#they did their best with the localization. they did their best

[ckret2]

Chapter 90 of human Bill Cipher and the Mystery Shack having entered an uneasy alliance against their shared enemy: the government. Agent Powers begins to suspect his date "Goldie" is hiding something; but it's impossible to tell who to trust when the rest of the town is hiding something too.

Boy is the town ever hiding something.

A lot of somethings, as it turns out.

(There's a code in this chapter! If you're not an eager code-cracker, don't stress about figuring it out, the solution's given later in the chapter. If you are an eager code-cracker, you oughta solve it first before you read the rest of the chapter.)

####

Powers usually woke up before his alarm; but today, the alarm dragged him out of a dream to blink blearily at the thin predawn glow filtering through the thin motel curtain. He couldn't remember what he'd been dreaming about. Something about triangles that glowed like the rising dawn.

The bed seemed bigger than it had the night before. Colder. He was suddenly acutely aware of how lonely his life was.

The motel room didn't have a coffeemaker or microwave. He remembered being frustrated by that oddity in another local motel last summer. Strange how he could remember details like that, but so little else about last summer's investigation. He'd get something at the police department.

He cleaned up, dressed, put his case file in his briefcase, and headed out.

####

"You're an early riser, Agent Powers," Sheriff Blubs observed. "Still on Washington time?"

"Washington is in the same time zone as Oregon," Powers said. "I rise with the sun. Keeps my circadian rhythm regular, keeps me sharp on the job."

"I meant..." Blubs petered out, shrugged, and sipped his coffee.

The police department's coffee was bad, but got the job done. The food on hand appeared to be slightly stale bagels and very fresh donuts. Powers would have to get a proper breakfast later.

"Find what you were looking for at the Mystery Shack?" Blubs asked.

"No," Powers sighed. But, admittedly, he'd been distracted. "But we're not done there yet. We're expecting more specialized equipment from HQ."

Blubs nodded. "Always something going on there," he muttered. "Think you'll arrest Stan Pines again?"

"Hm. According to Mr. Ramirez, he's out of town."

"Huh! Is he?"

"Allegedly. Traveling the world with..." He trailed off, fully registering what Blubs had said. "Sorry—'again'?"

"Like when you brought him in to interrogate last year?" Blubs said. "I assumed nothing came of it, since you let him go without any charges."

He had no recollection of arresting Stan Pines last year. He had no recollection of arresting anyone. He didn't even have the authority to make arrests unless he had reasonable grounds to suspect someone had committed a federal felony. And yet, something about the claim itched at the edge of his brain, like trying to remember what had triggered a case of déjà vu.

The sheriff and his deputy had been Powers's liaison with local law enforcement last summer. They'd been friendly and helpful through the whole investigation. If anybody might know what had happened and be willing to help...

He turned to Blubs. "Sheriff Blubs, did anything that you might call... unusual happen last summer?"

Suddenly Blubs couldn't meet Powers's gaze. "Well uh—never mind all that." (Déjà vu prickled at the back of Powers's mind again. Hadn't Blubs said something like that a few days ago?) Blubs took a deep sip of his coffee. "Say, do you like those donuts? Durland makes 'em!"

"Does he."

"Best donuts in Gravity Falls, if you ask me! I'm trying to watch my weight, but, hoo. Just can't resist his donuts."

Powers almost tried to push Blubs back toward his original question, but...

Have you asked anyone if anything weird happened here last summer? Try it. They act like they didn't even hear you. It's strange.

... maybe not.

####

A steady beeping interrupted Dale's sleep. He slapped his alarm clock, hit something flat and glassy instead, and opened his eyes to see what it was. He was in the car with Trigger, who was also asleep; had they both nodded off?

Last night's memories came rushing back. The old lady. They must have fallen asleep because of the coffee!

She must have used decaf.

Dale blinked at his tablet to see why it was beeping.

"Oh!" He swatted Trigger's shoulder. "Trigger!"

"Mrgh?"

"I've got the missing flash drive's signal again!"

"What?" Trigger sat bolt upright. "Where is it?"

"It's..." Dale frowned. "Ten feet in front of us?"

They looked out the windshield.

A goat, chewing a branchful of leaves, stared at them.

They exchanged a look, then scrambled out of the car. Trigger shouted, "Hey!"

The goat startled and galloped for the woods.

"Stop! Halt! Come back here!" Trigger ran after it.

Dale started to follow, turned around and jogged back to the car, retrieved his keys and phone, locked the car, and then sprinted to catch up.

####

Powers's phone buzzed in his pocket. He answered, "Hello?"

"Hey!" Dale's voice sounded breathless. "We'll be in a bit late! We're in hot pursuit of the flash drive!"

"Excellent," Powers said. "'In hot pursuit'?"

"I think a goat ate it!"

Faintly over the phone, Trigger's voice said, "Which way'd it go?"

"Uh... left, go left!"  To Powers, Dale said, "By the way—thought you should know, we saw Goldie come to the Mystery Shack around one in the morning last night."

Powers's stomach flipped. That was after he'd dropped her off. "What? Why?"

"Don't know. Just thought you'd want to hear."

Baffled, he said, "Thank you. Keep me updated," and ended the call.

"Hey there, lover boy!" Durland elbowed Powers, startling him. He waggling his eyebrows. "Lazy Susan says yooou had a little date last night!"

Powers felt the back of his neck heat up. Gossip traveled fast in a small town. "Er—yes." Not very professional of him, but. "Someone I met in town a couple of days ago named Goldie." (What had she been doing at the Mystery Shack so late?)

"Oh, Goldie!" Blubs said. "Well! He's just a delight."

Powers gave him a quizzical look. He? "We... might be thinking of different Goldies."

Durland said, "Short brown gal? Big yellow hair and a gold tooth?"

A memory from dinner flashed through his mind's eye: a loose golden curl that had come loose and dangled softly in front of her eye; her gold tooth peeking out as she smirked like she knew something no one else did. His stomach flipped. "I... yes, that's her."

"Yeah, we know 'er! We're in the club for—"

"We're in a social club," Blubs cut in. "H—shhe's been looking to get out and meet new folks, I'm glad she ran into you."

A club? Why would a tourist join a club in town? "Is she... local? I was given to understand... well, I suppose I assumed she was a tourist." She'd talked like an outsider. Like it was her and Powers against the rest of this strange town. But then, she'd also talked like she knew this town well.

"Oh, she's an out of towner, but she's staying over at the Mystery Shack for a while. Old colleague of Stanford's, I think," Durland said. He looked at Blubs. "How long is she staying, did she say? Was it for the summer?"

"Could be. I don't think she's mentioned," Blubs said. "That place really fills up in the summertime."

Why hadn't she said anything? 

If she was Stan's colleague, why hadn't he turned her up during their investigation into Stanford Pines's background? (Why had he investigated Stan Pines? He tried to remember.)

Why had she had him drop her off somewhere else, so far from the shack?

What was she hiding?

When Blubs stepped out of the room, Powers turned to Durland and said, voice low, "I need to ask you something. It's important."

"Sure! What is it?"

"Has there been anything... odd happening in town?" he asked. "Possibly paranormal in nature? Maybe involving the Mystery Shack?"

Durland's face immediately closed off. "Oh! Ohhh. Uh—never mind all that. Hey, Bluuubs?" He hurried from the room. "Do you need some, uh—help with the paperwork?"

Powers's eyes narrowed.

He flipped open his case file to skim while he waited for an update from his men—and a jolt shot up his back. There were only three pages in the folder. Where was the rest of it? He checked his briefcase, then rushed outside to check his car. He'd let Goldie read the file; had she...? No. He didn't want to think so.

He drove back to the hotel.

####

As soon as he unlocked the door, he saw a disheveled pile of papers lying on the dresser. He sighed in relief. They must have slid out of his file before he put it in his briefcase. He'd been distracted that morning. Careless of him. (He always seemed to be strangely careless in this town.) He put the papers back where they belonged, shut his briefcase again, and turned toward the door.

There was a rumpled paper on the floor with bright red writing on it.

He picked it up. A short message had been written with a thick marker, the large letters filling the page: "STOP DIGGING UNLESS YOU WANT TO LOSE ANOTHER AGENT."

Another agent?

Powers called Dale, tapping his foot anxiously until he picked up. "Dale! Are you alright?"

"As... as well as I can be, sir." He was breathing heavily. "A little winded. That goat's nimble—"

"What about Trigger? Is he still there?"

"Uh...? Yeah, he's nearby."

"Are you sure?" Powers demanded. "100% sure?"

"H... hold on." A few seconds of panting, and then he said, "Yessir, right here. I've got him by the hand." (Powers heard Trigger quietly ask, "What are we?")

"Good. Have either of you seen anything suspicious, anything at all?"

Trigger leaned closer to the phone to say, "I believe I saw a gnome, sir."

"I didn't see it," Dale added.

"He had a pointy red hat," Trigger reported gravely. "I could have punted him."

Didn't sound like something capable of vanishing a federal agent. "Very well. Watch each other's backs closely," Powers said. "And let me know if anything happens."

Dale said, "You got it, sir."

He hung up and studied the message again. He flipped it over; on the other side of the paper was a flier, prominently headed "Gravity Falls MUSEUM," with a calendar of activities from May. (Apparently, on Wednesdays children could try "gravel panning.") Somebody had scrawled a message on the paper in pen:

TYQ FOP

DYEIGNQL LS FAOE LLY BZYMQUFUW LYVQ DIGQ VQRIJI SAG AG LIYQ

OFWYQ KIM RYJF QWIE

Gibberish. And nobody in his team knew how to crack ciphers...

But he knew somebody in town who did.

He hesitated for just a moment; then dialed the number Goldie had given him last night.

####

Just around the corner of the motel, Stan was pressed to the wall, catching his breath. That had been a close call. He'd arrived at the motel after Agent Powers had left for the morning, picked the door lock, returned the highly classified documents Bill had pilfered, and dropped in the threatening letter Mabel had written; but he'd only barely gotten back out before Powers pulled into the parking lot. He hadn't expected Powers to return nearly so soon. (He half wondered if Bill had planned it that way. He seemed like the kind of con artist who would work throwing a partner-in-crime under the bus into his plan.)

He tiptoed past Powers's door, then ran down the block for his car.

####

Bill was dragged from sleep by the feeling of his burner phone buzzing under the couch cushion. Not already. He'd barely gotten to sleep. He'd only just started his second REM cycle. He groaned, yawned, picked it up, and tried to sound perkier than he felt. "Yello?" He stifled another yawn. "What? No, no, I'm up. Been awake for hours. 

It was the call he'd been expecting. He sat up, suddenly much more awake, grinning broadly. Right into his trap. So far so good. He stretched, only half listening while Powers explained the situation. "A cipher? Yeah, sure, no problem." He grabbed a skirt and tank top, "If it's that urgent, I think I can clear my schedule! Meet you at Greasy's?"

He stuffed foundation and mascara into his umbrella, thumped down the stairs—nearly tripped in his haste—and thudded on Soos's door as he passed. "It's showtime!"

####

When Powers arrived, Goldie was already outside the diner, leaning by the door. (Had she come from the Mystery Shack?) As soon as he was out of his car, she called, "Hey, Bermuda! Making me wait for you?"

"I got here as soon as I could."

She was less made up than last night, and he realized with a sudden burst of warmth that yesterday she must have gotten gussied up for him.

His attention caught on one of her earrings as it reflected the sun into his eyes. Odd; she was wearing the same aqua green triangular earrings she'd worn yesterday—one had a gold star on it—but he hadn't noticed there was a bright gold eye painted on the other triangle. Surely he'd just missed it, though; why would it have gained an eye between last night and today?

Now that he'd noticed it, it was a reassuring sight. He saw that symbol everywhere back in Washington: over opera houses, on the gates of graveyards—even on the ceiling of the Bureau of Covert Investigations' lobby, surrounded by rays of brassy gold. When the BCI first formed, the All-Seeing Eye had been part of its logo—before the Department of Cover-Ups had hastily passed down an order to change it to their current eagle-and-magnifying-glass logo, and then covered up the order. But it hadn't been worth it to renovate the old art deco building's decor, and the Eye of God still benevolently watched over the agents.

As Powers opened the door for Goldie, he asked, "Did you call me 'Bermuda'?"

"I'm dropping a hint! I think you'd look nice in Bermuda shorts."

"O-oh."

She flashed him a brilliant smile as she swept past. "When's the last time you took a vacation, anyway? The beach in town's a lot nicer without a suit on."

In spite of everything he'd heard this morning—it was a relief to see Goldie again.

He could ask about the shack later.

Every booth and half the counter were filled up; they were seated at the end of the counter. Powers sat between Goldie and the crowd, trying as much as he could to shield their conversation from eavesdroppers. "Busier at breakfast than dinner."

"Oh, yeah, Greasy's is the hottest coffee spot in town."

"Is it that good?"

"Dunno. I prefer tea," Goldie said. "It's got more to do with the celebrity endorsement than the coffee itself. Fiddleford McGucket used to hang out here, chain drinking coffee pots. Now everyone wants to get coffee where the great inventor McGucket used to—but now that he's made it big, he doesn't come here himself anymore." She scoffed. "Doesn't that figure!"

"Ah, yes. McGucket." He'd been surprised to see that name in the news. "When I was in town last year, I heard a great deal about a local homeless man who squatted in the junkyard—an 'Old Man' McGucket. A relation of Fiddleford, or...?"

"That's the same guy."

"Huh. The man the locals described didn't sound like a genius inventor."

"He wasn't. A year ago, as far as anybody in town knew, he was just the village idiot." Goldie shrugged. "And all the sudden, the Northwests lose all their money in some kind of fraud deal nobody can make sense of, and now he's living in Northwest Manor!" She let out a disbelieving huff, and Powers was sure he detected skepticism in the cock of her brow. "I guess you can never tell, can you?"

He studied Goldie's face—so beautiful, so intelligent, smiling at him like he was the most fascinating thing in the world. Hiding just how close she was to this town. Pretending she had nothing to do with the Mystery Shack. "I suppose you can't."

Once they'd ordered breakfast, Powers showed Goldie the threatening letter and the note on it. She studied the code critically. "It's not a simple substitution cipher," she muttered. "It can't be anything complex, not if they're just scrawling it on a museum handout and throwing it away like trash. Maybe Vigenère—you need to know a code word for that one. Either they have a standard code word we'll never guess; or, they made it something simple that the recipient would know to look for... Got a pencil?"

Powers fished around in his briefcase for a pencil and handed it over. Goldie pointed at the flier's heading—"Gravity Falls MUSEUM"—underlined the word "MUSEUM," which was larger than anything else on the page, and muttered, "Worth a shot." She drew a complicated grid lettered A to Z along the top and left sides, crossed with vertical lines and horizontal lines and diagonal lines, then wrote the word MUSEUM over and over above each letter in the encrypted text—MUS EUM MUSEUMMU... She tried to explain how the cipher worked as she set up her grid. It flew over Powers's head.

"Now let's hope I grabbed the right word." She started out needing to trace the grid to find each letter, but the farther she got in the message the less often she had to look at it, until she'd translated the whole thing:

HEY BUD

REMEMBER TO LOCK THE PNEUMATIC TUBE ROOM BEFORE YOU GO HOME

UNSEE YOU NEXT WEEK

She pushed the paper over to Powers—"It's not a lot to go on."—and dug into the omelet that had arrived while she was translating. "What does 'unsee' mean?"

"I have no idea." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "It looks like somebody wrote on a scrap paper they had on hand."

"That's not much help," Goldie lamented. "Anybody who's visited the museum since May could've grabbed this calendar—and whoever grabbed it first wrote a note on it and passed it to somebody else. Anyone could have sent this to you." She gestured at the paper. "Maybe you guys can dust it for prints?"

"That takes longer than most people think. And we've both touched it now."

He reread the message. Pneumatic tube room...

Slowly, he said, "I think the museum has pneumatic tubes. I remember seeing them last year."

"Did you?" Goldie's brows shot up. "Huh. Isn't that convenient."

"It is." There couldn't be many other places in town with pneumatic tubes. Maybe the post office, but he doubted it. "This may have been written from one museum employee to another. That would narrow down the suspects..."

"Mind if I come along?" Goldie asked.

Powers gave her a puzzled look. "To?"

"The museum! I don't think I've ever been to the museum! You've got to investigate it, right?" She grinned crookedly. "You know how much I love to see you at work."

Powers tried to ignore the flush creeping up his neck. "I can't allow that. If whoever sent this threat is there, this could be dangerous. I don't want you in harm's way."

The cheeky grin slid off her face. Seriously, she said, "Then that's exactly why you need me. You don't expect me to let you walk in there without any backup, do you?"

She had a point. If Dale hadn't called him yet, he and Trigger were still pursuing the goat. He wasn't sure he could trust the police here.

He wasn't sure he could trust Goldie, either.

But she was willing to admit there was something strange in this town when nobody else was. He wanted to trust her.

And she was right. He did need backup. "Okay; but I want you to stay near the exit." He took out his phone and texted Dale's number to Goldie. "And if anything happens—get help."

####

Goldie promised to stay upstairs, looking at the exhibits; and Powers followed the pneumatic tubes to a staircase, down into the basement...

...and through an immense wooden double door, flanked by lit braziers and framed in an arch of stones, which had a carving depicting two hands cradling an eye that had been X'ed out with blood red spray paint.

Which was a weird thing to find under the museum in a town with barely 5,000 people.

He'd heard rumors about a secret society in the Pacific Northwest whose symbol was an eye with a red X through it—one of the rare secret societies that actually managed to keep its secrets. Was this...?

He eyed the lit braziers nervously—had somebody been here recently?—but closer inspection revealed the flame was actually fueled by gas. Perhaps they were always lit. Dangerous, in a museum filled with old, dry papers and fibers; he began to wonder whether the museum was a mere extension of whatever this was, and not the other way around.

He pushed through the door.

Stone subterranean chamber, more lit braziers, a life size wood carving of a robed man with outstretched arms and a crossed-out eye on his chest standing in front of what looked like a shrine. Powers wasn't one given to flights of fancy, but if he were asked to imagine where an evil secret cult might meet, he'd be hard pressed to think of anywhere more perfect than this. All it was missing was a stone table for human sacrifices.

And the room was filled with hundreds, maybe thousands of pneumatic tube canisters.

He picked a few up. All of them had names written on them, a few labeled "(VISITOR)" or "(TOURIST)", most followed by the word "MEMORIES". He recognized a couple names from his investigation in town. He tried to pry one open and couldn't. What was in these things?

He found a filing cabinet near the carving, with a paper taped on top that read, "TOP SECRET! Do NOT open unless you're permitted to see the Society of the Blind Eye's secrets! (That means NOT YOU, Jeffrey!)" Ah, well—eye with an X through it, they would be called the Blind Eye, wouldn't they.

Powers pulled open the top drawer. There were only a couple of files in this one: one contained what looked like a list, again written in code; the other held what looked like blueprints to some sort of weapon called a "Memory Gun"—and if the notes on its usage and repair in the following pages were anything to go by, the Blind Eye had one of these things and was using it regularly.

As he flipped through the blueprints, a browned, square piece of paper slipped out of the folder and fluttered to the floor. He picked it up. It looked faded and aged, smelled like coffee, and was criss-crossed by diamond creases. Jumbles of incomplete diagrams and letters covered the paper.

As he turned around, a light caught his eye—not the yellow-red flicker of the braziers but a sickly digital glow. There was a computer monitor against the wall, its screen black but for a glowing green X'ed out eye. It sat atop a box labeled "↓INSERT↓"; the label pointed toward a pneumatic tube canister half-slottered into what looked like an oversized battery holder.

Powers scanned the room to make sure he was still alone; then pushed the canister fully into the holder.

It clicked and locked in. The green eye disappeared. The screen displayed a slender woman in her late thirties with coppery hair and a couple of figures in red robes partially visible in the shadows behind her. Metal cuffs bit into the sleeves of her well-worn flannel shirt, pinning her arms to a heavy chair; as she struggled to free herself, a camera swung from a strap around her neck, but somehow Powers doubted she was a sightseeing tourist. She snarled at the video camera recording her, "Where am I?! What do you think you're doing?! If you don't let me go, I swear I'll strangle you with your own stupid red bathrobes—"

An unseen person with a deep voice and a vaguely British accent said, "Be calm. Cooperate and this will all be over soon."

"Like hell am I cooperating! Let me go!" She shrieked at the top of her lungs, "HEEELP—"

One of the robed figures behind her stepped forward and clapped a large, meaty hand over her mouth. The deep voice said, "All we want is for you to tell us one thing: what is it that you have seen?"

The meaty hand tentatively uncovered her mouth so she could reply, then jerked out of the way when she tried to bite him. She snapped, "Nothing! I haven't seen a single stupid thing! You dragged me in with a bag over my head—"

"Did you not run into town, screaming in fear, claiming you were being chased by... some tall, faceless monster?"

"I—What? What does that have to do with—?" Her eyes widened. "What are you, the monster's cult?"

"Quite the opposite." The recording camera moved closer to the woman's face. Someone else snatched the woman's camera away by the neck strap. "Just be calm, think of that faceless monster... and in a moment, you'll never think of it again."

"What do you mean?" The rage slowly drained out of the woman's face, leaving only fear behind as she stared directly into the camera's lens. "What does that thing—? Don't! Don't—"

The recording ended. Static snow filled the screen. What in the world had Powers just watched?

He removed the canister from the slot and the screen went black. The label on the canister read "MRS. CORDUROY MEMORIES". He knew about the Corduroys; the eldest daughter worked for the Mystery Shack.

He had a report on Raina Corduroy's 2009 disappearance in his folder.

There was a date written on the tube canister. It was three days before her disappearance.

Goldie had told him Dan Corduroy was scared of something in the trees.

He flipped open the folder on the Memory Gun; held the canister up against a similar-looking part of the blueprints labeled "MEMORY CANISTER"; and read the other labels on the blueprints: "ELECTRIC TAPE (STORES MEMORIES)," "MEMORY SPECIFIER," "RADIATION BULB (DISASSEMBLES NEUROLOGICAL PATHWAYS)"...

And in a moment, you'll never think of it again.

It couldn't be possible.

He grabbed another memory canister laying on the right corner of the console. "MR. AND MRS. GLEEFUL MEMORIES." He'd visited a Gleeful Auto Mart just a few days ago.

He popped it into place. The screen lit up.

A woman with gray-streaked dusty brown hair sat on a plush pink sofa, sobbing into a tissue and struggling not to hyperventilate. A man—it was the Mr. Gleeful from Gleeful Auto Mart—wrapped an arm around her shoulders comfortingly. The angle was low, aimed at their knees, as though the camera had been left on a coffee table.

"It was awful," Mrs. Gleeful sobbed, "he was—he was lifting things and—throwing them around like some kind of poltergeist, or—or a demon— I've never seen my little Giddy that furious before, I've never seen anyone that furious before..." She grabbed a fresh tissue. "He's—he's got some sort of devil in him, we need to call a priest or a doctor or something—"

"Now, now, honey." Mr. Gleeful held her tighter and patted her arm. "You don't mean that. He's always been a mite tempestuous, you recall; and he's just practicing with those new powers of his—"

"Well I want those powers gone!" She pounded her fists on her bony knees. "Those powers and that awful book and—and—" She burst into heaving sobs again, flung an arm around her husband, and buried her head in his shoulder. "I just want my sweet little boy back."

Mr. Gleeful grimaced uncertainly and murmured, "I don't think I could get that book away from him if I tried." He picked up the camera—not a camera, Powers realized; the "memory gun" was designed to take recordings—and aimed it at himself and his wife. "Don't give yourself a headache crying, sweetheart; you won't worry about him anymore." He squeezed her shoulders reassuringly. "And I'm sure he'll make a better first impression on us with those powers next time."

For a second, she could only sob hitchingly into his shoulder; but then she asked, voice tiny, "Next time?"

Mr. Gleeful squeezed his eyes shut.

The recording ended.

Mr. Gleeful clearly knew what the memory gun did. He'd used it voluntarily. On a suspicion, Powers searched his wallet for the business card Mr. Gleeful had given him.

His name was Bud Gleeful. HEY BUD.

Goldie had sent him to Gleeful Auto.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe Bud Gleeful was a mind wiping cultist and owned the best car dealership in the county. All the same—Powers turned so he could see the door from the corner of his eye, watching it warily, as he picked up the next canister.

It had Preston Northwest's name. He was one of the most important people in town. The patriarch of the richest family in Oregon—until last summer. Descendant of the town founder—allegedly. (Powers had gone undercover at last year's Northwest Fest and seen a few things that made him doubt the credibility of the Northwest family history—but nothing firm; and he couldn't very well interview that ghost now. Something shady was going on, but that wasn't his department.)

He clicked the canister into place. The screen lit up.

The memory gun turned back and forth as Preston paced back and forth in front of his manor's windows, delicately holding a narrow stemmed glass of what looked like bubbly white grape juice, but was probably much stronger. The deep vaguely British voice was back: "Would you explain what exactly it is you called on us for, Mr. Northwest?"

Fuming, Preston said, "Some... child dug up the truth about the town's founder—as well as the founder himself! This is unacceptable!"

"It certainly sounds traumatic," deep voice agreed. "Then you'd like us to... 'liberate' the child from the burden of this memory...?"

"No no no, you don't get it—the founder is still alive! Still alive! Just... running about out there!" He ran a hand through his $300 haircut. "I can't imagine how, he must be over two hundred years old, but—well, you know what this blasted town is like!"

"Intimately," deep voice said distastefully. "Then you want us to erase the child's knowledge that the founder is alive. And perhaps yours? You seem... distressed."

"Wh—?" Preston whirled around to stare at deep voice in outraged offense. "No, not me, you fool! I want you to find the founder, and make him forget his history! His whole life, if you have to!"

There was a pause. "That isn't how we operate, Mr. Northwest."

"I don't care!" Preston began pacing again, taking a deep drink from his definitely-not-grape-juice. "I could have you broken up in an instant if I wanted—nothing in this town runs without the Northwest Family's stamp of approval, and don't forget you're using the facility my grandmother commissioned—so if you want to keep operating, you operate how I say!"

There was a longer pause. The deep voice said, slowly, menacingly, "You really do seem very upset, knowing about this man running around in the woods. You really ought to forget all about him. And us."

"What?" Preston turned again; but this time, his eyes weren't on the speaker, but staring straight into the gun. "Oh no. You can't! You know you can't, how do you think you'll afford all your little custom canisters without my money?!"

"I don't think we'll need to worry about finances."

"Of course not," a clear female voice said. The gun swung around to frame Priscilla Northwest, standing in the doorway at the far end of the room. She said evenly, "As we discussed, I've arranged for your society to continue receiving its annual donation from the Northwests. You have nothing to fear."

Preston gaped at his wife in disbelief. He didn't even notice that the gun was slowly turning to aim at his head again. "Scilly? How do you know about— But— But why— How dare you—"

"You're too wound up over this," Priscilla said evenly. "You need to get it off your mind, darling. You're going to give yourself frown lines."

"Get it off my...?" His broken, dazed laugh was cut off sharply by the end of the recording.

Tape after tape of this. This was pretty obviously some sort of secret society that had been wiping people's memories around town—but to what end? What was the pattern? A woman who'd seen a monster, the parents of "child psychic" Gideon Gleeful (was he a real psychic?), the disgraced descendant of a fraud of a town founder... and if all of these recordings were like that, and if there were hundreds of recordings...

He looked down at the canisters scattered across the console—and spotted a fourth one. Name turned directly toward him, almost as though it wanted him to find it. "GOLDIE LOCKE (VISITOR)".

A chill ran down his spine.

He plugged it in.

Goldie was in the same chair where Mrs. Corduroy had been restrained—wearing a rumpled white button-up and an undone black tie, hair disheveled, teeth bared, one eye squeezed shut tight in pain, the other wide and furious. Her arms weren't strapped down like Mrs. Corduroy's had been; instead, they were wrenched behind her back. Apparently someone had restrained her first and then flung her into the chair.

She was already talking when the recording started: "—it doesn't matter what you do to me! Threaten me any way you want, I won't talk!"

"Talking is exactly what we don't want you to do, Ms. Locke." The deep voice was back, although sounding a little rougher than in the other recordings. (It was clear there had been a struggle; Powers hoped Goldie had broken his nose.) "And we'll make sure you never do."

Goldie flinched, both eyes opening. "You're going to...?"

"No, not that. We don't use such messy methods. It's enough to make sure you don't remember your current assignment—or anything that could lead you back to it."

"My team will be looking for me—"

"Your team won't remember you. We'll be dealing with them shortly." The gun lurched a foot closer to Goldie's face. She flinched again in fear. "I hope your life is flashing before your eyes, Ms. Locke! Because this is the last time you'll ever remember it!"

Her wide eyes got wider. “Wait—! No! Whoa-whoa-whoa wait wait stop STOP STOP—"

The recording ended.

Leaning on both hands over the console, Powers stared into the static snow with mute horror.

######

(Post-TBOB changes: added half the sentence "and don't forget you're using the facility my grandmother commissioned" to suggest it was Abigale Blackwing who built the big stone chambers under the museum. The rest of Preston's statement was the same, since I'd already decided the Northwests were bankrolling the Blind Eye—Abigale was just a bit of serendipity. And I think that's it? This chapter was impacted more by the official Gravity Falls coloring book than by TBOB.

