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tacoguacamole · 24 days ago

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ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 11

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, Major Fluff For This Chapter, Romance, Slowburn, Splice of Life]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4.Part 5. Part 6. Part 7. Part 8. Part 9. Part 10. Part 11. Chapter Word Count: 12.2k+]

[Chapter Summary: Some places remember you better than you remember yourself. And in the quiet of old rooms, familiar laughter, and slow mornings, something begins to feel almost like home again—even if neither of you dares to call it that just yet.]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The sun filters through the windshield in soft streaks, casting a golden haze over the dashboard. You’re curled into the passenger seat, legs tucked to one side, fingers loosely wrapped around a convenience store coffee bottle, something you both had bought before starting the drive.

The soft hum of Jeongguk’s playlist fills the car. It’s a mix of old and new—the kind of playlist stitched from years of quiet care. Songs you used to steal from his iPod in Uni. Ones that once played through shared earphones tangled on buses and rooftops.

Others are newer, unfamiliar to you – but they don’t feel like strangers. They feel like something he picked with you in mind. You’d recognized the similarity of the vibes between the new and old and new tracks. Like even the songs he found in your silence were meant to find their way back to you.

Jeongguk drums his fingers gently along the wheel, syncing with the rhythm playing through the speakers.

You glance over, brow arched. “You updated the playlist. They’re pretty cool.”

He hums, eyes still on the road. “Track seventeen’s for you.” With a quick tap to the screen, he switches to the track in question, and the opening chords spill softly into the car. “Been saving it.”

You listen carefully to the lyrics while he sings along under his breath, almost like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

All the reasons why I can laugh out; All the reasons why I sing this song; Thankful to be by your side now; I'll try to shine brighter than now.

Your heart stumbles at the words. They feel too tailored, too gentle, too full — like an unopened letter. You hate how fast your chest tightens, how that ache returns — the good kind. The kind you’ve been waiting for.

“Trying to woo me through a serenade?” you murmur, trying to keep it light.

“That’d be a miracle if it worked,” he chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand before returning it to the wheel.

His smile softens — not teasing now, just fond. “It’s just a good track. Thought I’d let you know it… fit you just right.”

You don’t say anything. Just reach forward, nudge the volume up by a notch. Then turn back to the window, hoping your heart beating could be drowned by the music filling the car.

You wake up somewhere along the coastline.

The sky outside is a deeper blue now — stretched wide and endless, the kind that only appears after a long drive south. You were expecting some discomfort by now — maybe the usual pinch in your lower back, or that telltale numbness in your legs from staying still too long. Instead, your body feels oddly light, your limbs loose, settled.

A blanket you don’t remember pulling over yourself is tucked beneath your arms, the seat reclined just enough to take the pressure off your spine. And your fingers �� still curled in your sleep — are loosely gripping soft cotton.

You blink down slowly, adjusting to the light, only to find Jeongguk’s arm resting beside you on the center console. The fabric you’d been holding onto was the sleeve of his hoodie, stretched slightly from where your fingers had pulled at it.

The ink along his forearm shifts when he moves — just a subtle flex of muscle as he reaches over and brushes his hand gently against your knee.

“Hey,” he says quietly, voice threading through the last lingering chorus of whatever song is playing on low volume now. “You sleep okay?”

You nod, still groggy, rubbing at your eyes. “Didn’t mean to pass out on you.”

“I didn’t mind,” his thumb sweeps once over the edge of your knee before resting there, still. “Missed your snore keeping me company.”

You swat at his arm with a sleepy scoff. “I don’t snore.”

“Sure,” he says, lips twitching. “You just… aggressively breathe.”

“Unbelievable.”

But you’re smiling when you say it — a smile that’s too full to be small, tugging gently at your cheeks as you stretch beneath the blanket. The warmth in your chest has nothing to do with the sun.

The next stop is a place you recognize instantly — a sleepy little gas station tucked off the coastal highway, where the same single pump still wheezes and clicks like it’s doing its best to hang on. The sign out front is sun-bleached, one letter half-burnt out.

The convenience store beside it is exactly how you remembered it — slanted roof, uneven steps, and faded posters curling in the window like they haven’t been touched in years.

You pull in beside the pump, already working your way around. “I’ll get the gas. Snacks, please?” you call out.

But Jeongguk’s already halfway to the store, waving you off. “Don’t go overboard with the fuel!” he calls over his shoulder. “I’m watching you.”

You shake your head with a smile and set to work, tapping in the fuel code. The air here smells like brine and pine, the ocean just beyond the ridge. A breeze lifts your hair as you lean against the car, chin on your shoulder, eyes tracing the outline of the hills in the distance.

There’s a strange comfort in the familiarity. Like the past didn’t change this place. Like this stop still remembers both of you.

You’re capping the tank when you hear him — the rustle of bags, the soft clatter of snacks tumbling inside plastic.

You round the car.

And stop.

Jeongguk’s coming toward you with both arms full — not one or two, not even five — but what looks like the entire top shelf of the snack aisle. The bags are bulging, dangerously close to splitting. Chips, crackers, sweet bread, banana milk, chocolate bars, and—

Your eyes narrow. “Jeon Jeongguk.”

He blinks at you, completely unfazed.

“You planning to feed the entire town?”

He shrugs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You didn’t say not to bring everything you love.”

Your jaw drops a little more as he breezes past you, popping open the backseat like he does this every day. He starts arranging the bags with all the precision of a man securing sacred cargo.

Among the chaos, you spot them — a whole pack of strawberry yogurt drinks. The exact kind you used to hoard in your old apartment fridge. The exact kind he used to swipe just to make you mad.

You fold your arms. “Whoever wanted those today is probably planning your downfall.”

“They’ll live,” he says, handing you one. “You come first.”

You stare at the bottle in your hand. The foil top already peeled halfway, like he remembered you never liked struggling with it.

Your throat tightens — not painfully. Just… full. “You’re impossible.”

He nudges your shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re welcome.”

You nudge him back, a little harder. He staggers dramatically, pretending to lose balance before laughing under his breath. You scoff, shaking your head — but you’re smiling, soft and involuntary.

Somehow, this moment feels like more than you expected.

More than memory. More than just comfort.

It feels like coming home to something you didn’t know still existed.

He opens the passenger door for you again without a word. Just a look that says, Ready when you are.

You sip your yogurt drink, slip back inside, and let the warmth bloom across your chest.

As the car pulls back onto the road, the silence between you isn’t empty.

It hums — quiet, warm, alive.

And outside, the signs begin to change.

Busan is getting closer.

The sun hangs low by the time you pull up to the old house nestled along the edge of the beach road. The sound of waves greets you even before the car comes to a full stop—gentle, steady, like the tide’s been waiting for you to return.

The moment you see the familiar gate—the one Jeongguk always had to yank twice when it jammed—it’s like your heart forgets how to keep pace.

The porchlight flickers above the front steps. Once, then again. Like it remembers.

You stay curled in your seat, eyes fixed on the crooked “Welcome” sign—something you and Jeongguk had painted together on a whim years ago, the day you got rained in and had nothing better to do but argue over brush strokes and color swatches. He painted a smiley face in the corner when you weren’t looking. You’d rolled your eyes, but left it there.

Somewhere behind the house, you hear the call of seagulls, the breeze laced with salt and the faint scent of the sea. The air feels thick with memory.

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until Jeongguk rounds the car and opens your door. He doesn’t rush you. Doesn’t flinch. Just stands there, steady as ever, waiting.

You glance up at him, throat tight.

Slowly, you slip your hand into his, climb out of the car, and fall into step beside him—fingers curling around the fabric of his sleeve. He stays quiet. Lets you hold on. Walks with you to the front door like muscle memory.

The key sticks in the lock. It always did. He jostles it once, twice, and then the latch clicks with a familiar sound.

The door swings open with a quiet creak.

Inside, it smells like something warm and worn-in. A little dust, a hint of orange from that old cleaning spray you used to hoard in bulk from the local mart. The lights flicker on with a slow, humming bloom, casting the living room in a golden haze that softens every edge.

Sunlight spills across the floorboards, catching on scuff marks, the overgrown plant you left by the window, and the leaning shelf of books still crooked from the time he’d tried to rearrange it “aesthetically.”

You step in first.

The house is a mess—not in a bad way. Just the kind of disarray that happens when life gets paused mid-breath. A stack of magazines from three summers ago still sits on the coffee table. A pair of slippers peeks out from beneath the couch. One of the curtains droops slightly off its hook, like it gave up halfway.

You love the disaster. You love all of it.

Your hand trails along the back of the armchair, fingertips brushing familiar dents in the cushion. A photo frame leans slightly crooked on the mantle—one of those disposable camera shots of you and Jeongguk with wind-swept hair and sunburnt noses, taken after a long day in the water.

You pause by the dining table. There’s still a dent in the wood—Jeongguk’s fault, from the time he tried to assemble its matching chairs and sent one leg flying across the room, declaring he didn’t need instructions.

You laugh under your breath, the sound catching softly in your chest.

Jeongguk steps past you, toward the patio doors that open out to the deck. The grill’s still there—slightly rusted now, tucked in its corner near the railing.

“Hope that still works,” he says, gesturing toward it. “You nearly set the whole place on fire trying to perfect samgyeopsal.”

“It did come out perfect,” you argue, grabbing a cushion from the couch and tossing it at him.

He catches it with ease. Grins. “At what cost? You turned this whole patio into a fireworks venue.”

“It was a slight spark.”

“It was a smoke show. I had to Google ‘smoke inhalation symptoms.’”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks ache from smiling.

Later, as the laughter quiets, you find yourself near the wide window that overlooks the sand. The sea stretches out before you—soft, silver in the fading light, the shoreline curling like it’s holding something secret.

You feel him behind you before you hear him. His presence gentle, hesitant. When you glance back, you see the way his hands hover awkwardly at his sides, like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t want to cross a line.

So you do it first.

You take his hands. Bring them around your waist. Guide him closer. Let him know that it’s okay. That you want him close. He exhales against your hair, breath warm, and presses his cheek to the top of your head like it’s instinct.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice catching on your tongue.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he murmurs, low against your ear. “You shouldn’t have had to ask me. Where you go, I go. If that’s what you want.”

Your chest pulls tight. It’s more than I could ever want, you want to say. But instead, you flick his forehead. “Back to being cheesy again?”

He startles. “Shit—sorry. Too much?” He starts to loosen his hold, about to step away—trying not to mess this up.

You catch his wrists. Pull his arms back to where they belong.

“No,” you say, quiet but sure. “Just right.”

The next few hours blur into the gentle chaos of settling in.

You find the dustpan beneath the sink—right where it’s always been, still wedged beside the broken flashlight Jeongguk swore he’d fix years ago. The same one he taped up once with colorful washi tape, insisting it added “character.”

There's a small pile of forgotten laundry in the hallway you both pretend not to see just yet. And when he yanks open the patio screen to check if the lock still works, it sticks halfway, sending him into a low mutter that sounds like swearing. You try not to laugh, but your shoulders give you away.

