#except for all the old rich men fuck them

[astroboots]

Punch-Out Love

Artwork by @guruan

FIGHT NIGHT

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: You're lucky enough to score ring-side seats at a boxing match on Friday night. Getting the best view in the house of boxing champion: Miguel O'Hara.

Word count: 1,500

Next Chapter

Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist 

You know fuck all about boxing.

About the only thing you know about the sport was from the glimpses you caught watching scratched up old recordings of Muhammed Ali fights on the boxy mini-tv of your old childhood friend's house.

It always seemed barbaric. The practice of watching two human beings beat the shit out of each other for spectator's entertainment. It seems like something that was better left in the Ancient Roman times. Have we all human beings as a society, really not come further some 2,000 years later?

Your bestie used to get mad at you for this. Constantly defending the sport from your criticism, because (according to him) it's not just about smashing each other's faces in. Supposedly, there's an art to the sport. Boxers are taught to respect their opponents and adhere to the principles of good sportsmanship. It takes great mental discipline, dedicated work and years of hard and punishing training to master boxing.

You never saw any of that in the matches he showed you. All you saw were two men needlessly being hurt, sustaining brain damage for rich people's enjoyment.

Then again, he was more than a little bit biased, considering it was his dream to go pro one day. Tall and gangly, with his scrawny antelope legs, thick-rimmed glasses and big-ass braces, he looked like he couldn't punch his way out of a paper bag, much less another person. You never understood how exactly he thought he was going to make it as a boxer.

But you never found it in you to burst his unrealistic bubble when he used to point at the screen excitedly, drawing your attention to Ali's footwork and the artistry in it. 

"It's like he's dancing," he used to say.

Except dancing is done with swelling music in the background. In dancing you often have a partner. It's an embrace. It's gentle and kind.

Boxing... was not that.

So you don't know how you managed to find yourself in the ringside seats of a local boxing match on a Friday evening, staring up at the boxing ring with the glaring ring lights shining into your eyes.

"Aren't these seats amazing?" Jess shouts excitedly over the familiar lyrics of ‘We Will Rock You' being belted out by Freddy Mercury on the loudspeaker.

You smile, and nod, because boxing-fan or not, she's right, these are some amazing seats. And considering you didn't have to pay a dime for them, personal aversions aside, you're never going to turn down free stuff.

Jess' husband tested positive for covid at the last minute, and you're the only one in your social circle that is anti-social and single enough to not have any plans on a Friday evening.

On the monitors above you, the menacing headshots of the two fighters swish into view.

"The first guy is an old reigning champ," she explains to you, as she leans in, shouting into your eardrums (and yet you can still barely make out what she's saying over the music). "The challenger is some new kid on the block. Has an amazing track record. Zero losses in the season. He's something else."

You look up at the gigantic screen, at the sharp cut cheeks, strong thick brows and the intense pitched brown eyes staring down at you.

Angry looking dude.

...Handsome too.

With a face like that, surely he could've gone into other careers. Calvin Klein model, movie star, or a news anchor. You wonder what makes a guy voluntarily have his face bashed in for money as a career.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a loud booming voice announces from the stage.

You jump in your seat from the suddenness, as you see a bald and overly formal dressed announcer in the middle of the ring. 

"Welcome to the electrifying boxing showdown of the century! Are you ready to witness some knockout action tonight?"

The crowd around you cheers with a pandemonium of shouting and whistling.

"Introducing our first fighter, a true hometown hero! With an impressive record of 20 wins, 15 by knockout, and only 2 losses, standing at 6'3 feet, and weighing in at 340 pounds of determination and strength, give it up for ‘the Knockout King’ Bobby Kane!"

You watch as the reigning champion walks down the tunnel to the midst of adoring cheers as he waves and gestures at the crowd like royalty.

Every inch the king that he is nicknamed, he jumps over the rope and stands tall and proud over the ring.

The man is huge, bulging with almost grotesque muscles. He's so large that you almost expect each of his steps to send a reverberation throughout the hall, as if this was Jurassic Park and he's a T-Rex.

"Now, entering the ring with the confidence of a warrior, fighting out of the red corner, with 15 wins, 10 by knockout, and no losses, standing at an astounding 6 feet 9 inches, and weighing in at 310 pounds of raw power, let's hear it for tonight's challenger, ‘Steel Jaw’ Miguel O'Hara!"

Wait what? You do a double take at the announcement. Six foot nine?!?! What kind of giant is that?

From the far corner of the hall, you see his silhouette emerge, and your eyes go wide at the sight of him. Tall doesn't even begin to describe him. 

There's a 200 year oak tree at Central Park, and with the shadow this man casts, you think their height must be nearly comparable. If you thought the Knockout King was tall, the "King" is practically tiny compared to this challenger.

You watch, as the man with cheeks so sharp they mind as well be blades (and god never has a nickname made more sense to you) as he strides towards the stage. He reaches the rope and barely even has to climb over it with how tall he is.

He's leaner than his predecessor. Every inch of him is cut muscles and tanned gorgeous skin as he stands in front of you. His presence is electric. The air crackles where he stands, towering over the stage.

You swear that his towering height blocks out the ring lights with it, casting the stage in the darkness of his tall shadow.

Somehow, he's even prettier in person compared to the still image of him blown up and plastered on the big screen. Soft brown curls and pouty lips. You don't understand in what world a man like that is a professional fighter.

From this distance, with the way that the light refracts from his irises, his eyes almost glow with a scarlet red that takes your breath away as you look up at him and meet his eyes.

If you didn't know better, you'd think he was staring at you.

The bell rings out, but he's not looking away. The intensity you find there is enough to make you swallow your tongue. Your face prickles with heat and for several long moments you forget to breathe, until the air seems to thin around you and your vision starts to swim.

Then he turns to face his opponent.

You're not quite sure where to look. There's so much happening at once. For his size, Miguel O'Hara is surprisingly deft on his feet. His footwork is somehow both unpredictable yet intentional all at once.

The King throws a strong punch, as he lunges forward, after his tall opponent. But O'Hara dodges them seemingly without effort. It's followed by punches so quick, the movements blur together.

Strike after strike. The King is giving it his all. But none of it properly connects. With every failed hit, you can see him growing increasingly more frustrated.

Your heart is in your lungs, and despite how close you are to the stage, you almost want to get up from your seat for a closer look.

Safe as you are behind the ropes, adrenaline rushes through your veins with a fury. You can't recall the last time you felt this ecstatic about... well, anything.

With each punch O’Hara dodges, you feel yourself lurch back in your seat, trying to dodge the punch with him.

It's titillating.

Exciting.

O'Hara's movements are precise and honed with intention despite the ferocity in his movements. Each one is measured and intricate and if you didn't know any better you'd almost call it graceful.

You think back to those moments in your childhood friend's home, and his excited words buzz in your ears now. For the first time ever you finally understand what he had meant.

It is like a dance.

Before you, O’Hara's eyes cross over in your direction and for a split of a second, you swear your eyes connect again. His gaze holds you there, pinned to your seat, and excitement shoots through the entirety of your spine until you feel lightheaded from the attention.

Then he finally steps forward, no longer evading.

It's brutal and efficient.

An uppercut that connects cleanly to his opponent's jaw.

Spit and blood flies out from the man's mouth, the flabby flesh of his cheek vibrating from the impact as he lands on the floor with an ear-shattering thud.

Then the guy is out.

Barely even eight minutes in. 

There's a stunned and shocked silence. The crowd seems both enthralled and disappointed at how fast it all went. On the ring floor, you can practically see the circle of cartoon birds flying above the defeated King's head.

You may not know anything about boxing, but you know that this man is not getting up anytime soon, no matter how far the referee counts.

Tearing your eyes away from the motionless body splayed out on the ground elevated above you, you can see the victor towering menacingly over the body.

But Miguel O'Hara isn't even looking at his defeated opponent

No, his eyes are staring straight into the sea of awestruck spectators. Except he’s not looking at them.

He's looking at you.

~ Next.

Author's note: What's that you say? CiCi wtf are you doing starting another series when you already got one going on? ... Idek man. But I hope you guys enjoy it, cause I had a blast writing it, smut will ensue in later chapters I promise!

Dedications and Credits: Buckle up it's gonna be a big one!

Firstly to @guruan when I say she's my muse THIS IS WHAT I MEAN! Look at that beautiful artwork. I am drooling into my panties. I am crying between my legs. I am so damn horny! I cannot thank this amazingly talented genius enough. Please please give this wonderful brilliant human your love by following her, and drop by her KO-FI SHOP cause the art this woman bless us with is UN-fucking-REAL

Then to @djarinsbeskar who put this idea into my head. In my mind she is the OG Boxer AU champion and mastermind. If you are in the mood for more boxing content, she has a wonderful, devastatingly sexy series Boxer!Din AU that is just woof woof bark bark.

#miguel o'hara fic #miguel o'hara fanfic #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x you #oscar isaac #miguel o'hara fanfiction #miguel o'hara #across the spiderverse fanfiction #spiderverse #spiderverse fanfiction #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x you

[slut4thebroken]

Name Your Price

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Pairing | Robert Fischer x escort!reader

Summary | He has too much money for his own good lol.

Warnings | Smut, 18+, sexual content, sex work, face fucking, deep throating, doggy, light spanking lol, humiliation, lots a degradation, a sprinkle of praise, our man is needy and whiny.

Words | 3.4 k

Notes | Imagine that gif is him looking at you on your knees heheh

Ao3 link | <3

Masterlist

Your usual clientele are definitely in a higher tax bracket than most people, but you’ve never been with someone as rich as Robert Fischer. The second he had you literally sign an NDA you looked him up, seeing that he was next in line to take over his father’s business. That’s when it all started to make sense. Usually men pay to take you out, show you off, and then more often than not, fuck you. But Robert made it clear from the start that he wasn’t interested in those services you offer. He just wanted to fuck you, and he wanted to do it discreetly. 

He bought a hotel room for the night and paid for your ride here, as well as the clothes he requested you wear. What would’ve normally pissed you off if he were paying the usual price would’ve been how nit picky he was. He told you exactly how to do your hair and make up, where to shave and where not to shave, even down to you fucking perfume— it just had to be something sweet like vanilla. You were glad that all of the details were discussed over the phone because you would’ve rolled your eyes and laughed in his face at all of his demands.

He also told you exactly how to act— submissive, obedient, subservient. You’re not normally that kind of submissive, but, again, you agreed simply because of the money. 

Staring at the clock on the nightstand, your foot bounced incessantly as you waited for him. You’ve never been this nervous for a client. He’s paying you so much money… what if you fuck something up? It was almost ironic that your overthinking was putting you into the headspace he requested. 

At 8:59, you moved down to the floor and waited on your knees with your head down, like he requested. Your heart pounded in your chest from the anticipation and it took everything you had to keep your head down when you heard the door open. 

Even though you’re used to fucking ugly, old men, you prayed Robert would be an exception, but you knew that being hot on top of how much he was paying you would be too good to be true. He sounded decently young on the phone, but you still had no indication on whether or not he’s actually attractive. You heard him walking somewhere in the room, then glass clinking, then a drink being poured. 

“Less than a minute in and you’ve already disobeyed me.” He said calmly, making your heart drop. How?? You haven’t even done anything yet! He answered your silent question for you. “Hands behind your back.” You immediately complied, feeling a little dumb for forgetting something so simple. “You’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood tonight since I’m assuming you’d prefer to leave here with the agreed upon amount?” You weren’t sure if his question was rhetorical or not. He let out a soft sigh and you heard his footsteps before he landed in front of you. 

“Answer me.” 

“Yes, sir. I do prefer that..” When you saw his hand moving forward you almost moaned at the sight of just his fingers. But your chance to admire them went far too quickly when he placed a single digit under your chin and tilted your head up. Your eyes widened and your breath caught in your throat when you saw his face. You figured there was a small chance he might be attractive, but you didn’t actually think he’d be down right gorgeous. You bit your lip as your gaze trailed all over his face, taking in every inch. 

“Did you do everything I instructed?” He released your chin and took a sip of his drink, still staring down at you. 

“Yes, sir.” It felt like you were still in shock, just from seeing his face. 

“Good. The dress looks nice.” You couldn’t help but blush at the compliment. 

“Thank you.” 

“Stand up.” You did as he said, then waited for the next instruction. “Give me a spin. I want to see if it was money well spent.” You blushed, but turned around for him. “Slower.” He suddenly said, making you freeze, then continue at a slower pace. He hummed in appreciation and you could practically feel his eyes running over every inch of you. When you were facing him again, you waited, watching as he downed the rest of his drink then walked over to the table to set it down. You didn’t move, not sure if you were allowed to or not, and he sat down in the arm chair, then cleared his throat. 

“Show me the underwear.” You slowly lifted the dress until it was resting around your waist, exposing the lacy panties. “Come here.” You walked over and stood in front of him, trying to keep your breathing steady when he gently placed his hands on your thighs and snaked them up to your hips. He used his grip to turn you around, then moved one hand to grope your ass. You let out a surprised moan at the sudden spank and he hummed in approval again. 

“Very good.” You had to swallow down a whine when his hands abruptly left your body. “Face me and get on your knees.” His eyes moved up and down your body, taking you in again as you did what he said. “Remove my shoes.” You reached toward his feet, but he stopped you. “Carefully. Just one of those is worth double what I’m paying you.” You nodded and gently untied the laces of his dress shoes before slipping them off his feet and placing them neatly on the ground beside the chair. 

“Should I fuck your mouth? Or should I just get right to fucking your cunt.” You were mostly sure he was talking to himself and not actually asking you. He has you for two hours, so he has time for both. He seemed to finally come to a decision and he leaned back in the chair, staring down at you. “Be a good girl and show me how that lipstick looks on my cock.” He suddenly said, making arousal pool in your stomach. 

“Yes, sir.” You squeezed your thighs together to relieve a little bit of the ache as you worked on opening his pants. Once his belt was unbuckled and his pants were unzipped, you pulled them and his underwear down just enough to free his length since he didn’t lift up to let you take them fully off. You stroked him slowly, marveling at how big he felt in your hand, even just half hard. 

“Did I tell you to give me a hand job?” He asked impatiently. 

“N-no, sorry…” You swallowed thickly and leaned closer to start mouthing at the tip. Your hand remained unmoving on the base just to keep it steady. He let out a pleased sigh as you suckled on the head of his cock, being sure to lick up any precum. 

“Go on, whore. Let’s see if you’re worth what I’m paying.” You blushed as the crude name and squeezed your thighs together even tighter. Not wanting to make him get even more impatient, you started bobbing up and down his cock, keeping your tongue flat against the underside as you hallowed your cheeks. You moved your hand down to cup his balls as you took him a little deeper. When he let out a heavy breath and gently grabbed your hair, you looked up at him. You continued the same pace, sometimes flicking your tongue over the tip when you went up. After a while though, he huffed and tightened his grip on your hair.  

“Are you one of those whores who can’t deepthroat? Because I don’t think I should be paying full price for a shitty blowjob.” You immediately took the hint and went down until he reached the back of your mouth. After taking a deep breath, you pushed the rest of the way, breaching your throat barrier. You focused mostly on stimulating his balls as you stayed buried on his cock for as long as you could take it. Only a few seconds later, you were pulling off, gasping in breaths and trying to calm down to do it all again. You took him in your mouth again, not stopping until he was buried in your throat. 

“You can do better than that, whore.” He started moving you up and down his cock, forcing it down your throat with each bob of your head. It wasn’t long before you were choking and sputtering as tears filled your eyes. When he pulled you off, you coughed, but didn’t have a chance to collect yourself before he was pushing your face against his balls. You whimpered at the degrading act, trying to ignore the feeling of his spit soaked cock resting on your face. 

When he tightened his grip on your hair and pushed you into him harder, you started mouthing at his balls. You licked and sucked, pushing down the embarrassment to focus on making him feel good. This isn’t the first time you’ve had to do this, but it is the first time you weren’t completely disgusted by it. Robert kept himself well groomed and you found yourself getting even needier despite how dirty and used you felt. 

Once he’d had enough, he pulled you back and forced you down on his cock again, all but impaling your throat with how fast and hard he did it. You gagged instantly, but he ignored it and started using your mouth the same way he would a fleshlight. On a particularly harsh thrust, you let out a strangled whimper and the tears in your eyes began to fall. 

“Stop fucking whining.” He spat. It almost seemed like he started going faster simply because of how much you were struggling to take it. Your hands grabbed his thighs, digging your fingers into the covered skin, and he used his free hand to slap your cheek. “Hands behind your back.” He scolded and you hesitated, but eventually obeyed. The next time he forced you all the way down, he held you there, keeping a firm grip on your hair to prevent you from moving. 

“Stick your tongue out.” You did your best to do what he said. “Good girl. Lick my balls.” You let out a strangled sob at the utterly vulgar and degrading order. Regardless, you stuck your tongue out farther and did your best to lick them. “Look at me.” Your teary eyes fluttered up to meet his gaze and he let out a breathy groan at the sight. “No waterproof mascara, just like I said.” He said almost proudly as he used his free hand to cup your cheek and brush his thumb over what you assumed were mascara tracks. 

When you started gagging and sputtering and trying to pull off, he let go of your hair, letting you move back. You coughed lightly and cleared your throat, doing your best to collect yourself somewhat quickly. 

“On the bed. Face down, ass up.”

“Yes, sir.” Your voice was already hoarse. You stood up on shaky legs, feeling unstable in your too high heels, and walked over to the bed to kneel on it. He remained sitting on the chair, watching you closely. When you leaned down to rest your head and chest on the bed, a light blush tinted your cheeks. 

“Arch your back.” You could faintly hear wet noises and the knowledge that he was jerking off just to the sight of you almost had you moaning and squirming. You arched your back, but he still wasn’t satisfied. “More. Spread your legs apart.” You shuffled your knees out and bent your back even more, starting to feel the strain and discomfort. When he didn’t respond, you assumed he was happy with the position. 

“Do you always get this wet when you're working?” His tone was far too innocent for the vulgar question he asked. Your blush darkened even more once you realized that your arousal was already soaking the fabric of your underwear. 

“No, sir..”

“Speak up.” He snapped. 

“No, sir.” You said again, a little louder this time. 

“Is it the money that turns you on?” His voice was closer now, like he was standing at the foot of the bed. 

“No.” Even though the money definitely helped, it was primarily because of him. 

“Really? Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Why don’t you tell me what it is that’s getting you all worked up then.” With the way that he spoke, you could tell he already knew and just wanted to tease you about it. 

“You, sir.” 

“Me? What about me?” You hated the way that he was playing dumb like this, but you mostly hated the fact that it turned you on. 

“Y-your cock… And the things you do and say to me.” This was almost more humiliating than sucking on his balls with his cock laying heavy on your face. You felt the bed dip as he presumably kneeled behind you. 

“You want my cock?” 

“Please, sir.” You tried not to whine when you spoke. 

“I’m not entirely convinced you really want it.” You couldn't swallow down the whine this time. 

“Please, sir. I want your cock.” You begged, unconsciously pushing your hips back. “Please fuck me,” You jumped when you felt his hands on your ass, then moaned loudly when he ripped a hole in the crotch of your underwear. “Please— I need you to fuck me, sir.” You whined. 

“That’s better.” You gasped when the head of his cock dragged through your folds, spreading your arousal. He finally pushed in and you fisted the sheets as your lips parted in a silent moan. He’s just so fucking big. It’s not that you can’t take it, it’s just that he’s filling every part of you perfectly, satisfying every craving you have. 

“Fuck— Oh fuck,” You moaned, burying your face in the bed to muffle your sounds. Once his hips were flush with your ass, he didn’t bother giving you a chance to adjust before starting a slow pace. 

“You’re pretty tight for a whore.” He commented casually, making you sob out a moan. You’ve never particularly liked being called a whore, but for some reason when he says it, you just just get infinitely more turned on. “I half expected I’d need to fuck your ass instead.” He said amusedly. 

“Sir,” You gasped out, arching your back more and pushing your hips toward him. “Please.” 

“Please?” 

“Please go faster, or harder— anything.” You begged pathetically. You’ve never genuinely begged a client for something like this.  

“I didn’t know I was paying you to make demands.” You whined, a little too bratty for his liking based on the way he slapped your ass hard enough to leave it stinging for a few seconds. “You’re not some girl I picked up and took home. You’re my whore for the night. Fucking act like it.” You couldn’t help but mewl at his words. 

“I-I’m sorry. You just feel so good, sir.” All of a sudden, his hand was grabbing your hair and pulling your head back until you were looking at the ceiling. You held yourself up with your hands on the bed, but the position was still uncomfortable. 

“Every time you talk back, you lose a hundred.” He warned, making you whine. “That includes whining.” He spanked you again with his free hand and you cried out at the sting. “Do you understand?” 

“Yes! Yes, sir, I understand.” As soon as you got the words out, he shoved your head forward and released your hair. Your face landed against the bed with a startled grunt that cut off into a moan when he sped up. He was still going far too slow, but you bit your lip to keep yourself from whining or begging. 

“Even as a whore you’re fucking useless.” He scoffed. You let out a choked sob and grabbed the sheets harder. He sped up even more, forcing out little grunts and whimpers from you with each thrust. You ached to reach a hand down to your clit, but you knew you couldn’t. Not after his warning about “making demands.”

“Fuck— I’m already close.” You couldn’t help but notice how pretty his voice sounded as he continued becoming more and more breathless from the pleasure. 

“Remember to pull out.” You said, breaking character for a moment. On the phone, when he asked if you had any rules or limits, the only thing you said was that he can’t come inside. You don’t care if he fucks you raw, just so long as he pulls out. With a frustrated growl, he flipped you onto your back, immediately pushing back in to keep fucking you. 

“How much?” He leaned over you, his face level with yours. The feeling of his breath fanning your lips was making it hard to think. 

“What?” You asked dumbly. 

“To come inside. How much?” His pace was becoming even more frantic and he was beginning to pant heavily from the exertion. 

“Robert…” 

“Name your price. What do you want? Ten grand?” Your eyes widened at his offer. “Fifteen?” There’s no way he’s being serious right now. When he noticed your disbelief, he paused, then reached in his pants pocket to pull out his wallet and toss it on the bed next to you. When your disbelief turned into confusion, he explained. “A down payment.” His thrusts picked back up again, forcing a moan out of you as he resumed the unrelenting pace. “Well?” You glanced at the wallet, seeing how much cash was inside, then let out a heavy breath. 

“Fuck— fine. Fine.” You could immediately see the shift in his expression, showing how pleased he was with your answer. 

“Good girl. I might just have to hire you again.” He grinned at the thought and you felt your stomach fill with butterflies. “Now why don’t you be a good little whore and beg me to fill you up.” His grin turned into a smirk and he started fucking you even more desperately somehow. 

“Please fill me up. I want your come, sir.” You whined, back arching up into him. Despite your rule, part of you was being truthful. The thought of him fucking his come into your needy, abused hole was enough to make you clamp down on his cock, forcing a choked moan out of him. “Please!”

Without another word, he buried his face in the crook of your neck and rutted into you until he finally fell over the edge. He grunted with each snap of his hips, his panting breaths feeling hot against your neck. You squeezed around his cock again, wanting to make it as pleasurable for him as possible. Based on his low moan, it was working. 

He finally stilled and his sounds quieted into heavy breathing as he put some of his weight on you, letting himself rest without actually crushing you. Even though you were submissive enough right now to mostly only care about his pleasure, part of you was still disappointed that you wouldn’t get a chance to come on his cock. 

When his breathing calmed down, he lifted himself up to sit on his knees and slowly dragged out. He pushed your legs up, so you took the initiative and held them close to your chest for him. At the first sight of his come trickling out of you, he released a contented groan. 

“Fuck… Fifteen it is.” He said through a breath. Your holes fluttered as you pushed out more of his come, making him curse under his breath. “Take off the fucking dress before I rip it off and make you go home nude.” He threatened, making you instantly release your legs and scramble to take it off. He ripped your underwear clean off your body, then flipped you onto your stomach. 

“What are you doing?” You gasped, when he straddled your thighs and lined his cock up with your hole again. 

“I paid for two hours. I’m not stopping until I either run out of time, or run out of come.” You choked on your spit at his words, feeling too flustered to figure out how to respond. Before you could even attempt to just think of something to say, he was pushing back in, ridding your head of all thoughts except for him and his cock. 

When you woke up the next day, you saw that he had transferred the original price, plus fifteen thousand. You blinked rapidly and rubbed your eyes, thinking that you read it wrong in your sleepy state, but the number was clear as day. As was the memo reading: You’ll hear from me again soon. 

Taglist (join here)

@pedrisgatorade @lunyyx @faebirdie @idkdudsworld @nashja @rentaldarling @theoraekenslover @kaorisakamotofan @cillianscrybaby @vivvive @ceruleanrainblues @mrkdvidal1989 @brooklynscherry-z @ohmysatansstuff @aviamulier @d1lf-loverthinqs @butlersluvbot @miyababby @n1ghtw1ngslver @mandowhatnow @baekhyunstruly @nashja @xxorazz @halleysc6met @crunchsworld @cillianscrybaby @babaohhhriley @deceitfuldevout @gentyleman @lorelais-world @shroombloom-rry @pinguwrites @thatonesinglefriend @bernelflo @milktert @nyxxie.pooh @butterfly-lies-chase-them-away @bluujaiwrites @crunchsworld @madeinuk

#robert fischer smut #robert fischer x reader #robert fischer #inception #cillian murphy

[buckrecs]

2023 𝙗𝙪𝙘𝙠𝙮 𝙗𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙚𝙨 𝙛𝙞𝙘 𝙧𝙚𝙘 2

masterlist | ✨- fav fics | status - complete

All of them are COMPLETE Series.

1. Chicken by @delusionalwriterr

Bucky x Reader

You and Bucky Barnes shared a strange relationship with each other and the team was getting tired of it. When a mission goes wrong, will you be forced to admit your feelings for each other or will they remain buried?

2. sweet reverie by @demxters

College!Bucky x Reader

bucky asks you to pretend to be his girlfriend for the weekend but after what you thought was sweeter than a dream has you facing a harsher reality.

3. The Time of the Prey by @subwaysurf45 ✨

Knight!Bucky x Princess!Reader

The younger sister of the most talked about princess in the kingdoms really can’t do much except smile and nod. When Natasha, your sister, finally goes to moves all of you to Shieldshire to marry her beloved Prince Steve you are left with your art, all alone. But one Knight took it upon himself to keep you company, and that company was all you needed to get through wedding season. Will that company last or will it be ripped away from the both of you? A war is starting and it seems targets are being made. 

4. super rich kids by @traitorjoelite

College!Bucky x Reader

kids with too much money, parties every night, and an incident with your best friend’s brother is just the norm on the upper east side.

5. Bring You Home by @sunflowersoldat ✨

Bucky x Reader

Y/N travels back in time to get Steve’s help for one last mission, but not everything goes as planned.

6. The Colour of Rain by @delaber

Bucky x Reader

On the run from his violent past, Bucky has sought refuge in a small town in Mexico where he enjoys the peace and quiet of not understanding a word of Spanish. A peace that is violently disturbed when he runs into the most annoying woman he has ever met.

7. All The King’s Men by @nastybuckybarnes ✨

Alpha!King!Bucky x Omega!Reader

Your father always said that if it weren’t for your presentation, he’d think you were an Alpha. There’s a reason for that. Growing up in a world where Omegas are treated like garbage, you’ve fought for the respect that you have. Until you’re sold off to an old King desperate for a bride. But you will not lay down and present for your new husband. No, you will fight back.

8. Peaches by @noctumbra

DBF!Bucky x Reader

what they were doing was wrong, both of them knew that. it had to be kept as a secret. not everyone would understand what they have, she knew that much. they’d look at them and see an older man misleading a girl so much younger than him. it wasn’t the thing, though. that had never been the thing. it wasn’t misleading, taking advantage ─whatever they called their situation. it was love. forbidden, not-society-friendly, but love. 

9. Sweet Dreams by @abovethesmokestacks ✨

Bucky x Baker!Reader

Sometimes you start talking with someone, and you realize you share an interest and a wish for a certain supersoldier to be cut som slack. Enter cupcakes.

10. Fuck Up The Friendship by @summerofsnowflakes

Bucky x Reader College AU

Fed up with having your feelings played with you decide to have some fun with a with your friend Steve.

11. A Sweet Old Fashioned Notion by @sidepartskinnyjeans

Bucky x Reader

As the dust settles on the second 'snap' Bucky has been getting to know Brooklyn again. His neighbourhood has changed a lot, but it's changed for you too since you got blipped back. Bucky is still pretty old fashiond at heart, there were things he expected from life, to get married, to have a family. Simple things that seem far away now especially when online dating is so hard. Maybe something more traditional would be good for both of you.

12. Soldier, My Soldier by @cryptidcasanova

Winter Soldier!Bucky x Reader

“I am the writing on the wall, the whisper in the air. Without these things I am nothing. So now, I must shed blood.” He lulled at the base of your throat. “Sweetheart, come with me.”

