you and you swore you could practically hear the smile in his voice. You could hear him shuffling behind you, the sound of his zipper opening echoing around that still room. “I’m gonna give you whatever you want.” 

You whined at the abrupt feeling of his warm cock rubbing between your folds, its tip hitting your clit after every languid thrust. “Fuck,” you cried out, shaky. Jungkook wasn’t lying when he said that he was big, his length was so thick that you were starting to get second thoughts whether you could take it or not. Not that you would ever admit it out loud. “Just put it in, Jungkook.” 

But Jungkook was having way more fun just teasing you. “Pussy’s so wet for me.” He breathed out, his hands tightening around your hips. You felt him throb between your folds, and the sensation got you searching for air. “You’re soaking my cock, baby. You want it that much?”

“Y-Yeah.”  

Jungkook hummed, leaning in so he could place a kiss on your shoulder. “I’m gonna fuck you like you deserve to be fucked, princess,” he promised, his length still rubbing between your folds. He was so hard and heavy that your mind was spinning, your lungs drowning in expectation. “Gonna fuck you so well that you’re never going to forget it. Do you want that?”

“Yes,” your voice was a pathetic moan, and you hated your body for betraying you so easily. “Yes, please.” 

After another pec on your shoulder, Jungkook leaned back. “Be loud for me, alright?” He asked. “Can you do that for me?”

You swallowed hard — what were the chances that someone would hear you? You had no idea. “Yeah, whatever you want, just fuck me.”

“Whatever I want? That’s a dangerous thing to say.” He moved around behind you, making you flinch when you felt his cock align with your dripping entrance. The anticipation was driving you insane. “Might have to see if you’re up for it another time.” 

There was an answer somewhere in your mind — you could swear there was — but it was quickly forgotten the second that Jungkook pushed himself inside you. The drag of his cock was a delicious torture, streching you out and filling you up to the brim until you were shaking under his touch, both of you moaning at the sensation. 

“Oh my god.” You breathed out, hands turning into fists on the table. Your cheek was pressed against the polished wood, hot breath creating small white clouds on the surface. 

Jungkook released a shaky sigh when he felt you clenching around him, your body desperately trying to move closer to him. “Fuck, baby,” he hissed, his hands holding onto your hips for dear life. Gradually, he moved himself away from your pussy just so he could slam back inside, marveling on the way you trembled at the feeling, crying out his name in the prettiest of whimpers. “Your pussy is so fucking tight. Squeezing my cock so well.” 

Took you only an instant to realize that you were absolutely addicted to the feeling of his cock inside you, the heavenly push of his hardness in and out of you as he slowly started to set a pace. “Oh my god, I’m—” a pitiful hiccup interrupted you, turning your voice into a sharp cry. “That’s so good, Jungkook.”

Jungkook chuckled behind you, his thrusts starting to pick up speed. Your eyes closed in endless bliss, every part of your brain focused on the sensation of his fat length stretching you up. “Told you I’d be, not my fault you didn’t believe me,” he said, but you could tell that his confidence had started to wear itself thin — he, too, seemed to be much more focused on the way that your bodies met. “Do you touch yourself, princess?”

You almost didn’t know how to answer him, a deep heat rushing up to your cheeks. “W-What?”

“When you’re alone, baby,” he practically hissed. You were bouncing on the table then, your body jerking up and down as he fully pistoned his cock inside your heat. “Do you play with your little pussy?”

“Y-yes,” you stammered, embarrassed. “S-Sometimes.” 

“Show me how you do it,” he requested in-between huffs, lust dripping from every syllable. Jungkook spoke to you like a siren, effortlessly inducting you to comply with everything he wanted. “Come on. Don’t be shy, I wanna see you play with yourself for me.” 

You didn’t even know if what you were feeling was shyness, but there was a veil of hesitation that covered your actions. As your hands moved downwards, one of them clenching around the fabric of your dress and pulling it up while the other trailed over your mound, you felt strangely vulnerable, exposed. At the same time, you wanted to do what he asked you to, wanted him to wash you over with compliments until your mind was going blank. 

So you closed your eyes and focused on the sensation of two of your fingers coating themselves in your wetness, then their pressure on your clit. You whined at the feeling, pleasure exploding in your veins as you started to rub yourself, tracing small circles on your sensitive spot. There was no way you could ever reach that sensation again, the sweet motions of your fingers combining perfectly with the thrusts of his hard, fat cock inside you. You were doomed. 

“That’s it… just like that, baby,” Jungkook whispered, obsessed with the sensation of your walls fluttering around him. You had gotten so tight that he thought he would see heaven at any second now. “Feels good?” 

“Y-Yeah, so good...” you struggled to get out, “feels amazing, Jungkook.” 

“So perfect for me,” his praise shot straight up to your core, making you mewl under him. God, the way that you were tightening around him was going to drive him insane. “You feel so fucking good, I can’t stop fucking you.” 

Jungkook took one of his hands to your neck, using it to guide your body upwards until you had your back pressed against his chest; his hot lips assaulting your neck. The new position made it so much easier for his cock to drill inside you, reaching even deeper and hitting sweet spots you didn’t even know you had. It wasn’t long before you were moaning out, eyes fluttering shut as the pleasure overtook you. 

“Just take a look at that, baby,” his voice broke you out of your hypnotized state.  “Look at you. Such a good slut, just taking everything I’m giving you, touching yourself for my cock… fuck. Could watch you like this forever.” 

You had to take a moment to understand what he was talking about, and then you saw it: the window. It stood silently across the room from you, half open, and the glass combined with the darkness of the night gave a perfect reflection of the two of you. You could see yourself, the mess you had become, as Jungkook pounded in and out of you and your fingers worked on your clit; the darkness of his hungry gaze as he followed the motions of your body against his. 

Even if you cried out at the sight, your body freezed up a little at the thought of someone walking by and seeing that private spectacle. The possibility itself was minimal — the window gave way to the side of the land, where a big, thick fence separated it from the nearby houses; most of the ground covered by large trees and bushes — but it wasn’t zero. You couldn’t even begin to imagine the humiliation that would come from being seen like that. 

He, of course, noticed your change of demeanor right away, and you could see in the faint reflection that he had smirked at that realization. “What is it? Are you worried someone is going to walk by?” Jungkook almost groaned against your ear. His cock continued to pump ferociously in and out of you, and you couldn’t even understand your own thoughts for a moment. “That someone is gonna see you get fucked like a good slut?” 

“It’s not—” a moan cut your sentence short. Not like you knew where you were heading, anyways. 

“No one is gonna see you like this, know why?” Jungkook was grunting, his fingers tightening around your throat. You cried out at the feeling, your cunt clenching around him in a way that got him fucking you even harder. “Cause this is all for me. Just for me.” 

Then he was pushing you back on the table, your chest crashing against the wooden surface and his hands yanking you by the waist. Jungkook was fucking you so hard that your worries left you as soon as they arrived, your mind a turmoil of desires and broken exclamations that didn’t give space to anything else but him. 

“You look fucking gorgeous like this, stuffed with cock,” he marveled at the sight. There was a known wave of pleasure hovering over you, ready to crash at any given moment, and you stopped rubbing yourself just so you could prolong its arrival. “Wanna see you cum for me, make a mess for me, baby.” 