He moves easily around the house, sleeves pushed up, one hand on the ladder, the other fiddling with the ceiling fixture that flickered the moment you turned it on. His shoulders shift with practiced rhythm, the same kind of confidence that used to kick in when he tried to fix things with nothing but guesswork and quiet stubbornness.

You stand below, arms crossed loosely, trying to steady the ladder with your feet. “You’re not exactly built for balance.”

“Excuse me?” He peeks down at you from the top step, hair flopping a little over his eyes. “I was an athlete, you know.”

“You did taekwondo in high school,” you say. “That doesn’t count as upper-body core stability.”

He grins, holds a new bulb up like a trophy. “Still counts.”

You roll your eyes, but your hands move on instinct—reaching up to press against the sides of the ladder, thumbs resting on his jeans just above his knees. It’s thoughtless. Familiar. Until your fingers curl slightly into the denim, and you realize too late where they’ve landed.

His movement stills.

You glance up.

Jeongguk is looking at you—really looking. The kind of look that makes the rest of the room blur at the edges. There’s a flicker of surprise in his gaze, but it’s softened by something steadier. Warmer. Something like awe.

You blink, heat rushing to your face, and drop your hands like you’ve been caught doing something indecent. “I—I’m going to check the kitchen.”

You turn before he can say anything else, already retreating toward safer ground. Behind you, you can hear the quiet scrape of the ladder as he shifts slightly, as if trying not to laugh too loud.

In the kitchen, you find old dish towels stuffed in the back of the drawer, mismatched chopsticks in uneven pairs, and a forgotten bottle of soy sauce that might’ve outlived three governments. You wipe down the counters with a faded rag and open a few overhead cabinets—some empty, others full of sun-faded tea boxes and instant soup packets from a grocery run neither of you ever finished.

One drawer sticks slightly before it gives. Inside, mismatch cooking sets, spatulas that definitely need replacing, a bent knife.

That one makes you pause.

You still remember the summer Jeongguk ruined it trying to open a coconut he insisted didn’t need a tutorial. He’d marched in from the yard, shirt half-tucked, eyes bright with victory and absolutely no plan.

“Trust me,” he’d said, proudly brandishing the coconut over the counter with your best kitchen knife. “This is what vacation homes are for.”

You raised a brow from the sink. “Property damage?”

He flashed you a grin. “Adventure.”

The blade barely made it through one awkward jab before it bent sideways like it gave up. You tried not to laugh. But by the time he wedged the coconut between his knees and muttered, “Okay, wait, I got it now,” you were doubled over at the counter.

It took both of you, a rock from outside, and eventually the heel of your shoe to get it open. He fed you the first bite with coconut water dripping off his fingers.

Now, the knife is still slightly warped. You pick it up, smile to yourself, then set it aside with a little sigh.

Behind you, footsteps.

Jeongguk passes by to grab a sponge, tossing a look over his shoulder, inspects the dish rack. “We’ve got to replace these ugly mugs. Doesn’t match the house’s aesthetic.”

You glance up from where you’re rinsing the bent knife. “They’re not ugly. They’re vintage.”

He points at one near the sink. “That one has a cat with laser eyes. Swear, I felt it watching me sleep four Christmases ago.”

You snort. “You and your boring aesthetic shit.” Then rinse the mug anyway. “I’m keeping them.”

Jeongguk gasps, mock-betrayed. “Even the cracked one?”

“Especially the cracked one. You gave it to me.”

He groans dramatically. “I’ll get you a new one.”

“No,” you say, drying it with a hand towel. “Mugs stay. You get out. Go fix the patio screen before mosquitos invade.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he mutters. Then lower, more to himself than to you—“Happy wife, happy life.”

You hear it. Try not to smile. But you can’t help it. Your lips tug upward as you tuck the towel over the oven handle and shake your head, letting the warmth in your chest settle right where it belongs.

Most of the house has been dusted, rearranged, and gently revived from its long slumber by the time evening settles.

The couch covers—once black, heavy, and impossible to lint-roll—have been replaced with soft cream ones you and Jeongguk wrestled over earlier that afternoon.

“You’re really mourning furniture right now?” you’d teased, tugging the old slip off one corner while he clung to the other like it was a family heirloom.

“It’s not just furniture,” he’d said. “It hides everything—fur, takeout spills, and yeah... maybe some drool.”

You’d arched a brow. “All the more to get rid of it. That’s disgusting, Gguk.”

He let go after that. Grumbling, but smiling.

Now, the new covers stretch smooth across the cushions, soft and clean. Like the house had been waiting to exhale.

Some other things have changed, too.

A new mat by the back door. A pair of slippers with tags still on, left near the stairs. The spice rack finally hung straight. Nothing too fancy. Just small, quiet replacements—like things had simply found their way back home, no fanfare needed.

You’re fluffing the cushions when your eyes catch something different by the side table—just beside the couch. There’s a photo frame there you don’t remember placing.

It’s a picture from your Uni days. You and Jeongguk are sitting on the campus steps, knees drawn up, two bowls of convenience store ramen between you. His arm’s thrown lazily around your shoulder. You’ve got a french fry in your mouth. He’s laughing at something, head tilted, eyes almost shut.

Another one sits behind it. You and him from a summer beach trip in Incheon Islands, both sunburnt and wild-haired, balancing a melting ice cream cone between you like it was some kind of game.

You blink, heart fluttering on the sudden flood of memory.

“I found those while cleaning out some boxes in Seoul,” Jeongguk says from the kitchen, not looking up. “Figured they’d want to come home.”

You glance at him. He’s wiping down the counter with a worn towel, but there’s something in his tone—quiet, a little sheepish.

Your chest tightens. “Thank you,” you say softly. “For remembering.”

He gives a one-shouldered shrug, but there’s a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Even if you picked that photo with that horrible mint-choco chip in it,” you add with a teasing lilt.

That earns you a laugh. “Always the number one hater.”

When the plates are cleared from your quick takeout dinner—something you both agreed on after realizing neither of you had the energy to cook—you stretch, already headed for the guest room out of habit.

Only to stop short.

The door pushes open an inch before it hits resistance. You peek inside.

Wall-to-wall storage.

Boxes stacked high with old clothes, spare blankets, tangled light cords, and what looks like the entire bottom half of Jeongguk’s studio—tripods, folded light stands, crates of photo books and film reels. None of this was here during your last visit.

“Guess someone’s been using this as storage,” you murmur, nudging the door open further.

Jeongguk peers over your shoulder, wincing. “I moved some of my stuff here when my studio in the city ran out of space. Didn’t think I’d be back so soon.”

You turn toward him. There’s no accusation on your face—just surprise. And a quiet softness that steals across your expression before you can hide it.

“Thank you,” you murmur. “For keeping this place in your heart, even if it’s just in clutter.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “This is home.”

He starts stepping around you, muttering something about making space, already pushing a box aside when you stop him with a hand on his wrist.

“It’s late, Gguk. We’re both tired. I’d really like to call it a night and not hear you rattling with your tripod in the dark.”

He blinks. “Wait—are you suggesting—?”

“Our bedroom,” you say, like it’s obvious. “It’s not like we haven’t shared a space before.”

He raises a brow, genuinely surprised at your nonchalance. “Yeah, but when we last did...I mean we haven’t...You okay with that?”

You scoff, turning just enough for him to catch the confident flick of your hair over your shoulder. “I offered, didn’t I? It’s just a room. What’s there to be awkward about?”

But Jeongguk’s eyes linger on you, and you know he sees it—something faint beneath your easy smile. The slight flutter of nerves you’re trying not to betray.

You clear your throat. “If you want the couch, be my guest. But don’t come begging for back massages in the morning.”

He clutches his chest, mock-offended. “Charming. And to think I was going to offer you my cuddling arm.”

You lift a brow.

He grins, eyes playful but voice soft. “I never said anything about being awkward. Was just making sure you were okay with it. I mean, as much as I want to be close to my wife...”

You freeze. And that’s it.

That’s what does you in.

The blush starts behind your ears and spreads so fast you nearly trip on the hallway rug.

Without answering, you spin on your heel and march straight toward the master bedroom.

“Pillow stays between us!” you call back over your shoulder, barely keeping the squeak out of your voice. “And use the guest bathroom to freshen up. If you’re not back in ten, you’re sleeping in the hallway!”

You don’t wait for his reply, but you hear the sudden rush of footsteps behind you, followed by the softest, fondest laugh.

He’s still laughing when you close the bedroom door behind you, heart hammering like it’s in your twenties again.

You shake your head, already reaching for your pajamas in the room.

The bedroom walls are still that familiar pale cream—faded just slightly in the corners, like sunlight once curled there and decided to stay.

The curtains are drawn shut, fabric heavier now with disuse, and the faint scent of sea salt lingers beneath a quiet layer of dust and memory.

One window is cracked open just enough to let in the hush of waves from the beach down the slope.

You move through the room quietly, hair still damp from your shower, a loose braid skimming your shoulder. The towel’s already folded over the bathroom door. A faded tee hangs soft over your frame, sleeves slouched, paired with worn sweats you’ve long claimed as your favorite.

The corners of the bed are still unmade from what feels like lifetimes ago—pillowcases crumpled, a forgotten blanket tossed toward the end, untouched since your last visit.

You take your time with the sheets. The new ones you brought are soft and cool to the touch, a dusky lavender base splattered with inky black swirls like someone had spilled watercolor across the sky.

You’d found them at a tiny stall in Gwangjang Market—half-covered by old quilts, the last set left on the rack. The style felt like something between you and him. Colorful, but grounded. Quiet, but bold where it mattered.

You smooth the edges, tuck them in neatly. Then reach for the pillowcases—freshly laundered—stacking them into place.

Yours on the left. His on the right.

And like it’s the most natural thing in the world, you leave the smaller pillow for him. The one that never gave him neck pain. The one he used to grumble about replacing, only to reach for it every single night.

Three more pillows are added in between. A soft, padded wall of quiet understanding.

Near the dresser, the chipped corner on the lower edge is still there—jagged, a little worn from time. You remember cracking your knee on it one summer night while dancing in your pajamas to Jeongguk’s playlist.

It had been raining outside, wind rattling the windows. You’d been mid-spin, holding a spatula, singing off-key. He’d laughed so hard he nearly dropped the strawberries he’d brought for you.

Fingers brushing over the crack light, a smile tugs at your lips.

Your new diffuser now sits quietly on the nightstand, sleek and soft grey. The old one was probably long dead, its motor wheezing one too many times by the end of that summer. With filtered water already in from your flask, three drops of lavender go in next.

Your usual.

His favorite.

The one he’d learn to bulk-buy from the herbal stall outside Mangwon Market, ignoring the sign that limited customers to two bottles per purchase.

When the ajumma got strict, he brought Taehyung the next day to double up. Said it was worth it, even if Taehyung teased him for being obsessed with ‘air perfume’.

He’d once told you that scent helped him unwind. That it settled behind his ears like breath beneath skin. Something that held him steady when everything else spun too fast.

The diffuser hums to life with a low whirr. A soft stream of mist curls upward into the room—faint, floral, familiar.

You take a slow breath.