13. Homesick at space camp by @atlaese

Bucky x Avenger!Reader

dying on a cold spaceship lightyears away from home wasn't what you expected

14. Spirits in the House by @redgillan

Detective!Bucky x Reader

Reader is in a coma after a car accident. Bucky moves into your apartment and find your spirit still hanging around.

15. Sugary Sweet by @all1e23

Sugar Daddy!Bucky x Reader

Is it all just sugar or something more? 

16. Missing Piece by @likeahorribledream

Bucky x Reader

When Bucky first arrived to the compound, Steve was his only friend and the only person he trusted himself around. That is until Steve introduces him to you, his best friend. Bucky was fascinated by how often you and Steve would hug each other. It had been a very long time since anyone had touched him in such a loving way and it didn’t take long before Bucky found himself craving your touch, but whenever you’d get too close he would flinch as if someone had hit him. His trauma still too fresh a wound for him to be comfortable with someone touching him. Then one day, he finally fights his instincts and let you touch him. He hadn’t realized how truly touch starved he was until he feels the warmth of your skin against his. Something clicks for the both of you in that moment, you had found your missing piece. As long as you were with each other, you were home. You both tried to fool yourselves into thinking you were just friends, really close friends. Friends that needed to be together almost every minute of every day and who needed to hold each other to be able to sleep at night.

17. Metal Arm and Short Skirts by @buckyarchives

Bucky x Doctor!Reader

waltzing in as the new head of the Avenger's medical division, impressing everyone, and... scaring Bucky with your incredibly short skirts. Bucky's having a hard time looking at his arm as anything other than a deadly weapon, and you're more than happy to help him.

18. Scars by @chickenfics ✨

Bucky x Reader Western AU

Running from a past that haunts you and a future that is unsure, the last thing you wanted was to take up with a stranger. Strangers, you'd learned, are almost always more trouble than they're worth. But when dangers from the life you're trying to leave behind get too close for comfort, drastic times call for drastic measures, and the stranger you'd once feared becomes the only person you can trust -- and perhaps the only person you'd call your friend. Now you both just have to make it out alive... 

19. The Color of Blood by @theidiotwhowritesthings

Bucky x Agent!Reader Soulmate AU

In this world, a person didn’t discover color until they locked eyes with their soulmate. As an agent of SHIELD, finding your soulmate was hardly a priority. Especially since you were currently dealing with the shocking discovery that HYDRA had been pulling the strings behind SHIELD actions this entire time. Life was all about timing, and you were about to find out that your timing was absolute shit.

20. Everybody’s Watching Him (But He’s Looking At Her) by @writing-for-marvel

Actor!Bucky x Assistant!Reader

The entire world’s eyes are on movie star Bucky Barnes, what he’s wearing, who he’s dating, even the mystery behind why he needs a prosthetic arm - but Bucky doesn’t care about all that, he’s only got one thing on his mind, you.

21. 27 Dresses by @beccaanne814

Bucky x Reader Modern AU

You are the epitome of “always a bridesmaid, never a bride.” You think you know what love is, but sometimes you can’t see what’s right in front of you.

22. Heal by @chucksfavouriteprophet

Alpha!Bucky x Omega!Reader

For months you managed to distance yourself from Bucky Barnes, the alpha you long for. But one night you have no choice but to comfort him, something which brings out emotions in both of you. Except it also brings out emotions in the Winter Solider, which results in a devastating turn of events that neither of you might be able to come back from.

23. Dangerous Woman by @samthemarvelfan

Bucky x Reader

You know he blames you, but you never thought he’d hate you.

24. Witness Protection by @mymoonagedaydream

Bucky x Reader

You'd only been living in New York for a few weeks when Natasha introduced you to James Barnes, the man who’d change your life forever.

25. Everything’s Better in Westview by @espinosaurusrexex ✨

Bucky x Reader

Bucky and Y/N sneak into Westview to have the perfect life. Away from late Steve and Tony, Vision and Natasha, they let themselves be consumed by suburban magic. To their surprise, however, some of these people aren’t so dead in the town. And there are some other weird things happening that make them question their sanity. But that’s okay, right? ‘Cause everything’s better in Westview.

26. Trying by @moonlight-prose

Bucky x Reader

Bucky Barnes was a new person. He survived a war with Thanos, finally getting rid of his triggers, and losing his best friend. He didn’t think there was anything else to survive. That is until he meets you in a bookstore and you become something he is scared of losing. An old villain has shown himself and suddenly you are the target of a new ploy to bring the Winter Soldier back.

27. unconventional methods by @marvelouslizzie

Bucky x Adult Content Creator!Reader

Bucky Barnes has a big problem: he is too anxious to date and too old school to enjoy porn. But he needs some kind of relief, and he needs it right now. After getting an accidental boner during a mission, Natasha suggests him an application that seems to be exactly what he needs. Will your content solve the problem for him? Or will it create new problems?

28. ephemeral by @aescapisms

Professor!Bucky x Reader

Bucky Barnes fell in love with you, but the universe isn’t all that forgiving.

29. Bulletproof by @amandaoftherosemire ✨

Bucky x Reader College AU

You, Steve Rogers, and Bucky Barnes have been the best of friends since middle school. On top of that, you’ve been in love with Bucky pretty much the whole time. Everything changed after the three of you got to college, however. Over the past couple of years you and Steve have become even closer but things between you and Bucky have been strained since the night he broke your heart. Can anything bring you back together?

30. The Heart is a Deep Ocean by @dreamlessinparis

Bucky x Reader Titanic AU

Titanic was known as the ship of dreams. For you, it was the dream of getting home, or so you thought. From the moment you locked eyes with James Buchanan Barnes, all those dreams changed and your life was never the same.

#bucky barnes fic rec #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x f!reader #bucky barnes series #winter soldier x reader #bucky barnes college au #college!bucky #knight!bucky #bucky barnes royal au #winter soldier!bucky #40s!bucky x reader #bucky barnes 40s au #alpha!bucky #king!bucky #dbf!bucky #bucky x baker!reader #detective!bucky #bucky barnes modern au #sugar daddy!bucky #bucky x doctor!reader #bucky barnes western au #outlaw!bucky #bucky barnes soulmate au #bucky x agent!reader #winter soldier!bucky x reader #actor!bucky #professor!bucky

[funeral-grayy]

What the fuck did you think you were doing? Parading around his penthouse in what you’ve considered a dress. You, Natsuo’s cute little best friend. You’d been following him around like a little lost puppy all night, clinging to his arm. You had no idea what you were doing to the man watching you so intently, how often he had to excuse himself so he could go adjust his hard cock in his slacks. It was one of the rare occasions his son attended one of these fancy hero parties and of course he had to bring you. Enji made it in his best interest to avoid the family house when he knew his eldest was around because that meant you were as well. You, the off-limits best friend. You were nearly half his age and all he ever wanted to do when he saw you was bury his cock so far into you, you’d feel it in your stomach. God, he’d even dreamt of you from time to time. He was so caught up in his dirty thoughts, when he looked up, you were gone and Natsou was conversing with a hero.

Feeling a bit overwhelmed and needing some time to yourself, you excuse yourself from Natsou’s side and start to wander around the penthouse. This was wildly different from their family home. Everything was crisp and clean, nothing out of place. You knew you were probably straying a bit too far from the party but your curiosity was getting the best of you. Most of the doors in the hallway were shut, with one at the very end of the hall being the exception. You looked over your shoulder quickly, eyes scanning the hallway but thankfully you were alone. You’d never been able to figure Endeavor out. Always so cold and short towards his family and fans, always so stoic. You quietly slipped past the open door and into what seemed to be his office. You trace your fingers along the smooth surface of his large oak desk, halting at an open, overturned book. The spine was old and worn, the title not familiar to you. Picking it up, you turn to lean against the desk and leaf through the pages.

“Are you lost?” A deep voice interrupted your snooping. You set the book back down on his desk and turned back around to face him. Ignoring the questioning look he was giving you, you dragged your gaze ever so slowly down his body. Fuck, you bit your lip as you took in how fucking big Endeavour was. He towered over you, and you were pretty sure he’d easily crush you if he wanted to. Your gaze continued down, over his ridiculously big pecks, god you wanted to squeeze them. You could tell that just one of his thighs was as big as both of yours put together. You could feel saliva fill your mouth, as your gaze flickered over his crotch. He was probably huge, there’s no way he wasn’t. Finally, after taking your time to check him out, you looked back up at him, a sweet smile on your face. The corner of his lip twitched as he refrained from smirking, this girl had some major balls, blatantly checking him out like that, he thought.

“No, I don’t believe I am. Just got a little side tracked is all.” Nosy was more like but you weren’t about to admit to snooping around his office. You’d only even been to the Todoroki family home, which he seemed to avoid most of the time. So of course his office piqued your curiosity. The interior design was very old fashioned and rustic. Everything smelt rich. You weren’t sure why you were being so feisty towards this man. Maybe because he wasn’t like the usual young men you went after. Maybe it was because if he really wanted to, he could snap you in fucking half and you’d thank him. This man was nothing but pure fucking muscle and you wanted to climb him like a goddamn tree.

Enji fought against the primal urge to pick you up and lay you out over his desk. Oh no, first he was going to have some fun and play around with you. You might be his son’s best friend but as far as he was concerned, you were free game while in his own home. He watched you as he took a step back, shutting his office door behind him and locking it. No one would be interrupting him. He removed the suit jacket he’d been wearing and tossed it in the black leather couch to his right. He began to roll up his white dress shirt sleeves as he approached you, his eyes never leaving yours. You knew you were playing with fire but by god did you want to be burned. You were transfixed with how good his forearms looked, now that both sleeves were rolled to his elbows.

“Has my son’s best friend always been such a dirty fucking slut?” His deep voice shook you to your very core, your cunt clenching around nothing. You had slipped out of your heels and was now perched on the edge of his desk. Raising one leg towards him, your foot gently stroked his obvious hardened length through his slacks.

“Has my best friend's dad always gotten a hard-on over women half his age?” You asked innocently, tilting your head to the side. He wrapped one of his hands around your ankle, easily moving it to the side while he placed himself between your parted legs now. The bottom half of your dress eased up your thighs and bunched around your waist as you opened your legs wider to accommodate his size. He immediately invaded your space, pressing his hard body into yours. One of his large hands reached up and grasped your throat, causing you to gasp in surprise.

“You’ve got quite the mouth on you, don’t you?” He squeezed the sides of your throat, not too hard but hard enough to restrict your breathing. Your eyes glazed over with lust as you held his stare.

“Why don’t you let me put it to good use?” You have no idea where this confidence and boldness was coming from, maybe the two glasses of champagne in your system or maybe you just weren’t afraid of this man like everyone else was. All you knew is that you wanted him and you would have him. The hand that was around your throat moved up to grasp your chin, his other finger coming up to press two fingers to your closed lips. You opened your mouth willingly, taking two thick fingers inside and sucking them. Drool dribbled down your chin as he pushed them deeper into your mouth, your tongue swirling around them. He groaned at the realization that your gag reflex was nearly nonexistent. He swiftly removed his fingers, wanting to get this show on the road before his son noticed you gone.

“On your knees then, sweetheart.” He took a step back, allowing you to hop down from the desk. Your movement was almost instant, getting off the desk and dropping to your knees in front of the big man. You looked up at him with innocent doe eyes, the look going straight to his cock. One of his hands stroked your cheek almost in adoration but you knew better than that. “Such a well behaved girl, I might have to keep you after all.”

Your mouth watered as he began to undo his belt, maintaining eye contact the entire time. He chuckled as you lurched forward to assist him with undoing his pants, clearly very eager to have his cock in your mouth. He watched as your eyes widened and you audibly swallowed at the size of his bulge in his black boxer briefs. You hadn’t even pulled them down yet and you could already tell he was far bigger than anyone you’d been with but it was the thickness of him that scared you. Scared you but also aroused you, you could feel yourself growing wetter. Reaching forward, you gently traced the head of his cock, watching as it twitched. You continued to slowly tease him through his underwear, content with all his little reactions. Growing impatient, Endeavor slid his boxer briefs down his thick thighs, his cock springing free. Your first thought was how pretty his cock was. The head was an angry red and glistening with pre cum, more gushing from the tip and slowly dripping down his length.

Without further thought, you leaned forward and licked a long strip from the base all the way to the tip, humming as you gathered his pre on your tongue. You smiled up at the man who was having a tough time keeping it together, seeing him in such a weak vulnerable state was such a treat. You were used to the hardened shell of Endeavor, not this man before you trying to stifle his groans. Not wanting to tease him any longer, you immediately took him in your mouth. The strangled moan spurred you on. You lick and suck up and down his length, your tongue tracing the long vein up his shaft. You become a drooling mess very quickly, you're barely able to get most of him in your mouth. The hold on the back of your head tightened as he watched his cock disappear into your throat over and over again.

“What would Natsou say if he could see you now? His little best friend sucking his fathers cock.”

He gathered your hair in one hand and caressed your cheek with the other. It was so hard to resist just picking you up and fucking you senseless but he knew he didn’t have the luxury of time tonight, so this would have to do for now. He watched as tears streaked down your cheeks, god, how could someone be so beautiful like this? He wanted to ruin you, absolutely destroy you. Without much more thought, he held your hair tight and took over, fucking into your warm mouth. He could feel himself get harder, if that was even possible, as you took him deeper into your throat. Your jaw ached as you accommodated to his size, the lack of a gag reflux a blessing right now. You moaned as the tip hit the back of your throat and stilled, more tears running down your cheeks.

“Such a good fucking girl. Think you can handle me?”

Your words were gargled around his cock, more drool now dripping down onto the floor below.

“Oh sweetie, don’t talk with your mouth full.”

His words were condescending but god did they do something to you. The man above you grunted as he started to fuck your mouth, the feeling of your warm mouth welcoming him in. Your nails dug into his thighs as he picked up speed, the ache in your jaw worsening. How he was able to stuff himself down your throat was beyond you but you knew you wouldn’t be talking much after. You slurped and kicked around his length as he continued his brutal pace. Curse words flowed out of him as he mercilessly pounded into your mouth. He could feel his balls start to tighten as his impending orgasm approached. He knows he should feel embarrassed for cumming so fast but god, your mouth felt like heaven.

“Gunna cum all over this pretty face. Mark you as mine.”

He pulled out of your mouth and quickly jerked himself off, your spit and his pre covering him. You watched in awe at how his face contorted into pure bliss as spurts of his hot cum coated your face. He gave himself a few more tugs, wiping his cum covered dick head along your lip. God, he wanted to take a picture of you. Your face was completely covered in his seed, dripping down onto the floor. Reaching behind you, he grabbed some tissues and began to clean up your face. You were shocked with his gentle touch and softened features. It didn’t last long though, as if a flip switched he went back to his full height and stared down at you.

“Meet me back here at the end of the party.”

It wasn’t a question but a demand. The confused look on your face made him break composure and chuckle.

“You didn’t think I was done with you, did you?”

#enji x reader #enji todoroki x reader #enji todoroki #endeavor x reader #endeavor #bnha #my hero academia #yeeeeeesh #daddy enji #idk how i feel about this tbh #lowkey bad af #oop

[armpirate]

Disturbs on the 3rd floor (Part 2) | Jungkook

Part 1

pairing: Boxer!JK x fem!reader || Neighbors, enemies to lovers

w.c.: 5.2k

Warnings: Illegal boxing, violence, blood, blood licking, smut, male and female masturbation, oral sex (female and male receiving), unprotected sex, dirty talk.

Summary: You tried to avoid him as much as possible after the last time you saw each other. Although you two ended up meeting at the least expected place.

Aprox. time of reading: 23 minutes

The loud screams that came from the editor's office made your heads turn towards the closed door, seeing through the shades that covered the windows how he exaggeratedly gesticulated with every single word he dropped, while one of your colleagues just kept his eyes fixed on the floor. 

It had been a long morning. It seemed like it'd never end. 

Usually, you all would fight to get the best reportage or get the most juicy news for the newspaper. But that day it was like the universe didn't want either of you fighting over anything, done with the complaints of favoritism, before a chain of big events dropped in a span of a few days. 

Elections, manifestations, World Guinness Records, a celeb's scandal... And somehow, you still managed to get the article that would make no one move. Covering up illegal fights was not only dangerous, but also something that people would read through with the least interest. "Oh, wow, some people are doing something that doesn't affect me at all. Let me pretend to be concerned about it, before I jump to the sports section". It was always like that with that type of article, and you knew it'd be a waste of energy and time. 

Either way, you still managed to get one of your sources to tell you the place where the fights would take place that week. And you'd go there as soon as your shift ended. It wasn't like you needed any big tools, or cameras, you'd do fine with your phone and your own eyes. 

You were already warned that it was a dangerous place, where there were all types of men, except good guys. Boxers went from street fighters to owners of gyms to gain investments from the rich men and gangsters that showed up there for fun, and the fights were almost lethal -always leaving one of the fighters unconscious or close to death. And that made you wonder if it was actually worth it for them to risk their lives and healths, just to entertain the big guys in the city. 

You gulped when you saw there wasn't a lot of control to get inside. You guessed it was because not that many people would know about it, nor would be interested enough in it to get to the other side of the bridge just to see a few guys fighting. The fair amount of people that went there knew what they'd come across to, and knew it was either to bet money or to fight. There was no other choice. 

The smell was heavy. It wasn't like it was putrid, but you could tell apart the wetness coming from the cement of the old building. Suddenly, it felt uncomfortable walking around there, getting through some of the people that were surrounding the improvised boxing ring. But you still did it. Hiding your phone on your sleeve, enough to let your camera film everything that was going on, you also made sure to hide your face with the hood of your jacket. 

You kept walking through the people cheering for the two fighters to split each other's faces in half, making your way to the side of the place, feeling ready to breathe again as you stepped back from the crowd. Although your heart raced fast, as if it had received an electric shock, when you felt your hood being pulled back, discovering your head. 

"Hope you know you can't record here" a thick voice warned at your back. 

You were ready to reply to that accusation, hiding your phone deeper in your sleeve, as you turned on your tracks. Looking confused when you saw him in front of you. 

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Jungkook spoke first, face slowly going distraught.

"I could say the right same thing" you replied back, moving away from his grip. 

Jungkook sighed, looking away for a mini second before his eyes were back on you. Having to be there was bad enough, but having to see you there wasn't making things any better. His mind filled with the different ways he wanted to rail you whenever you came across each other in the elevator or in the corridor. You would only be a distraction if you stayed there. He didn't really want to know why you were there, and how you got to know about it all, he just wanted you to leave for his own sake. 

"Are you a cop?" he asked.

"It's not your business" you replied back.

He sighed exasperated, seeing how that conversation would take them nowhere. She wasn't going to give away her reason, so there was no point in arguing with her about it. 

"If you're smart, which after these weeks I doubt" he added, referencing the several encounters you've had ever since he moved in ", leave and delete whatever it is you've filmed. You don't wanna deal with the people here". 

"Jungkook, you're next" a tall man told him. 

He gave a quick look at Max, eyes dropping to you quickly before his lips twisted, and he tilted his head. "Do whatever the fuck you want".

Those were the last words he dedicated to you, before he walked past your body and disappeared among the crowd. It wasn't like you had much of a choice when it came to what you wanted to do. 

It was your job. And while you could've written some paragraphs describing what you saw, your perfectionist side would never forgive you for it, knowing you could top the final result by adding more to the story. 

The crowd was suddenly more invested in the upcoming fight, hearing the chants and growls as the two fighters were presented. Rodric "The Bully" Hatcher, and the Doberman of Busan. You rolled your eyes at them, going back at aiming the phone towards the ring's direction -while still doing your best at hiding it under your sleeve. 

If you thought you'd be able to get through the whole thing without flinching, you were wrong. Your body kept moving, surprised with every hit thrown, suddenly worried by the way the other boxers were attacking Jungkook like he owed his life to him. 

Soon, half of his face would be covered in blood that spilled down from his eyebrow and his broken lip. Jungkook fell a few times to the ground, always standing up after two or three seconds, that was what took him to regain some strength back. He only managed to fit some punches towards his blond opponent, but checking on you got him more distracted than he'd be in any other circumstance. 

Why the hell were you there exactly that day? 

His body fell flat on the ground when his head turned in your direction, seeing Jimmy -one of the men looking after the place-, grabbing you by the elbow and causing you to raise your voice over the several chants that were favoring Rodric at that point. 

The blond smiled, getting ready to give the final punch as he walked towards his body. Jungkook tried to stand up, or at least roll on the ground by himself, but his body seemed to reach a limit that night. Most parts of his body felt numb, only being aware of Rodric making him lie on his back. 

The devil seemed to be on his side that day though, seeing everyone panicking around him when the place was suddenly lighted by blue and red lights, along with several cops telling everyone to stay still in their places. 

His back collided against the ground again, when Rodric let go of him, not without promising the next time he wouldn't be as lucky. He didn't expect the night to end as bad when he received the text for the fight, but there he was: lying on the ground and getting ready to be arrested and taken to the police station. 

Someone did pull his body up, hooking their arms under his armpits until they were standing. "We need to leave" that female voice...

Jungkook managed to open his plump eyes, looking down to see you dragging him to the nearest exit. He for sure didn't know how you made it to get rid of Jimmy -although he guessed once the cops showed up, you were the least of his problems-, or how you dodged the cops. But he was glad you did. 

While he looked conscious from the outside, it actually seemed like his body was moving automatically, following your guidance and doing what felt right. He wasn't even aware of how fast you drove from the center to your house until you dropped his body over your couch abruptly, making him moan while he closed his eyes. 

You could've left him on his doorstep until he regained some consciousness back, and you'd be lying if you had said you didn't feel tempted to, but you still allowed him to step inside your place. 

Moving your fingers carefully over his arm, you started removing the bandage that were covering his hands, setting him free from the tight knots until he spoke. "I can do that myself".

"Fine" you dropped his hand hard over his thigh, getting a low groan from him "Do it yourself".

Although you were annoyed, you still moved around your place, trying to get the few things you had to cure the wounds on his face. You looked after him, but it didn't mean you didn't use it to your advantage either. He hissed, squirmed and moved his head away every time you pressed hard on the places you wanted to heal, finding some joy in his pissed off expression. You also handed him some ice cubes covered in a rag, ignoring his stretched hand to press directly on the wound on his eyebrow until you saw him holding it. 

He looked around your place, finding the similarities in structure, but seeing it completely different from his own place. Your house seemed cozy, ready to bring calmness to anyone who stepped inside. Your furniture was also black and white, but the different accessories over them created a huge change. Like the thick purple blanket that was over the backrest of your couch on his side, or the big world map that was over his head. You even had pictures displayed over the cabinet next to your door, and a jar filled with bright pink flowers. 

Just like he expected, your house was as feminine and delicate as you seemed. 

His head moved in your direction again when he heard you hissing and huffing. You looked at the broken screen, cursing at that man who dropped your phone against the floor when he caught you. At least you'd be able to use the videos and pictures it took you so long to get, but you'd have to repair the screen or get a new phone. And both options were too expensive to think about lightly. 

"Look at what you did" Jungkook frowned at your accusation.

"Me? I already told you not to film there".

"If you hadn't reached out to me, and shouted how I should stop filming, no one else would've noticed" you dropped the phone over the coffee table. 

"Sure, because you were so good at pretending you were doing nothing suspicious..." he squinted his eyes. "Who else would've thought this" Jungkook lifted his right hand at the level of his chest, in the most unnatural posture ever "was suspicious if it hadn't been for me". 

Jungkook dropped the rag over the couch, finally standing up to confront you. 

"I'm the one who should be mad. Look at my face" he pointed at it with his two index "If you had stopped recording when I told you, I would've been able to focus on my fight". 

"I didn't ask you to focus on me" you replied back. "Oh, also..."

Jungkook looked confused when you crossed your living room, opening one of the drawers of the furniture next to your table and seeing you walking back to him. 

"I also didn't ask for your eighty dollars" you handed him the money.

"It was my fault you got stuck outside".

"It wasn't, I should've checked first" she sighed "I don't want your money, and you didn't need to make up for shit" you left the money in front of him at the coffee table. 

"But you still blamed me for your broken phone" he replied.

You sighed, looking down at your phone when you realized the argument with Jungkook would take you nowhere. It didn't matter if you had to buy a new phone, because you'd probably be able to opt for better articles and more recognition after you posted your reportage. The screen suddenly went dark before you could even enter the gallery, going completely useless although the battery was at fifty per cent still. 

"No" you whined "No, no, no, no, no".

Not like it would change a thing, but you let out your desperation, while moving your thumb over the screen, trying to get a reaction. You gasped, and cracked a whine, dropping the phone from your hands when you felt your fingerprint being sliced.

It wasn't a deep cut, you definitely wouldn't lose your finger. It was more the type of cut you get with a sheet of paper, but it still was bothersome and some blood started to leak. 

You didn't know when Jungkook stood up from the couch and walked over to you, but you heard his sigh over you, before he took your wrist and looked at the tiny and thin wound. You'd expect him to do anything, but your body froze when he raised your hand a bit more and wrapped his lips around your finger.

The tiniest bit of pain disappeared, because all your senses were too focused on the way his warm mouth felt around your finger, and how his slick tongue moved around softly. Your cheeks started to burn when his eyes sunken in yours, as if he were trying to read your thoughts. Not like they were too complicated to guess them though, your mind was filled with him. 

"Don't you know how dangerous it is to do that?" you tried to break off the moment.

Jungkook let go of your finger with a loud pop sound, smirking at you "What are you talking about now?".

"Licking someone you don't know's blood. I could be sick and...".

"Are you sick?" he raised his eyebrow.

"No" and you clearly weren't concerned about the consequences of what he did. You were more concerned over the effects he was having on you with that simple action.

"Then what are you so worried about?" he rolled his eyes.

"I'm just trying to let you know that..." he interrupted you again.

"Fine" he nodded. "I'll lick something else instead".

While you were still trying to process what he meant, Jungkook pulled you by the neck, sucking onto your lower lip. You'd have wanted to push him away, but you knew you'd be banging yourself against the wall if you did, his lips felt way too good and spongy to let go of them. You lost yourself in the kiss as soon as his tongue sneaked in your mouth and your teeth slightly crashed against one another for less than a mini second. Too long gone to care how sloppy the kiss was, or how messy, your mind was only craving for his hands never leaving your body. 

Your heart shook in your chest when he gave you a second to breathe, before he pulled you back, grabbing your jaw tight.

You had only been kissing, but you swore you had never been more ready to be pinned against a bed and fucked until you forgot your own name. 

While Jungkook thought he had control over you by your neck, you sneaked your hand under his tank top, instantly making him groan when your cold hands got in contact with his warm skin. A metallic taste appeared on your tongue, and you weren't sure if the blood you were tasting was his or the remaining taste of your own, but it only encouraged you to move your hands lower on his torso, reaching down for his shorts. 

When you palmed him over the fabric, you could feel the shape of his growing bulge, nipples tightening under your bra just with the thought of how he'd look completely naked. And it seemed like he had the same doubt, because soon you stopped feeling his hand on your throat, to feel him unzipping your jeans and slipping them down. 

"Let me see those tits" he asked you, while you were kicking your pants away. 

Your rational size would've stopped you right then, but only you knew how bad you had been hoping for this ever since you met him for the first time. You allowed your mind to run wild every time you ran into each other. 

The ten seconds you were in the elevator were a fucking nightmare. 

His palm cupped your clothed pussy, groaning when he felt how wet and sticky your underwear was as he moved his fingers through your slit. Jungkook only moved his hand away when you folded your gray t-shirt over your breasts, exposing your black bra -that he didn't take long to move down, perked nipples almost begging for him to take them in his mouth. His mouth took one in, letting it get harder in his warmness, feeling how goof the hard tip fought against his flat tongue, before he let go of it with a loud sound and moved onto the other. 

Your fingers sinked in his hair, encouraging him to keep going, before you spit on your hand and moved back to the inside of his pants. His groan vibrated through your chest when you wrapped your fingers around him, quietly moving them up and down, feeling how thick and hard he was getting against your palm. 

"I really need to fuck you" he groaned, biting on your chest before he was towering over you again "I really, really need it".

You stood on your tiptoes, while your hands let go of him. Your lips rubbed against his, while your hands played with the elastic of your panties "Do it".

As you allowed those two words to fly in the air, you slipped your panties down your legs, kicking them away again. As if you had finally allowed him to set himself free, he lifted your body, having you instantly wrapping your legs around his waist.

"Put it in, angel" he asked you, holding you up in the air.

Redirecting his face by his nape, you linked your lips together, while your other hand managed to rub his tip on your entrance, having you two breaking the kiss and looking down when it was finally inside you. Jungkook moved you down his shaft, until your hips met and you felt him deep in your core. 

You helped him make those movements on you easier, bouncing your body up and down slowly, enjoying the way every inch felt when it was about to leave you, but suddenly hit against you again. You also knew your legs would feel sore as ever before, but it was totally worth it just by the look on his face whenever you squeezed him. His eyebrows suddenly frowned and his lips puckered, growling while he allowed you to work on his dick. 

