#the trundle sessions

[miasmaghoul]

sooo.. how do we feel about swiss fingering transdew in the passenger seat

"Why me?"

Swiss tilts his head, spinning a heavy set of keys around one finger.

"Why not?"

Dew raises an eyebrow, gestures at the guitar in his lap, the papers spread out on his bed.

"Oh please," Swiss scoffs, pushing himself away from Dew's doorframe and striding into his sunlit room. It's a gorgeous day, early spring, the sweet scent of the rose gardens wafting in on the breeze. "You're tellin' me you'd rather practice than go for a joyride?"

Dew snorts, crossing his ankles and adjusting his beat up old acoustic. It's true that he's been at it for a while now, since just after breakfast, but this solo has been giving him shit and he's determined to nail it before their next group session.

"I don't think taking Sunny and Lus to the grocery store counts as a joyride."

Dew strums out a few chords while Swiss flops into his desk chair, leaning it back onto two legs. It creaks under his weight.

"Maybe not," Swiss concedes, unbothered, "but you could still come keep me company."

"What, the girls not enough for you?"

"They would be," Swiss replies with a shrug. "If they didn't spend every trip making out in the back seat."

Dew snorts at that - Swiss has a point, Sunshine and Cumulus are not ones to keep their hands off each other in any context. Still, he grumbles.

"C'mon, Sparky," Swiss goads, scooting his chair closer so he can rest his elbows on the mattress, propping his chin in one hand and prodding at Dew's knee with the other. "Don't make me beg."

"But I like it when you beg."

Dew throws Swiss a wink, and Swiss reciprocates with his best puppy dog eyes. Big and wet and completely irresistible. Dew sighs, throws up his hands in mock defeat.

"Fine, fine," he grumps, setting his guitar on the bed. "But I'd better get something outta this."

Swiss grins, delighted. Pats Dew on the thigh as he stands, shoving the chair back under the desk.

"I'll tell Lus to buy that spicy jerky you like," he offers, and Dew gives him a little ooh.

"The cheese too," he insists, shuffling to the edge of the mattress and reaching for his boots. "The one with the habaneros."

"Yeah, yeah," Swiss chuckles, heading for the door, "but warn me before you eat it, I'm not sleeping with you on cheese night again. I learned my lesson."

Dew hurls a pillow at him, and Swiss scampers into the hall with a boisterous laugh. The little ghoul works on lacing up his boots, and makes a mental note to never tell Swiss when it's cheese night.

Twenty minutes later they're on the road, and as the breeze blows through his hair Dew wonders why he was so reluctant in the first place.

It's a gorgeous day, sunny and hot, but not enough to need the a/c. They're flying down the highway in Copia's ancient whale of a car, the windows down and a Judas Priest cassette blaring through the speakers; Swiss belts out the chorus to Breaking the Law while Dew taps out a matching rhythm on the outside of his door. In the back, Cumulus provides backing vocals while Sunshine dances in her seat, and Dew can't help the massive grin that splits his face.

It's a 45 minute drive to the nearest grocery store - the one downside to the abbey being so remote - but the trip passes quicker than he expects. They're trundling into the parking lot before Dew knows it, Swiss killing the engine and groaning through a solid stretch. Dew flips down the visor, looks in the tiny mirror and makes a displeased sound at the state of his hair.

"Okay," Cumulus pipes up from the back seat. Dew peers at her in the mirror, not missing the fresh hickey just below her ear. "I have the list, I have our allowance, I have..." she pats at her chest, searching the pockets of her denim vest, "ah, and I have my phone!"

"You got my snacks on that list?" Dew inquires, working at his knotted ends. Cumulus makes an affirmative sound.

"Sure do," she lilts, leaning forward to dangle the paper in his face. "Jerky and cheese, as requested."

"Get some of that chocolate I like too," he mumbles, "the dark stuff, with the salt." He turns his head to give her outstretched hand a quick peck. "Please."

"You got it, sugar," she giggles, tucking the list away. "You two coming with us?"

"No boys allowed," Sunshine and Swiss say in unison, and the lot of them chuckle. It's a known fact that Dew isn't a fan of crowds and that Swiss can't be trusted around free samples, so in the car they will stay.

"Besides," Swiss adds, leaning across the bench seat to throw an arm around Dew's narrow shoulders, "I got good company right here."

He nips at Dew's ear and the little ghoul elbows him in the side, hard enough to make Swiss yelp. It turns into a quick little slap fight, a moment of playful stupidity that Dew will never admit to enjoying as much as he does.

"Play nice, kids," Sunshine chides when they break apart, resting her chin on the back of their seat with a toothy grin. "Or mommy won't bring back any treats!"

"Gross," Dew complains, but settles anyway. Goes back to working the kinks from his golden locks. Sunshine leans over the seat to plant a sloppy kiss on his cheek and Dew squawks in protest.

"Aww, but you I thought you loved calling me that!"

Dew shoves her away, suffers through a chorus of snickers while his cheeks go pink, and resolutely avoids looking over as Swiss. The girls get their things together and then they're clambering out of the car; Sunshine glues herself to Cumulus, laces their hands together, and together they stride across the parking lot to the hulking monolith that is the grocery store.

"Mommy, huh?" Swiss pipes up moments later, and Dew groans.

"Shut up," he grouses, giving up on his messy hair and slouching down in his seat. "It's her thing, not mine," Dew lies. "Besides, I've called you worse."

"Can't argue that," Swiss lilts, stretching his arm along the back of the bench seat. "Remember that time you called me Mr. Army?"

Oh, does he, and Dew really doesn't want to think about that right now. Thick fingers tease their way into his tangled hair, blunt nails scratching against his scalp.

"You were the one that put me in a schoolgirl outfit," Dew huffs, crossing his legs for reasons totally unrelated to that particular memory. "I can't be held accountable for anything I said."

"I just never thought I'd get anyone but Rain to call me that," Swiss murmurs, a lascivious grin sliding onto his face. Dew looks at him from the corner of his eye, unwilling to lose the pleasant pressure of Swiss' hand in his hair.

"Rain? Really?"

"Oh yeah," Swiss says, converational. His hand moves to cup the back of Dew's neck, and oh is that lovely. "Wanted me to spank his ass raw and tell him what a naughty boy he was while he said it. Poor guy went off against my thigh before I could even get him on my cock," he sighs, wistful. Swiss turns his head, fixes Dew with that vulpine smile. "You were a nice surprise."

The little ghoul rolls his eyes, and really hopes Swiss doesn't notice him squeezing his thighs together. He has nothing further to say on the matter - or, at least, nothing that won't get him into trouble - so he stays silent. Enjoys the way Swiss' thumb rubs the spot just behind his ear while he watches humans mill about the lot. Families and individuals both, with arms full of paper bags holding untold goodies.

For what it's worth, Swiss doesn't keep talking either. He's not quiet, still humming out a tune Dew recognizes but can't quite place, but it's comfortable. The sun's hanging high in the early afternoon sky, a gentle breeze flowing though the still open windows, and Dew would be lying if he said this wasn't a nice way to kill time.

"What's on your mind?" Swiss asks a handful of minutes later, giving his neck a squeeze. "You're never quiet for this long."

"Oh you're one to talk," Dew chuffs, crossing his arms over his chest. "I can't remember the last time you shut up for more than five minutes."

"Pfft, sure you can," Swiss insists, that large hand dipping into the collar of Dew’s t-shirt, callused fingertips drifting over his skin and dragging a soft sigh from his lips. "I'm pretty sure I don't talk that much when you're sitting on my face, spitfire."

Dew scoffs despite the tingle the words force through him, a warm feeling settling into his belly. He turns his head to give Swiss a look, an incredulous eyebrow raised.

"That's the only example you can think of?"

"No," Swiss shrugs, "it's just the one I'm thinkin' of right now." The other ghoul licks his lips in a very intentional way, and that tingle hits again. "I guess deepthroating Mount counts too, but -"

"So the only thing that keeps you from yapping is having someone's junk in your mouth," Dew interrupts, nodding sagely, "noted."

Swiss laughs, loud enough to get the attention of a few people loading their car nearby. Dew shrinks in his seat.

"Like you're complaining."

He shifts in the seat, scooching closer. Dew squints at him, suspicious, but doesn't protest. Not even when Swiss gets close enough for their thighs to touch, for the other ghoul to drape an arm around his neck and let that huge hand rest on his chest. For Dew to soak in his spicy cologne and for Swiss to rest his chin on a bony shoulder.

"Besides," he rumbles, nosing at Dew's temple, "we both know you love my yapping."

"Love is a strong word," Dew mumbles, tilting his head when Swiss nuzzles his neck nonetheless.

"Mm, I don't think so," Swiss hums against his jaw, stubble scratching at his skin in a way that makes Dew's eyelids flutter. "Don't think I missed that little leg squeeze when I was talkin' about Rain, baby."

Dew groans, gives him a little shove. Far from enough to dislodge the other ghoul, more of a nudge than anything else. Token protest. Swiss huffs out a soft laugh, kisses his cheek.

"That's what I thought," he coos, licking at the shell of Dew's ear to draw out a shiver. The hand on his chest finds a nipple through his shirt, and Dew has to bite his lip to keep from making a sound. Curse Swiss for knowing every one of his weak spots. "Can't hide from me, Sparky."

Dew hates that he's right, and hates even more that - even in a place like this - Swiss can get him riled up with so little effort. Dew bounces his leg, takes his lower lip between his teeth while he scans the parking lot. There are people everywhere, but none close enough to see them - a fact Dew is very thankful for when Swiss sucks his earlobe and gives one of his nipple piercings a tug. Any closer and they might hear his moan.

"Fuck," Dew grunts, squirming in his seat, "ugh, you bitch."

"Such language," Swiss taunts, tracing the tip of his tongue along Dew's pulse point. "Lucifer, you're so easy."

Dew growls as best he can, human glamour be damned, and it just makes Swiss laugh again. It's a shame he can't argue - Swiss and Aether are the only ones who have such an effect on him, and they both know it perfectly well.

"Aww, gettin' all hot and bothered already?" Dew tries to shake his head, but Swiss kisses his throat and it doesn't get him very far. "Don't lie, firecracker. I can smell it on you."

Of course he can. He always can. Dew sighs as his eyes slip shut, sagging into the seat as Swiss slowly but surely teases the spots that make him start to sweat. Swiss' other hand lands on his thigh, stroking tight denim until Dew’s legs uncross. He walks two fingers up the inseam of the little ghoul's jeans while he trails wet kisses along his jaw, and Dew really can't help the soft sounds it all wrings from him.

Then that wandering hand sneaks under his shirt, lifts it up to expose his belly, and Dew jolts.

"H-hey, wait," he breathes, fists balled at his sides. His eyes crack open despite the way Swiss continues to work his chest, his throat, his ear. He watches Swiss' talented fingers trace his happy trail, dip into his navel and disappear up his shirt, and when Swiss rubs at his bare nipple Dew has to clap a hand over his mouth to hide his moan. "Shit, Swiss -"

It's muffled by his palm, and Dew's eyes dart around the parking lot as Swiss pulls away. Fixes him with hooded eyes and a crooked smile.

"Hm?" Swiss tugs both piercings at once and Dew shudders. "Something wrong?"

"You - oh - fuck, Swiss some...someone's gonna hear, someone's gonna - nngh - gonna see -"

"So?" The hand under his shirt runs ticklish trails down his belly, makes the muscles there jump. Swiss nibbles at his collarbone and Dew makes an embarrassing gurgling noise. "You like being watched and we both know it."

That may be true, but Dew thinks there's a difference between Mountain spying on him through a crack in the door and being fondled in a public parking lot with the windows down.

Swiss' hand finds his belt then, and Dew throbs.

"Fucker," he bites out as Swiss unbuckles him, other hand still expertly working his chest, and Dew flushes at the dark chuckle Swiss lets out.

"Maybe later," he croons, kissing the hinge of his jaw. "I got other plans for you right now."

Swiss wastes no time it getting his belt out of the way, quick to pop the button and tug down his zipper. Dew's narrow chest is heaving by the time Swiss hooks two fingers into the band of his boxer briefs. The other ghoul gives him a cruel smirk, snaps the band against his skin, and Dew sucks air through his teeth.

"Better keep it down, baby," Swiss speaks against his ear, liquid silk. "If you can, that is."

That hand worms its way into his underwear, slips down between his thighs, and Dew clenches his teeth so hard his jaw cracks.

"Mm, what's this?" Swiss glides the tip of one finger through his folds and Dew's thighs tense. "So slippery already. Just from this?"

Swiss tweaks his nipple, licks a nasty stripe below his ear, and Dew really has to work not to choke on his own tongue. His fat little dick throbs against Swiss' palm, and Swiss sounds absolutely thrilled about it.

"Oh, someone's excited," he teases, one thick finger prodding at his hole. "It's already tryin' to suck me in," Swiss sing-songs, and the little ghoul's shoulders sag.

Dew whimpers when he pushes the tip inside, clenching around an intrusion that feels far too good for how slight it is. He can't stop looking at everyone wandering the parking lot, trying to stay on high alert for the slightest hint of undue attention but struggling more and more with every passing second. Swiss wriggles that probing digit further inside, up to the second knuckle, and then there's sudden pressure on it front wall that has Dew's back arching off the seat.

"Fuck, fuck," he wheezes, hands flying to whatever he can reach - one paws at Swiss' shirt, the other gripping his forearm. Feeling the muscles shift as Swiss' finger works him open, groaning at the gentle stretch. "Oh you bastard."

"Flattery will get you everywhere, sweetheart," Swiss breathes, palming his stiff clit, and Dew's breath catches in his throat.

"Can't believe you're - oh shit, oh - fuck, can't believe I'm letting you - ah!"

Dew bites his lips shut as Swiss curls his finger just right, muting his cry and fighting to keep his eyes from rolling back. Clamps his thighs around that massive hand until Swiss chuckles in his ear, swirling that digit and making the little ghoul's eyes cross instead.

"You're so pretty like this," he rumbles, a second finger tracing around the first, spreading slick. "All shy. Makes you even tighter," Swiss tells him, and Dew clamps down even harder. Why is it so good? "Wish I could get you in my lap right now," his breath is so, so hot in Dew's ear. "Get you to sit on my cock and see how quiet you are then."

Dew shivers head to toe, legs spreading at the thought alone, and Swiss leaps at the opportunity. Pulls his first finger out only to slide back in with two, and there's no possible way he could stay silent through that. He turns his head just in time to sink his teeth into Swiss' shoulder, howling his pleasure into cotton and flesh, and Swiss groans right along with him.

"That's more like it," he praises, kissing the top of Dew’s head while he pants and shivers. "Gonna be a quick one, isn't it?"

Dew nods as best he can, moaning into Swiss' shirt when he rubs the heel of his hand in slow circles over his pulsing clit. Doesn't pull back until he's sure he can control himself, gasping when Swiss crooks his fingers but biting back the whine bubbling up in his throat.

"Y-yeah," he admits, thready. He can't be bothered to look out the window anymore, staring only at the bulge Swiss' hand makes in his jeans. "Fuck, just do it, fuckin' make me."

"Well, since you asked so nicely," Swiss lilts, one last taunt, and then the only sound filling the space around them is the wet squelch of skilled fingers plunging in and out of his tight little body.

It's perfect - the curve of Swiss' digits, the pressure against his sensitive little dick, the way Swiss rubs at that one spot inside that has Dew going boneless against Swiss' side. Huffing hot into his shirt, hair falling into his face and wafting in the breeze still flowing through the open windows. He can't stop grabbing at Swiss - his shirt, his arm, whatever he can reach. Skinny hips rolling against his palm in search of more, more, driving Swiss' fingers as deep as they'll go.

"C-close," he spits far too soon, every inch of him on fire and wound tight as a spring. Swiss gives his closes approximation of his usual purr, and Dew's thighs quiver. "Like...like that, just like that, shit -"

"Yeah?"

The hand still torturing his nipples stills, presses flat to Dew's chest. His fingers feel so perfect Dew can't handle it, on edge and covered in goosebumps.

"Give me a squeeze, baby," Swiss instructs, and Dew does. Clenches hard around those two wonderful digits and Swiss seems to predict the sound it'll drag from him, because the hand on his chest flies to cover Dew's mouth and catch his wail. "Fuck, that's my good boy," Swiss huffs, breathless in a way Dew adores even through his haze of pleasure. The other ghoul holds him close, keeps his mouth covered, and Dew scrabbles at the arm working him. "Now let me feel it cum for me."

Dew loses all sense of rhythm as Swiss curls his fingers one last time, hitting something that puts stars in his eyes and wrenches harsh moans from his throat, and with one perfect roll of Swiss' palm against his clit Dew's gone.