PSA: this is the first chapter from Powers's POV, which means it's the first chapter that almost exclusively calls Bill "Goldie" and "she/her." So, a reminder: canon has exclusively called him "Bill" and "he/him" since 2013, and so do I except when I'm writing the POV of characters who don't know who Bill actually is. You, reader, know who Bill is.

I've had trouble in the past with commenters using the wrong name/pronouns for Bill just because he's been stuffed inside a body he does not identify with; so, don't let a chapter from a character who's wrong make the situation worse, please. Thanks.

Anyway!! We're shifting into conspiracy mode y'all. Wish Agent Powers luck. I'll be interested to hear y'all's theories on where Bill is going with all this; some parts of the hints/foreshadowing have been more overt than others.)

[dearmash1975project]

It was fitting that Brian was the first person I spoke to for this. It was his letter, after all, and the age written on it (age 11), that touched me so deeply that it sparked this whole project. I’ll keep my methods on how I tracked him down close to the vest, so as not to illustrate how easy it is to find anyone in this digital age; needless to say– getting an email back that read “Dear Lily, Yes I did!” was thrilling. We scheduled to speak on the phone and did on July 15th, 2024.

{Interview continued under the cut}

Brian Nores was no longer 11 when we spoke on the phone. Between the passage of time and the life that fills the mind since age 11, he didn’t remember writing the letter until my email.

An email, he told me, that his partner advised him not to answer as it was “probably a scam.” Thankfully for me, Brian is “always getting himself into trouble” and answered my inquiry about a letter he may or may not have sent while living at X address in 1975. In hindsight, his partner was definitely right for being wary.

Brian credited his late father for the letter’s existence and described memories flooding back after reading the words he wrote nearly 50 years earlier. Not long before he wrote the M*A*S*H letter, Brian was a boy scout who wanted to quit. His father instructed him that he could quit, but he had to write a letter to the scout master explaining why he wanted to leave the troop. His dad ‘never let him off the hook for that,’ and it was likely this instillation of values that gave Brian the confidence to speak his mind after the fateful episode aired. [In a fascinating ending to the boy scout anecdote– Brian, who still lives in the area, was at the local frame shop years later where the owner recognized his name and produced the letter, which the scout master was having framed.]

When I asked if he remembered the episode he responded how anyone who has seen it would; he remembered it very well. He recalled being “disturbed” and “shocked” by it. In a world before spoiler alerts, he explained, “the whole world saw that episode and reacted in real time.” As an 11-year-old, but also as an American youth raised on American narratives of war, he remembered expecting Henry to “go off into the sunset” and be okay.

“For me, M*A*S*H ended after that episode.”

Brian watched occasionally after season 3 but had no idea the series continued for as long as it did (M*A*S*H aired from 1972-1983). “It was never the same, certainly.”

Brian was in 5th grade in 1975, and at his young age he had never seen something on TV that disturbing. He told me he reached out to an old friend to discuss the letter, and they reminisced about their lives at that time. “Age of innocence” was the term he used with me. At that point in his life, he had never lost any relatives or experienced any hardships. “The most shocking thing that I had experienced prior to that was a large earthquake in ’71.” For Brian, this episode marked one of the first experiences he had had with death.

It's an extraordinary level of influence to have, that the simple ‘writing off’ of a character can have such an impact on a young life. We often characterize television as a sort of hobby, one that has less of a cachet than movies; but the mechanism by which media compels our emotions is the same.

Brian reflected more on this impact when telling me that The Mary Tyler Moore Show was his favorite series, and he recalled crying at the finale in 1977. He remembered thinking “How could they end this?”

To Brian, television was “taken a little more seriously then.” With one TV, there were fights over who got to hold the clicker when you sat around the set as a family. “You got one chance to watch it.” He explained. “What a different world we live in now.”

Brian still lives in the area where he grew up and drives past his old house and “down memory lane” often. He is still close to two of his childhood best friends. He shared with me some of his thoughts on aging, a topic that still feels “surreal” to him. “Only recently have I started to experience change. Restaurants etc. going away. Everything that we grew up with has changed. TV, movies, roads, politics. I don’t like this!” He laughed. “You look in the mirror and think.”

Brian had no idea that his letter ended up in the archives of our country’s National History Museum. “Really surprised” is how he described his reaction to the news; one of the aforementioned childhood friends was “blown away.”

“What it said to me (...) was that it reaffirmed/reinforced some of the things that my dad told me. Doing the right thing and following through.” Brian shared.