The words left you in a confusing, broken order, “Jungkook, I can’t… too much… can’t...” 

“Shhh, you can,” he was slowly easing you into your orgasm, his cock drilling in and out of your pussy. Jungkook fucked like a machine, fast and precise, and you didn’t think you’d be able to forget that anytime soon. “You told me you could take it, so now you’re gonna take it. Don’t you wanna be good for me?” 

“I- I want to… I’m so close,” you cried out, pressing your forehead against the table. You didn’t know how it hadn’t broken yet, with the way that Jungkook was fucking you so mercilessly hard. “I’m so, so close.”

“Cream my cock, baby, come on,” he urged you on, his member throbbing inside you at the thought. Your legs were so weak that you knew you’d fall facedown on the floor if he wasn’t supporting your weight with his strong arms. “Be a good girl and cream my cock for me.” 

And that was it. That was all that you needed to push yourself over the edge, submerging you in ecstasy and making you squeeze him so deliciously. “J-Jungkook!” You moaned out his name again and again, unsure of how loud you were being, but also not caring as much as you should. Jungkook realized he loved hearing you call his name more than anything else. “Fuck! Oh my god!”

“That’s it, baby,” he moaned back, his thrusts a sloppy, uncoordinated mess. He was hypnotized by the view of your cunt hugging him, your wetness dripping down your thighs as you rode out the last seconds of your orgasm. “Pussy’s so fucking tight, so fucking perfect— gonna cum too.” 

You gasped out at the sensitivity that was starting to spread, every movement shaky as you tried to push yourself against him. “Yes, please.” You looked over your shoulder, meeting his hooded gaze. Jungkook looked like a god, his dark hair sweaty and messy and his lip trapped between his teeth. That image would plague you forever. “Cum inside me, please.” 

He groaned loudly, eyes closing for a second. “Fuck, that’s so fucking hot,” he hissed, chest heaving with anticipation. You knew he was close, everything pointed to that, and all that you wanted was to see him reach his high, using your body like it was just a doll for him to fuck. “Didn’t know you’d want to be filled up with cum, princess.” 

“I’m full of surprises.” You smiled — a pretty, fucked-out smile that got Jungkook grunting like a madman. “I want your cum inside me, Jungkook, please.” 

“Gonna fuck you full of my cum, don’t worry— Shit.” The sounds he was making were heavily: those breathy, high-pitched moans that echoed all around you; broken by deep grunts that had your thighs shaking. Jungkook fucked himself in you like he was meant for it, throwing his head back and closing his eyes as he finally found his orgasm. “Fuck! That’s it, fuck—”

Jungkook called out your name and mixed it with praises and curses when he came, spilling himself inside your pussy. You sighed at the feeling, taking in the blissful sensation of having his hot cum spilling out of you, dripping down your legs as he continued to thrust inside you, milking out his orgasm. 

At last, he started to wince from sensitivity. His body collided against your back, his heavy breathing fanning your neck as he tried to collect himself. “Fuck, baby,” he mumbled, “you’re amazing.” 

“You’re not so terrible yourself.” You could not help the smile that appeared on your lips, nor the way that you melted against the surface of the table, drowning in his heat. 

Still, you couldn’t stay there for much longer: it was already a miracle that no one heard the chaos going on in that room, and you weren’t trying to push your luck for the night. Especially since you had a pile of homework (and possibly — now cold — takeout) waiting for you at home. 

You raised your body, leaning against your elbows. “I have to leave,” you told him, taking one of your hands to lay on top of his tattooed one, trying to ease his grip from your waist. “Now if you could just…” 

“Shhh, shhh,” Jungkook hushed, unrelenting. He was much stronger than you, and your muscles were too weak for you to try and do much, so you eventually gave up. “Stop moving. Let me feel you around me for just a bit more.” 

You frowned. “Why?”

“I like it,” he said simply. His breath was a faint caress against the skin of your neck, and you didn’t have much fight left in you. “We all have our tastes.” 

You rolled your eyes. “You’re so weird.”

“Don’t kinkshame.” Jungkook pouted, then pressed a kiss against your shoulder. “You just begged me to fuck you in a church, remember?” 

“Yeah, I guess I don’t have much place to judge.” You laughed dryly, then looked over your shoulder. “Why is your cock still hard? How long is this gonna take?” 

Jungkook groaned, clearly annoyed. “Shut up and enjoy the moment.” 

~ 

The so-called moment lasted about two more minutes (which was kind of impressive, you thought) before Jungkook softened and slipped out of you. You hated to admit but you kind of liked the feeling of having him still inside you, completing you as his lips danced around your neck; fingers tenderly playing with your hair. You never thought Jungkook would be so gentle after fucking you like that, but you guessed that you weren’t the only one that was full of surprises. 

Jungkook, apparently, also liked to admire his work. After he had slipped out of you, he made you sit back on the table just so he could stare at his own cum dripping out of you, a glimmer of satisfaction in his dark gaze. He had pushed his white release back inside you and smirked up at you, asking, ever so kindly, for you to go home like that, filled with his cum. 

You, of course, promptly accepted it. 

“By the way,” he called when you two had already stepped out of the church, enveloped by the coldness of the night. There was only one solitary light pole illuminating his features, making him look like one of the saints in the chapel — nothing but fake advertisement, in your opinion. “Wanna know how much I got in that immunology test?”

“How much?” You asked. 

“Eighty two.” Jungkook smiled brightly then, and you found yourself joining him. “Never saw a grade so high in my life. And that counts all the times I’ve cheated too.” 

“Seems like the tutoring sessions are paying off.” You crossed your arms before your chest, the hem of your dress swirling around your knees. The night was weirdly peaceful after everything that had taken place. 

“They are.” He nodded. “I’m looking forward to the next one. Helps that my tutor is kind of a hottie too.”

You scoffed. “So I’ve heard.”  

“And, by the way?” 

“Yeah?”

“You would look better without it.” He pointed at your dress, a sly smile already sprouting on his lips. “Hope to see it next time.”

“Good night, Jungkook.” You rolled your eyes, already turning around — yeah, like there would ever be a next time. 

~ 

BAD INFLUENCE COLLECTION

TAGLIST: 

@taehyungieskith​ @fan-ati--c​ @btstrasht​ @crazy4myself​ @sashimi-mochi @ft-multi @kooafraid @dianaaviny @ggukkieland @cryinginmypromdress @kissestothesky

[memento-morri-writes]

What Am I?  a poem about life

I am the sound of a screaming baby who doesn’t stop until she finally falls asleep, head drooping against her crib.  I am the pattering of footsteps as she learns to walk.  I am the fascinated face of a small child who has just discovered the wonders contained within a book.  I am me, growing older every day.

I am the frustrations of the girl whose teachers ignore her frantically waving hand, looking everywhere but at her face.  I am the loneliness of the child who follows others around the playground, desperate for a friend to talk to, but too naive to know they don’t want her.  I am the hair ripped from a child’s head during a scuffle, and the momentary pride that comes from it.  I am me, unhappy at life.