Then step back, settling by the edge of the bed, legs tucked beneath you. Fingers absently trail across the topmost pillow—the one marking your invisible boundary—and you let the quiet wrap around your shoulders like a blanket.

The calm is slow. Earned.

Like the room itself waited for you to return to it.

And then—soft footsteps pad against the hallway floorboards.

The door creaks open—slow and careful.

Jeongguk lingers in the doorway, towel draped around his neck, damp hair curling slightly at the edges. Grey drawstring pants and a plain black shirt that clings faintly to the last traces of heat from his shower. Sleeves hanging just by his elbows. Barefoot. Relaxed.

His eyes sweep across the room slowly. Like he’s searching for proof that something sacred hasn’t changed.

Then his gaze lands on you—and softens immediately.

“You made the bed,” his voice's low, almost careful, as the door clicks shut behind him.

You glance back toward the diffuser, watching the mist curl in lazy spirals. “Sheets were dusty.”

He pauses near the nightstand, breath catching slightly as the lavender settles into the room around him. “Mangwon?”

You nod once. “Same store. Same scent. Thought it might help you sleep. Don’t want you tossing around saying you can’t breathe and waking me up at 3 a.m.”

A soft huff escapes him. “Ah, so it’s self-preservation.”

“Obviously.”

He smiles—wide and quiet, eyes crinkling—and steps further in. “Still. You didn’t have to think of me.”

You shrug like it’s nothing. “Always have.”

That stalls him for a moment. Just long enough that he exhales something soft. Long enough for his eyes to linger on yours.

He moves to the other side of the bed—and pauses again when he sees the pillow barrier.

“Three pillows?” he asks, brow lifted. “Really? One wasn’t going to do the trick?”

“With how fidgety you get?” You nod at them. “Three’s generous.”

“I’ve evolved,” he protests lightly, easing onto the bed and adjusting the smaller pillow behind him. “Sleep like a turtle now.”

“Eomma said you rolled off the couch last time,” you say, settling onto your side.

“That floor was slanted.”

“Tell my mother about how her house isn’t architecturally structured right, and you’ll never hear the end of it.”

He just grins. Sinks into the mattress with a sigh that sounds like his whole body’s giving in. Then his fingers brush the blanket. “These are new.”

You nod. “It reminded me of us.”

That quiet smile returns. “They do.”

You try not to read into it. Instead, you adjust your corner of the blanket, watching as the lavender mist curls a little higher.

A peaceful quiet lingers. Then softer – more tentative, “Do you…want the lamp on?” he asks, glancing over.

It catches you off guard—not the question, but the softness in it. He used to switch it off without thinking.

Now, he waits.

You look at him—really look at him—and the realization hits slow but full; he’s waiting for your comfort. Letting you set the rhythm.

Still, your voice is quieter than expected. “Yeah. Leave it on.”

He nods. Reaches over to turn the dial just low enough that it glows like an ember, soft and golden against the cream walls.

You both settle in slowly, blanket tugged over your waists. There’s space between you—but not the kind that feels like distance. Just the kind that says we’re still learning this again.

Your eyes wander to the ceiling, catching the soft glow of sun-shaped decals still faintly visible, their yellow edges peeling away with time.

The memory of that first summer together floods back—Jeongguk balancing on a stool, you guiding him with a mischievous smile, and a ridiculous number of pattern inspirations from Google on how to stick them right.

They turned out chaotic – far from those printouts – but it was both of you. The sun decals have been up since then.

“Comfortable?” he asks quietly, head turned toward you now, eyes soft in the lamp light.

You nod, pulse thrumming somewhere behind your chest. Unable to find the words to say. Heart stuck in your throat with the way he was looking at you.

The silence that follows is full of soft breathing, of warmth, of sea wind rustling gently against the windows. Of lavender and cotton and the quiet knowledge that this—this—isn’t just memory anymore.

And just before sleep starts to settle in—just before your eyes fully close—

You feel it.

His hand finds yours, reaching across the pillow wall. Not demanding. Just there.

You don’t even think before your fingers curl into his.

And somewhere between the blur of exhaustion and the softness of it all—you think you hear him whisper something into the hush.

“I missed you.”

You don’t know if you imagined it. Sleep’s already tugging at your thoughts.

But if he said it—you know your heart heard it.

The light comes in slow, pooling through the sheer curtains in streaks of gold, settling across the bedsheets in warm gradients. The room is quiet except for the hush of waves, the call of gulls somewhere in the distance. The lavender diffuser hums faintly near the nightstand, its mist now faded to little more than memory.

And you… wake to warmth.

Not the soft weight of your blanket, or the breath of the sea through the cracked window. But something warmer. Closer.

The pillow wall is gone.

Your cheek is pressed to Jeongguk’s chest, his heartbeat a quiet thrum beneath your ear. His arm rests heavy and loose around your waist, hand tucked gently beneath the hem of your shirt. One of your legs — oh, god — is hitched over his, as if you were always meant to be tangled this way.

His shirt smells faintly of the old detergent you used to fight over in the store — the one that reminded you of late summer and new notebooks. But under that, the deeper scent of his cologne curls around you too, the same one from his Uni days — fresh and steady, like pine and river stone, like the Jeongguk who used to wait at your lecture hall with warm drinks and sunlit smiles.

He’s still asleep.

Your entire body locks up.

The pillows — three, very intentionally placed pillows — are now on the floor, scattered like fallen dominoes.

Of course they are.

It’s always been like this over the years. Cold nights would end with him stealing the comforters, only to toss them off minutes later because he’d get too hot. He’d complain, then cling to you anyway, mumbling something about how body heat beat overpriced stuffy cotton any day.

And sure, fine, maybe you’d allowed it a few times. But you’re confident — almost painfully sure — that you aren’t the one who tosses and turns. You’ve never been a fidgety sleeper.

Which means…

It only means—

You shift, just slightly, trying to gently peel yourself away. A slow, careful attempt to wiggle your leg off his—

But Jeongguk shifts too, murmuring softly. Hand sliding just slightly along your waist. He pulls you closer, tucked neatly to his chest.

You freeze.

Then panic.

With an embarrassing, squeaky gasp, you scramble backward in a wild, tangled motion of limbs and blanket and flailing dignity. The edge of the mattress slips out from under you, and you tumble—

“Aish…shibal!”

The mattress creaks. Blankets lift. Jeongguk jolts upright, limbs tangled and hair a tousled mess, blinking like a man yanked straight from a dream. “What’s happening? Baby, where are you?! Are we under attack?!”

Just when you thought the chaos of limbs and hearts beating too close couldn’t get worse, the slip of that nickname makes your stomach flip — in a dangerously good way. But your face heats anyway; it makes you squish your face into the hardwood like a panicked hamster trying to burrow into safety.

Jeongguk’s head pops over the edge of the bed, peering down at you. He blinks; takes in your crumpled form on the floor, brows lifting. “Did you…did you just fall out of bed?”

You groan, face down, cheek flattened against the wood. “No. Was doing push-ups.”

There’s a beat of silence — then the unmistakable smug in his voice. “Oh yeah? How far’d you get?”

You blindly grab the nearest pillow and hurl it at his face. “Jeon Jeongguk!”

He catches it one-handed, fully awake now, then tosses it somewhere across the room. “What? I’m just asking. How many push-ups, hmm?”

“I used to lift with you!” you snap, climbing to your feet and brushing yourself off. “Used to do ten sets in case you’re forgetting.”

He snorts. “A point-five kilo dumbbell over ten sets barely counts.”

“Yah!” you whine, tossing your hands up in mock outrage. “That’s not the point! You removed the pillows! So much for respecting the barrier!”

“I didn’t touch the pillow wall.” He raises both hands like a man accused. “You started crossing over at 2 a.m. Clung to me like a baby sloth. Squished me half to death.”

“You’re making that up,” you grumble, tugging down your sweatshirt sleeves, trying to ignore the heat climbing up your neck. “I’d never do such a thing.”

“Tell that to your arms,” he says, tone teasing. “Every time I rebuilt the wall, you threw them off like a traitor. Not that I’m complaining. I’m all in for my wife’s clinginess, just say the word and—”

“Lalala! Shut up!” you squeal, scrambling to your feet and beelining for the bathroom, already hiding your face in your hands.

Behind you, you hear him laughing softly as you slam the bathroom door and flick on the light.

Your reflection meets you in the mirror — hair tousled, cheeks flushed, lips parted from sleep.

“I’m a grown-ass thirty-three-year-old woman,” you whisper, horrified. “What in the teenager-level fuck was that?”

You groan again, turning the tap on full blast and splashing cold water over your face — hoping it’ll shock some sense back into your nervous system and rinse the blush off your chest while it’s at it.

Outside, the floor creaks again.

You hear the quiet patter of footsteps — Jeongguk padding around the bedroom, probably grabbing his bag, maybe rummaging through the mini fridge for his usual morning Gatorade, or heading to the guest bathroom to get ready. Already slipping into the rhythm of the day, like it’s his turn to take care of things.

You let out a long breath, fingers still pressed to your damp cheeks.

Part of you wants to hide in here forever.

But the other part — the quieter one, the steadier one — reminds you that this is okay.

That this is safe. This is home.

That waking up tangled in Jeongguk’s arms shouldn’t feel like something to escape from. That it’s just going to take some getting used to — not because you don’t trust him, but because he’s doing everything right. And that kind of right? It’s hard to believe in when you’ve lived without it for so long.

It’s the kind of right you never thought you’d get back again.

But it’s here. It’s real. And you want it.

And somewhere beneath your chest, that old flutter stirs — not fear, not uncertainty — but the quiet ache of a heart learning how to be held again.

The house smells like coffee, cinnamon, and toasted bread by the time you step out into the hallway. Soft waves crash faintly from beyond the shore. Morning light pours in from the terrace doors, casting a lazy golden wash across the wooden floors. The house feels alive but quiet—like it's holding its breath for something sweet.

In the kitchen, Jeongguk stands by the stove with his back to you, already plating scrambled eggs beside a neat stack of cinnamon toast. The sleeves of his hoodie are pushed up to his elbows, hair still damp at the nape of his neck.

There’s a slight bounce to his stance, a rhythm in his movements that reminds you of Sunday mornings long ago. He looks domestic. Steady. Yours. And it makes something in your chest ache with the kind of warmth that threatens tears.

You walk toward him quietly, arms sliding around his waist as you press your cheek to his back. He stills mid-motion, the eggs tipping from his spatula and landing squarely onto the plate with a soft sizzle. Then, after a breath, you feel him relax—shoulders sinking into your hold like he'd been waiting for this, too.

“Breathe, okay?” he says gently, not turning around.

You nod, eyes fluttering closed. “Mmhm.” You pause. “Sorry for the...acrobatic start to your morning.”

He chuckles, setting the pan aside. “It was memorable. Thought I’d have to fish you out of the tub, though.”

You snort. “Please. We took freediving lessons. Swam with sharks. Outswam coast guards that one time we trespassed on that restricted island in Jeju when we were twenty-five. And you’re telling me I’m going to drown in a bathtub not even a foot deep?”

Jeongguk turns slightly, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I don’t know, maybe you’d find a way to fold yourself under the water. Or crawl out the window to avoid me.”