He's drooling against Swiss' palm when he comes down from the highest high, sweaty at his hairline and his cunt still snapping around Swiss' fingers. Holding him inside with the little ghoul rides out the aftershocks, breathing hard through his nose and blinking with one eye at a time. Swiss is muttering all sorts of nonsense into his hair, a litany of praise and wonderment that Dew cannot for the life of him understand but appreciates anyway.

Soon enough sensitivity sets in, and Dew hisses against Swiss' damp palm. Reaches up to peel his hand away with shaky fingers, squirming until Swiss gets the message and pulls out with care. There's a gush of warmth that follows, soaks into his briefs, and Dew heaves a sigh.

"Unholy shit," he slurs, collapsing back into his seat like a mound of jelly. "What the fuck, Swiss."

The other ghoul chuckles, and Dew rolls his neck just in time to watch Swiss pop his messy fingers into his mouth. Listens to Swiss suck them clean and groan at the taste of him.

"What?" He licks slick from his palm, exaggerated passes of his tongue that Dew finds himself fascinated by. "You said you wanted to get something outta this, right?" Dew blinks at him, brows scrunched together as he tried to make his brain work. "Just granting your wish, Sparky."

Swiss gives him a wink, and then he's leaning in for a quick kiss. Just a peck, really, before he's fastening Dew's jeans and putting his belt back into place. Smoothing his hair as best he can before he scoots back behind the wheel, lacing his fingers behind his head. Dew's fully back by the time he's done, very aware of their surroundings once more and ever so glad to see their activities seem to have gone unnoticed.

"Just in time, too," Swiss comments, nodding towards the store. Dew squits against the sun and sees the girls just leaving the building, Sunshine's arms full and Cumulus carrying what looks to be a single bag of chips. They're bumping into each other and giggling, Dew can tell even from across the lot, and his own smile curls into place.

"Damn," he laments, sitting up straighter. "Guess you'll have to wait 'til we get back for your turn, huh?"

He turns to give Swiss a playful wink, and finds Swiss looking...he isn't sure. Smug? Maybe? Hard to say.

"What's your problem?"

"Nothin'," he shrugs, eyes wrinkled at the corners. "Just find it funny that after so long you still don't know what you do to me."

Dew blinks as Swiss reaches over to grab his wrist, guiding to his crotch and -

"Oh no fuckin' way."

"Tell anyone and I won't eat you out for a month," Swiss threatens, but Dew's too busy enjoying the sizeable wet spot beneath his hand to care.

"We're ba-ack!" Cumulus calls once they're in earshot, and Dew gives Swiss a squeeze before he pulls back. Licks at his palm while Sunshine loads up the trunk, just to make the other ghoul suffer a little bit more. The back doors swing open and the girls slide inside. "You boys have fun without us?"

"Oh, Lus," Dew tells her, rifling through the cassettes in the glove box with the tang of Swiss still coating his tongue. "You have no idea."

[clubdionysus]

[BAD DECISION #43] Circles

warnings: subby koo <3, begging, handjobs, semi-public ig, jk calling himself a slut <3, edging, fingering, pussy eating, finger sucking, reader on top yeehaw, jk calling reader a slut (nicely i promise), titty sucking, vvv messy finish lawl, cum swapping, confessions??, feelings??, communication???, the moon????, some v cute moments actually!

notes: my fave thing about bd chapters is the doodles that went with them bc they're lil time capsules and u just know how the release of seven influenced me/bd hehhehe

wc: 11.8K

bd total wc: 540k (ongoing)

AO3 | MASTERLIST | MINORS DNI

"You've got so much sand in your hair," you muse softly, resting your head on Jeongguk's shoulder. Legs are wrapped around his waist, your chest is to his broad back as he carries you through from the kitchen to the living room.

It's just you and him, now, the main house quiet, save for your giggles and his reciprocation. The sand is residual from your chat on the beach, but you're still not really sure how he managed it—but it's sort of like your glitter. Gets everywhere even when you don't mean for it to.

The noraebang session you had returned to had died a brutal death. Jimin and Taehyung blessed your eyes and ears with a theatrical rendition of Bop to the Top from High School Musical, which scored them a mere 28.

Jimin threatened legal action. Taehyung begged Danbi for reassurance that his version of Sharpay's lines were flawless.

Too drunk for their own good, the rest of your friends had trundled back to their bedrooms. You and Jeongguk insisted that you wanted to clean up. Get the kitchen and sitting room fresh for the morning.

Really, you had just wanted an excuse to spend more time together. After an evening of ignoring him, you're desperate to fill your heart with his energy.

So far? So good.

The kitchen is spotless, as if the sitting room. You could go to bed now, if you wanted to.

But you don't.

As you reach the sofa, Jeongguk continues to keep you wrapped around his body, sitting you both down together. The scent of his aftershave is a little subdued, worn away throughout the evening, but it still drives you wild. Gets you pressing a silly little kiss into the curve of his neck.

He's pretty sure if you do it again, he'll die.

You're only in this position 'cause you'd started yawning, and Jeongguk didn't want you to fall asleep. Wanted you to stay awake with him into the early hours. You'd gladly obliged, his broad back the perfect place for you to get cosy.

Easing your position, your legs loosen, hands dropping to his waist.

The scent of his fabric conditioner steals the show as you press a kiss into his shoulder. 

Apparently you've lost your Goddamn mind, and are ignorant to the boundaries of platonic friendship. You don't behave like this with 'friends'—but it's nothing new, you suppose.

And you and Jeongguk most definitely aren't just 'friends'.

He's your favourite of all your friends, yes, but you care for him like a lover. Comfort him like it was your soul's purpose in a lifetime before this one. Find his gaze in crowded rooms as if you've spent millennia looking for him. Rest your head on his shoulder as if the crook of his neck was carved just for you.

He thinks it was.

"Like a little koala," Jeongguk fondly muses, one of his large hands stroking down your ankle while the other uses the remote to flick through the television options. He doesn't care much for shows nor movies these days, but just doesn't want to say goodbye to this day just yet. Wants to spend more time with you. "Watcha wanna watch?"

"Not fussy," you hum. In all honesty, your eyes are a little heavy. Whatever he puts on, you're gonna end up falling asleep. It's just a lame ass excuse to snuggle up with him in the most domesticated of ways. "Whatever you want."

Squeezing at your ankle, he says, "So you won't complain if I put Boss Baby on? WWE? Teleshopping? Porn channels?"

Shaking your head against his back, you smile. "You won't put Boss Baby on 'cause you've spent all weekend with Jimin."

"True."

"And teleshopping is a bad idea because you're weak," you tell him with absolute certainty. "They'll trick you into buying things"—

"Will not."

"Will too," you insist, knowing that he's just as bad as you when it comes to ridiculous, unnecessary purchases. "Porn channels are redundant 'cause I'm the only thing that gives you a boner these days"—

"Fair."

"So it looks like wrestling is your only option," you deduce, ignoring the way he just confirmed your joke about his boner situation.

In all fairness, Jeongguk hasn't even tried getting hard thinking about anything other than you lately. You're the only thing he desires. Only person, only body, only heart. Why waste time thinking of anything else? Wouldn't make him cum half as hard.

"I know your tricks," Jeongguk hums with a jovial air of nonchalance, opening up Netflix. "Get us watching WWE, learn a few tricks, then tackle me in a bid to seduce me. I wasn't born yesterday, Byeol. Can't fool me."

The way your body gently moves behind him when you laugh is nothing short of euphoria for Jeongguk. He loves this. Loves being with you.

For all the jokes that could be made about the validity of your claims of platonic friendship, you really are his best friend.

There's nobody else he'd ever wanna hang out with like this. Enjoys his space, yet seems to hate space when you're around. Wants to be close, close, close; always, always, always. Will stick to you like glue, if you'll let him.

"Don't need to tackle you to seduce you," you assure him. It's proven by the way his breath hitches as your hands sink to the top edge of his leather belt. You don't do anything. Just toy with the material a little. Tease. Say, "I barely have to touch you, do I? I bet you're getting hard now, aren't you?"

Suddenly, you don't feel so tired, anymore. 

Sleep can wait. Getting Jeongguk off can't.

There are two options for Jeongguk in this situation: denial, or acceptance.

He's pretty sure both of them will end in his dick getting wet.

May as well have a little fun with it.

"Nope," he lies.

The truth of the matter is that Jeongguk gets stiff at the drop of a pin when it comes to you. The mere mention of sex sends blood flooding to his cock. The implication that you might want to fuck him? Oh, he may as well have been going at it for half an hour with how much it makes him throb.

"Don't believe you," you whisper.

Jeongguk is still flicking through Netflix, but doesn't choose anything to put on. Is too distracted by the way you delicately stroke his belt. You could find out for yourself, if you really wanted to. He wouldn't object.

In fact, he encourages it, when the hand that had been holding your ankle comes to rest over one of your hands. Pushes it down. Rests your palm over his crotch, and pushes his hips upwards. Grunts.

"Yeah," he says, slowly pulsing his hips, building a firm pattern, the bulge of his cock fitting perfectly into the shape of your hand. "You're right to not believe it."

The Netflix search is abandoned as soon as you purr, "Let me get you off, Gguk."

The position you're in is kept, Jeongguk's belt threaded through its buckle, trousers unbuttoned, zip yanked down in a desperate bid to get your hands around his cock as quickly as you can.

Jeongguk tips his head back, breaths laboured. His crown rests upon your shoulder, as he hums into the satisfaction of the feeling your hands provide him with. "Tighter, baby. Grip it tighter."

You can't see what you're doing. Are relying on the feeling alone. Know his cock well enough by this point that it's no issue.

He gets a little pouty when you pull one of your hands away—but gets so incredibly vocal when you spit on your fingers and wrap them back around his thick shaft. Tells you how good you feel. How pretty your hands are. How much he wants to cum all over them.

God, he'd defile you right now, if he could. Sully your skin with his sex. Get those slender fingers of yours, and pretty nails, and just cover them in his cum.

Thing is, he wants to last. Has to push thoughts of finishing to the side. Can't embarrass himself like that, even as he whines into your touch like a little bitch.

Pushing his hips up into your slippery palms, Jeongguk is utterly obsessed with the way you feel.

"Oh, fuck, baby," he whimpers when you pick up the pace, his breathing all out of sync and so terribly cute. "You're so good to me," he praises. "So good."

Handjobs are typically fleeting whenever you fuck Jeongguk. A means to an end. This is different. Your hands are moving with purpose. He's jerking himself up into your palms 'cause he needs it. Needs you.

So you tease him—"So needy, aren't you?"—and are ever so pleased when he confirms your accusation. He nods. Grunts. Bites down on his bottom lip to stifle his noises.

And it's cute. So cute how much he likes even the simplest of sexual endeavours with you. Kind of feels like he never knew how good it could be—to fuck and be fucked in return—before he met you.

There's something about Jeongguk when he's like this— pathetic —that just really gets you going. You know you're soaked in your panties. Dress pooling around your hips, you wonder if he can feel your arousal. It's sort of unintentional, the way you grind your hips up against him. You're just turned on. Want him as badly as he wants you.

"You're fucking yourself into my hand like a desperate little slut, aren't you?" you giggle into his ear, nibbling on his lobe. You know it will drive him mad.

"Shit," he curses, leaning his head to the side to give you more access to his neck. Whimpers when your lips latch right onto his sweet spot. "Such a slut for you, B. God, baby, you're gonna make me cum. Gonna make me cum so fuckin' hard."

Every single word he utters is laced with a heavy, lustful breath. He's losing his mind. Forgot the simple pleasure of a pair of pretty hands.

"Beg for it."

"Byeol," he whines.

"Beg for it," you repeat. "Tell me why you deserve to cum, huh?"

"Cause you fuckin' want it," he grunts, shuddering a little as his torso twitches from the pleasure he's fighting. "You wanna see me cum. I know you do."

"That's not begging," you say as you press a light kiss to his neck. "Do better."

And against all odds, he does.

"Let me cum," he breathlessly whispers. "Byeol, please let me cum. I'll do anything."

The power trip is unbelievable. Too good to give up.

But the tortured, laboured whimper he mewls as you release your hand? The way his body doubles over? The hushed curses under his breath?

Makes it so incredibly worth it.

"I'm on the verge of death," he pants when he realises what you've done. Squirms beneath the pressure of his undelivered pleasure. "Oh God, I'm gonna fuckin' die. You're gonna kill me."

He's being dramatic. All you've done is withheld an orgasm. Edged him a little.

All weak and limp, Jeongguk's hips are still involuntarily pulsing, cock desperate for release. Balls so tight he really does think he might die.

And so he pulls away. 

Decides that if you're gonna be a brat, then he's gonna be even fuckin' worse.

He gets to his knees. Rids himself of his dress shirt. Positions himself right between your spread legs. Is gonna give you a taste of your own fuckin' medicine.

Jeongguk hooks his arms under your thighs and yanks you forward, for no purpose other than to plant kisses all over the soaked lace of your underwear as quickly as he possibly can.

Dress pooled by your hips, the access is easy. He's already deduced that you're only wearing the bra and panties of the three piece set, but he doesn't give a fuck.

Truthfully, when it comes to having sex with you, none of that matters.

Skin on skin is what he wants. Closeness. Togetherness.

"Oh, fuck me," he chokes out when he's sees how badly you want him, dark eyes tracing over the lines of your slick core.

He slips his index finger beneath the strip of fabric that covers your pussy, and pulls it to the side. Has never felt hunger quite like it. Brings his middle finger to your already soaked hole and gently pushes inside. Sinks down to kitten lick against your clit, utterly obsessed with the taste, the scent.

"God," he barely pulls away. Brushes his lips against you as he speaks. "I could just fuckin' die in this cunt."

"Then do it. Die for me," you tease, hand coming to tangle in his hair, encouraging his lips to suction around your clit. His finger continues to fuck itself into you, quick in its pace. He pulls back. Spits. Reattaches himself to you, as if he can't bear to be apart.

The sensation of Jeongguk is almost too much to bear. Almost .

Toying and teasing, he's manipulating your pussy with his hands all in a bid to get your body writhing.

There's something to be said for the way his touch just absolutely controls you. Domineers. Dictates. How he can be as soft as his silky hair in one moment, then as hard as his sharp jaw the next.

He hums in approval as he sucks on your pussy, palm to the sky as he begins to pick up the pace of his fingers. There's a lewdness to the sounds that you make together; a harmony that's so disgustingly human it almost makes him forget that you're not of this world.

Brighter than any of the stars shining in through the window, you're beaming. Alive with the feeling of Jeongguk laying claim to you, as if he's just discovered one of those scam name-a-star websites. Card data already input into the checkout, he'd waste all his resources on you.

His tongue is flat as he delves between your folds. Flat, and firm and fucking divine— until it's pointed, and precise and overwhelmingly perfect. Heat travels through your entire body, from the tip of your toes to the tops of your fingers. It's bliss. He's bliss.

The thing about stars is that they burn. Are red hot in a way that Jeongguk failed to realise when he first became acquainted with you. Every touch of your body has rewritten the fabric of his. There are constellations in his fingerprints; cosmic entities where your lips have pressed your adoration into his skin.

Jeongguk is not the same man he was before he knew you, and he'll never be the same again. The scars you leave are promises. I'm yours. Invisible to the naked eye, yet entirely obvious to anyone who spends time in his company. You're mine.

His mouth is a little too preoccupied to make any silly declarations right now, mind you. Lapping at your pussy, Jeongguk eats you out like he hasn't had a good meal all week. He'd starve for seven days if knew he'd have the luxury of your taste by the time Sunday arrives.

"Nicest pussy ever," he promises when he finally takes a second to breathe. Looks up at you, eyes glossy. Starry. The tip of his nose shines in the haze of your hedonism, lips wet. "Nicest pussy in the whole world."

"Oh yeah?" you giggle, a little amused with how sweet his compliments are. Sweet, and stupid, and simply impossible for him to test the validity of.

Not that he ever wants to. Only wants you.

You scratch behind his ear, and Jeongguk's puppy-dog tendencies return as he leans into your touch. Smiles. Hums in complete contentment.

"Mhmm," he says, leaning back down to press kisses all over your slick lips, fingers thick as they continue working your pussy for his viewing pleasure—and for your pleasure, full stop. Punctuated with pretty kisses in the place of full stops, he says, "And it's mine . I get to have it. So lucky, baby. So lucky."

There's no luck to this. None whatsoever.

A little fate, maybe. Destiny.

"Yours?" You raise a brow.

He doesn't give you a verbalised response.