“What a difference it can make. That this moment is occurring because I spent a few minutes writing.”

~~~~

Thank you so much to Brian for granting me this interview.

Subject photos courtesy of Brian: Letter-era Brian/current-era Brian, Huntington Library Garden, California.

Accession information: Photo taken by me, 3 July 2024. “Letters from viewers regarding the death of Henry Blake.” Box 22, Folder 4. M*A*S*H Television Show Collection, 1950-1984, Archives Center, National Museum of American History. https://sova.si.edu/record/nmah.ac.0117/ref359?s=0&n=10&t=C&q=NMAH.AC.0117&i=0

[jincapableoflove]

The Grumpy Girlfriend Protection Program | One-shot

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre: sunshine bf x grumpy gf, golden retriever! jungkook, black cat! reader, office worker! reader, veterinary student! jungkook, fluff, comedy, action, angst, slice of life

Summary: Jeon Jungkook has always been the sunshine in every room; warm, kind, and completely oblivious to danger. Luckily, you, his grumpy, overprotective girlfriend have made it your personal mission to keep him safe. But when the threat shifts to you instead, Jungkook proves that even sunshine can scorch—and for you, he’d burn.

Word count: 22.8k+

Warnings: reader is very protective, themes of stalking and obsession, usage of drugs (not reader or jungkook), fight scene, violence, multiple flashback scenes.

MOODBOARD

A/N: hugeeee thanks to my dear friend sy (@btswit7 ) for going through my fic and suggesting edits! ilysm. sorry this took so long for me to write. i swearrr this fic was supposed to be fluffy, cute and around 10k words but I got carried away 😔 (not sorry for that). i might've absolutely butchered the tattoo shop scene pls forgive me (I've never been to a tattoo shop before idk how it works) this is also my first time writing an action scene it prolly sucks but wtv.

The sun hung high in the cloudless sky, casting a golden glow over the city. A gentle breeze drifted through the streets, the warmth of the morning wrapped around you like a comforting embrace, just the right kind of day that practically demanded an escape from the ordinary. And what better way to spend it than sprawled out on a checkered blanket, a basket full of food beside you, and your ever-so-enthusiastic boyfriend, Jungkook, grinning at you like this was the best idea in the world?

That’s right. It was picnic day. After a gruelling week at work, all you wanted was to stay in bed, sleep until the afternoon, have a late lunch, and then (ideally) go right back to sleep. But Jungkook, being the ever-optimistic, early-rising, productivity-loving man that he was, thought weekends were best spent on morning picnic dates at whatever random park he had decided on that week.

There was nothing you hated more than disappointing your sweet boyfriend, so cancelling the picnic dates altogether wasn’t an option. After extensive negotiations (read: you groggily whining while he laughed and refused to budge), you managed to compromise—morning breakfast dates became brunch dates. Because let’s be real, every extra second of sleep counts.

On the way to your picnic, you were stopped by a teenage boy, probably 17 or 18, who practically shoved a clipboard into your faces. With the practised enthusiasm of a seasoned salesman, he introduced himself, flashing a grin as he extended a hand in greeting. Then came the pitch.

“Donations for a local animal shelter,” he announced, voice laced with urgency. A shelter you had never heard of.

“The puppies and bunnies are all sick, sir, and the kittens are underfed,” he continued, his face contorting with the sheer heartbreak of it all. The kind of expression that would probably work on unsuspecting souls. Jungkook, being Jungkook, was already pulling out his wallet. And you were having none of it.

Before he could hand over a single bill, you yanked the wallet straight out of his hands. Jungkook blinked at you, stunned.

“Did you even check if it’s a real shelter?” you asked, unimpressed.

Jungkook glanced at the boy, then back at you. “Looks pretty real to me.” You sighed, taking a look at the "official website" the scammer eagerly pulled up on his phone. One glance was all it took.

“That’s a Wix template, you dumbass,” you deadpanned, shooting Jungkook a look. And to drive your point home, you dialled the actual shelter’s number. A moment of silence.

Then, like clockwork, the boy’s phone started ringing. The scammer stiffened, eyes wide with panic. And then, without as much as another word, he bolted down the street before you could report him to someone.

Jungkook pouted, stuffing his wallet back into his pocket. You rolled your eyes. “I can’t believe you almost fell for that.”

“One of these days,” he muttered, crossing his arms, “you’re gonna stop me from donating to a real shelter.” You snorted, nudging his shoulder as you started walking again. “Yeah, well, until that day comes, I’ll keep saving you from getting scammed by guys who probably spent five minutes on Google slapping together a fake charity.”

Jungkook huffed, kicking a loose pebble down the sidewalk. “He had a clipboard. People with clipboards always seem legit.”

“Oh, right, because clipboards are the universal sign of trustworthiness,” you deadpanned. “Next time, I’ll be sure to scam you with one myself.”

He shot you a playful glare. “I’d see through you in a second.” You smirked. “Would you, though?”

Jungkook opened his mouth, then shut it again, squinting at you like he wasn’t entirely convinced. You just grinned, patting his arm. “Exactly.”

You sit cross-legged on the checkered blanket, arms crossed, watching as Jungkook digs through the picnic basket like a child on Christmas morning. He’s practically vibrating with excitement, pulling out sandwiches, fruit, and what looks like an obnoxiously yellow thermos you don’t remember packing.

You squint. “Did you sneak in banana milk?”

Jungkook pauses, looking entirely unrepentant. “No.” You stare. He stares back. The thermos stares between you, the undeniable evidence of his crime.

Finally, he grins. “Okay, maybe.”

You let out a slow exhale, reaching for one of the sandwiches while he happily pours himself a cup of his beloved banana milk.

“I don’t get how you function sometimes,” you mutter, unwrapping your food.

“I function beautifully,” he corrects, flashing you a smile that’s far too bright for someone who just lied to your face. “You’re just too grumpy to appreciate it.”

You roll your eyes. “Right. Because nothing screams ‘functioning adult’ like getting scammed five minutes before a picnic.” Jungkook gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “I was being charitable!”

“You were being a prime target,” you deadpan. He huffs dramatically, taking an exaggerated bite of his sandwich as if it’s the ultimate form of protest. Cheeks puffed out like a bunny, he mumbles through his mouthful, “You stress too much.”

You raise a brow. “I wonder why.” He ignores your sarcasm, swallowing before continuing, “Maybe if you—” He suddenly stops, mid-thought, his eyes lighting up with a spark of mischief.

Oh no. You’ve seen that look before. It never leads to anything good.

"You should feed me."

You nearly choke on your drink. Coughing, you set your cup down with a thud and blink at him. “What?” Jungkook leans forward, resting his chin in his palm with the most infuriatingly smug expression. “You know,” he drawls, wiggling his eyebrows, “since you like taking care of me so much.”

You stare at him, unamused. Then, without breaking eye contact, you take the smallest, most unimpressive bite of your sandwich—just to spite him.

Jungkook groans, slumping back. “You’re no fun.”

“You knew that when you fell in love with me.”

His lips curve into something thoughtful, eyes flickering over your face like he’s considering something. Then, in one swift motion, he reaches over and swipes a strawberry from your plate, popping it into his mouth before you can react.

You gasp. “Jungkook!”

He grins, entirely unapologetic. “Yeah, but I like a challenge.” Without hesitation, you swat his hand, aiming for another grab. He yelps, laughing too hard for someone who just got smacked, dodging your next attempt with the reflexes of a seasoned strawberry thief.

"Unbelievable," you mutter, shaking your head. "A menace to society."

Jungkook only grins wider. "And yet, you still love me."

And just like that, it’s the both of you, bickering, teasing, him being too soft, and you pretending you don’t secretly like it. Despite everything, you’re glad he dragged you here. Because for all his nonsense, for all the chaos he brings into your life, Jungkook makes the world a little brighter.

You hated Monday mornings with a burning passion. If you walked into work and saw someone being all cheerful and optimistic, you’d have the overwhelming urge to dump ice-cold coffee over their head, just to make their day as miserable as yours. Of course, you wouldn’t actually act on that particular intrusive thought. Not unless you had a sudden desire to get fired.

Every day, it was the same soul-sucking routine. Log into your computer, answer emails, prepare for meetings, and trudge through an endless list of mind-numbing tasks that make you question all your life choices. You were staring blankly at your screen, fingers moving mechanically as you typed up a report when your phone buzzed.

Kook 🐰💜 [11:10 AM]: Miss me yet?

Your fingers pause on the keyboard. Buzz.

Kook 🐰💜[11:10 AM]: Or are you too busy being all serious and grumpy at work? Kook 🐰💜[11:11 AM]: Bet you’re smiling right now, though.

You bite your lip. You are not smiling. Absolutely not.

“Okay, what is that face?”

Jimin’s voice cuts through your concentration like a knife. You snap your head up to find him leaning against your desk, arms crossed, a knowing smirk already in place.

“There is no face,” you say quickly, locking your phone screen and shoving it away. Jimin gasps dramatically. “Oh my God, it’s him, isn’t it?”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “I swear to—”

“Ohhh, it totally is!” Jimin snatches your phone before you can react, scrolling through the notifications like he has every right to be nosy.

If there’s one person who never lets you live in peace, it’s Jimin. Coworker, best friend, professional pain in your ass, he’s all of the above, wrapped in a smug little package. You first met him when you started this job, and somehow, between the forced team projects, shared complaints about the boss, and mutual hatred for monday mornings, you ended up stuck with him for life. Not that you’d ever admit you’re grateful for it.

Unfortunately, he knows it anyway.

“Jimin, I will end you.”

But it’s too late. He’s already grinning like the devil himself. “Look at you. Getting all giddy over a text. My, my, how the mighty have fallen.”

“I’m not giddy.”

“Oh, you absolutely are.” He mimics your earlier expression, clutching his phone to his chest with a dreamy sigh. “Oh, Jungkook, my sweet precious sunshine, text me more. I can’t possibly get through this workday without knowing you’re thinking about me.”

You throw a stapler at him.

He dodges effortlessly, laughing. “Relax, lover girl. It’s cute. Gross, but cute.” You huff, snatching your phone back. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” Jimin plops down in the chair next to you, still smirking. “Now tell me, what’s golden boy up to?”

You hesitate. But your phone buzzes again.

Kook 🐰💜 [11:13 AM]: Hey. Don’t overwork yourself. I’ll call you later, okay?

You stare at the screen for a moment, fingers hovering over the keyboard before you eventually settle on a simple reply.

You [11:14 AM: Okay.

…Okay, maybe you are smiling a little.

Jimin sees it immediately. And you already know you’re never going to hear the end of it.

The moment you step into the break room—finally free from Jimin’s relentless smirking, you let out a breath and pull out your phone, scrolling through your recent calls before dialling Jungkook. It barely rings twice before he picks up, his voice warm and teasing, like he already knew you’d call.

“Hey, baby,” he greets smoothly, amusement lacing his tone. “Miss me already?”

You roll your eyes, setting your lunchbox on the table with a thud. “In your dreams, Jeon.”

Flipping open the lid, the rich, savoury aroma of bibimbap immediately washes over you. The vibrant colors of the ingredients are neatly arranged, looking almost too perfect to eat—almost. You can tell Jungkook took his time making it, carefully placing each topping exactly where it should be, ensuring it looked as good as it tasted.

Your heart does something traitorous in your chest, but you ignore it. Jungkook chuckles at your silence, clearly pleased with himself. “I assume this is your way of telling me my cooking is amazing?”

“Not even close,” you say, grabbing your chopsticks. “Jimin wouldn’t shut up about you, so I figured I’d call and annoy you instead.” A deep, rumbling laugh comes through the speaker, the sound sending warmth curling through your stomach. “Mhm. Sure, love. You could’ve just admitted you wanted to hear my voice.”

Your eye twitches. “That’s not—”

“Shh, no need to be shy. I won’t judge.” You groan, tilting your head back against the chair, but the small smile tugging at your lips betrays you. He’s impossible, and worse, he knows it.

“Whatever,” you mutter. “What are you doing this weekend?”

“Mmm.” There’s some shuffling on his end, followed by the faint rustling of sheets like he’s lying down and getting comfortable. “I was thinking… instead of our usual park picnic, you could come with me to get my sleeve reworked.” That makes you pause, chopsticks hovering mid-air. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” he says, voice a little more casual. “It’s been a while, and I wanna touch up some parts. Maybe add something new.”

You lean back in your chair, considering it. You’ve seen his tattoos up close plenty of times—traced them absentmindedly, let your fingers follow the inked lines whenever he had an arm wrapped around you. There’s something mesmerizing about them, the way they flow seamlessly over his skin, each design an intricate part of him.

You definitely wouldn’t mind watching the process.

“That’s fine with me,” you say after a beat. Then, under your breath, you mumble, “But if the artist messes up, I’m fighting them.” Jungkook snorts. “Of course you will.” His voice takes on that teasing lilt that makes you want to reach through the phone and flick his forehead. “You’re so cute when you get all protective.”

Your face heats up instantly. “Oh my god, eat your lunch.”

“I will. But only if you say you love me first.” You nearly choke. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” His grin is obvious, even through the phone. “Say it, and I’ll go eat.” You huff, glancing around the empty break room just to make sure no one’s around. Then, in the lowest possible whisper, you mumble, “…Love you.”

A beat of silence.

And then, even quieter, “Love your bibimbap too.”

Jungkook hums, unreasonably satisfied. “Love you too, baby. Now go eat before Jimin catches you blushing.” Your eyes widen, and you hang up immediately.

Unfortunately, when you turn around, Jimin is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, looking far too smug for your liking.

“So,” he drawls, tilting his head. “How’s Jungkook?” You groan, slamming your head onto the table. You are never going to live this down.

Jimin’s laughter echoes in the room, pure evil.

Jungkook’s apartment is the kind of place that makes it dangerously easy to never leave. It’s cozy with warm lighting, soft blankets draped over the couch, and the faint scent of vanilla and fabric softener lingering in the air. You tell yourself that’s the main reason you always find yourself here instead of your own place, but, if you were being completely honest, there are a few other factors at play.

For one, his snack collection is legendary. His kitchen cabinets are stocked with an endless supply of goodies, including a lifetime’s worth of Twinkies, your weakness. And then there’s Jungkook himself, but you’re not about to admit that. Especially not to him.

Curled up on his couch, you lazily flip through his Netflix, eyes scanning titles without really registering any of them. The ambient noise of the apartment, the hum of the heater, the occasional rustling of pages from Jungkook’s workspace, only adds to the drowsy comfort settling over you. Just as you’re about to give up on finding something to watch, Jungkook suddenly plops down beside you, sketchbook in hand.

The cushion dips under his weight, and you barely manage to suppress a startled flinch. He doesn’t say anything at first, just leans back against the couch with a content sigh, flipping the sketchbook open across his lap. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, curiosity piqued despite yourself. "Okay," he says, grinning as he settles beside you on the couch. His fingers drum against the edge of his sketchbook before he flips it open, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. "Wanna see what I’ve been working on?"

You nod, humming in interest. "Mhm. Sure."

The moment the pages spread out before you, your breath catches. Intricate designs fill the book, some half-finished, others shaded to perfection. There are fine, precise lines, bold strokes, and an almost obsessive attention to detail in every drawing. You can tell he's poured hours into this, into crafting something that isn’t just art but a reflection of himself.

"Damn," you murmur, fingertips tracing lightly over the paper. "You did all these?" Jungkook grins, his dimples making an appearance. "Yup," he says, clearly pleased with your reaction.

You take your time flipping through the pages. There’s a sketch of a skeletal hand doing the rock on sign, a detailed microphone showcasing his love for music, lyrics from his favorite songs inked in elegant script, and the word Bulletproof scrawled in a graffiti style, right beneath it, a note written in his unmistakable handwriting: cover-up for eye tattoo. And then, sitting proudly in between these edgy, personal pieces, is a woozy face emoji.

You huff out a small laugh. His tattoo ideas range from deeply meaningful to outright ridiculous.

But then you pause. Nestled between his designs is a rework of his tiger lily tattoo—his birth flower. But entwined around it, curling gracefully between the petals, is another flower. Chrysanthemums.

Your birth flower.

The realization sinks in, slow and warm. Jungkook goes still beside you, barely breathing. You don’t miss the way his fingers twitch, or the way his ears turn bright red when he realizes that you understood. Then, like a man caught in the act he snatches the sketchbook away, snapping it shut so fast you barely have time to process it.

"Aha—! Anyway—" He clears his throat, ears burning. "That one wasn’t, uh—I wasn’t supposed to show you that yet."

Your lips twitch. "Mhm. Jeon, I see what you did there."

"What?" he says too quickly. "It’s just, you know, it looked nice with the lilies." His voice cracks. You arch a brow. "Looks nice? That’s all?" Jungkook nods a little too fast. "Yeah. No big deal."

You don’t believe him for a second.

So, naturally, you lean in, lowering your voice just enough to watch him squirm."You sure about that, baby?"

Jungkook.exe has stopped working.

With a groan, he buries his burning face into your shoulder, mumbling something incoherent against your sweater. You laugh, warmth blooming in your chest, fingers threading absentmindedly through his hair. Yeah. No big deal.

The weekend sun was just beginning to climb when Jungkook pulled up outside your place, the low hum of his car engine a familiar sound by now. You barely had time to lock your door before he leaned over, effortlessly pushing the passenger door open with that usual bright grin of his. “Morning, baby,” he greeted, fingers drumming lightly on the steering wheel. Without missing a beat, he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek—warm, lingering just a second longer than necessary. “You sleep well?”

You slid into the seat, closing the door behind you with a huff, eyes narrowing at him. “No, because someone was blowing up my phone with memes and ‘fun facts’ about toxic tattoo inks at two in the morning.” Jungkook had the audacity to look proud. “I just thought you should know! What if they use cheap ink, huh? Gotta protect this masterpiece.” He gestured vaguely at his arm, where his tattoos peeked out from under the sleeve of his shirt.

You sighed, clicking your seatbelt into place. “Just drive.”

As he shifted gears and pulled onto the road, you let your gaze wander around the car, taking in the familiar scent of his cologne, the faint hum of the engine, and the steady rhythm of the music playing low through the speakers. His hand, warm and absentminded, found its usual place on your thigh like it belonged there, thumb tracing gentle patterns against your skin. It was peaceful. The kind of easy, comfortable silence that only came from knowing someone so well.

But then, something caught your attention.

Your eyes drifted to the backseat, where his sketchbook sat, slightly ajar as if hastily tossed there. A few loose sheets stuck out from the pages, filled with the intricate designs you’d seen before. You reached for it instinctively, but before you could grab it, the scenery outside made you pause.

“...Wait.” Your brows furrowed as you looked out the window. The streets weren’t familiar, the route different from what you expected. You turned back to him. “This isn’t the way to your usual place.” Jungkook hummed, like he’d been waiting for you to notice. “We’re trying a new one today.”

You turned to him, suspicious. “Why?”

His grin widened, full of mischief. “Jin got a job there.” That took you a second to process. “Seokjin?”

“My cousin, yeah.” Jungkook drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, glancing at you briefly before turning his attention back to the road. “He’s a receptionist now. Lured me in with staff discounts.” You scoffed, shaking your head. “So, let me get this straight—he got a job there yesterday, and today you’re already showing up to cash in?” Jungkook gasped, all faux offense, clutching his chest as if you’d just wounded him. “I would never use my dear cousin like that.”

You gave him a deadpan look.

His lips twitched, the act crumbling instantly. “…Okay, maybe a little,” he admitted, flashing you a boyish grin. “But hey, cheaper tattoos, and I get to support my hyung? Win-win.” You rolled your eyes, unable to stop the amused smile pulling at your lips. “Does he even know we’re coming?”

“He does,” Jungkook replied, his grin not fading. “He actually told me to wait for him before I get started with the consultation.” 

And that’s how you and Jungkook ended up stuck in the lobby of the tattoo shop, waiting for over thirty minutes for Jin to show up.

Jungkook exhaled loudly, rolling his shoulders before pulling out his phone and dialing Jin for the sixth time. His other hand absentmindedly tugged you closer by the wrist, a small, unconscious habit of his whenever he was growing impatient. “Jin said he’d be here soon,” he muttered, eyes flickering to the entrance yet again, as if willing his cousin to walk through the door. “Told me to get comfy and wait.”

You smirked, shifting slightly in your seat. “He did? So, naturally, he’s gonna be late.” Jungkook groaned, tilting his head back against the couch. “He promised, okay? Swore he wouldn’t ditch me this time.”

“That’s cute.” You patted his thigh mockingly. “You still believe him.” Jungkook shot you a halfhearted glare before flicking his gaze to the empty reception area for what had to be the hundredth time. His foot bounced impatiently against the floor, but before he could make another complaint, the sound of a door opening drew both of your attention.

A woman with sleek, silver-dyed hair emerged from one of the back rooms, her sharp gaze scanning the lobby before landing directly on Jungkook. Her expression immediately shifted into a perfected customer-service smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly. “What are you here for?”

“Sleeve rework,” he replied casually, rolling his shoulder as if to emphasize the ink beneath his sleeve. “You’re the one getting the sleeve reworked?” she asked smoothly, completely ignoring your presence. “Seokjin’s cousin, right?

Jungkook nodded, his own expression polite but confused. “Yeah, but he isn’t here yet. Jin told me to wai—”

“Oh,” she cut in, her lips curving just slightly, a little too knowing. “Well, that’s okay. I’m sure he would’ve referred you to me anyway. I could start taking care of you now.”

Something about the way she said it made your jaw clench.

Jungkook, oblivious as ever, only hummed. “Uh, I mean… I guess we could start the consultation?”

You didn’t like the way she was looking at him.

As she moved closer, the glow of the overhead light caught on her name tag—Nari. The name meant nothing to you, but something about her demeanor put you on edge.

Jungkook settled into the chair, stretching his arm out as Nari prepped her station. You remained seated across from him, phone in hand, pretending to scroll while keeping a close eye on the exchange. Nari pulled on a pair of gloves, her movements fluid and practiced as she leaned in, examining Jungkook’s inked skin. “Your ink is solid,” she murmured, fingers ghosting over the intricate designs. “Whoever did this knew what they were doing.”

Jungkook grinned, clearly pleased with the compliment. “Yeah, my old artist was great. Just wanted some refinements, you know?”

“Mm,” Nari hummed in agreement, grabbing a marker to outline a few areas. Her gaze lingered on his arm longer than necessary, her lips curving slightly. “You’re adding new work too, right?”

Jungkook nodded. “Yeah, just some floral details around the tiger lily.”

That was supposed to be the end of it. But then Nari tilted her head, eyes flickering up to his face before dropping back to his arm, and subtly, but not subtly enough she licked her lips.

“I love doing florals on guys,” she said, voice dipping into something softer. “There’s just something about the contrast, you know?”

Your grip on your phone tightened. Jungkook, completely unaware of the shift in tone, simply lifted his arm to show her the faded edges. “Yeah, I wanted to add some chrysanthe—”

Before he could even finish, Nari reached out, fingers wrapping around his arm, her touch lingering.

“Oh, your skin is so nice,” she murmured, smoothing her fingers over the defined muscle as if she were admiring it rather than prepping it for work. Your eye twitched.

Jungkook blinked, a little startled by the comment but still too polite to pull away. “Uh… thanks?” Nari only smiled, nails grazing his forearm ever so slightly as she adjusted his position. “Good canvas makes all the difference.”

You swore you could hear your patience snapping like a twig. Jungkook looked slightly uncomfortable but still handed over his sketchbook, flipping to the page with his design. “This is what I had in mind for the rework,” he said, tapping the paper.

Nari barely glanced at the intricate details before tilting her head, her gaze flickering back to him instead. “You drew this yourself?”

Jungkook nodded. “Yeah.”

“Wow,” she hummed, leaning in slightly, the corner of her lips quirking up. “That’s impressive. Not many clients walk in with this level of detail.” From where you sat, you rested your chin on your hand, unimpressed.

Jungkook offered a small, polite smile. “I just like having a clear idea before I commit.” Nari's smirk deepened. “That’s really attractive,” she mused, fingers skimming the edge of the sketchbook instead of actually turning the page. “A guy who’s artistic and decisive? Rare find.”

You blinked. What.

Jungkook cleared his throat, shifting in his seat like he wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “Uh… thanks?” Nari finally flipped to the next page—though at this point, it felt more like a courtesy than genuine interest. “And you did all of these?”

Jungkook nodded again. “Mhm.”

“That’s insane,” she gushed, dragging her fingers over the lines like they were worth framing. “You could easily be a tattoo artist yourself.” Jungkook chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t think I have the patience for it.”

“That’s a shame,” Nari sighed, her fingers lingering a little too long on the sketchbook. “With hands like yours, I bet you’d be amazing at it.”

Your expression went flat. Jungkook just coughed into his fist, visibly flustered. “Uh—”

You snapped before you could stop yourself. “If you’re done with the consultation, I think you should get started with the sketching.” Your voice was even, but the words were clipped. “Unless this is just a fan club meeting now.”

That made Nari pause.

Jungkook turned to you, lips twitching as if he was trying not to laugh. Nari dared to send you a sharp glare, like you had just interrupted something sacred. But she grabbed a fineliner anyway, her movements slow and deliberate, as if making a point.

You didn’t waver. Arms crossed, you kept your gaze locked on her hands, watching every unnecessary adjustment she made—each one turning into soft, lingering touches against Jungkook’s skin. It was infuriating, the way her fingers skimmed his arm like she had every right to.

And then she bit her lip.

A coy smile played at the edges of her mouth, subtle but unmistakable. Jungkook, completely oblivious as always, remained relaxed in the chair, only wincing slightly when the cold surface of the fineliner pressed against his skin.

You were far from relaxed.

Shifting in your seat, you clenched your jaw, fingers curling against your arms. Maybe—maybe—she was just a touchy person. Maybe you were overanalyzing this. Maybe it was nothing.

“So,” Nari began, her voice light and conversational, “do all your tattoos have a meaning?” Jungkook, still staring at the ceiling like this was any other consultation, nodded. “Most of them, yeah.”

“What about this one?” She tapped the tiger lily, her fingertips trailing over the ink just a little too leisurely. Jungkook smiled, unaware of the way your patience was fraying. “That one represents passion, confidence… all that stuff. It’s also my birth flower”

Nari hummed, like she was committing that information to memory. “And the chrysanthemums?”

At this, Jungkook hesitated. For the first time, he flicked his gaze toward you, something unreadable passing through his eyes. Your posture stiffened, waiting. He cleared his throat. “They mean a lot to me.”

Nari tilted her head, expectant.

You leaned forward, expectant.

But Jungkook just chuckled lightly before answering, “They’re my girlfriend’s birth flower.” His tone was proud, almost smug, as if relishing the chance to say it out loud. A smirk tugged at your lips. That should be enough to shut this down, enough for her to finally get the message—

Except Nari barely reacted.

If anything, she just hummed again, dragging her eyes across his arm like she hadn’t even heard him. “Hm. Bet they’d look really pretty on you,” she mused, her tone as sweet as syrup. Then, without missing a beat, she added, “Then again, I bet a lot of things do.”

Your head snapped up. Jungkook tensed slightly but played it off with an awkward laugh. “Uh… thanks?”

Oh, hell no.

Maybe it was the way she said it. The way her voice dripped with something just a little too sweet, like she wasn’t just appreciating his tattoos but the person wearing them. Maybe it was the fact that her fingers were still lightly dragging along his forearm, slow and deliberate, like she had every right to touch him like that. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the fact that Jungkook, ever polite, ever oblivious, wasn’t saying anything to stop her. Either way, your patience is officially gone.

You leaned forward, resting your elbows on your knees, voice smooth but sharp enough to cut. “So, is this your usual customer service?” you asked, tilting your head. “Or is my boyfriend just getting the VIP treatment?”

Nari barely spared you a glance. “Oh, don’t worry. I take very good care of my clients.” Your smile was saccharine, all teeth. “I bet you do.”

Jungkook shifted, fingers gripping the armrest as if bracing himself. “Baby—” You ignored him. “I thought professionalism was a basic requirement for tattoo artists. But I guess it’s optional here, huh?”

Nari’s smirk twitched, but she held her ground. “I’m just making conversation.”

“Right.” You nodded slowly, voice dripping with faux understanding. “Because flirting with your client while his girlfriend is sitting right here is so normal.”

Jungkook, bless his clueless heart, looked between the two of you like he’d just walked into a battlefield with no armor. His lips parted—he should say something, anything, should try to calm you down before things escalated, but the words never came.

Because truth be told, seeing you like this, so protective and so fierce was kind of hot.

Nari’s eyes narrowed, her confidence flickering just a little. “I wasn’t flirting.” You let out a mock gasp, pressing a hand over your chest in exaggerated horror. “Oh, my bad.” Your tone was syrupy, dripping with fake innocence. “I must have misheard when you basically drooled over my boyfriend while I was sitting right here.”

Nari let out a sharp huff, her irritation finally surfacing. She set the fineliner down with a little too much force, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and condescension. “Look, do you want me to finish this or not?”

You opened your mouth, already armed with a sharp retort—

“No.”

Jungkook’s voice cut through the air, calm but unwavering.

Nari blinked. “What?”

Jungkook rolled his shoulder back as he sat up straighter, his usual easygoing expression replaced with something unreadable. “I’ll get it done somewhere else.”

She scoffed, crossing her arms. “Seriously? Just because she’s insecure?”

Oh. That did it. A slow, burning heat unfurled in your chest. The audacity, the sheer nerve to say something like that when she had been the one crossing every possible line. You barely registered standing up, only aware of the way your pulse pounded in your ears as you took a step forward.

“Excuse me?”

But before you could let loose, Jungkook was already moving. His hand found yours, his grip warm and steady as he gently pulled you back. “Let’s go,” he murmured, his voice low but insistent. Nari rolled her eyes, leaning back in her chair like she couldn’t care less. “Your loss.” Jungkook didn’t bother responding. He just grabbed his jacket, intertwined his fingers with yours, and led you out of the shop without a single backward glance.

The second the door shut behind you, the tension that had been coiling in your muscles finally snapped.

“I swear—” you started, still fuming, but Jungkook sighed, squeezing your hand in his. “I know, baby,” he said, his voice softer now, the warmth of it cutting right through your frustration. “I know.”

You exhaled sharply. “She was touching you.” Jungkook let out a low chuckle, rubbing his temple. “I literally had no idea she was flirting.”

“You never do.”

That earned you a grin. Jungkook tilted his head slightly, leaning down just enough that his nose nearly brushed yours. His eyes locked onto yours with a familiar fondness. “But you do.” His voice was teasing, but there was something else there too. Something softer. Something that made your breath catch, just a little.

You scowled, but he just wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “Jealous?” he teased. You scoffed. 

His smile turned fond. “Cute.” You smacked his chest. “Shut up.” 

Jungkook barely flinched at the hit, his grin only widening. He tightened his hold around your waist, pulling you in until there was hardly any space left between you. “That’s not a no,” he murmured, his voice dipping just enough to make your stomach flutter. You narrowed your eyes, tilting your chin up defiantly. “I wasn’t jealous.”

Jungkook hummed, unconvinced. His fingers skimmed over the small of your back, the touch light but deliberate. “Mhm. Sure.”

You huffed, crossing your arms. “She was unprofessional.”

“True.”

“And disrespectful.”

“Very.”

“And her eyeliner was uneven.”

Jungkook snorted, finally breaking into a full laugh. “Okay, now you’re just being mean.” You shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but the way he was looking at you, like you were the most amusing thing in the world made your face heat up. His laughter faded into something softer, something unbearably fond. “You know you’re cute when you’re all worked up, right?”

You scowled, jabbing a finger into his chest. “I said shut up.” Jungkook grinned, catching your hand with ease before lacing his fingers through yours. “Make me.”

Your breath hitched. His gaze flickered to your lips for the briefest second, and suddenly, the air between you shifted—

“You guys done with the tattoo already?”

A loud, familiar voice shattered the moment like glass hitting the pavement.

Both you and Jungkook turned your heads in unison, only to find Jin standing a few feet away, looking between the two of you with an expression far too amused for your liking. Jungkook groaned, running a hand down his face. “Hyung, seriously?”

Jin blinked. “What? I was just asking.” His gaze flickered over Jungkook’s arm, eyes narrowing as he took in the faint ink lines still marking his skin—the rough sketch of the tattoo, untouched by the needle. His brows furrowed.

“Wait. You didn’t actually get it done?”

Jungkook huffed, crossing his arms. “No. Because the tattooo artist was too busy flirting with me.”

Jin’s face twisted in confusion. “Huh?”

You, still somewhat bristling from the whole ordeal, rolled your eyes. “She was all over him. Barely even looked at his designs before trying to eye-fuck him.” JIn’s jaw dropped. “Wait, are you serious?”

Jungkook nodded, his expression flat. “Dead serious.” Jin winced, rubbing the back of his neck. “Damn. I had no idea she was like that.”

At least he had the decency to look sorry. 

Jin sighed, rubbing his temple dramatically. “Alright, fine. Since I unknowingly threw you both into the lion’s den, I owe you.” He clapped his hands together. “Lunch is on me.” Jungkook raised a brow. “You? Paying for food? Willingly?”

Jin scoffed. “I can be generous, you know.”

You snorted. “That’s new.”

Jin ignored you. “Come on, let’s eat. My treat. Think of it as compensation for the mess I accidentally dropped you into.”

Jungkook hummed, pretending to consider. “I mean… if you’re paying, I’m definitely ordering the most expensive thing on the menu.”

Jin rolled his eyes. “As if you wouldn’t do that anyway.”

Jungkook just grinned. “True.”

You laughed, your earlier irritation melting away. “Alright, fine. You’re forgiven. But only if I get to pick the place.” Jin groaned. “Why do I feel like I’m about to regret this?” Jungkook laced his fingers through yours, his thumb brushing against your skin. “Because you probably will.”

Jin sighed but motioned for you both to follow. “Hurry up before I change my mind.” With that, the three of you headed off, leaving the unpleasant encounter behind in favor of good food.

Nari leaned against the counter, arms folded tight as she glared out the shop’s large window. Outside, you stood near the curb, your gaze fixed on Jungkook and Jin as they chatted. You weren’t speaking, just watching with that quiet, unreadable expression. But somehow, that made Nari even angrier.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered under her breath.