I am the eager face of the girl in a new place, with a bigger library.  I am the tears on her face as her teacher leaves, knowing, somewhere inside her, that the next teacher will not be good.  I am the cardboard sphinx cut by a knife she wasn’t allowed to touch.  I am the hand that slaps an adult, and the panic of the child who fears the police.  I am the foot that kicks, and the mouth that yells when they tell her no.  I am me, angry at everything.

I am the robotic arm doing the disco as a dozen teens laugh in delight.  I am the fireworks on the fourth of July as they watch.  I am the words and music that flows from the stage as Aaron Burr sings his song, enveloping her in sound.  I am me, experiencing something good, something fun.  (But will it last?)

I am the open doors of the freshman building, welcoming me to a place I will never forget, be it for good or bad. (but mostly bad.)  I am the finality of a friendship ending forever, although it was over years ago.  I am the small fuzzy body whose heart stops beating, while miles away a girl cries.  I am the pull at the heart brought on by the sight of kittens.  I am the button she pushes on the light board, and the friends she finds there.  I am the freedom brought by the final bell.  I am me, older than ever.

I am the exhaustion that sets in before the first week is even over.  I am the dragging of feet, and the dreams of delays and days off.  I am the can’t-wait-to-get-home, and the words “I’m fine” said whenever someone asks how things are going.  I am the world-weariness of a girl who hasn’t even lived yet, and the fear that she’ll never be ready for what comes later.  I am me, surviving, but not living.

I am the boredom of days spent home alone, and the loneliness of a summer without friends.  I am the naps taken because there is nothing else to do, and the hours spent staring at a screen.  I am the numbness of a young woman who can no longer feel anything.  I am the depression that settles in, even as she claims “Summer is infinitely better than school,”.  I am the crushing realization that adulthood is coming, and there is nothing she can do to stop it, as well as the panic that sets in after that.  I am me, wholly unprepared, partly unhappy.

I am the friendless classrooms with no one to talk to.  I am the sound of hoofbeats as Gabriel canters around, a happy young woman on his back.  I am the heavy blanket wrapped around her shoulders as she sits on her bed, cozy and warm.  I am the books that remain unread for months on end, and the excuses made as to why.  I am the voices singing onstage, as she watches from the wings, enjoying every minute.  I am the strange mix of anxiety and apathy that fills her head whenever someone mentions the future.  I am a friend who listens, and who makes her feel special.  I am me, alive and existing.

~~ a pause.  breathe. ~~

I am the strange anxiety of a senior year, of life-changing decisions made early in life.  I am the endless list of applications and choices and worries.  I am the gaping difference between my sister’s 12 applications and my 3.  I am the uncertainty of “what if...?”  I am the worries that I will be rejected, the fuck-it-all attitude if I am.  I am the desperate desire to find a career I do not hate, because if I hate what’s keeping me alive, am I even living?  I am the finality of an accepted acceptance, an endless list of things to do.  I am me, hurtling forwards.

I am the lonely light shining in the 3rd catwalk, dozens of feet from anyone else.  I am the laughter of the audience, and the smile it brings me.  I am a a robot who refuses to do what it’s told.  I am with friends, if only for a few months.  I am a project that comes to life in front of me.  I am so many t-shirt printed in so little time.  I am a smile ever so fleeting on her face.  I am friends made only to be abandoned.  I am me, moments slipping out of my fingers.

I am the words written on a poster: “it’s been a fun 12 years”.  I am the sharp laugh knowing that the last time I work will be setting up for my own graduation.  I am my own name, called, a stage walked, a curtain closed.  I am an awkward hug, a quick goodbye.  I am promises made to stay in touch, but knowing we won’t.  I am goodbyes said to people I loved in a place I hated.  I am me, the end of a chapter.

I am another lonely summer, an endless blur of days.  I am the time that moves too slowly, and too fast.  I am the voice of a friend heard for the second time ever, the closing of tabs as footsteps approach.  I am a brief burst of laughter in a movie theater.  I am a tight chest, a speeding heart, an emotion I don’t know how to describe.  I am me, still in denial.

~~ a pause. breathe. ~~

What am I?  I am everything I have ever experienced, and every person I have ever met.  I am here on earth, although the future scares me.  I am a mix of everything, good and bad, as is life itself. 

I am alive.

I wrote most of this (minus the section between the “breathe”s) while in  a really weird place in my life.  I’m okay, I think.  I’m sorry it’s so long.  It was originally a piece for a creative writing class over a year ago.  It turned out a lot more personal than I expected, becaue that’s how my brain works: spilling my deepest secrets to people I hardly know.

[wiypt-writes]

Barking Up The Wrong Tree

 Ransom Drysdale One Shot

Summary: It’s the Annual Pre-Easter meal at the Thrombey’s and Ransom and you are in attendance. As usual, there’s fireworks, a lot of swearing and there’s only one way you know he can get rid of his frustrations…

 Warnings: Bad Language words. SMUT (NSFW) NO UNDER 18s!

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Reader

A/N:  So this was originally written last year for @jennmurawski13​ who requested a smutty one shot with an Evans character of my choice for her birthday. It was coined from a Brainstorming sesh me and @icanfeelastormbrewing​ had for our intended Ransom x OFC series (we might get round to it in 2022…so by then you’ll have forgotten if we use it again.) FYI Eighteen year old Ransom is totally Bryce from Fierce People, you can’t convince me otherwise… I also very much now see this being the same Reader as in mine, @ohthankevans13​ and @sweater-daddiesdumbdork​’s  Real Life Tasks With Ransom Drysdale series.

Your brown leather, knee high Saint Laurent boots (a gift from the man whose lap you were curled up on) were on the floor by your feet leaving you in your grey, woollen over-knee socks. One of your boyfriend’s large hands was resting on your left shin, the other just at the top of your right thigh, almost on your ass cheek. You were well aware your black sweater dress was riding up so went to shift and shimmy it down a little, conscious that you were, after all, sat in the large drawing room at his grandfather’s house whilst the rest of his family milled around as the pre-Easter dinner, which always took place the weekend before the actual holiday, was being prepared.

“You okay?” Ransom looked up at you, noticing you shift on his lap and you smiled.

“Yeah, just don’t want to flash everyone too much if you get my drift.”

Ransom cocked an eyebrow at you, then peeked around the room, before he gave a snort as his eyes fell on his cousin Jacob who was watching the pair of you.

“Yeah, we wouldn’t want Adolf junior getting a boner now would we?”

You gave a chuckle as you re-arranged your dress, making yourself more comfortable.

“He’s just a kid, Ran.” You soothed.

“He’s a deviant, Princess.” He replied, his voice quiet.

“So were you when I first met you.” You grinned, looking at him as you bent closer to whisper into his ear “Still are when the mood takes you.”

Ransom pulled back to look at you, his face inches from yours, his eyebrow raising slightly as that dirty smirk spread across his handsome face. “Stop it.” He warned, and you shrugged innocently, as he placed a soft kiss on your mouth.

“Come on son, put her down.” Richard’s voice rang across the room and instantly you felt Ransom’s entire demeanour change. Gone was the relaxed, jokey, happy Ran you knew and loved and in his place was Hugh Ransom Drysdale, asshole extraordinaire.