You laugh, staying close for another moment before peeling away and sinking into the bar stool across the counter. He joins you, setting your plate in front of you and placing a steaming cup beside your cat mug—the one he pretends to hate but always refills first. The scent of coffee and almond milk and cinnamon rises between you.

“Thank you,” you murmur, already biting into the toast. “This… this is amazing.”

It tastes the same. The way it used to when he'd cook for you in college—after a week of your all-nighters, when he knew all you wanted was something warm, something comforting the morning after. Like this.

“You’re welcome.” He lifts his own cup. “Figured we’d start our first morning here with something homey. Something familiar.”

He pauses, watching your expression carefully. “Hope it isn’t too much?”

You shake your head. “It’s perfect.”

The silence that follows is peaceful, comfortable, just the two of you enjoying a good meal. Somewhere in the distance, a boat horn sounds—a low, drawn-out echo reminding you that the world outside still moves, even if yours feels paused here.

The kitchen hums softly with the tick of the wall clock, the occasional creak of wood as the house settles. It’s not loud, but it’s alive—like the house is listening in, keeping its voice low to let you breathe.

“About earlier…” you say, fingers curling around the mug in your hands.

Jeongguk sets down his fork, turns to face you. “We don’t have to talk about it if you’re still uncomfortable.”

“I want to,” you whisper. “I just… want to get it out. It’s unfair—one minute I’m okay with having you close, asking for it, and the next I’m just panicking and—”

“—doing non-existent push-ups?” he says with a wry grin.

You flick a toast crumb at him, rolling your eyes—grateful for his ability to meet your vulnerability with lightness. His boyish laugh fills the air, and your chest feels a little lighter.

“I panicked,” you say after a pause. “Not because I didn’t want you near me—because I did. I do. God, you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this.”

He listens carefully, elbows resting lightly on the counter, posture open but not pressing.

“I guess…” you go on, voice quieter. “I wasn’t ready to feel that familiarity again. It’s stupid, I know I asked for this. Even made that list with Jin when everything was falling apart, but having it now—naturally, without trying—it’s just... different, you know?”

Jeongguk nods once. Not too eagerly. Just enough to let you know he’s with you.

“I understand,” he says. “If it’s too much to take in, I’ll give you time. I’m sorry if I came on too strong.”

“No, please don’t apologize.” You set the mug down, fumble with the hem of your shirt. “If anything, you’ve done everything right. I don't want what we have to change. I know I’ve been weird. The kiss at the tram, our visit to Uni, this morning… probably a hundred more times in between. I told you why I ran, but it wasn’t the full story.”

He sees the tremble in your fingers before you do. Quietly, without needing to ask, he reaches over and laces your hand with his.

“Meant what I said,” he tells you, voice steady. “I’m all in now. You don’t need to tiptoe around me.”

You smile, eyes damp. “That’s not what I’m thinking anymore. I see that. I see you. It’s just… us being this close again. It’s so easy. Like no time passed. Like nothing broke. And that scares me. Not because I blame you—I never did. Maybe I’m just scared for you.”

His brows knit together, soft and confused. “You don’t have to be scared for me. I don’t know why you are.”

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “My head’s just… everywhere. I think a part of me still can’t believe this is real. That you’re real. That this version of us—soft, safe, in love again—isn’t just some dream I’ll wake up from.”

He exhales slowly, like the weight of that truth settles into his chest.

“I’m so sorry you had to feel like that. That I ever made you feel like I was a dream you’d lose.” He leans in a little closer. “But I’m here. I’m staying. And I’ll keep proving that every day until you believe me. Until it feels real for you.”

You finally look up.

And Jeongguk, eyes locked on yours, reaches over and gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush along your cheek, linger like they’re memorizing this moment.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “So you can stop running.”

You nod once, breath catching. “I’m really sorry.”

He shakes his head, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Hey. Don’t be. Baby steps, right? Anytime, I overstep, tell me.”

“What if I just want to hold hands forever?”

“And that’s a bad thing, how?” he teases. “Holding my wife’s hand for the rest of time? That sounds like a dream.”

You laugh, heart full and aching all at once.

“Besides,” he adds with a glint in his eye, “I think it’s really adorable how you still get all flustered when I’m close. Reminds me of how we couldn’t even get our first kiss right.”

You groan, burying your face against his chest. “Oh God, that was a disaster. Didn’t we go through a whole mint pack first?”

“Yup, had to run to the store downstairs at the old apartment just to get a second one.”

His chest rises with a quiet chuckle, and you press your ear to it, listening to his heart beat in steady rhythm beneath the fabric. His hand traces gentle circles along your back, grounding you.

“We’ll be okay, right?” you whisper.

He presses his cheek to the top of your head, voice soft. “We’ll be fine. I promise. Just say the word if you want to cling to me again tonight. I’ll throw out those damn pillows.”

The tension breaks, laughter bubbling up your throat as you gently shove him away.

“I knew you were going to be a smug little shit again.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he grins, catching your hand in his. “Let’s just finish breakfast for now. I’ve got big plans for you today.”

“Oh yeah? Where are we going?”

Jeongguk nudges your foot with his. “Do you want to see Junebug?”

Your brows lift. And in the soft silence that follows, he reaches over to brush a crumb from your cheek—grinning like he’s waited years to ask you this again.

It’s strange how the places that knew you once always seem to remember.

You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until the glass doors part and a wave of cool air brushes against your skin. The scent of saltwater and steel greets you like an old friend. Overhead, blue-tinted lights cast shifting reflections on the floor, and somewhere nearby, the low hum of rushing tanks fills the space like a familiar song.

The aquarium hasn’t changed. Not the way the glass tunnels curve like the inside of a dream. Not the soft lull of water against acrylic. Not the way this place always made the world feel quieter—softer. It still feels like the version of you who used to come here on rainy weekends hasn’t left at all.

You remember those weekends: when the city was too loud, when your heads were too full. You’d weave through the halls with fingers brushing and laughter spilling like secret rebellion. You always pretended to be lost, even though you knew exactly where the clownfish were.

You ran through the echoing tunnels, got scolded for being too loud, and Jeongguk—always your partner in crime—would nudge your elbow and whisper, “Run.” And then you’d bolt, hearts light, joy uncontained.

“Still smells like seawater,” Jeongguk says, voice low beside you, a smile hidden inside it.

You turn to him, already finding his gaze on you—soft, knowing, a little wistful. “We used to love the smell of seawater,” you murmur, more to yourself than to him.

His eyes crinkle. “We still do.”

He reaches for your hand and holds it there, palm up, like he’s offering you a moment to choose.

You slide your fingers into his without a word, feeling the warmth of his skin, the steadiness in the way he squeezes once. Your other hand gently presses over the back of his.

“We still do,” you echo, holding on.

And just like that, the two of you begin walking—into the tunnels of light and color and time, where the water sways above your heads like a sky you used to believe in, and the world quiets, just for a while.

The air is cooler in this part of the aquarium exhibits, tinged with salt and something clean, like filtered sea breeze. The shallow pool glistens beneath the overhead lights, rippling softly where little hands and curious fingers explore.

You remember sneaking in here during off-hours once—just to dip your hands and watch the creatures swirl beneath the surface like a living galaxy.

One small darting fish catches your eye—orange and white, with a fin that wobbles like it’s swimming offbeat. For a second, the world folds inward, back to your tiny apartment with cracked tile floors and noisy neighbors.

“Is that…?” you murmur, leaning closer. “Gguk, Gguk, it’s Junebug!” You nearly tear up as the familiar orange-and-white streak slips through the shallow current.

Jeongguk follows your gaze, eyes widening before he lets out a breathy laugh. “Told you we’d see him today. Our first and last pet—born from your full-on PMS meltdown."

“Blame our sea life movie marathon that day!” you laugh, nudging his shoulder with yours. “The Little Mermaid one, two, and three. Finding Nemo.”

“Don’t forget those deep-sea documentaries on National Geographic.”

“See? You remember.” Your gaze follows the fish as it swims farther, blending back into the ripple of orange and white near the rocks. “Thanks for getting me Junebug—even if it was during a weird time. Too bad he died after a week.”

“Who knew water bowls needed changing.”

“Every person who’s ever owned a fish?”

“That was our first,” Jeongguk gasps dramatically, laughing so hard tears prick at the corners of his eyes. “Next time you break down, please ask for anything but a fish.”

“Next time I break down, and I ask for ice cream, get the right flavor, hmm?”

“Okay, okay—that was on me. No double dutch on PMS days. It’s rocky road or nothing.” He leans closer to the edge of the pool, watching as the fish flicks past again. “We miss you, Junebug. Sorry about the toilet funeral and the short life. But you were a warrior.”

You smile, soft and fond. “He always swam funny. But he never stopped swimming.”

The moment lingers, warm like sea-glass in your palm—strange how a fish you barely had for a week can still make you feel this way.

Eventually, the two of you wander into the quieter halls, following the curve of dim lighting and low blue ceilings until you reach the otter tank. A hush settles over the space, broken only by the occasional drip of water and the soft shuffling of little paws.

Two otters are curled up inside a plastic barrel, legs kicking lazily as they float together in a sleepy, swaying rhythm. It’s peaceful here. The kind of quiet you both settle into naturally now—without trying.

Beside you, Jeongguk pulls out his phone, silent and careful. A soft click cuts through the hum of the water.

You glance at him. “Stealing photos of me again?”

He shrugs, a little bashful. “It’s you… with the otters. Mostly the otters.”

A teasing lilt tugs at your voice. “I bet you still have those photos from ten years ago. Hidden in some secret folder.”

“They were never hidden.” His gaze flicks to yours, the corners of his mouth curling into something soft—unhidden, unguarded. “Besides, you’ve seen my Instagram. It’s still all you.”

You bump his arm gently with yours, leaning closer into his side. His warmth anchors you. “Just take pictures of the otters, Gguk.”

You point with a grin, pressing your face close to the glass. “Oh look! They’re kissing.” Your eyes light up like they used to, the reflection catching just enough of it for him to notice.

“I could kiss you right now,” he murmurs, so low it nearly gets lost beneath the soft music and faint speaker commentary. But you hear it. You always do.

He keeps snapping photos, casually—of the otters, the signs, the tank displays. Then you notice the faint Instagram logo blinking at the corner of his screen.

Your heart skips. Your palms grow warm. A dozen thoughts tumble through your mind, but they all quiet when you lean in and press a soft kiss to his cheek—right as he angles the camera for a selfie, otter couple in the background.

The shutter clicks. And you know that picture definitely has you in it.

“Come on, I’m kind of hungry,” you say breezily, already turning away.

But before you do, you catch the smile forming on his face—boyish, full, real.

It’s the same smile you feel pulling at your own.

The snack break happens on a quiet bench tucked between two exhibits—low lights, blue walls, a bubbling tank just behind you. There’s a sign overhead that clearly reads No Food or Drinks, but you ignore it.

You pull two familiar wrappers out of your bag anyway.

Jeongguk’s laugh is immediate and low, lips curling at the corners. “You’re unbelievable. I thought they banned those years ago.”