He knew your hips were a menace whenever he took too long looking over the peephole of his door after he had to control himself, and not fuck you in the middle of the aisle, but he didn't know your whole body would be as dangerous -especially your eyes. You trapped him, and he knew it'd be over the second he made eye contact with you for longer than five seconds. 

Jungkook stopped your movements, lifting your body a bit more to hook your legs with his arms, blocking you to move again, just to be able to pound into you at his own pace, dick drilling in your core, trying different angles until he saw your eyes going blank and your grip on his shoulders got tighter. 

"How does it feel?" he groaned, smirking when all he was able to get from you was babbling "Look at you, you can't even say a word with how much you like talking".

You hugged him tight, trying to find something stable when you felt your blood started to heat up, slowly boiling as if you were ready to combust at any given time. He fucked you through your high, slowing his movements until he stopped completely.

"You look so hot when you cum" he hummed, kissing the middle of your throat.

Your lips were linked together again, moving slowly on each other, while Jungkook made his way intuitively to your bedroom. 

"Do you want to know when I look even hotter?" you whispered in his ear.

His eyes perked with curiosity, before you motioned him to leave you back on the ground. 

As you sat at the edge of the bed, he helped you take off your t-shirt and bra. Your fingers hooked on his shorts, pulling them down, while you bent over, licking his tip. Although it wasn't until you wrapped your lips around it, that you were able to taste you two mixed together. Your juices with his precum, and you found yourself more turned on about it than you should. 

The weight of his hand on the back of your head, and how his fingers tangled on your hair, got you looking up at him. The movements of your mouth got slower down his shaft, making sure he'd see how it disappeared through your lips.

"You do look hotter like this" he nodded, grinding his hips against your face. 

If there was something you disliked about sex, it was giving head. Usually, it was something you just did because the moment asked for it. But with Jungkook it felt different. Seeing the expression on his face, hearing the sounds that came from his mouth, the way he encouraged you to go on by softly caressing your scalp... You swore you could do that for hours if you were able to. 

He made you feel powerful and sexy.

Jungkook stopped your movements as soon as you increased the speed, moving your head back slightly. He smiled at your confused look, finding endearing how out of place you looked until he bent over.

"My turn" he whispered. "Lay on the bed" he pointed at the middle of the mattress, before he started taking off his tank top. 

You dragged your body over that spot, feeling the sheets wrinkling under you. He stood in front of you, completely naked, and seeing your perspective from your spread legs got you leaking for him again. 

"You're aware these walls are really thin, right?" he joined you on the bed, kneeling in front of you. 

Of course you know. If those walls weren't as thin, you two probably wouldn't have met each other the way you did.

"And I can hear absolutely everything" you frowned, confused of where he was taking the conversation, feeling his hands tracing the curves of your knees. "Especially when you touch yourself" he continued.

In any other circumstance, you probably would've been embarrassed by that comment. But that day, it only made your skin burn a bit more, waiting eagerly for him.

"That's why I want to show you I can do it better" he tilted his head, sliding his thumb through your slit. "Make your legs tremble, your ears ring and your throat hurt".

You held your breath when you felt his lips ghosting your soaked lips, the warm air coming from his mouth getting you ready for what was to come, when he lifted his eyes and looked straight at you. "I won't move from here until you make a mess on my face"

What he said, and the way he said it would sound like a promise, but it was more a fact. He dropped those words before he sank his lips in your pussy, taking you with an open-mouthed kiss that got you squirming in surprise. It was as if he wanted to get as much from you as he was able to, moving his lips on every corner that was left to discover by him. 

The tip of his tongue felt so delicate compared to his mouth, moving over your slit, from your entrance to your clit slowly -as if he were tasting every drop of arousal in your core-, before he was wrapping his mouth around the bundle of nerves and pulling from it. You soon were grinding your pelvis against his mouth and arching your back -feeling it would crumble at any point. But he took it as an invitation to lift his arm, fondling your breasts until his fingers found your hard nipple again. 

You weren't able to hold his gaze when he finally opened his eyes, your shut eyes and uncontrollable moans made you throw your head back, holding onto the wrist of the hand on your chest, while your other hand sank in his hair, assuring yourself that he wouldn't leave that spot when you were so close. 

Jungkook stopped twirling his tongue around your clit, torturing your button, to move back down to your entrance, forcing a needy moan come from you when he slid the muscle through your walls. 

It was as if your body didn't belong to you anymore the second he started twisting his tongue up and down, while his nose rubbed against your clit. You were too far gone to care about how loud you were, how messy you looked or how desperate you acted. Your brain was only able to process the wave of pleasure that fell heavy on you with the last move he made. 

You lost sense of how much time you spent with your eyes closed, trying to gain some oxygen back. But when you opened them, you found Jungkook staring into you. You knew he wasn't done with you, and you thanked god he wasn't while you were aware of the way half of his face was shining down the light of your lamp. 

Supporting your weight on your elbows, you motioned to the empty spot next to you. "My ears didn't ring".

Jungkook chuckled at that comment, lying in the spot you pointed to. His cock twitched in excitement when you got on top of him, straddling his hips. You didn't bother to tease him, or dragging it out, you both had been playing around long enough to keep waiting for it. 

You two gasped in sync as you slowly moved your hips down his length, taking him inch by inch again. Keeping that pace for a bit longer, you enjoyed the desperate subtle look on his face, and the way his hands moved on your thighs to get you to go faster. 

Jungkook got absorbed by the way your body looked the moment you started speeding it up. Maybe he was too high on sex, but he was sure you felt like the perfect match for him. Your bodies clapped together with every bounce you made, as if it was a piece fitting perfectly with another. He wasn't even able to control his own moans when you started moving back and forwards, making his cock twitch inside you with the way you kept clenching around him tight. 

You cried out loud when your clit kept rubbing against his skin, creating the perfect friction while he fought himself to keep him from pounding into you. 

A loud and sharp sound, was followed by a pleasant burning pain on your ass cheek, before he sank his fingertips on your skin -so hard that you were sure there would be marks on that same spot the next day. 

Your grip on his wrists and he held your hips got tighter by the second, with your head instantly falling back before your eyes were on him again. His honey skin was covered with a thin coat of sweat, his messy short hair was covering his forehead, and by his expression you knew he was as close as you were. 

"Are you cumming with me?" you asked, cracking your voice when he spanked you again. 

"Fuck, yes" he growled.

One more sway of your hips, one more twitch of his cock and you were both done and ruined. His warm load spilled down your walls, leaking out when he pulled his cock out and rested his head on your pillow. 

Your body fell flat next to his, shaky breathing fighting to go back to normal as you stared at the ceiling. It was all calm and silent, that you allowed yourself to close your eyes, trying to remember the way it felt like your hairs would leave your skin by the way they raised through your orgasm. 

All that peace lasted a few minutes only, because soon you felt the mattress moving and you heard his steps over the room. When you opened your eyes, you found him with his boxers on, and his clothes piled in his hand. 

You weren't sure what you expected, or whether you actually wanted him to stay or not, but you were confused at how fast he was getting ready to leave. Standing up, and covering your body with a pink satin dressing gown, you were ready to confront him. 

"You're leaving?" 

"Yeah" he answered as if it was the most normal answer.

And probably it was. He lived next to you, there was no need for him to spend the night there. But something in the way he acted rubbed you the wrong way, having you placing your hands on your hips. 

It wasn't like you'd have wanted him to sleep next to you either. Maybe it was your hurt pride speaking through you, calling you because you were the one supposed to kick him out, not the one being stood up in your own place. 

"And that's it?" for a brief moment, Jungkook looked confused at your question. What else was he supposed to say or do?

"Yeah. I got what I wanted, you got what you wanted. We're done" he nodded. "You didn't expect us to cuddle and giggle like dumbasses, did you?"

No, but you didn't discard that idea either. Somewhere in the back of your brain, while you had your eyes closed, you hoped he'd wrap his arms around you and pull you in for a hug. Although maybe that was your loneliness projecting a bit too much. 

"No, but this isn't it either" you called him out. 

"Well, it seems like a you problem" he shrugged. "I didn't do anything to give you hope for a relationship".

"Hold it back there, who the fuck talked about a relationship? I'm just talking about human decency, which seems to be a bit too much to ask for a dog like you" you grimaced at your own words. "No, sorry. I didn't mean to insult dogs".

"You're so bitter, it’s kinda cute" he scoffed. "You don't need to hide it. It's fine".

"I'm not hiding anything".

Clicking your tongue, you pushed him out of your bedroom. Hurrying to the coffee table, you got his money and put it over his dark tank top, before you pointed towards the door. "Hope the door kicks you in the balls when you exit".

Although you both ended up arguing, something about that night felt weird. 

This one-shot will NOT have a Part 3, since it will be part of a longer fanfic that will be posted after I'm done with Under His Skin

#ff #jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkookxreader #jk #bts #kookie #one shot #reader insert #armpirate #boxer!jk #smut #jk smut #jungkook smut

[colsonlin]

“Cape Cod”: a good old-fashioned short story (a 45-minute read)

“Cape Cod” is an analysis of our society’s tendency to produce narcissism, sociopathy, and casual dehumanization. It felt so good to get all of this off my chest! —Nina

A lot of how we talk about middle school in America is something I take issue with—like, for instance, that it’s somehow not the most formative experience of our lives. (It is.) A lot of people say “college,” but I had already cycled into an idea of who I was going to be as an adult by then—an A student, a talker, a birdwatcher, a take-no-prisoners observer of human social life. I studied sociology at the University of Maryland. At my retail job now—I work at a Nordstrom in Connecticut—I interact with a dying breed: old rich white women who still buy their cashmeres at the mall. At my old retail job in Farmington I was a cashier. At Nordstrom I’m more of a saleswoman—I don’t hand my customers their purchases after I’m done folding their clothes into the bag, I walk around the counter to deliver their parcels to them personally. I work six nights a week until the mall closes at 11 and on Sundays, Mondays, and Thursdays I drive to my second job at a call center in Southington. I earn enough money to pay for my Hyundai and an apartment above the laundromat, have coffee on the weekends, keep up with my student loans, and map out what the next step will be.

College feels like a million years ago.

Middle school still feels like yesterday.

“Brenda” (not her real name), my supervisor at my old department store in Farmington, was the portrait of managerial incompetence. She was fat and unmarried and all of the associates who weren’t actively helping a customer used to crowd into the stock room whenever she came out of her office, usually to berate one of us for misplacing a store key. We all know a Brenda from middle school. Everything you say is wrong, and everything she says can’t be improved upon. Three of us quit within the first ten months of Brenda’s arrival, and at least one of us later wrote an anonymous email to the district manager about her obvious drinking problem.

My old department store—I don’t want to get into any trouble here so let’s just call them “Not-Quite Sephora”—was in a strip mall. I never knew who to feel more sorry for during the day, myself or the customers who came in. I once explained to my boyfriend that we were kind of like Wal-Mart’s “more youthful older sister”—a high school varsity cheerleader perhaps, but still stuck in the past all the same.

There were ten of us on the first floor—the second floor, “Men’s,” might as well have been a different planet entirely. Brenda acted like she was better than all of us, because she has a master’s degree in “Global Business Administration,” whatever the fuck that was. Brenda didn’t seem to understand that all her master’s degree did was make her look both underqualified and overqualified for her job at the same time. (Her main role, from what I could tell, was assigning holiday bonuses and amplifying customer complaints.)

Not-Quite Sephora has a dying business model, but we were kept artificially alive by a steady stream of suburban glum as the principal anchor of a once-iconic strip mall. The first floor was perpetually understaffed—our Google reviews under Brenda’s mismanagement decayed from 4.2 to 2.8 stars (and this coming from a woman who tends to take “American public opinion” with a grain of salt). The turnover rate among everyone except me, Ashley, and Gabby seemed to be such that a new Chris, Brian, or Andy was being fired every three months. Good riddance, I always thought.

Men don’t understand how to take orders from a woman, and the ones who say they do are liars from the black lagoon.

I understand Brenda.

I really do.

Brenda’s most direct feature was that you couldn’t get a direct answer out of her, ever—it was either caustic sarcasm or happy-peppy self-deprecation. Everything she said was either designed to suppress or to charm. She was intelligent, which was the problem—quick-witted even—she prized competence, prided herself on being everything everywhere all at once (with self-pity), once complained to me in the break room that she was an ex-spelling-bee champion. Appearance-wise, what once made me jolt awake at night was that she tries, she actually tries. Not doing anything to set Brenda off had become something of an obsession of mine by her third month there. I applied to other jobs, but only in non-retail.

Trying to go non-retail—my life in a nutshell.

Brenda took over at a precarious time. Inflation was rising. Covid was either over or about to be over, but either way, brick-and-mortar seemed to be one of its death tolls. Brenda had mousy blond hair, wore black trousers to work, and used to tramp around the store carrying an inventory clipboard whenever she was upset about something. I didn’t think it was possible for anyone to take fashion-merchandising so seriously. Her first day at Not-Quite Sephora, Brenda compared our fitting rooms favorably to the fitting rooms at her old Kohl’s in Florida, now shuttered (“So coming back up here was kind of like coming home for me, y’know?”). Brenda grew up in a trailer park in New Jersey and you can tell.

You can guess what her politics are.

I think what appealed to me most about the Cape Cod trip, if I were to be honest, was the right to tell Brenda that I’d have to take a few days off in mid-September because my boyfriend had invited me on a trip to “the Cape.”

Here was a woman in her late forties or early fifties who had located the profundity of her self-esteem in “competence”—and yet it never finally occurred to her that the only way to be “competent” in your everyday life is to command the trust of those around you. Trust is earned, Brenda, and it’s lost with unreliability. I could never really trust that woman not to not trap me inside a rule without being able to explain to me the reasons—not to not be imperious and self-certain and in self-protection mode at all times—and not to not explode all of her emotional wreckage on me, drenching me in the black mist of her self-absorption. Brenda was always right. Brenda is never to be questioned. (Brenda’s real name is “Karen,” which is why I didn’t want to say it at the time.)

It felt so good to able to tell Brenda that—all of her anxieties about the back-to-school rush aside—I’m going to have to take three days off in mid-September because my boyfriend has invited me on a trip with his three friends to the Cape. (I met my boyfriend a year ago on Opal.) It pained me to be so petty—no, not the reference to Cape Cod, which was just a kiss on the lips, but the reference to having a boyfriend, which was my primary poison. I wore more eyeliner to work, not less, the longer the weeks went by trying to circumnavigate Brenda’s imperialism. I enjoyed looking like a magazine cover while supplicating to her at the makeup counter.

We worked at a department store.

(“—so that’s my life, okay?”)

I could see it already. I love how Brenda, with her master’s degree in Global Business Studies or whatever the fuck she majored in, has to flinch every time who I really was blinked in front of her. I bet you flinched every time you saw me shrug into your office, Brenda, no matter what you called me into your office for, because I know about the Us Weeklies you stole from the front stands—I told Accounting about them!—I know how responsive you are to young women with movie-star looks who had won the genetic lottery. I smile at you, Brenda, precisely because I know how my angelic dimples make you feel. It makes you feel like you want to protect me.

It makes you feel you need to defend your true queen.

Beauty was my one and only power over Brenda, but I can assure you I only used it sparingly (all it took was sparingly with a woman so obsessed with appearances). We don’t talk about being pretty enough, which is another way of saying we don’t talk about seeing only the appearances enough. Seeing only the appearances was how I, prior to this weekend, once saw Cape Cod. What do you know about Cape Cod anyway? What’s the first thing that comes to mind when you mentally google it? I want to leave you now with an image of seagulls.

I matched with my boyfriend last September on Opal.

Now I know what you might be thinking—this whole story basically amounts to one long humblebrag about how I have an account on Opal, lol. No. First of all, I deleted that account six months ago. My boyfriend and I both did, on the same day—that was how we agreed to be serious.

Opal’s cornered the market on young attractive people who like to paraglide to remote destinations—the one and only trick it has up its sleeves is “exclusivity,” which in America is a royal flush. I’ll tell you real quick how I landed an account on Opal. A hedge-fund apparatchik I had gone on two dates with wrote me a recommendation letter after I told him I didn’t think it was going to work out between us, but did he still want to be friends? (And what do friends do?) It was his fault. He was the one who’d bragged to me about having an account on Opal in the first place. He even helped me pick out my profile pictures.

I left the Alma Mater field blank.

Opal’s about what you’d expect—videos of narcissist after narcissist who summer in Thailand. I swiped past all of the alpha males, which took days. Men who were earnest or men who were silly were the only men I could take seriously.

My boyfriend’s in that five percent of men just below the top ten percent that most women don’t know to circle the ocean for. You know the type. He’d be unstoppable if just one or two more things had gone right for him, but as it were, the wrong job, the wrong company, the wrong alma mater, had kept a handsome face trapped beneath a monthly gym membership. You’ll recognize these five-percenters from their personality—pure souls who’d lucked out facially, two sevens on the slot machine, but whose unambiguous victory had been stunted by some existential lemon. Some of them have eating disorders. Some google “male plastic surgery” in the dead of night. In my boyfriend’s case, he’s pansexual. Open-minded women have rejected him, which gives him a chip on his shoulder, and now he thinks he understands what it’s like being a minority. My boyfriend’s the type to care a lot about social issues. I’m not sure he even knows we’re interracial.

His parents have a house in Cape Cod.

His dad’s a federal judge and his mom’s an immigration attorney. Until we met and he started showing me pictures on his phone of his childhood vacation home, I had never really thought a lot about Cape Cod. I only knew it as the brand of a potato chip one step up the class ladder from Lay’s, and as a cultural metonym for white-sand beaches, old stone lighthouses, and the Kennedys. Brenda grew up in a trailer park in New Jersey, but I’m sure she must have learned at her master’s program what Cape Cod was.

Cape Cod was where she wanted to be.

And as it so happens, Brenda?

Cape Cod is me.

I wanted so desperately to tell her but I couldn’t.

I wanted so badly to inform Brenda that I had more important things to worry about than making sure the lipsticks were alphabetized, or that the powders were arranged in alternating shades of rouge and beige: namely, that a splitting image of one of the stars you read about in Us Weekly had a life to live, and she was going to enjoy the fruits of her beauty—fruits that Brenda could only live vicariously through (I tallied six missing issues of Us Weekly over the course of a year; no other magazine had gone unaccounted for during the same period except for a single issue of Better Homes & Gardens, which I found one night crumpled on top of Brenda’s desk).

The way Brenda’s eyes lit up whenever she talked about Mackenzie Davis—I just needed Brenda to recognize my own beauty in the same way! It flipped around, you see, like a head trip—sometimes Brenda bowed to her true queen, and sometimes she said mean things to me. I wasn’t thought of as “intelligent” by Brenda, and I could never tell if it was because of my race or my beauty—the two possibilities flickered around in my head like a dueling candlelight until one night I decided, “It’s both,” and just let it die.

Resentment was brewing between me and Brenda.

Ever since I realized I would have to lie to her about my Cape Cod trip, because September would be the back-to-school rush, and there was no way Brenda was okaying me those vacation days. At Not-Quite Sephora, Brenda’s first rule was: “Just be honest. I want to know everything.”

But do you, Brenda?

Do you want to know how I plan to get out of work during the back-to-school rush, because I’ll be with my boyfriend and his three Yale Law classmates traipsing across Cape Cod? Do you really want to read about a beautiful woman’s life in Us Weekly? (Just steal my diary.) I’ll call in sick. I’ll lie and cough right to your face over the phone, Brenda, and I’m telling you it’s corona. I don’t have to be honest with you about anything because you rule by fear, not trust, and in a world of fear without trust anything goes.

Fear without trust is the animal kingdom.

And Not-Quite Sephora is the animal world.

The night before my last day at Not-Quite Sephora, Brenda humiliated Ashley in the stock room. (Ashley had made the mistake of asking her for paid time off for a wedding in December.) I didn’t overhear it, but I heard about it, which was enough. I have always had a way with words, and I gave Brenda some direct evidence of it by way of a resignation letter I wrote to the district manager—only it wasn’t really a resignation letter, it was more like a record of how Karen McHiggins was a terrible supervisor, sent to Corporate and cc-ed to the entire floor. (What mattered wasn’t that I had cc-ed the entire floor, but that the next morning, every single person on the floor congratulated me.) The group chat I’m in with Ashley and Gabby pops off more than ever now ever since I quit, only I didn’t mean to quit.

I only wanted to take a truthful temperature.

Brenda showed all of her cards when I showed up to my shift the next day. “Nina? My office. Now.”

I made eye contact with Ashley, who was already in her uniform, and we both smiled.

She kind of gave me an eye hug.

I wore nude lipstick that day.

The email I had sent Corporate was subject-lined “Management’s Mismanagement,” and it listed six bullet points about Brenda’s bad behavior (one involved throwing a purse at a mannequin; the last five were instances of emotional abuse). It ended with a paragraph about Brenda’s encounter with Ashley in the stock room (Brenda had called Ashley “unlikable,” “self-absorbed,” “a fucking dipshit”).

I laid out the case like the lawyer I couldn’t afford to be (I had other interests, hobbies, and pursuits in middle school, like not killing myself). Brenda was probably shocked I could write. She was probably shocked I could read, but I wield words as weapons—that’s the only thing you ever have to know about me. (In third grade, I won the spelling bee too.)

How did I dress for work the day after I wrote “Management’s Mismanagement” (and really I should say the morning after, because I sent the email at 4 a.m. and had to wake up three hours to let an exterminator in)?

I looked like a star.

I had even spent the last six months of my life casually coaxing Brenda toward the mixed-race celebrities I wanted her to subliminally see me as. Cape Cod would smile. I’d fit in well there, because in my late forties or early fifties I’d have the sort of personality that everybody at Beach Road would know to be impressed by—I could lift my life up to heights that the bourgeois rabble couldn’t even see. Not a single one of my applications to a white-collar job had ended in a palatable offer. Not-Quite Sephora, founded in Vermont, has a labor-friendly CEO. My benefits were good—I even had vision and dental. “One way or another, I’m bringing up my Cape Cod trip,” was the last clear thought I had before knocking on Brenda’s door.

“Come in,” a harsh voice gruffed.

I opened the door.

“Close that please,” was the first thing I heard Brenda say before she and I even made eye contact.

I closed the door dutifully.

Karen McHiggins was standing next to her desk in red pants and a black blazer. She had tied her hair into pigtails that day for some reason, although her hair was so short that they ended up looking more like ringlets, and her eyes behind her glasses were blue and pixel-like. Brenda made a quick gesture at the floor with her hands, almost like she was trying to say “Enough!”, and then said: “What is going on, Nina—what is going on, because I do not understand you.”

Her voice was hoarse.

I couldn’t take my eyes off her red pants—but your blazer is black?—so I just said, “I—” while panning my gaze to her desk, waiting for her to continue.

Brenda’s desk was a mess.

Just like her thought processes.

“If you have ever had a problem with me, you could have come to me directly. What have I always told you, Nina—” Brenda was now screaming.

Brenda thinks screaming has an effect on me.

She’s right—loud noises do have an effect on me. Elevated decibels have an effect on every animal that evolves through nature. How much do I hate Brenda right now? My eyes are staring into hers—but I don’t see a human.

I see an animal.

The power of volume is that it throbs the ear—and ears desire music. Ears desire harmony. Wild animals make me forget poetry as I bolt into the jungle—how much do I hate the woman screaming into my ears right now? Well, there’s a simple formula for that, and all of us are making it, even if we don’t know that we’re making it. We take how much anxiety we experience from being around a person, and then we multiply it by a factor.

My factor is 1 when that person is equal to me.

My factor is a fraction of 1 when that person is homeless.

My factor is greater than 1 when that person is greater than me.

And for Brenda my factor was 42,137—that’s 1 for every dollar that the winds of Brenda’s turbulence lorded over me, granting me vision and dental.

The ensuing number is a hatred.

How much anxiety was Brenda creating in me? Well, for starters—how much did I distrust Brenda? (And how much did I secretly want Brenda to like me?) All the eyeliner I wore to work every day—it wasn’t for mall patrol, it wasn’t for Ashley, and Lord knows it wasn’t for Gabby.

It was for me.

But maybe a little bit of it was for Brenda.

And how much taller does Brenda tower over me right now?

And how much taller does Brenda tower over me right now? Well, let’s see—I submitted 42 job applications, all non-retail. Interviewed at 11. Final-rounded at 7. Received an offer at two—both in New York, which I couldn’t afford. A young white boy at a social media marketing firm told me during the interview that I was “obviously brilliant” before offering me an internship. By July, Brenda towered over me like a god. I fell asleep at night fantasizing about her supervillain origin story. Brenda complained so much about Americans who weren’t vaccinated that I once asked her if she was a childhood polio survivor. “Where in the world did you get that idea?” Brenda laughed, and I laughed too. “Oh, I was just curious.”“How many times have I told you, Nina…”

My expenses have been going up, thanks to my new boyfriend. (As a matter of fact, I am the type of girl to go Dutch!) Taking over Brenda’s position would mean a four-percent raise. To my surprise, Brenda took off her glasses, put them on top of a crinkled magazine on her desk, and started crying. Like, actually crying.

Two actual teardrops leaked out of her eyes.

Self-pity makes me uncomfortable. It makes me uncomfortable when the powerless do it, because now I have to do something, and it makes me uncomfortable when the powerful do it, because now I have to eat them. When somebody more powerful than me expresses self-pity, I can’t help it: I want to guillotine them. I want to take away their right to exist, but I want to watch them suffer first. If I were God, I’d invent Hell just for Brenda. It satisfied me that Brenda would most likely die without children or a partner. I want all capitalists in the First World to die without children or a partner, but to have afterlives that go on forever.

It still doesn’t seem enough though.

Brenda’s office has a desk, no windows, and a door that leads to the loading dock. A poster on the wall behind her desk, and I was just noticing this about her office now for the first time, was of a lighthouse in Cape Cod. “—the back-to-school rush—” Brenda was saying, dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

The ceiling light was fluorescent, and the walls were built of the same beige bricks that made up my elementary school. I once applied to a master’s program in sociology at Johns Hopkins University.

I got in, too.

I hate it here in America—doesn’t anybody else? Is this really that much better than the Soviet Union?

Sympathy for Brenda?

Brenda who lorded over my vision and dental like a bureaucratic algorithm—my boss Brenda?

I did good work.

I was Brenda’s star employee! (I left that part out because I’m not the bragging type.) The only work I couldn’t charge for was the work I didn’t want to do—navigating around the runes and mysteries of Brenda’s uncharted sensitivities like Leif Erikson. The truth was, I hated Brenda for not being able to see me as a beautiful woman just because I wasn’t a beautiful white woman like the pin-up girls she’d gone to school with in New Jersey. Brenda bleeds white guilt, but she rarely ever let me massage any of it toward my favor, except superficially (and you can guess by now how I feel about superficiality). Brenda’s insincerity dehumanized her to me. We humanize each other first as leaps of faith, and then through trust—and nothing about Brenda’s way of existing suggested she could be trusted by me. Not her white guilt. Not her New Jersey liberalism.

Not even her tears.

In fact the longer Brenda cried, the more intensely I wanted to punish her—the phrase “white bitch tears” comes to mind. I wondered if Brenda sincerely didn’t understand that if I could push a button to keep her trapped inside a hole for the rest of her life, I would, and her tears only made me want to push harder. Still, it gave me a start to see—this woman who could take away my ability to not go into debt like checking “Buy Now” on Amazon—reduced before me into a person now trying to trick me into believing she has a soul.

Don’t the workers of the world understand?

Powerful people don’t have souls.

Brenda having a soul would have meant taking my ideas about the BOPUS orders seriously, and not dismissing them out of hand because how could any good ideas come from Nina, the pretty one, if Brenda’s even not-racist enough to see me as pretty (BOPUS is industry slang for “buy online, pick up in store,” and it’s basically brought Not-Quite Sephora to its knees—that and Brenda’s mismanagement). I could divide my hatred of Brenda by a factor to account for the fact that she was fat and unmarried—but whose fault was that, Krispy Kreme? Do you think I actually like exercising?

Are you ready for some real talk now?

I can tell you about the runner’s high until I’m blue in the face, but I’m not built inside like a runner—I’m built inside like a girl who understands that nothing tastes as good as being pretty feels. I don’t know how American society decayed to this point—my Ph.D. dissertation in sociology at Johns Hopkins would have been about the link between an artificial society and the importance placed on appearances, but I couldn’t afford to go, I had actual work to do in middle school (like not killing myself) so I never bothered thinking very long and hard about anything. “Quitting would mean losing my gym membership,” I suddenly remembered.

A new recognition suddenly dawned over me—no gym membership would mean no Cape Cod. It takes a couple hundred months and a couple thousands steps to get there, but trust me, I’ve worked out the odds.

(I make my brain work for me.)

I looked at the lighthouse poster behind Brenda’s desk and said: “Brenda, it’s just—how you treated Ashley last night in the stock room…”

“You weren’t even there!” was what a clear-headed Brenda would’ve said, but Brenda the Tender said nothing.

“I heard about it from Gabby,” I continued. “You know, we’ve talked about this so many times.”

“I know, I know,” Brenda whispered.