“Piss off, Father.” He shot back, his head moving back from yours, fixing his dad with a steely glare.

“Hey.” Richard glowered “Don’t speak to me like that…” he turned to Linda. “Did you hear that Linda?”

“Ransom…” Linda said lazily, not looking up from her phone. “Don’t speak to your father like that.”

Ransom rolled his eyes and you gently looked at him, shaking your head, silently telling him to stay calm. It was always the same with the Thrombey family gatherings. Ransom despised them for the simple fact that Harlan was the only one he had any time for, bar his mother on a good day, and you were inclined to feel the same way. It always ended in chaos, each individual nuclear sects within the extended family trying to get one up on the other, prove they were the best players in the game.

Frankly, they made the fucking Lannisters look normal.  

All your friends were constantly asking you how you managed to stay tangled in this web of dysfunction, but the answer was right in front of you, his crystal blue eyes now narrowed as he shot a sarcastic reply back to his mother.

The simple truth was, you loved him and couldn’t walk away if you tried.

It hadn’t always been that way, mind. When your High School had been asked to submit nominations for the coveted position of Harlan Thrombey’s Summer research assistant, you’d been short listed along with 15 other candidates from the New England area. Each of you were asked to produce a five-thousand word thesis on a literary subject of your choice to be submitted for reading by Harlan. You’d been ecstatic when you received the call from his Publishing Company to say you’d made the final three and were requested to attend an interview.

You’d been and bought a new suit. Nothing fancy but decent enough quality. You made sure your hair was tamed, your make up was as on point as you could get it, and had driven the thirty minutes or so out to his mansion from the home you shared with your Nanna in Brookline, following the directions on your GPS to the area near Pierce Park where the Thrombey Mansion was located. You were greeted by his housekeeper and shown into the large office where the man himself was waiting. Harlan was nothing like you had expected him to be. He was eccentric, sure, but also dmaned good fun. He’d asked you a few questions about why you wanted the position “I’m going to major in English at college and I hope to work in publishing when I graduate, this would be an invaluable experience.” He had then discussed your paper with you and after a few more general questions he had reduced you almost to tears of laughter by telling you a about an incident when he had been at college and was almost caught climbing down the trellis of his girlfriend’s parent’s house following a late night rendezvous of the very naughty kind “Don’t think too badly of me, we ended up married for forty-seven years…”

Then, just as he was showing you out of his study a tall, well-built young man, your age you had correctly guessed, with a strong jaw, dark hair flicked to the left side of his forehead, and a pair of the bluest eyes you had ever seen, waltzed down the hallway. He was dressed in a pair of riding breeches, a polo shirt and wore a long pair of tan leather riding boots.

"Ransom?” Harlan looked at the young man “I wasn’t expecting you till this afternoon.”

“Yeah well, the fucking horse I should have been riding is lame.” Ransom shrugged “Which means I can’t ride, and I probably can’t compete this weekend.”

“Dressage?” you had asked, your mouth speaking well before your brain had engaged, for some reason thinking it was a good idea to comment. Ransom had looked at you with disdain, scanned you up and down and cocked his head to one side, his eyes cold as they locked onto yours.

“Polo.” He had answered, a sneer on his face “Do I look like a dressage rider to you? Mind you, from the state of your cheap high-street dress the nearest you’ve probably ever been to a horse is those shitty little trail rides they run at kids parties.”

“Ransom!” Harlan had snapped sternly “Enough!”

You felt the heat rise in your neck and cheeks, and you drew yourself up to your full height, folding your arms as you looked at the ass hole stood in front of you. One thing your Nanna had told you was that, despite your humble origins, you were as worthy as the next person, no matter how much money, status or self-importance they may have.

“My apologies. I always thought polo was played by arrogant, snobby, stuck up pricks.” You retorted as you made a show of looking him up and down in the same way he had done to you. “Actually, on second thoughts, I should have guessed.”

As soon as the words were out of your mind you let out an internal groan. Way to go, flush your chance of landing this summer internship down the fucking toilet by insulting Harlan’s grandson. Nevertheless, you held the gaze of the man in front of you who stared back, his expression and face utterly stoic bar the blink of surprise his eyes made.

You heard Harlan chuckle behind you and the old man dropped a hand to your shoulder. “Fran, could you see Miss Y/L/N to the door.”

Two days later Harlan had personally called you to offer you the position, and it had turned out to be everything you ever wanted, and more. Three weeks into your internship, to your utter surprise, Harlan confessed that he had been looking to fund a worthy, local candidate through college and as the successful applicant it was yours for the taking. Some strings had been pulled, and in the last week of September thanks to his generosity you started your English Major at Harvard.

And so did Ransom.

He pursued you with a dogged determination, seemingly viewing your indifference towards him and his advances as some kind of challenge. You weren’t fooling yourself, however. He was devastatingly handsome and your traitorous vagina and that part of your brain that controlled your libido harboured a deep desire to fuck his brains out, a desire you finally gave into at the end of your first year when, following your final exam, you got drunk and woke up the morning after in his bed.

It wasn’t all puppies and roses though. You were on and off more than his boxer shorts, as simply put, Ransom was a player. And it didn’t bother you to start with. He was a hook up, a way to relieve tension when you needed to, and he was a very handy person to know with his seemingly endless network of connections. But by the time you graduated you knew you were head over heels for him, and needed to break this seeming cycle of being in and out of his bed.  So you turned down Harlan’s offer of a job at Blood Like Wine and were ready to move away from Boston after landing a job at a publishers in Manhattan…but then your nanna had been taken seriously ill and suffered a stroke meaning you had to stay.

As a result of her illness, your nanna was unable to live in your house in Brookline alone and so you were forced to sell it so she could afford to move into a supervised Retirement Village a five minute or so drive away. You were now jobless, drowning with the house-sale which would leave you homeless, and your emotions and been all over the place. You had no other family since your Grandfather had died at the start of your senior year so had no one to turn to.

Enter Hugh Ransom Drysdale.

You’d called him one evening, drunk and emotional and needing a release and he came over alright, but instead of fucking you into the mattress he made sure you drank water, ate something, and then got you into bed. The next morning, Harlan had shown up, telling you the job offer at his company was still open, and then to your utter surprise and initial horror he had offered to buy your nanna’s house, meaning you could remain there as a tenant. At first you had refused, insisting you weren’t a charity case but Harlan had simply waved your concerns away by insisting it was an investment. After a little discussion he agreed to allow you to pay rent which, all things considered, was a pittance in comparison to what other properties the same size in that area commanded but it was a rent nonetheless and made you feel better.

And you knew all of it had ben Ransom’s idea.

This was the side to Ransom he very rarely displayed to anyone. A softer side, a caring side, a gentle side. A side that held you as you cried at the thought that your nanna was growing old and may soon leave you behind, a side that made you a sandwich when you hadn’t eaten in days, a side that helped you pack up and move your Nana’s stuff to her new home, a side that turned up at 9pm with several tubs of ice cream and a bottle of wine after you’d messaged him earlier that afternoon to tell him what a shit day you were having when his Uncle Walt was being a dick at work.