“Fine, more for me.”

“These bars are our favorites. Can’t say no,” he says, already reaching for one without hesitation.

You toss him a packet and tear open your own. The chocolate’s slightly melted and sticky between your fingers, but the taste is the same—like your Uni days. Like cramming at dawn, sneaking onto rooftops, whispering secrets into dusk. Like stories that always ended in maybe, and one day, and eventually.

“I just wanted to remember what it felt like,” you murmur, eyes on the swirling tank ahead. “To be reckless with you again.”

Jeongguk leans in slightly, his knee nudging yours beneath the bench. “You always had the craziest moments.”

“Not denying that,” you say through a mouthful of chocolate. “But you always followed me. No matter how risky it was.”

He chuckles, shaking his head like he still can’t believe it. “You once made me sneak into a lecture hall just to graffiti our names on the back of a chair.”

You grin, completely unrepentant. “That was art, thank you.”

His eyes linger on you then—just for a second too long, like he’s cataloguing every version of you that’s ever existed. The reckless girl, the brave woman, the one beside him now.

“I’d still follow you anywhere,” he says softly, with that look in his eyes again. “Even to prison. If we ever get caught in one of your schemes.”

You gasp, mock-offended, flick a chocolate crumb at his chest. “Tsk. Like we’d ever get caught. Hello? Seora’s heir here. I got you.”

You flash him a wink, the smug tilt of your head daring him to doubt it.

Just then, a sharp voice cuts through the calm, “Excuse me—no eating in this area!”

You freeze mid-bite.

Jeongguk looks up like a guilty teenager, wrappers still in hand.

The staff member starts approaching, and before either of you can think, you’re on your feet.

“Come on, come on,” you whisper, don’t wait.

He laughs—half in disbelief, half in delight—and takes off behind you, barely pocketing the chocolate.

You dart around a corner, past a sleepy seahorse exhibit, and crash straight into the entrance of the gift shop. Jeongguk barrels in right after, breathless and laughing, grabbing your arm as you both duck behind a rack of overpriced plush stingrays.

Your hands fumble through a basket of souvenir hats, adrenaline still thrumming. Without warning, you shove one onto his head—a ridiculous blue cap with a cartoon shark grinning across the front.

“What the hell is this?” he hisses.

“Disguise,” you whisper back, slipping a matching one over your own head with a proud little smirk. “Now we’re invisible.”

He stares at you, deadpan—and then breaks. Shakes his head, laughter bubbling out of him as he leans in, forehead pressing briefly to yours.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmurs.

“But you love it,” you grin, nudging him with your shoulder.

And he does. You can see it in the way his eyes stay on you—flushed cheeks, soft-edged smile, gaze so full of you it nearly takes your breath away.

And for a moment, tucked between plush toys and panicked giggles, it really does feel like you’re young again.

The Glass Bottom Boat station sits quietly near the deeper tanks, tucked beneath the glow of soft blue lights. There’s barely a line—weekday stillness keeping the crowd away—and for a brief moment, it almost feels like the place belongs to just the two of you.

This was always your favorite.

Back when you were younger, when time still felt generous, you’d wait an hour just to board the glass boat together—just to watch sharks slip underneath your feet and feed the fishes side by side like kids pretending they ruled the sea.

Jeongguk steps forward to confirm your names, bouncing lightly on his heels, eyes already gleaming with excitement. But you pause.

Quietly, gently, you pull one of the staff members aside with a polite smile.

“Excuse me,” you ask, lowering your voice. “Do you still have the same… health restrictions for this?”

The staff’s face softens. Kindly, they explain—nothing’s changed. For safety, only guests in full physical condition are recommended to board. Just precaution. Nothing alarming.

Just like before.

You nod, offer a small smile. “Maybe next time.”

And maybe that’s the part that stings—the quiet hope that this time, it would be different.

When you turn back, Jeongguk’s eyes are already on you. Bright. Expectant.

“You ready?” he asks, practically glowing. “Dory’s right there, baby.”

The nickname tugs something in your chest—tender, familiar. You reach for his arm, catching him just before he moves.

“You should go,” you say gently.

He freezes. “What? But this is our favorite part.” He frowns, confused. “You love this part.��

“I know.” You manage a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “But I think… it’s better if I sit this one out.”

He blinks, a question forming—but you press on before he can ask it aloud.

“Feed the fishes for me, yeah?” your voice light, like it doesn’t ache to speak.

For a second, he studies your face again—eyes searching, reading the space between your words.

But he doesn’t push.

“Only if you promise to take a hundred photos of me being cool,” he finally says, trying to lift the moment.

You smirk, grateful. “Only if the fish like you.”

You keep your promise.

From the bench by the jellyfish wall, you snap photo after photo of Jeongguk on the boat—him waving dramatically at a stingray, pretending to narrate like a wildlife host, posing with a childlike grin that scrunches up his nose. The soft glow of the tanks spills across his face, making him look younger, brighter, like someone you used to know and someone you still do.

When he returns, cheeks pink and hair wind-tossed, he’s practically bouncing. The sight of him makes your chest ache in the sweetest way.

You lower the phone and smile. “Enjoy yourself?”

He plops down beside you, nudging your knee with his. “Think I got splashed.”

“You think? You smell like the whole ocean.”

“You like the ocean,” he shoots back, lips tugging into a smug grin. “Therefore, you like me, noh?”

You sigh, full of affection, no hint of denial. “I do. You already know that.” You glance down at his phone, now in your hands, thumb swiping through the ridiculous photos you took. “Now… did the fish like you too? Or should I delete the evidence?”

He gasps, scandalized, snatching the phone back and stuffing it into his pocket. “You wouldn’t dare. The Nemos and I—besties. The sharks? I think the hat ruined my odds.”

You look up, just in time to see him adjusting the ridiculous shark cap from the gift shop, tugging it down with mock seriousness.

“You should’ve left that behind.”

“This?” He pats the hat proudly. “This outdoes every Seora piece you’ve ever given me.”

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. Instead of replying, you lean in—resting your cheek against his still-damp shoulder. He shifts instinctively, settling closer, letting your body weight fold into his.

The glow of the jellyfish tank hums around you, gentle and surreal. The creatures move like silk threads in water, pulsing and drifting like stars floating in a liquid sky.

Neither of you speak for a while.

Then, quietly, he says, “We should come here more often.”

Your gaze stays on the glowing glass. A long breath. A beat of quiet.

“You should,” you murmur. “Even when it’s just on your own.”

Beside you, Jeongguk stills. His head turns slightly, gaze falling on your profile. You don’t meet it.

You lift a hand and press your fingers gently to the glass.

“They look like stars, don’t they?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he watches you. Lets the silence settle in, warm and full. Lets you hold onto this moment—this soft, forever kind of day that feels like falling in love all over again.

By the time you get home, the sky is painted in soft streaks of lilac and gold, settling gently over rooftops like a lullaby. You both take your shoes off quietly at the door, the hush of the house wrapping around you like a blanket.

“Wait here,” Jeongguk says, already stepping toward the porch.

You tilt your head, eyebrows raised, only to find him crouched by the front door, hauling in a familiar cardboard box.

“You didn’t—” you blink. “You did.”

A sheepish grin pulls at his lips as he lifts the box with practiced ease. “You were getting tired after the otters. Figured we’d skip the grocery crowd.”

You press a hand to your chest, mock-gasping. “You had groceries delivered while we were out on a date?”

“I planned ahead,” he says, full of quiet pride. “Wanted to cook for you. Didn’t want you sneaking off to ‘rest’ and magically make dinner appear again. Or disappear. Can’t risk the house experiencing the Fourth of July.”

“I only did that once.”

“Twice. Let’s not have Busan’s fire department show up at this hour, hmm?”

You fumble with the keys as you speak, childlike in your insistence, sticking your tongue out slightly in concentration.

“Two fire incidents and it’s like the end of the world,” you mutter, finally unlocking the door with a triumphant click. “My cooking’s improved, by the way. You did teach me.”

He just watches you for a second longer, smile soft. “Just let me take care of you.”

He’s already disappearing into the kitchen before you can answer, and you follow—feet slow, heart full. The warm scents of the house greet you again—clean, lived-in, familiar, like it never stopped being yours. The sea still lingers on your clothes, in your hair, or maybe it’s just Jeongguk, still wearing that ridiculous cartoon shark hat like it’s a crown.

You settle onto a bar stool as he unpacks the bag with smooth efficiency: fresh garlic, noodles, thinly sliced beef, green onions, sesame oil.

“Wait,” you narrow your eyes. “Is that—?”

“Yukgaejang,” he confirms, flashing a wink. “Well, my version. Comfort food. Fire-free. You’ve been craving spicy again, haven’t you?”

You rest your chin on your palm, eyes soft as you watch him move. The way he wipes down the cutting board. The way he hums under his breath, a tune from nowhere in particular. The way he glances up now and then, just to make sure you’re still there. Still watching. Still his.

You start snapping pictures between prep—first, Jeongguk proudly holding up the cutting board stacked with ingredients like a contestant on a cooking show. Then one of you stealing a half-cooked strip of beef from the plate. He swats your hand away with a mock scowl, scolding, “Hey! My precious meat supply!”

“You’re not feeding me fast enough,” you mutter around the bite.

“Then quit stealing my ingredients, woman. I’ll finish faster.”

“So mean,” with a playful pout, you manage to catch the moment on his phone. “Smile. Eyebrows too.”

He huffs but obeys, smile curling on the corner of his lip. You direct him like a manager on a shoot, “Now angle the spoon. Chin up. Softer jaw. There. Perfect. Vogue-worthy.”

The last picture is captured on a timer, the phone leaned against a mug on the counter. You’re beside him, half-tucked under his arm as he stirs the pot. His free hand instinctively shifts, curling gently around your waist. You nudge your cheek into his hoodie, whisper, “Smile with your heart, chef-nim.”

“Heart’s smiling,” he murmurs, barely glancing at the camera, “but my pot’s about to boil over.”

You laugh, try to sneak the spatula from under his arm. “Can I help now?”

He’s quicker, pulling it out of reach like a practiced move. “Can’t have you burning the house down for the third time.”

“Ugh,” you groan, stepping back to your spot on the stool, defeated but smiling. “Fine. I’ll just sit here and look like I want to help.”

“You’re doing amazing,” he teases, stirring with practiced grace. The stove ticks softly in the background, a quiet rhythm anchoring the moment.

You fold your arms across the counter, hands tucked beneath your cheek, watching him like this—focused, present, still somehow the boy you married. He moves like someone who knows what he’s making matters—not just the food, but the memory it’ll become.

You don’t remember falling into conversation, but it happens anyway—quiet voices mingling with the hum of the night.

The dishes are done, the air still warm from dinner, the scent of sesame and beef lingering faintly in the background. You’re both freshly showered, skin cool from the breeze slipping through the windows. The bedroom feels softer tonight—soft in a way that lives in the spaces between laughter and silence.

“Was the shark tunnel always that short?” you murmur, smoothing lotion over your arms. “Felt like we blinked and it was over.”