“You don’t know how to create a functional work environment sometimes. Groups are held together by trust, not fear.”

I wasn’t quitting.

I was saving everyone at Not-Quite Sephora from Brenda’s bad temper. Brenda’s boss Charles would understand—he’d say, Nina made some good points in this email, but it sounds like you guys have everything worked out, so get back to work—and everyone would move on.

Only Brenda would now be moving into the light.

She would see how her anxieties about Not-Quite Sephora’s declining sales figures were spilling into her paranoias about job security (“And what will I do with all of my competence now that I can’t find a job because I’m old, fat, and ugly?”) and have been spilling into us as sarcasm and curt dismissals ever since her second day on the job. (Her first day was lovely—I was obsessed with Brenda! I even nicknamed her “cool Mom” to Gabby and Ashley.)

How Brenda appeared to me that first day was how Cape Cod once appeared to me too, before this weekend—white-sand beaches, old stone lighthouses, the Kennedys.

Cape Cod had told me a story—and so had Brenda when she first took over Kristi’s post at Not-Quite Sephora (Kristi got pregnant and never came back). Cape Cod’s story was Yale Law, benevolence, intellectualism. Brenda’s story was that she was loud and earthy and understood how to make an entrance—if she’d been honest, she would’ve just said: “I can use my power to make you feel however I want you to feel about yourself. I’m an emotional abuser.”

But the story I heard, because I’m a gullible sweetheart, was “Fun Mom.”

I laughed along amiably to “stressed-out Mom,” bopped along bewilderedly to “not everything is functional upstairs Mom,” and—how do I put this?

I didn’t like the mother who had a master’s degree.

Self-protection was Brenda’s middle name, and nothing I said using the tools of reason or logic could penetrate the fortress of Brenda’s first impressions—that’s the definition of “closed-minded,” by the way (Brenda has a lot to say about closed-minded people—that’s the crazy part).

How we look is the first story we tell each other about who we are. It’s our audiovisual accompaniment to the words that make up the second half of our story—the “spoken half”—and everyone understands that this isn’t fair, everyone understands and then does nothing. Brenda isn’t the only person who learned how to survive in America by going to an American middle school. She’s only lost her temper at me a couple of times, but I’ve been tracking all of them.

I’ve been watching you like a falcon, Brenda.

I’ve been watching you like a true A student.

True A students are out of favor in America for a reason. We’re only mortal, but we’re a little bit supermortal too. Because what I really didn’t like about Brenda was her insincerity—“When have I ever said no to you, Nina?” Brenda was now drying her eyes with a tissue and screaming.

It was a change in the air—a subtle bit of misdirection that she probably thought I was too stupid to catch (I’m not).

I was the powerful one now.

And Brenda McHiggins was now “the victim.”

“You threatened to fire me right after Easter for being late on a BOPUS order,” I treaded carefully.

“Nina, ninety-nine percent of our Google ratings come down to the BOPUS orders—”

“Which is why I said you needed a better system for assigning roles for when people aren’t .”

“Which is why I said you needed a better system for assigning roles for when people aren’t here.”

“But I never threatened to fire you.”

“You told me you’d have my name forwarded to Charles!"

“Exactly!”

“Which is the same as getting fired!”

“That isn’t true, Nina—I would have protected you.”

This statement was so stupid that it almost broke my brain. “Wha—protected me: do you not understand how Charles operates?” Brenda turned her back to me, waved her hand in the air, and said: “I’m not going to go into this with you again” as she looked for her glasses.

“It’s right there,” I said. “On top of Better Homes & Gardens.”

“Oh,” Brenda said without acknowledging me.

Brenda put on her glasses and then sat down into the chair, which made a sound like it was about to snap in half.

This was how she always liked to berate us—from her chair. I had seen that painting of the lighthouse behind Brenda’s desk so many times—it just never occurred to me that it was Cape Cod. Sometimes, I’d overhear Brenda berating Gabby on my way to the restroom and I’d think, “Well, she isn’t wrong—Gabby is kind of stupid—but that’s still not the way you talk to her. You have to incentivize her to trust you first.” (Gabby was the one who first changed Brenda’s nickname from “Fun Mom” to that cunt with a stick up her ass.) Ashley and I burst out laughing. (What else is there to do inside a dying country?)

“Everyone here is so short-tempered with each other because you set the tone. I’ve been too afraid to ask you for three days off in September to go on a trip with my boyfriend for our one-year anniversary because I knew you weren’t going to say yes, so I was just going to take them off as sick days—and that’s not a functional work environment if people are constantly doing things like that all the time, because what you really need to do is go to Charles and ask for more staff.”

“This September—oh, Nina, you got to be kidding me!”

It was the first honest thing I ever heard Brenda say.

I thought about my naïve dream from earlier—how I thought I was going to turn Brenda around.

How I thought I was going to save the store. “The problem is we’re under_staffed_” was what I should’ve said—I get that now, I do, and I don’t know why I couldn’t wear it in my mouth even as it was trying to form in my subconscious. Because other forms were rising in me now too, forms like: “Brenda is a world-class manipulator. She butters you up just to brine you.” (I couldn’t even trust her tears, and if you can’t trust someone’s tears, you can’t trust them to ever find help.) I don’t know how I’d fare if it were just me and Brenda on a deserted island—I could see her killing a cougar for us with her own bare hands, but I could also see her killing me. “I never said that, I just told you I’d have to forward your name to Charles”—Brenda the liar. Brenda who could probably play dead about as well as she could play stupid—any falcon worth its weight in bird could see through it.

“I’ve been having issues with my boyfriend,” I suddenly blurted out.

Where had I learned this from?

Middle school.

“The anniversary trip means a lot to him, and I can’t even say yes or say no—it just hangs there over us, because he knows about the back-to-school rush. And he’s not even someone I—even feel fully comfortable with in some ways. But I’m also scared to lose him, I’m scared every time I come into work on Tuesday because I don’t know how you’re going to change my hours. Everything we do revolves around my not having enough time—I’d have issues building a perfect relationship with him if we had the rest of our lives to ourselves on a deserted island, but every weekend until closing? He works a normal job! He’s tired all the time too, but he makes time to see me and I can’t—I can’t come to you about anything.”

I didn’t cry.

But I did smile in my head:

“Wanna play victim, bitch?”

I could see Cape Cod now—I could see its lighthouse drawing my boyfriend and I closer and closer, I could see us dancing now to The Strokes at midnight like we were back in middle school because I didn’t want this to be the rest of my life, I don’t want retail, I don’t want resumes and cover letters and I don’t want to meet any more Brendas—what I want is for the Brendas of the world to collapse at my feet, but all I can see are the Brendas of the world closing in on me until death and so I need a release, I need to go back to middle school (I was popular in middle school, I can admit that now, I had bee-stung lips, and a bee-stinger too)—I need The Strokes (haven’t you ever made out with a boy in a hot tub while stroking your nails across his abs, parting the hair where his lower back begins?)—“Is this it? … Is this it?”—(my boyfriend and I swimming in the stars of our liberation, and I’ll give him all the vision and dental that he likes)—prey: always just a one-click order away (and we’ll eat lobster, because lobsters hold harms forever)—I the warm body and he the warm arms, holding me in his lanky-panky forever (and if Connor ever got a gym membership I would die—I don’t need a perfect 10, I can settle for an 8.9)—my captors: do they know? Do they understanding I’m not living my one true life? Wearing Ray-Bans while gazing out at the Atlantic from a yacht, because Comfort is my one true God—I’m ready, Mr. DeMille, for my one true closeup to begin. How am I still in Brenda’s office? I’m twenty-seven years old—how am I twenty-seven years old and still smoldering in Brenda’s office? In middle school I listened to The Strokes while everyone else listened to pop hip-hop—another Universe has been calling to me all my life. And all it would take was just a few more thousand steps to get there.

I’ve been running every day since I was thirteen. I don’t even eat my desserts correctly—I just spit and chew.

Ashley and Gabby remind me of who I was back in middle school. I had power over everyone back then except Abercrombie Couture (not her real name). Abercrombie was the class favorite—it’s hard to explain, but among the very-outgoing girls, Abercrombie was Frivolity Personified. And when only the people who needed to see it could see it, Abercrombie was the cruelest human you’ve ever met—she’d ignore you so subtly you’d drive yourself crazy for days asking the other girls if she was mad at you. Back then I had already begun telling myself I was too cool to care—but I still have nightmares about Abercrombie sometimes, about the way she’d say hi to everybody else at the party except me. “I just can’t deal with your emotional up and downs anymore, Brenda! Like I’m sorry—I’ve defended you to Ashley and Gabby so many times! I’m sick of having these conversations with them.”

Abercrombie, I later realized during college, must have been unsettled by how candidly I could talk about her behind her back. That was my little power over her, and I’d like to think I wielded it gracefully. (Abercrombie was dethroned by a lurid sex scandal involving a used condom in eighth grade, and I’d like to believe I led our class to a more open and inclusive place after her dismissal.)

“Three days—where you trying to go, Wuhan?”

“No. The Cod.”

“The what?”

“The Cod.”

“Where’s that?”

“In Massachusetts.”

“You mean Cape Cod?”

That was how quickly I realized I had fumbled the ball—that was the speed at which I realized I had fumbled the fuck-you—the one thing I needed to do correctly and I had fumbled the ball trying to cross the finish line. “It’s the Cape, not the Cod sweetie,” Brenda was already huffing to me by the time I realized my mistake, with a smile on her face. She’ll deny it to this day, and in absolute candor I can’t really say it was a “physical” smile—I don’t remember what it looked like, I don’t remember if Brenda actually huffed or if she even moved her mouth all that much at all, it was more in the eyes, but that bitch smiled.

I grew up in Nevada.

My boyfriend graduated from Yale Law and with him I can see a way out of my life—and I really don’t understand why that’s such a terrible thing to say. And I’m about to lose him—it’s in between the lines, but I can just feel it, I have him wrapped around my little finger because that’s the only way I’d ever have any man who loomed so tall over me, with him it’d be Cape Cod until the end of my days and nobody would ever laugh at me for calling it the Cod again—I’ll just rename it.

My hatred of Brenda in that moment was rivaled only by my childhood hatred of Abercrombie Couture.

But I knew I had to proceed gingerly.

I began to feel like Leif Erikson again—what other uncharted sensitivities do you have, Brenda?

Do white people really have white guilt?

Verbalizing the subconscious is like navigating by stars—Pequod knows where it’s trying to go, it just needs the conscious mind to plot out the steps to get there first—only I couldn’t verbalize any of this, all I could do was feel the mind for throbs like the twitches of a rat’s tail inside the forest below—and I was throbbing for a release, I was throbbing all my middle-school embarrassments, I was throbbing Cape Cod. A woman who understood nothing but appearances stood in front of me, utterly preoccupied with her own self-preservation—neither wise, open-minded, nor beautiful—but who could mean the difference between me and my income, between me and my livelihood, between me and my boyfriend breaking up (which would mean the difference between me and Cape Cod)—and I couldn’t even get anyone on the second floor to take her magazine theft seriously. How do I even begin to tabulate all her subtle knife-wounds to the psyche?

My favorite song by The Strokes?

“Hard to Explain.”

“You can correct the way I say things all you’d like, but it doesn’t change the fact that I live in fear of you—okay? I go home every night and cry. You bully Ashley and Gabby every day but I’m not Ashley or Gabby—okay? You have not created an emotionally safe environment in the workplace and it’s affecting my life—okay? I’m sorry you take yourself so seriously, and I’m sure it has nothing to do with your fear that all the girls who thought you’d never amount to anything in middle school might be right, but if you have to terrorize other people just to feel better about yourself, that’s not how I roll—okay? That’s not me. The way you talk to Ashley, Gabby, Mike, Chris—it’s un-ac-cep-ta-ble, Brenda.”

And this is where my ship was trying to go:

“I don’t think you belong in your position. So that’s what I told Charles.”

I’d set fire to Cape Cod if I could.

I’d set fire to my boyfriend’s lake house, I’d set fire to Brenda’s Us Weeklies, and I’d certainly set fire to the poster of the lighthouse with seagulls behind Brenda’s desk.

“I don’t work here anymore. Not until you apologize to Ashley,” I added quickly.

My speech was now outpacing my life decisions.

“And I’m not going to be manipulated by you anymore, okay? Because you know how hard I work, you know how much I give to this store every day but Wannabe-Nordstrom isn’t my life, okay? I am not living the life I want to live every single day—so that’s my life, okay?”

Were ordinary people in the Soviet Union this unhappy? Has anyone ever bothered to ask them?

The only thing I ever knew how to do around Brenda was say whatever I needed to say to make her feel comfortable.

Like seagulls exploding out of a cove, that was the only thing Brenda ever seemed to value: her personal comfort. I don’t remember how Brenda looked in that moment. She kept darting her eyes between Better Homes & Gardens and the floor, and her glasses were foggy. I gazed at Brenda with a falcon’s stare and said:

“Think of last night as my last straw.”

It’d be worth it, you know.

It’d be worth it to suspend my gym membership for a few months to see Brenda have to swallow the fruits of her own disorder. I hadn’t coaxed Brenda into reacting the way she did to Ashley’s request—I had only coaxed Ashley into talking to her, and that was a sincere act of friendship: “You have to stand up for yourself with people like that, Ashley.”

“That’s easy for you to say, Brenda and you are like best friends.”

“We are not.”

“You have her wrapped around your little finger, Nina.”

“No I don’t,” I said, and then I hit Ashley’s face with a big fat pillow until feathers fell out, which of course never happened because Ashley and I don’t have open and honest conversations about anything. All Ashley said was “You’re probably right,” and I could sense in Ashley’s eyes that she was perceptive enough to understand I was probably wrong—but even I couldn’t pick that up, at least not consciously, so in a way, Ashley doomed herself by failing to correct me.

I was Brenda’s star employee and everybody knew it.

I’ve been an A student all my life.

I’m the picture of good anger management.

Management hates it when you quit. That’s the one thing you can still lord over them, even during a recession (and July 2022 in America was anything but)—replacing an employee costs time, and time is money. Every store manager knows that—even Brenda (her management woes don’t source back to her inability to optimize).

And then Brenda said something so stupid that for a second I almost thought she was parodying Gabby.

“I thought you and I could speak openly to each other.”

Brenda.

Girl.

Just because you tell me about the medications you take for your back problems doesn’t mean we’re friends.

Was this really happening right now?

“I don’t know what you expect me to say,” I told Brenda. “I did speak openly in the email.”

Was Brenda really buying into Ashley’s delusion that management and workers can be just friends?

Or was she just calculating that I—because I’m pretty—was stupid enough to buy into it too?

“Actually, no—the way you engage with others doesn’t seem intended to provide a pathway for sincere and open conversations. You have a ‘No Assholes’ policy that seems intended to make other people suppress their true feelings around you at all times, because anybody who contradicts you is automatically an asshole.”

I didn’t say that.

I just said: “It can be intimidating to speak to you sometimes.”

Even when you try to laugh with me about your muscle relaxants, I laugh back, but what I really want to say is “Brenda, a certain percentage of the population is going to have back problems, and you have given me no particular reason to care about yours.” I think again now about if Brenda and I were stuck on a deserted island. I’d probably have to save her life from the elements from time to time, and that’d build trust between us. “What we’d need to do is charter a plane somewhere, and have the plane crash. That’s the only way to resuscitate this relationship.”

“How many times have I told you, Nina, you can come to me about anything…” and before I could even respond, Brenda began comparing our dynamics to a mother-daughter relationship and I was one second away from saying, “Bitch, that’s your problem,” but I caught myself and said calmly:

“Brenda, that’s the problem.”

Brenda looked at me earnestly.

“Just, that right there—the word you used. I don’t think you really understand other people’s boundaries? I tell you obligatory anecdotes from my personal life because you specifically ask to hear them, not because I want to volunteer them—again, that’s how afraid I am of you, Brenda, because I don’t even feel like I have the right to tell you that my dating history is, actually, now that I think about it, none of your business. And then you lecture me about how I talk to my boyfriend? Again, because you asked to hear the details, and you actually make it so that now I’m thinking about my boyfriend at work instead of focusing on my job, which you then get mad at me for? I don’t think you really understand, Brenda, how your friendliness comes off when it’s mixed with so much—neediness, I don’t know, this need to control everything all the time—to make everything perfect.”

The first time I ever met Brenda, we got along so well that after our shift we went to a Red Lobster on the other side of the strip mall, where she bought me three milkshakes. I told her about growing up with my mom in a trailer park in Nevada and she told me about growing up with her mom in a trailer park in New Jersey—we laughed a lot that night. I don’t even remember what we laughed about, but we were both talkers, Brenda and I, we were both tellers, and we were both showers. I could tell after my first milkshake that Brenda must have floated in the margins of the sub-popular crowd in middle school, and she all but confirmed it on the second (she just had one of those I’ve seen it all energies).

“So how does it feel being back in the Northeast?”

“Honestly?” Brenda said, grabbing a French fry. “I’m ready.”

You couldn’t hear the ocean from where we were sitting, but you could hear a highway.

I understand Brenda.

I really do.

Sometimes at night, while I fantasized about quitting a company whose Corporate was famous for giving their employees vision and dental (and anyway, what else would I do besides marketing or retail? In what other way might I be called upon to serve the good people of America?), I’d climax with an image of Brenda sitting alone at home on a Thursday night (that was Brenda’s day off), crocheting to Fleetwood Mac, with a cat rubbing up against her ankle. The only mystery was how many paintings of beaches dotted her apartment.

I know Brenda doesn’t talk to her mother anymore (“Neither do I!” was probably one of our first laughs), and I’d fantasize about how much she probably secretly admired me—because I was pretty—because I could always talk my way into classes and parties she could only stare through the curtains of (I once helped Brenda create an account on Plenty of Fish), and now it was too late for her because she was already in her late forties or early fifties—and I?

I was bound for Cape Cod.

“What are the locals there like,” all summer long I used to wonder. I work at a Nordstrom now.

And I no longer wonder.

“Oh, sweetie—it’s called the Cape, not the Cod.”

Wasn’t that how she had said it?

Even in her most helpless moment, she was still so condescending—she was still just so frivolously condescending—I mean think about the stakes here, girl, you’re about to lose your star employee right before the back-to-school rush—was the poison dart worth it?

Was the poison tip worth it, Brenda?

“I don’t think it’s healthy for me to work here anymore,” I suddenly blurted out. “You’re not a good influence on me.”

“What can I say to make you stay just through September?”

It was so quick and direct that it snapped me instantly out of my sympathy spell.

Brenda.

There’s the Brenda I knew—Brenda, you’re back!

And you’re still holding onto threads in the air.

This store will dissipate, Brenda. Your job will dissipate, and then you’ll have to go right back out there again and sell your competence at another round on the roulette wheel. (Just don’t end up at another store that sells beauty supplies, Brenda—I don’t think you quite understand what they’re really telling the world.) “I don’t think there’s anything you can say, Brenda. I know how hard the last few months have been for you, and I thought very long and hard about doing this to you. But I have to prioritize my own mental health.”

“You know Charles is only giving me a year.”

Brenda said this with a vulnerability I had never heard from her before.

Her voice was like a child’s.

Guilt—it’s impossible to summon it for a person you’ve already dehumanized. Cockroaches die every day.

My subconscious was churning again—I would have a child with my boyfriend someday, and I would protect her from people like you, Karen McHiggins. “Brenda, you have the mental age of a child,” was what I really wanted to say to her. “When I fuck up at work, who do you think I go to? Nobody—do you understand that, Brenda, because adults take responsibility for their shit.”

But I would have to sugarcoat it, because someone with the mental age of an Abercrombie would be unable to understand that the powerful can’t be friends with the powerless, no matter how hard they tried—and someone with the mental age of an Abercrombie would also need everything sugarcoated for them.

“Brenda, I don’t know how to break this to you but there isn’t going to be any back-to-school rush! It’s not 2019 anymore—Covid killed retail. We don’t know whether we want to be bargain basement or high-end and the middle class is dead, everyone wants either a bargain or an experience! What did they teach you in that master’s program?”

Only I couldn’t say that either, because Brenda would somehow spin it into me losing my cool, which is the one thing I never do—I’ve been one thing and one thing only all my life, and that’s an A student.

“You’ve given your life to a dinosaur, Brenda—move on. Department stores are dead—this isn’t the ’80s anymore. Your image of America—it’s a façade, and I can prove it. It’s that picture of the lighthouse you keep behind your desk that you pilfered from returned merchandise, and I can prove that too. We’re like explorers in an uncharted land. Things are going to fall apart for us in ways we have no templates for, just like they did for all of the generations before us—only they weren’t as trapped inside the façade of returned merchandise as we are! Settled mores are changing. This century could still look like anything—it’s all up for grabs, and more and more people are just beginning to wake up to this new dawn. Maybe what you really need to do is start a YouTube channel. You have the voice for it, you have the charisma, and you have the storytelling abilities—we could all profit from hearing from your perspective, only nobody will because you’re not young, thin, or beautiful, but hey—it’s worth a shot! You’ll have a better chance there at the lighthouse than you do in retail.”

Only I didn’t say any of this either, because I knew Brenda couldn’t hear a word I was saying. Brenda was dead between the eyes—her soul died in middle school, and she’s been dragging the corpses of would-be lives ever since.

“You’re not a particularly smart or competent person, Brenda, and what’s happening right now speaks for itself. You didn’t just get unlucky, Brenda.”

Brenda once whistled to me when she saw me change into a sundress as I was leaving my afternoon shift—“Whose heart are you breaking tonight, Nina?”

“None of your business!” was what I wanted to tell her, but I wanted to let Brenda live vicariously through me—it was the only gentleness I could ever offer her.

“You know Charles is only giving me the year,” Brenda had said, and she was staring into the void now. I could feel her back pain. She had given her whole entire life to Not-Quite-Sephora, six days a week, and on most nights on my way to the restroom I could hear “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac playing from a small Bluetooth speaker. I looked at Brenda and said: “I have no idea what you want from me. It’s not my job to make you look any better than you are at your job. And I don’t know what your agreement with Charlie has to do with anything—in fact, I had lunch with him the other day.”

Brenda lifted her eyes.

“What?” she said stupidly.

“Oh, I’m sorry—I was trying to get a vacation approved. No, Brenda. I needed to talk to him about a few things.”

“What things?”

And then, before I could offer an answer, “What are you trying to say, Nina? Just spit it out!”

“You have a problem, okay? I’ve seen the way you’ve unraveled in the last few months—Gabby and Ashley are afraid of you, Chris is about to quit, literally nobody can handle your emotional volatility anymore. Everybody’s so short-tempered with each other all the time and coming to me for help, and it’s not my job to help them—that’s your job! You’ve created a situation where nobody can even talk to you. We just smile at you out of fear. You don’t command anybody’s respect—you know that, right? So we basically have to operate without a supervisor—you understand that, don’t you?”

It feels good to eat.

I no longer have a gym membership anymore. Instead, I jog every Tuesday and Friday at the public park.

“So yeah—so I guess I just thought it was about time Charlie heard all of this. He’s actually very reasonable if you talk to him in a reasonable way. He said he’d look into opening one or two more positions for us to cover the weekends. But you probably won’t be there to oversee it.”

Not-Quite Sephora was founded as a regional competitor to J.C. Penney in 1991. It never expanded beyond the Northeast, Minnesota, and California, and it’s about to die—it’s only a matter of time. Unless if maybe Corporate in Burlington saw the light and hired someone like me and actually listened to her ideas for turning all of their stores into “experiences,” which is what I’ve been trying to tell Brenda every time she questioned one of my lipstick arrangements. A lot of what I miss about middle school is the taste-test of freedoms I enjoy every day now as an adult: you build a friendship with the highest person who’ll take you in.

That’s how you climb a hierarchy.

Brenda looked at me like a wounded animal.

There really isn’t ambiguity, is there, about which one of us would survive if it were just you and me on a deserted island. A new recognition was forming inside of Brenda, and I didn’t want to be there to watch it settle in—you can’t treat people like you treated Ashley the other night in the stock room, this isn’t the ’80s anymore. Of course, Brenda was too obtuse to work out that I was only bluffing. The truth was, I had talked to Charlie briefly on the second floor, but he just told me to “put it all in an email,” and I knew he was never going to speak to Brenda long enough to ever contradict anything I had just said—Charlie’s not exactly the open type. Besides, Charlie did agree to look into hiring more part-timers, the way Charlie ever agrees to anything—by pretending it was his idea all along. “It’s the unreliability of when customers come in, that’s the problem,” Charlie had explained to me. (“Yes, that’s true. Unreliability is always the problem,” I told Charlie.)

You can’t rely on other people’s testimony when you ask them about Abercrombie Couture.

You have to come to me.

I’ve seen sides of Abercrombie that nobody else has.

“So what’s the dating scene like out here?” Brenda had asked me that first night at Red Lobster, while popping a French fry. I remember trying not to look at Brenda like she was serious. “It’s just men!” I remember laughing to Brenda in front of two tall glasses of milkshake. “It’s just a bunch of men—that’s the only way I know how to put it!”

And then Brenda in her black blazer and black pants laughed too.

Like we were girlfriends.

“I would’ve given you those vacation days, Nina,” Brenda finally said in a whisper. “If I had just understood that you knew what you were doing when you took them—what you were doing to the store—I would’ve given them to you.”

A new sincerity is trying to grow in the air all around us—I can hear its infant-screams, can’t you? (Couldn’t Brenda?) “Oh my God, Brenda. This is about so much more than whether or not I can go on one trip to Cape Cod.”

“That is all this is about to you, Nina, and don’t you pretend otherwise—”

“No, it isn’t.”

“—because you have a fancy boyfriend now.”

“Leave Connor out of this.”

I don’t really know where my life’s going to go after Cape Cod. Colson’s mental health—it causes collateral damage to people (Colson was one of Connor’s three friends that had stayed with us at the lake house). I don’t really think he understands that his actions have consequences on other people. He thinks I’m one of the popular kids who terrorized him in middle school, but the truth is—I’m just a little bit higher or lower on the pecking order than he is. All of us are—all of us down here. I can’t really bring myself to fully hate him for what he did, but then I remember what his life is and I do—I hate him by several orders of magnitude more than I ever hated Brenda. And what Colson and Brenda both have in common, of course, is their dripping self-pity: they’re both absolutely lacquered in it (what is it about competitive social environments that produces so much self-pity anyway, dripping like honey?). I didn’t have too much compassion for Colson when he asked me to feed some of his honey back to him with my fingers. “Money,” I wanted to tell him.

“How much money you have is an easy way to tabulate what your self-pity is worth to me.”

But to be honest, I couldn’t even lift a finger to care.

Cape Cod was only four days ago, but it’s already just another memory now—that’s how all of our weekends are bound to end. Several hundred more of these and then it’s lights out. Connor and I listened to the first season of Serial on the way up, and as we walked through Martha’s Vineyard later that afternoon, we saw fifty migrants from South America file onto a bus bound for a military installation.

There were cameras and cake everywhere.

We’re all participants in this gladiatorial contest to see who ends up in Cape Cod as the sun sets over our lives.

Colson recently wrote a book called A Stick of Dynamite in the American Elite.

I wish him luck.

I have plans for him, you know.

No matter what his next chess move is—I have a plan to stop him. I left Brenda alone in her office that day. I never learned where she went after she was dismissed from Not-Quite Sephora, all I remember is Ashley and Gabby coming over to hug me as I grabbed my purse from the break room, and they both quit two days later. It was because there’s something in my soul that doesn’t like to see other people are in pain—even people without souls like Brenda (Colson doesn’t count because he’s not really a human in my eyes, he’s more like a bad anecdote you shake off)—that I found myself hugging Brenda right before I said goodbye, holding her as she kept saying to me that I’d been like a daughter to her: “Brenda—Brenda, listen to me. My boyfriend has an ex-boyfriend whose stepmom also has a drinking problem, okay? Brenda—are you listening to me? They live in Westport…”

Cape Cod will die.

It’s only a matter of time before it collapses under the weight of its own contradictions. I sail America’s values like Leif Erikson now—other people have built their homes and comforts here, but I don’t mind. I wonder sometimes what Abercrombie Couture anesthetizes her listlessness to these days—HBO? Unsubtle affairs with younger men? “How long before mundane dehumanization bears fruit?” I smile to myself every day at Nordstrom, as I walk around the counter to deliver my customer’s parcels to them personally.

I see Abercrombie sometimes in the eyes of the women I help at Nordstrom. They’re all moms, and if that’s the final meaning of our lives—then yes, I agree.

Let’s all be moms.

You don’t know the Hell I’ll reign over America’s guilty class in the twenty-first century, but you will soon: I will mother the destruction of America’s guilded gilts into existence. I broke up with Connor this morning. Something about his reaction to Colson’s breakdown in Cape Cod just didn’t sit well with me—he couldn’t see through Colson’s insincerity, and that makes me think he might not have what it takes in this life to go where I’m trying to go. At my new job at the mall, I nibble on old memories like a woman who hasn’t eaten now in years. The last person I ate was my narcissistic mother in Nevada—she ruined my childhood—she was the Leif Erikson of my formative years—but then again?