The rest, they say is history. History which meant you were now curled up in his lap some eight or so years post that initial meeting in the hallway of this very house, listening to him bicker with his family, feeling his leg beginning to shake in that way it always did when he was agitated.

“Ran…” you said gently, squeezing his arm and you felt him take a deep breath and he looked at you, his mouth closing as you shook your head “Don’t.”

He turned away, looking to the other side of the room and his face glowered as he spotted Jacob once more had his eyes trained on your bare thigh. God the pubescent creep did his fucking head in, and if he stayed here he was going to end up putting the lanky streak of shit through the wall.

“Can we go?” Ransom looked at you, tucking your hair behind your ear.

“We’ve not even had dinner yet.”

“Please.”

That single word was enough to make you understand. It was a word he hadn’t learned until he’d met you, when he realised that his demands and arrogance got him nowhere with you. He still rarely used it mind, but when he did, you knew he was in desperate need of what he’d asked for.

“How about we take a walk?” You suggested “If you still wanna go after then we will”

He took a deep breath as he considered what you had said. Compromise was another word that hadn’t been in his vocabulary until you. His eyes locked onto yours and you looked at him, encouragingly and he took a deep breath, nodding.

“Okay.”

You uncurled yourself from his lap and stood up, him following so you could sit down and place you boots on.

“Are you leaving?” Linda asked, looking up for the first time.

“For a walk.” Ransom said simply, grabbing your hand and pretty much dragging you from the room. He didn’t say a word as he reached the coat stand and retrieved your lightweight Ted Baker belted mac, holding it out for you to slip your arms into, in a display of chivalry he reserved only for you. Once you’d done it up, he took your hand in his and you headed through the kitchen and outside into the reasonably mild April afternoon.

“Don’t let them get to you.” You said softly, leaning into him a little and he sighed, untangling his fingers from yours so he could drop his arm round your shoulders. He hated the fact his family could make him feel like this, like he wasn’t in control, like he was insignificant in the grand scheme of things. He could quite happily go without seeing any of them, well, bar maybe his grandfather, but you had told him he would regret it if he pushed them away completely because you had always wished you’d had a large family unit like that. So, despite the fact he knew deep down that was a load of bullshit, he played the game. He attended the damned gatherings more for your benefit than any as you adored Harlan and seemed to get on fairly well with Joni, Meg and his mother. He hung onto a glimmer of hope that maybe one day it would all change and he’d feel part of it.

But it never did. And he never did.

The two of you walked in comfortable silence across the Mansion grounds, round the lake where Ransom stopped by the small pier, looking out over the water.

“You know my most vivid childhood memories are of this spot.” He mused, his gaze focussed over the lake “Grammy used to bring me down here to feed the ducks.”

“It’s beautiful down here.” You agreed, snuggling further under his arm. “Peaceful.”

“Yeah unlike that fucking house.”

You gave a chuckle, as his hand curled over your shoulder, absentmindedly rubbing over the smooth material of your coat. He was agitated, you could tell, and there were very few ways in which he could calm down when he was like this. One was riding his beloved BB- a polo horse Harlan had bought him for his 21st, one was the pair of you curling up on the sofa with snacks and a good scotch or bourbon, getting drunk and watching Trashy Films, in particular horrors-you both loved to pick plot holes and insult the main characters, declaring the victim a dumb bitch for running up the stairs and not out of the door and the other, well…

You glanced around, checking you were alone before you pulled away from him, taking his hand and tugging on it slightly.

“What?” he asked looking down.

“Come on.” You gave his hand another pull.

“Y/N?” he questioned again, but followed nonetheless despite you not answering. You tugged him away from the lake, into the thin thicket of trees a little further round. You could still see the house here but you knew there was no way anyone from up there could see you.

“Seriously, Y/N what the fuck?” he groaned, as he stepped in the slightly squelchy mud “You’re gonna ruin my Gucci’s…” “Should have worn something a little more substantial then shouldn’t you?”

“I didn’t know you were planning on going fucking hiking in the fucking woods.”

“That’s not what we’re doing.” You said, stopping in front of a large oak tree, looking up at him.

“Then what are we doing? Reconnecting with Mother Nature? Or are we on the hunt for Oberon, Titania and Puck?”

“Ooh, good Shakespeare reference.” You grinned at him and he rolled his eyes as you slid your hand up over his navy blue lightweight Barbour jacket which was done up to his sternum, leaving his plain white, Armani t-shirt slightly visible at the neckline. “Does that make us Lysander and Hermia?”

“You got a hidden suitor called Demetrius I don’t know about?” he arched an eyebrow, his hands falling to your hips.

“Nope, I’m all yours Tiger.”

The sound of your ridiculous nickname for him drew a large smile across his face and he shook his head, giving a genuine chuckle. Here, with you there were no annoying voices to listen to, no family politics, nothing to care about but the gentle brush of the wind as it blew through the canopy of trees above your heads and the faint sounds of birds as they went about their business and Ransom felt a sense of comfort. Because you were his rock. The one person that saw through his bull shit, the woman in his life that knew all his horrible personality traits as well as his slightly less horrible ones and loved him all the same. The girl that had rounded off his harsher edges no matter how much he protested to the contrary.

You were his better half for sure.

“Well that’s good, because I don’t like sharing.” Ransom smirked, dipping his head to capture your lips in a soft kiss.

“Don’t I know it.” You mused against his mouth. His fingers flexed on your sides, pulling you closer to him as he slid his tongue across your bottom lip. You opened your mouth slightly, allowing him control over the kiss, knowing that’s what he craved when he was like this. His lips were soft on yours, tongue domineering as he kissed you deeply, slowly. Eventually he pulled back, his nose bumping yours slightly as he gave a little chuckle.

“I know you’re trying to distract me from those shit heads in the house.” He said, his tone playful and you loved playful Ransom. Another side to him only you really got to see.

“Is it working?” You played along.

“Yeah.” He nodded, his lips pressing to yours again.

“Good. Now why don’t you let your inner deviant come out to play?”

“You don’t need to ask me twice, Princess.” The words were barely out of his mouth before he had pressed you into the harsh, earthy bark of the tree behind you, kissing you hard again, groaning as you palmed his crotch through his designer denims. He grabbed your wrist, pinning it above your head before he did the same with the other one, easily holding both in place above you with one large hand, his other softly tracing up the outside of your thigh, fingers skating under your skirt.

“Is this why you wore this?” he smirked, toying with the material slightly. “So you could tempt me away for a fuck in the woods?”

It wasn’t, it was because it looked and felt good, but you decided to play along “Maybe. Was it a good choice?”

“Damned right it was…” he growled against your mouth, his long, soft fingers sliding your lace panties to the side. His index finger traced a path up your slit and you gasped at the feeling as he gently began to toy with you. Soft, teasing touches, his eyes never once leaving yours. That was one of his things, he liked to see your face, watch as your expressions changed as he undid you, fuelling his ego. Your hips gently started to move in time to his strokes as he played you, like an instrument from which he could always draw a tune. And in no time at all, he was listening to the music as you let out a soft keen, a purr almost as your head fell back against the tree, your mouth parting slightly.