Jeongguk chuckles from the other side of the bed, towel-drying his hair. “You were the one doing slow-mo runway walks in there. Pretty sure we got lapped by a toddler.”

You grin, flopping onto the mattress as he crosses the room. “Still the best aisle I’ve ever walked down.”

His steps falter slightly, eyes softening as he sits beside you. “Can I disagree on that?”

“Huh?” you blink, caught off guard.

“I think the best aisle you ever walked down was on June 13th, 2016.”

The date brings your hands to a pause over the blanket. How could it not?

The day you walked barefoot down the aisle at Gwangalli, salt wind in your veil and Jeongguk waiting in linen and light. The day two twenty-four-year-olds made vows with teary laughter and shaky rings. The day you were born and weaved into this shared life with him.

A quiet smile pulls at your lips. You shake your head, pick up a pillow, and toss it at him—the soft thud of cotton landing harmlessly against his chest. He catches it before it hits his face, laughing.

“Cheesy little shit.”

“Just honest,” he shrugs, arranging the pillows neatly like it’s instinct. Like the words he dropped didn’t just undo your whole chest.

Jeongguk stacks the last pillow in the middle—same as the night before.

You pluck each one away, one by one, dropping them on the couch nearby. Only one left.

“Oh? A promotion?” His voice lifts with mock surprise, eyes glinting when he sees the lone pillow still on the bed.

You don’t answer. Just reach for the last one, lift it slowly, and toss it aside like it never stood a chance.

There’s a second of stunned silence—

Then he pumps his fist into the air behind your back l like a child winning a gold medal, mouthing a triumphant yes! before quickly recomposing when you glance back. You pretend not to see the grin he tries to hide, even as it lights up the entire room.

Eventually, you both settle under the covers. The lights are dimmed to a golden hush. Jeongguk turns toward you, body angled close.

“Thank you for today,” you whisper.

He reaches across the sheet, fingers brushing yours. “Thank you. For letting me be part of your memories. Even the old ones.”

You press your cheek into the pillow, his hand still near—warm, steady. “It didn’t feel old today.”

He hums in agreement, eyelids fluttering once, then again. His breathing slows, the weight of the day finally pulling him under.

You wait. Watch.

Then shift toward him.

Close the small space he left open. Let your hand drift into his hair, brushing it back with a tenderness that doesn’t ask for permission.

He murmurs something unintelligible, and without thinking, shifts closer—nuzzling into your chest like gravity, arms curling around your waist like it’s a memory etched into his muscle.

And maybe it is.

Maybe it always has been.

Maybe you both have lived this moment a hundred different ways across these seventeen years.

Jeongguk sleeps soundly beside you now, his breathing steady and low—one that comes after full days and full hearts. His hand is still curled loosely around your wrist, like even in sleep, he’s afraid to let go.

You shift slowly, gently easing out of his hold. Careful not to stir him, you reach for the hoodie draped over the foot of the bed—his, soft and oversized, still faintly scented with laundry soap and him—and slip it on like armor.

The veranda door clicks open with the smallest sound. You step outside into the stillness, closing the door just enough behind you to hush the warmth of the room. The night greets you with a breeze off the sea, cooler than expected. You pull the hoodie tighter around you.

Your phone buzzes in your hand.

Jin.

You sit quietly on the wicker chair facing the ocean, the horizon a soft stretch of black and silver. The stars are out tonight. You take a breath, then answer.

“Hey,” you say first, voice low.

“Hey,” Jin replies, already gentler than usual. “Did I wake you?”

You shake your head. “No. I couldn’t sleep.”

A pause.

“How’s Busan so far?”

You glance toward the slightly open door—toward the lamp still glowing in the bedroom behind it.

“It’s been… kind,” you say eventually. “We went to the aquarium today. The one by the coast.”

“The one you used to sneak off to on rainy weekends? When you both needed to escape the city?”

A small smile tugs at your lips. “Yeah. He remembered all the exhibits. We got matching shark hats from the gift shop.”

Jin hums. “Sounds like you both.”

Silence stretches, peaceful but not empty. Then, gently:

“I just wanted to let you know the arrangements are settled. Final signatures went through earlier this morning.”

You look down, your thumb brushing over the edge of your wedding ring. “That soon?”

“There’s no rush,” he says carefully. “It’ll be ready whenever you are.”

You blink, eyes stinging in the corners. “She’ll come home soon.”

And just like that—your heart flutters. Not out of nerves. But from something else entirely.

A quiet sort of joy. A stillness blooming in your chest. Like—for once—everything might actually be falling into place.

Jin’s voice is softer now. “She deserves to be home. You both do.”

The line falls quiet. But you don’t hang up just yet.

You let the silence sit between you, calm and full. The waves roll in softly beyond the veranda, like they’re whispering secrets only the night understands.

Head tilted back, you trace the stars overhead, eyes finding the constellation patterns you used to name on nights like this. They’re brighter tonight—maybe because you’re finally looking.

Maybe because someone else is, too.

Your fingers brush the curve of your ring.

And for a moment, you just sit there, holding on.

#jungkook fanfiction #jungkook ff #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook x yn #bts fanfiction #fanfic #bts jeon jungkook #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #park jimin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook

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deerdoegone · 3 months ago

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SHERIFF ANNOUNCES END TO SEARCH FOR MISSING COLLEGE STUDENT, STERNLY REMINDS RESIDENTS TO AVOID FOREST WITHOUT GUIDE.

welcome to WESTPORT, new hampshire. along the eastern united states coastline, the vast flora and fauna that surround it can often mock the town's own population of long-term residents and obnoxious college students. sometimes, it feels like westport transitions to poorly mimic a major city or small town, depending on the situation; tight-knit, but this isn't a "everybody knows everybody" circumstance. it easily attracts tourists for the woodsy comfort, beaches underneath the cliffs, and charming appearance. with the main export being lumber and fish, it's not surprising to see most employed residents making pretty pennies for their latest catches. if not that, most work in business and law. as the leaves turn warm hues and greyhound buses arrive with passengers buying out hotels in and around the town, a unique species finds its own way there.

it is october 2009, and halloween is right around the corner. intro to my 2000s / 10s vampire dream reality.

somewhere along the rocky and eroded coastline, there lies the human embodiment of a deer in front of headlights: AALIYAH DOE. born on valentine's day, she is anxiously sweet and self-consciously forgiving. a sophomore attending the local ST. ANDREW'S UNIVERSITY, her focus is on directorial production and creative writing. pursuing the arts has been her goal in life since she was six. she knew from a young age who she wanted to be, and that carefully constructed identity involved escaping the foggy air of her hometown and becoming a hollywood director or screenplay writer, maybe even both if she was lucky. she calls sofia coppola her hero, loves catherine hardwick and wes anderson, and has an eye for the dreaminess of psychological horror. she is the epitome of the OBSESSED ARTIST trope, but is also a BABY DOLL.

her common traits are selfless. genuine. warm-hearted. kind. open-minded. shy.

covered in muted shades and feminine attire, she blends in with the dull backdrop and isn’t visually loud or colorful. one of her biggest pleasures comes from lying in bed all day and thinking of her crush on NATHANIEL "NATHAN" HARE, a quiet boy who sits next to her in algebra. they aren't friends, by the way. she's just a smitten girl who thinks asking for clarification on the answer to number five is flirting. it is not. someone tell her that. like right now. at the start of the school year, the professor had everyone introduce themselves to the person next to them and from that conversation, she knows that he is from a small town in canada and attending SAU on a student visa while working at a local shop downtown. he once offered to drive her home after classes due to the weather but she just stared wide eyed and couldn't accept it, blurting out that her mom was already picking her up. she walked home in the rain that day. NATHAN is portrayed by devon bostick.

as an unnoticeable amount of BRUTAL ATTACKS deemed to be animal aggression travels along the coast and hits quiet little westport, aaliyah puts her former life of normalcy on the back burner in order to help nathan come to terms with his newfound vampiric turning and help him grapple with the grief of who he once was AKA i live in offbrand twin peaks/arcadia bay/mystic falls/devil's kettle/forks and the guy i had a crush on showed up to my house one night after a concert covered in blood because he survived a vampire attack at the cost of becoming one himself.

aaliyah is the youngest daughter of JENNIFER DOE, a former editorial designer turned housewife who relocated to westport shortly after marrying SEAN MATTHEWS, a businessman in the tourism trade with his job primarily attending to upper-class tourists from western states and european cities. her older sisters are ELIANA and MARIAH, respectively twenty-six and twenty-two. only she and mariah still live with their parents under the roof of a neat two-story family traditional in upper-middle class neighborhood MOSSFIELD HILLS. she doesn't have many friends by choice and prefers a smaller circle, consistently seen with SO-HEE OH, AVA FRENCH, and NISA NABHANI, girls she's been best friends with since childhood and formed a group amongst the four.

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forlix · 2 years ago

Text

𝐜𝐫𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠・h.h.

— you're uninviting, there's no doubt about that, your resolve like unpolished diamond and tongue like broken glass. but hyunjin finds you're not half as impossible as everyone assumes you are.

words・11.1k

pairing・idol!hyunjin x female stylist!reader (inspired by this)

genres・fluff, angst, eventual smut so MDNI, some hurt/comfort, some humor, mc is a bad bitch and hyunjin is a #simp, enemies? to lovers, sexual tension, workplace relationship, mutual pining, slow burn, nonlinear narrative

warnings・reader vividly remembers an anxiety attack, alcohol is consumed, lots of compartmentalization and imperfect communication, complex people feeling complex emotions, smut warnings under the cut

playlist・farewell, neverland by txt・like crazy by jimin・black friday by tom odell・collide by justine skye・crying lightning by arctic monkeys

a/n・call me victor frankenstein bc i've given birth to a MONSTER (except i actually love and care for mine ofc). this was easily the greatest challenge of my fanfiction-writing career and it feels like my magnum opus; i hope it's worth the wait! also a huge shoutout to sahar for being my voice of reason and my biggest supporter :’) i don’t deserve u i love u

smut warnings・cunnilingus, overstimulation, creampie (practice safe sex!!), mild dacryphilia

Present day. Cannes, France. 5:54 P.M.

You’ve long made peace with the fact that Hwang Hyunjin is incapable of shutting up for more than five minutes.

As it is, the man has a mouth that runs like a cross-country marathon; then throw in his uncanny aptitude for annoying you, and what do you get? A nonstop slew of terrible jokes and teasing quips, tailored according to his thorough mental manual of what gets under your skin hardest and fastest.

This is the reality you live in, presumably because you were evil in your past life, and you’ve steeled yourself to see it through.

But twenty minutes have passed since you and Hyunjin ducked into the back of a cab and gave the driver the show’s address—and, as stunning as the red rooftops and lazuline coastline of Cannes are, you find you’re more interested in Hyunjin’s peculiar silence.

You move your gaze to his face. He’s looking outside, his chin resting upon the palm of his hand, the afternoon sunlight dusting over his chiseled features like polish on pottery; his complexion an exuberant gold against the cream-colored linen that makes up his clothing.