So was my middle school.

College feels like a million years ago. My sorority sisters are all married with kids now. Mothers will do anything to protect their young.

#MeToo.

2022

[smileydk]

You can't con the Con-Man

Pairing: Magician!Taehyun x PickPocket!OC

Summary: A pickpocketer finds a fancy looking man in the middle of the street. He's wearing a neat suit, his hair is styled nicely, over all he looks clean. She comes to conclusion that since he looked fancy, he's gotta carry some cash on him. She however does not expect him to catch her, and she absolutely does not she take into account that he could be a magician and con-artist.

cw/tw: Kissing, make-out session, hickeys, fingering, unprotected sex (wrap it if you wanna tap it), orgasm denial, creampie, slight breeding kink, choking, cunnilingus

Jiwoo looked for her next offer. It was hard considering the fact that she was in the Jung-district, which meant almost no one carried enough cash to even risk anything.

She sighed. She had to go to Gangnam, which she didn't want to do since the cops knew her a bit too well.

But then again, she liked having a roof over her head as well as sleeping on a full stomach.

''Fuck'' She mumbled and turned her heel towards the subway.

She kept her head down as she got on the train. She was hoping there would be no controls this time, since she jumped the gate and hadn't paid for a ticket. It was rarely any controls, but she had seen thos annoying, blue-clad men coming down the trains.

Her prayers were heard and she got off the train in Gangnam. As soon as she stepped off the train, she walked into a giant flood of people.

The clock was 5 in the afternoon, meaning everyone were on their way home after work.

''Perfect'' She mumbled as she bumped into people, apologized and smiled sweetly, meanwhile her hand dug around in their pocket for something worth stealing.

She was silently thanking her genes and looks. She fit into the Korean beauty standard almost perfectly, and she had an innocent face. No one would ever suspect her to pickpocket. Except the police who already knew her.

Besides, she wouldn't keep the wallet, she'd take cash and throw the wallet in the nearest trashcan. There would be no actual way of proving the cash wasn't hers.

As she made it up to the ground she smirked. She'd already made 100'000₩. Sure, it was two bills, but it was more than she'd ever find in the Jung-district.

The woman kept walking down the streets, bumping into random people she thought looked wealthy enough to loose a few bills. She would never steal from someone who already seemed poor.

She stood by the ugly Gangnam Style statue, doing nothing. She was mostly looking for a new victim. No one was to her liking. Most of the people were either teenagers, kids shopping for their families or old couples, none of which she'd ever pickpocket.

She had a tiny bit of morale.

''Ha!'' She exclaims quietly to herself. She'd found her next victim.

A tall man, probably around the 6 feet mark, clad in a striped suit, nice polished shoes, big doll-like eyes, a kind smile on his lips. He looked rich.

Jiwoo approaches him to take a closer look and notices the small hat infront of him as well as a deck of cards which he shuffled in some fancy way. It did look quite cool, she had to admit.

She took a spot in the front and watched as he performed different card tricks. Whether it was finding someone's card or simply making them appear out of thin air, he made it look simple.

He took a bow and the crowd that had gathered around him applauded. Some people dropped a few bills in his little collectors hat before they left.

He collected his stuff and didn't seem to notice the woman who still watched him. She carefully walked around him and allowed her hand to slip into his, not-so-tight, blazer pocket. She found a couple of bills and grabbed them.

As she tried leaving something stopped her.

A pair of handcuffs, in the other end was the magician. He wore a smirk on his lips. ''Where do you think you're going with my money... Kim Jiwoo?''

Jiwoo froze. She didn't know what to do. ''Uhm... you're not gonna believe me if I said that you dropped them I guess?''

He chuckled and shook his head. ''Nope, hand them back''

A groan left her lips, but she held out the bills for the man to take. ''Are you gonna let me go, or do you plan on keeping me around as a pet?''

''Well, you would make a beautiful pet'' He smirked as he turned to take a better look at her.

''Oh yeah? I'm an expensive bitch''

''I live in Gangnam, sweetheart, I've got money. Judging by your little con attempt, you don't''

Ouch, she thought. Sure, she'd tried stealing his money, sure, he was correct, sure, she deserved the words he used, but still!

''Don't act innocent, we both know I'm right''

The woman only raised an eyebrow. ''Oh yeah? Sure, you are. But let's take a look at you. You're a magician right now, on which you can't make much since not everyone leaves bills, and those who do never leave over 5'000₩, meaning you must have a much better job, or you're con-artist''

The man looked slightly impressed. ''Well, love, you're correct. I work in a boring office during the day, when I'm off the clock I come here and do my magic but simply for entertainment''

''So, you're gonna let me go or?''

''They were never locked, darling. They're from the toyshop around the corner. They were literally like 1'000₩''

Jiwoo's cheeks heated up. Now that he said it, and she actually paid the handcuffs some attention, they looked crappy as hell.

''So, your name is Kim Jiwoo, got a number? Or you wanna borrow mine?'' The man packed up his last things.

''Never give anyone my number, why should you be any different? And how the fuck did you know my name?'' Jiwoo stood by the man as he packed. She'd shoved her hands into her jean's pockets as the wind picked up. No, she didn't bring a hoodie.

''Well, because I didn't tell the police man over there about your failed plan. I recognize your face, you're wanted for pickpocketing. And you really need to keep track of your Credit Cards'' Taehyun held up Jiwoo's Credit Card.

Jiwoo groaned. ''Fine, [phone]. You got a name?''

''Kang Taehyun'' He bowed elegantly.

''Are you a prince or sum?'' The woman raised an amused eyebrow. ''Why do you care who I am anyways? I literally tried stealing your money''

''You failed anyways, and I have your Credit Card, so I'd say I won. And you're pretty. Why wouldn't I want to get to know a pretty girl?''

Jiwoo still didn't understand. ''What if I'm a minor?''

''As I said, I've seen your wanted posters, I don't think they'd care that much about a minor'' Taehyun finished packing up all his tricks and turned to her. ''Wanna join me for dinner? On me''

The woman was much to hesitant. Sure, the man was absolutely gorgeous and he was kind, but she also had never allowed someone to be "close" to her, no matter how cheesy it sounded. Nor did she really trust the man.

But then again, free food.

''Fine''

''Well we're gonna have to swing by a dress shop because no restaurant in Gangnm is gonna let you in looking ike that'' Taehyun motioned to her ripped jeans, which wasn't design, and her worn out t-shirt that could pass for a dress due to how outstretched it was.

''I have no-''

''I didn't say you should pay. I simply said we needed to get you one. I'll pay for that as well''

Jiwoo was hesitant. ''Why are you so determined to take me to dinner? You met me a minute ago''

''No sweetheart, I'm a con-artist, I've seen you a lot. I've seen you pickpocket for years. I'm impressed. But you know the poor, blind man you gave 10'000₩ last week? Me'' He smirked and bowed.

''Not as impressed. Happens all the time''

''I made 100'000₩'' Taehyun smirked and raised an eyebrow. ''How much did you make? Minus the 10'000₩ you gave me''

''Fuck you'' She mumbled under her breath.

Taehyun raised an amused eyebrow. ''Only if you want to''

He started walking, and Jiwoo followed blindly. She had no idea where they were going. She never spent much time in Gangnam, she was usually in and out within the hour.

The man, who she'd met 10 minutes ago, dragged her inside a giant gown shop. It held floor gowns, princess looking dresses, puffy gowns, floral gowns and so on. They were all kinds of colors.

Jiwoo walked up to a random gown and checked the price tag. Her eyes widened. ''Taehyun, these gowns are literally 3'000'000₩, and those are the cheap ones''

''And as I said earlier, I'm paying. Pick anyone you want, Princess''

The women in the shop looked her up and down with judging faces. Sure, she was dressed in a pair of ripped jeans and an oversized t-shirt, and she hadn't showered in a week, but she felt judged.

She found a white gown with a slit. Sure, she wasn't much for gowns, but it just spoke to her.

Women in Korea were generally quite short and petite, but Jiwoo was (apparently) even shorter. ''Excuse me, do you have this in size 44?''

The women who worked there only laughed. ''I don't think you can afford that, darling''

''I didn't ask you if I could afford it, I asked you if you have this in my size''

The women only continued laughing at the single woman standing in the shop, gown in her hands that was way too big.

Taehyun let out a loud groan. ''Assist her, would you? I've got money to spend. If you're not gonna help her, I might as well just take my Black Card here, and go somewhere else''

The women were suddenly very, very excited to help the woman find a dress to her liking.

''Would you like to take a shower? No extra cost''

Taehyun sat down in one of the velvet futons. He smiled to himself. She was probably the most gorgeous woman he'd ever laid eyes upon.

Jiwoo came out 40 minutes later, dressed in the white gown, which was slightly lose at the cleavage, not leaving much to the imagination, it was tight around the aist and flowy from the hips and down. The slit was high which made her legs appear longer.

On her feet were a pair of white LouBoutin, which added an extra five inches to her short height.

Her hair had been blow dried and curled by the clerks and flowed down her back in perfect waves.

Taehyun walked up to her and took her hand in his. ''How do I look?'' Jiwoo asked as Taehyin spun her around. Due to Jiwoo never wearing heels before, she tripped over her own feet.

''Easy there'' Taehyun chuckled and wrapped a securing arm around her waist, and pulled her against her own body. ''I'll pay, and then we'll head out. Sounds good to you?''

The woman nodded. ''Uhm, will-''

''No, we're not taking your disgusting old cothes with us. You can burn them. We'll buy new clothes for you''

Jiwoo raised an eyebrow. ''So you're saying I'll see more of you?''

''Only if you want to''

Taehyun was laughing loudly as Jiwoo spoke. ''No you did not!''

''I did! I swear! So, I was running away from his asshole of a police, and he was catching up since he was literally twice my height, and so I didn't know what to do! Then I remembered something my friend told me, flash a man and your problems will go away, so I did''

Tears were filling Taehyun's eyes as he continued laughing. ''Oh my god, kind of wish I was on the other end though''

Jiwoo smacked his arm and glared at the man. ''How dare you?''

''With the cleavage on that dress you're not leaving much to my imagination, altough, uhm, my imagination is... that now''

The woman leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs. ''Oh yeah?''

''Yeah, you're hot, I'm hot, let's fuck'' Taehyun stated bluntly. He leaned back and looked at Jiwoo through hooded eyes.

Jiwoo would never admit it to the man's face, but it made her hot. She liked his burning, mysterious gaze.

The waiter came over with the tab, which Taehyun quickly paid. The two left the restaurant and waited for the valet to drive the car to the front.

Taehyun had a tight grip of Jiwoo's hips. ''Quite sure you're gonna leave a mark if you don't release my hips''

''That'd mean you're mine, eh? Wouldn't it look beautiful?''

''Taehyun-'' Before Jiwoo could scold the man the valet pulled up with the slick, black Audi r8.

Jiwoo sat down in the passenger seat again and Taehyun closed the door behind her. As he sat down in the driver's set he smirked. ''So, you're coming to mine?''

''I would never fuck someone on the first dinner-''

''Stop lying to yourself, I saw you shifting when I stared you down before''

The woman blushed and looked out the window. ''No''

''Don't deny it, Princess'' He smirked and started the car. ''I know you want me''

Jiwoo decided to not reply and continued staring out the window. Taehyun only chuckled and drove towards his own place, one hand on the steering wheel and the other one resting in Jiwoo's lap.

She tried ignoring his, rather big, hand on her left thigh. It was warm, and squeezing her flesh every now and then. Jiwoo tried her best to ignore it, but he made it very hard.

As he squeezed her thigh once more Jiwoo'd gotten enough. She laid her hand on his and held it in a firm grip. Taehyun smirked. He enjoyed the effect he had on her.

''You are such a tease''

''I know, two words and I'll do it''

Jiwoo looked at him. ''I am not gonna say that''

Taehyun chuckled. ''Okay, I'll leave you high and not-so-dry''

She was silently cursing him in her head. She was hoping he'd completely ignore her and take her in his car.

''I know you want me to take you here, in the car. But I'm gonna need to hear you say those two magic words''

She continued cursing him. ''Fine! Fuck me!''

Jiwoo had never seen a man pull over that fast. She also could not understand how he pulled her into his lap with one swift motion.

''Wanna ride me? Or do you want me tot ake you in the backseat?'' Taehyun raised an eyebrow and massaged her waist.

''I don't care''

''Backseat then'' Jiwoo followed his orders and climbed into the backseat. Taehyun made sure to smack her ass before following her lead.

Taehyun didn't waste anymore more time and leaned down to press his lips against hers. Jiwoo wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him flush against her body.

A small chuckle left her lips as she felt him grinding against her. ''And you teased me?''

''Well Princess, we're gonna see who's the one begging soon'' He pulled her panties to the side and looked at Jiwoo. ''As I said, not-so-dry? Hm?''

His hands ran up her thighs, fingers moving too lightly for Jiwoo's liking. Goosebumps grew on her legs, causing her to shudder.

He leaned down and pressed his lips against hers again. He smirked to himself as he inserted his fingers in her pussy. A small, breathy moan left her lips.

As his fingers pumped inside of her Jiwoo could only moan. His hands were huge, and they surely knew what they were doing.

His fingers nudged her g-spot, forcing a louder moan from her lips. ''Taehyun~'' She whined. ''Do that again!''

Taehyun wore an, almost sadistic, smile on his lips as he repeated his previous action, forcing more pornographic moans from Jiwoo. ''Such pretty sounds, Princess. You're such a little slut''

Jiwoo felt embarrassed, but she enjoyed his degrading comments. ''Fuck, yes, for you Taehyun''

He curled his fingers, making Jiwoo buck her hips slightly. As she clenched around his fingers he sped up his action. ''Are you gonna cum? Hm?''

She nodded as her whole vocabulary was gone within a second.

Just before she could cum around his fingers, he ripped them from her heat and smirked. ''Nuh-uh, not yet'' A small whine left her lips as she tried sitting up. ''Taehyun~''

''Nuh-uh to that as well'' He pushed her back down.

He backed up even further and hooked his arms under her knees. He leaned down and pressed his lips to her heat. A whine left Jiwoo's lips. He chuckled to himself as his ego grew, before diving back into her pussy.

He was also slightly embarrassed. One taste was all it took and he was addicted to her. The way she tasted, the way she smelled, the way she reacted to his actions, the way she moaned his name.

Jiwoo's hands found Taehyun's hair and grabbed a firm hold. A small groan left his lips as she pulled slightly. ''Fuck, keep pulling''

A small chuckle left Jiwoo's lips, but continued pulling slightly at his hair. Her chuckle was cut off as he plunged his tongue back into her hole.

The lewd sounds that echoed in the car only made Jiwoo wetter, if that was even possible. He ate as if he was a starved man, as if he hadn't eaten since forever.

''Taehyun, can I please cum this time?''

''Nope'' He sat back up and wiped his mouth. ''Am I too mean to you, Princess?''

Jiwoo wanted to nod, but she enjoyed that he used her as he wished. ''Yes, but for some reason I like it''

''You're a sadist'' He chuckled and leaned down. Jiwoo was ready for a kiss, but he stopped right before they met. ''You like pain? And degrading? You like being embarrassed by me?''

''Maybe?'' She found Taehyun's hand and brought it towards her neck. ''Choke me?''

Taehyun froze for a second. Sure, he'd had his fair share of freaky people, but never one he cared about.

But he was, weirdly, into it. He chuckled in a sadistic manner and wrapped his hand around her neck. ''So pretty''

With the other hand he undid his belt, which turned Jiwoo on a bit too much, and pulled down his pants together with his underwear. Without warning he pushed his dick inside her.

Jiwoo's jaw fell open as he bottomed out. Taehyun removed his hand from her neck and pushed his fingers in her mouth instead.

After a short moment of letting her adjust to him he started thrusting hips in a slow pace. He wanted her to feel every inch of him.

''I thought you said you were gonna fuck me'' Jiwoo smirked, knowing she was hitting every nerve he had.

''Oh yeah?''

Taehyun's hands wrapped around Jiwoo's neck again and his hips sped up.

The car shook as he thrusted his hips in an, almost, unhuman pace. Jiwoo had been worried earlier that someone could walk by, those worries were out the window the second he entered her.

''Is this what you were planing when you stole my money?'' Jiwoo shook her head to the best of her abilities. ''Oh yeah?''

Jiwoo could feel herself getting closer, which wasn't hard due to the previous acts. ''Taehyun~ please let me cum''

''Fine''

She clenched around his dick before releasing her orgasm. Taehyun's hips only sped up as she came, smirking sadisticly again as she whined from the sensitivity.

''Fuck, you're so pretty, hm. I'm gonna cum because of you-'' He was about to pull out, but Jiwoo wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pulled him closer. ''-want me to cum in you, hm?''

Jiwoo nodded. ''Fuck, yes!'' She pulled slightly at the ends of his hair.

''Want me to fill you up? Fuck, you'd be pretty with my babies. Don't you agree? Even prettier than now''

Taehyun stopped his thrusts and Jiwoo could feel him twitch. A second later he came in her, filling her to the brim. He pulled out and smiled as he could see his cum leaking out.

He quickly stuffed his fingers in her, pushing everything back in. ''Can't let anything go to waste if we want you swollen, hm?''

No one moved. They kind of just stared at each other.

''You're so pretty'' Taehyun mumbled again, this time an adoring smile on his lips.

Jiwoo chuckled and sat up. She leaned against the, now fogged up, car window. It was cool against her shoulder blades and it felt nice. ''And you're very handsome''

''Wanna move in with me?''

''Wow there. Moving very fast now, are we?'' Another chuckle left her lips as she was about to put on her underwear.

Taehyun was quick to snatch them and stuff them in his pocket. He then shrugged and pulled his own pants on. ''I’m keeping those for easy access'' He winked. ''And to be honest, I kind of just assumed you lived on a park bench or a run down barn''

''How dare you?'' Jiwoo replied jokingly. ''I'll think about it. Now- fucking hell it's steamy'' She painted a heart on the window.

''All you, Princess'' He leaned over her and pressed his finger against the window before he started to write something.

''We just fucked <3''

''Taehyun!''

''That's my name, don't wear it out unless you're screaming it'' He winked and climbed back into the driver's seat.

''Fuck you''

''Round 2 already?'' He smirked as Jiwoo climbed into the passenger's seat.

''Drive''

''Yes, Princess''

#smut #kang taehyun #txt taehyun #taehyun x reader #taehyun #kpop smut #kpop oneshots #txt #tomorrow x together #txt smut #one shot #smut oneshot #taehyun smut

[returnofnonya]

From Thief to House Husband Part 2

In just 3 days I had grown attached to my new life. I had literally billions of dollars to spend, a mansion to explore, luxury cars to drive, and a wife who seemed to be gone quite often. Two of “my” sons were constantly out and about making friends and hanging out with them.

There was only one problem; Adam.

The eldest son of the Smith fortune. It appeared that he peaked in high school, and didn’t attend college. He spent his mornings in his gym and the rest of the day lazing about at home and inviting his so-called friends over. Rick may not have been able to see it, but as someone who used to rely on flirting with men who looked like they had more than $50 in their pockets, I knew a gold digger when I saw one.

Adam’s constant presence in the house meant I couldn’t have special company over, and I had to rely on the memory of sex with Ajax, a name I had learned a whole day after I let him fuck me. I kept wondering how I was supposed to work around this issue, then I remembered my special case of possession vials, and a good friend of mine who would enjoy the life of luxury.

So I got some cash and went to the local county jail, putting on my best remorseful face. I told the police that I was so regretful that my actions sent a shoplifter into cardiac arrest, causing his death. (I had learned soon after the hookup that my body passed away without anyone to inhabit it). I explained that the arresting officer had mentioned the hoodlum had a friend he often committed these crimes together with and wanted to help him find a better path in life, so I paid my friend Roy’s bail.

I waited outside of the entrance, sitting on the hood of my new Mercedes with a smirk on my face as Roy walked out, looking more puzzled than ever. “Look bro, I don’t need pity. Especially not from the guy who killed Mateo.” He stepped towards me angrily and I couldn’t help but laugh a bit. “Since when did the wealthy ever give a damn about us, Roy? Maybe those possession vials were worth something after all.” I winked and then walked around the car, getting into the driver’s side. I enjoyed the dumbfounded look on his face and smugly asked, “You getting in or did you want to hang around in that cell a bit more?” He scuffled into the car and we got going.

Before he could ask his barrage of questions I answered, “This basic looking bitch caught me shoplifting at Norm’s. I knew it would be my felony offense, so I panicked and pulled the vial out while concentrating on him. Next thing I knew, I was Rick Smith, multibillionaire and house husband. No more stares when I’m in any store but Dollar Tree, people worship the ground I walk on now! But I need your help.” He just grinned dumbly and nodded. “Anything for you, hermano. The billions are just a nice perk.” We both laughed a bit before I decided it was time to get serious again.

“He’s got three sons, all adults now. His oldest is Adam, about 24. The other two are social butterflies, rarely in the house except to sleep nowadays. Adam though, he treats the house like it’s his palace and invites a bunch of his fake friends over all the time. Total peaked in high school type guy. An easy mark in my old body, but now that he’s my son he’s preventing me from…enjoying this body to its fullest extent.” Roy raised an eyebrow at this. “And how am I supposed to help? Fake date him or something?” I rolled my eyes and chuckled. “Again, rich white kid who peaked in high school. He wouldn’t be caught dead with you, no. Fortunately I’ve still got a few vials, if you catch my drift.” A wide smirk crept across Roy’s face. “Yeah, yeah I do Dad.”

Soon enough, everything was in position. Roy was hiding in the kitchen pantry while Adam’s moocher friends were finally leaving. I pretended to be washing some dishes when Adam approached, throwing the plan off course a bit since I was just going to have Roy stealthily take over once the friends were gone. “Hey Dad, can we talk?” He asked, forcing me to put on Rick’s stupid smile. “Of course kiddo, what’s up?”

“You’ve been acting kind of…off lately?”

Oh boy…

“What do you mean?”

“You worship mom, but you forgot her name the other day. And you’re not as nice to my friends, or..us. You seem distant kind of. Plus, maybe I’m just paranoid, but I feel like your smile has been different lately.”

Fuck. I knew his dumb goody two shoes smile was important, so I practiced Rick’s smile based on his photos a lot. Guess I hasn’t gotten it down perfectly. Wait, why am I worried? Adam won’t exist in a few seconds.

“To be perfectly honest with you, loser, I’m not your Dad. I’m Mateo, the shoplifter who mysteriously died a few days ago.” I smirked, Adam’s eyes widening with fear as he backed away. “W-what? Dad, this is a weird joke.” I just laughed, stepping closer to him. “This isn’t a joke. I tried pretending to give a fuck about you, but your constant couch mooching has gotten on my last nerve. I’m trying to have some guys over to break your dad in, and I can’t do that with a witness! That’s why I bailed my hermano, or should I say, hijo, Roy out of prison today. He’s going to use the same serum I used to steal your dad’s body to steal yours. Then no one will know that you both are gone.”

Adam’s eyes darted all over the place, trying to find Roy. The cabinet creaked open and he saw Roy’s eyes for just a second before he faded to black. Roy had consumed the vial, and by the time Adam saw him it was too late, the possession was complete. He laughed and smiled widely, looking down at his new hands. “Holy shit! This body feels amazing! So fit and tight…” he started to grope Adam’s tits, moaning out in pleasure. “Heh, enjoy it son. I’ve got to get rid of the evidence, feel free to explore your new life in the meantime.”

I picked up Roy’s now vacant body, carrying it to a box we had designated out in the pool house in the backyard. It would stay there until we figured out a disposal method.

I came back in a few minutes later and found Roy standing in the living room, wearing Adam’s old football gear with a wide smirk.

“Hey, Dad.” He said seductively, walking to me now. “I wanted to thank you for all that you’ve done for me.” He said and grinned from ear to ear. I couldn’t help but find myself enamored with his getup. “How…where?” He just chuckled as he unbuttoned my shirt. “When you said he peaked in high school, my mind wandered to one thing. Thankfully, my assumption was right.” He said, kissing my neck and pulling my shirt open, slowly descending down my body, littering it with kisses and earning pleasured moans from me. “Fuck…I couldn’t be happier to have you for a son.” I chuckled, watching as he got down on his knees and pulled my cock out, wasting no time and sliding it into his mouth. “Fuck! Boy’s got a perfect set of lips~” I moaned out happily.

It was hard, but I tore my eyes away from Roy’s new ones to look at my surroundings. We were in the kitchen, which according to Rick’s photo album was likely his favorite spot to spend family time. He was quite the chef and apparently had made the candy the security guard was stuffing his face with the day of the possession. Now, his oldest son was blowing him off right there.

“God…tell me you stretched yourself while I was gone. I don’t want to wait to bust that pretty little straight hole open.” I said, looking back into Roy’s eyes. He just winked and then moaned on my cock, clouding my mind with the pleasure. “God fucking damn you’re such a slut…” I moaned out. Once he felt that I had enough spit he stood up, laying on his back on the kitchen table and pulling his compression pants down to reveal a white jockstrap, and a plug vibrating in his hole! “For one of his gold digger girls. A cheesy present from a straight fuck boy apparently, but we’re making it work for us.” Roy always cased every place we stole from. He could read people and environments very well, no one would know Adam was gone.

“Fuck, I could kiss you.” I growled, grabbing the base of the plug and pulling it out, earning a whimpery moan from him. “How about we do that first part first? Then we can kiss.” His smug expression looked perfect on Adam’s face. I wasted no time, pulling his legs over my shoulder and waist over the edge of the table. I slid into him with ease, leaning down and pressing my lips against his. He reciprocated with joy and I started to thrust the way I knew he loved it; hard and fast.

The sound of our skin slapping filled the kitchen and our tongues ravaged each other inside of his mouth, our moans muffled inside of them. It didn’t take long for sweat to build up, I was giving it my all and he was taking it like a pro, his body’s previous owner had built it for endurance. As we fucked the table wobbled underneath us, not built for the ferocity of our sex. Everything about this was so fucking hot that both of us were throbbing quickly.

I pulled back from the kiss, caressing his eyes and smirking. “We’ll have to work on these bodies’ sexual stamina. I think that’s a good way to spend father and son time together.” I chuckled as he nodded. “Couldn’t agree more. In the meantime, how about you show me the way you and mom made me?” He winked. God, seeing Adam’s face portray Roy’s demeanor drove me crazy. I thrusted one final time, roaring as I shot a load deep inside of him and the table gave out, collapsing underneath us as Roy shot his load high up into the air. As we reached the ground it arched, landing on the top of my head.

Once we had a second to gather our bearings and realize we just broke the dinner table and he had cum on the back of my head in a missionary position we started laughing. “Fuck, no more shoplifting, no more gold digging.” He said, panting as he looked around at the mansion.

“Life is perfect.” I said, smiling widely as I basked in the afterglow of our first father and son bonding session. “It’s all uphill from here.”

#male body possession #male possession #father son #revenge

[mediumtires]

I'm still not over this. How in the world Christian is sharing this and expect us to be okay ? HOW??

I'm also living for Fed to be there as their chaperon 😂 he cannot let these menaces free or chaos will prevail.

It got me thinking now, is Fred going to tease the hell out of Toto at each TP meetings now?

i would like to formally apologise i don’t understand how no one else is losing their mind about this? i am so about to lose my mind?

you’re telling me christian horner and toto wolff shared a flight to melbourne (loooooong flight from the uk) and christian just causally drops that bomb on us like it’s something they do all the time?

i swear the most compelling thing about them is that THEY LIKE EACH OTHER. all the yelling and the one upping and the creating fake scenarios for netflix, the comments, the quotes they feed the press, the mind games, "i don't have to kiss his arse" etc etc etc but at the end of the day they’ve been around the paddock together for over a decade. in 2014/15/16/17/18 they hung around each other ALL THE TIME.

and then 2021 happened and gLoVeS wErE oFf but even after that— may i remind everyone of preseason testing 2022?

this was literally only A FEW WEEKS after that commission meeting where masi got fired relocated. weeks after toto wore a black turtleneck like he’d just buried the w12. and they were acting like giggling schoolgirls twirling their hair and having a laff? are you joking? are you telling me these two whiny conceited big headed team bosses can just forgive and forget?

YES AND ITS BECAUSE THEY LIKE EACH OTHER. toto probably acknowledged what happened in ad wasn’t christian’s fault and christian’s crush on toto is big enough that he could move past merc protesting max's win and getting his bestie michael fired relocated.

and now you’re telling me they’re sharing flights. sure sure. probably because they’re really environmentally conscious. maybe even an accidental booking on a commercial flight. two personal assistants going “whoopsie didn’t check the passenger list sorry”. three if you count in fred but he and toto probably booked that flight together. surely they weren’t plane pooling a private chartered flight. cough cough surely not. these three old rich men (billionaire toto wolff) would totally sit first class on a commercial flight, 17 hours among commoners, before one of the hardest races of the season, one of them with a broken back, one of them blind, and one of them with a tummy ache. these three very rich men would totally suck it up and bite the bullet to make sure their carbon footprints stay as low as possible.