“Like that?” he asked, and it was all you could do to nod, panting brokenly as the familiar feeing began to rise in the pit of your stomach, the fire growing hotter and hotter. “God you’re a fucking minx. Come on, cum on my fingers, you know you want to.” And you did, hard, your knees trembling, as you let out a loud cry of his name as the lights exploded in front of your eyes. Ransom pressed into you, his erection evident as it dug into your stomach, keeping you pinned between him and the tree as he coaxed you through your orgasm, before he moved his hands, allowing yours to drop to his shoulders as you held onto him tightly.

The clanging of a belt buckle, then the zipping of trousers and the rustling of fabric broke through the post-orgasm haze as Ransom undid his flies, reaching into pull out his painfully hard cock. He gently pushed forward, sliding the tip against your folds, gathering your slick as you gave a moan, the feeling of him sliding against your clit sent lances of red, hot desire through your veins.

His hands gripped the back of your thighs as he pulled you off the ground and you hooked them round his slim waist, ankles locking at the base of his spine. In a swift, fluid moment, no teasing, no gentle ease, he buried himself inside you with a deep thrust making you cry out as he filled you. His lips crashed onto yours as he drew back, then thrust back in hard, his cock dragging against your walls inside, hitting that spot that he knew would leave you seeing stars.

Yes, if there was one thing on this Earth Ransom knew he was good at, it was fucking you.

His lips traced a path from your mouth to your jawline, then to your neck, biting and sucking at any bit he could get to, his hips moving back and forth in a slow but deep pace which was torture, and you needed more.

“Ran, harder…” You groaned, digging your heels into his ass and he gave a dirty moan of his own as his hands held your hips.

“You’re such a needy little slut.” He smirked against your lips, not waiting for your reply as he picked up the pace, his hips snapping back and forth with a vigour that was merciless as he pistoned in and out of you again and again. Your hands gripped his shoulders tightly as you kissed him, teeth clashing together as your back repeatedly brushed against the harsh, rough surface behind you as you clawed desperately at the material of his jacket.

It wasn’t long before you felt another orgasm brewing and your head fell forward, teeth nipping at his ear drawing a growl from his throat. Your hands moved into his hair and you pulled sharply back causing him to hiss and look up you.

“Fuck, Y/N….” he groaned, the pupils of his eyes blown wide with a desire you would never tire of seeing. You pushed your hips down against him causing him to drive deeper and you let out an almost primal cry, the noise you made simply revving him up even more, his rapid movements growing even more urgent.

“Fuck Ran…” you moaned as your head rolled back against the tree, hands back on his shoulders, as once more that snake in your belly moved. Ransom felt the tell-tale flutter of your heat tightening round him and he continued his voracious pace, his eyes locked onto yours.

“You feel so fucking good…” he panted “So fuckin’ good Princess...”

His words made you moan again, and he pushed up once more, stilling slightly, grinding up against you as opposed to thrusting and a few rolls of his hips later you were done. The world faded around you as you came hard, with a loud scream before your head dropped to his shoulder, as you moaned his name, again and again whilst he pounded through your orgasm chasing his own.

“Shit, Y/N…I’m…fuck…” his words tumbled into your hair as his movements became desperate and he came a short while later with a loud yell. You felt him fill you up, as his hips stilled and he groaned, face buried into your neck, his chest heaving, sweat beaded both his brow and yours as he simply pressed into you, panting and shaking.

Neither of you had any idea how long you stayed like that, but eventually Ransom managed to gain enough control to pull his softening cock out of you and set you gently on your feet as he brushed the tendrils of your hair that had fallen over your face back with a tenderness he reserved only for you. He said nothing, simply looked at you, his lips gently greeting yours in a soft, loving kiss, a stark contrast to the violent ones you had shared moments before. You smiled at him, unadulterated love in your eyes as you moved your hands to brush his hair back before you leaned up and kissed him again, your nose sliding against his.

“I adore you Hugh Ransom Drysdale. Don’t ever forget that.”

“Don’t fucking call me Hugh.” He grumbled and you chuckled as he pulled you to him, nuzzling into your hair as he sighed. “But for the record, the feeling is mutual Y/F/N, Y/M/N, Y/L/N.”

You gave a laugh and were about to reply when you felt his head snap up, and his entire body tense and he let out an angry cry causing you to jump.

“Jesus Fucking Christ! The perverted little shit!”

“Ran?” You saw his face contorted in anger as he pushed back from you, striding away from the tree, rearranging his jeans as he went before he broke into a sprint. You watched him go and then, to your horror, saw the retreating back of a smaller male running away from the thicket of trees on the curve of the bank to your left and you felt yourself grow cold.

Jacob.

How long he had been there Ransom had no idea but he chased the little fucker all the way to the house, yelling insults and threats as he burst into the kitchen. Ransom finally caught up with him just as he ran into the hall and grabbed the kid by the collar, spinning him round and pinning him to the wall, arm crossed over his windpipe. “Enjoy the show did we?!” He yelled, the noise drawing the rest of the family out from the sitting room into the tiled hallway. Walt started to shout angry threats about what he was going to do to Ransom if he didn’t take his hands off his son, which then sparked Richard to bite back at Walt saying if he touched Ransom he’d give him a damned good hiding. If Ransom hadn’t been so focussed on the dirt little bastard he had pinned to the wall he would have laughed because the idea of his dad fighting anyone was hilarious, he couldn’t fight his way out of a paper bag.

“Give me your phone.” Ransom demanded.

“I didn’t…” “GIVE ME YOUR PHONE NOW YOU PERVERTED PRICK!” Ransom yelled, and reached into Jacob’s pocket, grabbing his hand where it was curled around the offending item, bending the boy’s fingers back. Jacob gave a yell, pulled his hand out of his trouser pocket and Ransom seized the phone, yanking it out, just as you walked into the hallway.

He looked at you, then to Jacob and saw you pale as the realisation washed over you that you’d not only been seen but recorded or snapped, by a twelve year old boy nonetheless.

“Unlock it.” Ransom demanded, thrusting it back at him.

“Now listen here…” Walt started until Harlan turned to him.

“Walt, shut up.” He barked, turning to Jacob “Unlock the phone, now Jake.”

Jacob sullenly took the phone from Ransom and did has he was told, Ransom snatching it back. He glanced down at the screen, flicking to the Gallery and let out an angry noise as he saw not only footage of you both in the woods but ten or so photos of your bare thigh and close ups where he had attempted to see up your skirt when you had been on his knee before. Thankfully from the snaps there wasn’t really anything visible, but still the fact he had even taken them in the first place made Ransom apoplectic with rage.

“You dirty little prick.” he mumbled, looking back up at him. Jacob visibly recoiled under Ransom’s glare.

“Ran?” You questioned as you gently touched his arm and he tilted the phone so you could see the screen and your eyes widened, your entire body growing warm as you saw the close up of your thigh on the screen.

“How the fuck dare you?” You exploded, glaring at Jacob.

“Can you explain what he has supposedly done?” Donna, Jacob’s mother spoke for the first time and you turned to face her, your pretty features contorted in rage.

“He’s…” You shook your head “Taken photos of me, before up my skirt.”

Noise erupted in the hallway, Joni and Meg screaming about you being violated, Richard and Linda yelling at Walt and Donna whilst Harlan shook his head, making a noise of disgust. Ransom ignored them all as he selected the photos and images, deleting them, and showing it to you.