Just wraps his lips around your clit, and keeps his eyes open this time. Looks up at you, dark eyes twinkling, dewy nose pressed into your skin, his desperation to devour you evident. Lets his fingers scissor inside you. Gets your toes pointing. Has you looking to the sky. Your back arches, fingers tight in his hair.

"Gguk," you whine, as if he's in any position to respond to you—but he does .

He hums, and— fuck —the vibration around your clit sends you orbiting.

"That's it," you breathe out, looking back down as a familiar sensation begins to take control. He doesn't ease up. Keeps stroking at your sweet spot. Keeps sucking on your clit. Keeps doing what he's doing 'cause he loves what's about to happen.

Ever the gentleman, and incredibly unlike you ten minutes ago, Jeongguk decides to let you ride the wave of the orgasm crashing over you. Doesn't wanna deprive you. Wants you to feel good. Knows it won't be the last time it happens tonight.

"Shit," you choke out as your shoulders press down into the sofa, one of your hands instinctively cupping your chest. The dress you're wearing is still covering most of your body, but it doesn't matter. Jeongguk'll get you out of it eventually. "That's it. That's it— fuck ."

The way your walls begin to tighten, legs hooking around the back of his head as your entire body shudders, is almost enough to make him finish, too.

He thinks it's the hottest thing he's ever had the pleasure of experiencing. Doesn't understand how he can find such pleasure in someone else's orgasm, but knows if it came down to him or you, he'd sacrifice all of his for one of yours.

Moaning as he drags you to a height of pleasure reserved only for the brightest of stars, Jeongguk smiles through it all. Reluctantly pulls away from you with laboured breath, chest heaving from the fact he kinda forgot how to breathe. Was busy. Thinks your pussy is more important than his survival.

"You good?" he checks, resting his pretty head on your thigh. Keeps his fingers plugged inside you, but slows the movements to a halt. Just keeps you full, 'cause he can. 'Cause he wants to. 'Cause he's lowkey obsessed with you.

With a nod, you let your body relax into the plush pillows of the sofa. Giggle. Keep your legs over his shoulders, but hold your face in your hands, as if you're embarrassed by how hard you came for him.

But then a kiss is pressed to your inner thigh, pretty and soft, accented by the hardness of his lip ring.

"You came so well for me, baby," he praises. Thinks it's cute how shy you get whenever you cum. So pretty and perfect and his. A shallow laugh gets caught in his throat, before he shakes his head and sits up a little straighter. "So gorgeous when you cum. Pretty, baby."

Jeongguk has never been more in love.

Slowly, he pulls his fingers from you. The tepid movement makes your back arch ever so gently, pussy still sensitive from your climax. Eyes on his, you know him well enough to get a read on his intentions. His desires.

So you just smirk. Let your lips part. Hold your tongue out ever so slightly, eyes wide, expression playful. He follows your lead. Brings his messy fingers to your lips. Sinks them into your mouth, and is met with the most glorious sight.

The expression on your face changes . Darkens .

While, yes, your eyes are still wide, it's your cheeks that really get him, now.

Your typically sweet cheeks are hollowed, your bone structure exclusively on show for him. It gets him throbbing. Gets him wrapping his spare hand around his cock—not that it needs any encouragement. He's still rock-hard for you. Still wants you.

Is proven, when he begs once more. "Let me fuck you, babe."

A smirk settles on your lips as he pulls his fingers back. You shuffle in your seat. Readjust. Keep your legs spread and encourage him to squeeze onto the sofa with you.

The angle is a little off, and it definitely isn't gonna be how you fuck him, but it brings him closer to you. Close enough to kiss. Close enough to smell your arousal on him. Close enough to let him sink his tongue between your lips and get lost in you once more.

All you ever seem to want these days is to be close to Jeongguk, and even then, close is never close enough. His lips are on yours, your tongue in his mouth, his hands all over your body—and still it's not enough.

There's something missing; words that would fuse you to him. Words that you know damn well if uttered right now would end in disaster—so you bite back the desperate, hungry, declarations that are dancing in your throat. Reach for Jeongguk's hand. Force him to wrap his fingers around the base of your throat, just so you can keep those pesky words at bay.

The squeeze of his wide hand around your neck is welcome. Not too harsh, just strong enough to let you know that no other necklace would suit you half as well as Jeongguk's pretty, tattooed hand does.

It's force of habit, more than anything, that makes his spare hand drop to your pussy. Fingers flat, he rubs over your clit at the speed of lightning, not for any grand purpose other than to make you shake a little. Smirks, when you do exactly as he thought you would.

"Look at how easy you are for me," he husks, pressing his lips across your cheek, down your jaw. Squeeze your throat a little tighter. "You gonna let me fuck you, huh?"

The tables have turned.

You're the pathetic one, now.

"Uh-huh," you whine when he sinks his middle finger back into your pussy. He's quick. Repeats it a couple times. Loves how needy you are; how noisy your pussy is. So fucking wet for him.

As he pulls his hand from your cunt and wanks himself a little, he revels in how your slick juices feel against his shaft. Doesn't know how the fuck he found pleasure in anything before he knew you. Knows he'll never find pleasure in anything else. You've corrupted him. Completely and utterly. Ruined.

His lips trail to your ear, hands roaming your body. Squeezing. Appreciating. Devouring.

He's quiet, when he husks, "Want you to ride me."

"Say please," you quip back without missing a beat.

It's not like you're gonna say no—but you are gonna make him beg a little.

"Please, B," he says so daintily it's as if his cock isn't all red and engorged and leaky at the tip for you. He's got the body of an angel, but all it makes you wanna do is sin. "Be a good girl for me. You know you want to. Fuck me how you want to fuck me."

He does know how to ask nicely, you'll give him that much credit.

Jeongguk pulls away and sinks into the sofa beside you, certain you'll do as you're told.

His arrogance will catch up with him one day, but you're too eager to please him right now. All you wanna do is fuck him right, 'cause you know he'll fuck you right in return.

There's no objection as he pulls you onto his lap. No time wasted as he rubs the tip of his cock between your soaked folds. No bodies more connected than yours when he finally pushes up inside of you.

He groans. Throws his head back. Holds your waist and is reminded of your dress. Decides that it absolutely needs to go.

The way he rids you of the silky fabric is barbaric. You don't know where he throws it. Don't know if it's still in one piece. All you know is that his lips are on your skin as soon as they can be, his hips rutting up into you, cock nudging so deep inside of your cunt you can feel him in your fucking throat.

Okay, so maybe that's dramatic, but he just fills you so fucking well. Is so big. So nice.

His hand wraps around your back to release the clasp of your bra with little to no effort. He sheds you of your clothes and has you exactly how he wants you: naked, whiney and ever so beautiful as you take his full cock inside you.

Jeongguk's not small. Not by any stretch of the imagination. He's easily got the biggest cock you've ever taken, yet your body adapts to him effortlessly. You're tight, yeah, but not painfully so. It's all pleasure. You're made for him, and him for you.

The thickness of his cock is amplified when he grabs your waist and begins to bounce you at a faster pace.

"Oh, shit," he curses. "God. Taking me so well, aren't you, B? Taking this fat cock so easily. Oh, fuck yeah. Pretty, pretty slut."

It's been a while since he got vulgar with the name-calling. Was reminded of how much he likes it when you'd done it earlier.

You'd forgotten how much you like it too; how much you like the acknowledgement that you'll slut yourself out for him, and him alone.

"Whose slut are you? Huh?" he asks, never caring for a response. Just gets a little loose with his lips when your pussy gets tight. "Who does this cunt belong to?"

"Oh, God," you mewl, unable to form anything coherent.

He almost fuckin' snorts as he laughs. "Don't think this cunt does belong to God."

"Fuck off," you laugh. Find it so endearing that he still finds the time to joke with you. "Gguk"— his hips thrust up harder, and you have to curse him out a little before you can continue —"It's yours, you prick."

He smirks. Tips his head back, the clamminess of his body making this all so much filthier. There's a sheen to his skin, sweat dappling him. His tattoos seem even more vibrant now, your hand holding onto his arm for dear life as he rams his cock into you.Slows his hips a little. Rolls them now. Husks, "Mine."

"So big, Koo," you mumble into his lips, as if he doesn't know. It's so much more satisfying hearing your stay. Your words are stuttered. Slurred. Fucked out. "Baby, you're so big."

"Don't call me that," he husks. Grabs your tits. Plays with them just 'cause he can. Teases your nipples. Pinches. Makes you mewl. "Call me that, and you'll make me fuckin' nut."

It's not just 'Koo' getting him needy today. It's 'baby', too. 

Jeongguk has always been the one more naturally inclined to call you baby—but just because you don't say it as often doesn't mean you don't think it.

God, you wanna call him baby all the time these days. When you're lazing around together, when you greet him, when you're giggling with him in the sanctuary of his bedroom, birds looking on with a fond curiosity. Baby would just roll off your tongue so naturally, if you let it.

And so, in this moment, you do.

"Hmm, baby?" you torment him.

"B," he stays sternly as he pulls you down onto his dick. The tip of his cock kisses your cervix, as deep as it can possibly go. You mewl. Gasp. Whine. And he loves it. Loves the way you sound; loves that the sounds are all involuntary and that it's his size making it happen. "Don't wanna cum yet. Wanna fuck you for hours."

It already feels like it's been hours, but it also feels like it's been no time at all.

Sex with Jeongguk alters the time-space continuum. It has to. There is no way that fucking Jeongguk doesn't transform the world in some way, shape or form.

Or maybe it's just your world that it alters. Your life. Your heart.

Taking back a little control, you rake your fingers in his hair, and pull them taut. He gasps. Stutters out a moan. Eases his grip on your waist to let your hips roll at a slower pace. He puts you in control, 'cause it's what you want.

He'll give you anything you ask for. Everything.

"Shit," you curse, grinding against him. The friction of your clit rubbing up against the neatly trimmed pubic hair is nothing short of euphoric—and when his lips latch around one of your tits? Sucks on it softly? Is tender with his touch instead of the slightly aggressive, domineering Jeongguk you were expecting? Oh, you won't last long at all. "Feels so good, Gguk."

"Mhm?" he hums, vibrating around your nipple, his thumb coming to rub at your neglected bud on the other side. God, he loves your tits. Wants them in his mouth all the time. Quite the change since your first meeting. Doesn't know how he lived without them before.

"Mhhm," you nod, pressing your lips to the top of his head.

The way your bodies are moving together is anachronistic; of a time before casual fucking and the conventions of modern dating. It's primal. Lethargic in the way you want to experience one another; eager in your yearning.

It's as if you knew him in another life. As if the stars have always intended on you merging. As if you've been a black hole waiting to happen, but now in the abyss you find abundance: Love, acceptance, contentment by the bucket load.

Eventually, the pace builds like you knew it would. Jeongguk's grunts get loftier. Your moans get shorter. Sharp. They hitch at the back of your throat, and Jeongguk kisses you until they dissolve onto his tongue.

It's as he's playing with your clit that a second, far stronger, orgasm is drawn from you. You think you see stars. Jeongguk knows for a fact he sees stars.

He also takes it as confirmation that you're getting worn out; that he doesn't need to hold off finishing.

His hand grips your ass, working you up and down his shaft in a desperate bid to coax an orgasm out of his cock, even if you're a little fucked out. It really doesn't take much to get him there; to have him cursing your name and kiss your neck.

"Oh, shit, babe," he pants. "Where"—

"Tits."

" Fuck ."

Neither of you care for the awkward clambering as you get between his legs once more, nor the dizzy disposition of your knees after your orgasm.

All you care about is Jeongguk. His pleasure. Making him cum.

You want to be the reason. Want him looking at you.

And he does.

It's delicate, how violently his body unloads itself for you. His lips are parted, brows furrowed as he wanks himself for you. You've always loved him like this. It reminds you of the early days—a little too scared to touch one another, but desperately wanting to.

It's different now. Touching Jeongguk is a natural inclination that's reciprocated. If he couldn't touch you— innocently as well as intimately —then he'd probably die.

"Cum for me," you beg, holding your tits together for him.

He shudders, legs twitching as the sensation boils over, and he shoots thick spurts of semen all over your chest. You gasp as he does so, and regret not asking for it in your mouth—so you lay your tongue flat for him. He gets the memo. Rests the tip of his cock on your tongue as massages the final spurts of his load into your mouth.

"Shit," he curses, then drags you back up to his lap. Clasps either side of your jaw and pulls you in for a kiss so desperately that he doesn't even wait for you to swallow. Licks into your mouth. Whines when he tastes himself. Drops a hand to squeeze at one of your tits, and ends up just rubbing his cum into your skin.

It's filth. Real fucking dirty.

And yet it's pure.

Unadulterated desire shared between you both. Reserved only for one another.

Eventually, as the kisses begin to ease into teeny tiny pecks, Jeongguk laughs to himself. Shakes his head. Beams as he cups your jaw and presses one final, deliberate kiss into your lips.

"If you keep fucking me like that, you're gonna get me saying all kinds of dumb shit," he promises.

"Oh yeah?" You giggle, reaching across the sofa, still in his lap, to retrieve his shirt. Thread it over your arms, you don't bother to do it up - you just know that dawn is brewing on the horizon, and fear a rogue friend of you both strolling over to the main house for some reason. Your back is to the large windows, but wouldn't take a genius to work out what's occurring. "What kinda dumb shit?"

"Dunno. Shit about how you ride me so well," he praises, eyes darting around your face, 'cause he's obsessed with every single part of you. Eyes, nose, lips. Wants them all. Settles for a nudge of noses. "So good at making me feel good, baby. So good. God, I can't believe I get to fuck you."

There's a genuine look of relief on his pretty, smiley features, as if there'd be a reality in which you'd ever turn him down.

"Can't believe I get to fuck you," you giggle right back, as Jeongguk begins to preen you. He smooths your hair. Studies the glitter on your cheeks, but doesn't change it. Loves it just as it is.

"Shut up," he says, a little bashfully—as if he wasn't the one to start this whole complimenting one another bullshit.

Jeon Jeongguk always looks so pretty in the afterglow; skin made of stardust, a smile that shines. The clamminess of his skin always makes him seem a little rounder, a little softer. It's cute—and right now? It's just for you .

You half think Jeongguk is gonna throw some sort of childish remark your way, until his demeanour sort of stiffens a little. His teeth press down on his bottom lip, and the ring, of course, does the thing. He seems perplexed. Concerned.

You're about to ask, but then Jeongguk decides that you shouldn't have to.

He should just tell you. What he thinks, how he feels.

And so he says, once more, "Byeol, I don't wanna keep going around in circles."

Pulling away a little, you snuggle down into the couch beside him. Giving him the space to pull his Calvins back up, there's a comfort to the serenity you're basking in.

Anyone who saw you now—you naked save for his shirt, traces of his sex glistening on your skin, and him in his underwear—would be forgiven for thinking you were a pair of newlyweds after their big day. Snuggling into another, it's a dangerous place to get too comfy. You really should go back over to the side-house that you're supposed to be sleeping in.

"Then start going in a straight line," you counter, childish in your tiredness.

He hums out a small laugh, pressing a kiss into the top of your head. "I mean it, B. What I said earlier."

"Which part?"

"The part where I told you I wanted you," he says quietly. Squeezes you tightly. Needs you to know he's telling the truth. "No one else. It's just as true now as it was when I first said it."

"You don't know what it's like to 'have' me. I'm not easy to handle," you say candidly.

Jeongguk thinks you're incredibly easy to handle. It's your asshole ex-partners that have been difficult.

"Nor am I," he says softly instead, not fighting back against the perception you presented. Knows how you work. Knows you'd never believe him regardless. Will just have to prove it to you over time. "I don't want easy. Don't want anyone else. Just want you."

Feels like a moot point, now.

You know how Jeongguk feels. It's been established.

But it's late, and you're both a little tired and probably a bit cranky from the alcohol. Need to sleep.

And so when Jeongguk cuts the conversation, chucks you his shirt and offers you a piggyback ride to the house, you accept it.

Just like you accept it when he drops you off in your room, and never leaves.

His own bedroom is rendered useless, for there's nowhere else he'd rather dream than right next to you.

Jeongguk doesn't fight sleep when it comes. Falls into it willingly, arm still looped over your waist to keep you close. He doesn't mind the heat. Doesn't mind your hair in his face, or the inability to move freely. Would far rather sleep with you like this than alone.

Typically, you'd find it easy to fall asleep in such a position. Not with anyone else—you'd be frustrated with their warmth, and imposing touch—but with Jeongguk, it's always welcome.

Tonight, you stare at the ceiling.

Grey in the light of the bay that seeps in through the window, the emptiness feels as calming as the boy beside you. There's no reason why you shouldn't be able to sleep, but your mind seems to be racing at a mile a minute, filtering between the security of time spent with Jeongguk, and the instability of exactly what you are.