“What is?”

The question came lazily from the man who had just strolled up beside her. He shook out his wrists after finishing with his last client, pulling off his gloves and tossing them into the trash. His attention remained casual, uninterested until Nari gestured toward the window with a sharp tilt of her chin.

“Her.”

His eyes followed her gaze. His posture was still loose, still easygoing until he saw you. For the briefest moment, his entire body went rigid. His casual demeanor cracked, just slightly, before he smoothed it over with a slow smirk.

“Huh.”

Nari, oblivious to the shift, let out a scoff. “She threw a whole fit because I was being nice to her boyfriend. Completely embarrassed me in front of him and acted all possessive, like I was some kind of threat.” She tapped her nails against the counter, still glaring at you through the window. “And now, thanks to her little tantrum, he refuses to get his tattoo done here.”

The man hummed, tilting his head. “Jealous girlfriend type, huh?”

“Exactly.” Nari huffed before turning to him with a slow, calculating smile. “You’re good at handling people, right?” He lifted a brow. “Depends on what you mean by ‘handling.’”

She leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Do you think you could… I don’t know, do something about her? Save Jungkook from her?” For a moment, he didn’t respond. His gaze flicked back toward the window, settling this time on Jungkook himself.

And just like that, his smirk thinned.

Jungkook stood beside Jin, hands in his pockets, his head tilted slightly as he listened to whatever Jin was rambling about. But every so often, his attention shifted to you. The way his fingers brushed absently over your back, the way his expression softened whenever he glanced your way, like keeping you close was second nature.

The man’s fingers curled into a fist. “Figures,” he muttered under his breath.

Nari frowned. “You know him?” A sharp exhale. A shake of his head. “Not personally. But I know of him.”

She perked up at that, her curiosity piqued. “Oh?”

His tongue ran over his teeth, jaw working as he leaned against the counter. When he spoke again, his smirk had returned but there was nothing amused about it. “Let’s just say… I have unfinished business with her.”

Nari blinked at that, lips parting slightly as she took in the underlying venom in his tone. Then, as if catching on, she let out a slow, delighted hum. “Well then,” she murmured, turning back to the window, watching you through narrowed eyes. “Wouldn’t it be fun to mess with her a little?”

His gaze never left you. He watched as Jungkook reached out, tugging the sleeve of your jacket into place with an unconscious sort of familiarity, the kind that spoke of years spent together.

The kind of familiarity that should have been his.

The corner of his lips lifted, the smirk sharpening into something colder. “Oh, sweetheart.” His voice was smooth and teasing, laced with something far more sinister.

“I’d love to.”

You groggily blink your eyes open, immediately regretting it as the soft glow of the morning filters through your curtains. Too bright. Too early. Too… awake. You bury your face into your pillow, grumbling incoherently, unwilling to leave the comforting warmth of your bed. It’s Sunday. A day meant for sleeping in, doing absolutely nothing, and ignoring all responsibilities.

Then, you feel it—the weight of an arm loosely draped over your waist, the warmth seeping through your thin shirt. Your sleep-addled brain takes a moment to process before it clicks. Jungkook.

Right. He stayed over last night.

A sleepy sigh escapes your lips as you shift slightly, pressing closer to his warmth. His scent lingers on your sheets, wrapping around you like a second blanket. You peek up, still half-asleep, and catch the sight of him lying beside you, propped up on one elbow, his phone held in his free hand. The soft glow of the screen illuminates his face, casting delicate shadows over his sharp jawline. He’s already awake, completely engrossed in whatever he’s scrolling through.

Too awake for your liking.

“Five more minutes,” you mumble sleepily, voice muffled against the pillow. Your words slur together, more of a plea than a statement, as you instinctively nuzzle into Jungkook’s chest, seeking warmth.

A deep chuckle rumbles from him, low and fond, the kind that makes your heart squeeze without permission. His arm tightens around you in response, fingers lazily tracing light circles against your back. “Five more minutes? Baby, you said that like… an hour ago.”

You don’t respond, only snuggling deeper into his embrace, fully intent on ignoring him. Jungkook exhales dramatically, an exaggerated, put-upon sigh. “You’re gonna sleep the whole day away.”

“That’s the plan.”

“You’re literally wasting the morning.”

“Mm,” you hum noncommittally. “Not wasting if I’m warm and comfortable.” Jungkook pokes your cheek, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he tries to stir you. “C’mon, let’s go out. We could get breakfast, maybe go on a walk—”

“No.” You blindly swat his hand away.

Jungkook groans, flopping onto his back in frustration. “Why did I fall for someone lazier than me?” You crack one eye open, just enough to see his pout. Smirking, you shift slightly and mumble into the pillow, “Because I’m cute.”

Jungkook huffs. “…I mean, yeah, but that’s not the point.”

Jungkook finally manages to wrangle you out of bed—a feat that takes a ridiculous amount of whining, bribing, and sheer force of will. He practically drags you across the apartment, his grip firm around your wrist, ignoring every single one of your grumbles and half-hearted protests.

“You are,” you mumble as he steers you into the kitchen, “the absolute worst.” Jungkook snorts, already rummaging through the cabinets for coffee beans. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was I supposed to let you rot in bed for eternity?”

“Yes.”

Jungkook ignores you, expertly working the coffee machine like a man on a mission. You slump against the counter, still half-asleep, head lolling dramatically to the side as you watch him move around like an overly energetic golden retriever. Then, your phone buzzes on the counter. You lazily glance at the screen, skimming the weather forecast—

Rain incoming.

Your spine straightens, sleepiness vanishing in an instant as you whip your phone up to show Jungkook, shoving the screen in his face with an almost evil sort of glee. “Oh no~” you sing-song, tone dripping with faux disappointment. “Looks like we can’t go out.”

Jungkook’s brows furrow as he squints at the screen, reading the forecast. His expression quickly morphs from mild confusion to full-blown horror. “…It wasn’t supposed to rain today,” he says slowly, almost like he can will the reality away.

“Guess we have to stay in.” You sigh dramatically, clutching your chest like it pains you. “Damn. What a shame.”

Jungkook groans, slumping against the counter like his entire soul has left his body. His dreams of a fun, eventful day were shattered. “You’re lying,” he accuses weakly. “This is a personal attack.”

You shake your head, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “I don’t control the weather, baby.”

Jungkook glares. “But if you could, you’d make it rain every day, wouldn’t you?” A smirk tugs at your lips. “Absolutely.”

Jungkook throws his head back with a dramatic, suffering groan, sliding down the counter like a man defeated. You watch him in amusement, lifting the coffee cup he had just made for himself and taking a slow, satisfied sip. The moment the taste hits your tongue, Jungkook’s entire body snaps upright.

He watches, utterly betrayed, as you lower the cup with a pleased hum.

“…Did you just steal my coffee?”

You blink at him, all innocence. “You made this for me, didn’t you?”

Jungkook scoffs, expression scandalized. “No! I made it for me!”

You shrug, taking another sip as you meet his glare with zero remorse. “Tastes great, babe. Thanks.”

Jungkook clutches his chest like you’ve personally wounded him. “You’re the actual worst.”

“And yet,” you hum, leaning against the counter with a satisfied smirk, “here you are, hopelessly in love with me.”

Jungkook stares at you for a long second, lips pursed. Then, without warning, he lunges. You yelp as he wraps his arms around your waist, lifting you with ridiculous ease and tossing you over his shoulder.

“JUNGKOOK—”

“NOPE,” he interrupts, already marching towards the living room. “If I can’t have fun outside, I’m gonna make you suffer with me inside.” You kick your feet uselessly, fists pounding against his back as he effortlessly carries you away. “Put me down, you muscle bunny!”

Jungkook only laughs, completely unfazed, before spinning on his heel and tossing you onto the couch like you weigh nothing. You land with a soft ‘oof,’ bouncing slightly against the cushions as he flops down beside you, stretching out like a starfish. “You are so dramatic,” you grumble, attempting to shove him away with your foot.

Jungkook just grins, easily catching your ankle and tugging you closer instead. “And yet, you love me anyway.”

You huff, too lazy to argue.

Before you can protest further, he shifts, rolling onto his side and resting his head comfortably on your lap. His eyes flutter shut almost instantly, his breath evening out as he settles in like he belongs there. At first, you stiffen, but as the seconds pass, your fingers instinctively weave through his soft, dark hair. You barely even realize you’re doing it, the motion coming as naturally as breathing.

Jungkook hums at the feeling, half-conscious, but content. His face is completely relaxed and unguarded in a way that makes your chest ache. He looked so soft like this. So warm. So… safe. And something deep inside you just melts.

Your fingers slow, combing gently through the strands, nails lightly scratching his scalp. A soft scowl tugs at your lips. Because this? This is a version of Jungkook you’d fight the entire world to protect.

Jungkook must feel your gaze because, after a moment, he cracks one eye open and peeks up at you. “You’re staring,” he murmurs, voice still laced with sleep. You blink, quickly masking your expression with a huff. To cover up the warmth creeping up your neck, you flick his forehead. “Just making sure you’re still breathing.”

Jungkook snickers, stretching lazily. “Aww, are you worried about me?”

You cross your arms, unimpressed. “Obviously. You’re fragile.”

Jungkook immediately bursts out laughing, full-bodied and carefree, his entire frame shaking against your lap. “Me? Fragile? Baby, I could bench press you.”

You roll your eyes, completely unfazed. “Yeah, well, I could stab someone for you.”

Jungkook’s laughter dies instantly. His eyes widen slightly, blinking up at you as if processing your words. Then, ever so slowly, a grin spreads across his face.

“…Okay, that’s really hot.”

You scoff, flicking his forehead again. “Pervert.”

Jungkook just smirks, completely shameless. “What can I say? I like my girlfriend a little unhinged.” You roll your eyes, but before you can retort, a deep rumble of thunder echoes outside.

Jungkook groans, throwing an arm over his face. “Great. So we really are stuck inside all day.”

You don’t even bother hiding your glee. “Tragic.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Jungkook shifts, burying his face into your stomach like a sulking puppy. You try to shove him off, but he only clings harder, grumbling nonsense against your his hoodie.

“You’re ridiculous,” you murmur, fingers idly threading through his hair again. Eventually, he shifts, lifting his head to look at you properly. His expression softens laced with something so fond it makes your breath hitch. He doesn’t say anything. Just laces his fingers through yours, absentmindedly tracing patterns against your palm.

Then, suddenly there's a sharp poke to your side and you jolt with a squawk, trying to wiggle away. “Jungkook!” He grins, eyes twinkling with mischief. “If we’re staying in, we should do something.”

You glare at him, still half-prepared to smack him upside the head. “Like what?”

His smirk deepens. “You know exactly what.” For a second, you just stare at him. He stares back.Then, without breaking eye contact—he grabs the game controllers.

Jungkook’s sunshine boyfriend energy disappears the second the race countdown starts. Gone is the sweet, cuddly man who had been wrapped around you like a koala just minutes ago, now, he’s leaning forward, brows furrowed, fully in the zone.

“Loser does the dishes in both apartments,” he announces, rolling his shoulders like he’s prepping for war. You scoff, cracking your knuckles for dramatic effect. “You’re about to regret that.”

The moment Lakitu drops the starting light, Jungkook launches forward like he’s been possessed by the spirit of every pro gamer ever. Meanwhile, you barely get past the first turn without slamming into the barrier. You spam every single item box you can get your hands on, determined to take him down with sheer pettiness if not skill.

Then there’s a miracle. Jungkook is just about to cross the finish line when you hit him with a perfectly timed blue shell.

BOOM.

His character spirals into the air, crashing down just inches from victory. You zoom past him at the last second.

“IN YOUR FACE, JEON.” You throw your arms up like you just won an Olympic gold medal. Jungkook stares at the screen in stunned silence. Then, slowly he turns to you. You suddenly get the feeling you’ve made a terrible mistake.

“Okay, sweetheart,” he murmurs, cracking his knuckles. “No more playing nice.”

The next race starts and you get absolutely destroyed.

Jungkook goes full demon mode, drifting around corners with terrifying precision, dodging every single attack like he can see the future. He launches red shells, banana peels, lightning bolts— you don’t even know how he’s getting this many power-ups.

It’s a massacre. One round. Two rounds. Three. You lose every single one. By the end, your controller is nearly embedded into your palm from how tightly you’re gripping it. Jungkook, on the other hand, is lounging back against the couch, arms stretched behind his head, smug as hell.

He tilts his head, smirking. “Do you yield?”

You scowl. “I hope you step on a Lego.”

Jungkook just laughs, grabbing your wrist and yanking you into his lap before you can escape. The controllers are discarded, forgotten as you end up tangled together on the couch. His arms snake around your waist, holding you in place as you halfheartedly struggle.

Then—he boops your nose.

You blink. Once. Twice. Then groan, flopping dramatically against his chest. “I take back every nice thing I’ve ever said about you.”

Jungkook only hums, smug and unbothered. “Even though you lost, I still think you’re the cutest.”

You smack his arm. “I will actually fight you.”

“Mm. As long as it’s not in Mario Kart, I like my chances.”

Jungkook’s phone buzzes against the coffee table, the vibration cutting through the comfortable silence. He lazily reaches for it, glancing at the screen. His brows knit together for a second before his face smooths over into a grin.

“Oh, my mom’s planning a family dinner. She wants you to come.”

You, mid-sip of your newly-made coffee, nearly choke.

“…Huh?”

Jungkook tilts his head, amused. “What? You act like this is the first time she’s invited you.”

You pause, tapping your fingers against the cup. His family liked you. You knew that. His mom always sent you home with extra food whenever you visited, and his dad made it a point to tease Jungkook about “finally settling down” whenever you were around. Jungkook leans closer, watching you expectantly. “So? You’ll come?”

You exhale dramatically, pretending to be deep in thought. “…Maybe.”

Jungkook narrows his eyes. “Maybe?”

You smirk. “I’ll go on one condition.”

He leans in even more, suspicious. “What?”

You set your cup down with a slow, deliberate motion. Then you look him dead in the eye. “…Admit that I’m better at games.”

Jungkook snorts. “Not happening.”

You grin. “Then I’m not coming.”

Jungkook blinks. Then, before you can react, he pounces.

“YOU’RE COMING.”

“JUNGKOOK—”

You barely have time to throw your drink onto the table before he tackles you down onto the couch, arms caging you in as he buries his face into your neck. His weight presses you into the cushions, his laughter muffled against your skin.

“You little brat,” he mutters, nuzzling into you. You squirm, but he’s relentless, peppering lazy kisses against your jaw just to distract you.

“Say you’ll come,” he murmurs, voice laced with amusement.

“Say I’m better.”

Jungkook grins against your neck. “Hmm. How about this—you come to dinner, and I’ll let you win next time.” You gasp, shoving at his chest. “Let me win?!”

His laughter shakes both of you, but he doesn’t budge. “I’m trying to be generous, baby.”

“Jungkook, I swear—”

The argument quickly devolves into a mess of tangled limbs and laughter, neither of you backing down. Jungkook is still half on top of you, his arms lazily wrapped around your waist, completely unwilling to let you escape. His warmth seeps into you, making it harder to even think about moving. You sigh, dramatically slumping against the couch cushions. “Fine. I’ll go to dinner.”

Jungkook’s head snaps up instantly. “Really?”

You roll your eyes, poking his cheek. “Yeah, yeah. But I’m expecting VIP treatment.”

Jungkook grins, wide and bright, before leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “Deal.”

Outside, the rain picks up, sheets of water blurring the world beyond the glass. The streetlights flicker, their glow reflecting off the puddles collecting on the pavement. But just beyond the window, Neither of you notice the figure standing on the balcony of the building across the street a dark silhouette barely visible through the downpour.

He watches. He waits.

The overhead lights in your office cast a dim, sterile glow, humming softly in the near silence. The usual buzz of the workplace has long since faded, leaving only the occasional click of your keyboard and the distant sound of the air conditioning whirring. You rub your tired eyes, exhaustion settling deep in your bones as you scroll through the last few emails of the day.

Just as you’re about to tackle the next document in your never-ending pile, your phone vibrates against your desk, the soft buzz cutting through the quiet. You glance at the screen, and a familiar name lights up:

Kook 🐰💜 [6:15 PM]: Still working? Kook 🐰💜 [6:15 PM]: Come over after work?

A small smile tugs at your lips despite the fatigue weighing on you. You reach for your phone, letting your gaze drift to the towering stack of documents beside you before sighing. There’s no way you’re finishing up anytime soon. With a resigned exhale, you type out a response.

You [6:16 PM]: Working overtime. I’ll text when I’m done.

His reply comes almost instantly, as if he’d been waiting for your response.

Kook 🐰💜 [6:16 PM]: It’s late. Want me to pick you up?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard for a second before you shake your head, rolling your eyes fondly. It wasn’t like you weren’t capable of getting home on your own. The walk to your apartment was barely ten minutes, and you’d done it countless times before without issue. You hated the idea of relying too much on someone else, even if that someone was Jungkook. He was always eager to drop everything for you, to take on your burdens like they were his own, and while a part of you adored that about him, another part resisted it. You never wanted to feel like you needed saving. You could handle yourself.

You [6:16 PM]: I’m fine. My apartment’s nearby, remember?

There’s a brief pause before his next message comes through.

Kook 🐰💜[6:18 PM]: At least text me when you’re home.

You bite back a smile, shaking your head.

You [6:18 PM]: Yes, yes, Mr. Protective. 

A second later, your screen lights up again with a message that’s nothing but a row of emojis. You let out a soft chuckle, shaking your head as you set your phone down. Stretching your arms over your head, you glance back at the unfinished work in front of you. The night is far from over, and exhaustion lingers in your limbs, but you push through.

Two hours later, the office is nearly deserted. Rows of empty desks stretch out before you, their monitors dark, abandoned by coworkers who were lucky enough to call it a day. Somewhere in the distance, the faint murmur of a janitor echoes through the halls, a quiet reminder that you’re not entirely alone. Still, the stillness feels heavy, pressing against your shoulders as you rub your tired eyes and blink at your laptop screen.

“Still here?”

The familiar voice startles you, pulling you from your work-induced daze. You look up to see Jimin standing by your desk, a bag slung over his shoulder and an amused expression on his face.

You let out a sigh, leaning back in your chair. “Unfortunately.”

He crosses his arms, leaning casually against the cubicle wall. “Overtime?”

“Yeah.” You stretch your stiff fingers before clicking through your files. “Trying to get ahead of things since I’m taking a day off for Jungkook’s family dinner.”

Jimin raises a brow, clearly holding back a smirk. “You? Taking a day off? Who are you, and what have you done with my workaholic friend?”

You snort, rolling your eyes. “It’s one day, Park.”

“Still. Didn’t think you’d willingly take time off for a boyfriend’s family event.”

You shrug, shifting your attention back to your laptop. “I’m being a supportive partner. And also avoiding Jungkook’s pout if I don’t go.”

Jimin chuckles. “Yeah, that tracks.” He checks his watch, then nods toward the exit. “Well, it’s already past eight. I can drop you off—my car’s in the basement.”

You pause for half a second, tempted. It would be easy, safe. A quick ride home without having to walk through the dark streets alone. But something in you resists. You’ve always prided yourself on being independent, on handling things yourself. You weren’t about to start needing an escort home like some helpless protagonist in a thriller movie. Besides, your apartment wasn’t far, and you could take care of yourself just fine.

You shake your head. “I’ve still got work left. Need to refine a client presentation before tomorrow.”

Jimin frowns, clearly debating whether to push the issue. “You sure? I don’t mind waiting.”

You give him a small, reassuring smile. “Go home, Jimin. I’ll be fine.”

He hesitates for a moment longer before exhaling in defeat. “Alright. Text me when you get home, yeah?”

“I will.”

Satisfied, he ruffles your hair in a way that makes you swat at him, laughing as he dodges your weak attempt at retaliation. “Night, workaholic,” he teases before heading out, his footsteps fading down the hall.

And just like that, you’re alone again, the dim glow of your laptop screen casting long shadows across your desk. 

It’s nearing eleven o'clock by the time you finally leave the office, exhaustion pressing down on your shoulders like a weight you can’t shake. The automatic doors slide shut behind you, sealing the building in eerie silence. Outside, the streets stretch before you, quieter than usual, the world dipped in shades of silver and black under the dim glow of the streetlights.

The scent of rain lingers in the air, damp and heavy, even though the drizzle had stopped hours ago. The pavement glistens under the flickering glow of streetlights, reflecting the distorted shapes of the empty road ahead. A chilly breeze whispers through the deserted streets, curling around your skin like invisible fingers. You shiver, tugging your coat tighter around you, telling yourself it’s just the cold. You exhale slowly, watching your breath fog in the night air, and begin your walk home. It’s not far—barely a ten-minute walk. You’ve done this route countless times before. It should feel familiar. Safe.

But tonight… something feels off.

At first, it’s just a small shift in the air, a faint prickle at the back of your neck that strange, creeping sensation of being watched. It crawls up your spine, makes the hair on your arms stand on end.

You shake it off, adjusting the strap of your bag. You’re just tired. Paranoid. That’s all. The streets are always eerie this late of course they are. There’s no one around, just the distant hum of traffic blocks away, the occasional flicker of a neon sign from a closed shop. But then when you’re halfway home, just as you pass the turn near the old bookstore you hear it.

A faint, subtle sound, a footstep, echoes just a second too late after your own. Your breath catches in your throat as you freeze, and the sound stops too. The silence is suffocating, pressing in from all sides. Slowly, so painfully slowly, you turn to glance behind you. 

Nothing.

Just an empty sidewalk, stretched too long and too dark behind you. The streetlights buzz faintly, their glow flickering, casting strange, distorted shadows on the wet pavement. Your own heartbeat pounds against your ribs, a heavy drumbeat in the stillness. You swallow, trying to shake the feeling creeping under your skin. You’re imagining things. You have to be. The city is full of noises like cars in the distance, leaves rustling, a stray cat darting between alleyways. That’s all it is.

Still… your fingers tighten around the strap of your bag as you push forward, steps quicker now. But the feeling doesn’t go away. It lingers. Pressing against your skin like static, buzzing at the edge of your awareness. You’re not alone.

You almost pull out your phone. Almost. Jungkook would pick up in an instant and he’d tell you to stay on the line, that he was coming to get you. But you don’t.

Because what would you even say? Hey, I think I’m being followed, but I’m not sure, and I don’t want to sound like an idiot? No way. Jungkook would freak out, and you weren’t about to send him into a panic over something that was probably nothing. So instead, you pick up your pace, each step sharper, more urgent. The streetlights above seem dimmer now, their glow barely cutting through the shadows pooling at the edges of the road.

Your building is just a few turns away. You make it past the first one, then the second. Then you hear it again—not just a sound this time, but a shift, a presence. Someone is there. Your heart hammers as you whip around faster this time. 

Nothing.

Your own shadow stretches long on the pavement, its shape warping under the flickering lights. The alleyway to your right is yawning and dark, a gaping mouth of blackness that seems to pull at the edges of your vision. Your pulse is a thunderous roar in your ears.

You’re not imagining this. This is real.

And now, your body knows it too and every instinct is screaming at you to move. So you do.

You rush forward, walking as fast as you can without breaking into a sprint. Your breath quickens, your fingers curling into fists, every nerve in your body on high alert. Just a little further. Just one more turn.

And then finally your apartment building comes into view, looming in the darkness like a beacon. Relief crashes over you so forcefully that you nearly stumble. You don’t turn around again. You don’t want to know if someone is standing there. Watching.

You force yourself to stay calm as you punch in the building’s entry code with unsteady fingers, stepping inside the safety of the lobby. The door shuts behind you with a heavy click, locking out the night.

You practically rush inside, the cool air of the lobby offering little comfort as your fingers tremble over the keypad. Your breath is shallow, coming in uneven gasps as you punch in your passcode. The numbers blur slightly in your vision, whether from exhaustion or the lingering tension clawing at your mind, you’re not sure. The beep of the lock disengaging feels deafening in the stillness. You push the door open, stepping inside so quickly that you nearly stumble over your own feet. The door swings shut behind you with a soft but final click, sealing you in the safety of your apartment. Or at least, that’s what you tell yourself.

For a moment, you just stand there, listening. Nothing but the hum of your refrigerator, the faint creak of the building settling, and the sound of your own breathing, ragged and uneven in the silence. You don’t stop moving until every lock is in place.

Click. Click. Click.

Each one echoes louder than it should, like an affirmation that you are, in fact, secure. That no one followed you. That no one is outside, waiting. Still, the unease gnaws at you, refusing to settle. So, you make your rounds. Checking. Double-checking. Triple-checking.

You pull the curtains shut, firmly, ensuring no sliver of the outside world can seep in. You check the windows next, pressing your fingers against the glass, as if expecting to feel warmth from another presence, a breath on the other side. But there’s nothing. No shadow moving in the darkness, no faint imprint of something or someone having been there.

Finally, with a deep breath, you force yourself to move, shedding your coat, kicking off your shoes with sluggish movements. The exhaustion from the long day crashes down on you all at once, dull and heavy. Your limbs feel leaden as you shuffle toward your bedroom, every step slower than the last.

The warmth of your bed is almost enough to chase away the unease, the mattress soft, inviting and safe a stark contrast to the cold anxiety curling at the edges of your consciousness. You exhale, forcing yourself to relax, letting your body sink into the familiar comfort of your sheets.

But even as your eyes grow heavy, your mind refuses to let go completely. That nagging sense of being watched still lingers. Faint but present. And just before sleep claims you, a final thought slithers through your mind.

What if you weren’t imagining it? What if someone was still out there? Watching. Waiting.

Jungkook drives with effortless ease, one hand lazily gripping the steering wheel while the other taps against the radio in rhythm with the song playing softly through the speakers. The hum of the engine blends with the melody, filling the quiet space between you, neither of you needing to speak. The road stretches ahead, endless and open, disappearing into the horizon. A faint trace of salt lingers in the air, creeping in through the half-open window, a quiet reminder that you’re getting closer to Busan.

You sit in the passenger seat, your gaze flickering between the blur of passing scenery and the man beside you. The steady motion of the car, the warmth of the moment, it all feels oddly soothing. After days of unease, of tension wound so tightly in your body that even sleep felt like a battle, you finally feel yourself exhale.

“Can’t believe you actually agreed to take a day off for me,” Jungkook teases, his grin nothing short of triumphant as he spares you a glance. “Is this what love does to people?”

You roll your eyes, but the small smile tugging at your lips betrays you. “One time, Jeon. Don’t get used to it.”

Jungkook chuckles, shaking his head like he doesn’t believe you for a second. His smile spreads wide, bright enough to make your chest ache with something unspoken. He reaches over without hesitation, his fingers giving your knee a playful squeeze before returning to the wheel. The touch is fleeting but warm, grounding in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.

You should tell him.

The past few days have been unbearable due to the creeping paranoia, the feeling of eyes tracing your every move and the subtle shifts in your apartment that made your skin crawl. It’s like living with a shadow just out of reach, something you can’t see but can feel pressing in from the edges. You don’t scare easily, but this has been different.

Your fingers twitch against your lap. One word. That’s all it would take. Jungkook would listen like he always does. He’d furrow his brows, tilt his head in that concerned way he does, and tell you not to brush it off. He’d probably get all worked up, insist on staying over, refuse to let you out of his sight.

And yet, looking at him now being so carefree, his bunny-like smile tugging at his lips as he taps his fingers against the beat makes you hesitate. He’s happy. Peaceful. This moment is untouched by the weight sitting on your chest, and for once, you don’t want to taint something good.

So you take a slow breath, forcing yourself to relax against the seat. You tell yourself it’s fine. That you’re just being paranoid. That if anything truly happens, you’ll deal with it.

You exhaled slowly, willing yourself to stay in the present, to focus on the soft hum of the radio, the rhythmic tap of Jungkook’s fingers against the steering wheel. But the memory pulled at you, dragging you under before you could stop it—

You had come home after another long day at work. Your shoulders were aching from hours spent hunched over your desk. You had barely registered the familiar scent of your apartment as you pushed the door open, the soft creak echoing into the stillness inside.

Everything had looked normal at first.

Your shoes sat neatly by the entrance, exactly where you had left them. The kitchen counter was cluttered with the remnants of that morning’s rushed breakfast.

But the air had felt… different. Slightly off. As if someone had been there. Your heartbeat had stumbled, picking up speed before you could rationalize it. You had told yourself it was nothing. Just the exhaustion making you paranoid.

And yet, as you had stepped further inside, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. The sound was the first thing that struck you. Cheerful, repetitive, out of place.

Your TV was on.

Not just on but playing Mario Kart. The character selection screen looped in the background, the upbeat jingle clashing against the heavy silence that filled your apartment. You hadn’t touched your console in days. Not since you and Jungkook played together last Sunday. Your pulse quickened.

Your eyes flickered to the couch. It had been moved just slightly. Barely an inch out of place, but enough for you to notice.

A slow, creeping unease settled into your bones as you stepped further inside, your movements cautious. Your apartment wasn’t large. There weren’t many places for someone to hide. And yet, your skin prickled with the overwhelming sensation that something or someone had been here.

Your breath hitched as your gaze fell on your bedroom door, slightly ajar. You had closed it that morning. You were sure of it. With measured steps, you pushed the door open fully. And that’s when you saw it.

Your bed—completely in ruins. The sheets were tangled, pillows tossed carelessly, the once-smooth blankets now bunched in the center as if someone had been lying there. Your stomach twisted with unease because this morning, just before leaving for work, you had made your bed. Yet now, the sheets were rumpled, disturbed in a way that sent a chill crawling up your spine. Someone had been here.

Your pulse thundered in your ears as you took a shaky step back, your eyes darting around the room. Everything looked normal aside from the bed, the couch and the TV but the air felt wrong. Tainted. Like someone had occupied this space in your absence.

Your mind raced as you checked the locks. Still in place. No broken windows. No signs of forced entry.

So how— Your breath hitched as a thought struck you. With trembling fingers, you grabbed your phone and immediately dialed Jungkook. He picked up after a few rings, his voice slightly breathless, like he had been running. “Hey, baby. Everything okay?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, gripping the phone tightly. “Yeah,” you lied, forcing your voice to stay steady. “Where are you right now?”

"Still at the clinic," he answered easily. "Was assisting with a surgery on a Pomeranian. Poor guy had a blockage so it took longer than expected." Your stomach dropped.

If Jungkook wasn’t here… then who was?

Your fingers curled around your phone, knuckles whitening as you fought to keep your breathing even. “Got it,” you said, trying to sound casual. “Just checking.” There was a pause. Then, Jungkook’s tone softened. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah.” Another lie. “I’ll see you tomorrow.” Before he could press further, you ended the call.

The only sound left was the distant loop of Mario Kart, mocking you.

The weight of the memory lingered, suffocating, but the warmth of the car, the low hum of the radio, and Jungkook’s familiar presence slowly pulled you back. You blinked, staring at him.

Jungkook was happily rambling about his mom’s cooking, hands moving animatedly as he drove. “—and she always makes extra, like extra extra, because she knows I eat a lot. But now she’s even more excited since you’re coming—oh! She even tried making those cookies you love—”

His voice was light, full of an excitement you didn’t want to taint. A small part of you wanted to tell him. But another part, the part that didn’t want to see that deep crease of concern on his forehead, didn’t want to take away his peace, told you to keep it to yourself. For now.

You turned your head, looking out the window, watching the scenery blur past. You didn’t notice the way Jungkook’s eyes flickered toward you, his brows knitting together for just a moment before he forced his usual smile back onto his face.

Jungkook pulled into the driveway, parking with practiced ease. You had been here more times than you could count, yet there was always something comforting about stepping into his childhood home like the faint scent of home-cooked meals wafting through the air and the familiar sight of the wind chime swaying gently by the door.  

Jungkook turned to you with a grin, one hand still resting on the steering wheel. “Mom probably made enough food to feed a small army.”  

You chuckled, already knowing that was true. “She always does.”  

Before you could even step out of the car, the front door swung open, revealing his mom waving enthusiastically. “You’re finally here! Hurry, come in before the food gets cold!” His mom pulled you into a hug the second you stepped inside, squeezing you tight.

“You’ve lost weight,” she huffed, pulling back just enough to inspect you with a critical eye. “Are you eating properly?”

Jungkook groaned beside you, already exasperated. “She’s fine, Mom.”

You laughed, but before you could respond, his dad stepped forward with a warm smile, offering a firm handshake. “It’s good to see you again,” he said, his voice as steady and kind as ever.

“It’s good to see you too, Mr. Jeon,” you replied politely. “Mrs. Jeon, thank you for having me—”

Before you could finish, his mom smacked your arm lightly, her expression scandalized. “Yah! How many times do I have to tell you? It’s Mom and Dad.”

Your face heated instantly. “R-Right. Sorry… Mom.”

Jungkook snickered under his breath at your obvious embarrassment, and his mom beamed, clearly pleased. “That’s better,” she said, linking her arm with yours as she led you further inside. “You’re family, sweetheart. No need for formalities.”

The house smelled incredible of rich simmering broth and freshly cooked rice. The warmth of it all settled deep in your chest, making you realize just how much you had missed this. As you stepped into the living room, your gaze landed on a few baby toys scattered near the couch, a soft blanket draped over the armrest. Before you could ask, his mom sighed.