“Gone, Princess.” He turned the screen off before he leaned over and kissed your temple.

“Look, he’s a teenage boy…” Donna was protesting “He’s a bit curious…”

“He’s a dirty bastard.” Richard snorted and the irony wasn’t lost on Ransom as he’d seen his father eyeing you up on more than one occasion. He looked at his dad, eyebrow raised as Jacob bit back at the dig.

“I’m a dirty bastard?” The pre-teen snapped, his eyes flicking from Richard to Ransom “I’m not the one that was having sex against a tree!”

Everyone paused and their heads turned to you and Ransom. You gave a groan, your hands sliding up to your face to hide your utter embarrassment, but besides you Ransom’s expression never changed because, well frankly, he couldn’t give two shits about everyone knowing what you had been up to.

“I’m a grown ass man.” He snarled “If I wanna fuck my girl outside on private property I will”

He held Jacob’s phone out to him, but as Jacob went to take it Ransom opened his hand, dropped it to the floor with a loud “oops” and stomped on it, the metal and glass crunching under the heel of his expensive, leather boots.

There was more yelling, and Ransom simply turned, taking your hand in his. “We’re leaving.”

This time you didn’t argue. The pair of you walked away, ignoring the screaming which grew fainter as you headed down towards the large front doors, only to hear Harlan calling after you. Ransom stopped, took a deep breath and tuned to face his grandfather.

“Y/N are you ok?”

“Of course she’s not.” Ransom snapped but you gently squeezed his hand, shaking his head.

“I’m okay Harlan, thank you. But I think its best we go before Ransom commits murder.”

“Well, I can assure you I’m not far off killing the little turd myself.” Harlan shook his head, sighing. He then took a deep breath, looked at Ransom, and there was a flash of something which you knew only too well to be amusement in his eyes. “Which tree?”

Ransom frowned “What?”

“I asked which tree you two were doing the naughty against.”

You groaned as Ransom blinked and then shrugged “Just in the thicket to the south side of the lake, near the little jetty. Why?”

“Well, instead of barking up the wrong tree so to speak, next time stick to the North side.” Harlan grinned cheekily “It’s in the dip and no chance you can be spotted by anyone unless they’re a foot or so away.”

Ransom’s mouth curled up into a smirk as he looked at his grandfather then to you.

Meanwhile you simply wanted the ground to open up and swallow you.

Harlan bid the two of you goodbye as you headed out to Ransom’s Beemer. He stopped just besides it, turning to you, his hands falling to your hips again. “Well, I don’t know about you, Sweetheart, but all that excitement has made me a bit hungry. Seeing as we’re not getting dinner here, how about I take you to Asta?”

Your face lit up at the mention of your favourite restaurant and you gave an eager nod before you frowned “Aren’t we a little underdressed? And it’s Saturday evening, we’ll never get in.”

“Baby girl, enough money can get us in anywhere, and you look fine.” He said, dropping a kiss to your lips before he grinned “You might wanna brush the twigs outta your hair though.”

[whatiwillsay]

for confession pod ~ advice needed:

there's this extremely lovely and special black cat that everyone is gushing over at the animal shelter. to be quite honest, i'm surprised she hasn't found her forever home yet. I think maybe a couple people have tried to adopt, but it ending up not working out bc they weren't in the right place in their life to take on that type of commitment. it seems this black cat has had a rough past and just needs someone who will be consistently patient with her.

anyway- i think about this black cat almost everyday and want to help give it a really wonderful life (companionship, good food, endless window perches to explore the outside world, snuggles on the couch, etc)

i think i've made my interest pretty clear, but am not sure where i stand in the moderate list of applicants and i'm scared to be more direct and find out because i'm not quite ready to move on if need be.

i'd be ok with someone else getting her as long as she ends up in good hands... someone who will appreciate her nuances/quirks and love her unconditionally.

part of me feels that i don't need to do anything just yet? showing up to the shelter to volunteer, saying hi and being playful with them is still very enjoyable but part of me knows if you never bleed you're never gonna grow and if i want them maybe i really should've showed...?

ok turns out you weren't who i thought you were so nvm what i posted to you yesterday.

but guys i think if you like cara you need to dm her and 1. get to know her beyond her blog and 2. ask her out and let her tell you if she's into it or not but 3. gentle reminder that like i'm my own person with my own things going on. i know cara is sexy and the best and you all wanna fuck her but i would ask that you take that energy to her. there's nothing i can do about it.

and i know you're using a metaphor here but let me very gently say- cara is, you know, a grown woman. she isn't going to be "chosen" or "adopted". she will enter into a relationship with someone when she wants to if she's into them.

[lucefrs]

          tl;dr: luce thinks about how she should have never ended up at georgetown in the first place, and the domino effect it had on her life. after flunking out of gallagher, she savours the summer. her and scott break up sometime after new years. a quick onslaught of success makes her feel wary, unsure how to not take up space she doesn’t deserve after doing it so many times before. she performs her own song in the lower east side.

                                                                      insp for the song she plays at the end. 

BEFORE.

luce is a bright child but lacks in the area of self discipline and application. she would benefit from paying closer attention during class discussion.

she knew from a very young age that she was not smart. at least not by the metric that institutions measure by. the unlucky curse that has kept her in the stream of academia is this: luce frear is smart enough. to graduate secondary school because it’s a key that unlocks america’s golden arches. to pursue higher education when she gets the encroaching feeling that she’s going to be found out that she doesn’t actually have any family friend's as guarantors. at the time, she doesn’t know how impossible georgetown is. but finding herself in the company of a man who will pay for her to do well, with a tutor that makes the s.a.t’s boil down to a formula of memorization and deduction is a genius move. those three hours are brutal, she struggles but she struggles through it, proud that only a handful of questions were left unanswered. it’s only after she's sat for it that she realizes how impossible georgetown is with it’s fourteen percent acceptance rate.

she uses his mailing address to apply, so it’s him that greets her with a sealed envelope that makes her stomach turn as soon as she opens the door. out of the corner of her eye she sees a bottle of champagne sitting in a bucket of ice. she knows what the letter will say: her sat score’s a valiant effort, enough to get her into any state school, but by no means exceptional. bracing herself for his disappointment she pushes the folded paper towards him so she can pretend his disappointment’s directed at the words on the page and not at her. but the skin at the corner of his eyes pinches and there’s no crease between his brows and she knows something is very wrong. or very right. she’s not sure, at the time it’s all very muddled, thinking about how much she likes that there's no place for his smile to hide, and how that's going to be one of her favourite parts of getting old. his smile that runs right to the tip of his nose, bumps against her cheek when he kisses her. he’s kissing her. he’s happy. because of her. she’s made him happy. that's good. she's happy too. then he’s by the kitchen counter, shaking off the champagne from his hand that’s flows over the lip of the bottle and she’s saying things like, ‘   my sat scores were no where near the average,    ’ and he counters that she shouldn’t disregard the importance of supplemental essays and she makes fun of how he talks because she always does. a girl’s got nothing but a gut to trust, and every glass of champagne’s a fuck you to it. luce never pukes from having too much to drink. she pukes in his shower. luce is not smart, but she’s smart enough not to question how she got into georgetown university.