The conversations had today have shined a little light on Jeongguk's feelings, but it's still nothing solid. You're still just friends. An attempt had been made at changing that, but it was a fruitless endeavour. Just feels like Jeongguk was right—you are going round in circles.

People can be fickle, and you know that Jeongguk has been holding out his heart from hurt recently. You doubt he'll be willing to venture down the path he's already travelled with Hayun. Why make the same mistakes twice? You're both supposed to be growing. Learning.

Falling into something with you is the opposite of what he should be doing.

Yet his arm is looped around your waist, bare skin sticking to yours in the heat of your embrace. He clearly finds comfort in you, but isn't confident enough in his feelings to actually commit to you.

And you shouldn't compare—you know this—but you've been made to feel like this before.

So you adjust. Shakes out of his shackles. Can't leave, 'cause it's your room, but you consider it - where would you go? To his room? To the beach?

Anywhere but here.

There's not really much thought put into it when you eventually slip out from the duvet, and quietly head down the stairs. Are childish as you stick your middle finger up in the direction of Hayun's room, just 'cause you're sick of her and her impact on your life, but aren't willing to actually argue with her. Unseen passive aggression is your new best friend.

Sliding the front door open, you're met by the chill of the cold spring air. All you're wearing is Jeongguk's button-up - the same one he'd taken off you before bed with little care for seducing you.

That being said, he did frown when you went to change into pyjamas. Insisted that you didn't need them. Had you naked beneath the sheets with no intention of fucking you - which felt like a headfuck within itself.

You don't mean to be this way; to be so suspicious of innocence.

Your insecurities are deep-rooted. They'd been so well conditioned into the fabric of your being that they now sit flush against your previous expectations of relationships. They're impossible to pick away. They need to be excavated, then re-filled with a new understanding of what it's like to be loved.

Jeongguk's been trying.

It's hard work, though. Laboursome. Strenuous. Stressful. Takes far more time than it really should.

He thinks it's the easiest job in the world.

The reward is so much greater than the investment. There's no sunk cost fallacy with you; even if it doesn't work out between the pair of you, he's hoping he'll at least heal the wounds left by someone else. Wants you happy and healthy, only. Always. Endlessly.

The sea that stretches in the distance and far beyond your eye-line is in a state of the rest. The moon has calmed the tides or so it seems. As you crouch down, feet flat to the floor on the lawn, you hope she'll do the same for you.

There's a crunch of gravel in the distance, and you know exactly where it's coming from. Who's stepping across it in search of stars.

Part of you hates that he's awake so suddenly.

Most of you loves it.

Coming to crouch behind you, Jeongguks knees spread to either side of your body. Chin resting on your shoulder, he restrains from holding you—but only because he's aware of the fact you left. Doesn't want to trap you.

"Watcha doin," he mumbles, voice croaky, the heat of his body warming you up. "Fuckin' freezing, B. You've no trousers on."

Nor does he. In fact, he's dressed even more poorly than you are, in just a pair of boxers. Though summer is approaching, the nights here are still worthy of a padded jacket. Jeongguk's temperature is running warm, like it usually does when he sleeps. If he were to hug you—which he won't until he's certain you even want that—you'd realise this.

"S'not too bad," you say of the temperature, even though you know your nose must be ever so blushed.

"Is too," he counters quietly, the movement of his jaw as he talks forcing his chin to dig a little into your shoulder. It doesn't hurt, though. Never hurts. Jeongguk will never hurt you, not really. You do that all by yourself. "And you didn't answer me. What are you doing out here?"

"Couldn't sleep," you reply without giving him space to breathe, because honesty feels too daunting.

"Did you try?"

"To sleep?"

"Mhmm," he sleepily mumbles.

The truth of the matter is that no, you didn't. Imaginary sheep remain uncounted.

Turning your head to face him, you are pleased to see him in this state: hair fluffy, eyes puffy. He's never cuter than he is in times like these.

The moon reflects on his lip ring, specks of glitter still on his skin.

"Pretty," you say, 'cause you think he deserves to know exactly what he is.

"Pretty," he just repeats back. Is soft in his tone. Gentle. Calming.

Maybe it wasn't the moon you needed after all.

Jeongguk's lips are feathery as they brush with yours, closing down slowly. The application and removal of pressure works like clockwork, just like it always does, and the subtle swipe of his tongue against your lips is welcome. You reciprocate. Swipe your tongue against his, and encourage him to intrude—but he doesn't. Not really.

While yes, on a technicality, his tongue is in your mouth, it's not how it usually is. It's slow. Lamblike. A soft reminder of how tender he can be.

"Come back to bed," he says quietly, barely pulling away. "Wanna sleep with you." He clutches your jaw. Kisses you again, but this time lets his tongue stroke against yours a little more deliberately. "Want you to stay with me, B."

He's so much needier when he's sleepy. So much cuter. Daintier.

"Don't want you to ever leave," he whispers. Kisses you again, so that you can't reject his request.

Leave what? His bed? His life? His embrace?

He doesn't clarify, and you don't ask for it, either.

Instead, nose resting against his, eyes closed, a serene smile on your lips, you say, "Ever? I have to stay forever?"

Jeongguk nods. Kisses you quickly. "That'd be preferable."

But there's an all too large awareness looming on Jeongguk that you left .

History is repeating itself, and it's so much more bitter the second time around.

There's an embarrassment that comes with this acknowledgement.

Perhaps it's his own fault. Perhaps he hasn't really given you enough time to process everything. Hayun has always been a sticking point, and her being here has shifted the mood completely, but Jeongguk really thought progress had been made. That maybe you and him were starting to figure things out.

But you've both got experiences that taint this stage of falling for someone else. Your defences have been up ever since you came to realise that maybe you've been lying to yourself about your true feelings for Jeongguk.

So to look across dining tables and be confronted with the woman he once thought he'd marry?

It sorta killed you, a little—or at least it kills the idea of longevity with Jeongguk. A pact was made, after all, and Jeongguk is a man of his word.

It's all you can think about whenever you look at her, so fuck knows what he must be thinking about when he does.

He loved her once. Her, with her cherry red lips and feline smile. Her, with her ambition and her wit. Her, with everything that you're not.

Confusion comes with the confrontation of the girls once loved by the man you adore.

"Is it not strange?" you ask, turning to face away from him. "Having to be around Hayun all the time? Is it not awful for you? Don't you"—

"No," he interrupts your final question. Doesn't care to hear it. Knows you're in your head again over stupid shit. "B, how many times"—

"You were in love with her," you stress the words softly. A fight isn't what you're looking for. Not in the slightest. You're just trying to understand . "When I first met you, Gguk, you were in love with her."

Knowing what he knows now, feeling how he feels now, he isn't so sure.

"Was I?"

Ignorant to the fact that Jeongguk thinks you're incomparable to her, you don't fully trust his questioning.

"Yes."

Jeongguk takes a second. Knows that whatever he says next will dictate the rest of the conversation.

There's something about Hayun that just gets under your skin. No matter how much reassurance you get from him, there always will be. It's his own fault, he thinks. Knows that he's the one who informed your opinion, but fails to realise that you wouldn't have liked her regardless. She's just not your kind of person. Too critical in her gaze. Too stand-offish. It's really not hard to understand why she caused Jeongguk to develop a myriad of complexes.

"Well, what about Seokjin?" He questions now, not looking for a fight either, but definitely a little agitated in his tone. "If you're so over him, why were you comparing me to him earlier?"

"You know that's"—

"Different?" He scoffs, but still holds you. Holds you tighter, actually. "How? How am I meant to hear a comparison to your ex and not think you still have feelings for him?"

Funny, how similarly you view one another's exes.

Jeongguk is sick of Seokjin. Has met the fucker fewer than a handful of times, yet he has to bear the weight of his bad behaviour as if he's responsible for it. It's not fucking fair.

And yeah, maybe he's just tried, and a little cranky, and perhaps he should have just let you leave like you apparently so desperately wanted to—but that's the difference between him and Seokjin.

Jeongguk never wanted you to leave.

The gravity of his questioning is too sharp of a blow even for him. He lets you go. Pulls away from the embrace he's been keeping you safe in.

"I don't lie to you, B," he says, getting to his feet. The closeness he was begging for feels tainted, now. Forced. Uncomfortable. "I tell you everything ."

Everything except the part where I'm in love with you.

"I never said you didn't," you insist quietly, resentful of your brain for turning this into an argument. You don't want to argue with him. Not in the slightest. You don't understand why you are. "Don't go. Please."

"I don't get it," he stresses, his voice quiet, too. "You're pushing me away and yet you still want me close. I don't understand. B, I just... What am I supposed to do?"

The defeat in your sloped shoulders and furrowed brows when you get to your feet and turn to face him is evident. All you can do is shrug.

"Gguk, I'm scared."

He nods. Knows this. Is scared, too.

When you first met, you were both scared of what it could mean to get over your exes.

This is different. Seokjin is a fracture in time; a notch in your bedpost.

Jeongguk is so much more than Seokjin could ever be. Sure, he doesn't have his life figured out yet, and maybe you've both got room to grow—but you can grow with him. Together.

"Okay, so tell me," he encourages. Holds his hand out, and when you take it, he draws you closer. Strokes your arms. Presses a kiss to your forehead. "Tell me what you're scared of."

You're not very good with anatomy. If anyone was to ever ask you about the location of your heart, you're not sure you'd choose the correct side of your chest.

What you are sure of, is that if anyone was to ever peer inside it, the chambers of your heart would be full to the brim with the very essence of him.

They'd hear his laughter echo, and the way his hushed moans vibrate into nothingness. They'd find glitter, and gold; evidence of you and him coexisting just like you're supposed to.

They'd find origami birds, and tiny folded stars, too. Chess pieces and purple starfuckers; lip rings and lace bras hidden beneath pillows. They'd marvel at how such a small organ could be so flooded with evidence of another person—and if they were to see him the way in which you see him, then maybe they'd love him, too.

There's no denying it now.

To him, yes, but not to yourself.

You're in love with Jeon Jeongguk.

And it terrifies you.

"Hmm?" he implores you to open up to him.

"I wasn't supposed to like you this much," you feebly admit, because there's no chance in hell you're baring your soul just like that, but know that you at least have to give him something. Give him the chance to reject you. "But now I do, and I don't know what I'm supposed to do."

He's silent for what feels like a lifetime. In reality, it's maybe three, four seconds. No more than five. Just enough time for him to digest your words. They go above the territorial need of not wanting to share. They're an indication that maybe he isn't totally insane. That maybe he could love someone and be loved in return.

But he's leaping. Knows that there's a far stretch between 'like' and 'love'. A bridge needs to be crossed, and he doesn't know if you're willing to do that.

"Guess it depends," he says, trying to remain calm even if his heart is crashing against his ribs like the waves against the shore in the distance. Wants to kiss you. Thinks it's the only thing that will get his head straight. Swears you must be a fucking drug. He's having withdrawals. Needs you in his system.

"On?"

"Are you happy?"

A simple question without a simple answer.

Yes, you're happy. Happy with your life, with your friends, with your blooming potential within the local gallerist network. Happy when you're with Jeongguk, and happy whenever you think of him, too.

But you're delicate in such a way that happiness feels underserved. As if it will be stolen from you. You're unable to ever fully revel in it for fear of losing it.

Your hesitation is noticed, so Jeongguk meets you halfway. Pulls you close, and wraps his arms around you. Holds you tight. Says, "I think I'm happiest when I'm with you, B."

"You're just saying that," you mumble against his bare chest, and then realise how bloody cold he must be, even if he radiates nothing but warmth. Feel bad for dragging him away from comfort. "Look, let's just go to bed. We're both too tired for this shit. We can talk about it in the morning."

He just nods. Agrees. Follows your lead.

While his body is tired, Jeongguk's mind is not.

When you finally settle into sleep—in his room, this time—he's the one who can't drift off. Just sort of stares at you, and wonders how the fuck something so straightforward is so complicated.

He fails to realise that just because he knows he likes you too doesn't mean you know it.

It's not like he told you. Told you all sorts of lewd shit about your pussy, but never actually told you just how much he adores the way your body rocks a little when you laugh, nor how much he likes the almond-shape that you file your nails into. Has never told you how much he cherishes the fact you challenged him in the way you did on that first Dionysus night. Isn't even sure you remember it.

But he does.

Keeps the memories stored away in his mind where only the fondest of thoughts are allowed to go.

He's never given it much thought, but memories of Hayun go elsewhere. Somewhere between the sections reserved for painful and passive moments. Those sections self-delete the files. It's why he doesn't realise. Doesn't hold onto them.

But he holds on to you when he eventually sleeps.

And when you wake?

Holds you even tighter .

Stretching out a little, you curl back into comfort with him. "Morning."

"Morning, baby."

Oh, god . You're going to die .

He presses a kiss to your head. Hooks his leg over you so that you can't leave.

Yep. Death imminent.

"Sleep okay?" he asks, as if you weren't both outside at ass o'clock debating the very nature of you... 'friendship.'

Surprisingly, you did actually manage to sleep fairly well after it all. Had worn yourself out with all those mental gymnastics of yours.

Adjusting your head to look at him, you hum a confirmation. Spend a moment or so just taking him in.

Eyes shut, his dark lashes splay over the tops of his cheeks. The curves of his face contrast with the harshness of his angles; full cheeks, sharp jaw. Soft lips, hard lip ring. Delicate cupids bow, defined childhood scar along his cheekbone, indented on his freckled skin. A man of complexities, Jeongguk will always confuse you to a certain degree.

"Had a dream about you," he mumbles quietly. Is still half asleep.

"Oh yeah?" You smile, toying with some of his hair.

"Mhmm," he nods, the side of his face rubbing against the soft cotton on the pillowcases. Squeezes you even tighter. God, he loves being with you. "You said you like me."

And suddenly your cheeks flame. You try and squirm away, but he doesn't let you. Just laughs.

Knowing you as intimately as he does, Jeongguk knows you were bullshitting when you said you'd talk about it in the morning. Knows that he has to be the one to mention it, but knows that anything other than jokes about it will make you get all defensive.

"So cute, B," he teases, grip tight around you as you flounder.

"Fuck off!"

"You like me soooo much," he teases, because it's sweet, and it is cute, and it makes him feel all fuzzy inside. The way you're wriggling and trying to get out of his embrace confirms one thing: yes, he would still love you as a worm.

"I like it when you shut up," you scowl, accepting your fate of being trapped in his arms. You kinda hate yourself for admitting it. Kinda feel awful for the fact he's not said it back.

You fail to realise that it's because he's a boy, and is stupid.

But then again, so are you - how could you not know the poor boy is beside himself with giddy excitement over the fact you finally gave him an inclination as to how you feel.

"No," he grins, eyes still closed, arms still tight. "You like me."

"I think you're a tit."

He opens just a single eye. Pulls his head back, and sticks out his bottom lip. "Okay? We both know you like tits"—

" God ."

" Jeongguk , not God, baby," he corrects you. Calls you baby as if there's a ring around your finger and both of your names on a joint lease. "Sex God, yes, but just a mere mortal man unfortunately."

"You're so fuckin' annoying," you grumble—yet when he loosens his grip, your arm slinks around his waist instead.

"Gotta get up," he says. Forces you up with him. Sees your naked body for 0.1 seconds and drags you back to bed with him. Decides, "Breakfast can wait."

Though on a technicality, it could be argued that breakfast is exactly what he has before you eventually surface from his room half an hour later.

Hair half up in a claw clip, one of Jeongguk's shirts french-tucked into your jeans, there's a glow about you as you walk side by side up to the main house. He's talking nonsense about a film you've never seen, and you're just enjoying listening to him. You encourage his enthusiastic points, and promise that you'll watch it and compare notes with him.

By the time you approach the kitchen, everyone else is already there.

"What time do you call this?" Yoongi scolds, but Jeongguk just shrugs. Sort of positions himself in front of you. Reaches behind himself to tuck you a little further out of any judgemental eyes.

"Time you got a watch," Jeongguk deadpans.

Yoongi smiles. Doesn't actually give a shit. Is just teasing. "I've got a watch. It says it's about time you got a new joke."

"Oh, shit," Jeongguk gasps, then reaches into the pocket of his loose-fit jeans. Paired with a white vest and baggy sweatshirt, he's every bit the nineties heartthrob. The chain he always wears is on show, and it drives you a little wild. Rummaging around in his pocket —"I could have sworn I had a new joke in here"— everyone knows what he's gonna do.

They're proven correct when he pulls his hand out of his pocket, his middle finger pointing to the sky.

"You're a child," Namjoon grins.

Jeongguk doesn't deny it. Just beams as he sinks into the sofa, leaving a you-sized space next to him.