“Junghyun and his wife wanted to come with the twins, but the girls were too fussy today.”

Jungkook pouted dramatically, crossing his arms. “I still haven’t met my nieces.”

His mom shook her head, unimpressed. “You could visit them, you know.”

“I will,” Jungkook mumbled, already defeated. “Just… eventually.”

The dining table was packed with dishes his mom had gone all out, as always. Various side dishes, steaming hot soup, perfectly grilled meat, and a mountain of rice sat invitingly before you. It was a feast, one you had grown familiar with over the years, yet it never failed to impress you. Before you could even reach for anything, Jungkook was already piling food onto your plate, stacking it with precision. “Eat,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You know the rules.”

His mom beamed, clearly pleased. “At least someone in this house listens to me.”

You chuckled, picking up your chopsticks, but the moment was shattered when your phone lit up beside your plate, vibrating with an insistent ping. You glanced down, your stomach twisting into a knot.

Your pulse quickened. The messages came one after the other.

Unknown [1:10 PM]: You think you can stay safe by staying away from here? Unknown [1:10 PM]: You think he’s gonna save you? Unknown [1:10 PM]: I am always watching you, doll.

Your breath hitched. Cold fingers of unease crawled up your spine, but you forced yourself to stay composed. Your hands thankfully didn’t shake as you turned your phone upside down and set it to silent. Jungkook had noticed. His gaze flickered to the screen before you flipped it over, his brows knitting together in quiet concern. He looked like he wanted to ask, but you didn’t give him the chance.

The vibration had caught his parents’ attention too. “Oh dear, is that work?” his mom asked, concern lacing her voice.

“Yeah,” you lied smoothly, forcing a small smile. “Just some messages I need to deal with later.”

You weren’t sure if Jungkook believed you, but he didn’t press. Instead, he reached out under the table, squeezing your knee reassuringly before focusing back on his food. You tried to do the same, pushing down the paranoia clawing at your chest.

Dinner flowed with easy conversation. His parents asked about your work, laughing when Jungkook grumbled about how much time it took away from him. They also teased him relentlessly about how attached he was to you.

“Three years, and he still acts like you’re going to disappear if he looks away,” his dad joked, shaking his head fondly.

You snickered, nudging Jungkook’s foot under the table.

But Jungkook just shrugged, completely unbothered. “Can you blame me?” he said simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Dinner continued with warmth and laughter, his parents seamlessly shifting the conversation to Jungkook’s studies.

“So, how’s school going?” his dad asked, scooping some more rice onto his plate. “Third year already, huh? Feels like just yesterday you were running around pretending to be a zookeeper.” Jungkook groaned. “Dad.”

His mom chuckled. “What? You were obsessed with animals. You even tried to ‘rescue’ the neighbor’s cat by sneaking it into your room.”

You gasped dramatically, turning to Jungkook. “Wait, I didn’t know about this!”

Jungkook sighed, shoving a bite of food into his mouth like he could physically escape the conversation. “That was years ago.”

His dad laughed. “And now look at you, halfway to becoming a real vet.”

“Not halfway,” Jungkook corrected between bites. “But yeah, it’s been tough. Classes are intense, and the practicals are even harder. Two days ago, I had to assist with a surgery, and let’s just say I wasn’t prepared for how long it would take.”

His mom’s eyes softened with pride. “You’ll be amazing, sweetheart. You’ve always had such a big heart for animals.”

Jungkook ducked his head, ears tinged pink. You smiled, nudging his foot under the table again. “She’s right, you know. You’re going to be an incredible vet.”

Jungkook glanced at you, his bunny-like smile appearing for just a second before he returned to his food. But the warmth of the moment did little to push away the unease creeping up your spine. The phone lay silent beside your plate, but you couldn’t shake the eerie feeling.

Just as the conversation was settling into a warm, familiar rhythm, the front door slammed open with the force of a small explosion.

“The prodigal son returns!”

Jungkook groaned, not even bothering to look. “Why. Are. You. Here.”

Jin strutted in like he was making a grand entrance at an award show, tossing his jacket onto the couch with an unnecessary flourish. “Heard there was food,” he announced before turning to you with a smirk. “And obviously, I had to make sure my dear cousin hasn’t scared you off yet.”

Jungkook scoffed. “You scared me off first.”

Jin ignored him completely, already making a beeline for the dining table. His mom, unfazed by the theatrics, clapped her hands together. “Oh, perfect timing! Sit, eat.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Jin said cheerfully, dropping into the seat beside you. He grabbed a pair of chopsticks like a warrior unsheathing his sword, ready for battle.

“So,” he drawled, nudging you playfully. “Three years and you still haven’t run for the hills? Impressive.”

You smirked, taking a sip of your drink. “I’ve considered it.”

Jungkook gasped dramatically, clutching his chest like you had personally stabbed him. “Betrayal! In my own home!”

“Technically, it’s our home,” his mom corrected.

“Exactly!” Jin said, pointing his chopsticks at Jungkook before shoving a mouthful of rice into his mouth. Jungkook’s dad, ever the composed one, leaned back in his chair and regarded Jin with an amused shake of his head. “So, how’s the tattoo shop? Are you still working reception?”

Jin waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, that? I quit.”

Jungkook’s mom sighed, as if she had already seen this coming.

Jungkook’s dad pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jin, you just started that job.”

“Yeah, and I just quit that job,” Jin said brightly. “But don’t worry—I’ve moved on to better things.”

Jungkook raised a brow. “Should I even ask?”

“I now work at a pastry shop.” Jin declared, as if he had just announced a groundbreaking scientific discovery.

Jungkook blinked. “You?”

“Yes, me.”

Jungkook’s dad sighed. “Jin, you have to start thinking about stability. You can’t keep jumping from one job to another like this.”

Jin only laughed, waving him off like the thought of responsibility was a foreign concept. “Oh, please. Stability is boring. I get bored too fast—I need thrill, excitement, the rush of something new.”

“You sell croissants,” Jungkook deadpanned.

“And I do it with flair,” Jin shot back, popping a piece of fried chicken into his mouth. “Speaking of which, I brought some samples! The head baker said they were too ‘experimental’ for customers, but I figured you guys would appreciate my artistic vision.” He reached into his coat pocket because of course he carried pastries in his coat pocket and plopped two small, questionably green muffins onto the table.

Jungkook recoiled. “What is that?”

Jin grinned. “Matcha and kimchi fusion.”

Jungkook’s dad sighed again. His mom simply patted Jin’s hand, as if she had long since accepted his chaotic ways. Jin wipes his hands dramatically after placing down his abomination of a pastry creation, then immediately turns to you with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“So,” he starts, leaning in with the air of someone about to cause chaos. “On a scale of one to dear god, someone save me, how difficult is he to live with?”

You barely have time to react before he fires off another.

“Any plans to upgrade from ‘boyfriend’ status?” Jin asks, voice dripping with faux innocence.

Jungkook chokes so hard on his food that you have to thump his back. His mom gasps in concern, while his dad just continues eating like this is any other Thursday night.

Jin smirks in triumph. “Ah, so is there a wedding?”

Jungkook, still recovering, glares murderously. “You are so not invited to the wedding—”

Jin claps his hands together. “Confirmed!”

Jungkook doesn’t hesitate. He grabs a spoonful of rice and hurls it straight at Jin. Jin dodges like a seasoned warrior. “Oh, it’s war now.”

A second later, a piece of kimchi smacks Jungkook right in the cheek. Jungkook gapes at Jin. “You did not—”

“Oh, I did.” Jin wiggles his eyebrows before launching another attack. What starts as a petty sibling squabble escalates into all-out warfare. Jungkook lobs a dumpling; Jin retaliates with a piece of radish. Rice goes flying. You duck just in time to avoid getting hit by a rogue piece of tofu.

“Jeon Jungkook!” his mom shrieks, voice cutting through the chaos like a knife. “Kim Seokjin!”

They both freeze mid-throw, like guilty kids caught red-handed.

His dad sighs, a long and tired sigh, the kind that speaks of years of dealing with this exact scenario. He calmly reaches for his drink. “Can we please have one dinner without someone launching food across the table?”

Jungkook and Jin exchange glances.

Then, as if telepathically synchronized, they both lift their chopsticks and point at each other. “He started it.”

You snort. His mom groans. His dad sips his tea in silent resignation.

The night air is crisp, carrying the distant hum of crickets and the occasional rustling of leaves in the trees that line Jungkook’s backyard. The stars above twinkle through gaps in the branches, their light soft and distant. Out here, away from the city’s chaos, everything feels quieter like the world has shrunk to just the two of you. Jungkook slips an arm around your waist, pulling you close. “Sorry about him.”

You chuckle, leaning into his warmth. “I like him. He makes things interesting.”

“Interesting until he’s grilling you.”

“True,” you admit, grinning. “But I can handle him.”

Jungkook huffs a quiet laugh, resting his chin atop your head. You exhale, letting your eyes flutter shut for a moment, savoring the security of his presence. It’s moments like these that make you forget the paranoia and the unease clawing at the edges of your mind.

But it never truly leaves.

The feeling of being watched. The weight of unseen eyes crawling over your skin. The messages you’ve ignored all night. They all linger in your mind. You glance up at Jungkook. He’s still smiling, talking about how his mom packed you extra leftovers. “She thinks you don’t eat enough,” he says fondly, shaking his head.

You should tell him.

The words sit heavy on your tongue, pressing against your teeth. One sentence, and it would all be out in the open.

But you don’t.

Instead, you nod, forcing a small laugh. “She really doesn’t take no for an answer, huh?”

“Never,” Jungkook confirms, squeezing your waist. His touch is warm, grounding. But even that warmth doesn’t reach the cold pit in your stomach.

“Jungkook!” His dad’s voice calls from inside. “Come here for a second.”

Jungkook groans, reluctant to move. “Stay here, I’ll be back,” he murmurs, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before disappearing inside.

The moment he’s gone, the silence presses in. You hesitate before pulling out your phone, unlocking it with a swipe of your thumb. The notifications are still there, messages from Unknown piled up like unanswered warnings.

The last one catches your eye.

Unknown [1:10 PM]: I am always watching you, doll.

Your breath stutters.

The phone suddenly feels heavy in your hands, like a weight dragging you down into something inescapable.

No.

Your pulse pounds in your ears, drowning out the gentle chirping of crickets, drowning out reason. A suffocating sense of dread settles in your chest as you stare at the word, doll. There was only one person who ever called you that.

Only one voice that had whispered it against your skin, had laughed it into your ear, had let it drip from his tongue like a slow poison.

Kim Taehyung.

The room was thick with the stench of alcohol and sweat, the air heavy with cigarette smoke that coiled toward the ceiling in lazy spirals. Dim lighting flickered from a dying bulb, casting long, distorted shadows across the stained walls.

Taehyung sat slouched in a tattered armchair, his body sinking into the worn-out fabric. His limbs felt like lead, the weight of intoxication pressing down on him, making his movements sluggish, his thoughts hazy. A half-empty bottle dangled loosely from his fingers, the condensation dripping onto his jeans, but he barely noticed.

Around him, his friends were strewn across the room in various states of intoxication, some laughing at nothing, their voices slurred and senseless, while others lay sprawled out, lost to the world. Taehyung exhaled a slow, heavy breath. Everything felt distant and detached until a stray thought cut through the fog: you.

His lazy smirk faltered. His fingers twitched against the armrest, tightening before relaxing again. His vision blurred at the edges, but the memories were sharp. Unwelcome. Unrelenting. His jaw clenched. He willed himself to push it away, drown it in the haze, let the high carry him somewhere else. But it never worked.

It never did when it came to you. His body was here, slouched in a torn armchair, but his mind was somewhere else. Three years ago.

"I don’t love you anymore."

The scent of espresso and warm pastries was suffocating. The quiet hum of conversation around them felt like static in his ears. But none of it fucking mattered. Not when you were sitting across from him, staring at him like he was nothing.

The words barely registered at first. His mind lagged behind reality like a glitching tape, playing back a version of events where this wasn’t happening.

"What?" His voice was sharp, disbelieving. "What the fuck did you just say?"

Your gaze didn’t waver. "I said I don’t love you."

The words cut. They didn’t hit all at once they sank in slowly, like a blade sliding between ribs.

Taehyung laughed. "Bullshit."

He leaned forward, jaw tight, fingers curling into the edge of the table. "You’re being dramatic. You always do this shit when you want attention."

Your expression didn’t change, but something about it made his stomach turn. You weren’t crying. You weren’t shaking. There was no hesitation or guilt or any of the things he had relied on to keep you in line. This wasn’t like before.

Your voice was flat. "You ruined this, Tae. You ruined me."

His laugh was louder this time, bitter and sharp. "Oh, so I’m the villain now? After everything I did for you?"

"Everything you did to me."

His breath stuttered.

And then you kept going. You fucking kept going.

"You controlled me. You isolated me. You made me feel like I was insane every time I called you out on your bullshit."

His hands curled into fists. "Oh, fuck off—"

"You threatened me, Tae. You threw shit. You punched walls, grabbed me so fucking hard I had bruises for days. And every time, you’d crawl back, begging, saying you didn’t mean it—"

His teeth clenched, fury bubbling beneath his skin. "Because I didn’t!"

"You dangled your own life over my head like a leash."

His blood turned cold, the first sliver of panic slicing through the rage that had consumed him moments ago. He wasn’t winning. The realization struck hard. His grip tightened on the table, nails digging into the cheap wood as if he was bracing for impact. You weren’t supposed to fucking say that. You weren’t supposed to know.

He forced a laugh, but it came out desperate. "And what, you're suddenly a fucking therapist? Psychoanalyzing me like I’m some fucking monster?"

Your voice was quiet, but it sliced straight through him.

"I don’t need to psychoanalyze you, Taehyung. I lived through you."

The air left his lungs. His vision blurred at the edges, rage and panic clashing, drowning him.

All of a sudden, ‘his’ name fell from your lips like a gunshot.

Jungkook? That pathetic little nerd? The one he used to shove into lockers, humiliate just for the fun of it? The same one who flinched if someone raised their voice too loud?

He let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh, but there was nothing funny about this. His hands shook from the effort of holding himself back.

"So that’s what you’ve been doing, huh?" His voice was sharp, venomous. "Nursing him back to health after I fucked him up?"

You exhaled, shaking your head, unimpressed.

Then, he snapped. "You fucked him, didn’t you?"

He spat the words like a curse, like they burned his tongue. Even as he said it, he knew you wouldn’t. You were a self-righteous bitch with all your morals, your bullshit standards. You wouldn’t dare. But the thought of it, the idea of you with him made his head spin, made his vision go dark at the edges.

His voice dropped to a hiss. "That little fucking loser? You let him touch you? You let him—"

His hands ached. He wanted to grab you, to shake you, to make you look at him.

"He’s a pussy, doll." His voice cracked, something wild and desperate bleeding through. "He won’t take care of you like I did."

You scoffed, expression unreadable. "You never took care of me, Tae."

"What the fuck does he have that I don’t?" His voice rose, teetering between fury and desperation. "Tell me."

You just stared at him, and that look—that fucking look—

It was over.

It was fucking over.

Panic clawed at his ribs, lodged itself in his throat, made his vision blur and his hands shake. So he did what he always did when he lost control.

"I’ll kill myself if you leave me."

The words came out fast and sharp, a desperate lifeline thrown into the storm. It had always worked before, always made you hesitate, always made you stay. But this time, you simply exhaled a breath of relief, as if you had finally broken free.

And then, for the first time, you smiled.

"Look at you." Your voice was soft. Almost pitying. "Still trying to manipulate me."

Something inside him snapped.

His vision blurred, his body moved and the next thing he knew, the coffee cup on the table was in pieces, shattered porcelain scattering across the floor.

The café had gone silent.

The whole fucking world had gone silent.

You stood, your chair scraping against the tile. Unbothered.

You walked away. No hesitation. No tears. No fucking remorse.

And for the first time, Taehyung had nothing.

Nothing left to say. Nothing left to hold onto.

The cigarette burned down to the filter, searing his fingers. He didn’t flinch. Taehyung’s jaw clenched, knuckles turning white as his fists curled against the armrest. The high didn’t feel so numbing anymore, just agitating. His skin felt too tight, his thoughts too sharp, too loud.

For almost a year, he had drowned you out with drugs, alcohol, distractions, anything to blur the edges of what you had done to him. To make himself forget the way you walked away without looking back. But the moment he saw you again it all came rushing back.

The obsession. The hunger. The need to undo it all.

You thought you walked away for good?

No. You were always his. Even when you hated him. Even when you ran. And now he was going to take back what was his.

One way or another.

After returning from Busan, you stayed over at Jungkook’s place.

You didn’t want to sleep alone. Not after the messages. The number was blocked now. You hadn’t received anything since. But still… you didn’t feel comfortable going back home yet.

Jungkook hadn’t questioned it. He just smiled and let you in, happy to have you around. But the more time you spent with him, the harder it became to ignore the guilt settling in your chest.

Because Jungkook didn’t know.

You hadn’t told him about the messages. About the unease creeping up your spine every time your phone vibrated. About the name that had resurfaced in the form of a single word:

“Doll.”

It shouldn’t have meant anything. Anyone could use that word. It was common, impersonal.

But not to you.

Not when you could still hear his voice saying it. Not when you remembered how it had dripped from Taehyung’s lips sometimes sweet, sometimes cruel.

“Be good for me, doll.” “You know I only act like this because I love you, doll.” “You’re nothing without me, doll.”

The thought alone made your stomach churn. You weren’t even sure if it was him. Maybe it was just paranoia. Maybe it was just a coincidence.

Yeah. It had to be. So you pushed it down, shoved it into the corners of your mind where you didn’t have to look at it. You told yourself you were keeping this from Jungkook to protect him.

But now, as you sit at your office desk, your mind is miles away from the reports in front of you. You tap your pen against the surface, gaze unfocused.

You don’t notice Jimin watching you from across the room until he finally speaks.

“Everything okay between you and Jungkook?”

You blink, snapping out of your daze. “What?”

Jimin leans against your desk, arms crossed, expression unreadable. “You seem off. Thought maybe you two had a fight or something.”

You force a small laugh, shaking your head. “No, nothing like that. Everything’s fine.”

Jimin doesn’t look convinced. His sharp gaze lingers for a second too long, like he’s waiting for you to crack. But he doesn’t press.

And you’re grateful for that.

Lunchtime rolls around when you finally check your phone.

The morning had been filled with client meetings, thankful for the welcome distraction. For a few hours, you managed to keep your mind from spiraling. But the moment your screen lights up with a string of unread messages from an unknown number, reality crashes back in.

Your stomach plummets.

Unknown [10:28 AM]: Did you really think blocking me would make me disappear, doll? Unknown [10:28 AM]: How cute. Almost as cute as you playing house with your little pet. Unknown [10:29 AM]: Speaking of pets… your boyfriend’s been working so hard. Diligently studying to save all those poor, dying animals. Unknown [10:30 AM]: How pathetic. Unknown [10:31 AM]: Wanna see?

Your breath catches.

The next message has three images attached. With shaking fingers, you tap them open.

First image: Jungkook in class, focused, scribbling down notes. Second image: Him in the lab, sleeves rolled up, handling equipment with practiced ease. Third image: Now. Jungkook at lunch, head slightly tilted as he listens to someone, chopsticks resting in his hand.

Your blood turns to ice as your vision tunnels, the world narrowing to a single horrifying realization—Jungkook is right there. Someone… no, not just anyone. It has to be Taehyung. He is near. He is watching. And if he is close enough to take these photos, then he is close enough to do something worse. Your phone nearly slips from your grip as pure, heart-stopping terror crashes into you. Jungkook is in danger. The first message was sent almost an hour ago, which means Taehyung has been near him this whole time. Watching him. Stalking him.

Your first instinct is to call the cops. Your fingers hover over the dial pad, heart hammering until your screen lights up again. As if he had been waiting for you to see his messages.

Unknown [12:01 PM]: I know what you’re thinking, doll. Unknown [12:01 PM]: Call the cops, and I’ll slit your pretty boyfriend’s throat right where he sits.

Your breath locks in your chest, hands trembling so violently you almost drop your phone.

No. No, no, no.

You don’t think you just move.

You bolt out of your office, barely registering Jimin calling after you. His voice is distant, but you can’t stop. You don’t have time. You race to your car, hands fumbling with the keys as you throw yourself into the driver’s seat. The second the engine roars to life, you’re speeding down the street, ignoring every traffic rule, every red light.

There’s only one thought pounding in your skull, louder than the frantic beat of your heart—

Get to Jungkook. Now.

You pull up to Jungkook’s university, barely throwing the car into park before shoving the door open. Your legs feel unsteady as you rush out, breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Your hands tremble as you fumble with your phone, fingers slipping as you dial Jungkook’s number again and again. No answer. You try once more, the ringing tone stretching unbearably before it goes to voicemail.

The campus is alive with movement students chatting, laughing and going about their day, blissfully unaware of the sheer terror gripping you. You push through the crowd, scanning faces wildly, your heart pounding against your ribs. Where is Jungkook?

People glance at you, their whispers buzzing at the edge of your hearing, but you don’t care. You try his number again. Still nothing.

A sickening thought slithers into your mind— What if Taehyung already got to him? What if you’re too late?

Finally, your eyes land on him.

Jungkook stands in the courtyard, laughing with a couple of friends, completely oblivious to the danger shadowing him. The world around you blurs as relief crashes over you like a tidal wave.

Alive. Unharmed.

Your knees almost buckle, the tension in your body unravelling just enough for you to let out a sharp, shaky exhale. Your breath stutters as the panic begins to subside, but the urgency still thrums beneath your skin. Then Jungkook sees you.

His laughter dies mid-sentence, his brows knitting together in concern as his eyes rake over your disheveled form. His friends glance at you curiously, but Jungkook is already moving toward you.

"Y/N?" His voice is gentle but urgent. "What’s wrong?"

You shake your head quickly, forcing a weak, unconvincing smile. "It’s nothing," you say, voice tight. "But we need to leave. Now."

Jungkook blinks, his confusion evident. "What? I have an afternoon lecture."

You tighten your grip on his wrist, desperation seeping into your voice. "Jungkook, please. We need to go home."

His brows draw together, concern deepening in his soft gaze. "Why?" His voice remains gentle, but there's a quiet insistence beneath it. "What’s going on?"

When you don’t answer, Jungkook exhales softly before taking your hand, leading you away from the courtyard and into a quieter corner. His touch is firm but never forceful.

"Y/N, talk to me." His voice is barely above a whisper, but there’s an edge of worry to it. "What’s wrong?" His dark eyes search yours, trying to unravel the truth you refuse to say.

You swallow, avoiding his gaze. "It’s nothing, I swear—"

His jaw tightens, his fingers twitching at his sides. "That’s not true."

Jungkook doesn’t raise his voice, but the frustration is clear. He takes a slow step closer, his warmth now suffocating. "You’ve been acting different for weeks. Distant. Jumpy. And now you show up here looking like you’ve seen a ghost and expect me to just go along with it?"

You flinch at the quiet intensity in his words, but still, you don’t answer. Jungkook’s voice rises just a little, but the hurt in it is undeniable. “Do you not trust me?”

You bite your lip, guilt pressing down on your chest like a heavy weight. “Of course I do, Jungkook, it’s just—”

“Then tell me.” His fingers rake through his hair, his brows drawn together, frustration flickering in his dark eyes. But his voice stays soft, laced with something almost pleading.

“I’m not a child, Y/N.”

The words land harder than you expect, sinking deep. Silence stretches between you, thick with unspoken truths and the weight of his quiet disappointment. You know you should tell him. You should warn him. But… you can’t.

Jungkook exhales slowly, his jaw tightening as he watches you struggle with whatever it is you’re refusing to say. His frustration is evident, but his voice remains gentle, laced with quiet insistence.

“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on,” he says firmly. “If you won’t, I’ll just stay here.”

Your stomach drops. No. He can’t stay here. Not when you know Taehyung is watching. “Jungkook, please,” you whisper, gripping his wrist tighter.

“Then tell me, Y/N.” His gaze softens, but the unwavering determination in his eyes sends a surge of panic through you. You have no choice. You have to tell him something—anything—just to get him to listen.

“Someone’s been watching you,” you admit in a rush, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know who, but it’s not safe.”

Jungkook stiffens. His expression shifts from frustration to shock, then to something unreadable. “Watching me?” he echoes. “Y/N, what—why wouldn’t you tell me earlier?”

You look away, guilt gnawing at you. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s still skeptical, still confused, but he can see the genuine fear in your eyes. And that alone is enough to make him give in.

“Alright,” he finally murmurs. “Let’s go.”

Relief washes over you, but just as you think you’ve convinced him to leave, your phone vibrates. It's another message.

Unknown [12:17 PM]: Ah, there you are, doll. So desperate to save your boyfriend? Cute. But I’m not done playing yet.

Your breath hitches.

Taehyung is watching you right now. Your fingers tighten around your phone as your eyes dart around the campus, paranoia seeping into your every movement.

Jungkook immediately catches the way your face drains of all color. His fingers gently close around your wrist before you can react, his other hand swiftly taking your phone from your grip.

“Jungkook, wait—”

But it’s too late. His eyes scan the message, and you feel his entire body go still. His brows knit together, his lips parting slightly as he rereads the words, processing the threat laced between them.

“Who…” His voice is quiet at first, controlled. Then, a little sharper. “Who the hell is this?”

You swallow hard, panic clawing at your chest. You should’ve been more careful. But now there’s no avoiding it. Jungkook looks up at you, eyes searching. “Y/N,” he says softly, but there’s an undeniable firmness in his tone. “Tell me.”

You take a shaky breath, forcing the words out before you can hesitate.

“I… I think it’s Taehyung.”

Jungkook blinks. For a moment, he just stares at you like you’ve said something completely incomprehensible. Then, he shakes his head, a disbelieving scoff leaving his lips.

“Taehyung?” He lets out a breath, his brows furrowing. “No. That’s impossible. We haven’t seen him in years.”

You can see the way his mind is racing, trying to rationalize it, trying to convince himself that it can’t be true. But then piece by piece it all starts to click. The way you’ve been acting. The paranoia. The half-truths. Everything makes sense now.

Jungkook’s expression shifts, his grip tightening slightly around your phone. He looks at you again, this time with quiet intensity. “Tell me everything.”

You take a deep, unsteady breath and finally let it all out. Every message. Every chilling threat. The way Taehyung has been watching, lurking in the shadows, getting closer and closer. How you’ve been living in constant fear, too terrified to sleep, too paranoid to breathe. How you blocked him, but he always found a way back. The photos of Jungkook the proof showing that Taehyung has been near him all along.

Jungkook doesn’t say a word. He just listens. His hands slowly curl into fists at his sides, his jaw tightening, but his eyes stay locked on you, soft and unwavering. By the time you finish, your throat is tight, and your vision blurs slightly. You blink rapidly, forcing back the tears threatening to spill. You quickly wipe at your eyes before Jungkook can notice.

But he does.

Without a word, he steps forward and wraps his arms around you, pulling you into his warmth. You freeze for a second, startled, but then you let yourself sink into the embrace. His arms are strong and steady, anchoring you as if he’s shielding you from everything that’s been haunting you.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs, his voice softer than ever. “You don’t have to hold it in, Y/N.”

Your breath shudders. “I-I’m fine,” you whisper, even though your grip on his hoodie tightens. Jungkook shakes his head slightly. “No, you’re not. And that’s okay.” His hand runs up and down your back in slow, soothing motions. “You don’t always have to be strong on your own.”

Something in you cracks at his words. A single tear slips down your cheek, and this time, you don’t wipe it away. Jungkook holds you tighter, his voice firm but gentle. “You should’ve told me sooner.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I was scared.”

“I get that.” He exhales, resting his chin lightly on top of your head. “But you’re not alone in this. I’m here now. And I won’t let him hurt you.”

When you finally pull away, his hands stay on your shoulders, grounding you. Now, you have to decide.

Go to the police? It’s the logical choice, but Taehyung already made it clear what would happen if you did. Jungkook’s life isn’t something you’re willing to gamble with. Confront Taehyung yourself? It’s reckless, dangerous, and probably a mistake. But part of you feels like it’s the only way to put an end to this.

Jungkook watches your face carefully, reading the thoughts swirling in your head. Then, his jaw tightens, his voice steady but firm. “If you think I’m letting you do this alone, you’re out of your mind.”

For the first time in weeks, the suffocating loneliness eases because no matter what happens next, Jungkook is with you. Suddenly your phone vibrates again.

Unknown [12:51 PM]: Such a heartwarming moment. But how far will he go to protect you?

And then another message. A photo.

It’s a picture of you and Jungkook. Right now. 

He’s still here.

"Y/N?" Jungkook’s voice is soft but sharp with concern. "What is it?"

You turn the phone toward him, and the moment he sees the message, his entire body stiffens. His jaw clenches, fingers curling into fists. His voice is low but firm when he speaks.

"We’re leaving. Now."

You don’t argue.

Jungkook grabs your wrist, pulling you through the crowd of students, his grip tight but reassuring. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears as you scan the area frantically, eyes darting from face to face.

But you don’t see him. He could be anywhere.

Jungkook doesn’t slow down until you reach his car. He unlocks it in a rush, practically shoving you inside before slamming the door shut behind him. His hands grip the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white. Only when he locks the doors and exhales a shaky breath does he turn to look at you.

"He’s here, Y/N." His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it.

You swallow hard, gripping your phone. "I know."

Jungkook starts the car. "We’re going home. Then we figure out our next move." You nod, but the unease lingers.

Because Taehyung isn’t done playing yet.

Jungkook paces the length of his living room, fingers running through his hair in frustration. You sit on the couch, gripping your phone tightly, going over every possible option. Jungkook is still talking, still trying to come up with a solid plan but his voice fades into the background as your eyes remain glued to your phone screen.

Unknown [1:37 PM]: Come alone. Midnight. Your apartment. Unknown [1:37 PM]: Don’t make me repeat myself, doll.

Your grip on the phone tightens. Your pulse roars in your ears. If Jungkook sees this, there’s no way he’ll let you go. He’ll insist on coming with you. And that’s exactly what Taehyung wants, a reason to hurt him. Swallowing hard, you quickly lock your phone and shove it into your pocket before Jungkook notices.

“Y/N?”

You snap back to reality to find Jungkook watching you carefully. “Yeah?”

“I was saying…” He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe we should stay at a hotel tonight. Just in case. I don’t want you anywhere near that apartment if Taehyung’s been watching you.”

Your stomach churns with guilt, but you shake your head. “No. I think we should just stay and act normal. If we start running now, he’ll know we’re scared.”

Jungkook’s eyes darken. “We are scared, Y/N.”

You force a small, tired smile. “But we can’t let him know that.”

He exhales, clearly frustrated but unable to argue. “Fine. But I’m not letting you out of my sight.” You nod, pretending to agree.

But deep down, you already know that the moment Jungkook falls asleep tonight, you’re leaving. 

Alone.

It’s a little past midnight when you finally slip out of Jungkook’s apartment.

You hesitate at the door, glancing back at his sleeping form. Even in the dim glow of the bedside lamp, you can see the tension on his face. He had been restless for hours, his body stiff with unease, as if sensing that something was wrong.

You had pretended to fall asleep just so he could relax. It worked eventually. But now, as you step out into the cold night, a bitter weight settles in your chest.

Jungkook would never forgive you for this.

But this is the only way.

You move quickly, keeping to the shadows as you make your way to your apartment. The streets are eerily quiet, the distant hum of the city muffled by the pounding of your heart. Every step you take feels heavier like you're walking toward something inevitable.

Suddenly you hear a  second set of footsteps.

You don’t have time to react before a hand clamps over your mouth, muffling your startled gasp.

Before you can struggle, an arm wraps around your waist in a vice-like grip, dragging you off the sidewalk. The world tilts as you're yanked into a dark alleyway. Your pulse hammers against your ribs as you thrash against the hold, but it’s uselessm his grip is unyielding, effortlessly strong.

A low, deep chuckle brushes against your ear, sending a sickening shiver down your spine.

"Took you long enough, doll."

Taehyung had grown impatient waiting for you to show up. Without warning, he forcefully turns you to face him, his grip unrelenting. The sudden contact sends a jolt of fear through you, and seeing him again after all these years feels like being doused in ice water.

Time has changed him, but not enough. His face is still achingly familiar from the sharp jawline, the tattoos that snake up the expanse of his neck to the piercing eyes that burn with something much darker. 

A part of you always knew this day would come. You had told yourself that the way Taehyung left without so much as hurting you was too good to be true, but maybe, just maybe he had realised he was in the wrong and disappeared into the past like a bad dream. But now, standing here with his breath hot against your skin, you realize how foolish you were to think he’d ever let you go.

"You thought I wouldn’t come back for you?" he whispers against your ear, his voice sickeningly soft.

Your breath stutters. You try to shove him away, but he’s faster amd stronger. His grip tightens as he forces you back, slamming you against the cold, unforgiving brick wall of the alley. The impact knocks the air from your lungs, and before you can recover, his fingers press into your jaw, tilting your face up toward him.

The streetlamp above casts a sliver of light over him, illuminating the twisted smile on his lips.

"I gave you everything, and you threw me away for him?"

Resentment drips from every word, his voice cracking with something raw.

"I should’ve taught you a lesson years ago."

Your heart hammers in your chest, panic locking your limbs in place. But before you can even react—

A force rips Taehyung away from you, sending him crashing onto the pavement with a brutal thud.

Jungkook stands over him, breath uneven, fists still clenched from the impact. His usual softness is nowhere to be found—his expression is cold, lethal.