‘   god, you’re so smart luce. we could call it the boyfriend guesses my lip gloss challenge.   ’ she only hears the first part, boasting a smile that makes the apples of her cheeks swell, all rosy like. at the time gallagher had felt like a enticing romp, bound by infatuation, the glint of the dew that hung at the end of the school’s weeping willows sparkling so bright that her heart-shaped sunglasses couldn’t subdue it. luce has never waited for anything, but her first few months at gallagher felt like a gift the universe had hand-picked, oblivious of her christmas list doodled with music notes and brand names of dresses that cost seven hundred dollars, it felt like finding treasure. smart’s an understatement, genius is more apt. she lets this sentiment lead, when the offer to stay comes soaring towards at her like paper plane that falls right into the palm of her hands. it makes logical sense to stay. scott’s here.

she’ll adapt. but gallagher starts to feel worlds away, and as much as she digs her heels into the gravel, gravity starts to slip from her grasp. but how could she can complain? in outer space, anywhere she looks there’s an endless landscape of stars, bright and twinkling, beckoning her towards the nearly planet. but it makes her want to cry when she sees the blue-green dot recede into the distance.

PRESENT-ISH.

luce has her final exam tomorrow and she’s going to crush it. she’s so excited she can’t sleep. there’s no way she could fail it, unless she slept through it but that won’t happen because she has five alarms set and a scott for safe measure. she’s so excited her heart’s sprinting from her sternum to her stomach and it would be classified as nausea if she didn’t know it was just plain excitement. she winces at the brightness from her phone as she checks the time. 3:36. if she falls asleep in the next four minutes she’ll have a solid four hours, but as soon as she closes her eyes her heart runs like it’s just heard the start of the piston, and the percentage she needs to get in order to pass the class rings aloud and reverberates against her brain. forty six percent. she doesn’t even need to pass the exam in order to pass the class — she’s going to be a gallagher girl. whether she likes it or not. in the dark, her hand finds the nob of his bedside drawer, carefully sliding it open, her fingers tinkering inside to feel for whatever weed scott has, gifted joints or a prized gram for winning a dumb luck game. he always has something, even after he passes some of it on to seb. she doesn’t go far, slips out of his grasp and onto the lantern lit cobbled pavements, follows it strictly like she’s on a board in a game of snakes and ladders, stopping every time she takes a drag. she eventually falls against a bench like an abandoned rag-doll, limbs splayed every which way and falls asleep until she's woken up by the rev of a motorcycle engine set as her alarm. luce goes through the pre-test motions with due diligence, takes a shower and eats a proper meal, as though there's someone waiting to accuse her of self-sabotage. she picks up her tote that's packed from the night before and gives the test her all. it's not her fault that her focus wavered in five minute blocks, or that nerves make her feel as though there's an ongoing tussle in her tummy. she treats the residual high as something she couldn't possibly have controlled, it should've left her system by now. and she’s a hero for persevering through it. she tried her best. and in spite of it all, she still fails. thank god.

SUMMER.

she doesn’t want the summer to end. it does anyways.  

INTERLUDE

she's not the type to tuck herself into the booth, but harper’s gone to the bathroom and luce has a gnarly blister on the back of her heel, and her head’s been swimming in cheap liquor all night with no reprieve. she can’t get her head above water for more than a minute before falling back under. her gaze catches a couple in the corner, slow dancing to david guetta and her lips curl into a wry smile, his lips cushioned against his neck, murmuring something she’ll never know, and then they’re laughing — maybe about the fact that they’re slow dancing to memories, or because they’re in love, everything’s funnier when you’re in love. a tiny giggle, lost to the boom of the speakers escapes her, because she’s so in love too.

i miss you.   missing ur 🍆 spare nudes? 🙏🏼 ft? x

she holds down the backspace key and puts her phone away.

                                                         ***

‘   i don't know how to miss you in the right way,   ’ she says after a bout of silence, it makes her stomach lurch, like stepping off a ledge and finding the ground lower than expected. there’s no chance to blink back the tears, and she’s so in shock from what she’s just said that she makes no motion to cover her face from him, staring down the barrel of the webcam, like she’s on the brink of death. she’d give up the forty years of her life to get to the part where she can look back on this fondly, of a great love that once was. her child-like whimpers have her grappling for breath. ‘   it hurts.   ’ she manages to sputter out, and she knows it’s hurting him too. eventually, luce will blink away the last of her tears, because she needs this picture to really believe it.

SOMETIME, SOME DAY.

she's not so much herself as she is everyone else. there are pieces of her in the crescendo of what billboard deems the song of the summer. she’s etched in the familiarity of the bass in the last song played before last call — the resonant thrum of waking up blacked out on the front lawn of an ex best friend. the producer that the lead singer can't function without. the origin story of a grammy nominated album which started on the fire escape, exiled by roaches, a guitar slung like a rifle entering the wild wild west of cicadas and greeted by an empty ashtray save for a half abandoned spliff. a story deified for late night talk shows with parrot hosts and their fake squawks. it’s all made up names in CD booklets that no one looks at anyways. it doesn’t make her an enigma, she has a wikipedia page. record labels take her out for lunch, and she goes because she likes people, even the kind who gawk at her pretty face, drooling at the dollar signs in her doe brown eyes and blonde hair. of course, they love her, a girl who orders salad but doesn’t skip dessert — a reluctance toward fame but endlessly optimistic about the future of the music industry, splits the bill and turns a handshake into a hug when they express their keen interest in working with her. there’s a twinkling note of laughter when she pulls away and says, ‘    you’ve never even heard me sing. i’m not good enough.   ’ and she realizes with a twitch of bitterness that she doesn’t have to be, and things working out feels more like a curse when it isn’t deserved.

she talks but can't write unless it's in time signatures and treble clefs and if she does manage to write in a language comprised of letters ( which has only ever happened once ) she can't sing - unless it’s for boys she likes. so she poaches a voice, scrolling through the repertoire of people who have held her heart in their hands. her song is the last song of his set and it sounds like this. they smile through every note, she laughs at his falsetto in the last chorus. she plays her heart out with a vigour that leaves her palms moist, expecting that when the song ends there’ll be a silence broached by the slow clap of j.k simmons. luce lives in a movie and can feel the montage scene catch up to her. she can feel the lingering memory that never existed : a swollen belly and walls painted pink, a toddler that makes their white picket fenced garden a stomping ground, a cinematic pan across a fairy-lit paris, and night walks. when she looks over, she’ll see him, but she’s going to change the ending. her pinky hovers above the last key she played, letting the sound ring out into silence, before they’re met with fervent applause and whistles. this is the moment. luce looks into the crowd. she looks into the crowd and none of the faces are him because why would they be ? she hadn’t told anyone. the only person who knew was herself. it was hers. this moment is hers and she cradles it close, because she’s never had something of her own before. not really. but she likes the way it feels. the man who once held her heart in his hand kisses the top of her head and praises her with a plunging bow. she looks into the sea of strangers who watch her and she watches them back. this is the moment. hers alone. and she’s never felt less lonely.