You glance over to Danbi, who outstretches her legs to fill the space beside her. Rids you of your options. Smirks in your direction. You're welcome.

Narrowing your eyes in her direction as you take your seat, Jeongguk seemingly abandons all previous restraints he had. Tucks his hand between your legs and holds your knee.

From across the room, Hayun's gaze burns into you.

And yet the soft stroke of Jeongguk's thumb against your legs soothes the scorching arrows she's firing at you.

The rest of the group are embroiled in conversations, the TV also on, so no one notices when you lean over to speak quietly, just loud enough for Jeongguk to hear you.

"Hayun's staring," you tell him, 'cause you've decided that playing it cool has done no one any favours so far.

You're a little bit insane, but Jeongguk already knows this. Likes it. There's no point trying to pretend like you're not just to one-up Hayun. Pretending like you don't care will only serve to hurt you in the long-run.

Jeongguk tilts his head to look at you. Lets a slightly lopsided grin settle on his lips as says, "Well, yeah." His eyes drop to your body, then back up to your lips. Linger for a moment. Finally reach your eyes again. "You look fit as fuck. I'd be staring, too."

"I don't think that's why she's staring."

"Okay," Jeongguk accepts, knowing that even if the conversation is unserious, you've mentioned it for a reason. His hand comes to tuck a little strand of hair behind your ear, then clasps your chin and tilts your head upwards. Gets you looking at him with narrowed eyes and a curious smile. His fingers drop to your collar, tweaking it a little, as he says, "I've had this shirt for years. She probably knows it isn't yours."

"Possession is, like, ninety percent of the law," you assure him, a little pouty, and it takes everything in him not to kiss you.

But you're with friends, and shit is still up in the air, and Jeongguk doesn't understand what the fuck is happening between the pair of you. He thinks you're a thing, but, like, he isn't sure and that makes this whole situation so incredibly messy.

What he does know is that Hayun could be screaming blue murder and he wouldn't give a shit. The more he comes to realise how nice it is to be with someone who actually treats him with an ounce of respect, the more he distances himself from his former feelings.

"Sounds like you're trying to exploit a legal loophole," he counters right back.

"So what if I do?" You say, shamelessly flirting in your quiet corner, friends ignorant. Your stomach is full of butterflies, charging around, wings tickling your insides. "Maybe I'll break the law on purpose."

The way you hold your wrists together and present them to Jeongguk—knowing full well he kinda has this weird thing for wrists—is nothing short of cruel.

He knows exactly what you're insinuating. Knows he'd die to get you in a pair of cuffs. Instead, says, "Behave yourself."

It's no use. He's already got a semi.

Hayun is, at least, now in conversation with Taehyung. Something about the interview she had. You're not listening in.

There's also no need for Jeongguk to drag the flirt out. The primary purpose of it was to distract you. Keep your mind on him. Jeongguks secret weapon to ease your mind is to keep you locked on him.

Works every single time.

"You're trouble, B," he smiles fondly, before getting to his feet.

There's no discussion of where he's going—just through to the kitchen. Wants to adjust his trousers, and could also do with some water. You let him go, not really caring to stop him. Autonomy is a wonderful thing.

Instead, you just join in the conversation at hand: A debate over who won the Jilympics, for it was never declared the day before. You come to Seoyeon's defence. Insist your team won. Know full well you didn't.

When Jeongguk returns, you quickly say, "Right Gguk? You agree with me?"

He's got no fuckin' idea what you're on about. Says, "Yeah. Of course. You're right."

The smugness of your smile lets him know what a grave mistake he just made.

"Gguk!" Namjoon groans.

Jimin just smirks. Keeps the taunt of 'pussy-whipped bitch' to himself.

"What?!"

"His word is final," you assert before any clarification can be given. "Power in numbers. More people think our team won"—

"Wait, what?!"

"Shhh, Gguk, I'm doing important business," you hush him—but suddenly your mouth is covered by his palm.

"Don't listen to her!" He wails. "She's a fraud!"

Naturally, the only thing you can do in this situation is bite his finger.

"Ah— shit . Mother fucker!"

"What Jeongguk means to say is Team Seoyeon won," you smile with such nonchalance that your friends can't help but laugh at how ridiculous and petty both you and Jeongguk are.

Match made in heaven, some would say.

When he sits back down, he just sits straight on you. Is deliberately annoying. Not a single person bats an eyelash. It's expected of him. They've known him long enough to know what he's like. In fact, there are only a few laps in the room that haven't been sat on by Jeongguk and his need to be a petulant brat.

Nobody sees—'cause Jeongguk's obscuring you—but you bite him again. Just the shoulder blade. He's sitting in such a position that you can't move your hands, so it's your only real offensive weapon.

It's cute, Jeongguk thinks. Cute that you think you're strong enough to hurt, and cute that you've chosen to bite him. He turns his head over his shoulder. Mumbles, "Careful. I'm into that."

In all honesty, he's passive when it comes to using teeth in the bedroom. Likes a little bite on occasion, but by no means needs it. Just knows that you'll recoil in disgust, and it'll make him laugh.

You do just as he expects.

And like clockwork, he giggles to himself. Slides off your lap, but remains a little sprawled over you, just 'cause he can be.

Again, no one really pays it much notice.

Instead, the morning crawls on by. There's no attempt to hurry it up. In all honesty, the constant activities have worn everyone out.

If Jeongguk and Hoseok hadn't planned such a chill afternoon, then they would have been tempted to cancel it in favour of chucking a movie on the TV.

Much like your birthday—and actually inspired by it—they get everyone crafting. In this case, it's painting. A couple dozen canvases have been purchased, and the rest of the supplies were sneakily stolen from your place of work by Hoseok. You recognise it all—the brushes, the paints, the aprons—and find yourself laughing.

So often watching other people paint, you never really get the chance to do it yourself. It's a shame, considering how much you enjoy it. You're no Picasso, but you're not bad.

The rules are simple for the activity, so much as the fact that there are no rules. Knowing that their activity would fall towards the end of a busy weekend, the boys had settled on something of a little slower pace.

A playlist of chill songs curated by Jeongguk hums from the speaker in the kitchen, the large glass doors open, turning the lawn and house into a hybrid space. The supplies are kept inside, but you all opt to paint outside.

Laying flat on your tummy, you're painting the view ahead of you. It's all shades of blue and little else, an uninterrupted horizon that extends for miles upon miles.

In a small cluster with Danbi and Hoseok, it's nice to be with your people.

Yoongi and Seoyeon are in their own little world, doing portraits of one another, and Taehyung has roped the rest of the boys into posing for him in human pyramid formation. Jeongguk and Namjoon are stable as the bottom pillars, with Jimin taking the top spot.

You're not really sure what Nabi and Hayun are doing. Choose not to glance their way. It's a shame, because you really do like Nabi.

The awkwardness is beginning to grate on you. All you want is an easy life.

Regardless of the current state of affairs, once upon a time, Hayun had been liked by everyone here. She was a fundamental part of the friendship group. It sort of makes you think that maybe you should make an effort with her.

Not in some lame-ass attempt to be a 'cool' girl. You've already decided that you don't care to be one. Moreso as a white flag. You intend on sticking around, and so you're gonna have to learn to live with one another.

"I'm not saying I want to be besties with her," you tell Danbi. "But it wouldn't hurt to at least try and find some common ground, would it?"

Danbi mulls it over. Isn't so sure. Doesn't really think you should have to make an effort at all.

"Look, I won't lie," you add on when Danbi doesn't respond quickly enough. "She irritates me, but what else am I supposed to do? Can't go through life acting as if she doesn't exist."

"You can," Danbi assures you. "I would."

As much as you know this to be absolutely true, you're just not wired in the same way as Danbi.

The very first night you met Hayun, you were unable to keep your cool. Argued with her over the dumbest shit just because you were so incensed that she had the audacity to question your presence in Jeongguk's life.

Things are different, now.

You're secure in your place. He's made it that way. Made it clear that he puts you above Hayun.

He's trying.

It's only fair that you try, too.

When Jeongguk finally comes to join you, also laying flat on his tummy, but opposite you on the other side of your canvas, you choose against raising the topic. Decide not to tarnish the simplicity of him choosing to be with you now with any negative thoughts.

Not looking at him as you mumble nonsense about nothing, you continue to add hues of blue to the canvas, and don't object when he picks up a thin brush and starts to add pretty little stars in your sky.

Painting has always been a group activity for the pair of you. He can put it in the living room next to your tits.

The afternoon dissolves into an easy state of being. Mindless chatter is paired with the act of quite literally watching paint dry, but no one finds it boring. Respite had been needed, and you're quietly smitten with the fact that Jeongguk is one of the masterminds behind it. So big brain of him. So sexy.

Lazing next to you, paint smeared on his cheeks by your messy fingers earlier that afternoon, Jeongguk really can't be bothered to shower before dinner. Moans and groans, until you say you'll shower with him.

He's up and on his feet, holding a towel by his door within no time at all.

"Chop chop," he tells you, pretty face ever so pleasant. Eyes wide and round, there's something about him—hair dishevelled, skin covered in paint—that just takes you back to the early days. Gets you grinning from ear to ear.

Holding out his hand as you stand, Jeongguk pulls you closer. Presses a teeny tiny kiss to your lips, 'cause he can't ever seem to stop now that the boundary has been broken down.

"We're a mess," you smile against his lips.

Literally and figuratively.

And as you step out of his room, hand in hand with lovesick smiles on your lips, only to find Nabi and Hayun doing their makeup for the evening ahead in the communal sitting room, you realise things are about to get a whole lot messier.

[underatedwords]

notes from fp1 - silverstone

four rookie drivers in this session: ollie bearman for kevin, franco colapinto for logan, jack doohan for pierre and isack hadjar for perez

lots of updates as well: vcarb have a new halo winglet and sauber have new floor fences - to improve airflow

merc have a new rear corner and redbull have a new floor body & edge - to improve local load

aston have new front wing elements and rear corner - to improve airflow and load

haas have a new floor body, fences & edge, new sidepod inlets & engine cover, new mirror stay and rear corner - to improve local load and airflow

mclaren have brought three different beam wings (high, med. and low load) and are testing their front wing

lance struggled initially w/ a long brake pedal, maybe a "bbw [brake by wire] fail" - just needed a electronic reset

red flag, 8 mins in - yuki went wide through brooklands, lost rear grip through luffield and ended up beached in the gravel - recovered, but out of the session

lewis told to aim for "tom and the guys" as he came into the pits - pitlane layout is different here, fan favourites are moved to the middle so they can be seem from the grandstand

isack hadjar was doing lots of tests so his times are not evidence of his ability

jack doohan again had a tricky fp1 - spent a lot of time in the garage bc of a problem w/ the rear left corner, maybe his brake duct

jack also had to avoid two cars ahead who were dawdling on the racing line

charles struggled behind a slow lance which had a knock on effect for carlos behind them, having to slow and swerve

oscar reported "a hydraulics problem" and trundled back towards the pits but stopped in the pit entry road - recovered back to the garage but end of his session

charles had a second issue w/ lance, "i nearly crashed", who was slow at the entry of a highspeed corner

lando had to take massive avoiding action bc isack was also going very slow through a highspeed corner - lando locked his front right, and nearly lost the rear of the car - impeding to be investigated after the session

the mercs, ferraris and redbulls didnt run any softs

most laps - carlos and alonso w/ 27

least laps - yuki w/ 5, isack w/15 and oscar w/18

[justforbooks]

That Beautiful Atlantic Waltz by Malachy Tallack

A shy man leads a solitary existence until a young girl – and a cat – inveigle their way into his apparently contented life in this big-hearted tale

All Jack Paton ever wanted was to be a famous country singer, but somehow it never happened. Certainly, the odds were stacked against him: cripplingly shy, no self-confidence. And although he considers it “a landscape of country music”, it can’t have helped matters that he was born in one of the more windswept corners of Shetland, far from Texas or Tennessee, and has remained there ever since, keeping his dreams to himself.

That Beautiful Atlantic Waltz, Malachy Tallack’s second novel, follows Jack, now approaching his 63rd birthday, as he spends his days pottering about in the cottage he has lived in since he was a child, listening to music, playing guitar and thinking of the past. The narrative flicks between Jack in the present, as he begins to question his life choices, and his parents, Sonny and Kathleen, decades earlier, as they toil in the island’s whaling industry and build the house Jack will later inherit. Like Tallack’s previous novel, The Valley at the Centre of the World, which also focused on life on these isolated islands, the pace is subdued and the action limited. So much so that Jack’s life is thrown into turmoil, and the gentle plot set in motion, by the discovery of an abandoned kitten on his doorstep.

Jack is a simple soul who has led a quiet life. As a boy he was shy and often bullied. As an adult he is shy and thoroughly pitied, his parents having died in a boating accident when he was in his late teens. He has lived alone ever since, working only as much as is necessary to stay afloat – doing “anything that didn’t ask too much of him”. Jack’s laid-back attitude and homely pleasures make him a congenial presence. “The second mug of tea of the day, Jack thought, was usually the best of all.” If he goes for a nice walk, then it’s not long before he’s looking forward to the ginger cake waiting for him when he gets home.

But, as the days have spilled away “like seeds onto concrete”, Jack has begun to feel a sharp pang of regret over what could have been. He wouldn’t say he’s lonely exactly, but perhaps a bit “lonesome” (a word that accords with his country music tastes). Fortunately, the presence of the kitten (named Loretta, after Loretta Lynn) also brings young Vaila, the daughter of his neighbour, to his door, and a friendship blossoms. This prompts some of the book’s sweetest passages, culminating in a surprise birthday party for Jack at Vaila’s mother’s house, with Jack wearing his finest cowboy shirt.

Some may not warm to the cosy atmosphere and trundling narrative (though these are offset somewhat by the blood-and-guts reality of the island’s whaling industry, which is affectingly woven in through the story of Jack’s parents). Long afternoons and evenings are spent in Jack’s living room as, High Fidelity-style, he runs through his favourite country singers (Charley Pride? “Top five, Jack thought. Definitely top five”). The necessity of naming the cat requires a dedicated session of list-making and agonised consideration. More taxing is a slight cutesiness that occasionally creeps in, as when the cat’s thoughts are ventriloquised in conversation with Jack (“Can’t a cat get some peace in her own home?”).

Nevertheless, the book is triumphant in its touching portrayal of Jack, a man unwillingly isolated by his own limitations. Too shy, too slow, too easily overwhelmed, he has spent his life hoping that “he would eventually find himself in the right place at the right time”. But it never happened, and so here he still is: “It was an agonising inertia that put an end to the life he had once almost imagined.” Tallack manages to convincingly capture both Jack’s deep underlying torment and his day-to-day contentedness.

Above all, the book is a celebration of art and music (it is peppered with Jack’s handwritten lyrics) and their power to extend beyond surface limitations. Despite what the other islanders think, Jack contains multitudes. “He became many people when he wrote and sang. He became bigger than himself, and his life became bigger than the one that he had lived.” A round of applause for Jack.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[remembertheplunge]

If you don't help me, I'll sleep in the trash dumpster

October 27, 1986. Monday

I met a guy tonight as I took out the trash. He had a big chain around his neck. He wore a leather coat, and a dragon ring. It was another sad session of “ I have no place to stay, no food. If you don’t help me, I’ll sleep in the trash dumpster. He showed me a box of record albums that he had been carrying around. Into the box I delved. And, there were his worldly possessions: the records (probably hot ((stolen) but maybe not. “They are original 60’s stuff” he said. Also in the box was a Sony walkman (his pride and joy) and an old plaid shirt. These were his things in life. And, as I picked through, he told me that he was a Vietnam War  Veteran. He had been a prisoner of war for 2 years. He was in the service from 1968-1972. He is 36 years old. He has shaggy, shoulder length brown hair and deep, dark, knowing eyes. A good person. He sang he said. His old lady had just thrown him out. “Do you know where F & M records is?” Will you give me a ride?” He asked. 

I went up to get him $5 for a record. I gave him the money. He refused to give me the record. He was demanding $10. I said “honor is at stake here. Give me the record”. He did. The situation was a bit tense.

Last night a man screamed many times “Jesus Christ, fuck you for leaving me in the alley with no food, and to pick through garbage. Fuck you. Do you hear me?”. This went on for some time.

And, the shopping carts trundle by constantly. Even after the Truckbugs chewed down another crashing good breakfast, within minutes, the street people were there to sift the residue.

Footsterps again pass beneath my window. The alley—a river of pain and endlessness and satisfaction. In its eddys and flow, one man’s trash turns to crystals of value for another, the bloom instead of the field. A sad endless march. But, life—no less—and, don’t be fooled. There is a sweet dignity there, beneath my window, and within them, too.