HELL no i don’t believe it for a second. they plane pooled. BECAUSE THEYRE FRIENDS.

christian is the longest serving tp along with franz tost but toto has been around since 2011ish when he first started at williams. they've known each other for A LONG TIME. no other team principals have been around as consistently and continuously as these two. sure some of the current tps have been around the paddock in other roles. and yet with the exception of toto and fred, none of them are "friends".

i am convinced they started hanging out. they must have because they were the two youngest tps around and everyone else was boring (except for maurizio my beloved). they build a rapport. some kind of undefinable bond, not friends, not colleagues, rivals maybe, but there's respect. even if christian won't ever admit to it ever. maybe they don't go to dinner together but I'm convinced they text occasionally, anything between "happy birthday" and "fuck you for buying out my engineer i actually needed that one". also. christian is ceo of a top level performing technology business (lmao) and if there's one thing toto knows it's management and finance. like I cannot imagine they have never had conversations about that. they're both passionate about racing. sure they probably have like hugeeee differences in opinions about certain things but it's because they're both willing to do whatever it takes for their team to win. they must respect that in the other. (their opinions are probably not even that different if we think about it. probably scarily similar actually. this is the problem, they are very much two sides of the same coin. they want their team to win and they’re willing to do pretty much anything to get there. they look at each other and don’t like what they see because they’re literally mirror images.) (THEYRE TOO SIMILAR)

IN CONCLUSION. they like each other. they may not be friends by common definition but THEY ARE SOMETHING. they share flights I rest my case.

(also yes obviously fred makes fun of them all the time it’s how he’s coded)

#christian/toto lore #toto wolff #christian horner #three men one plane

[acepalindrome]

Thinking about a young Izzy who loved to sing, but there’s no place for singing when you’re a cabin boy trying to survive on a pirate ship. Sea shanties might be alright, maybe, but not the beautiful love songs he learned at his mother’s knee. This isn’t a place for softness, for tenderness. So he stuffed that part of himself down. Learns to be harder and meaner.

And then he meets young Ed Teach, who’s grown up learning that he’s not the kind of person who can have silk and fine things, running away after killing his father. He’s learned to be hard and mean too. And they click. They work well together. But they just keep encouraging the other to shove down the soft parts of themselves, because how else can you keep yourself safe out here? If Ed sometimes looks longingly at a beautiful fabric, if he wakes up crying from the nightmare about his dad, if Izzy gets caught humming so very quietly while he works, if he gets a little misty when someone’s playing a sad old love song at the bar…they’ll both pretend not to notice. No place for that here, for men like them.

And so it goes, for years and years. The partnership turns into love that neither of them can voice, can’t express beyond an occasional tumble in the sheets, beyond Izzy’s devotion and Ed doing whatever he has to so his first mate doesn’t leave. It’s not happiness, but neither of them can let it go. And there are no fine fabrics or love songs on the Queen Anne’s Revenge.

Then Stede Bonnet happens, and everything gets turned on it’s head. This absurd, ridiculous man is embracing all the soft, tender things they denied themselves all their lives. And Ed starts to realize that maybe he can have these things too.

But not Izzy. He sees this fool with his books and marmalade and fancy clothes, who’s just bizarre enough to capture Ed’s attention. It won’t last. This still just be another of Edward’s little flights of fancy. It’ll be over soon.

Except it doesn’t end. Except Ed just keeps getting softer, more vulnerable. He’s throwing away the safety of being the most terrifying pirate on the seas, and for what? An idiot rich man playing at being pirates?

Ed’s wrong, of course. He’s getting too swept up in this little fantasy. So it falls to Izzy to end it, for both their sakes.

And he fails. So he tries again, more desperate the ever, seeing the man he’s loved for decades slipping away. And he fails again, but Bonnet ends up leaving anyway. The problem has solved itself, and things can finally go back to normal.

But everything is changed. Ed is wrapped up in silks, eating marmalade, singing. It’s a slap in the face to Izzy, and he snaps worse than he has in years.

And everything goes wrong.

By the time the storm breaks and the nightmare ends, Izzy has lost a leg and the man he loved for most of his life. He’s broken. He’s weak. He’s cried in front of the whole fucking crew, for fucks sake. He can’t do his job anymore, so what good is he? He’s going to die alone. That’s how this goes.

And instead, the crew gives him a new leg. They took the time to paint it gold. They wrote him a note, called him their new unicorn. It’s a lot of soft, fanciful nonsense that would has no place on a proper pirate ship, and it makes Izzy cry.

Maybe it’s alright for him to be soft too.

He starts to open up, bit by bit. He lets people care for him. He lets himself indulge in the tender things he denied himself all his life, and instead of being met with scorn and mockery, he’s supported and encouraged.

Until, after so many years, he allows himself to sing one of the beautiful love songs he’s always adored for the whole crew, his family, to hear.

#ofmd #ofmd s2 spoilers #izzy hands #internalized ableism #just a tad #not quite a fic and not headcanon #a secret third thing (me rambling while at work)

[i-cant-sing]

Okay, so the new OC I'm introducing yall to is... Dimitri.

Basically, this dude is a mafia man. But he's like very, very rich and powerful, like the type that controls politics and shit. Now, Dimitri has a 3 year old son, Xavier, who goes to the school where reader teaches. In fact, you're his class teacher.

Dimitri met you for the first time during the parent-teacher meetings where you updated him on his son's progress. To say that he was immediately smitten would be quite the understatement. However, Dimitri doesn't obsess over you, nor is he in love with you. He can't afford to do that, not with his line of work. For all he knows, you could've been sent to spy on him and Xavier or worse, to hurt them. So he pretty much forgets about you.

That is until one day, someone tried to kidnap Xavier from the school, threatening everyone with a gun. Almost everyone fleed, except for you. Not only were you successful in hiding away Xavier, but you had also somehow distracted and delayed the kidnapper, who only ran away once he heard the police sirens. But not before, shooting you.

Fortunately, someone had rushed you to the hospital and you made it.

Dimitri (after making sure his son was safe) came to the hospital to thank you and even paid for your surgery and stuff. Of course, he didn't tell you he had enemies as a mafia leader. No, no. To you, he was just a successful business man and that kidnapper (who had been caught and brutally tortured by Dimitri's men) was just some fucking perv. Anyways, now you had permanently made a spot on Dimitri's radar.

The school had given youbsome time off to recover, and Dimitri very graciously offered to drive you back.

After a 2 months or so, you were ready to return back to work, only to find putvthat you've been fired and replaced. Well, that sucks.

Luckily for you, Dimitri who had came to pick his son up saw you. He took you out to a coffee shop to thank you once again, and you tried basically caught up on stuff. When you told him about how you got fired, he offered you a job.

"Would you like to be Xavier's nanny? Well, actually, you'd have to be his caretaker and private tutor."

"I- what?" You thought he was just doing this out of pity or guilt. But he assured you, he actually did need help.

"Its just- my wife had died soon after giving birth to Xavier. She was sick." He cleared his throat, looking sad over the mention of his wife. "Xavier is... a bit different. He's a quite child, a good kid really, but... he's a little emotionally detached. I've reached out to professionals and all, but they've never really made much progress with him. But you... you're different." He took a sip of his coffee. "I don't know what you did, but Xavier has become attached to you. He talks a lot about you, could go on for hours until he falls asleep."

You smiled.

"I try to make time for him, I do really. But I suppose I am somehow lacking. I just- I do need your help. You'd really be doing me a favour by taking this job." He sighed.

So you accepted. (You'd be an idiot not to, especially after seeing the pay)

The job was easy. Really, you didn't have too much of a hard time. Xavier was a good kid, easy to bond with, very well behaved. He often shared details about his life with you, something you noticed he didn't do with anyone else. Perhaps, he sees you as a friend. Sure, most of the things he overshared were funny ("I saw the maid kissing the chef!"), but some details were... a little concerning to say the least. You think he hallucinates, or just has a very vivid imagination, perhaps he even daydreams. Because when Xavier tells you "daddy came home with blood clothes. I told him to clean up because you didn't like dirty things! I sang him the "clean up" song you taught me!" Certainly, there is no way that is true.

You've told Dimitri about his son's vivid imagination, and he looked shocked to hear that, promising that he will talk to him about it, or even go to a psychiatrist for help.

As for Dimitri, he's a pretty decent boss. He waits with his son every morning until you come, wishing you both a good day before leaving for work. He usually returns in the evening, after you've put Xavier to sleep. You wish him a good night, and he always looks like he wants to say something, but he just nods and has his driver drop you off to your place.

Now, reader had moved into the city recently and she's just getting used to knowing her new surroundings. She doesn't have a car so she tends to walk around (when she isn't being picked and dropped by Dimitri's driver) and she feels like she's being watched. At first, she thinks it just her paranoia, but then it happened.

A bouquet of roses and a small letter attached to it, right outside your door.

Flowers for my flower, my favourite one of all❤

You would've thought they were for someone else, but it was addressed to your name. It weirded you out, because you don't remember making anyone new who would send you such a gift.

But things only got worse from there on, because once a week (which later became everyday), you got a bouquet of flowers and a letter that mentioned details about your life you don't remember telling anyone about.

It really got to you when your secret admirer started writing creepy details about your daily life, as if he was living right inside you.

You did not want a stalker, and you especially didn't need a creep to endanger Xavier. So, you went to the police, who laughed right in your face, telling you that with vicious and actually terrible crimes happening in the city, getting flowers from a lover isn't their top priority. Meaning they weren't going to help you.

So you decided to take some caution yourself, and added security cameras in your home, and then installed an app that would let your family and friends know about your whereabouts, should you go missing.

Things turned even worse for you the following months. The feeling of being watched only increased, someone continued dropping bouquets and letters with disturbing personal details about you.

"My dear Y/n, how do I say I miss you in a way that will make your heart ache as mine does? You are a sight for sore eyes, and so is your pink underwear."

Your friends took you to a club for a night out, to get your mind of things. And it did, you danced and drank until things started to feel a little numb.

You sobered right up when you got another letter with flowers the next day, along with coffee and painkillers. Inside your house.

"My sweet, it hurt me to see other men touch you and dance with you. Your friends certainly do not have your beat interests in mind, having you endanger yourself like that. You're lucky I was there to make sure none of those vile men took you home, although it pained me to see you put yourself on display like that.

But I forgive you. My heart won't ever hate you, no matter how much you hurt it."

You threw the coffee and the flowers and the letter in the trashcan outside. You immeadiately called your landlord, a sweet old lady, and trued to switch places. You possibly cannot stay here after that creep had been inside your house. But she told you that she couldn't really help you because of a "new clause" in the lease. So all you could do was change the locks for now.

Somewhere along the way, you started dating a guy. He was a sweet guy, and he would always come over when you didn't feel safe inside your own home. Well, one night, he was over for a romantic dinner at your place. You both had moved over to the couch, where you had started to inch closer to kiss him, but you both jumped back when you heard a loud crash outside. You looked out the window, only to find his parked car completely crushed.

You called the cops, and soon your date left with the cops to file a report. However, only 10 minutes later, someone knocked on your door. When you opened the door, there was no one, only a letter. With trembling hands, you opened it.

End things with him. Or it'll be him that's broken next time.

Your paranoia gets the best of you. Its just- its just not safe for you here, anymore. So, you go to Dimitri, hand him your resignation, along with a replacement, saying you had to leave town. He tries to inquire more, saying that perhaps he could help you in some way, but you say it's a family matter. So, he agrees and gives you your last cheque

Then, you go to your apartment and pack your stuff up, returning the keys to the landlady, who agrees into ending your lease when you bribe her with the cheque Dimitri gave you.

You then go to the bank to get the rest of your savings that'll be enough for you to move to another city, if not country. However, the bank says they've frozen your account and cannot give you access to your money because of a technical issue.

You're walking back to your old apartment, hoping that you could somehow beg the landlady into giving your apartment back again as you realise how truly fucked you are.

You are currently homeless, jobless and penniless.

And when you look over your shoulder and see a black van following you, you know you can never catch a break.

You break into a sprint, picking up the speed when you hear the van speed up after you. All you could think was you were gonna die tonight.

Too absorbed in your fright, you didn't see where you you were running, until a car almost hit you, finally making you stop as you fell to your knees.

You were still looking behind to notice the driver getting out of the car to check on you.

"Y/n? Oh my- are you okay?" You finally snapped back, gasping as you realised it was your old employer- Dimitri.

You stumbled up towards him. "Please, oh my god- there is a van following me! Please, help me." You said pointing behind you, and sure enough, Dimitri saw the black van.

"Okay, shh its okay. Im here now." He continued glaring at it as he pushed you towards the passenger seat. "Get in the car. I'll drive you home."

As soon as Dimitri drove away from that van, you finally broke down, telling him everything, about the stalking, the creepy gifts, the bank issue, etc.

Dimitri nodded, giving you his handkerchief as he tried to console you. "Its okay, everything is gonna be okay. You can stay with me and Xavier until the bank unfreezes your account. I'll hire you back, and if you'd like, I can get a private investigator to look into the creep. Hm?" You tried to turn down his offer, but he insisted. Besides, you needed the kindness, something you haven't had in a while.

Exhausted, both physically and emotionally, you fall asleep in the car. Dimitri looks over at you, and he can't help but tuck a stray hair behind your ear.

He can't help the way the corner of his lips quirk up.

He is the one who had the school fire you.

He is the one who owns the cops.

He is the one who bribed your landlady to "evict" you.

He is the one who bought the bank and had your accounts frozen.

And he is the one who had been sending you all those letters and gifts, and the one who set the van after you.

He is your stalker.

Now do you guys like the name Dimitri, or do you think Alexei or Nicholas would be better? Or something else? Also, suggest surnames, preferably Russian.

So what do you guys think???

#yandere Dimitri #yandere ocs #yandere oc #my oc #Dimitri my oc #yandere #yandere mafia

[valiantstarlights]

Black Butler (Kuroshitsuji) AU

I'm still feral over Kuroshitsuji so we're gonna have a Demon!Hob and Nobleman!Dream AU.

yes, I know I have already written demon!dream and priest!hob, but I wanna have demon butler!hob and monsterfucker nobleman!dream too 🥺

CW: dark! monsterfucking! slightly spicy

So. Okay. To start, the Endless and the Burgess families are business rivals. Randall Burgess wants to make his father proud, and decides that the way to do that is by attacking the Endless family in their own home by himself and some hired men.

He dies in the attempt.

The thing is, the Endless didn't even lay a hand on him. The people who killed him are the very same men he hired to help him attack the Endless mansion unprompted.

In the thugs' defense, they'd rather be alive with only half the payment that Randall gave them than fuck with the Endless. Most sensible folk don't, and unfortunately for Randall, the men he hired wanted to live more than they wanted to be rich.

They tell Roderick Burgess that it was the Endless who did it, though, because why damn themselves when reliable forensics doesn't exist, and Old Man Roderick already has confirmation bias?

Naturally, Roderick immediately believes them, and gets his revenge on the Endless by setting their mansion on fire, killing everyone in it except for Dream, who he had arranged to be kidnapped earlier in the night. Dream is the closest to Randall in age, and Roderick plans to sacrifice Dream to a demon to get his son back. A life for a life and all that.

And so Dream is gagged, then chained to a sacrificial altar in the basement while Roderick and the rest of his followers do a demon summoning ritual.

Except the demon they summoned is Hob, who finds Roderick's wish tedious. A life for a life? They summoned him all the way from Hell just for that? Please.

If Roderick had asked for his son back, as well as riches and fame, then Hob might consider negotiating with him. He has always loved greedy humans. They're more reckless, and they usually get killed within a year or two after the contract is sealed, leaving Hob free to take up another contract.

He has already hit quota in the 16th century actually, and is just doing this for fun, in case there are some humans with interesting enough deals willing to make a deal with him.

But a grieving father with no need for anything else but his stupid son back? Hob doesn't have time for that.

Just as Hob is about to leave, Dream manages to get free of his gag and calls attention to himself.

Hob sees him, feels the murderous aura coming from him, and thinks he'd rather make a deal with this one, actually. He's prettier than any human Hob has ever met, and he looks like he has a more interesting deal to offer him than bringing someone back from the dead.

"What about you, pretty thing?" Hob says to the beautiful being in chains on the altar. "You got a better deal for me?"

And listen. Dream is smart, so he knows not to ask to get his family and pet raven back after seeing how disinterested the demon looked after Roderick said his wish. But he's also very much not in the right state of mind to be making a deal with a demon. He needs a therapist.

Unfortunately, actual proper therapists do not exist back in the Victorian era, and Dream is in the anger stage of the five stages of grief.

He saw how the demon looked at him with lust. And the demon isn't bad-looking at all. Quite the opposite, actually. And so he thinks, fuck it.

If he's gonna be damned for eternity for wanting the entire Burgess family dead, then he better do a good job and actually wipe them off the face of the earth. From Roderick to his cult followers to the servants, all of whom did nothing when he begged them for help.

Everyone who has ever wronged him is going to pay, and he is going to stand over their corpses and laugh. And if he has a handsome demon by his side with his hands red with blood doing Dream's bidding? Then all the better.

Dream sends Roderick Burgess his most hateful look, then turns back to the demon patiently waiting for him to speak. "Help me get revenge on everyone who has wronged me and my family," Dream says, "and I will be yours forever."

And, well.

Hob can't say no to that.

Vengeance is his favorite kind of contract, and the prospect of having this beautiful man forever in exchange for doing a job he loves?

Hob gets to work.

After, when there's no one else left alive, Hob walks over the corpses in order to unchain Dream from the sacrificial altar. The nobleman is still mostly clean, with only a few blood splatters here and there marring his pale skin and white dressing gown. They must have kidnapped him while he was sleeping.

Hob makes sure to be gentle with him. The poor thing looks like he's already been through so much over the past day alone.

"You okay, lovely thing?"

Dream nods and allows the demon to remove his chains. He is not at all alright, but the sight of viscera and blood covering the entire basement apart from the sacrificial altar where Dream is, as well as the feeling of the demon's gentle hands upon him made him feel a sense of peace.

"I want to reward you for a job well done," he tells the demon, who laughs as the final set of chains is removed from Dream's ankles. His fangs look so very sharp in the candlelight.

"No offense, darling," the handsome demon says, "but what can you possibly reward me with?"

In response, Dream wordlessly opens his legs.

After, when Hob has Dream in his arms, both of them still lying on the stone altar, Hob thinks that he could get used to this. He has always longed to have someone who only belongs to him, and Dream's deal--and how he worded it, allows Hob to have him like this.

Even if Dream were to die, Lucifer Morningstar themself wouldn't own his soul, because Hob already has it, and it has been given to him fair and square and very enthusiastically.

Dream shifts in his hold so he is looking up at Hob while his head rested on Hob's hairy chest. His pale fingers feel lovely caressing his chest hair. "Something on your mind, Hob?"

"Nothing much, my lord," he replies. "Just thinking how this might be the best deal I've struck in ages."

The best deal period, but they've only just met, and Hob doesn't want to frighten Dream with how possessive he can get.

Dream ducks his head in shyness, which Hob thinks is adorable considering how barely five minutes ago, the man was on his cock, riding him like an experienced equestrian, and begging him to fill his belly with demon cum.

So yeah. Hob really lucked out.

What he doesn't know is that Dream ducked his head so he could smile a secret smile against Hob's chest, sated and victorious, his hole filled with a copious amount of demon cum, his nipples puffy and swollen, and his entire body still shaking intermittently with the pleasure of his last orgasm.

Hob made sure he had a really good time, and Dream is keen to ride him again as soon as his legs cooperate with him.

Were his very religious parents still alive, they would be scandalized to know that Dream gave his virginity to a demon. So in a way, it's good that they're already dead.

When he rebuilds the Endless mansion, he is going to have Hob fuck him in each and every room. As a reward for his continued service, of course, and not because he's already addicted to him.

The demon doesn't know yet how many enemies the Endless family has made throughout the years. He's going to be Dream's for life, and Dream is going to be his in death.

Like a true Endless, Dream has managed to strike a very good deal, and made the other party believe that it was them who struck a better deal.

Hob might get very angry with him once he finds out about the neverending vengeance plots he'll be helping Dream with, but Dream is determined to make it worth his while.

"What's on your mind, sweet Dream?" Hob asks, one hand grazing over the contract seal in the middle of Dream's chest, which was glowing as red as a ruby. The light will fade in time, he had been told, but for now, he would have to wear thicker upper garments to hide the glow.

"Nothing much," Dream says, echoing the demon's words from earlier. "Just how much I'm looking forward to our partnership."

#black butler AU #a.k.a. hob and dream are both dark and unhinged (and unapologetic about it) #as usual they are feral for each other at first sight #to my surprise there is almost no blasphemy in this #dreamling #the sandman #my writing #all I'm saying is if hob were a demon I'm willing to bet most of us would strike a deal with him 🤷‍♀️

[chrollohearttags]

kind of a broad ask here but some angst with influencer y/n and the media finding some dirt on her from her past (stripping, sex tape, etc..) and getting hella hate for it, while musician Eren tries to comfort her, knowing he’s been through a lot like this too.

oh my god, I really love this 🥺 y’all know I’m a sucker for angst and mama’s had kinda a bad day so imma make y’all cry with me.

cw: sad shit, unalive, mentions of drugs and sex work, comfort and eren being the world’s best husband and hype man. (Also, bit of spoilers for (y/n)‘s backstory in reverb)

we all have a past..coming from something or other, whether it be good or bad, shameful or successful..everyone of us come from origins of some kind. Unfortunately, it’s not always, easy to come to grips with..being the trending topic and going viral wasn’t new to you at this point and honestly, it was a part of you every day life. What you couldn’t overlook was the amount of hate and horrible things being said about you. In the blogs, the tweets and even in the streets. People drudging up old memories and past provocative videos of you dancing with other men. It wasn’t the result of you trying to be risqué or promiscuous, but rather…your job. Prior to striking it rich with Instagram stardom, you were stripping at Tootsies, one of the country’s most infamous spots. After being left on your own with no help, it was your best option. Dancing and entertaining the industry’s biggest with your pole tricks. despite keeping things strictly professional but sometimes, the fast lifestyle can catch up with even the most steadfast and focused. You were no exception and when a clip surfaced of the internet’s favorite honey and a hip hop legend’s lady putting shit up her nose and dancing on men’s laps..it wasn’t a good look! You weren’t some wild party girl by any means but it was easy to be caught up in the moment. Passing bottles, dollar bills being poured on you and pills in your system. It was often how you coped with the less than savory situation. Of course the last person who wanted to hear the shit was your husband..not because he was angry with you though..

but because he had been in your shoes many times before! And there was nothing to be ashamed of…so naturally, when he found you sobbing on your bathroom floor, head sunk into your hands, he had to fix it. And it wasn’t something that could be salvaged with the band aid of a new bag or material gifts. He wanted you to know that he had your back regardless of whatever. “Hey princess, what’s wrong?” He was somewhat privy to what went down..courtesy of his boys sending him things, saying for him to ask you first before assuming anything. Honestly, he didn’t care what was happening in a clip from five years ago before he even knew who you were…Eren’s only concern was to stop his wife from crying. So as you uncontrollably weeped into his chest, he’d hold you close and let you get all of your emotions out before giving his two cents; which would unironically be exactly what you needed. “I’m so sorry, EJ. This is so embarrassing..” whimpering in a cracked voice, unable to even get your words out. But he’d be damn if he let anyone make you feel bad about being yourself or what you had to go through. He knew you were not some drug addict.

“Baby, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. I know it’s hard to have people trying to drag your name through the mud but honestly? Fuck them. Fuck them and their mamas. You know who you are and something from your past doesn’t define you.” You were hearing him but he knew it wasn’t getting through so right there on that bathroom floor, both of your legs curled up, he’d cup your puffy, tear stained cheeks into his palms and pepper your forehead with kisses. “You’re not mad at me?” And in typical Eren fashion.. he began laughing right there in your face. “Fuck no! Are you serious?..” and you couldn’t understand why he’d be okay with you practically fucking other men on camera and taking percs. But he’d have a perfectly reasonable answer as to why.

“First of all, it’s me you’re talking to…that’s kid shit compared to what I used to do so I can’t judge anybody.” Just then, your smirk would break through and you’d find yourself laughing. “Seriously, babe?” And you knew him well enough to know that shame did not exist with this man..he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of him.

“As a heart attack. The way I used to live, I’m surprised my dumb ass is still here..” Second, you’re my wife NOW..so anything that happened before you met me, is none of my business. I don’t care about any of that, they can say what they want. You’re my future and I’m gonna spend every day of my life..proving that I love you no matter what.” Suddenly, you’d feel his hand gently tug you up and then into his embrace. He’d swipe his fingers across your eyes to absolve you of any tears on that pretty face.

“And third? Stop letting these broke ass, bored people get under your skin. I’m so blessed I get to wake up everyday to the finest fucking woman on the planet and all they can do is sit in a pissy chair and post old shit no one cares about. Turn around and look in that mirror..” placing his hands on your shoulder blades as he spun you around. You didn’t feel like it but he was going to make certain that you knew better the next time you felt like crying over these idiots.

before you could say a word, he’d break into a wide smile before grasping your collarbone with an arm slung around it and kissing you again. “You’re so perfect, (y/n) and I don’t ever want you acting like you’re not. God did not make his greatest work of art for you to be down here hurting. So show me that pretty smile…” hyping you up as you flashed your pearly whites.. “..and give me that lil’ pose you do in your pictures..that one when you just know you’re the shit.” And of course for your man, you’d do anything. The two of you would goof off and laugh until you no longer felt like crying and once he saw you were feeling better, he’d heed one final request: “..now, hold your middle finger up..and say ‘fuck these people’.” “Fuck these people!” You couldn’t believe how crazy he was sometimes but he knew it was the mantra you had to embody if you wanted to make it through life and especially in the public eye. As long as he accepted you, it was all that mattered.

#black fem reader #aot x black reader #musician x influencer au #black reader #cherry’s asks 🍒 #eren x black fem!reader #musician eren #musician au #shingeki no kyoujin eren #eren yeager #eren jaeger imagines #attack on titan eren #eren x reader #eren x black reader #eren x fem!reader #eren x black reader fluff #snk eren #eren jaeger headcanons #eren jaeger x black reader #eren x y/n #eren x black y/n #eren x black yn fluff #eren jaeger x black fem reader #eren jaeger x y/n #eren fluff #black fanfic writer #eren aot #black fanfiction

[foxymoxynoona]

Over the Falls (Part 1: Ch 1)

Sexy Banner & bar by @borabae-gx

Summary: Jungkook sees a lot of things as a pool tech. It’s…  fine. It pays the bills between mornings on the water and evenings  rocking out with his garage-band. His favorite thing to see on the job has been Grace Birch –older but a hottie, wealthy but nice, and  unfortunately very married. At least until Grace learns what her husband  has been up to behind her back. Now that she’s free, Jungkook finds  himself wondering: what does it take for a guy like him to catch the eye of a woman like that?

Genre: Poolboy Jungkook x Rich Divorcee OC

Tags: Age gap (older woman), socioeconomic gap, Surferboy JK, drummer/guitarist/vocalist JK, Wealthy divorcee OC, househusband

CW: Mature/Explicit,  Infidelity (not between JKxOC), language, alcohol, recreational drugs, lots of explicit sex, ageist/racist/classist remarks down the road, outdoor sex, beach sex

Masterlist | Chapter Two

“But you said it was fine for this year,” Grace sighed. Belatedly she remembered the sigh would send her husband. He hated when she sighed, even though it was unintentional. It was just… just breathing. She held so much tension in her shoulders and her lungs and periodically it had to ease out or she’d just die or something. 

“Well I didn’t know the board meeting would get pulled up, did I?” Tim didn’t even bother looking at her as he draped his suit bag across the back of the couch and set his rollerboard behind it. “So now I have a week to close this deal before I have to stand in a room in front of the men paying our bills and tell them that I failed. I fucked up.”

“But you didn’t fuck up,” she argued. “You’ve been busting your ass to make this partnership happen–”

“After the last one got yanked out from under my feet. Only a fuckup loses a deal that close to closing.”

“That’s not true,” she said and stepped in front of him. She pressed her hands to his chest. He paused and looked at her for a moment, truly looked at her. She saw in his face the long hours, the hard work, the tight deadlines and high stakes. She saw the years of constant travel, of rushed pitches, of last minute victories that secured first one, then another, then another acquisition. Tim was good at what he did. He was building an empire –an empire for Bang Si-hyuk rather than himself, but being the right-hand man paid well. Very well. 

Not that Tim had really needed the money. His father had been very good at this as well and built his own empire. Tim had wanted to make a point of not taking handouts from his father, but secretly Grace knew how much of their home and cars and lavish vacations had been her father-in-law’s gift until Tim got his feet under him. Their elaborate wedding had been her parents’ contribution, though. Nothing but the best for their angel daughter.