“You thought I wouldn’t notice?” His voice is quiet, but there’s an edge to it that makes the air feel heavier.

Taehyung chuckles darkly. “I knew you’d come running.”

Jungkook doesn’t take the bait. His eyes flick to you, scanning for any sign of injury, before settling back on Taehyung with something dangerously close to disgust.

“You don’t get to lay a hand on her,” Jungkook says, his voice steady. “Not now. Not ever.”

Taehyung chuckles again, pushing himself up with an air of arrogance. He rolls his shoulders, cracking his knuckles as if this is all a joke to him.

"You?" He scoffs, eyes glinting with amusement. "Defending her?" His gaze flickers to you, sharp and accusing. "I bet she never even told you what she did to me."

Jungkook doesn’t flinch nor does he hesitate. His voice is calm, unwavering. "She didn’t do anything." He steps forward, eyes locked onto Taehyung like he’s daring him to try again. "I know she’s mine. And I know you’re just a lying, manipulative piece of shit."

Taehyung's smirk vanishes.

In a flash, he lunges.

Jungkook barely dodges, twisting to the side just in time, but Taehyung is relentless. He moves fast, and Jungkook isn’t a fighter he doesn’t have brute force or years of experience throwing punches. But what he does have is speed, quick reflexes and the sheer, unshakable will to protect you.

A fist catches Jungkook’s side, making him stagger back, but he barely registers the pain before Taehyung moves toward you again.

And that’s when Jungkook stops thinking.

His hand finds a broken pipe lying in the dirt. In one swift motion, he grips it tight and swings, slamming it straight into Taehyung’s stomach.

A sharp gasp rips from Taehyung’s throat as he doubles over, coughing violently. But he’s not down. Not yet.

Jungkook doesn’t wait. He reaches for you, his fingers wrapping firmly around your wrist. His eyes meet yours, urgent and fierce.

"Run."

The pounding of your footsteps echoes against the pavement, your lungs burning as you push yourself to keep running. The night air is thick, every breath heavy with exhaustion and fear.

Behind you, Taehyung is gaining. His ragged breaths cut through the silence, his footsteps unrelenting.

“You think you can run from me?” His voice is sharp, twisted with amusement and fury. A metallic glint catches the dim streetlights indicating he has a knife now.

Panic seizes your chest.

Jungkook’s grip tightens around your wrist. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t hesitate just yanks you sharply to the side. Your vision blurs as he drags you toward a dark, skeletal structure.

A construction site.

You stumble into the half-built building, weaving through stacks of bricks and steel beams. The scent of dust and concrete fills your lungs as you press yourself into the shadows, trying to quiet your frantic breathing.

Jungkook releases you only to crouch down, scanning the ground. His fingers curl around a rusted wrench, heavy in his grip. It’s not much, but it’s something.

“Stay behind me,” he whispers, his voice steady despite the fear you know he must be feeling. Your heart slams against your ribs. Your thoughts are spiralling. You should have been more careful, quieter when slipping out of the house. You can't believe you're the reason Jungkook is in danger, that he is the one standing between you and the threat. It should be you protecting him, not the other way around.

The footsteps slow. Taehyung has followed you inside.

A chilling silence settles over the space.

Then, a low chuckle.

“You can’t hide forever.” His voice is laced with amusement, the scrape of his knife dragging along metal making you flinch. “Come on, Jungkook. You really think you can protect her?”

Jungkook doesn’t move, his stance solid, wrench gripped tightly, shoulders squared. The tension is suffocating, every second stretching unbearably. You don’t dare breathe. Then Taehyung moves. The knife slices through the air.

Jungkook barely dodges, instinct driving his body before his mind catches up. The blade misses him by inches, but there’s no time to think, theres no time to breath, only react.

With everything he has, he swings the wrench. It connects hard against Taehyung’s wrist.

The knife clatters to the ground.

But Jungkook doesn’t stop this time.

His fist collides with Taehyung’s jaw, the impact ringing in the empty construction site. The force of it sends Taehyung staggering back, his body slamming against a stack of bricks. He’s weak now, unsteady, but still smiling like he’s enjoying this.

And then, in a last, desperate attempt, he speaks.

“You really think you’ve changed, Jungkook?” Taehyung breathes, voice laced with mockery. He spits blood onto the dust-covered ground, laughing through the pain. “You’re still the same pathetic kid I used to toy with. Weak. Spineless.”

Jungkook’s breath hitches.

“You’ll never be enough for her.”

The words land heavier than any punch ever could. For a split second, Jungkook falters. The old wounds, the taunts, the bruises, and the humiliation come rushing back. The memories claw at the edges of his mind, threatening to pull him under.

He remembers the way they used to laugh at him, the cruelty in their voices, the way they looked at him like he was nothing. Like he would always be nothing. He was the loser, the punching bag, the boy who never fought back. Every insult had carved itself into his skin, every shove had left something deeper than just bruises. They made him believe it. That he was worthless. That he would never be enough.

And then there was you. You. The only light in the darkness, the only person who had ever looked at him without disgust. He fell so hard, so helplessly in love with you, even though you belonged to Taehyung. It was cruel, really. The way fate played its hand. You were Taehyung’s girlfriend, yet you were the only one who saw Jungkook. The only one who stood up for him when Taehyung and his gang pushed him down. When he was at his lowest, you were there, offering kindness.

But how could you have chosen him? Him? A pathetic loser who had spent years as the butt of every joke, the weakling who was too afraid to fight back. He hears the echoes of their laughter, the mocking whispers that still live inside his head. Maybe they were right. Maybe he really is nothing. Maybe you made a mistake choosing him.

Taehyung’s voice is smooth and insidious, wrapping around him like a noose. The doubt, the shame, the years of self-hatred it all pulls him under, dragging him back to a place he swore he’d never return to. His fists loosen at his sides, his body feels too heavy, like he’s sinking into the past, like he's losing himself all over again.

But then—you.

You, standing behind him. The warmth of your presence, the unwavering belief in your eyes. The way you never once hesitated to love him, to choose him. His heart pounds against his ribs, pushing away the suffocating weight of the past.

No. No.

He is not that boy anymore. He is not weak. And he will not let Taehyung twist his mind, not when he has you to protect.

The hesitation vanishes as Jungkook moves, striking once, then again, each blow fueled by something raw, something deeper than anger—something desperate. His jaw is clenched, muscles taut, as if he is holding back years of something buried deep inside, something he never let himself feel until now. You have never seen him like this. Then another hit. And another.

His knuckles split, blood dripping onto the cold concrete, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. Not until Taehyung stops moving.

The only sound left is Jungkook’s ragged breathing. His chest heaves, his hands shaking.

His eyes, dark and unfocused, burn with an intensity you have never seen before. It is not just fear, nor is it just anger. It is something far more terrifying in its certainty, something that does not waver, something that does not break. It is an unrelenting, all-consuming protectiveness, the kind that leaves no room for hesitation, no space for doubt. And the most haunting part of it all—you know he did it for you.

“Jungkook.”

Your voice is sof t but it cuts through the chaos like a blade.

He freezes.

His chest rises and falls in uneven bursts, his knuckles raw and bloodied. His grip on the wrench trembles, muscles locked so tightly you wonder if he even hears you.

Then he looks at you, and in that moment, something inside him fractures. The fury that had burned so fiercely in his eyes splinters, crumbling into something far more fragile: fear. But it is not fear for himself. It is for you. For what could have happened. For what he almost became.

You take a step closer, carefully, like you’re approaching a wounded animal. His breathing is ragged, his body strung so tight it might snap. But he doesn’t move away when you reach for him.

Fingers brushing against his wrist, you gently pry the wrench from his grip. His hand is still trembling when it slips from his grasp, clattering onto the ground.

“It’s over,” you whisper, your voice steady even as your own hands shake. “I’m okay.”

Jungkook swallows hard, his throat working around unspoken words. The wail of sirens cuts through the heavy silence, distant but growing closer. Someone must have heard the commotion and called the police.

Taehyung groans from where he lies sprawled on the ground, too weak to move, too beaten to fight. But you barely spare him a glance.

Jungkook exhales shakily, his entire body trembling with the aftermath of it all. His fists are still clenched, his knuckles still bleeding, but his eyes are different now.

They are not just the eyes of your sweet, oblivious boyfriend anymore.

He steps closer, hesitant, hands hovering over your arms, your waist, checking, searching, needing to convince himself that you’re still here. That you’re real.

“I could’ve lost you,” he breathes, his voice rough, breaking at the edges.

The weight of his words settles deep in your chest.

You reach up, cupping his face, your thumb skimming over the small cut on his cheek. He flinches at the touch, but not from pain he just wasn’t expecting something so gentle.

“But you didn’t,” you murmur.

Jungkook’s breath shudders out of him. His lashes flutter shut for a second, his jaw tightening like he’s holding something in, something overwhelming, something too big to put into words.

Then, in a voice so quiet, so broken, it almost shatters you

“I was so scared.”

And just like that, everything collapses.

The rage, the adrenaline, the fear everything he had forced himself to carry, to bury, it all crumbles in one breath.

You don’t hesitate. You pull him into you, arms wrapping around him, and he clings back just as tightly. His grip is almost desperate, his fingers pressing into your back like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he lets go.

Then, suddenly, he tilts his head down, capturing your lips in his.

The kiss is not careful. It’s not soft.

It’s raw. Desperate. Heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid.

His lips press against yours with an urgency that steals your breath, like he’s trying to pour everything he feels into this moment. His hands tighten around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, as if he wants to lose himself in you, in the feeling of you alive and warm in his arms.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, anchoring him to you, and he sighs into your mouth—a broken, trembling sound that sends a shiver down your spine.

When you finally pull back, foreheads pressed together, Jungkook’s breath is warm against your skin, uneven and ragged.

He’s still shaking.

And you hold him tighter, letting him feel it all.

The flashing red and blue lights spill across the pavement as the police cars screech to a stop.

Jungkook pulls away just enough to look at you, his hands still cradling your waist, like he’s reluctant to break contact. His eyes search yours, and for the first time since this nightmare began, you see something unshakable in them.

Taehyung’s screams cut through the air as he thrashes against the officers, his wrists locked in cold steel. His voice is hoarse, spewing empty threats, venom dripping from every syllable—

“This isn’t over!” he snarls. “You think you can take her from me?”

Jungkook doesn’t react. He doesn’t even spare Taehyung a glance.

Instead, he lifts a hand, brushing his fingers lightly against your cheek, grounding himself in the fact that you’re safe.

His voice, when he finally speaks, is low, steady. A quiet promise.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

And for the first time you believe him.

Because this isn’t the same Jungkook who was oblivious, who used to let things slide, the one who always saw the good in people even when they didn’t deserve it.

This is the Jungkook who stood his ground.

The Jungkook who fought for you.

And if the world ever tried to take you away from him again, he wouldn’t hesitate.

The park is quiet, bathed in the soft glow of late morning light. Birds flit between the branches, their songs blending with the gentle rustling of leaves. A cool breeze brushes against your skin, carrying the scent of freshly baked pastries from the open basket beside you.  

Jungkook sits across from you on the checkered picnic blanket, absently poking at his croissant with a fork. His knuckles are bandaged and a faint bruise lingers on his cheek just below the strip of medical tape.  

You watch him, waiting.  

He hasn’t said much about it. But the way he holds himself now, shoulders squared just a little more, gaze a little steadier it feels different.  

“You know,” you start, plucking a strawberry from the fruit bowl and tossing it into your mouth. “For once, I wasn’t the one saving your ass.”  

Jungkook snorts, shaking his head. “Don’t remind me,” he mutters, but there’s a small, lopsided smile tugging at his lips. “I’m still getting used to it.”  

“You should be proud,” you tell him, shifting onto your knees so you’re closer. “Not just because you fought. But because you didn’t let him win.” 

Jungkook exhales, rolling his jaw like he’s still processing the weight of it. “I used to think…” He hesitates, gaze flickering down to his hands. “That I’d never be the kind of guy who could protect someone. That I’d always be the loser who let things slide.”  

You reach out, fingers curling over his bandaged knuckles, squeezing gently. “You were never a loser, Jungkook.”  

You trace a light touch over the bruise on his cheek. “And if you’re measuring strength by how many fights you win, you’re missing the point.”  

Jungkook’s lips twitch, his fingers tightening around yours. “Oh yeah? And what’s the point, then?”  

“That you were strong even before this,” you murmur. “You didn’t need to throw a punch to prove that. But I think… you finally see it now, don’t you?”  

He doesn’t answer right away, but the tension in his shoulders eases. Then, with a soft chuckle, he tilts his head and smirks. “So what you’re saying is… you’re swooning over me right now.”  

You roll your eyes, but your laugh gives you away. “Unbelievable. One heroic moment and your ego skyrockets.”  

“What can I say?” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “I’m basically a knight in shining armor now.”  

You groan. “You’re literally covered in bandages, Jungkook.”  

“Battle scars,” he corrects smugly.  

“You are so—”  

He cuts you off with a kiss.  

His lips taste like the strawberries you were just eating, but there’s something else too, something warmer. The quiet relief of knowing you’re here. That you’re safe. That you chose him, again and again.  

When you finally pull away, Jungkook rests his forehead against yours, exhaling quietly. “I wouldn’t hesitate,” he murmurs. “If it ever happens again. If the world ever tries to take you away from me.”  

Your heart clenches. You press a kiss to his bruised cheek, whispering against his skin. “I know.”  

For a while, you just sit there, basking in the quiet hum of the park, in the way his fingers stay laced with yours. The past still lingers, but it doesn’t hold you down.  

You’re here together.  

And for now, that’s all that matters.

taglist: @iamstilljk @juikmon @smoljimjim @11thenightwemet11 @namelesskeid @theboyzhelicopter @cristinamajadera @talyaaas-blog @nbjch05 @subgoogie @jjkookiee346 @gogogith @lectrice-ios @ziyaexe @mellyyyyyyx @dna-black-and-blue @sparklycheesecakenacho @pelicanpizza @whoa-jo @dillydandydaisy @somehowukook @tititania @purplelanterns @koodollylvr @honeeybunneey @jenniebyrubies @vantelover1306 @mar-lo-pap @whoreformarlenemckinnon @xumyboo @bumblebee041019 @gaebestie @coquitting @ecomidnight @fancypeacepersona @lizzy23-02 @rpwprpwprpwprw @starlight-1010 @piggaloaf @inkdrinkershadowsinger @satisfied18

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[seventeenpins]

a slight miscalculation - pt. iii

pairing: Joel x F!Reader

word count: 5.4k

summary: You hooked up with Joel months earlier, before you both realized you’re his daughter’s housemate. Now, you’re in Austin for a week, and Joel might lose his mind.

content/warnings: lovers to almost enemies to worse enemies???, age gap, marijuana use, Tess is queer and married to Marlene, Tommy Miller is sleep deprived, Joel is stuck on you and is handling it BADLY, Ellie is nonbinary, tension tension tension

a/n: Hi everyone!! I'm sorry, this chapter is a year late 🫣 Hope y'all enjoy, and still want to see more of these two!

pt. i • pt. ii

MONDAY

A soft glow of light illuminates the room beneath the blinds. Joel is adrift in the most soothing comfort that can only come from a cool space and a warm nest of covers. It's a lazy, velvet repose. He's on his belly, his aching limbs sprawled across the bed, totally lost in sleep.  As he slips from pleasant dream to pleasant dream, he knows that, if given the chance, he would stay in this bed forever.

But something has started pressing on his back.

This weight started tentatively, a gentle, hesitant pressure. The walls of his dreams began contracting towards him, the space shrinking, setting off a sharp twist of panic in his unconscious state. Joel rolls over.

The pressure wanes for a moment before it reshapes itself, grows, and becomes targeted, dividing itself into multiple prodding jabs. It's unbelievably heavy. Needle-like points emerge and begin to scrape and stab-- and that smell.

Something richly fishy is overwhelming his nostrils, hot and horrible.

He tries to claw at the enclosing walls, tries to force the rancid fish smell away from him, but his arms don't work. He can't move.

It's all too much.

Joel wakes with a start, and the stab he'd felt all over his abdomen hooks deeper, moving with him as he thrashes. After a moment, his vision focuses and he discovers a very satisfied, fish-breathed feline latching claws-first to his sleep tee, grooming his jaw with the utmost enthusiasm.

"Jesus Christ," Joel howls, grabbing on and trying to hold the little criminal to his body as he does his best to roll over and sit up. This was a classic Miller move that he'd executed thousands of times with Sarah's childhood cat, the imaginatively named Kitty, an elderly ginger tabby from the local rescue. 

Unfortunately for Joel, Spatula was not Kitty.

His attempt at relying on muscle memory betrayed him immediately. The second that Spatula felt Joel's arms tightening around him, he did his best to wriggle out of the grasp, clawing Joel the whole way up his body before launching off his chest and yowling throughout the entire exit. Joel watches furiously as he disappears past the door frame.

He drags a palm down his face and sits up, yanking his shirt off and taking a moment to examine the scratches that streak their way up his chest.

The scratches aren't deep, but they do sting.

Please, he begs the universe, let this not be an omen of the week to come.

After disinfecting the scratches, Joel dresses quickly.

The moment he steps onto the downstairs landing, he’s gut-punched with so much joy he almost forgets his frustrations. He’s greeted by the sight of his family. 

Sarah sits at the kitchen table, a steaming cup of coffee on the table before her. Maria stands behind her, neatly sectioning her hair. Tommy’s dead asleep, draped haphazardly across the sofa, baby asleep in the carrier next to him. They’re snoring together in unison. 

Joel heads straight towards his girl, ready to wrap her in a hug. Unfortunately, he doesn’t clock you turning the corner, heading right towards him, your own coffee in hand. A sudden “Dad!” rings out, and he halts abruptly, but you still crash into him, your coffee spilling over you both, staining his t-shirt, making your tank cling to your chest.

He averts his eyes, gracelessly conspicuous.

“Dad,” Sarah calls, gesturing up at Maria whose fingers hadn’t stopped deftly braiding, “Could you get her a towel?”

“Oh. Oh yeah-,” Joel snaps out of his affect, turning to the kitchen drawers. A moment later, a tea towel is being thrust towards you. You pat yourself down.

“Mr. Miller,” you nod towards him in greeting. You’d hoped it would break the tension, but he stiffens, and you immediately feel worse. 

Joel huffs, shaking his head. “Sorry bout that, sweetheart,” he says, and falls back into awkward silence. His lack of eye contact would be almost funny, if it didn’t sting quite so much.

But no. You will not let this ruin your holiday. There’s plenty to do, and you’re here with your best friends, and you will not let this man’s absolute petrification make you feel bad.

“Where’s Ellie?” You ask, and, to your surprise, Joel’s the one who responds.

“Oh, I think they said they were stepping onto the porch for a smoke.”

“Thanks,” you shrug, still dabbing yourself with the tea towel. 

Maria and Sarah are in a world of their own, chatting and laughing, and you catch Joel looking at you. You head to the door. You can feel his eyes on you, and you turn around to look back. Possessed by some surge of small insanity, you pull away the tea towel. At first, he mostly just looks ashamed at the sheer amount of liquid he managed to spill on you, but then you see his eyes widen as it dawns on him just how wet the fabric really is, and how he can see the outline of your areolas, pebbled nipples poking against the fabric. With a wink, you open the door and step out, leaving Joel agog.

Ellie sits on the porch swing, joint in hand, humming along to the music presumably playing through their headphones. Their sketchbook is laid haphazardly next to them, papers rustling in the breeze. You walk over and wave, announcing your presence without startling them. They grinned, seeing you, and pulled off their headphones.

“Wake and bake?” you ask.

“I am on vacation!” they announce. “You want a hit?”

“Sure,” You snort, and reach out for the joint. “So, did you smuggle weed through security, or did you already find a plug?”

“Nah, I know it’d stress the hell out of Sarah if anything went wrong. I found a plug.”

You take a hit, coughing a little on the exhale. “Do I want to know?”

They smile, mischievous. “Probably not.”

Then they notice the wet front of your shirt, and frown. “Was drinking coffee a challenge for you today?”

“Didn’t even get a cup of coffee,” you grumble, “Mr Miller bumped into me, and my coffee went over both of us.”

“Oh, damn-”

You sigh. “Yeah.”

The two of you sit in companionable silence for a minute, passing the joint back and forth. The breeze is light and the weather surprisingly pleasant.

“You know, I have a lot of mixed feelings about the South,” Ellie says, “But I gotta say, they got porches right.”

“Oh yeah?” you laugh.

“Yep,” they nod, somber. “It’s a classic feature of southern architecture that should be more popular nationwide. Love a porch.”

“I… do not disagree,” you nod. Then, you glance at their sketchbook. “Oh, these are cool! Are you focusing on porches this week?”

They shrug. “I dunno. Maybe? But there’s just so much cool stuff. I’ve never travelled much, and there’s so much I want to render.”

“May I?” you ask, gesturing at the pages.

“Go for it!”

You examine the sketches. A few are simple, some basic shape studies. And then they evolve. Some are neat, others more careless, but each is a recognisable depiction of the houses across the cul-de-sac.

“I don’t know how you can see things like this,” you gesture at the page, awed, “Like, it’s so true to life, but so much more that it? I know if I took a picture of those houses, it wouldn’t look like this.”

Ellie grins. It’s one of your favorite things about them; their confidence. They know what they’re good at, and you envy their ability to take a compliment.

“Well,” they take a drag, “What do you see when you look at the houses in front of you?”

You contemplate. You should have an answer. An artistic answer. Something clever. But instead. “I just see fucking houses.”

Ellie snorts. “Okay, so. These sketches are black and white, so I’m not focused on color here. But I am focused on light. So. What are the brightest bits of that house?” They point just across the way, and you consider.

“Um… The trim, along the underside of the roof? And around the windows. Oh, and the way the light’s hitting the drainpipe!”

“Exactly! Now, what are the darkest bits.”

“Well, since the light’s hitting the front, I guess the shadows on the side? So the front’s kinda a middle-tone, right? But the shadows under the siding, too, are dark.”

“You’ve got it,” they smile, enthused. “It’s really just about seeing the world like that. In shades of light. And the more you can see, the more you break it down into smaller and smaller pieces.”

“And then adding in color?”

“That’ll be your next lesson,” they laugh, “You just work on seeing the light first.”

“Just need to see the light,” you snort, “Will it cure me of my wicked ways?”

“Absolutely not,” Ellie grins, “With any luck, you’ll get even wicked-er.”

With that, they put out the end of their joint, and start assembling their things.

“Hey, random question–” you blurt, before Ellie can get up and go inside, before you can stop yourself. “What do you think of, uh. Of Sarah’s dad, Mr Miller?”

“Oh, that old man’s cool.” Ellie answers immediately.

“Yeah?” you ask, smiling in spite of yourself. Another thing you admire in Ellie is their absolute refusal to be made uncomfortable in service of others. If someone was being a dick, Ellie would be the one to step in, and they made themself plenty of enemies like that. But it also meant they were selective in their friendships and, beyond anything else, fiercely loyal. You trust their judgement.

Thank fuck for Ellie.

“I mean, shit, did you see his movie collection?” they continue, “And, he’s not misgendered me once, so I think we’re off to a good start. His friend’s cool, too! I was talking with Tess before she left last night and she and her wife invited me to a dyke night this week. So, I mean. I could be wrong. But I’m not getting any bad vibes. He’s a middle aged dude who’s actually a good dad, has lesbian friends, and has good taste in movies. Basically a walking green flag.”

“Cool,” you say. “Yeah. That is a lot of good stuff.”

It’s overwhelming, honestly. Because even those small things, listed off as bullet points, were significant. They weren’t the reasons you were stuck on him, but part of the bigger picture. Those small pieces that form the whole. 

Immediately, the urge to tell them what happened between you hits. You want to unload, want to tell them how much you think about that night with Joel. That the man that’s consuming too many of your waking thoughts happens to be just yards away, through that door, spending time with your best friend, his daughter.

But you don’t. 

It’s all too much.

“You coming back inside?” Ellie asks, hand on the doorknob.

You shake your head. “Nah, need just a little more air.”

“Cool,” they nod, “Well if you need any more weed, let me know.”

“You got it. Thanks, El.”

They pull the door open, but look back at you.

“Hey,” they ask, suddenly serious, “Are… Are you okay?”

“I? Yeah, I’m fine. What do you mean?”

“I dunno. You just seem a little bit off, maybe?”

“Well. I’m good.”

They look at you, searching your face for something.

“Okay, well. If you’re sure. And if there is something, and you’re just worried about it, or processing it or whatever. You know you can tell me, right?”

You look at them, and feel a surge of love in your belly.

“I know. And I won’t forget it. Thanks Ellie.”

They nod, and slip back inside.

You spend the next fifteen minutes on the porch swing, breathing in the air around you. It’s a change, for certain, and change can be a beautiful thing.

As you survey the block, you try to consider the light.

When you head back inside, Maria’s dipping the tips of Sarah’s hair in boiling water, and Tommy’s still passed out on the couch.

“I think that’s there for you!” Sarah calls over, pointing at a steaming cup of coffee on the counter. 

You frown, turning to look. Next to the cup of coffee is a small note in neat, straightforward block capitals. 

It’s a surprise, and the gesture makes your stomach flip. He’s just being nice, you remind yourself, trying to keep the peace. Maybe he thinks that if he pisses you off enough, you’ll tell Sarah just to spite him.

You hope he doesn’t think you so spiteful. But even if he does, as pathetic as it is, you know that at least this little note proves one thing to you: he does think of you.

That knowledge stays with you the whole day.

Your first full day in Austin is, admittedly, a pretty good day. 

The entire Miller clan had taken you and Ellie downtown. Tommy and Maria led the charge, with little Benjamin in his stroller. You did tourist-y things, Joel grumbling the entire time, but even he was in a good mood with his daughter so close. 

You all go for lunch, and then split off. Tommy and Maria have errands. Joel suggests a walk. Ellie decides to break off and visit an art museum, and you’re left to decide what to do.

“You’re more than welcome to come with,” Ellie says, “But I can’t promise that I won’t geek out. Looks like there’s an exhibition by one of my favorite contemporary painters and I gotta try not to lick the paintings.”

You nearly say yes, not even considering another option, but then–

“You know, we got rain a couple weeks ago. I’m sure they’re not at their peak, but we did have some cool fungus for a bit there. Wouldn’t be surprised if you can find something interesting along the way,” Joel said, rubbing the back of his neck, looking sheepish.

“Ooh, dad, yeah! Honestly I’m surprised you remembered that she studies mycology.” Sarah’s eyes widen just the littlest bit, impressed. Then, she turns back to you. “What would you like to do. Art or mushrooms?”

You grimace and shake your head. “Damn. I gotta do mushrooms.”

And that settled it. To fungus you went.

TUESDAY

All things considered, Spatula was a very good boy.

You’d heard later last night that he’d had a bit of an incident with Joel. To Joel’s credit, he wasn’t bitter or mean, just a little hesitant about the cat.

This morning, you awoke to your small goblin blessedly minding his own business, conked out on your pillow next to you. You enjoyed your coffee without causing a single spill, and managed to avoid physically running into Joel.

Tommy and Maria dropped by again for breakfast at ten, and slowly, everyone else emerged. Sarah was first, freshly showered after her run. She’s a beacon of joy, swinging her braids around her shoulders as she gets used to the new sensation again. She’s so delighted to be home, and to be around family. 

Family, you think. It’s… nice. It’s also, admittedly, not really your thing.

Ellie emerges with charcoal smudges all over their hands, a few messy fingerprints at their temples where they’ve brushed their hair back, stoned as a skunk. 

Joel seemed more relaxed today, too, as though now that the first day was over, maybe it wasn’t quite so bad. Maybe this didn’t have to be a problem?

Once breakfast was over, Joel had babysitting duties until early afternoon. You all felt a bit tired, that shift from place to place wearying, so you opted to stay at home, at least for the time being.

Sarah doted on her cousin, bouncing him on her lap, tickling his tummy till he gurgled and burped, howling with giggles. As you watch her, you glance aside to take a look at Joel. You swear you can see his eyes water as he gazes at his daughter and nephew. 

Ellie plugged in their PS4 and, after some coaxing, and Benjamin safe in Sarah’s arms, Joel joined them. They played round after round of the Crash Team Racing remaster. Ellie was bloodthirsty, but once Joel started getting the hang of it, he was frustratingly good.

“C’mon, old man, how’d you get that box!” Ellie yelled, as Joel cackled, hitting a “?” crate, evading Ellie’s assaults. 

Joel smirked, and Ellie narrowed their eyes and batted him on the knee.

The afternoon was pleasant. A much needed respite.

Joel felt strangely comfortable, despite his company. Ellie was a funny kid, he’ll give them that. They’ve taken him off guard so many times, but he’s trying to play it cool, and not get too outsmarted by another 19 year old. Sarah keeps him on his toes enough already.  

And it was nice, if he’s honest, but he can’t be honest. Maybe just to himself, for a moment? And it feels dangerous, but he wants to let himself be honest. Just in his own head. Just for right now. Because it’s just- It’s so nice to see you. To hear you laugh. See the way that you light up when you’re talking about something that excites you. He never stopped dreaming about you, and now he sees the bits he got wrong. Where a memory smoothed a wrinkle, or straightened a hair, you’re vivacious around him. So fucking vibrant. Too fucking real.

It feels so good to have life back in the house. He’s been so grateful for Tommy and Maria in his life, and his little nephew. But at the end of the day, it’s just him again. Alone in a big, empty house.

He’s determined to enjoy it, just for this week. Pretend everything is perfect.

Then he steps into the room, turning the corner, expecting to look over to Sarah. Instead, he sees you, and you’re bouncing Benjamin on your knee. In a moment, his heart stops. 

Nope. This sure as fuck could not be happening. Because in an instant, he is bricked up beyond all reason and possibility, and without being able to stop it, he’s staring at you, memories flashing through his head. He stumbles into the room, and stops abruptly, dropping into the nearest armchair, half paralyzed with how overwhelmed he now is. The way you’d spoken to him that night you shared, the line that runs in circles round his head every night since, as he tries to tire himself out with his fist around his cock and guilt and pleasure in his belly, as he remembered the way you rode him, coaxing him along all the way, “It's okay, daddy, you can let go–”

He needs to be inside you. He needs to tear your clothing off, needs to hear your moans again. Bury himself deep and fuck up into you till tears run down your cheeks as you come around him, urging him along. He wants to press deep into you when he comes, knowing how sweet you’d feel, clenching around him. To fuck you full of him, of his child–

But no–

What he actually needs, is to fucking stop. It ain’t right. You’re his kid’s friend. Her roommate. He shouldn’t be thinking about you at all, let alone fantasizing about you. He’s a dirty old man. A fucking pervert. Unfit for society, probably. 

All these thoughts blinked by in a moment, and it’s then that he refocuses his eyes and realizes you’re looking at him.

He frowns, face heating, immediately worried you’ve read his thoughts. He fumbles for a throw pillow, trying to inconspicuously settle it across his lap.

You’re looking at him with such confusion written across your face.

Joel feels automatically defensive. “What, what is it?” He snaps.

The confusion dissipates. It’s replaced by a resigned, exhausted expression.

“Sorry, I thought you’d heard me. I said you could sit closer if you wanted. Have a turn with Benny.”

“Oh.” He deflates, and immediately feels like an asshole. But his raging boner was still a matter of issue, so he shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good here.”

“I don’t bite.” You tell him, lamely. 

To your utmost surprise, Joel snorts, a thing of actual amusement, “Oh, sweetheart. We both know that ain’t true.”

Immediately, he regrets saying it, looking terribly abashed, his face continuing its journey in shades of flushed. You nearly laugh in response, but you’re half-paralyzed with the surprise of it.

And then, before either of you can respond, Sarah steps back into the room, fresh cup of coffee in hand, ready to resume time with her cousin.

She sits down next to you, totally oblivious, and reaches for Benjamin. It’s only as you pass him back that she sees her dad in the armchair across the room.

“Oh, hey dad! You’re so far away! Wanna hang out with us?”

“Sure, baby.” Joel grimaces, possibly aiming for a smile, and nods. He stands up gingerly. Sarah’s not paying close attention, but you see the way Joel rearranges himself, moves the throw pillow off his lap, and makes his way over.

For the briefest moment as he adjusts, his t-shirt rides up the tiniest bit. In that instant, you can see the line of him, see that he’s hard, and that he’s got his entire cock tucked up into his waistband, getting choked by his belt. You catch his eye, and he turns away, pulling his tee the littlest bit lower.

You make up some excuse, some reason to leave, and you slip out of the room.

Fuck. Fuck. Joel Miller’s gonna be the death of you.

Afternoon turns to evening, and Maria and Tommy join the group, followed shortly by Tess and her wife, Marlene. You band together and place a massive takeout order, 

You were thrilled, actually. After dinner was finished, you got to have an evening alone. Joel and Sarah were going to see a movie. Tommy and Maria were heading home. Tess, Marlene, and Ellie were all going to Dyke Night. 

You loved your housemates, you really did. But, when you think about it, you realize it’s been months since you had a proper night home alone.

The Millers had a hot tub, and tonight, you intend to use it.

Ellie, Tess and Marlene leave first. The event starts at 8pm, but Ellie’s so excited to go out, they leave at 7. Tess and Marlene insist that they’ll take good care of Ellie. It’s not their usual scene these days, but they’re both gripped by Ellie’s enthusiasm, delighted to show them the local scene.

Joel and Sarah headed out a little bit later, planning to catch a movie. Sarah had told you before how she and her dad like to go out to the movies. It’s a holdover from childhood, she’d told you. When she was really little, he’d rent a movie every Friday. Then, with Sarah playing contractor, and Joel playing foreman, they’d construct a pillow fort, built for maximum structural integrity.

By the time they started their movie, she’d be getting sleepy, but they’d stay up together anyway. And, when she fell asleep, her dad would carry her up to bed and tuck her in gently, looking forward to doing it all again next week.

It was their time together. Their sanctuary. A tired, overworked single dad, and the most important thing in his entire world; his baby girl.

Once they had left, you took a deep breath. Finally, you were alone. You have a few hours to yourself before you’ll expect anyone back, and that goddamn hot tub is calling to you. 