End of this part of the entry

Notes: 5/23/2024

I wrote the above 10/27/1986 entry in my apartment in Sacramento, California. The apartment was on the second floor. An alley ran directly behind the apartment. It had a steady stream of homeless running ing throuhgh it, especially at night.

I think what I meant by "trash bugs chewing down breakfast" was trash trucks dumping the trash dumpster in the alley.

In 1986, I had little interest in the homeless. I didn't sleep in the apartment the first night or two out of concerns about the homeless in the alley. During my time living in the apartment between 1986 and 1987, I had few direct contacts with the homeless in the alley.

But, by March of 2017, a little over 30 years later, I had changed. I could "see" the homeless and they could "see" me. Meaning, we were aware of one another as equal. We were human beings. I call my homeless meetings encounters. And, I find that in the encounter, the homeless heal me. I'll blog more about my experiences with he homeless in future blogs.

[avacynthia]

@auraspheres (continued from here)

Riley's parting remark earns a rare snort of laughter from the champion, her hand cupping the receiver for privacy.

"Hair thingies...very charming as always, Riley. I'll--"

Cynthia's playful retort suddenly gets cut short by a meeting attendee, his muffled interjection accompanied by the sound of footsteps and doors opening in the background. <<Miss Karashina, we're ready to reconvene for the afternoon session now. We appreciate your patience.>> Cynthia can be heard offering courteous thanks from a distance, and then the phone is briefly brought back to her ear, her voice hushed on the line. She's on the move again.

"Sorry about that. I'll be by in a few hours, okay? Can't wait to see you."

--

The Sinnohan sun is dipping behind the horizon when Cynthia alights gracefully on the isolated Iron Island, her Togekiss crooning happily as she lands on the familiar pier. All at once, most of the champion's Pokemon burst from their capsules, sensing that comforting coastal breeze. Garchomp eagerly trundles towards the mine, Lucario trots off toward the island's lone cabin, and Togekiss and Milotic take towards the sunset-dappled sky and sea, respectively. (Roserade is quite happy in her ball, thank you very much, and Spiritomb. Well. She's tethered to the Keystone and all.) Regardless, Riley will know of her arrival soon, as if he didn't sense it already.

In the midst of all this excited scattering, Cynthia merely smiles, absentmindedly readjusting her lengthy hair and jacket from the flight over. Iron Island has long been like a second home to her, unchanged even after all these years due to the efforts of its faithful guardian protector. Her rock and dear, dear friend.

Cynthia exhales and feels the tension start to drain from her shoulders. Time always seemed to slow down here, and she feels more relaxed already. It's good to be back.

[thetruearchmagos]

The Commonwealth Calls

An Excerpt: Steel Clad Coffins

It's back, babyyy!

After fuck knows how long spent trying to put this stupid scene together, I have finally come out of a writing session with something worth sharing, potentially. Hope you like it!

Tagging @theoddcryptid @theprissythumbelina @hessdalen-globe @caxycreations

@vyuntspakhkite-l-darling @avrablake @nerdexer

“All callsigns, this is Choker-Lead. The word is ‘RABID’, I say again, the word is ‘RABID’, clear on!”

About time. Tuning out from the battalion’s frequency without a word, Goyan switched now to the squadron net.

“All units, this is Lead, stand to and prepare to move. Eyes sharp, Hussars — Reitet Voran!”

The bassy thumps of howitzers carried over to Goyan’s ears like drummers of old signalling a charge. Her mind raced, and the dark, the ceaseless mechanical noise, and the growing knot in her gut made it a struggle to keep her wits about herself. Still, she managed, keeping track of landmarks as they passed by in a mental map, and taking in the sporadic radio reports of her fellow officers to keep track of the unfolding battle. Goyan reached for a pair of handheld thermal binoculars from around her neck, and peered into the dark as her squadron filed out.

Soon, gouts of fire and smoke lit up the sky ahead of them, as shell after shell of the furious fusillade came home amidst the streets and buildings of Maladh. The squadron drove on, making a wide arc south and west of the town, drawing to a stop in their pre-planned firing position in the shadow of a shallow hill a kilometre and a half out from Maladh itself. Like they'd been drilled, each of Goyan’s three platoons strung out in a line across the field, slewing their turrets north.

Goyan swept her eyes back and forth across the pitch black field that opened out ahead, first making out a dozen boxy forms trundling in a column across the landscape, then the rising ridge far ahead of them. Naked eyes could only see brush, but the thermals didn't lie, and bright heat spots betrayed enemy vehicles dug in turret-deep, maybe half a dozen, and their infantry rushing frantically into foxholes and dugouts to repel the sudden onslaught.

"Contact right, weapons free! Prioritise missile carriers and launch crews,” Goyan barked on her own ‘net, ducking into the depths of the turret. Seconds later, her squadron’s heavy guns rippled jets of flame and shell out and over the open, followed by flashes of light and dust blooming across the ridge.

“Wheezer, this is Barker!” She said, switching to the battalion’s frequency. “We’ve reached our firing positions, and have eyes on defensive positions.”

“Understood, Barker,” came Captain Jeong’s reply. “Cover us, we’re moving out.”

Tuning in back to her own squadron, Goyan gave her own directions. Third Platoon wheeled down the hill, veering left towards a copse of trees, while its two siblings kept up a fierce barrage. Convenient rises in the terrain, or clusters of structures or trees dotting the landscape were noted as the squadron prepared to leap-frog position by position towards Maladh. In the meantime, Jeong’s dragoons thundered across on the other side of the enemy ridge, racing to reach its own next patch of cover unscathed.

She turned her headset to the vehicle’s internal comms, eyes peering into her own sights to scan the landscape.

“Identify target, soft-skin!” Goyan spat, and with the press of a button the whole turret slewed to the left to where she’d been looking. 

“Eyes on!” came Kopp’s hoarse reply, then “Ready!” from Cochise beside Goyan in the turret as he swung a shaped charge shell down the breech.

“Firing!” Kopp screamed, and the fifty tonne ‘track heaved back and forth under the force of its own gun. The offending infantry carrier that had blundered into Goyan’s sights didn’t know what hit it, detonating in the open and the cook-off sending its turret flying into the air.

[jinxquickfoot]

@badthingshappenbingo prompt: Wiping the Other's Tears Away

Find the fic on Ao3

She meets him at a ballet class.

She’s started attending them every Tuesday and Thursday night whenever she’s not needed at SHIELD. The studio is four blocks away from her apartment. The teacher is German, strict but fair, and Natasha learns to take her critiques in stride. She will not be punished for failure here.

The Widow’s Veil and wig are applied before she steps out her front door. She chooses the face of a woman with a square jaw and an unfashionable haircut, reveling in the idea of being plain. Invisible. Being no one at all.

Until she notices him watching her.

He’s not tall. His forehead barely reaches above hers when they pair off to practice lifts. His voice is too loud. He has dropped her twice.

He makes her laugh, though.

She learns that his name is Victor. She learns that he’s divorced, no children. She learns that he wanted them, she didn’t. She learns that he likes Italian food. She learns he misses the last class of every month to go to his niece’s recital. She learns how he moves. She lets him learn how she moves.

He asks her to go for coffee with him.

Two weeks later, she quits the class and never goes back.

Tony has long ago given up on keeping ‘regular’ hours.

It was a habit that always annoyed his parents—staying up inventing until four in the morning and then sleeping in until two in the afternoon. Boarding school had tried to correct him, with staff dragging him out of bed in the wee hours and his roommates slamming him with harsh words when he tried to keep the lights on too late. Girlfriends had left, time and time again, sure that his unwillingness to lie beside them at night denoted his lack of feelings.

His routine is easier these days, now that he has access to research on how ADHD affects sleep patterns. He and Pepper keep separate bedrooms for the nights when he can’t get himself to nod off. The other Tower residents know to leave him alone when he’s in his workshop. He lets DUM-E and U and Butterfingers trundle around him for company as he works, only laying aside his tools to visit the Tower’s kitchen for a midnight snack.

It’s not all that uncommon to run into another Avenger there. The serum means Steve needs less sleep than the rest of them. He’s often up early when Tony is up late, preparing for a run to chase away the ghosts of the past. Clint’s insomnia might even be more chronic than Tony’s, to the point where Tony has laid aside a workbench just for trick arrows so they can sip coffee and work side-by-side without the expectation of conversation.

Finding Bruce is always the hardest. It’s been over a year now, and no matter how Tony and the others try to assure him he’s safe at the Tower, still the nightmares persist.

This is the first time Tony has found Natasha there.

He freezes in the doorway. This isn’t a careful question to make sure Steve has everything he needs, or the understanding nod he exchanges with Clint, or the squeeze he gives Bruce’s shoulder. The scents of honey and ginger drift across the space, Natasha’s shoulders slumped over a steaming cup of tea.

Then he hears the sniffle.

His first urge is to turn right back around and go back to his workshop. Of all the Avengers, even Steve, he had had the rockiest start with Natasha. After everything that had gone down with Stane, it still stings that his first few weeks with ‘Natalie’ had been a ruse to uncover his secrets. Even now, she’s the only Avenger he doesn’t spend time with one-on-one. He certainly doesn’t feel qualified to interrupt a midnight crying session.

Then she looks up, and their eyes meet, and any thought he has of fleeing evaporates. “Got room for one more?”

He half-expects her to tell him to get lost. Instead, she indicates the chair opposite her. “It’s your kitchen.”

“Our kitchen. My coffee pot though, I don’t care what claim Barton thinks he has to it.” He makes his way over to said pot, clearing out the dregs and dumping them in the trash to make a fresh brew. “Want one?”

“You got a decaf option?”

He mimes offense. “What, are we centenarians?”

“No, those would be the two blond ones with muscles constantly trying to outdo each other.”

Tony huffs, trying to locate a clean mug. “Members of this team attempting to upstage everyone else? Impossible. I wouldn’t know anything about that.” He gives up and fishes a cup out of the dishwasher, using the movement as a cover to get a better look at Natasha. The lights in the kitchen are all off, and he can only see the outline of her face by the moonlight streaming in through the window. It’s enough to see that her eyes are puffy, though.

Washing up the cup and pouring the coffee gives him an excuse to turn away, preparing his next words. Then, feeling as though he’s stepping out onto a tightrope he tries, “Do you want to talk about it?”

She doesn’t shrug him off. He takes the chair opposite her, careful not to crowd her space. “I was on a date tonight.”

Whatever Tony's expecting to hear, it isn’t that. “And he, what, turned out to be an enemy agent? A Life Model Decoy? Several armadillos in a trench coat?”

Even in the dim light, he can see her lips twitch. “No,” she replies softly. “He was normal. Completely and utterly normal.”

“How dare he.”

“I know, right?” She brushes her thumb against the side of her cup, any traces of a smile gone.

"Do we have to send the brigade after him? You know how Steve feels about the boys who aren’t proper gentlemen to their dames.”

“It wasn’t him,” she murmurs. “It was me.”

“You know,” Tony breaks the long silence that follows. “Never really pictured you of all people having dating troubles. Thought you wrote the book on seduction tactics. Saw a few myself when you pulled them out on yours truly. Not bad, Widow.”

She finally looks straight at him. “I never apologized to you, did I?”

Tony shrugs that off. “You had a job to do. I’m alive because of it. I’m hardly complaining.”

“Fury would disagree on the hardly complaining part of that statement.” She swirls the tea around, not taking a sip. Tony suddenly wonders if she had just wanted something warm to hold between her hands.

Tony glances around the kitchen. “Still. I’m probably not your first choice of nighttime beverage buddy. Well, we all make do with what we got.”

But Natasha shakes her head. “I can’t imagine talking dates with Bruce or Steve would go particularly well.”

That Tony can understand. He’s more than once walked in on Steve looking mournfully at the black and white photo of Peggy Carter tucked into his compass. And from the lack of a certain Betty Ross seen around the Tower, Tony’s going to bet that flame has long been extinguished. “Clint?”

“That’s… complicated.”

“Because you two were…?”

“It’s complicated.” Natasha’s tone makes it clear that door is closed.

“So you’re stuck with me.”

Natasha reaches out to take his wrist. Her palm is warm from the mug. “No one’s stuck with you, Tony.”

Whatever words he was going to stay next stick in his throat. They sit in silence for a little longer, as Natasha’s hand slowly cools against his skin.

“I could make him fall in love,” she says finally. “I saw all the ways I could break him down. Every weakness I could exploit, every opportunity to make him let me in.”

“Sounds… efficient.”

Natasha freezes, and then swiftly takes her hand back. “Yes,” she whispers. “I’m efficient.”

Tony’s dated Pepper long enough now to know when he’s said something incredibly stupid. “Sorry.”

“It’s true. I could make myself the only woman he thinks about for the rest of his life.” Her hands tighten on the mug. “I just have no idea how to make him fall in love with me.”

Tony clears his throat, shifting in his chair. Romantic advice is well out of his wheelhouse, thank god Rhodey is asexual, and there isn’t much decent counsel he can pull from his own disastrous years in the dating pool. “I don’t think you make people fall in love with you,” he tries. “I think it just kind of… happens after you spend enough time with them. I think that might be the point of dating. Or, you know, hiring enough personal assistants until you find the one that decides to stick around.”

Natasha stares into her tea. There’s no more steam rising from the mug as the liquid goes cold. “He didn’t even know my real name. Not the best foundation to build a relationship on.”

Tony manages a smile. “I don’t know, I think you and me are doing okay, all things considered.”

She lifts her head to look at him. “Are we?” she asks quietly. “Doing okay? You don’t trust easily to begin with, and then I lied to you.”

“And told Fury I shouldn’t be an Avenger, I got the CliffNotes. You know your little personality assessment came during the week I was dying, right? Think that may have been responsible for a few outliers in your data.”

“I didn’t know you then. You… weren’t what I expected.”

Tony decides to steer the conversation back into safer waters. “Well, maybe you don’t know this guy either. Maybe he’ll surprise you.”

“No, he won’t. People surprise me once a decade. Clint got the last one. You get this one.” She sighs. “So maybe 2020 is the year to try dating again.”

“Or maybe you’ll get a bonus surprise. You never know. If I found someone that’s lasted longer than a month, maybe there’s hope for anyone.” He snaps a loose thread off his t-shirt, watching the material snag. “What made you give this guy a chance, anyway?”

Natasha is quiet for a long moment before she closes her eyes, fresh tears spilling from under her lids. “It was just nice having someone to dance with.”

Tony’s moving before he’s even fully aware of what he’s doing, and reaches over to wipe the next tear off Natasha’s face. He freezes the moment he realizes what he’s done, sure he’s crossed a boundary when she goes still. Then, she slumps sideways and puts her head on his shoulder.

He’s not sure how long they sit like that. He doesn’t move though, managing for once to hold his tongue until Natasha’s ready to sit up, using the sleeves of her sweatshirt to dry her face.

“Your tea’s gone cold,” Tony remarks, not sure what else to say. “Do you want me to make you another one?”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t come in here for tea.”

Tony’s suddenly struck by the image of Natasha Romanoff sitting alone in a dark kitchen, waiting god knows how long for the off-chance one of her friends would find her there.

“So, someone to dance with, huh?” Tony clicks the side of his watch, lighting up the face. The time reads 1:48 a.m. “So—were you planning on sleeping anytime soon?”

Natasha eyes him, more curious than wary. “You got a better offer?”

“I can one hundred percent say, without the shadow of a doubt that yes, I do.”

She doesn’t ask where Tony’s driving them. It’s so rare that she gets to relax in a passenger seat without worrying about the destination. Rock music blasts over the speakers as Tony steers them into an underground parking lot, the door opening automatically as the Audi approaches. Tony nudges the car into a parking spot, several other ostentatious vehicles keeping it company. “Ready?”

“You know, usually it’s me acting all cryptic.”

“Thought I’d give you the night off. Come on.” He leads her through a door in the side of the building and down a corridor, all ragged concrete and graffiti, until they approach a second door well within the building. Now, she can hear the thump thump thump of music; a heartbeat reverberating off the walls.

“Tony.” She glances down at her athleisure gear and sweatshirt, suddenly all too aware she hadn’t even brushed her hair before they left. “I’m not dressed for a nightclub.”

“No one will care.” Tony gestures at his own ragged t-shirt and grease-stained jeans. “That’s the whole point of this place.” He gives a jaunty wave to the camera propped above the door. “You got a phone on you?”

“With what pockets?”

“Any kind of camera?” Tony presses. “Now is not the time for hidden spyware, Widow. SHIELD tech or not, these guys will find it.”

“Nothing. It’s my night off.” The door swings open, the beat of the music intensifying as Natasha is greeted with a staircase lit entirely in red.