But in general her parents didn’t offer as much. Her family were investors and attorneys intermarried with prestige –old money, not the new, bubbly, flashy money that Tim and his parents needed to flaunt. They hadn’t offered her anything except a raised eyebrow when she’d decided to marry Timothy Birch. Was it necessary? Was she pregnant? Did she need money after all? Because if things were really bad–

It wasn’t any of those things. It was love. Grace had seen in Tim a fire, a desire to change the world, a strong moral center, and a safe, comfortable future. And love paid off! They’d been married for ten years now, paid off that first modest home Tim’s dad had co-signed for and traded it for a much bigger Colonial, and Grace worked her high-paying real estate job because she genuinely enjoyed it. No matter how many times Tim or her closest friends and most certainly her parents had suggested that maybe she’d be happier at home. You know. With kids.

But how were she and Tim supposed to start a family if he couldn’t even be home to celebrate this important date?

Tim stepped away and her hands were left hovering in the air as he sighed, “I’m sorry, Grace. But I can’t tell the board members I failed to close the deal because my wife needed me at home for a dinner.”

“Not just a dinner. Our anniversary dinner.”

“So we’ll eat our anniversary dinner next week,” he insisted. “The day isn’t important.”

“I know it’s not, we are. But you already had me cancel the week we were supposed to be in the Bahamas. You already had me cancel the luncheon I was going to throw–”

“That was stupid anyway.”

“Your mother demanded it! And I had to be the one to tell her we weren’t doing it –and I’d already put a lot of work into it! And now you won’t even be home to be with me.”

“You’re being unreasonable.”

“You’re gone too much,” she tried one more time, grabbing his arm. 

“It’s my career, Grace. You know it’s important to me.”

“I know that but… but I thought it was supposed to slow down at this point. You said it would.”

“Do you know what happens to a fighter jet if its propellers slow down?”

She sighed. He glared. She nodded.

“It crashes,” she answered. She’d never forget the day he’d made that demonstration while they were up in his hobby plan. Two years ago? He’d finally earned his license and taken her out for a joy ride even though she hated that fucking plane. She’d made the mistake of asking if he’d be home more now, because between work and golf and flying, she saw more of him at dinner parties than at home. 

His response had been to demonstrate a drop. 

She hadn’t been back in the plane with him since. 

Another of her mounting failures.

“Hey. I love you,” he said, suddenly taking her hand. “I’m really sorry I’m missing everything. I promise I’ll make it up to you, ok? The deal should only take me a couple days to close and then… it’ll be belated, but maybe you and I can take a long weekend somewhere.”

“Where?”

“Wherever you like.”

“Galapagos Islands,” she said, because she wanted to see the turtles. “Iceland,” for the Northern Lights. “Oh, what about that ship that takes people to Antarctica–”

“I was thinking more like Cabo,” he laughed. He patted her cheek and kissed her forehead. “I love that you still dream like a little girl. Don’t ever lose that, sweetheart. See you in a week, I hope!”

He grabbed his bags and headed out. 

It hadn’t been a bad fight, all things considered. Neither of them had gone for the jugular because there wasn’t really a point, since he had a flight to catch and this trip was an immovable object. Grace was disappointed about it all but not even a little surprised, so she hadn’t wasted her energy getting worked up over something that she couldn’t change.

The house was quiet without Tim; even though he worked a lot, there was still a marked difference around the place when he was in town or out. She’d obviously done all the designing and decorating, but he had such particular taste about things, and the combination always just seemed so loud when he wasn’t here to balance out the echo of her voice. He had so many things to mark his presence here even though he spent half of each month traveling. 

Movement in the backyard drew Grace’s attention and she leaned against the sliding door with a sigh. The pool boy was here again. He must have let himself in. Usually he knocked on the backdoor and waved to let her know he was there –a routine begun after once scaring the shit out of her when she’d come up from the gym to see a figure lurking in the backyard. Her scream had been mortifying, though he’d been kind and apologetic.

He hadn’t knocked today, but he might have picked up that she and Tim were fighting and steered clear. He seemed to have a knack for coming over when they were fighting, or maybe it was just because they fought so much. Every little thing seemed to blow up these days, from her not putting the laundry away quickly enough to him leaving whiskers around the bathroom sink after he shaved. Yes, they had housecleaners, but it was trashy to leave a mess for someone else to clean up. “New money,” Grace’s mother had mumbled when she’d complained about it, looking for sympathy or reassurance that men just are like that or something.

She was mortified if the pool boy had actually seen them fighting and felt that staunch Arison pride take over. If someone saw something that might look poorly on you –like fighting with your husband– you needed to immediately do damage control. Hired help talked. Rumors of domestic unrest were like blood in a swamp; nothing drew the gossiping mosquitos faster. 

Grace didn’t know how long he’d been working but decided it didn’t matter. She always offered him a drink and a snack anyway. Pink Lemonade or Sprite, he preferred those to anything else. And he always accepted a bag of chips “for the road,” which had amused her the first time he’d said it. As if he just drove from pool to pool in that garishly painted company truck, tossing back kale chips or spooning tuna salad onto crackers. After a few weeks of her offering the foods she kept on hand, he’d once asked if she had any Flamin’ Hot Cheetos. It had taken all her etiquette training not to laugh –definitely not something they kept stocked! But he looked so sweetly sheepish about making a request, and the whole point of offering was to actually show gratitude to the other person. He kept their pool looking so nice! So she tried to keep a box of chips tucked in the back of the pantry where Tim didn’t go anywhere.

She carried a sweaty Sprite and a bag of chips out with her now. He looked up from spooning something out of the pool with his net at the sound of the sliding door.

“Good afternoon!” she called as she slid her feet into a pair of sandals. 

“Hello, Mrs. Birch,” he called back. He had on a pair of dark sunglasses and a big floppy white bucket hat and a tank top with long arm holes that gave him a real beach bum vibe. She carried the tray over to the table beside the pool house where it could rest in the shade.

“I brought you a snack. I hope you aren’t too hot out here!”

“Ah, it’s pretty warm,” he said. She thought she might be annoying him because he turned his back to her and lifted the net out of the pool. 

“Ok, well, I’ll leave you to–”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Birch. Wait a moment. Just a moment…” He shuffled along the side of the pool and emptied the net into a trashcan, before setting it on the side of the pool and coming to her. “I’m sorry about that.”

“That’s ok! I know you’re working. I don’t mean to slow you down.”

“I just didn’t want to bother you with that…”

“With… what?” 

He swept his hat off and pushed his sunglasses up, revealing hair spiky with sweat along his hairline and a pressure mark on his tanned nose. 

“Ah, um… a mouse,” he mumbled. She stared. “It’s ok. I took care of it.”

“There was a mouse in the pool?!”

“Well… a rat…”

“I’m so glad you told me! If we have rats I need to call pest control! I promise we don’t usually have rats–”

His face opened up in a laugh as he assured her, “No, Mrs. Birch. I shouldn’t have said that. It wasn’t a rat…”

Now she was absolutely confused and demanded, “JK, what was dead in my pool?” 

He smiled like this was all very funny. He wiped at his forehead with the back of his hand and lifted the Sprite from the tray, opening it with a quick twist of his hand. 

“I didn’t want to scare you, it was a squirrel.”

“I’m not scared of a squirrel…”

“A dead squirrel? Ok,” he shrugged and smiled again. “Sorry, Mrs. Birch. Sometimes the ladies are…” He gave her a sheepish look now. Her heart slowed down with the threat of a rat infestation gone. Why in the world had he not just said that from the beginning? It was kind if he’d been trying to spare her but honestly, she was made of sterner stuff than that!

“Well not this one,” she told him, “but thank you for trying to spare me. Is there sanitation that needs to be done in the–”

“Yes, I’ll definitely take care of it, Mrs. Birch.”

She gave him an apologetic smile, “I know you will, sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like I doubted your professionalism. It’s just been a day…” She turned her head to the side but glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, testing to see if he’d seen or heard anything. Maybe he had knocked on the door and she just hadn’t heard it?

“Well it’s beautiful outside,” he said. “Nothing a little sun can’t solve, right? I’ll have your pool nice again in no time or you can just…” He gestured to the lounge chairs at the far end, then dropped his face to put his mouth around the lip of the Sprite bottle. He tossed his head back and took a big sip with a sigh at the end, eyes red and watering. He sniffled. “It’s good, thanks.”

Grace grinned. “I’m glad. You know, I honestly don’t remember the last time I laid out by the pool.”

“Don’t you like to?”

“Oh yeah, when we first bought this house, I was out here every day with a Bloody Mary and a good thriller. Take a dip to cool off afterwards and–” She broke off, realizing she was waxing poetic about the happy earlier days of her privileged marriage to the fucking pool guy. Not to mention the rudeness. She was never totally sure what sounded like bragging, but suspected Bloody Marys by the pool on a weekday morning were not a part of JK’s routine.

“Won’t bother me if you give it a go while I’m working,” he shrugged. He set the Sprite down. “I just mean, don’t miss the sun on my account. Supposed to rain tomorrow.”

As tempting as the thought was, she didn’t want to make JK uncomfortable while he was working. She knew plenty of women who leered at their pool boys, who were just young men trying to do an honest job. She didn’t know a great deal about JK, but she knew he worked as a pool boy and a lifeguard and taught swim lessons, surfed in his free time, and that his favorite place he’d ever traveled was a summer he spent in Costa Rica, although he’d also gotten really sick there. Bad diarrhea. He hadn’t said that but insinuated it heavily and then looked embarrassed and Grace had thought that was pretty endearing. He was a nice guy, and he worked hard and did a good job. 

He was also rather good looking, so safe to assume he dealt with plenty of lecherous old women. Grace refused to be one of them! She was happily married and also not a predator, thanks!

“I appreciate the thought,” she thanked him now. “But I have some things I have to finish up inside and I need to–” Actually she no longer needed to pick up the dry cleaning with any sense of urgency, because she wouldn’t be wearing that blue dress that Tim liked so much to their anniversary dinner after all. “Finish some things up,” she clumsily finished. “So I’ll stay out of your way. If I’m gone when you finish just please be sure to lock up.”

“Yes, Mrs. Birch,” he nodded. “Thank you for the Sprite and chips.”

He was always so polite. She tried to treat all their household staff with kindness and respect but found it returned in various degrees. JK the pool boy was a good one though.

With nothing further to say or do, she bid him good day and returned inside. The conditioned air made her shiver at the contrast. It was going to be an incredibly hot summer if it was already like this in May. Global warming and all that. Thank god for the pool. She glanced over her shoulder one last time to see that JK was back to fishing things out of the pool, then went to cancel the dinner reservation with a sigh.

*

Mrs. Birch was not like the other women Jungkook cleaned pools for, that was the first thing he could tell you about her.

Agewise, he thought she was somewhere in the middle of the pack –those rich old dudes were always marrying women half their age, but sometimes they had old cutthroat wives who stuck around. He didn’t know how old Mrs. Birch was but he guessed somewhere in the middle of the range, maybe mid-30s or something? Late 30s? Could be 40s with a great surgeon or whatever, but usually you could tell when a white woman had a lot of work done trying to cling to her youth. Mrs. Birch had laugh lines and slight crinkles beside her eyes and a crease between her eyebrows but she had a youthful vibe and a girlish laugh, so fuck if he had any real clue about her age. 

She was definitely younger than her husband, Mr. Birch, who sucked donkey balls. Dude deserved a juvenile nickname but what the fuck could you do with the name Timothy Birch? Dickothy? Jungkook was a professional and tried not to spy or anything but he’d seen Mr. Birch obviously being a dick to Mrs. Birch too many times. Even if he couldn’t hear their arguments, it was always easy to tell who was being a bag of shit and who was on the verge of tears, having done nothing wrong.

Who gave a fuck about Mr. Birch, that overbaked piece of toast?

Mrs. Birch was kinder than the women at any of the other mansions Jungkook cleaned pools for. Some of them came out to say hello. Some of them brought food or drinks. Lots of them asked questions about who he was or how old he was or if he had a girlfriend or if he worked out. It came with the territory, and he’d learned how to handle the bolder ones in a way that didn’t cost him his job and usually got him glowing reviews and an occasional awkward tip. They always guessed that he surfed and giggled when they were right. Sometimes they even guessed he played guitar in a band and there were more giggles at how neatly he fit into this fantasy they were brazenly concocting about him. He actually played the drums. Maybe they’d ask when he was playing or if he gave surf lessons and he’d dodge the questions because he didn’t want these women stepping into those corners of his life. 

Mrs. Birch only asked the kind of questions he didn’t mind answering. She was the only one who, when he said he surfed, wanted to know what his favorite beach was. He’d gotten so flustered when she listened intently to his impulsive raving about the beaches in Costa Rica that he’d wound up telling her about getting the traveler runs. He’d left the job that day swearing he could never face her again.

But he had, and he didn’t regret it, because Mrs. Birch never made him feel weird or watched or like he was a piece of dog shit stuck to her designer heels. The ones who didn’t flirt often treated him like that. He’d been called Mexican too many times to count, which was racist in so many directions at once. There were ones who didn’t pay their bill and yelled at him when his boss told him to bring it up. There were ones who left disgusting shit –sometimes literally shit– in their pools for him to deal with. Or dangerous stuff; he’d sliced his foot open on broken glass once after someone’s rager, and when he’d calmly explained it was not his job to clean up the yard around the pool, they’d started chucking all the trash and broken glass into the pool. Thank fuck Jungkook’s boss had been happy to drop that client, but usually you had to just do whatever to get the job done.

Mrs. Birch would never do something shitty like that. Her husband was kind of intimidating, a real entitled rich asshole, but not Mrs. Birch. She never hovered but always said hello. She had told him before she sold houses and seemed really passionate about her job which was cool. She also clearly wasn’t from California, with her sweet little hint of Southern accent –he’d heard from some of the other guys she came from money too. Oil money in Tennessee or something. But she wasn’t a rich asshole at all, she was really nice, and remembered whatever stupid things he blurted out about himself whenever she asked. 

Because ok, the other thing was that aside from being really nice, Mrs. Birch was fucking hot. Not in the skinny plastic tanned way most of the other women were. She wore makeup and dressed nice and all that, and she was thin and athletic, but there was a naturalness to her. She carried some weight in her thighs and hips that was sexy. She did dye her hair blonde and he kind of wished she’d just let it be whatever the regular brown color was, but it looked nice on her. She had a really bright, sweet smile even without the lip fillers that seemed so popular, and cute dimples, and she had a really nice ass, if he was going to list the things he liked to notice about her. When she opened the sliding door, she never pulled hard enough and had to bump it with her hip; he always looked over the second he heard the door slide so he could see the way she popped that hip out. Her calves were shapely and he was pretty sure her thighs were too, though she was always wearing too much clothing to really get a detailed view of her body. Tits looked real though, a nice size, not so big he suspected they were fake, and they matched her ass. 

Well. Well there was one time he’d seen her wearing slightly less than her regular clothes. He’d only been working at their house a couple months –this was a couple years ago now– and she had clearly been working out in their home gym. The back of the house had tons of windows, windows everywhere, so he could see right into the living room and kitchen and dining room and even a bathroom that connected to the outside with an outdoor shower. So he’d seen her walk past all those windows just wearing a sports bra and tight little workout pants. He’d scared the shit out of her; the way she’d screamed had scared the shit out of him too! And sadly, he’d been so flustered by her rocking bod, he had failed to adequately commit her to memory, a regret he had to live with every day. But he had seen, he was certain he’d seen the dark blur of a tattoo on her lower back. He was sure of it! So that dark blur would also haunt him every day because Mrs. Birch was not someone you expected to have a lower back tattoo and he had questions…

Questions he would never get answers to. Because even if her husband was an asshole, he was just a run of the mill rich asshole, and women like Mrs. Birch never left their husbands. And while there were other women who might have not let that stop them –women who were eager to flirt and Jungkook didn’t know how far they’d take it if he didn’t sidestep their attentions– Mrs. Birch wasn’t one of them. He knew that and respected that a lot. Even if he did secretly wish she could hover a little bit.

Like why couldn’t she just get some sun on one of the lounge chairs while he cleaned the water? She could sit out with a bikini and a Bloody Mary and a book and he wouldn’t mind. It was against company rules to work shirtless, but if she enjoyed the view, he wouldn’t mind risking it for her. He could enjoy the view too, her in a bikini. Was she a black bikini woman? Or a flirty polka dot number? He hoped she wasn’t an animal print bikini person, it didn’t match her style at all, but he didn’t think she was. He could see her as a white bikini woman… damn, those always got a little see-through… Anyway, just looking wasn’t a crime…

But Mrs. Birch was one of those women who loved their husbands even when he didn’t deserve it. She had never shown even the slightest sexual interest in Jungkook. She only had eyes for her shitty, unappreciative, scumbag husband. Maybe Jungokok didn’t really know much about Mr. Birch or their relationship, but he definitely saw them unhappy way more than he ever saw them happy and that was enough for him to feel sure about it. He thought the way Mr. Birch kissed her on the forehead instead of the mouth when he said goodbye was stupid. Mrs. Birch seemed like a woman with untapped passion. She needed someone to really grab her and kiss her, not out of duty but out of need–

Maybe he was paying a little too much attention to Mrs. Birch. But nothing was happening, so he cared? He sure wasn’t going to start anything. Way too fucking shy and way too interested in keeping his job and again, Mrs. Birch wasn’t like that, even towards a pool boy. So it was all just in his head, and he didn’t let it go far in his head or anything. The fantasies. Maybe he thought about it sometimes, if she wasn’t home while he was working so there was no risk of getting caught red-faced and guilty-brained. Maybe he thought about her turning around and sliding her skirt down so he could see exactly what was going on with that maybe-tattoo… or sliding her skirt up so he could see what was going on with those thighs… but he hadn’t let it go further than that. The tease and denial was part of the fun after all. 

It was just that seeing Mrs. Birch was one of the best parts of his job, and he just wished she’d ogle him a little bit… The other women thought he was hot but, sadly, Mrs. Birch wasn’t like the other women…

It was a bad day. Long. Annoying. He’d spent the morning fighting with the owners of his first pool who insisted that the pool had been over chlorinated even though he showed them the readout proving the chemicals were on the lower end of normal ranges. They wanted a saltwater pool now because someone else had a saltwater pool, and when he tried to walk them through what the changes would entail, they spoke to him like he was stupid. They couldn’t believe he knew anything about pools. “He just cleans them. I’ll call the manager and talk to him about the work involved to switch it over…” 

Seething, Jungkook had left to find a missed call from his sister asking if he could babysit for her on Friday morning because she had a job interview. He understood that was more important than his morning surf time so of course he’d do it, and he loved his nephew, but it was still disappointing.

So he’d opened his messages to see if maybe– but no, he couldn’t make plans with Corri for Friday night to still have something to look forward to because she’d told him it was better if they just stayed friends. There were other girls he could try to message but he kind of didn’t see the point because they kept ghosting him. Did he really want to message Vic, who had once asked him how long he planned to keep cleaning pools? Or Deeda who said she didn’t think they had anything to talk about anymore just because she was in grad school now? Or Mara, who thought he spent too much time with his family and should “cut the umbilical cord already”? Teona disagreed, she thought Jungkook ought to spend more time thinking in the family way; time to grow up already because who still lived with their friends after college? Um, people without family inheritances funding their surfer influencer lifestyle maybe? At least Jungkook didn’t live at home anymore, right? That had certainly cost him a lot of dates before he moved out, like girls who didn’t even want to give him a chance just because he was an economic king? Fuck that! But he did move out, and now he still got shit about having roommates and his parents didn’t get the bonus rent he had paid whenever he could.

Dating sucked. Women his own age didn’t like him. Older women liked him too much. His friends had suggested he just go for it more than once. What’s wrong with a sugar mama? Jimin always asked, hitting his arm. Doesn’t that mean everyone’s happy?

Everyone except Jungkook! He wanted more than that in the grand scheme of things, so what? More than just to be some boytoy for ogling and flirting with when their husbands’ backs were turned… More than just a drunk fuck on the weekend, skin salty from a day on the waves… More than a hopeful second or even third date with a pretty woman he met on an app, only for her to suddenly decide it was going nowhere because he was going nowhere… Where was he supposed to go? He was happy! Except for the lack of girlfriend part.

He pulled into the Birch’s pool house driveway already cranky. At least this was the next house. He saw Mrs. Birch’s car in the open garage, though that didn’t guarantee she was home. If she’d bring him out the usual lemonade and chips, at least it would be one little bright spot on his otherwise miserable day. 

Not knowing when she might come out or if she could see him, he tried to look less like an angry asshole than he felt as he dragged the things he needed out of his truck and from their pool house. The sun was bright today; his skin glistened with sweat before he even started. He pulled on his wide-brimmed hat to keep the sun off his face and neck as he grabbed the net to start fishing out the leaves that had fallen in and evaded their filter. Mr. Birch refused to have one of the automatic pool cleaner robots because the cord annoyed him, but it meant weekly or sometimes twice-weekly visits from Jungkook so whatever, not his money.

He’d reached the deep end of the pool to scoop out a cluster of leaves huddled under the diving board as if they’d been seeking shade when he saw her. Mrs. Birch in the kitchen. Crying. 

She leaned against the counter looking at something in her hand and clearly didn’t realize he had arrived. Only strange coincidence had them look at each other at the same time and he could tell by her expression she hadn’t expected him to be there. Because he hadn’t knocked like he usually did, fuck. 

Quickly Jungkook dropped his gaze and concentrated as hard as he possibly could on the pool. Pool guys were definitely not supposed to be looking into the windows of a house; they were supposed to be unseen, unheard, unremarked upon staff. But Mrs. Birch had definitely just seen him looking into her kitchen, watching her cry against the counterlike a fucking creep.

Shit.

Shit, not so much because he’d been caught –while it wouldn’t have been the first time a nice-seeming client turned asshole the second something went wrong, or even the first time a woman turned on him because a vulnerability got exposed, he wanted to believe Mrs. Birch was better than that.

But shit because something had made Mrs. Birch cry. Obviously he had no actual idea what it was. Maybe her childhood dog had died. Maybe her favorite salad place had closed down. Maybe her favorite character had finally left whatever daytime soap was popular among older women right now. Maybe it was that time of month and a really emotional Coca Cola commercial had played –that always got his mom going.

Jungkook’s money though was on Mr. Birch being a dick. Once again. Mr. Birch was a rich asshole. Rude, impatient. Apparently he was a really talented businessman, which Jungkook assumed meant incapable of kindness, softness, or passion  –all of which of course a nice woman like Mrs. Birch would need and deserve. Besides, Jungkook did know they fought sometimes, and he couldn’t imagine Mrs. Birch actually doing anything wrong. Mr. Birch was the obvious culprit. He’d put his money on it.

The fantasy came into his head without permission: Jungkook, striding through the sliding door into her house, opening his arms and calling, “Hey, pretty girl, what did that asshole do this time?” She’d fall into his arms sobbing but he’d hear her out and talk her down and ask if she wanted him to beat down the prick husband. Which he would and could, obviously. Something about calling an older woman “pretty girl” just seemed nice, like for a moment he could just erase the age difference with her or something and be the strong, mature caretaker. Mrs. Birch needing him not only sexually but emotionally too seemed pretty bitchin’. Obviously she’d need him sexually, but to look up to him and admire him and rely on him too? Yeah, sweet…

Aside from the obvious reality checks (Mrs. Birch was married and had never expressed any interest in him sexually or otherwise), he realized Mrs. Birch might find it hella offensive for Jungkook to call her “pretty girl.” That might not actually be something older women liked. Women his own age were divided on it, based on his personal research. And when it didn’t land well, it really didn’t land well. 

He would have liked a raunchier fantasy to play out but none immediately came to call. Fuck his bad day, it was making his mind-dick limp too? He stabbed at the water and tried to dredge up filth but instead he thought of sitting down beside Mrs. Birch and laying his head in her lap and feeling those tits press against the side of his head as she leaned over to comfort him… ok, that was something, he could just turn his face a little, maybe catch a nipple with his teeth–

Fuck it. 

He was having a shit day and could use some ogling. Mrs. Birch was having a bad day and deserved some eye candy. He was eye candy, other women clearly thought that! Maybe just this once Mrs. Birch would notice.

He doubled back to strip off his shirt. He tossed his hat aside too and took a moment to apply sunscreen –for safety, obviously, but also so his skin would have that shiny glow to it. He looked himself over, just to make sure everything was oiled and in place. Without the hem of his shirt to cover it, his boardshorts hung low, showing off the shallow cliff of his v-line and the ridges of his abs. He wished he was a bit taller and bulkier but his chest and shoulders and back were fire, so whatever. His muscles came from surfing more than pressing iron and he didn’t exactly have the time for body-building but he was fit and toned. Who the fuck could afford a personal trainer anyway? 

Shit, why was he second guessing his own looks? No! Fuck it! Older women thought he was hot. They liked the combo of his baby face and washboard abs –their words, not his. Ah, too bad the board shorts hid his thighs, his thighs and ass got him compliments from those blessed enough to see him naked… He was hot! Women said so! 

He reached into the pool to wet his hands and splashed water onto his hair so he could push it back. Maybe she’d be inspired by his shoulder tattoo to show off her own…

He’d never felt so naked at someone’s house before, but he did his best to look sexy as he worked. Actually the cool water looked sexier on this hot day than anything he could do. It was a nice big pool, rectangular and deep with lane-markers in the tile, so one of them must have been a swimmer. Wider than a lap pool though and there was a fountain on one side. If he had a pool like this, he’d be out in it every morning for a dip. 

He kept trying to look in the window without it being obvious he was looking in the window. Having his shirt off… it didn’t look desperate, right? It was just a thing pool guy’s did. Yes it was against the rules but he knew plenty of guys did it anyway in the hopes of a bigger end of season tip or, even riskier, cougar bait. 

He paused on the edge of the pool with the test strip. Was he… cougar baiting? But it wasn’t going to go anywhere. He wasn’t doing anything. There was nothing wrong with looking, if Mrs. Birch wanted to look at him. That’s why he’d taken his shirt off! Nothing was going to happen!

Unless… unless what if it did? What if this was a signal for action he hadn’t meant to send? What if Mrs. Birch had simply been polite but he’d now set a train rolling that wouldn’t be stopped… they were both in a weak place today. She might seek comfort and... And obviously he couldn’t go through with that, she was married for fuck’s sake, and he could lose his job, and honestly he didn’t put it past Mr. Birch to fucking shoot him or ruin his life or something… and there was the emotional part too that he didn’t really want to be the other guy, he wanted to be the guy for someone–

The door slid open behind him. He spun, definitely not looking as cool and casual as he had hoped.

“Hello,” Mrs. Birch greeted, carrying the tray of chips and a cold pitcher of lemonade over to the glass-top table. “The lemonade is fresh and I added extra ice. If it’s too miserable out here, you can turn those cabana fans on. It’s a real scorcher today, isn’t it?”

He walked over, trying not to overthink his saunter.

“Ah, yeah, it’s brutal today,” he agreed, reaching for the glass. She’d… she’d noticed he was shirtless, right? That’s why she was talking about how hot it was? Did she mean him? If not,  she wasn’t reacting at all. “I’ll have your pool nice so you can enjoy it later; perfect day for it.”

“Thank you so much,” she smiled at him. “I have to run out to meet a client soon but I look forward to it later today. I really appreciate all your hard work keeping it nice out here.”

Not sure how to respond to her kindness when he’d been trying so hard to be ogled, he awkwardly pointed out, “That’s what you pay me for.” Wait, did that sound too dismissive or too flirty? Was he trying to flirt? Not really but… but if she wanted to flirt, he’d flirt! If it would cheer her up! She didn’t look like she was crying anymore so maybe it had worked? Quickly he added, “But I try to keep this pool particularly nice.”

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Well I appreciate your hard work and… thanks. Just please make sure to close the gate on your way out.”

“I always do.” 

She didn’t say anything else, just gave him a watery smile and retreated back into the house. Usually they talked for at least a couple minutes, so that had been remarkably short. She had said she had errands to run, but she wound up not leaving the house for a long time yet. And he already knew she was having a bad day, but he saw her in the kitchen and she didn’t seem to cry again. 

Or… had she been nervous talking to him when he didn’t have a shirt on? Could that be true, had he left her too flustered for smalltalk? Could Mrs. Birch be shy? 

He whistled to himself as he left.

**

Why was the pool guy shirtless?! Was it really so hot out there? She felt bad if he was that miserable –they had fans with misters that could help! He knew that, didn’t he? But honestly it wasn’t that bad out there… but he was probably running around working by pools all day while she was inside her crisply air conditioned home, crying her eyes out because of that stupid argument with Tim–

Whatever. It wasn’t a good time for the pool guy to be shirtless. Did he have to look like that?! Sure, she already knew his arms and shoulders were toned, and likely the rest of his body as well from all the surfing. His shoulders and cheeks were always sunkissed. But she wasn’t in the business of objectifying people going about their day, so she’d noticed without noticing. He had such a charming smile, that’s what she had always let remain fixed in her mind, but now she couldn’t unknow. She knew too much! She had seen way too low down his happy trail, like his board shorts were going to slip off at any second and leave nothing left for the imagination.