As Joel drives, some song plays on the radio that catapults them back to Sarah’s childhood. He’s not certain, but thinks it might be an Avril Lavigne one. She was one of her favorites. He almost thinks if he looks over, he might see that sweet, smart, skinny kid next to him. But instead, it’s even better. His beautiful, brilliant daughter is grown. Such a wonderful woman, inside and out. And not only that, she wants to spend time with her old man.

Joel nods his head, and Sarah starts singing along, belting out the lyrics the way she’s done since she was little. He grins as she shimmies her shoulders through the instrumental break, and he hums along with her as she takes on the next chorus.

The song ends, and Sarah erupts in giggles, and Joel reaches for her hand, and she gives it a firm squeeze.

Then, a loud pop sounds, and the car jolts, the front left dipping forwards.

Joel curses, body surging with tension, tugging his hand from hers to grab onto the wheel, navigating the suddenly swerving car over to the shoulder. 

“You okay?” He asks, heart pounding, turning to Sarah. 

She nods rapidly, turns back to him. “Are you okay, dad?”

“Uh-huh,” he nods, and puts a hand on her cheek, looking her over. He nods again, satisfied, and steps out of the car.

He moves to the front of the car, out of the way of the traffic zipping by, and curses.

“Yep,” he says to Sarah as he sits back in the driver’s side. “Big ol’ nail’s gone right through it. Blown the tire. God dammit.”

“We got a spare?” Sarah asks.

Joel sighs, putting his fist to his forehead and considering. “Yeah. That should get us off the side of the road at least.

He gets out and starts to work, pulling out the jack, and some other tools. He loosens the lug nuts and raises the car.

All in all, it doesn’t take all that long to swap the flat for the spare. But, he knows, he won’t be able to go over 50mph with the spare. It’s a busy week, too, with so many people travelling, so he’ll need to get it fixed sooner rather than later, especially getting Sarah back to the airport–

Goddammit.

He lowers the car again, and inspects his work.

“All done?” Sarah asks.

“All done.” He nods, wiping grease from his fingers.

“Think we can still make a movie?” Sarah grins, hopeful.

Joel winces and shakes his head. “I’m sorry, babygirl. I think I gotta get this tire taken care of. Can’t drive on it for long.”

“Oh,” Sarah deflates. “No, of course!”

“How about tomorrow night?” Joel asks.

She considers, then brightens. “Actually, I was gonna see a friend tomorrow. But I might be able to swap days! Let me check with her–”

Sarah taps away on his phone, and Joel peers at his own phone. He’ll find the number for the 24/7 tire folks. 

A moment later, Sarah hops up with a “Yes! Alright, she’ll pick me up from the intersection down there. And then you and I can do a movie tomorrow night!”

“Alright kiddo,” he nods, “Sounds like a plan. I’ll be able to get back, and I’ll have the tire guys come tonight. You want a ride to the corner?”

“I’m good,” she smiles, “I need the walk.”

He nods again. His wonderful, independent girl. “Be safe tonight, hon,” he tells her, “Call me if you need anything.”

“Thanks dad,” she smiles, and pulls him in for a hug.

He hugs her back, tight. She breaks away, waves, and heads off.

He watches his daughter as she goes.

Joel’s night is now wide open, but even despite the cancelled plans, it doesn’t feel lonely the way most of his nights do. Instead of empty and hollow, he feels full of life. Full of possibility. Before he even left, he called the tire service. To Joel’s surprise, they have an opening right now, and they're mobile. He gives them his address and lets them know he’ll be home in 20. They say they'll meet him there in 30, and he drives back, careful of the spare.

The mechanic gets to work quickly, and fifteen minutes later, he’s heading back out. A weight lifts from Joel’s chest. One less thing to worry about.

Joel steps through the garage door into the kitchen. He kicks aside his shoes and shrugs off his jacket, rolling his aching shoulders, trying to rid them of tension. 

He digs around in the fridge, navigating between takeout boxes, to find a can of Bud Lite hiding at the back. 

He cracks it open, immediately feeling the tension leave his body at the sound of the sizzle. Then, he takes a swig, sits down in his favorite recliner, and realizes– something is off.

The back porch light, to be exact.

It was on a motion sensor, and no one ever turned it on. There were guests, of course, so someone could have turned it on. But there’s also been a family of raccoons that has been inching closer and closer to the house, and he’d be damned if they were getting into the garbage.

He steps out, prepared to wave his hands at his feral guests in hopes of herding them away.

Instead, he sees you. Sat in the hot tub.

Joint in one hand, glass of wine in the other.

And you’re completely naked.

In a blink, any surprise or confusion Joel may have felt turns into fury.

He storms out, slamming open the sliding glass door. You jump, whipping your head towards him in an instant. The wine splashes down you, blindingly cold against the heat of your skin, trailing down your collarbone, between your tits. By sheer dumb luck, you manage to keep hold of the joint.

You can hear Joel’s words before you can even see his face.

“Are you fucking kidding me, woman?”

“Jesus christ, Joel, I thought you were gonna be out!”

“So what, you just decided to sit your naked ass down in my hot tub?”

“Dude, I’m sorry. I didn’t think to bring a swimsuit, and Sarah said it was okay! You said you were going to a movie–”

“You’re a pain in my fuckin’ ass, you know that?”

Now, he’s pissing you off. “What have I actually done to you, Joel, really? I’m not making this difficult. You are.”

“What have you done?” He growls, and a rage boils in you as he sneers. “I’ll fuckin’ tell ya. You hooked your fuckin’ claws into me. Made me absolutely stupid with ya. And now you’re here, and Sarah could find out exactly what kinda piece of shit her dad really is. You’re just parading around–”

You’re done. You’re fucking done. You take your time relighting your joint, making sure to take a deep drag as he glares daggers at you. And then you catch movement at the screen door, still open behind Joel. 

Panic rises up in you. Your boy. Your beautiful cat son. A small little man who does not know how to survive in the wild.

“Spatula!” you shout, and Joel doesn’t turn, just frowns.

You jump up, entirely unconcerned about your own nakedness, and hurtle towards the door, realization suddenly dawning upon Joel.

The little criminal howls in defeat. You scoop him up  before he can get more than a single paw outside.

Naked but the cat in your arms, you turn to him, words laced with venom. “Parading around, Joel?” you ask, voice quiet but dangerous. You don’t try to cover yourself. Joel’s jaw clenches, grinding his teeth. 

He takes a breath. “I’m– I’m sor–”

You cut him off. You don’t want to hear it. “Fuck you, Joel. Fuck you.”

You storm inside, and head to the room deemed yours for the next few days. Rubbing angry tears from your eyes, you place Spatula on your bed and towel off properly, slipping into pajamas. You smoke the last of the joint through the bedroom window, and try to clear your mind. It’s not polite, smoking inside like that, but frankly you’d like to piss him off, if you can. At least that would be a reasonable thing for him to be angry about.

You go to sleep, a lump in your throat, and tears stinging your eyes.

[argumate]

actually what started it was me overhearing someone on a podcast (might have been Douthat? not sure and don't particularly care to revisit it) claim that it was possible to be in favour of strong borders without being xenophobic, a claim which I contested as I think once you dig into it the very existence of borders hinges on moral claims about foreigners that don't hold up, or shouldn't (even aside from the economic claims, which also don't hold up for other reasons).

anyway you can describe that as grandstanding but I wasn't accusing people of being evil necessarily, I think a lot of people are confused and in most cases simply indoctrinated about The Way The World Works such that they take these things as a basic fact of life, in much the same way that they did with racial and gender segregation.

the only way that everyone has the same legal rights everywhere is if there is a single unified world government, a thing which you don't want.

I will take issue with this claim on two levels: one is that we already have overlapping hierarchies of government that are bound by common agreements on some issues and have individual authority on others; consider someone living in a German town where they are subject to local law, state law, federal law, EU law, and potentially our best sketchy attempt at international law:

clearly it's possible to make progress on equal rights for everyone while still maintaining a pluralist/federal system, however if it isn't, if the end result of achieving equal rights for everyone results in what is effectively a single unified world government in which everyone has representation and individuals are protected, well that would be great? that would be a strict improvement on the status quo, absent other concerns not mentioned in this discussion, like nuclear war.

and I don't think you coming to visit me in Australia would burden other Australians with leaden shackles of obligation or whatever the fuck that gives them the right to bar your entry, and taking that logic seriously would allow all kinds of abuses, many of which we sadly already see.

you know what I'm saying: increase immigration quotas, reduce the brutality of border control, grant amnesty to the undocumented, expand areas of passport-free travel, grant more tourist visas, grant more student visas, grant more work visas, take the convention on refugees seriously, aim for a world in which people can travel freely without arbitrary limitations on where they can go and what they can do when they get there.

people have raised valid points in response that I totally agree with, like the need to fix dysfunctional housing markets, but the majority of responses have been that foreigners are bad people who will ruin the country if allowed to enter it, and I'm disputing that on factual and moral grounds.

in an American legal/political context (and also a British context, although they express it in a different way) there is the bedrock assumption that the individual is a sovereign in some sense, that while the government derives its authority and legitimacy from the consent of the community, its authority cannot override the rights of the individuals within that community (obviously a commitment that these governments fell woefully short of on countless occasions, but still an important legal principle).

but individuals outside that community may have no rights at all! the government may imprison or even murder them with impunity, and of course being outside the community they have no individual representation (yet still pay sales taxes lol) and are reliant on some other national government to try and defend them in a manner that's more reminiscent of the bargaining between feudal warlords than a post-enlightenment respect for the rights of man.

this form of elevation of government over the individual is a horrific anachronism that cannot be justified on moral or economic grounds and should have been left behind in the 20th century; I can scarcely believe it's even necessary to say this but "people should have the same rights and freedoms regardless of where they are born" remains a shockingly controversial claim.

[stillfightingdragons]

L gets hit with his Harry Du Bois arc.

wakes up in a trashed motel room, surrounded by candy wrappers and empty bottles, total retrograde amnesia. no shoes anywhere to be found, only a pair of old jeans and a white long sleeve, both stained to hell with god knows what, left hanging on various pieces of furniture.

pieces together he must be responsible for the room, leaves, finds Light downstairs, waiting for him. for purposes of the Disco Elysium parallel, this is their first time meeting. face to face, at least. whether Light is still Kira is in the air. perhaps this time around, Light became a member of the NPA before L honed in on him. perhaps L's self-pitying bender is why it took so long to find him.

"Oh god, I'm supposed to be the world's best detective?"

Light can't believe it either. this sopping wet rag of a man, the world's best detective? sure. sure thing.

they have a murder to solve anyways. yet another mysterious heart attack, clearly Kira's doing. the weird thing is, he's not the usual kind of target Kira would go after. doesn't fit the brand. and the locals don't exactly care for cops. maybe some of them are very pro-Kira. maybe they just can't stand pigs.

and yet, with memory still fucked to hell and back, the old skills of the trade keep coming back to L without fail. info about who he was. what he did. the good and the very bad.

idk

[paucubarsisimp]

HEY BABES!!!

I'd love to be ur first joao request SO HEAR ME OUT.

how about a date with joao in one fancy restaurant in Milan and it's so funny because joao doesn't know much italian and they're both left trying to understand what the water is telling them.

I LOVE YOUR FICS SM KEEP IT UP 💗💗

spaghetti struggles

pairing: joão felix x reader

summary: basically the request 😭

tagged: @barcapix, @universefcb, @joaosnovia, @httpsdana, lmk if you want to be added to the taglist!

a/n: first time writing for joão!

you and joão had only been in milan for a few weeks now, and while settling into a new city, a new life together, and preparing for the upcoming season felt like a lot, one thing you were both especially excited about was food. you were in italy, after all—land of pasta, pizza, and all things delicious.

tonight, joão had decided to take you out for a special dinner. you hadn’t yet figured out how to speak italian (and honestly, you weren’t even trying that hard yet), so you’d been relying on google translate and gesturing wildly to get by. but tonight, joão was determined. he was going to show you the “real” milan, which meant going to a local, slightly fancy italian restaurant.

as you both entered, a waiter in a crisp white shirt greeted you in rapid-fire italian. you glanced at joão, who had the same wide-eyed, panicked expression that you did.

“uh… hi,” you said hesitantly, smiling like an awkward tourist.

the waiter continued to speak quickly, gesturing to the menu and then to your table. neither of you had a clue what he was saying.

“yeah, um… we’re just—” joão started, but his voice trailed off as the waiter kept going, seemingly undeterred by your lack of understanding.

“i think he’s asking if we want a table?” you whispered to joão, but he looked at you with a blank stare.

“i have no idea,” joão muttered, his accent still heavy as he tried to catch up. “just… just nod, yeah?”

so, you both nodded. the waiter smiled and ushered you to a table, still speaking italian as he placed two menus down in front of you.

you both sat down, exchanged a confused look, and picked up the menus, pretending like you knew what was going on.

“okay,” you said, squinting at the italian menu. “what does this say?” you pointed to something that looked vaguely like the word “pizza,” but with extra letters in it.

“uh, i think it’s pizza,” joão said, also scanning the menu. “but… it could also be ‘pasta’? or ‘frittata’? i’m not sure.” he flipped the menu around and squinted at it. “i’m getting a headache just looking at this.”

the waiter returned, asking something with a question at the end, and you both froze. you had no idea what he was saying.

“uh, sorry, we don’t… speak italian,” you said, wincing as you tried to communicate. “do you have… english?”

the waiter just nodded enthusiastically and said something that sounded like a confirmation, before walking off to speak with another table.

“okay, well, that went well,” you said, exhaling.

joão was already scrolling through google translate on his phone. “let’s just look up what’s on the menu. give me a second.”

he held the phone out to you and you typed in ‘pasta’. the result was a giant list of words you couldn’t even pronounce, let alone understand.

“i’m sorry,” you said, squinting at the phone. “i still don’t know what half of this means. can we just point to the menu when he comes back and hope for the best?”

joão sighed. “yeah, that sounds like the best plan. i think we should just order like we’re on a game show.”

soon enough, the waiter returned, looking at you expectantly. joão smiled nervously, still holding his phone like a lifeline.

“uh, we’ll just have, um…” he trailed off, his finger hovering over the menu. he pointed to something that had “spaghetti” written in a smaller font underneath. “this?”

the waiter looked at him, then at you, then back at him. his eyes narrowed in thought. “spaghettiiiii,” he said slowly, then gave a thumbs-up and disappeared.

“i think we’ve ordered spaghetti?” you said, your voice half-questioning. “but we could be in for a surprise.”

joão just chuckled, his shoulders relaxing a bit. “it’s fine. whatever happens, we’ll laugh about it later.”

the waiter came back soon with drinks—thankfully, they were the right ones—and then disappeared again. you both sat in awkward silence, occasionally giggling at the absurdity of the situation.

when the food finally arrived, it was… not what you expected. you both stared down at the plates, unsure of what you were looking at. joão had ordered a plate that looked like a huge pile of something green, and you were staring at a dish that appeared to be… some kind of lasagna? but it didn’t look like anything you’d ever seen before.

“uh, is this… is this how italian food looks?” you asked, poking your fork into the green thing on joão’s plate.

“i don’t know,” joão muttered, taking a bite. “but it’s good. actually, it’s amazing.” he looked at you with wide eyes. “you have to try this.”

you took a hesitant bite of your own dish and nodded. “okay, this… this actually tastes incredible. but i still have no idea what it is.”

joão took out his phone again. “okay, google says… ‘torta verde’? that’s not even a word. what’s a torta?”

you both burst out laughing.

“i don’t know,” you said, clutching your stomach. “but i think we’re eating mystery food in italy. it’s like an episode of ‘man vs food,’ except there’s no one to tell us what we’re eating.”

“this is definitely the most confusing dinner of my life,” joão admitted, still grinning.

just as you were getting comfortable with your “mystery food,” the waiter returned. he started speaking italian at full speed again, gesturing at your plates.

“he’s asking if we’re enjoying it,” you said, giving joão an apologetic look. you smiled at the waiter. “sì! molto bene!” you said, hoping that was at least the right thing to say.

the waiter beamed. “ah! molto bene!” he said, clapping his hands. “enjoy, enjoy!”

and with that, he disappeared. you both stared at each other in disbelief.

“he definitely didn’t understand us, did he?” you asked, taking another bite of your strange dish.

“nope,” joão agreed, shaking his head. “but we’re surviving. we’re surviving by the power of spaghetti and mystery lasagna.”

as you ate, you tried your best to enjoy the evening despite the language barrier. it was frustrating, but at the same time, you couldn’t help but laugh. it was a mess, but it was your mess. and as the night went on, you realized that no matter how many times you tried to navigate the language, the food, or the confusion—you wouldn’t trade this chaos for anything.

don’t forget to leave a request!

[anexperimentallife]

Quick info on relocating from the US to the Philippines (yes, even if you're poor)

Source of my info: I've lived here in the Philippines for about seven years now, my (also from the US) wife has been here almost as long, and we had our daughter here. This is for people who have a location-independent source of income like SSDI (NOT SSI), remote job, etc.

I keep starting to type up a guide to moving to the Philippines from the US, but there's so much to cover I keep getting stuck! It's coming, though. As for why the Philippines, I did a lot of research before leaving the US, and it's the absolute easiest, least expensive, friendliest, and lowest-hassle English-speaking country to move to. You can stay on a tourist visa for three years at a time by extending every two months. At the end of three years, you buy a budget round trip ticket (for under 100 bucks) to Singapore, Kuala Lumpur, or whatever, walk around the airport, and hop on the place back.

Note: For convenience, I'm using US Dollars when discussing the prices you can expect to pay for things here, but only Philippines Pesos are accepted in the Philippines. Your US ATM card will get you pesos from the ATM, and with your US credit cards, you will generally get a choice between dollars and pesos.

The short version of what I recommend, without always explaining why you need these things:

A throw-away ongoing ticket leaving the Philippines within 29 days of your arrival. You may not be able to board the plane here without one. This is a MUST. There is a very slim chance that they MAY not ask to see proof of an ongoing ticket, but if they do, and you don't have it, you won't be allowed to board.

A location-independent source of income for at least 600 USD a month--That's enough to live like a local, without Western conveniences. No one will ask for proof of income, but you have to eat! 1K or more will have you living pretty well, and on 2K you can live like royalty. You can receive SSDI here and social security retirement, but NOT SSI.

Two bank accounts with ATM cards, and two credit cards through different banks. Mastercard and Visa are your best bets, as not everyplace takes Discover or AmEx yet. (MOST places do, but just to be safe.)

Some banks sound better than they are. Schwab bank advertises that they reimburse overseas ATM charges, and they do, BUT they may drop you if you're out of the US for more than a couple of years (like they did us and several others we've spoken to). We have an Aspiration account (and yes, that's an affiliate link, but you can just look them up if you want, too), and like them.

TELL YOUR BANKS YOU'RE COMING HERE! Otherwise you risk having your ATM/credit cards deactivated for "suspicious activity."

A few weeks before departure, you'll want to buy some Philippines Pesos. Your local bank probably won't have them, but they can order them. I recommend having at least 10,000 PHP on hand (about 180 USD), in a mix of 1K bills, 500s, and 100s. You're allowed to bring up to 50,000 pesos with you, but any more than that and you have to declare it.

Bring your medications. Get your doctor to write a scrip that ups your dose so you can bring at least a 90-day supply that looks on paper like a 30-day supply. Put multiple desiccant packs in your prescription bottles, or the humidity here will turn your meds into a single big lump. You will want the original bottle with the printed prescription label, and maybe a photocopy of the actual prescription. (There's a reason they do original packaging, and not pill bottles here.) I've never had my luggage searched or even had them LOOK at my medications, but who knows what the future holds?

Some meds may not be available in the Philippines, or may be harder to get. (I had to switch from vicodin to tramadol because vicodin is simply not available here.)

Lodgings: Look, I hate AirBNB as a business, too, but you need a place to stay while you look for permanent digs, so book one well in advance. You can get a month's stay for 300-500 bucks even in the big cities if you shop around. In the Manila area, I liked the places I stayed at in Blue Residences and Grass Residences. I only include this info because my AuDHD ass stressed so much over where to stay, and I figure I can save you that same stress if you're worried.

Some advantage of staying in AirBnBs for a month or three are that a) you're not in an immediate rush to find an apartment and get household stuff, b) it gives you time to make some local connections before committing to a long-term lease, and b) if you're staying at a unit in a condo building, you can get to know the staff, which can be a HUGE help in getting settled.

Once you're here, you can find decent permanent lodgings for under 200 a month if you shop around. Blue Residences, last time I checked, had studio condos for about 180 USD a month last time I checked. (No, I don't get anything for recommending them--Just trying to give the best info I can.)

These are the bare basics of getting here.

A few general tidbits, in no specific order:

As for vaccinations, get them here, where they're cheaper.

We like living in Baguio. It's an artsy little university city of about 400,000 people, up in the mountains, about a four hour bus ride North of Manila, and it stays cool enough up here that we don't really need air conditioning--which is the biggest utility expense you'll have in lowlands cities like Manila. We know people who rent temporary housing to tourists and students, so let me know if you need a referral. We only stayed in the Manila area for about six months, with occasional trips down there to take care of things at the US Embassy, but we can give SOME guidance on that area.

Which reminds me: If being near the embassy is a concern, you may want to stay in the Manila area. The new regime in the US is changing social security rules so that to do something as simple as changing your direct deposit requires an in-person appointment, and who knows what else they're going to change?

In Baguio, we get fresh produce from the wet market delivered to our door for a third or less of what it would cost at local supermarkets.

The humidity is intense in the Philippines. 80 degrees in Quezon City feels hotter than 110 in Kansas.

Most places here, when they say unfurnished, they mean COMPLETELY unfurnished. No fridge, no stove, no anything; just bare rooms. Most locals cook on a mini gas range with a propane tank, and a counter-top oven. This is part of why I say you'll want a couple of credit cards. You can get set up with the above for a couple of hundred dollars, but still, if you're moving partly out of financial stress, you'll want to pay these things off gradually.

ASK if a place has a shower heater. Many do not. If not, you can get one at the local hardware store and hire an installer for as little as a couple hundred dollars total. (You can use a card at the hardware store, but the installer will want cash.)

You'll have filtered drinking water delivered in five gallon jugs, for around 50 cents per jug; even the locals don't drink the tap water. One jug will last you about a week unless you drink LOTS of water. (We go through three jugs a week in a household with three adults and one toddler, but as an autistic man, I drink more sparkling water than regular water, or we'd probably go through four a week.) You'll want a cheap little pump you can get at the hardware store, or you can order an electric one online (or lift the jug and pour). If you want to be fancy you can get a water-cooler-type thing.

Food is SO inexpensive if you go to the wet market or have them deliver to you. We spend about 400 dollars a month on groceries--including snacks, etc.--for all four of us. Going out to eat can cost less than two dollars if you shop around like a local. Public transport is ubiquitous and costs pennies to use, while taxis can start as low as 75 cents (here in Baguio, anyway).

Get the Grab app. It will be your friend.

A doctor's visit will cost maybe twelve bucks even for a specialist, but be prepared to wait. When they say, "Come in at 10 am," what they mean is, "my clinic hours start at 10am, so you can come put your name on the list at that time, and if you're lucky you won't have too many people ahead of you."

This is by no means comprehensive, but I'm tired, and my daughter needs attention, so bye for now!

[hornyfandomrambles]

Mine

"Get the fuck out of my house!" You find yourself yelling as you slam the door shut. Your slimy now-ex boyfriend slinks out of the door as you slump against it, tears streaming down your face.

You had met Lucas at a bar in your local town when you first started uni. You were young, attractive, and available to work odd hours, so you were pretty much hired on the spot.

Lucus had never given you much attention, treating you more like a trophy then an actual person. The bar job did introduce you to some incredible people though.

The bar is a Navy bar that goes by the name of Top Deck. It's a good job, keeps you busy and constantly meeting new people.

You're pulled out of your own thoughts when you hear a car door slam outside and you physically flinch, figuring that Lucus doubled back.

You relax though when you hear an insistent knock at the door, followed by the panicked voice of your childhood best friend.

"Emily! Open the door!" His voice rings out.

You stand up on unsteady feet and unlock the door.

You're sure you look a mess, with blood dripping down your face and arms, wide, bloodshot eyes, and tears and snot covering most of your face.

Bob doesn't skip a beat, instantly pulling you into his arms and cradling your head under his chin. For the first time in weeks, you relax.

The two of you stay like that for a long time, but eventually, he pulls back, studying your face. You tense, waiting for the questions, but it never comes. Instead he simply tuts softly and pushes the hair out of your face with trembling hands.

"You look like a mess, Em. Can I run you a bath?" He asks, quickly wiping away at a stray tear tracking down the side of his face.

You let out a watery laugh and nod against his chest, reluctant to let him move away from you.

It takes a couple of hours of him helping to clean you and dress you, but eventually you're all cleaned up and feeling a little better.

You emerge from the bathroom to find Bob struggling to unfold the lazy sofa. You clearly your throat to get his attention and he recoils like he was burnt.

"... I have work" You say slowly, a single eyebrow raised at his odd positioning of his hands in front of him.

"Huh? What? No. You're not going to work after what that dickhead did." He protests, a flare of anger in his eyes.

"I don't have a choice. Penny said a new shipment just came in and she needs the help."

"Fine... but be careful?" He pleads, still in his odd, slouched over position with his hands clasped together.

"I always am." You smile, and before you can think too hard about it, you press a quick kiss to his forehead before grabbing your keys and disappearing out the door.

Tagging: @mynameismckenziemae

[theaussieblue]

One thing that's interesting, horrifying, and historically accurate about Kingdom Come Deliverance 2 is the massive injustices and privileges afforded to nobility. Time and time again, there is lopsided justice where you are punished severely for committing a crime while a Noble will never face punishment. A few examples, and some mild spoilers below the break.

Early in the game, you end up fighting a group of bandits. These bandits have committed grave crimes - they raid farmhouses, steal from merchants traveling, and have committed murder. The punishment for these bandits is death - except for the Noble who is leading them. While the Noble's men are being executed and hung, the Noble is given the option to work for the local lords' house as a guard. He accepts, and all is forgiven. This man, who not to long ago was a bandit himself, who murdered innocent people and conspired to rob and pillage, has been given a complete pardon just because he is a noble. Continuing on, Poaching. Poaching is where you hunt illegally. There are a number of quest lines where you catch Poachers, and all of them know that since they are going to be executed anyway, they fight to the death. You kill about a dozen poachers and this is treated as justice - for how dare peasants steal from their lord. Hans is caught poaching, and because of his clothes and lack of retinue the local authorities believe him to be a peasant - so they sentence him to die by hanging. The only way to save him is to prove he is a noble. If you do that, then they stop the execution because you cannot hang nobles. All is forgiven, and they even give him a change of clothes and a room in the castle - a noble reduced to poaching is treated as a funny story instead of a crime.

Even further, if you screw up you can tell the local lord that some of the nobility are conspiring against him. If you do, you ride out. The instructions given to your commanding officer is to seize the noble responsible - no further orders are given. Once facing any resistance, the officer decides to kill EVERYONE. His men stalk the halls of the manor slitting the throats of the elderly, murdering servants, even drowning people in tubs - and these are just peasants. Serving girls and cooks. Then, once everyone is dead and the traitors are killed, they burn down the castle. When you get back, you can complain very bitterly to the lord, giving a lurid detailed statement about how the captain massacred the innocent, and killed women who posed no threat and committed no crime. The lord gives the captain a stern talking to... and nothing else. The nobility do not care about the deaths of peasants. Even burning down villages and slaughtering peasants is thought of as the natural part of war. The nobility say that peasants return anyway - there are always more common folk, because they breed like rabbits. The village will be rebuilt, peasants will move back in and start farming again, so what's the harm? When Hans complains about this, he's viewed as naive at best, crazy at worst. The 1400's were a horrible time, and human rights simply did not exist.

[inlovewithgreta]

Hiii!!!I love your works, I binge read the milf one shots all the time especially Joan's.

I was hoping you could do a story where Joan finds out that the reader has nipple piercings mixed in with a protective thing. Like joan overhears some coworkers or strangers at a bar talking abt reader and are talking abt whether reader has piercings or not and how they would react/do to reader to find out. Obvi joan doesn't like it and just wants to shield the reader from the world (but hasn't told her of her feelings yet) and whisks her away.

Piercings - Joan Ferguson x Fem!Reader

Summary: A night out at the local bar reveals more than just mutual feelings.

Warnings: praise, legal age gap, body worship, reader has nipple piercings, men being gross, protective Joan, mentions of drugs, mentions of alcohol, alcohol consumption, oral sex, vibrator usage, squirting, etc…

Word Count: 4.2k

Taglist: @celasteria @bellatrixsbrat @janewaykove @secretsofthewilde @goforgreat

© Do not copy, repost, or modify any of my works.

To say you admired Joan would be an understatement. She was the best boss you could ever ask for. Taking you under her wing, teaching you to be the best version of yourself, protecting you from harm's way, and even listening to your ramblings about the importance of bonding in the workplace.

Which is exactly what led to today's events.

Where all of your coworkers, including yourself and Joan, were all gathered at a local bar to celebrate Joan's most recent drug bust and all of the hard work the rest of you put into helping clean the prison.

And it just so happened to be your Birthday as well. Yet the only person who knew that, was Joan herself as she was your employer. The person who knew everything about you.

You only knew that she knew because you had not told your coworkers. None of them wished you a Happy Birthday. But she did, when the only way you were able to fully convince her to come, was by admitting to her that today was your special day.

To say Joan was protective over you was an understatement. You were smaller, shorter, more fragile than she was. The first time you were injured on the job, she nearly put her hands on the prisoner who did it. And drunk men at a bar, was always a disaster waiting to happen.

She didn't know what overcame her. Never had she once thought she would be so protective over another person. Not once had it crossed her mind that she would feel anything for anyone.

Yet here she was, sitting shoulder to shoulder with you in the corner most area at a local bar. A place she despised going. Bars were filthy. Full of germs... full of drunk men. But one simple ask from you was all it took for her to cave in.

These past few months of you being her Deputy were the most stress-free months she's ever had being the Governor. And it was all thanks to your lighthearted attitude, your determination, and your eagerness to please her.

"I'm going to get another drink.." You said, leaning in towards your boss, who was playing with the thin straw to her own nearly empty drink. "Would you like another? It's on me.." You asked, with a small smile.

"No thank you.." She grumbled.

"C'mon," you playfully whined. "Loosen up a little bit, Governor. Just for tonight.. For me? Please??" You gave the woman your best pleading look, which instantly shattered her highly built walls and won her over.

"Fine. But just one more." She raised her pointer finger.

"Yes! See, I knew you had it in you to have some fun," you teased, earning an eye roll from Joan.

You turned to leave, but Will and Linda were to your left, deep in conversation and blocking your exit. While on your right, sat Joan, and a pile of everyone's jackets.

The Governor sensed your hesitation as she watched your eyes glance from your left, then right to her lap, to the pile of jackets, and to the bar as you thought of your way out.

Knowing she would have to touch whoever's clothing was to her right, led her to say the words that came out of her mouth next.

"Just climb over my lap," she stated.

Your eyes widened at her words, and you were hoping she didn't notice the rising heat in your cheeks and flush of crimson that quickly spread across your features.

"C'mon, before I change my mind," she insisted.

You swallowed and nodded your head, carefully moving yourself over her. With her being so tall, and the table being so short, you had to sit in her lap very briefly to fit between her and the table, and you swore that even over the loud, blaring music, that you heard Joan suck in a breath.

You instantly felt warmth flood your body at the gentle touch of her hands finding your hips for a mere second to help you finish crossing over her and find your footing.

You didn't dare look back, wanting to avoid your boss seeing your flushed face. And you internally screamed at yourself for the instant gay panic you felt when her hands just barely touched you as you only briefly sat in her lap. A place you never thought you'd find yourself in.

Joan's gaze never left you as she watched you make your way to the bar. Now that you were alone, she felt the need to keep you in her eyesight.

Yet words from her left drew her attention back to your coworkers that were already nearly drunk, babbling, and saying your name. The others were too invested in their conversation to notice Joan still seated there.

All of their eyes were on you, but not in the same way Joan's was.

"Aye, do you reckon those are piercings?" One of the men asked.

"What do you mean?" Linda asked.