Maybe it’s because you opted for a simpler makeup look today, leaving the most telling contours of his face warm and bare, or maybe it’s because you’ve spent the last year committing his every mannerism and expression to memory. Nevertheless, you see through his pursed lips and tight brow right away.

“Nervous?”

Hyunjin’s head swivels towards you with a small snap, like he’s forgotten you’re here. His lips fall open, their glossy peach color glinting with the small shift.

“No,” he replies reflexively, but then his facade flickers. “Fuck, maybe a little. It’s just hard to believe, you know?”

You do know. It was a huge honor for both of you when Hyunjin was named the newest global ambassador of Versace. For you to be attending the brand’s pop-up show in one of the most beautiful cities in Europe, among some of the world’s most prolific creatives, is truly incomprehensible. Even you’ve been feeling antsy since you landed; you can only imagine Hyunjin’s anxiety.

You have never been good at consolation. You think your mouth is too coarse, your propensity for honesty too strong. But you’ve always known just what to say when it comes to him.

“Just remember who you are.”

Hyunjin takes a few seconds to process your words, but his understanding washes over his whole body; straightens his back; hardens his gaze. You don’t see this change in posture, though. You’re too busy looking anywhere else, all of a sudden feeling quite embarrassed.

Nor do you see the private smile that disperses across Hyunjin’s lips; his eyes softening so, so marginally when they peer at your profile; his hand twitching where it rests on his knee, as if contemplating reaching for you with a mind of its own.

Thirty seconds. That is the amount of time you have left to bask in this otherworldly tranquility. And then he speaks.

“I want you to meet my parents.”

Your arm reacts before your mind can. Without having to turn your head an inch, you smack him squarely in the bicep, sending him crumpling against his door with a bark of a laugh; “please,” he adds, and you’re biting back a smile as you hit him again, with less conviction this time.

The cab driver nearly misses an exit, too busy wondering about the peculiar pair in his backseat and the nature of your relationship. He can’t tell if you hate each other or if you’re married.

One year ago. Seoul, South Korea. 8:42 A.M.

“I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me.”

“For my newborn daughter.”

“Yeah, okay. I still can’t believe you’re abandoning me for your newborn daughter. What does that brat have that I don’t?”

“My genes, to begin with.”

“That’s unfair. She’s using—”

An important-looking pair of women step out of the nearest elevators, the clacking of their heels ricocheting sharply off the lobby walls. Hyunjin straightens his back so quickly he thinks he pulls a muscle. He and Seojun incline their heads in perfect sync, their “good morning”s prim and professional.

“She’s using cheats,” Hyunjin hisses the second the women are out of earshot again, and this wrests a laugh from the older man at last.

Around one month prior, Seojun confided in Hyunjin that he and his partner were expecting their first child soon, and that he would be putting his career on indefinite hiatus to welcome her into the world.

Hyunjin had never felt so conflicted in his life. On one hand, he’d grown closer to his stylist over the last two years than he’d thought possible, and he knew it was stupid to be anything but delighted for him and his expanding family. On the other hand, it was precisely because they’d become so close that he wanted to grab the man by the ankles and shake the decision clean out of his body. He couldn’t imagine a dressing room or tour bus without him.

Today is a Saturday, but it’s also Seojun’s last day with the company. Hyunjin dragged himself to the JYP building at half past eight with much less reluctance than he let on. He wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

“Fourth floor,” Seojun instructs after the pair enter the elevator, and Hyunjin presses a knuckle to the according number. “Thanks.”

The doors slide shut; the floor numbers tick upwards.

“What was her name again?” Hyunjin asks.

“Y/N,” Seojun returns. “Y/L/N.”

“Is she here already?”

“No, she’ll be here at nine.”

There’s a small pause.

“Hyung.”

“Hm?”

“I feel like I’m being married off to another family for political reasons.”

“God, I can’t wait to be free of your theatrics.”

At this, the two men make eye contact; exchange smiles. The elevator announces their arrival to the fourth floor, and they step through the doors.

“You’ll be in good hands,” Seojun reassures. “She’s the best of the best. I hear she’s basically running the industry these days. I’m surprised she agreed to take you on.”

“I’m surprised an old fry like you knows someone like her,” Hyunjin replies, and the look Seojun gives him is so withering that he thinks he pulls a muscle again with his apologetic bow.

“You’re not wrong, though,” Seojun concedes. “We happened to work on the same project back when she was still a small name, and we’ve kept in touch ever since. She’s a great kid. Ambitious, hardworking, strong as hell—”

They arrive outside their destination, and Hyunjin holds open the door to the conference room. Only to find that Seojun has stopped in his footsteps, temporarily stunned by a new realization.

She reminds me of him.

“He’s forgotten how to walk,” the him in question whispers like he’s narrating a nature documentary, and the moment is over. “Is this what fatherhood does to a man?”

Seojun kicks Hyunjin into the room by the seat of his pants.

The minutes pass slowly. Seojun moves his eyes between the door and his phone every few seconds, visibly antsy about the imminent meeting. In the meantime, Hyunjin makes the groundbreaking discovery that these office chairs are absurdly and almost suspiciously comfortable. All it takes is a chin upon his palm and a few seconds of shut-eye, and he’s suddenly slumped over the table, snoring softly into the crook of his elbow.

At 8:57, Seojun’s phone lights up with a new notification. At 8:58, he notices that Hyunjin is asleep, and closes his hand around the crumpled receipt in his pocket. At 8:59, he scrunches said receipt into a ball and launches it in Hyunjin’s direction. It hits him squarely on the head, and the boy is nearly knocked to the floor like a bowling pin.

“For that,” Hyunjin sputters, “I’m the godfather.”

“Absolutely the hell not.”

Then, it is 9:00.

When the door of the conference room opens, Hyunjin is still trying to gather his wits, wondering if the bastard is leaving the makeup industry to secretly pursue a career in professional basketball. He just barely notices the unfamiliar figure who steps into his line of vision.

“There she is,” Seojun greets warmly, rising to his feet right away. “God, how long has it been? Two, three years now?”

You’re not doing anything remarkable when Hyunjin sees you for the first time, simply walking across the room and bowing graciously in Seojun’s direction, but he is immediately under the vague impression that you’re cutting through space as you move, scorching the particles of air that dare obstruct your path.

With his head cocked slightly to the left, like a fascinated puppy, Hyunjin watches the stunning smile that forms on your lips when you take Seojun’s hand; your finger as it tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear with the elegance of rippling silk. His mind feels impossibly slow, like you’ve tapped open his skull and robbed him of his ability to think.

Then, you toss Hyunjin a look over your shoulder, and he’s reminded of lightning forking towards the earth. Terrifying, volatile, beautiful.

“Something like that,” you say, turning back to Seojun, and time starts to move again. “It’s great to see you again, Mr. Lee. Congratulations on the baby.”

“Please, Seojun is fine,” he answers hastily. “And thank you. Thank you for all of this, actually. I can’t tell you how excited we are to have you.”

“You’re too kind—I’m excited too.”

Upon uttering the word “we,” Seojun delivers Hyunjin a fleeting side-eye; he takes the hint and pushes himself to his feet, feeling uncharacteristically clumsy as he moves towards you.

The second time he meets your gaze, it feels wrong, almost, for him to hold it for as long as he does. Like he’s approaching your throne with his chin held high and eyes fixed forward instead of his head sweeping the ground.

Except he swears he senses a strange warmth within the rings of your irises, and he spends every second of eye contact following, chasing it, almost craning his neck with how badly he wants to get a closer look. Until he’s as close to you as is socially acceptable for a first meeting and comes to a halt.

He ends up losing its trail, but he won’t forget that it’s there.

“My client, I’m guessing?” You say, extending your hand. “Y/N. It’s a pleasure.”

Your fingers are freezing cold where they meet his, and Hyunjin already knows that melting the permafrost that coats your flesh and guards your soul will be the tallest task of his life.

But he finds his next words accompanied by an involuntary smirk; he’s nothing, if not tenacious.

“Hyunjin,” he returns. “Pleasure’s all mine.”

Nine months ago. Paris, France. 6:16 P.M.

Hyunjin isn’t sure why—maybe you forget that he can still steal glances at your reflection over your shoulder or through the gaps of your fingers—but he’s learned over the last four weeks that you’re different, gentler, when you’re doing his makeup.

Your cold hands request instead of demand that he angle his head a certain way or suck in his cheeks. Your syllables are rounder somehow, your voice never traveling above a murmur. Even your eyes mellow out when you move in really close, your pupils dilating as you detail the final touches to the fresco you’ve painted upon him.

Your expression doesn’t give you away (it never does), but his hunch is that there’s a sprinkle of doting somewhere among the intense focus. That would explain why he feels like a flower in the moments when your fingertips and gaze move so carefully over his skin, like you’re touching his petals, trying not to tear them.

Too bad you never let him daydream for long.

“Close.”

“Huh?”

“Your eyes. Close them.”

His lashes have hardly brushed his lower lids when you begin to empty what feels like an entire bottle of setting spray on him. At the moist surprise, Hyunjin’s features scrunch up around his nose and he lets out a distraught hack like an old man.

A few seconds later, the barrage stops, and he cracks open a wary eye to scope out his surroundings. You wait until he does this to give his face one last spurt.

“Witch,” Hyunjin mutters, clawing back up the vanity chair.

“Thank you,” you reply, completely earnestly.

And whatever Hyunjin was going to say next suspends instantly on his tongue when you bring the pad of your thumb to the very edge of his lower lip and drag it across the soft flesh. He wonders if you know how hard he tries not to look at your mouth whenever you tend to his. He wonders if there’s anything you don’t know.

“You smudged your lipstick already.” There’s a small streak of coral pink on your hand when it falls back to your side. “See? That’s why we need the setting spray.”

“Uh huh.” And Hyunjin spots a ghost of a smile flit across your face, gone nearly as soon as it appears. The only evidence of it ever existing is the quickened heartbeat it leaves behind within him.

“You’re done, by the way,” you say, stepping aside. “Take a look.”

He slips out of his seat and moves closer to the vanity, peering at his reflection as curiously as if he’s never seen it before. But that’s how he’s felt since he started working with you.

Seojun was right: you are the best that the makeup industry has to offer. Hyunjin has come to understand this for multiple reasons. Your phone screen is incessantly illuminated by new notifications and incoming calls. The other stylists heed your advice like it’s the law. Brushes and pencils move like water when it’s you maneuvering them. And then some.

He would call what you have “talent,” but he knows it’s more than that. You show him a new version of himself every time you turn a mirror in his direction, like there are facets of him that are visible to you and you only. As much as he delights in the notion that you have such intimate knowledge of him, it should be impossible, considering you’ve only known him for two months. So no, it’s not just talent that you possess. It’s some combination of talent, hawkish perception, and raw artistry that is utterly inhuman—and sexy as fuck.

Speaking of sexy. Hyunjin’s look is relatively rudimentary tonight, the makeup light, the outfit a simple black tank top beneath a jacket and pants made of bright red velvet. But it’s the details that tie the whole thing together: the wide, loose sleeves causing the jacket to slip continually off his shoulders; the inner layer tight in all the right places. His face doesn’t look half bad either, with the sultry carmine powder that fringes his eyes and the intentionally mussed state of his hair. He pushes a hand through the dark locks, regarding himself with thorough appreciation.