Not that she was imagining! Just… noticing. Was it wrong to notice the muscular curve of his shoulders, and how toned his back was and how his chest actually pillowed as he dragged the net through the water? Probably! But she was married, not dead. How could she not notice? Jungkook was a hunk and he was probably only going to get even more handsome as he aged. Lucky woman who got to–

No, no, stupid line of thought. Just because she was cranky about her own marital troubles didn’t mean she should go down that salty path. The grass was always greener. Hopefully he did have a happy life going on outside of tending to rich peoples’ pools. And anyway, wasn’t she lucky to have Tim? Handsome, successful, enamored(ish) with her…

She took out snacks to try and be normal but found herself a bit tongue-tied talking to him. God, men like him had never paid her much attention when she was younger unless they were after her family money. Suddenly she was fourteen at summer camp again, enamored by the cool surfer boy lifeguard who only ever looked right through her… Except Jungkook didn’t look through her, he kept grinning like he knew he was fucking with her head. Were reviews coming up or something? Was he working shirtless this week, hoping everyone would put in a good word? She refused to be worked! 

She fabricated a meeting with a client as an excuse to keep their chat short. The crooked grin and dimples beneath the dark shades were bad enough but then he slid his sunglasses up to rest in his mop of dark curls and arched his eyebrow –she wasn’t even sure what they were talking about, the weather?-- and she thought for sure he was about to quip my eyes are up here, Mrs. Birch. His skin looked warm, like molded sunlight, like summer vacation in the form of a man. Damn, he had the kind of natural glow and ageless beauty she knew plenty of people spent top dollar trying to emulate. 

It was good she kept the conversation short. A bad day was not the right time to harass the poor pool guy just here to do his job! She fled quickly inside, but forgot to follow through on leaving for her non-existent errand at first, until she realized she needed to go by her office anyway. Maybe she dragged her feet… just looking wasn’t a crime, right? Maybe? If he didn’t want someone looking, why had he taken off his shirt?! 

No. No no she didn’t want to be this kind of woman! This wasn’t who her parents had raised her to be. She shouldn’t be crude about a real person just because she was having a bad day and it didn’t make her feel better anyway, it made her feel worse. Was Tim right about her? One fight with her husband and she slid right into being a lecherous old cougar…

So she grabbed her purse and keys and fled her own house.

Mr. and Mrs. Birch weren’t always fighting when Jungkook came over. 

In general it wasn’t unheard of to be working on a pool and accidentally notice things going on inside the house even when you really didn’t want to. To people with money, the staff was invisible until you fucked something up. And some people just had no shame about what the help saw. He’d gotten an unwanted eyeful plenty of times, or turned on music to drown out the fucking floating out of an open window. Lucky bastards, fucking in the middle of the day like that while some people had to work…

Such was the case when Jungkook came over to clean the pool one Wednesday afternoon. 

Usually he came by at the same time each week so he could maximize the likelihood of running into Mrs. Birch and minimize the likelihood of running into Mr. Birch. That day when he pulled up though, he could see every spot in the garage filled with a car. Four cars. Mr. Birch had two old ones that were pretty fucking cool, the kind of cars old rich men bought to drive on the weekends up the coast. The kind of car his dad would have loved to drive but had never been anywhere close to. God, he would have loved to buy his dad a convertible for his fiftieth birthday a few years ago but that definitely wasn’t happening on a pool guy’s salary and neither of them knew the first thing about fixing up an old junker.

Jungkook was already brittle with jealousy about the cars as he began his work and then gradually realized that the distant sounds of sex were maybe not so distant. His face jerked towards the source, an upstairs window of the Birch’s house. Honestly, he’d never heard a man that loud during sex before, grunting like an old lawnmower that wouldn’t start. A repetitive lighter gasp, like an alarm no one was bothering to tend to, sat on top of the grunts, so consistent that he didn’t even register it first.

Jungkook’s ears went red. Shit. 

Look, Jungkook had fucked around plenty. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been around other people fucking. For fuck’s sake, he lived with two other guys, so he’d had his morning cornflakes to the annoying sound of an early-risen roommate. 

But the second he realized he was overhearing Mr. and Mrs. Birch fucking, mortification consumed him. Maybe it was because he had that funny kind of crush on Mrs. Birch. Maybe it was because he thought Mr. Birch was so vile. Maybe it was because the idea of that shriveled old guys’ raw dick being anywhere near the nice and pretty Mrs. Birch was just a bridge too far and now it was confirmed. Ok, sure, they were married, they’d probably had lots of sex in their lives together. Maybe? But he’d never seen or heard it before, and since he saw them fighting, he’d sort of assumed they didn’t do that. Obviously Mr. Birch couldn’t be good. He was selfish and way too old for Mrs. Birch. He looked all wrong next to her, there was no way he looked better on her.

This dose of reality was an unwelcome one: Mr. and Mrs. Birch were married and had sex and Jungkook’s happy fantasy that they were miserable and on the cusp of divorce and she’d turn to him for comfort was slapped in the face by reality. He didn’t actually know anything about them. For all he knew, they were wildly in love and he, as the pool boy, just wasn’t privy to the realities of their marriage. For all he knew, he just managed to always see them at the wrong time for the two and a half seasons he’d cleaned their pool. Or maybe he misunderstood the emotional charge in those moments; maybe something else was upsetting Mrs. Birch and Mr. Birch was her champion. Maybe Mr. Birch was somehow a great husband! She sure seemed to be, um, enjoying that… maybe? That wasn’t how he’d imagined she sounded when he sometimes– look, it wasn’t personal, but she was hot and his mind went to a desperate, embarrassing place when he was jacking off

At least they finished up quickly. He must have arrived at the very end of it, thank fuck. Or maybe Mr. Birch couldn’t last long. He was old, after all. But that didn’t put Jungkook in any better of a mood when Mr. Birch wandered into the kitchen not long after, pouring two glasses of ice water. Mrs. Birch wasn’t far behind, but while he had only a robe on, she had pulled on leggings and a t shirt, like she’d just been working out or watching TV or something casual…

But Jungkook knew what they had just been doing. Usually he didn’t give a shit but now he felt weird and unhappy to be here. It was confirmation of an obvious thing: Mr. Birch fucked Mrs. Birch. Wow, alert the media. A husband fucks his wife! So what that Jungkook didn’t like that? Now he knew they fucked in the middle of the day sometimes. Cool. He could have died happy without knowing that but ok.

He sulked as he cleaned the pool. He contemplated taking his shirt off again, because it was a hot day, and maybe in the hopes Mrs. Birch would notice and think about what Mr. Birch didn’t look like, could never look like… but he didn’t. 

That was for the best, since when Mrs. Birch came out to bring Jungkook ice water and a bag of chips, Mr. Birch came with her. It was less than she usually offered, and Jungkook thought she looked apologetic about it, but maybe he just imagined that.

“We’re having people over this weekend,” Mr. Birch said, walking along the side of the pool with his hands in the pockets of his robe. He curled his toes in a weird way when he walked, and Jungkook wondered if the concrete was too hot on his little wealthy feet. 

They weren’t little actually. They were big, ugly and wrinkly and Jungkook wondered if maybe Mr. Birch was actually an honest-to-god gremlin.  

“Make sure the pool is perfect,” Mr. Birch said because he was still talking. “None of the leaves in the bottom like last time.”

Mrs. Birch looked uncomfortable as she said, “Those happened after he was here last week because the O’Connor’s cleaned their yard and blew all their leaves our direction–”

“Those fuckers need to fix that shitty fence or I’m going to start throwing shit right back,” Mr. Birch grumbled.

“Tim…” Mrs. Birch gave him a look that must have been fond. Jungkook could not for the life of him figure out how someone like Mrs. Birch could be fond of Mr. Birch. It ruined his brief high that Mrs. Birch had defended him. 

Jungkook was still holding the net and trying not to look at Mr. Birch in the hopes he’d fuck off, but he didn’t miss the nod in his direction that Mrs. Birch gave her husband, like he was saying something he shouldn’t. Now Jungkook didn’t think she looked fond –she was embarrassed, he realized. Of course she was. Mrs. Birch was a saint and wouldn’t shit talk her neighbors like that, she’d just been stating a fact about the O’Connor’s and defending Jungkook’s work. He smiled at her before he could stop himself, then hurried to cover it with,

“Mr. Birch, if you’re concerned about debris in between cleanings, I could install a pool cleaner robot for–”

“No, that’s what we pay you for,” Mr. Birch interrupted. “You’re the pool boy. Don’t farm out your own job,” he scoffed. It took great self control from cleaning rich peoples’ pools for years to not snap back and point out that the robot wouldn’t remove dead squirrels or check the chemical levels, it would just slurp up the pine needles in between his thorough care.

“A pool technician manages many things to keep your pool nice,” he suggested evenly. “If you don’t want the robot, I could come out twice a week, or you could always call if you need a cleaning ahead of an event–”

Mr. Birch actually laughed and pointed, saying to Mrs. Birch, “Yep, there’s that upsell!” Jungkook felt hatred deep in his belly for this asshole. He was doing his job. 

It was clear Mr. Birch sailed through life because he had a woman like Mrs. Birch to clean up the shit he stepped in and tracked everywhere.

“He’s a professional, of course he knows the answers,” she laughed gracefully. “I can run the net around if I need to before everyone comes over on Saturday, Tim,” she added. Jungkook wanted to box Tim’s ears that’s your job, fucker, don’t make her do it! At least let me do it! She continued, “Anything more than that, you’ve lost me. Chemistry was not my best subject in high school…”

Without missing a beat, Mr. Birch laughed, “Well you didn’t need chemistry after all anyway, huh? No science to selling houses.”

“Economic science,” Jungkook suggested, unable to help himself. He wasn’t even sure that was a thing but he blurted it out because it sounded like Mr. Birch was disparaging Mrs. Birch, who worked hard (probably) at her job even though she (probably) didn’t even need to and could just sit at home on her ass spending his money like a lot of the other wives (probably) did. 

Unfortunately Mr. Birch just laughed.

Mrs. Birch smiled too, like she appreciated his effort, and suggested, “We’ll leave you to it but call if you need something, as always.” She gestured to the snacks on the table with one hand and nudged Mr. Birch back into the house with the other. 

Jungkook waited until Mr. Birch had stepped inside ahead of her to call after, “Hey, if it’s bad before your party, the O’Connor’s clean their yard again or whatever, just call and I can come clean up as a one-off. S’not a problem.”

“Thank you, JK. I’m sure we’ll be fine though. Saturday is surf time, isn’t it?”

The fact she remembered that he liked to go surfing Saturday mornings flustered him into saying nothing in response. He just dropped his gaze and stared at the pool. Sure, that was a low fucking bar for people but still! How could a woman who so kindly remembered he spent his Saturday mornings surfing be married to that limp-dicked troll? She deserved so much better than that. Someone like him, right? Someone who thought her real estate work was cool and impressive and wanted to spend lazy evenings swimming together in this nice pool and who understood how to really take care of that body of hers. No way had Mr. Birch been good to her upstairs. She was faking it, he was sure of it. She’d never need to fake it with him, he’d fuck her so good–

Fuck, he wished Mr. Birch would just drown in this pool. He’d just do a full cleanse after and the pool would look great and Mrs. Birch’s problems would be solved.

Grace carried the two glasses of rosé to join Megan in the living room. Usually Megan was wandering along the gallery wall, admiring the art or peppering Grace with questions about the framed photographs of holidays and events tucked in among the paintings and prints Grace had collected over the years. She only ever bought small paintings because Tim thought big paintings were tacky and they cost too much to convince him otherwise, though she did have one large one her grandparents had gifted her currently hanging in the dining room. She wanted it in the bedroom but it wasn’t worth the fight.

Tim also didn’t like rosé –he considered it a bastardized wine– but Tim wasn’t here right now, so she took great delight in handing Megan the glass and lifting her own to her lip.

“Hey, does your pool guy always work shirtless?”

Grace swallowed some wine down the wrong pipe and had to pound on her chest to free it. Once able to breathe again, she could see that JK was in fact shirtless by the side of the pool, sunlight shiny on his tanned arms and shoulders and back.

Holy hell, not again.

“No, not usually,” she said, sounding cool and calm.

“Damn. My poolboy doesn’t look like that… what service are you using again?”

“Oh, I don’t know the name, I think it’s printed on his truck,” she lied, waving her hand. He’d crouched over to adjust something with the net and his board shorts hugged his frame tight, so low she suspected she might see ass if she looked closely. There was so little to his torso! Maybe she had noticed before how narrow his waist was compared to his shoulders, but from the side she was scandalized by the reminder that his pecs had actual volume to them and his stomach, in fact, did not. 

“God, I’d be out there sunbathing if my poolboy looked like that,” Megan continued. “That’s a young man in his prime. Look at that tan, it’s real! And those muscles… I bet he’s insane in the sack…”

“Megan!”

“What! I’m lonely and horny. Adam’s been on site for a month now… Oh don’t look scandalized, I’m not actually banging the help. A girl can dream, can’t she? No harm in looking. I adore Adam… but he’s definitely not outperforming someone like that in bed.”

Grace sighed and insisted, “You can’t tell how someone performs in bed just by looking at them.”

“Maybe you can’t…”

“Stop,” she laughed. “Stop gawking at my pool technician. If he looks over and sees us– Megan!”

He had, in fact, looked over. He waved at them, so there was no hoping he hadn’t seen them peering out the window at him. Grace was good at smoothing over awkward situations but couldn’t see an easy way out of this one except to wave back and grab Megan’s arm and drag her away from the window. She’d already taken his snacks out earlier before Megan got here. He’d been wearing a shirt then… 

“Does Tim know you have a hot stud like that around here every week?”

“Oh please,” Grace laughed. “Like he has anything to worry about.”

“I know, I’m just teasing. Good-girl Grace, definitely the last person anyone expects to fool around with the poolboy. Which means…” Megan wiggled her eyebrows.

Grace just rolled her eyes, “Yes, the last person. He’s very young and definitely not looking to be harassed by a couple of old married women while he’s just doing his job.”

“If he didn’t want us to admire him, he wouldn’t have his shirt off.”

“Meg! That’s crass victim blaming, even from you–”

“He’s not a victim, is what I’m saying! Poor boy is probably desperate for you to notice him every week. He’s rubbing one out every night wishing you’d march out there one day and mount him on the lounge chair–”

“MEGAN FERRERO!”

“Ugggh I’m reading too many romances lately,” Megan sighed. “I’m going to tell Adam he can’t ever leave me alone this long again. I can’t be trusted.”

Grace didn’t want her friend to see how flustered that little scenario had left her. Not because she was thinking about that sort of thing with JK. But just because it was suggested and– honestly, he was just a guy doing his job! 

“That’s right, you can’t be trusted!” Grace teased to cover herself. “From now on I’ll have to schedule your visits when I have no staff around the house–”

“Oh god do you only hire really attractive people? See, this is why it helps to be friends with people who like art. You have an appreciation for beauty!”

“I do but that did not get utilized when choosing a pool cleaning service…”

“No wonder you wound up with a handsome man like Tim. You have a good eye.”

“Hm, I suppose so…” Grace smiled. Things with Tim seemed… off lately. Which wasn’t saying much because they’d always had their highs and lows, and this wasn’t even really low compared to previous lows. He just seemed strange lately, bouncing between standoffish and more ardent than she’d seen him in years. He was closing in on a big deal. He was traveling less but to more interesting places. He’d even suggested she could go on the trip to St. Bart with him next month, maybe they could make a longer stay of it. That would be nice, right at the end of the season, once the Europeans were done with their obscenely long summer holidays. Probably the place would be rife with people they knew, as close to the “trip to the sea” holidays that showed up so often in the old English novels Grace liked to read on a rainy day.

“Or more like Tim has a good eye,” Megan corrected, nudging her with her toe.

Quickly Grace slid decorum back into place and nodded with an arched eyebrow, “Yes, we both made quite the acquisition.” It made Megan laugh and Grace suppressed the sigh of relief. If there was anything her parents had taught her, it was never to show your belly, even to your friends. Especially to your friend who seemed to accumulate any bit of gossipy trivia about everyone. With any luck, the pool business JK worked for was going to see a surge in business soon, right at the end of the summer pool season, with probably particular requests for JK… But dear lord, how would Megan figure that out? Grace hadn’t said his name. How would Megan describe him– oh, she realized, probably as “the young man who cleans the Birch’s pools.” Probably the requests would be good for JK career-wise, though she hoped no one bothered him actually. Was it ok to ogle your handsome staff? Grace really didn’t think so. And so she didn’t!

“Now I didn’t bring you over here to prey on my pool guy, we’re supposed to be talking about what we want to pitch for the benefit to the committee–”

“Before those skanky hoes Trish and Nancy scoop us again,” Megan instantly sulked. 

“Adam will be back before the vote, right? It’s ultimately the men on the board who decide–”

“Oh I’ll make sure he’s back, and you keep Tim here too. Just because we aren’t blowing the rest of them doesn’t mean we can’t find other ways to sabotage–”

“Or we could just have the best idea.”

“Oh Grace,” Megan laughed. “Sometimes I forget you’re so much younger than me. You’re not even forty yet! A fresh babe.”

“You’re only forty-three.”

“Yes, and so worldly. Trust me. This is important. This is about establishing ourselves! Those old bitches need to roll over and die, it’s our turn to take over, the younger generation. She doesn’t look a day over sixty but Nancy is definitely in her seventies. Might just take one good jump-scare…”

“You are incorrigible,” Grace laughed, shaking her head. Megan was new money, lavish, ostentatious, a gossip, overly blunt –literally everything Grace had been raised not to be. It was shocking! And yet, despite the dent it likely caused on her impeccable social card, Grace found herself seeking out Megan’s company time and time again. In a sea of masks, Megan let hers slip sometimes. Usually when she was throwing it off because someone had pissed her off…

“But you love it. Ok. So I’m thinking… exotic dancers–”

“Meg!”

“Sorry! Your poolboy inspired me! Fine, I forgot, that’s only what the men do on their own, we’re supposed to pretend not to know. What about… Old Hollywood?”

“Does it seem out of touch? It’s to benefit starving children…” Grace tactfully reminded her.

“All right, let’s refill our wine glasses to think, I need more rosé.”

Mr. Birch had complained to the pool company about his pool. He’d felt there were too many leaves in it within days of cleaning. Fortunately Jungkook’s boss Bob understood these kinds of complaints and had said all the right things and then carried forward zero of the reprimands. When asked if he wanted a different pool technician, Mr. Birch had said he “didn’t give a fuck, I just want it done right.”

But Mrs. Birch had also called, Bob explained further, to apologize for her husband and insist that Jungkook did a fantastic job taking care of their pool and there was no need to replace him unless he was uncomfortable working at their house, which she would understand. Mrs. Birch was a class act. His boss told him the calls happened close together, and Mrs. Birch’s voice sounded like she was upset, so he suspected there was a fight. Probably the pool wasn’t the important thing they were fighting about and Mr. Birch’s anger just got passed down the little guy, that’s how these things went.

Jungkook thought it was possible Bob told him all this to make sure he wasn’t getting into something he shouldn’t, because Bob stopped laughing and had that look on his face. Jungkook would not be the first guy to get fired for fucking someone’s wife on the side. Jungkook easily and honestly reassured him that was not an issue here. He was not involved with anything but cleaning the pool.

How could he be when Mr. and Mrs. Birch were suddenly so busy fucking like rabbits on the afternoons he came by? The sex noises were even louder this time and it was so fucking obnoxious he almost just turned around and left. Was Mr. Birch trying to prove a point or something? Fuck that guy. Mrs. Birch shouldn’t be married to that piece of shit and either it was a money thing or a magical tongue thing but Mr. Birch didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d eat pussy so probably it was a money thing. Well… Jungkook couldn’t offer anything when it came to money but his tongue was a different story and which really led to a happier life?

Ok honestly probably the money…

He decided to stay, in the hopes it would grate on Mr. Birch’s nerves to see him still working there after his complaint. At first it was fine, he just put his headphones on. But eventually the noise got too loud to be drowned out, and it was pissing him off to hear, “Oh Tim! Oh Tim!” chanted through music he loved.

He ripped the headphones out just as the woman gave an actual scream of pleasure. The mixture of anger and embarrassment that Mrs. Birch could sound like that froze him in place for a moment. That had apparently been the end of it because sudden silence followed. Thank fuck.

His blood was still boiling though, a nauseating mixture of horny and angry. What the fuck? He always came on Wednesdays. This didn’t have to happen on a Wednesday afternoon with the windows wide open. Didn’t they have any fucking decency for the neighborhood?!

Also what the fuck had Mr. Birch done to make Mrs. Birch cum so hard? Jungkook had found some comfort over time in convincing himself that sadly Mrs. Birch’s sexlife was a pleasureless one and he could be so much better for her. But he’d never made a woman scream like that… not that he didn’t work hard to satisfy anyone he landed in bed with but that scream was unreal. In fact, it had to be literally unreal, right? It had to be fake. It had to be! He thought he’d be able to tell as soon as Mrs. Birch came down and remembered he was here and brought him his usual snacks. Maybe she’d just been in a hurry to get Mr. Birch to stop poking at her with his skinny hot dog dick.

Nonetheless, his ego was threatened. It was the one area he’d felt superior. It was bullshit if this pimpled-asshole got to be rich, lazy, married to someone like Mrs. Birch and actually had good dick game. It wasn’t fucking fair. Assholes always got ahead in life and meanwhile decently-ok guys like Jungkook were stuck cleaning their pools and fantasizing about their wives bent over the side of the pool when they jacked off in the shower because another girl had ghosted after only a couple of dates. Not to mention living to paycheck to paycheck and arguing with the landlord about whether they were in their right to install a basketball hoop over the garage or not. Probably he wouldn’t have even noticed if it hadn’t ripped the gutter down the first time Jungkook hit the backboard…

He texted the loudest woman he’d ever fucked who he was also still on friendly terms with to see if she’d be willing to chill this weekend. Fine. Mrs. Birch wanted to get fucked so hard by her husband? He could fuck a woman even harder! One who wanted to be fucked by him! He didn’t care if he was being crazy right now!

But when he realized there was movement in the kitchen and that he was standing here on his phone, he nearly dropped it in his panic. Mr. Birch already wanted him fired, it wouldn’t help him if they saw him on the side of the pool on his phone. He hurried to shove it into his back pocket while also glancing at the window to make sure no one had seen him.

They had not. Because in fact they were fucking again. The woman was sitting on the kitchen counter wearing a silky robe spread open while Mr. Birch clearly tried to guide his dick into her, staring down as if he wasn’t sure how to work his own junk. He had a robe on too, thank fuck, but that wasn’t the important part.

The important part was that that was not Mrs. Birch.

Without even thinking about it, Jungkook raised his phone without moving any other muscle of his body, like they couldn’t see him if he didn’t move. He took several photos.

Illegal? Yes. Immoral? Probably. Likely to get him fired? Definitely. But he wasn’t thinking about that right now. His brain was too busy rocketing around his skull because A.) if Mr. Birch realized Jungkook was here, he was definitely going to get him unjustly fired and B.) Mrs. Birch deserved so so so much better than this fucking piece of shit limp dick who had his head so far up his own ass he’d have an affair while the pool guy was here. 

Where was Mrs. Birch? She was usually here at this time! Why wasn’t she? Why was Mr. Birch here instead? 

Jungkook ducked down beneath the window and ran as fast as he could out of the backyard, leaving supplies scattered. He’d go to the next house and come back later. Right now, everything in his gut told him not to be at this house a minute longer. He’d say there had been an emergency and he had needed to go, if Mr. Birch even noticed the half-done job outside. He didn’t seem interested at the moment in noticing anything except that woman who was not his wife with her lips wrapped around his dick.

Heart pounding, Jungkook peeled out of there like a bat out of hell.

Masterlist | Chapter Two

#jungkook ff #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x oc #jeon jungkook x oc #over the falls #jeon jungkook ff #jungkook smut #jungkook series #jungkook au #poolboy jk #jungkook domestic fluff #jungkook/oc

[thechaoticdruid]

~My Tav for roleplay and story purposes~

Name: Winnie (Winnifred)

Gender: Female

Pronouns: She/Her

Class: Druid (Her favorite form being the direwolf. I also like to imagine she has some doggy-like characteristics because of it lol), she's also multi-classing as a wizard for reasons.

Age: 23

Race: Human

Hair: Reddish brown

Eyes: Pink

Height: 5'3

Alignment: Chaotic Neutral (With a bit of a good lean I suppose)

Love interest: Astarion

Backstory: Winnifred was raised deep in a hidden forest village, amongst her fellow druids. Her grandmother was the archdruid of their circle and took to raising her after Winnie's parents went missing (aka the likely died horribly on an adventure.) Winnie lived a peaceful, but boring life in the village for thirteen years until eventually it was raided by goblins and everyone she'd known and loved was slaughtered before her very eyes. Winnie was captured by the horde's leader, a strange drow wizard who only allowed her to live because he thought she'd be the perfect test subject for his 'experiments'. She never learned his name, but since the event his face has haunted her nightmares. Winnie remained his lab rat for weeks following the raid. Eventually however her suffering came to an end when a band of adventurers came to her rescue. Apparently they were old friends of the family though she had never once met any of them. They freed her from the prison she'd been held in before setting fire to the goblins camp, killing every last one of the circle's murderers....Well all except for the drow...

Sometime after that Winnie was taken in by Arva, a half elf who just so happened to be the leader of her rescuers. She brought Winnie back to her group's hideout in Baldur's Gate's under city and for ten years Winnie learned how to survive on the streets, using some not so heroic skills Arva had taught her....

•Just stuff about Winnie•

Winnie is weird.

She rarely takes anything seriously and will usually use humor as a way to keep herself sane as she puts it.

She's definitely not a saint but there are some big no nos for her when it comes to morals. No harming innocents, children, or animals.

Self righteous rich tits can suck it tho

"Think you can just spit on me? Huh!? I'll bite your fucking ankles!"

Winnie is an insomniac with permanent raccoon eyes. Shh...don't say anything she gets self conscious!

She has really low self esteem when it comes to her appearance.

Growing up all the other children in her village used to call her ugly a lot. Pretty much all of them aside from a gnome child named Demi.

Winnie liked Demi. Demi used to call her tall.

Winnie isn't particularly romantically experienced. Mostly due to her low self esteem and urge to faint or run away screaming when around someone she finds attractive.

Astarion is her first everything really.

Moving on from that Winnie has a bit of an obsession with cheese. It's like her favorite thing ever.

If you have any she will steal it.

Her handwriting is awful.

She has a habit of pretending to be dumber than she actually is to throw people off.

She identifies herself as being interested in men exclusively, but if I'm honest she does have a bicurious streak.

Mostly because Karlach once asked her what she would do if Astarion was a girl.

Karlach is like her best friend, but don't tell Star he'll get jealous. Shhh...

Has a little plant in a small pot that she affectionately calls Vern.

Currently writing erotic Bloodweave fanfiction titled 'Blood Mage' as a side job to afford Astarion's costly wardrobe. Shhh.... don't tell Gale.

Likes to draw exaggerated doodles in her journal a lot. Usually illustrating important events in her life.

She often dwells on something she remembered one of the older druids saying before the raid. The elder druid described Winnie as "a weed amongst the flowers."

Winnie used to flip the old lady off behind her back all the time.

Will probably be updated and expanded on. Feel free to ask questions. I might make a separate one of these for my Durge .

IMPORTANT: While I am open to doing a little roleplay here and there I'm only doing it with users above the age of 18. Anyone without their age on their blog will be blocked or ignored. Also I'm not comfortable roleplaying the canon characters at this time so don't ask please.

#bg3 #bg3 tav #astarion bg3 #astarion x tav #bg3 rp #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 roleplay #my tav #baldur's gate 3 roleplay

[graytheory]

gonna need radical feminists to stop weaponizing the patriarchy when it's convenient for them if they hate it so much, lol. white women calling the cops on moc, specifically black men, because they feel threatened? that's reinforcing the patriarchy. getting the cops to come and defend them from some big bad man of color trying to exist in a public space. getting men of color, specifically black men, murdered, through the weaponization of patriarchal ideas that (white) women are fragile and need to be protected. the patriarchy will never actually be dismantled until white women come to terms with how they actually want to keep it for the things it serves them for.

also, regarding voting, men of color still overwhelmingly vote democrat. last i checked, the majority of white women except 18-29 year olds voted republican in the last election. sounds like this is less of a gender issue and more of a white supremacy issue. as womens' rights are at such a peril right now, why are white women still voting for people that want to take them away?

and finally, i think it's rich that radfems are so invested in this fight for womens' liberation that they harm cis women, woc, who want to talk about misogyny and oppression but deal with so many conversations derailed where they need to step up and defend the men in their communities because white women continue to get them killed. (the problem isn't the defending, the problem is it constantly takes away from conversations about misogyny and patriarchy and does not help anyone)

sorry for this rant in your inbox, i'm a (very tired) woman of color who finds radfems infuriating on every level. we are actually trying to do work and it's fucking exhausting to see them destroy all of it with this rhetoric.

No need to apologize, Anon. Your voice deserves to be heard.

<3

#anon #feminism #anti radfem