"She's not wearing a bra, Smiles. Just look at her chest. You can see something poking out. Looks like piercings."

As you were leaning against the bar, waiting for the two drinks you ordered, your eyes scanned the crowd before landing on Joan. You swore your heart stopped when dark brown eyes were already looking at you.

You gave her a small smile. A smile only you gave to her.

None of the others would even dare to crack one around her. Yet you of all people, did it quite often.

Joan however, didn't reciprocate it. As the words flooding in her ears had her hands turning into fists in her lap.

"I can't really tell," Linda said.

"Well she's showered and changed around you, hasn't she? You have to know if she does or not," another one of the men chimed in.

"I'm not staring at her chest!" She shook her head, but continued the conversation, "Why don't you find out for yourself, big guy," she nudged him.

"You reckon she'd go for me?" He straightened his back, now intrigued even more. "I'd do anything to find out," he said, downing the rest of his drink.

Joan seethed, nose twitching from anger as she hastily made her way out of the booth. She was quick to her feet, keeping eye contact with you as you followed her movements.

The same man unbuttoned his collared shirt ever so slightly to let his chest hair be seen by the public eye as he straightened himself up and made his own way out of the booth.

"Sorry for the wait, the bartender is swimming in orders so it might take a minute," you stated, as soon as Joan came in earshot.

"How about we lose the drinks and get out of here, hmm?" She asked, cutting straight to the point. "I can make far better ones back home for a whole lot less," she offered.

"Oh, okay! B-but what about—" you went to point towards the table where your coworkers sat, but Joan was quick to loop her arm around yours and pull you away with a rushed "forget them".

Joan herself was partially surprised with how quick you were to leave with her without any sort of hesitancy. It made a pool of warmth spread throughout her stomach. It was a strange feeling, yet she welcomed it.

Her salt and peppered hair fanned your neck at her closeness when she grabbed both her coat and yours, and helped you wrap it around your body to keep you warm.

Luckily, you got a ride from a cab, and didn't have a car to worry about. Once the two of you walked outside, you were hit with a thousand pellets of rain. It was cold. Freezing cold. And instantly drenched the two of you.

"Christ..." Joan muttered, before grabbing hold of your hand, pulling you from your daze, and walking unbearably fast towards her car.

Joan felt bad for you. Wearing such a small dress with so much skin showing, and now soaking wet. Your hand was cold, so the second she unlocked the car door, she held the passenger door open for you, and nearly shoved you in.

The last thing she needed was you getting sick. That means no work. And when you aren't at work, she doesn't get to see you.

And Joan needed to see you.

The ride back to Joan's place was quiet, yet comfortable. Quiet music played through the speakers, and the air from the vents gave you a nice warmth.

You felt eyes on you every so often. Joan couldn't help but check up on you. No, you weren't drunk, but you definitely had a good buzz. Which easily explained your giddy smile and fascination with the passing lights outside your window.

Joan couldn't help but shake her head with a small smile toying at her lips. You truly were the complete opposite of her.

She led you into her house with great care, but the second she took off your coat, the coldness returned. You were soaking wet, and your arms instinctively wrapped around yourself.

"Come with me," Joan ordered.

And as usual, you did.

You were then met with her bedroom. A very clean bedroom. And it didn't surprise you one bit as you looked around, standing awkwardly in the doorway.

Joan rummaged through some drawers before handing you an oversized sweater and a pair of sweatpants. "It's not much, but they will have to do. Keep you warm. Come downstairs after you've changed", she smiled softly, hands brushing against yours as she handed you her clothes and left you alone.

They were a bit baggy, but Joan was right... They did keep you warm. And when you breathed in, all you could smell was her.

And it was intoxicating.

Making your way back downstairs, Joan was in the kitchen, but your mind was focused on something else.

Her fencing swords. The tall glass cabinet held an enormous amount of swords. Each one is slightly different from the other. It was truly mesmerizing.

It was clear Joan took great pride in her hobbies, and all you could think about was her training with them. The sword, the gloves, the stance. How tight her gear would be on her body.

God, her body. Her curvaceous body. The way the fabric would stretch around her luscious ass when she would go to bend over—

"Each one of these I've used in a competition and won," Joan quietly stated, jumping you out of your dirty minded thoughts.

"Oh!-" You thought it was just the smell of her shirt that invaded your nostrils, but it was her. The close proximity gave you chills. She was close. Dangerously close. So close where you could smell her, feel her breast against your back, while her free hand rested gently against your shoulder.

The same hand that pretended to pick lint from your shoulder, when there wasn't really any. She just needed a reason to touch you.

"T-That's amazing," you gazed at her. "You must be very talented."

"More than you know, darling." She toyed. "Here, drink this. Will help with the intoxication and make you feel good."

"Thank you," you smiled at her, accepting the tall glass of water before taking a long sip.

You closed your eyes at the refreshing taste and let out a small hum of approval, but the words that came out of Joan's mouth next, had your eyes snapping right back open.

"Good girl," she quietly praised, letting her pointer finger draw imaginary circles along your shoulder. She was eyeing you. Watching your every reaction. Ensuring you listened.

"But, I'm not intoxicated... I'm all here," you whispered. "And I don't need water to make me feel good," you said, taking another small sip to hide the immediate blush spreading across your nose and cheeks.

Of course you had an alternative meaning to your words. How could you not be with her? And with the slight buzz that you still had, the alcoholic courage was still coursing through your veins.

But what you hadn't expected, was for Joan to lick her lower lip, and take the glass from your hands. Your eyes watched with much intrigue as she nearly chugged the rest of the water.

It was so out of character for Joan. And yet, this one small action turned you on immensely. It was all new and exciting, watching her do things she normally would never do. But you knew she only was doing it because of you.

"So, what makes you feel good then?" She asked, quirking a brow in response.

"Oh— y'know, uh— the usual stuff," you choked out. At this point, your face was more crimson than Joan had ever seen it, and she bit her lower lip to hold back a smirk.

To get her focus off your face, you quickly took the empty glass from her hand, and scurried towards the kitchen.

Joan was having fun with you now. It was all too easy. You were putty in her hands. Completely at her mercy. And she knew, in this moment, it was time to make her move.

You were right where she wanted you.

As you set the glass carefully in the sink, Joan was right behind you. Right behind you. Arms rested along the counter on either side of you.

"Let me help you," she whispered in your ear.

"W-what?" you completely froze.

"Don't play stupid. As cute as it is, you and I both know what I'm talking about. Now do you want me to or not? I will not be repeating myself."

"Please," you whimpered. You were unable to get anything else out of you.

"Please what?" She asked.

"Please fuck me, Joan..."

Joan let out a long, hot, yet partially shaky breath at your words. She knew it was coming, and yet it still made her shiver in excitement.

You were scared when Joan didn't move. It was unbearable. The long silence was insufferable, and for a moment you thought you had ruined everything.

That was, until a warm set of lips were plastered across the side of your neck. You couldn't help but suck in a breath. You've thought about this moment over and over again, but it actually happening was so much better.

"Go upstairs to my bedroom and wait for me," she mumbled into your soft skin before pulling away.

For a moment, you froze, not believing what was actually about to happen. But, a forceful smack to your ass pulled you out of your daze.

"Go on, I'll only be a minute," Joan reassured.

With shaky legs, you scurried your way back up the stairs and into Joan's bedroom. Your eyes fell on the bed, and fingers instinctively reached down to trace the soft material.

Time felt as if it was moving slow, making it seem like Joan was taking her sweet time. And maybe she was, as another ploy to toy with you and your impatience.

The door creaked open as you sat yourself down, your eyes instantly landing on Joan as she sauntered in. She had a newly filled glass of water in her hand, and her hair was now out of its ponytail, falling freely down her shoulders.

Fuck, what a sight that was.

She intended to give you the water later, needing you to stay hydrated on her. She planned on taking care of you. In more than one way.

After setting the glass on the bedside table, Joan made her way to you, standing intimidatingly tall in front of you. The way your eyes looked up at her. So full of excitement, innocence, and an eagerness to please.

Fingers grasped at your chin, forcing your gaze to stay hooked on her. "Do you want this?" She asked, in a low, raspy voice.

Your mouth fell agape, yet nothing came out.

"I'm not moving until you answer me, love. It's a simple question. Now use that pretty little head of yours and answer me."

"Y-Yes, God, yes. Please. I want it so bad. I want you so bad." Your hand instinctively pulled Joan in closer by the one that was already touching you.

Before you even had a chance to think, Joan was pinning you down against the bed and had her lips all over yours. A whimper escaped your throat when eager hands hooked under your shirt and traced their way up your stomach.

Joan let out a muffled groan when her fingers touched metal. Piercings. More specifically, nipples piercings.

And fuck, did she need to see them.

"Take my clothes off," you stated, reading her mind. "A-And yours. I want to see you, Joan. All of you. Please!"

Hands skillfully ran over bodies, clothes fell to the floor, and skin met skin as you both quickly and skillfully became naked in front of one another.

Joan took a second to break from the kiss, which easily elicited a whine from you from the detachment. "I'm not going far," she chuckled lowly. "I just want to admire you for a minute," she said, as her dark, lustful eyes scanned your naked body beneath her.

You would normally feel insecure in moments like this, but with Joan, it felt different. The way she gazed down at you, with hands roaming your smooth skin until they grasped at your tits.

Your back arched as her thumbs played with your nipples, and her eyes wandered over the jewelry decorating your tits.

"God, you're beautiful."

Joan took her time to trace every inch of your body, wanting to memorize every nook and cranny. Every dip. You were a work of art right in her bare hands.

"So fucking beautiful," she cooed. You shivered as salt and pepper hair tickled your skin as her lips attached themself to your neck. "And now you're all mine."

"Mine to admire." Kiss. "Mine to please." Another kiss. "Mine to cherish." Another kiss, followed by a deep suck to the skin along your collarbone. "Mine to keep," she finished off her sentence while admiring the newly formed mark she made.

"All yours, Joan..." you wiggled beneath her as her head dipped lower.

Her cold tongue swirled along your nipple before pulling the hardened bud between her lips and sucking. Your back arched, pushing your tits further into her mouth.

The other tit was given just as much attention as the first, Joan ensuring each one got the same amount of treatment.

"Such perfect tits. God really took his time with you," she cooed. Joan kissed, nipped, and licked her way further down your body.

She settled herself between your legs, immediately feeling the warmth between them as she sucked another mark into your inner thigh.

Your eyes were watching her like a hawk, enjoying the way her salt and peppered hair fell down her back. How her ass rose in the air as she kissed towards your cunt.

"And a pretty little pussy too," she groaned.

Your fingers pushed away the salt and pepper strands covering Joan's beautiful face. You wanted to watch her intently as her tongue dove into your cunt.

"Fuck..." You let out a shaky breath. Joan first planned on taking her time with you, but the second she tasted you, a ferocious energy took over her.

Her tongue swirled your clit before she sucked with all her strength. Quiet whimpers were quick to fly from your mouth. She was skillful with her ministrations. Knowing when to suck, to flick her tongue, to let out a low groan to add in a vibrational pleasure.

"You taste so good," she stated. "I'm never going to get enough of you."

Joan hiked your leg over her shoulder to push herself deeper into your pussy. Her tongue poked and prodded, swiping your juices all around your cunt as she lapped ferociously at you.

"That feels so good..." you moaned out, fingers clutching at not only her hair, but the sheets beneath you.

Joan can feel her own slick dripping down her thighs as she eats you out. Her own neediness to orgasm growing with each passing second. But, she needed you to come first.

Your thumb and forefinger twist your nipple while your hips jerk involuntarily in Joan's face. Your orgasm is fast approaching as you watch her between your legs.

"Come for me, beautiful," she coaxed. "Let me taste more of you."

The lewd noises between your legs, and Joan's praising words were more than enough to send you spiraling. Your whole body feels weak, but you push through.

"Good fucking girl," she praised. Joan lapped up your juices, savoring each and every drop as your legs shook around her.

After licking you nearly clean, Joan slithered up your body. Full, wet lips smashed roughly against yours, wanting you to taste yourself as her tongue worked its way into your mouth.

The kiss was heated. Wet. And sloppy.

And your hands desperately grasped at Joan's curvaceous hips. They slipped over the full curves to reach around and grab roughly at her thick ass that was far too big for your hands.

Your hands stayed put, even after Joan broke the kiss to allow both of you a moment to get air back in your system.

"You're so fucking beautiful, you know that?" She asked, fully aware that you were too dazed to respond by the glassy, fucked out look in your eyes.

"Fucking perfect," she whispered against your lips as she kissed you once more. This time it was sweeter, and softer than before.

"But don't think I'm done with you just yet, sweet girl. I know you can give me one more."

You whimpered at her words, and watched as she leaned over towards her nightstand, opened the drawer, and pulled out a wand.

Joan watches your facial and body movements intently, awaiting some sort of 'okay' before she continues her actions.

"P-Please," you cried out.

She bit her bottom lip, repositioning herself above you in a purposeful position.

The hum of the vibrator came to life after hearing your words, your eyes eagerly watching as Joan lowered the toy closer towards you.

"Joan—" you let out a shaky breath as she pressed the toy against your hardened nipple. With the piercings, your tits were more sensitive, and Joan quickly came to find that information out when a moan came out of your mouth.

Fuck, this was hot.

She swirled the toy around your nipple, before doing the same to the other. After all, she had to be fair. Joan couldn't keep her eyes off your tits, watching as they beautifully shook with each breath you took, and the way your piercings perfectly adorned them.

Joan's hand fell further, dragging the wand down your sternum towards the spot she couldn't wait to put it against.

Your hips jerked before the toy even came into contact with you. Your nerves and excitement were coursing through your veins.

Joan leaned in slightly, letting her lips hover over your own as she opened her mouth to speak.

"Come with me."

Fuck.

You cried out when Joan pressed the wand firmly against your puffy clit, the sensitivity immediately making you shake. She pushed her own hips forward, and let out her own deep, sinful moan as she joined you with her clit feeling the same vibrations.

You swallowed hard, and Joan sucked in a deep breath before letting out another moan. Her moans were laced with steel, and each one was embedded into your brain in an instant.

"Fuck— I can't—" you whined.

Your hands grasped at the one holding the vibrator to move it, but in one quick movement, Joan used a large hand to pin your wrists above your head.

"Wait for me," she said sternly.

Your body shook as electricity shot through your veins. Tears formed at the corners of your eyes, begging to drop, only to be wiped away by tender kisses from Joan's lips.

"Such a good girl for me," Joan smiled against your lips before giving you a tender peck. "So fucking good." Her hips rutted against the toy, adding more pressure to you, causing a loud, broken moan to escape.

Joan's dark, hungry eyes were devouring you as she watched you slowly break in front of her. Tears freely fell from your eyes. The need to come taking over your entire body.

"Joan, please—" your head shook as your nails dug into her porcelain skin.

"Now. Come— fuck!"

Joan bit your lower lip hard, nearly bruising the tender area. Even though she was right there, Joan waited for you to orgasm first.

You sobbed out her name, the coil finally snapping in your body, and allowing pleasure to rip through you completely. Joan watched you with satisfaction, before allowing herself to succumb to the pleasure.

"That's my girl..."

It was slick, wet, and came gushing out of her before she even had a coherent thought. She coated your pussy, thighs, and drenched the sheets beneath you as she came. Hard.

She tensed above you, toes curled, and moans mixed with yours in a sinful, harmonic symphony.

"Fucking christ..."

Joan leaned her forehead against yours, waiting until you let out an involuntary whine at the overstimulation before she turned the wand off and tossed it carelessly to the side.

You couldn't think, or even move for that matter. Just watched, as Joan breathed heavily above you, gently using her one clean hand to cup your face.

You were twitching beneath her, the aftershocks of your orgasm still prominent. You were a mess beneath her, and boy was that a sight for her to see.

She smirked at the sight. She was proud of herself.

When her own legs stopped shaking, Joan reached towards the nightstand again, but this time grabbed the glass of water. She brought the iced glass to your lips, allowing you to drink the refreshment.

She urged you to hold the glass yourself so she could move. You went to whine in protest, but the stern look on her face shut you right up. She was only gone momentarily to return with a warm, wet washcloth to clean you up.

You watched as she was careful and gentle, knowing you were now very sensitive.

No words were spoken, yet so much was said as she wiped you clean and took complete care of you first without a second thought.

You were falling.

Falling for Joan Ferguson.

general masterlist | pamela masterlist | taglist

[cryptidcr3ature]

OH YOU ALL WANT MORE PAIN?!?! Isaac Morgan head cannons. (my au where Eliza died but Isaac lived)

I think he was about 4 or 5 when Eliza died. Arthur came to visit about a month later and found out what happened.

When Isaac first started living with his dad he felt like it was an adventure, but the longer he stayed he missed his mom and the “normal” life he used to live.

Arthur tried his best to give him the best chance of having a good life, stealing books from the local school.

Hosea took him on his first hunting trip and Isaac cried when he killed his first deer.

I think Isaac learned what his dad really did at about 10 or so. He felt a mix of emotions, but he didn’t really think his dad was a bad person.

When he was 13, Isaac and Arthur got into an argument about something stupid. Isaac, overcome with emotion, told his dad “I wish you died instead of mom.” It was silent for a bit before Arthur said, “Me too.”

When he was 14ish he started going on missions, much to Arthur’s dismay. He didn’t do much on them but he was just glad to be able to be like his dad.

[aknosde]

aurum

Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard // Post-Canon // Long Distance Relationship // Off Season // Foreplay // Piercings // Lake Michigan // 1.4k

ao3

—————

Neil’s waiting for him outside the bar on Friday night. 

Duffle bag thrown over one shoulder, leaning against a graffitied parking meter, chewing a piece of gum. He looks straight out of one of those doctors office magazines—Sports Illustrated, Men’s Health, GQ. They’re across the sidewalk from each other, the Snakes’ starting lineup milling about drunkenly in wait of cabs and sorting into groups for the L, partially obscuring him from view. He holds eye contact with Andrew through the crowd for three, four, five seconds, before he snaps a bubble of gum. 

“Well hey, Josten,” Alvarez says, already looking at him. A couple tipsy heads turn. 

They dap each other up—grasp, pull, half-hug, release—and Andrew inspects the lines of Neil’s body in the dark. Black bandana, stained New Balances, a worn-thin US Court bomber jacket dated 1985. The glint of jewelry. Not his watch, his chain. An earring. 

“Vintage,” Cat says appreciatively, briefly thumbing at his lapel. Neil’s always been oddly receptive to Catalina, the two of them exhibiting a chemistry on the court that seems to spill over at the edges. He hums, pleased. More teammates are making their way over. She turns to Andrew. “You didn’t tell me your guest was arriving tonight.”

Pretenses and such. 

Andrew extends his hand for the same familiar motions—callused palm against callused palm, short nails briefly biting into the sensitive skin of his fingers, the warm muscled slope of Neil’s shoulders under his hand, counting the seconds. The only direct flight from Albuquerque to Chicago is just over three hours, which doesn’t include the drive to ABQ from Santa Fe, nor Neil’s paranoid travel tendencies, and it arrives at ten in the morning. Andrew set a traffic alert for tomorrow before he ordered his first drink. And yet. 

They release late and not at all. Neil doesn’t let go of his hand, stays too close, makes Andrew look up at him. Gold hoop, left earlobe, perfect.

“Hi,” Neil says. 

So he’s not going to bring it up. Well, as they say, two can play at that game. Andrew shifts his weight away, allows Lewis to interrupt them—the back of his hand to Neil’s shoulder, a fist bump, posture that makes him look like he’s hanging off a hook. Friendly, assuredly drunk. The Snakes’ second best backliner now that they’ve got Cat. 

“What’re you doing in town?” he asks. 

Andrew and Neil haven’t broken each others’ gaze, not that anyone but Cat will notice, and he watches Neil settle into Lewis’ dialect, thick and local. 

“Well,” Neil says, eyes loch-deep on Andrew, tongue shining wet pink in the street light, settling on a vaguely midwestern accent, “I’m trying to swim the country’s hundred largest lakes.”

They take the bus to Andrew’s apartment. 

It’s a quiet ride, twenty minutes and a transfer. The city is spring-cool at night, and Metra’s already turned on the AC for the season. Neil’s torso is a line of heat against Andrew’s own, duffle bag spilling over his lap, fingers on the strap and circumstantially Andrew’s thigh. His clever eyes track the transit map posted across from them, and he stands at La Salle without a word, hops to the sidewalk, offers his hand. 

“Chivalrous,” Andrew says. He takes it. 

They walk six blocks to a North-South line and loiter in the shadow of the museum. Its lights are on, the building dormant, and Neil is cast aurate against the stone. A dark curl has escaped his bandana, tracing a parabola to his eyebrow. It flutters as he tilts his face to the coming breeze. His earring gleams.

Andrew puts his leather jacket back on and turns to the street, counts three minutes of gum chewing and snapping. 

“Staring.”

Neil comes around, closer, but doesn’t dispute. 

“What did you think the extra twelve hours were for?”

The bus pulls up, slightly less crowded, slightly more drunk. Andrew scans his pass and feels the weight of Neil’s presence at his back, ducking the fare. The driver says nothing. 

“I’ve got a meeting in the morning,” Andrew responds later, in the elevator. It’s his last of post-season, scheduled at the ass crack of dawn because he wanted his hands washed of exy by the time he was to tackle Midway. “You’ll have to find another way to amuse yourself.”

“Don’t worry,” Neil says. “I already had something in mind. Unless you wanted to join me.”

The elevator stops and Neil strides out, beating Andrew to his apartment door and unlocking it with his keys.

“And what would that be?” Andrew asks. 

Neil kicks his shoes off, one hand on the door frame, before letting Andrew in. 

“I told Lewis. I’ve been meaning to go for a swim.”

He takes his duffle bag and starts down the hall. 

“The beaches don’t officially open until the Friday before Memorial Day,” Andrew remembers, half an hour later, when he’s lying on Neil’s side of the bed and reading the chapter of Midnight’s Children that he started that morning. The shower was on for barely five minutes, but steam wafts from the half-open ensuite door, and he sees Neil’s foggy reflection bouncing off the mirror. 

“Is that a ‘yes, I do want to come’?” Neil asks. 

They both know the legality is irrelevant, even if CPD did care about a lone few swimmers along the shore. 

The tap turns on, off. Neil leans out the bathroom door, toothpaste suds around his mouth, hair dark and wet around his crown, left ear flashing gold in the lamplight. 

“There’s supposedly unexploded ordnance to the north, you know,” he says, consonants pressing in on one another. “If you wanted to make it fun.”  

“Are there explosives in all the lakes you swim, or is Michigan special?”

The sink turns on again. Neil spits, gargles, exits the ensuite and crosses the room with a grin so clever it's almost sickening. He’s wearing black boxers and a light grey athletic t-shirt that for once fits him too well, pale against the dark of his skin. The one thing New Mexico is good for is keeping him in a deep brown. Aurate indeed. 

“Michigan is special,” Neil says, pausing to press his thumb into the vulnerability of Andrew’s palm, “because it’s the third largest lake in the United States.”

When he makes eye contact with Andrew it burns, molten ice. 

“That’s twenty-two thousand, three-hundred square miles in surface area.”

He swings one leg onto the bed, shin slotting perfectly along the outside of Andrew’s thigh. There’s the brief brush of a socked foot over the crest of his knee, the shift of the mattress. Andrew raises his arm on instinct, fingers playing at the air next to Neil’s waist, stalling in the face of his self-assured smile.  

“It’s the second largest by volume,” Neil continues, voice becoming lower, slower, “coming in at one-thousand, one-hundred and eighty cubic miles.”

They're close to the edge of the bed, but Neil’s second leg finds purchase on the mattress regardless. Andrew runs newly-branded palm over the warm expanse of Neil’s calf, and Neil’s smile becomes infinitesimally sharper. A canine licks at his lip. Looking up at him Andrew feels the sorts of emotions between them that come from deep below: confidence, pride, resolve, admiration.

“It’s home to the world’s largest freshwater sand dunes”—one of Neil’s hands comes forward to find the headboard, and he uses it to pull himself closer, closer, closer, the other lifting off Andrew’s reading glasses and setting them on the nightstand—“along the eastern shore.

“And,” Neil says, sitting back, making no acknowledgement of Andrew half-hard beneath him, nor his own partial, “it’s home to an estimated two-thousand shipwrecks, earning itself the moniker ‘shipwreck graveyard.’”

He rolls his hips once, a wicked conclusion, and Andrew aches. 

“S’that so?” Andrew says, pressing his voice into something that sounds less out of breath.

“It is.”

Andrew raises his hand where it’s come to grip Neil’s ankle and pushes back the hair next to his ear. The gold is warm, thick, hugging his lobe, and Andrew wants to feel it between his teeth. 

“I like the earring.”

It’s almost a preen. Neil tilts his head, shifts his weight further into Andrew’s in a way that makes his spine arch. Both canines. 

“Thank you.”

[nudibranch-ranch]

Divorced Dilf x Cafe Owner Male! Reader

This idea has been stewing for months, but premise is that reader is a 30s-40s owner of a cafe that helps a struggling very much single dilf that had a rough couple of years become himself again and grow to be the best version of that. It's the rough stages atm, but yeah!

⩾He had a good life for as many years beyond what he had thought was possible. Married the love of his life, moved in with her, adopted a couple pet and raised to fine young adults(both in college and left the nest) ⩾With the kids gone, he had hoped that he and his wife could spend more time with one another, but whoever deity existed smite the idea with the realization and confession that his wife. His dearest beloved spouse had been cheating on him for years. Oh it shattered his world as he was frozen as she served him the divorce paper citing that the man she had been seeing was someone she envision her life with. ⩾There was no anger, just immense sadness and crushing feeling all coming into one changing his world overnight with no remorse or time for him to grieve as soon after he had been out of work due to a physical injury. ⩾His kept the house in the split, but without kids and a wife it was... well quiet and not the kind he liked. Sure he had family and friends visit with his kids coming by on holidays, but while he was recovering it was empty. So much so that he shifted from someone almost always jovial to a recluse that shied away from people. ⩾His older sister and her wife had taken charge to just keep him company when they could and for their efforts it bring him joy and eased the weight of everything just enough though he stayed closed off.

⩾One day, he had been forced to got to a event at a local cafe a new one he knew about, but never stopped by as it was not in his interest to do so. Dragged out there dressed up more than he has in months with his long hair shiny catching light of the few gray hairs as he sighed entering with his sister and her wife who were much more excited about this than he was. ⩾He had been buried trying to even figure out half the shit on the menu and what it might even taste like until a voice break his train of thought... more like a laugh one that gave him shivers in ways he had not experienced in so long. Turning he saw your face smiling at the current person you're helping and laughing at their god awful jokes. He just stared in awe. ⩾Since the split he hasn't even thought about love and here he was feeling the same butterflies as he did when he first met his wife. He was so lost in the moment as you spoke not even realizing it was their turn to order with his sister giving a knowing glance as if she did the best deed ever. ⩾Actually speaking to you was a struggle as he stuttered, he was a grown man for fucks sake, why stutter now. And yet you found it endearing chalking it up to nerves being in new place rather than him seeing the single most gorgeous man standing in front of him. He had dated a couple guys though none of them had lasted long so this kind of attraction wasn't new to him even if it had been a decade or two. ⩾By the grace of something good, you ended up being someone he saw with visits to the cafe on his though in the beginning it was hard for him to even muster up the courage and now months later you developed a sort of friendship. Learning you opened the shop on your own and had b

[glowinthedarkjellyfish]

Gymnast!daughter head cannons!!

Gymnast!daughter who likes to spend time with Dick just swinging around in the gym, they’ll boy enjoy just practicing tricks together, hey they even got Bruce to but a trapeze frame for the garden.

Now, Bruce hates it when they do the trapeze. Okay Dick is an incredibly skilled vigilante and former acrobat and his daughter is one of the best gymnasts in the world, he gets nervous, even when there is a net under the trapeze bars.

But Bruce loves his kids so he still bought a trapeze set for Dick and Gymnast!daughter because whatever makes them both happy he’ll make sure they get it.

Gymnast!Daughter who actually did ballet and ballroom dancing before starting gymnastics.

Her mum saw an advertisement where kids could get 2 different dance classes for the price of one if they took the class for 5 months. Gymnast!daughter loved her first classes so much when she was 3 that she continued dancing untill she was 14.

She started gymnastics when she was 8 and would often incorporate some of her dance skills into her floor routines.

Gymast!daughter who’s tall for a gymast. Kind of tall in general since she’s 5’9 but for a gymnast, that’s basically unheard of.

Gymnast!daughter who, because of her height sets new standards for gymnastics, totally destroying the stigma that you need to be small to be good at gymnastics.

Gymnast!daughter who, when she was 15 and working as an intern for Wayne Enterprises was mugged!! In broad daylight as well. Luckily for her Red Hood was near.

Gymnast!daughter who got home and immediately started looking up new articles about the Red Hood.

Gymnast!daughter still hadn’t been adopted by Bruce at this point, that was a couple months later so she didn’t know about their alter egos.

Red Hood became her favorite, vigilante mainly because he saved her but also because he recognised her from a local gymnastics competition and said she reminded him of his brother and that she had real talent.

How can he not become her favorite crime fighting gothamite after that?!!

So Gymnast!daughter buys some Red Hood merch, just a plush and a hoodie okay maybe like 5 hoodies and even some rubbers in the shape of his helmet, she may also dedicated her next floor routine to him by having a leotard the same red as his helmet and the routine being a bit action-y.

The music she used for her floor was a mashup of songs that she had arranged and dubbed the red hood. So yeah she might’ve been a bit of a fan, I mean je did save her life so…..

But imagine Bruce Alfred and Dick’s surprise when they learn she’s a major fan of Red Hood.

I mean, Jason has only recently gotten back and relationships are a bit tense, he’ll swing by the manor now and again for food but, tense.

So yeah Dick who gets a younger sister finds out she’s a huge fan of his brother, he can’t say that nooooo she doesn’t know their identities yet.

So he waits. He puts up with her fangirling over Red Hood but when she tells Dick of how Red Hood told her he had seen one of her gymnastics competitions and she reminded him of his brother Dick decided he could put up with you being Jason’s no1 fan à little longer.

Still Dick always reminds you your room would look better with Nightwing merch instead, saying he’s way cooler than Red Hood.

Gymnast!daughter who laughs a bit at that and tells him she might wear Nightwing blue for her next out of state competition, show some pride and love for the people that try and make Gotham safer.

He finds that quite alright.

So this is the first kind of added on Drabble for the gymnast!daughter series.

I’ll do more little drabbles like this and I know I said this was head cannons but I forgor halfway through writing sk yeah. More like relarionship previews of how stuff was when gymnast daughter first met dick and jason.

Next part should be tomorrow and will show more of tim and Damian then I’ll do steph babs and cassie and duke.

Leaving best till last bruce then Alfred o’Immortal one.

After that probably some short stories to add onto gymnast!daughters life and create more of a character background for her.

Lmk what you all think 🫶🩷

[sableicous]

ෆ

shawn micheals ! brat taming

minors don’t interact

three feminine moans fill the arena of a local house show those hazel eyes rolled into your skull as shawn presses your pretty face against the oak door to his dressing room.

a display of pyro and the screams from a couple thousand fans has your core soaked. shawn having all the time in the world as his entrance music plays oblivious to the consequences of missing his match.

“fuck.” the curse falls from your pouted lips tongue coated red from the cherry lollipop you sucked on earlier. his hands careless and squeezing your throat, his arm further securing you against the wall and his dick.

“do you think I’m fucking stupid?” he finds the flesh of your ass digits discarding the thong that shielded your creamy pussy. he strums your swollen clit scoffing at the fluids that coat his fingers.

“are you that needy? trying to fuck my best friend?” you think back to hunter the smirk gracing his handsome features. his eyes following the lollipop between your plump brown lips as you teasingly sucked it.

you were so bold forgetting all about your boyfriend as you conversed with his best friend turned rival. bending over to marvel at the championship belt around his waist, the denim skirt flipped slightly and balancing in your pink heels.

what a big mistake.

“you told me to find something to do so I did.” somehow you managed to still talk shit. a well deserved tsk from the man as he shoves the ruined fabric of your thong in your mouth.

your screams muffled as the mushroom tip of his dick slams inside of your walls. “wai-it!” you cry out against the makeshift gag. shawn not letting up as his relentlessly pounds into that gummy spot.

“got everyone laughing at me..thinking I’m dating some fucking whore? hmm is that what you are?” shawn slows his movements the vice grip of your cunt milking him as you’re so close.

“I’m not aaa wh-ore” you breathe out desperately throwing your ass back on his cock for some friction, the ditzy feeling tightening your chubby stomach.

“fucking brat distracting me from my match. I should cum in this pussy… give you what you want.” his words slur in your ears absentmindedly arching your back as he fucks you harder against the oak.

the shuffling of talent and staff members outside of his dressing room has you gnawing your lip. a whimpering moan spilling out as everyone scrambles to find the “heart break kid.”

“you’re mine princess. never fucking forget it.” he pounds into your dripping pussy with every syllable. squirting without his permission as your perfect body goes limp against the door.

a cautious knock at his door has him entering your sopping cunt again grinning as your voice greets who’s on the other side, and trust when I say he never makes it to his match.