“Little further,” Tony prompts her, offering her his arm. She takes it, following his lead. He guides her to yet another door, this one guarded by a man twice her size. He runs a metal detector over first her, then Tony, before nodding in approval and pushing open the third and final door.

It opens onto a packed dance floor.

None of the other patrons pay the slightest bit of attention when Tony Stark enters the room. “No cameras,” Natasha remarks, taking in the club. It was small, the dance floor surrounded by a handful of booths, only a third of which were filled as every other body in the room moved to the beat as one.

“And no unwanted attention,” Tony says, leaning down so he can be heard over the music. “If you see someone you recognize here tonight, no you didn’t.” He reaches out his hand. “May I have this dance, Miss Romanoff?”

Smiling, Natasha takes it. She lets Tony pull her into the crowd of bodies and, together, they dance until dawn.

[aquadestinyswriting]

Fight or Flight

Summary: Having lost one battle already, Meredith and friends are being transported back to Toreguarde. Unfortunately one member of the opposition sees fit to make sure they never make it back

Words: 775

Tags: @druidx, @sparrow-orion-writes , @homesteadchronicles, @warriorbookworm, @mariahwritesstuff, @writeblrsupport, @ashirisu, @thesorcerersapprentice, @blind-the-winds, @philosophika, @the-down-upside-finch @flashfictionfridayofficial

Warnings: bodily harm tw, fire tw, character death tw

Notes: First person POV. Based on one of the very early sessions of the campaign.

I grumble as I look out of the window of the carriage we’re trundling back to Toreguarde in. As much as I wanted to go back to drag Elowyn out of the cell she’s put herself in –bloody stupid woman. I shouldn’t have let her go on that ‘restroom break’ by herself – I really didn’t want to be chucked in with her. At least we’re, mostly, alive. Though I have no idea what I’m going to tell Elowyn once we’re thrown in alongside her. It doesn’t exactly inspire much confidence in our ability to bust back out again given how easily we were forced to surrender.

Moradin’s balls, the manacles on my wrists are too tight. I grumble some more and open my mouth to complain at the road warden trotting alongside, when I feel the window on the opposite side slide open. The face of our betrayer pops into view, his expression dark. 

“You made your choice.” He mutters before shattering the lit lantern closest to the window, causing the embers to catch the upholstery. So that’s how the little bastard wants to play it, is it? 

Luckily the roadwardens seem to be of the opinion that the carriage being on fire is a problem since we immediately stop and calls go out for water. I cough as I watch Alponse shoulder the door in an attempt to get it open, but it doesn’t budge. I get up to assist, trying not to hack up my lungs as smoke fills the interior of the carriage. 

Flames erupt all around us with an angry roar. I feel a brief dampness on my back seconds before the fire catches onto my vestments and hair. I only barely catch an angry voice exclaiming something over the alarmed shouts and screams of my friends before I’m sent tumbling out of the suddenly open carriage door.

I roll in the damp grass, grateful that it wasn’t bone dry. Luckily, there’s enough moisture to put out the fire on my vestments before I can get too badly burned. I struggle to sit, just in time to see Stringwhiskers – the little ratman that had been following our group these last few weeks– crawl forward a few inches only to stop and lie utterly still. I freeze, my laboured breath catching in my throat. I gingerly lift the sleeve of my vestment to my nose. Lamp oil. 

That traitorous, lying, fespar, saagy, Beskur! I feel a surge of righteous fury build in my chest, but it starts to gutter as I look over to Lorcian. The half elf looks so broken as he gently picks up Stringwhisker’s body. He’s also fairly burnt himself. Perhaps fighting our way out of this isn’t the best idea? We’re outnumbered and I have no idea if the roadwardens are even in on what Daraja had planned.  Not to mention the fact that we had tried fighting earlier and lost. Badly. 

I make to stand only to tumble back to the floor, a searing pain flaring in my side as a crossbow bolt punches into my hip. Panic grips me and I do the only thing I can think of through the pain and roll to my knees and pray as hard as I can.

Moradin. Help me!

I feel a large surge of power move through the magical weave of the world, then hear a raspy cough and a groan. Hang on. I know that groan. I jerk up my head just in time to see the previously deceased, hulking form of Enezeage stir and sit up. The last vestiges of a golden radiance dimming as he comes back to the world of the living. I hear a second gasp not too far away and look over in time to see Alphonse stir and groggily sit up as well. I wait a moment, expecting to hear a third, only to be met with silence. My heart drops slightly, but I’m not about to complain. It’s miracle enough that Moradin saw fit to return Enezeage and, presumably, Alphonse to us. I look back to Enezeage, who’s already charging towards Daraja and the rangers he’d bought out to deal with us. I catch a glimpse of the back of a huge, stout figure clad in armour. My eyes go wide as the image of Moradin himself looks back at me and winks, before vanishing.

I don’t have time to truly process what just happened. More arrows and crossbow bolts fly in my direction, and several find their mark. Alright, so fight it is. As soon as I can wrangle my hands free to cast a bloody healing spell.

[miasmaghoul]

There is so much talk of creaming jorts on my blog right now and you know, it gave me a devious idea:

Mountain (or another ghoul of your choosing ofc, but it is still march haha) is getting close to the start of a rut, which has them feeling a little posessive a packmate pre-ritual. Like he needs to claim them a little to scratch the itch under their skin. What if they were having a sneaky make out session before curtain call and he unbuckled the others belt, creamed into their jorts undies and buckled them back up, just in time for them to feel him all ritual?

Gross.

I love it.

Leaned more into the possessive side of things, hope you don't mind!

(This has been sitting in my drafts for months I'm SO SORRY pretend it's still March shhhh)

Mountain breathes deep through his nose, trying to focus on the book in his hand as the van trundles down the road toward tonight's venue. It's some pulpy crime novel he'd grabbed at the last airport they visited, something intended to distract more than entertain, but despite being more than halfway through it Mountain couldn't name a single character if he tried.

He can't help it. Can't think about anything but the way every inch of him has started to buzz, how the very air around him hums.

There's a specific sort of pressure in the back of his head. Rigidity in the muscles along his spine. A disquieting tingle that's come to settle into his gut. It all speaks to one thing, and it couldn't be coming at a worse time.

It had started last night, a sharp spike of nearly painful arousal that had hit him in the middle of the night. Had roused him from an otherwise very sound sleep and jolted him so badly that the oversized ghoul had hit his head on the ceiling of his bunk. It hardly registered, Mountain honed in exclusively on the sudden, urgent need for release.

Rock hard and leaking already, he'd wasted no time in shoving his hands into his sleep sweats, gripping himself and pumping his hips into the tight channel of both fists. Forced to bite his tongue to mute the harsh groan threatening to escape his throat when he blew in a matter of seconds, eyes shut so tight that colors bloomed behind his lids.

It happened again in the bus shower this morning, Mountain struck by a wave of need so intense that he'd doubled over and nearly slipped. He'd lasted a little longer that time, not that he'd needed to, and the wet sound of his soapy hand flying over his cock still echoed in his ears. That one had left him dizzy, left him panting against the shower wall while he watched his load swirl down the drain.

There really are few things worse than an unexpected rut.

He knows that the others know, but most of them don't acknowledge it. He'd caught them all staring at different points, nostrils flared, but they were quick to look away. Dew, Rain, Cirrus and Cumulus did their best to be sly about it, furtive glances cast during casual conversation. Aeon and Aurora weren't quite so subtle - he could smell the pair of them from down the length of the bus. Could see Aeon getting chubby in his too-tight jeans and Aurora squeezing her thighs together. Both tempting in their own ways, to be sure.

But then there was Swiss.

Swiss, who he'd heard noisily tugging at himself in the bunk below while he came down from his first orgasm.

Swiss, who had been standing bright-eyed and grinning just outside the bathroom after Mountain's shower.

Swiss, who had spent the entire morning tossing him hungry glances and touching him at every possible opportunity.

Swiss, who now sits pressed tightly to his side in the cramped van while Mountain does his damnedest to ignore the heat of his body, the spice of his cologne and the weight of the hand on his knee.

Mountain can hardly think for how badly he wants. Wants to wrench Swiss's arm behind his back, get a hand in his hair and shove his tongue down his throat. Wants to tug Swiss into his lap in front of everyone and feel him up, wants to suck deep, dark marks into his neck while he grinds against his ass. Wants to get Swiss's strong legs over his shoulders, wants to get so deep inside that Swiss can't do anything but writhe and beg for his -

"You're growling, big guy," Swiss informs him, voice silken gravel, and Mountain nearly tears his book in half. He gives the other ghoul a sidelong glance, and Mountain knows that if they weren't glamoured Swiss would be smiling with every fang in his mouth. "Somethin' on your mind?"

Mountain doesn't deign to answer him, instead choosing to stare at the page he hasn't turned in the last ten minutes. To pretend his dick isn't hard as granite and leaking into the two pairs of too-tight underwear he'd shoved himself into.

He's first out of the van when they finally pull up to the amphitheater, sucking down heavy lungfuls of fresh, summertime air in an effort to clear his head. To wash away the heady scent of smoky whiskey, black pepper and bitter herbs stuck in his nose. To allow himself to think about anything but the familiar warmth of Swiss's body.

About the way he always holds himself open when Mountain bends him over. The way he moans in that deliciously whorish way when Mountain pushes in. The way Swiss's voice drops to a rasp and his breathing goes shallow when Mountain grips those narrow hips with bruising force. The way he grabs at his own hair when Mountain fucks him just right. The way Swiss's pretty little hole stretches around his -

"Mount!"

Rain's voice shakes him from his stupor, and as his cock pulses and leaks to memories of Swiss, Mountain hurries over to join his packmates. Rain gives him a worried look.

"Hey, you alright?" He reaches out to touch Mountain's arm, but seems to think better of it. Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest. "I know you're, uh..." he makes a vague southward gesture, "...struggling."

"I'm fine," Mountain grumbles, not so subtly adjusting himself and hoping he hasn't soaked a wet spot into his jeans. He catches a whiff of warm spice and old weed, and as Swiss breezes past them Mountain can practically feel his pupils narrow.

Rain seems less than convinced when Mountain proceeds to crack his knuckles, but he drops the subject nonetheless. They head inside together, and Mountain does his best to put on his game face.

He still stops in a bathroom along the way, unable to erase the image of Swiss stretched and keening from his mind. He spills into the toilet with the other ghoul's name on his tongue, and huffs out an irritated sigh when no relief follows.

This is going to be a very long show.

Still though, the hours between arrival and showtime pass in a blur. Soundcheck comes and goes, as do their myriad meetings with venue staff and conversations with their techs.

Through it all, Mountain can feel golden eyes boring into him. In the halls, on stage, in the dressing room. Mountain does his best to ignore the weight of Swiss's gaze as he applies his face paint, but the only other thing he can think of is the red-hot tangle of urgency between his legs. He meets Swiss's eyes in the vanity mirror as he slips on his helmet, the other ghoul peering at him over Rain's shoulder while they chat across the room.

He offers a wink through his lenses, and Mountain's balls ache.

The call comes for ten minutes til showtime, and the others make their way from the dressing one by one. Swiss doesn't so much as move from his position against the wall. Mountain can feel his breaths coming quicker as Aurora and Cumulus share a sideways hug, the door clicking shut behind them, and then they're alone.

They're alone, and Swiss grins.

Mountain's across the room in two stride, and before Swiss can so much as breathe he's pinned to the wall by his throat. Mountain snarls in his face, leaning in until he can feel Swiss' breath on his lips, hot and tobacco tinged.

"Why must you always insist on being such a fucking tease?"

Swiss' lips curl up at the corners despite the pressure on his neck, and something predatory prickles at the back of Mountain's mind.

"Not my fault you're thrown' off pheromones like crazy," he said, just a little strained. Swiss rolls his hips towards his pelvis and Mountain's stomach gives a mighty swoop. "Can't blame me for wanting a taste."

Swiss licks at the air, breathes deep, and Mountain squeezes his throat so tight his eyes roll back.

"Can't even ask for what you want, can you?" The taller ghoul's other hand finds Swiss' belt and Mountain unbuckles it with aggresive fingers. He knows he's growling as best he can through his glamour, and the way Swiss shivers says he gets the message. "Too stupid to use your words? Just have to be a fucking tease about it?"

Swiss gives him a hurried nod as he swallows against the pressure of Mountain's palm, and he grunts when Mountain yanks his pants and briefs down in one go. A rough hand gropes his rapidly thickening cock, and Swiss visibly winces, eyes bright.

"Don't make that face." Mountain pulls his hand from Swiss' growing chubby to unzip his own pants, to fish himself out through his already stained briefs. "You asked for this." He groans at his own touch, cock hot and heavy in his hand. He smears the wet tip of it over Swiss' shaft and the sensation wrenches a moan from him.

Swiss licks his lips, nods again as his eyes drift south, and as Mountain starts to stroke himself he chokes out a pained huff. Mountain's hold on the other ghoul's throat never slackens, not even as his chest starts to heave while his cock jumps. He pulls at himself with firm tugs, each one sounding slicker than the last. Swiss lets his helmet thud back against the wall, hands coming up to rest on Mountain's forearm. He rocks forward and Mountain growls, can't keep himself from pressing closer. From crowding Swiss to the wall and bumping his fat cock with every pass of his fist.

"I'm going to give you something special." They're close enough that Swiss's breath clouds his lenses. Mountain's balls are starting to go tight already, the tension settled into every part of his body melting into tingly heat that has his shoulders sagging. "Something to think about while you're dancing like a whore for all those people."

He works himself hard and fast, the urgent heat in his veins threatening to set his skin alight. Swiss's ignored cock bobs and bounces, the other ghoul gripping his choking arm tight and spitting tight curses through clenched fangs every time Mountain nudges it.

"Touch me," Swiss manages to spit, blunt nails digging through his shirt. He bucks as best he can, but all that accomplishes is a brief bump against Mountain's fist. "Mount - Mount you gotta -"

He gurgles when Mountain squeezes him into silence, huffing while he polishes his leaking tip.

"Shut up," he bites out, teeth clenched chest heaving. "Sluts don't get to make demands."

For once in his life, Swiss keep his mouth shut.

It's no time at all before Mountain's balls draw up, his hips twitching in animalistic jerks. He grunts with every stroke, brow knit behind his mask, and the closer he gets the better Swiss's strained gurgling sounds.

"Gonna make sure they all know you're mine."

Swiss's cock spits a blurt of pre that hits his stroking hand, and with an impossibly deep moan Mountain shoots in thick ropes that splatter against his cock, balls and muscular thighs. Heavy streaks that cling to heated skin and coarse hair. That leave him filthy and marked in a way that has Swiss's knees wobbling. Mountain doesn't release his throat until his cock dribbles its last, and the deep, starved breath Swiss sucks in is musc to Mountain's ears.

He steps away while Swiss catches his breath and struggles to keep his legs under him, heads back to vanity to clean himself up. He hisses as the hand towel he finds scratches at his sensitive flesh, and in the mirror Swiss catches his eyes once more.

"Just gonna leave me like this?" Swiss pants, gesturing at his flushed, messy cock. He sounds surprised, and Mountain really can't imagine why. A pearly stripe drips, beads up to leave a stain in his undies that has Mountain drooling.

"Deal with it," he rumbles in response, tucking himself away and fastening his belt. "I want to smell it on you tonight."

He has the pleasure of watching Swiss' eyelids droop behind his lenses at the timbre of his voice, rich with intent. Mountain grabs his sticks and heads to join the others, and the sound of Swiss's zipper makes him smirk. There's something deeply satisfying about leaving him sticky and wanting, and even though he's hard again halfway through Kaisarion Mountain finds it easy to lose himself in his musicmaking.

Until Watcher in the Sky comes up and he makes the mistake of peeking over at Swiss's platform while Dew's guitar wails. Finds him on his knees and elbows with his ass in the air.

As both of his sticks splinter in half, Mountain swears he's going to make Swiss cry tonight.

It's what the slut deserves.

[heartsoftruth]

Lewis Hamilton after qualifying P7 in the Sprint Shootout | 29.07.23

Not happy about it, obviously. It was a really fun session. Then I had that lap that put me P1. I could have been quicker. I reckon I could have been P1 or P2. The communication was pretty poor in that session. There was a lot of car trundling around. We thought we didn't have any more time left, but we did. Then obviously with George... Like yeah... Moment with George: what was that? “I mean, I was letting him… well , it doesn’t really matter.” How you feeling in the car? I feel great in the car – in all conditions. We’re a little bit slower than the Bulls, in the middle sector; but none of us have driven on the heavier fuel so… I’m excited that it’s drying today so hopefully we’ll have a good race.”

Expectations for Sprint? To go forward!

[thistransient]

- So I went to the Taiwanese trial class with my friend. It was taught by a little old lady who was nice enough but gave me some mild flashbacks to those harrowing weeks with the Mandarin teacher of a similar age. Most of the session was her explaining the history of 台語 in Taiwan, with a side of trying to force the 8 tones and counting from 1 to 10 upon us via rote memorization. I felt a bit frustrated and not entirely thrilled, my friend was miffed that the school hadn’t explained the price they quoted was for the trial class only. We’ve decided to give it a pass and try a different school, although our scheduled trial there is on hold on account of the teacher falling ill. In the meantime my friend has begun to contemplate taking group Japanese class instead (as his partner and her kid are Japanese), which is much more widely available. I am tempted. Do I need to start half-assedly learning yet another language? Probably not. Do I want to divert my energy from Mandarin to whole-assedly learn Japanese? Also not really. Is there a high chance of following through nonetheless? At least I’m self-aware about it...

- Job applications here largely require a photo, and I need a haircut but I’m afraid to go back to the place I went in August for the big chop. The guy started cutting it while wet, then broke out the blow-dryer and kept snipping til he was satisfied, but because my hair is curly and I do not own styling product more complicated than a comb, it reverted immediately to a vague dandelion shape and took several months to actually resemble the reference photo I’d provided. The thought keeps crossing my mind to simply shave my head entirely. I had it buzzed to a 3 some ten years ago after a dye-job gone wrong and did not enjoy my appearance. Of course I look different now, and hair grows back, but the struggle between wanting the catharsis and radical change (not to mention less mess in the shower drain strainer) of a head-shave, and fearing the hassle of growing it all back out if I do truly detest it is raging inside of me.

- After coming back from Korea I may have spent one whole day languishing in bed and eating spoonfuls of peanut butter as a meal before slowly reconvening daily activities. I have been meeting some friends and going out, but I end up needing one day of hermit-like recovery for every outdoor social endeavour. I have yet to implement any kind of proper schedule (beyond “try to eat three meals and go outside at least once”), leading my friends to recommend I start by contemplating my greater, overarching goals for life. Every few years I come round to the notion of attempting a STEM degree (which would require redoing undergrad, but, as they say, “the time will pass anyways”). I think it would be really engaging to do a program taught in Chinese, and possibly motivate me to overcome my deficiencies in the math department, which is what always puts me off the whole scheme. Scientific terms are so much simpler in Mandarin because they’re extremely 顧名思義 (just as the name implies); English really shot itself in the foot with all the Greek and Latin. I don’t even need to check the dictionary to figure out 光合 means ‘photosynthesis’... Will I actually follow through with this, and live out my days happily studying trees and avoiding small talk with humans, or will I continue to trundle through life intermittently trying to teach English between bouts of autistic burnout? When I put it that way, the answer seems obvious, but this is without factoring in all the bugs that live in trees... Also wasn’t I trying to convince myself to go to grad school for what, translation? linguistics? library science? something? just a few months ago? Maybe overarching life goals are a red herring at present, and I should just get a job first and then see what kind of things I’m interested in when I have consistent disposable income to pursue them at length.

- I am, at the ripe old age of my mid-30s (I’m rounding up since my birthday is next month- again, so soon??) being forced to reconsider what it means to like someone. Perhaps on account of being socially inept and spending all of my formative years in Catholic school, I took for granted that it was that painful, infatuated pining one feels for attractive strangers or casual acquaintances who generally don’t reciprocate. In the past couple years I began to experience the strange phenomenon of having great affection for friends I’d gotten to know slowly and who became increasingly physically appealing as time wore on, but I wrote this off as Mystery Emotion X because it lacked that frantic obsession I was accustomed to. Now I suspect this may simply be a healthy manifestation of romantic attraction. I’ve often struggled with exactly what identity label the intersection of my gender, attraction pattern, and neurodivergency might land me under. I think the plot is thickening... but I will put off pursuing further clarity by going to the BDSM bar instead.

[krispyweiss]

Rewind: The Crusaders - Crusaders 1 (1972)

Though they dropped the word Jazz from their name, the Crusaders were still immersed in the genre when they retooled and re-emerged with their abbreviated moniker and Crusaders 1 in 1972.

As much funk and soul as jazz, this 75-minute instrumental LP remains relevant 50 years and some months on. This second debut arrived 11 years after the Jazz Crusaders’ initial debut and finds the group incorporating elements of what preceded it while intuiting sounds that would come to the fore as the ’70s unfolded.

Carole King’s still-new “So Far Away” gets a complete overhaul on this one. While the band returns to the telltale theme occasionally across the 11-minute runtime, the musicians basically rewrote the thing in the Crusaders’ image; a gutsy move that pays off handsomely.

The Crusaders’ original four - Joe Sample (keys), Stix Hooper (drums) Wilton Felder (bass, sax) and Wayne Henderson (trombone) - were kings of building around the groove with the rhythm section burrowing deep in the pocket on tracks such as “That’s How I Feel” and “Three Children.” The funky guitar foreshadows disco and causes the listeners to experience sympathetic wrist pain with the sessions’ axeman - Larry Carlton, Arthur Adams and David T. Walker - even as the mind swims in sweet sound.

Despite the Crusaders’ revamped calling card and their newfound stylistic variety, this is still jazz. But unlike the fusion that would come along presently - and 1 is not that - this new-sound band trundles its way toward a new crossroads that was being constructed in studios across the a United States around this time.

Grade card: The Crusaders - Crusaders 1 - B+

2/5/23

[leam1983]

The Poetry of Bodies

Shark Tank is on, but I'm not watching. The volume's turned way down. I'm sitting in Walt's lap, and he's pulled me into an ebb and flow of deep kisses, with no real expectation of anything further.

His hands and arms are bracing my back as he does, and he stops only to part an arm to receive Sarah on his other knee. They kiss just as deeply, just as slowly. The triangle then completes itself as Sarah cradles my head and kisses me, with Walt looking on in absolute tenderness.

For the next twenty minutes, we nuzzle and kiss without any specific order, and without any need to hurry. I rest my forehead against's Sarah's, grin and whisper. "I love that Green Lantern shirt on you," I tell her. She grins back.

"I know."

Thick and warm fingers brush my cheek. Slowly, I lean my side into Walt's chest and press my nose into his double chin.

"I love that specific red necktie of yours," I tell him. "I love the pinky rings you wore today."

"I wore them for you," he softly replies. "The both of you." A few moments later, he thanks me for our impromptu cigar break over lunchtime and thanks Sarah for the fried bananas.

Contented silence stretches into place, Walt sitting up a little too straight, for once, to be able to let go and conk out. His eyelids are heavy, but I can tell his appreciation of the moment is numbing him to his own habits. He's had a few weeks to fill in his mustache, but it's still more of a chevron than a walrus; if a very fuzzy one.

"It's been lasting for a few days," he then adds, "since the latest therapy session, actually; but I don't think I've ever been this happy before in my life. We're running a tiny business from a flat we split the rent in threes for, and I feel like I'm riding off of a million-dollar payout. Something doesn't fit," he jokes.

Silence again. All we do is exchange glances. One look has Walt help Sarah scooch closer, another glance sees me getting the same treatment. One voice command later, the lights are at their absolute lowest. None of us move so much as a finger.

Even awake, Walt has the deepest breaths of all three of us. Each of them feels like a love declaration.

I stop counting his breaths. Eventually, he speaks again, his voice now resolutely sluggish with encroaching sleep. "I don't think we'd qualify as alive even if you added all three of our blood pressure readouts together. We're the coolest cats on the block."

I can't help but laugh. Right on, Daddy-O. Despite that, Walt needs another five or six minutes to bring himself to some semblance of movement.

"Sleepy, sport?"

I definitely am. We kiss and hug Sarah, wish her good night, remind her for the nth time that she's welcome to slip into bed with us whenever she wants, and then trundle to bed.

Walt's eyes turn small and beady almost instantly, as though there were some sort of gentle masochism in pushing back the urge to just drop right then and there. In the early days, Walt sometimes slept in his clothes and with the covers on, proving that there's a measure of fetishism to his sartorial sense. Now, however, there's a kind of quietly orgiastic feel to the way he follows his nighttime routine, letting himself hover just above somnambulism as he quietly mutters while removing his pinky rings and slowly, carefully undoing his tie. I kick off my shoes wherever on my side of the bed, he carefully lays his Oxfords next to the bedside table and refuses to toss his clothes aside. I'm already in bed that he's still hanging up his suit jacket and inspecting his vest to see if it could pass another weekday. He undoes his dress shirt with languid gestures someone else would find particularly enticing, exposing a good old-fashioned wife-beater. Everything gets set aside, sorted for laundry and meticulously ordered even if by now, there's half-conscious snores clinging to his breath.

Sometimes, he drops like a stone even before lying down. He sits on his side of the bed, listlessly lifts a foot and fails to muster enough conscience for the needed weight transfer, and just lets his chin slowly drop to his chest. On particularly exhausting days, I let it slide. He'll wake himself up anyway, his neck's position pinching his trachea and all but guaranteeing he'll eventually straighten his neck while letting lose with a rip-roarer of a snore. In these case, he'll give me a bleary-eyed look, check the alarm clock and then complete the expected process.

Not tonight, though. There's just enough energy left for him to lower himself in bed and to part an arm for me. His right arm doesn't so much as need instructions from his mind to tap the bedside table lamp off, and something tells me he's already well and truly gone even if he's still performing micro-adjustments. As ever, he then quietly groans and relaxes, which means my round of meditation begins. If I paid attention to my soundscape, I wouldn't be able to sleep at all. He's forgotten his CPAP, but is struggling in that unique way of his you could translate as being an impossible mix between slight discomfort and complete abandonment. I've never had the nerve to wake him up, and know he's likely to do so on his own. This is just the basking phase of his night, anyway - he'll hook up his machine in ten to fifteen minutes, guaranteed.

It's strange: sleep clinic videos like those I've had to consult for Dad's own research show you borderline-operatic cases where honest pain is threaded through every breath, and I instead get the sense that Walt's Garfield reincarnated as a human. He's obese, makes a racket in bed; and yet there's the ghost of a smile on his features.

He's someplace warm and comfortable, someplace familiar and safe I couldn't reach even if I were a Vulcan and tried to Mind Meld my way into his dreams - and every noisy intake of air still exudes gratitude.

[starseedfxofficial]

Tech Shines, China Woes Sink EU Stocks: Market Recap The Market's Moody Monday: What Traders Should Know Imagine starting your day with a fresh cup of coffee only to find out it was decaf all along—that pretty much sums up the mood of European markets this Monday. The Stoxx 600 slid down from a weak start, trundling lower throughout the morning, leaving investors rubbing their eyes and wondering when the real caffeine kick would arrive. But just like that mid-morning surprise caffeine hit, there was a slight uptick in sentiment, though it didn't take us far from the worst levels seen earlier. Tech Tries to Save the Day—But Not Quite While most European sectors were in a gloomy mood, the tech sector attempted to play the knight in shining armor. Infineon rose 4.5%, presumably trying to make up for some mediocre earnings and a not-so-optimistic future outlook. Perhaps Infineon’s stock surge is the equivalent of a person wearing sunglasses indoors—sure, it may look like confidence, but what’s behind it might not be as bright. China-Exposed Sectors Feeling the Blues Sectors heavily dependent on China—think Basic Resources and Consumer Products—were left at the bottom of the heap, weighed down by overnight concerns from the Chinese market. If trading in these sectors today felt a bit like wading through molasses, it's because they had the full weight of China’s economic woes attached. US Futures: A Red Day for the Books And if you thought the US markets might offer a glimmer of hope, think again. All major US futures were in the red by midday in Europe, with a modest decline of 0.1% for both the S&P 500 (ES) and the Nasdaq (NQ), while the Russell 2000 (RTY) underperformed at -0.4%. It seemed like the markets were having a collective "meh" moment—like realizing that even Trump-induced optimism can’t carry the rally forever. Hidden Patterns and Emerging Trends In times like these, the market reveals its true nature. There's an old saying among traders that "markets climb a wall of worry." Today’s action was a classic example. While most sectors are in the red, tech's minor rally in the face of bleak earnings could signal potential buying opportunities in unexpected places. There’s something about those hidden strengths—the "invisible caffeine" moments—that often go unnoticed. The sharp decline in China-exposed sectors suggests we should look for opportunities where fears are overblown. Historically, these kinds of sell-offs have often preceded recoveries for the bravest investors who know how to hold their nerve. Let’s Break It Down: Next-Level Tactics - Follow Tech's Lead—Carefully: Infineon and other tech names could be a leading indicator for cautious optimism. When tech holds up despite bad news, it can be the market's way of signaling that the worst is already priced in. - Basic Resources’ Bargain Hunting: The sharp drop in Basic Resources and Consumer Products exposed to China may be an overreaction. Savvy traders might see this as a chance to buy solid names at a discount—assuming the situation stabilizes. - The US Indices' Mixed Signals: Futures pointing down doesn’t always spell disaster. Watch for a potential turnaround, especially if new catalysts emerge. Remember, RTY's larger fall could mean small caps are simply correcting after an outsized Trump-related jump the prior session. Wrapping Up: Market Moods and Hidden Opportunities Today’s trading wasn’t exactly thrilling—more of a groggy Monday start rather than an adrenaline-fueled race. But here’s where the real magic happens: these types of days are the perfect opportunity for traders to identify value, where emotions, not fundamentals, are dictating prices. Whether it's hunting for overlooked tech gems or dipping into China-exposed sectors, now's the time to spot the hidden gems other traders might miss. After all, the best trades are often found where others fear to tread. So grab that metaphorical caffeine shot, stay alert, and keep your eyes peeled for the undervalued and overlooked—that’s where the real action lies. —————– Image Credits: Cover image at the top is AI-generated   Read the full article

[butch-snorlax]

Can confirm! As a slowpoke owner mine, named Einstein really likes long cuddling sessions. They love to lay on my lap when I'm gaming. The long sessions let them get really comfy. In summer they love to hang out with a tail in a kiddy pool and there head on my lap whilst I read. To stimulate natural behavior I play a game whilst during a gaming/ cuddle session I'll grab her tail gently with a sock on my hand full of berry butter. They then whip it around and get the sock and get to eat the treat. Fish paste also works. She's not as obviously affectionate but she shows it in little ways. Choosing to be close to me whenever she can and trundling over when I get home if I go out

What about a Slowpoke? Would be a good pet? I love them so much 🥺

Good news! A slowpoke would indeed be a good, if sluggish, pet!

Slowpokes are pretty heavy, and larger than you’d think a nearly four feet long! This certainly may be too large for some owners, but considering that they aren’t very active pokémon, you won’t need a lot of space.

In fact, slowpokes only have one real habitat need: water. Wild slowpokes live on the shores of bodies of water, using their tails to fish for prey (Gold, Ruby/Sapphire). While they are skilled fishers (Diamond/Pearl/Platinum), they often forget what they’re doing (Ruby/Sapphire) and won’t register that they’ve caught something quickly, sometimes not noticing for a whole day (Gold). Slowpokes aren’t all that bright (Sword), to put it nicely, so a pet slowpoke might not notice if the water you provide them with is something as small as a kiddie pool. It isn’t clear, however, if slowpokes will eat food that they don’t catch this way. I’d wager though, that like a lot of predators, they’d get used to it pretty quickly. If you’d like to release some live prey into your slowpoke’s pond, I’m sure they’d like that….maybe? They might not notice.

It should be clear by now that if you’re looking for an active, energetic pet, a slowpoke is absolutely not for you. They’re often content to do nothing but sit around all day, “without worrying about the time” (Yellow). They have a super slow reaction time, not even registering pain for over five seconds (Red/Blue), which may make playing with them a little boring. You probably won’t receive a lot of obvious affection from them, but that’s not what everyone is looking for in a pet!

Slowpokes can use some moves that can pack a punch, like Psychic, Surf, or Zen Headbutt, but I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Getting attacked by a slowpoke is pretty unlikely, especially if they see you as a source of food and comfort. Slowpokes are often picked on by other pokémon due to the sweet sap contained in their tails, which they use for fishing (Silver, Crystal). As evidence that these pokémon are slow to jump into a fight, their tails can painlessly detach to avoid trouble and be regrown like a real-world lizard’s (Sun). If someone picks on a slowpoke, trying to eat their tail, they would rather lose and regrow it than fight. Slowpokes aren’t very much of a threat.

If you are interested in a pet with excellent ease-of-care and a chill, lazy disposition, a slowpoke will be just right for you! I know I could hardly say no to those charming, dopey faces!