You appear in his periphery as you start cleaning up your work station. “You can just take the jacket off when your sweat glands start malfunctioning, by the way. I thought you’d appreciate that detail.”

At this, his smize cracks into a laugh, the sound loud and uninhibited and uniquely yours to hear. “You suck.”

He looks away from his reflection just in time to glimpse another of your phantom smiles, and he thinks it’s so painfully on brand that the two times it’s appeared tonight have both been from you making yourself laugh. You might be the most insufferable person he’s ever met. He might be obsessed with you anyways.

“Well?” You implore. “What do you think?”

“No notes.”

It’s the answer you’re expecting. You survey him from head to toe one last time, decide that you, too, are satisfied, and slip your makeup into your bag; hike its strap over your shoulder.

“I’ll see you after the show, then.”

You have an important conference call to attend before tonight’s concert, hence why Hyunjin had to come in early for hair and makeup. This is also the reason why the two of you have been the only people in the dressing room for the better part of an hour.

It’s rare that he ever gets you alone, and he doesn’t want it to end. Not just yet.

“I lied, actually,” he calls. “I do have notes.”

You already have one foot out the door when you hear this, and you turn around so slowly and in such disbelief that he has to fight to constrain his laugh—the concept of imperfection is truly unthinkable to you. Insufferable, like he said.

“Do tell,” you say, dropping your bag back onto the floor.

“You have any jewelry for me?”

You chew on this for a moment. You did have a selection of necklaces prepared for tonight, but they were heavy and numerous, not exactly the best-suited for the group’s dynamic sets. You still like them, granted, and you know Hyunjin would as well.

You articulate all of this to him, and he asks if he can take a look at them anyways. “Come here, then,” you say, the words so tantalizing when they fall from your lips that nearly trips over himself trying to obey.

You take out a flat rectangular box from your bag and set it down in front of the lightbulb-studded mirrors. Hyunjin observes quietly as you show him its contents: three thick, gold chains with varying lengths and boasting different pendants, plus a beaded bracelet and an assembly of rings of the same material. His devious plan aside, he does love the selection.

“You’re sure you won’t be uncomfortable?”

He nods, and you pick up the longest of the three chains; turn to him expectedly. He takes this as his cue to move closer to you, except he overshoots a little, and he feels the tips of his shoes accidentally bump into the ends of yours; discerns the warmth emanating from your body against his own. He expects a withering glare, a kick in the shin, maybe, but you don’t seem bothered by the proximity at all, unblinking as you bring your hands around the either side of his neck and fasten the first necklace with a soft tap. Your fingers then brush over his collarbones to adjust the pendant, and he thinks your hands would have to be numb not to perceive the frantic heartbeat threatening to burst straight out of his skin.

Entire minutes pass before Hyunjin musters the courage to actually look at you. By then, you’re already working on the third and final necklace. It’s not a surprise that your face is mere inches away from his; he’s been watching your reflections out of the corner of his eye; he knows you’re closer to each other than you’ve ever been. But there are parts of you that the mirror doesn’t show—the soft curve of your lashes, the concentrated narrow of your eyes, the shapely protrusion of your pursed lips—and these surprise him so thoroughly that he slips and slides out of his right mind.

You are the type of beautiful that’s been around longer than humans have, the same as that of the true blue color of forget-me-nots. And Hyunjin feels enveloped, intoxicated by you from this minuscule distance. The idea forms numbly in his head that maybe, just maybe, he was put on this earth to admire you.

In this inebriated state, he makes a venturesome decision.

When you finish centering the last pendant upon the his chest, you are about to take a step back and review the updated look, but you’re debilitated by the feeling of fingers grazing over your hip—lightly, so lightly that you mistake them for a gust of wind at first, but the contact is enough to push the small of your back against the edge of the counter. Then, both of Hyunjin’s hands reach behind you, pressing flat against the marble surface, and, just like that, he has you right where he wants you, ensnared between cold stone and hot flesh.

And so begins an equilibrium so fragile that it’ll shatter if one of you so much as blinks the wrong way, your rattled breath fluttering against his lips, his eyes dark and hooded and out of focus as they survey the fine lines of your expression. It still doesn’t give you away (it never does), but he finds that in this moment he just doesn’t care.

“Let me take you out,” he murmurs. “One date.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You reply under your breath.

“You know what I’m talking about, beautiful.”

Upon uttering that last word, he angles his head almost imperceptibly, the movement challenging, daring you to say something about it. But you don’t. You merely hiss out a whetted “you’re fucking crazy,” and that’s his opening to drag this on a little longer; push your limits a little more.

“About you? Damn straight.”

At this, finally, fucking finally, there is a semblance of something in your face that isn’t just your usual mildly-irritated nonchalance. Instead, he detects surprise in the whites of your eyes as you widen them; as you part your lips with a response that only comes much later.

And he’s surprised by your surprise. Surely, with your skills of observation, you would’ve noticed long ago how his world shrinks down to only you and your gorgeous voice and your confident glare and your shitty sense of humor whenever he’s been granted the privilege of your presence.

This might be the first time he’s admitted it out loud, but he hasn’t tried—hasn’t been able—to hide how he feels about you, not now, not ever. It’s been that way since the moment the sole of your shoe met the carpet of that conference room on the fourth floor of the JYP building.

“Hwang—” You begin.

“Hyung!”

At the sound of a third, new voice, your arms tense like you’re about to shove Hyunjin off of you, but he only leans in further, so that his lips almost graze your jaw and your hands have nowhere to go except the taut surface of his chest. The surprise is gone; now you’re just pissed. He can feel the heat of your furious eyes and the tremor in your hands as you form fists around the fabric of his top. But he takes his sweet time in scooping up the bracelet and rings, and only afterwards does he pull away from you and straighten to his full height.

“Hey, Innie!” Hyunjin chirps, and Jeongin materializes in the doorway, looking thoroughly perturbed by the older boy’s sunny tone. “What’s up?”

In the meantime, you turn around to snap the lid of your jewelry box shut, and it takes a singular glance in the mirror for a truly horrible realization to settle upon your shoulders. You don’t think anybody would be able to tell even if you announced it outright, but you know yourself and the little nuances of your face all too well.

You’re flustered.

You feel like a horror movie heroine breaking the fourth wall.

“Nothing, weirdo. I was just announcing my arrival,” Jeongin says. Thank fuck you did, Hyunjin thinks to himself, completely unaware of the epiphany you’re having behind him. “Chan-hyung mentioned you were here already? Why?”

“She’s in high demand.” Hyunjin points out the she in question by jutting his chin in your direction. “The usual.”

“Ah.”

Jeongin inclines his head towards you in polite greeting. You return his hello, but your expression starts to feel tight when his eyes dart between the strange smile on Hyunjin’s face and your awkward stance (still glued to the edge of the counter) as he drops his duffel by the couch. The boy isn’t stupid, unlike his older counterpart.

“I saw a vending machine on my way here,” Jeongin says, turning to leave the room again. “You want anything, hyung? Noona?”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say.

“I’ll have whatever you have,” Hyunjin says.

Jeongin flashes a thumbs-up and dips out of the room, perhaps a little more hastily than he intends to come across. And then there are two. Again.

You wait until you can’t hear his footsteps anymore, and then you turn to glower at Hyunjin so intensely that he thinks you’re about to place a curse on his whole bloodline.

Then, your phone starts vibrating, and he knows he’ll live to see another day.

“You still owe me an answer,” Hyunjin calls as you turn around and leave the room.

“Don’t hold your breath,” you reply.

One day, I’ll break her, is the predominant thought that resides in Hyunjin’s head as he slips on the remaining jewelry; watches your figure disappear around a corner. One day, I’ll break his face, is the predominant thought that resides in yours as you stalk away. That’s the two of you, in a nutshell.

Six months ago. Osaka, Japan. 3:03 P.M.

When you walk into the dressing room, you find Haeun hunched over an overflowing photo album with her hands forming fists in her hair, muttering to nobody in particular, “I have no idea what the fuck I’m doing.”

There’s an amused look in your eye as you set your bag down by Hyunjin’s empty vanity chair. She hasn’t noticed your presence yet; approximately three hallways down, the members are rehearsing for tonight’s performance on the main stage of the Kyocera Dome, and the music is so loud that you think you actually saw the walls vibrating while you were in the hallway moments ago.

You rise to your tiptoes and encroach upon her, waiting until she’s within reach to tickle the back of her neck. She nearly flies out of her seat with a shriek that can be heard over the heavy bass.

“Never gets old.” You hand her the photo album that went soaring also, and Haeun snatches it back with an affronted flourish.

“I can’t remember the last time you said hi to me normally, unnie.”

“Me neither, now that you mention it.”

Haeun and Han are your favorite stylist-idol duo in the world because they’re so eerily similar—and it’s adorable. They both illuminate every room they walk into; they both have grins too big for their faces, laughs too loud for their lungs. You always regret leaving your sunglasses at home when you catch sight of the effulgent pair.

But today you cannot detect the usual radiance in Haeun’s voice, nor so much as a hint of her easy grin. Then again, that’s another quality that she and her client share; they’re both well acquainted with the burdens that come with unwavering passion.

Every stylist has their own modus operandi. Haeun’s is a scrapbook of images that she cuts out and saves from catalogs, advertisements, newspapers, et cetera. You’ve seen it many times before, but never in such a state: messy handwriting stuffing the margins to their very brims, numbers and symbols like clusters of rainclouds over a sea of different outfits, arrows and circles and squares highlighting pant cuffs and cascade collars and dangling earrings. Telltale signs that Haeun hasn’t a clue as to what Han will be wearing tonight.

You gnaw on your lower lip, deliberating your next move. You end up placing a firm hand against the album’s cover and pushing it closed.

“Come with me,” you say. “We’re gonna try a new approach.”

Haeun opens her mouth to protest, but unfortunately you have an extensive track record of being right.

“What do you have in mind?” She sighs instead.

“You’ll see.”

With that, you stand up, tuck a small towel under your arm, and angle your head in the direction of the music.

The two of you make your way through the labyrinth of hallways that comprise the venue’s backstage. Eventually, the color of the floor changes from speckled white to solid black, and you step onto the part of the stage that is concealed from the audience by drawn curtains and heavy equipment. You say a quick hello to the group’s manager as you dip past him, and eventually reach the edge of the curtains, where you and Haeun have a good view of the eight members as they run through their setlist for tonight’s concert.

Haeun settles into the spot beside you, still confused as she follows your gaze.

“Let me ask you this,” you say, just audible over the din. “Can you style a performer if you don’t know how he performs?”

And understanding seeps over her features like poured tea.

“I want you to watch him,” you continue. “Tell me how he performs.”

Han’s part begins, as if on cue. His voice rings out through the empty stadium as he ducks to the front of the formation, a microphone held loosely to his lips, his face taut with focus. Haeun stares at him for some time, silently trying to fathom her observations, but she sees you shaking your head in the corner of her eye.

“Don’t think, Haeun. Just speak.”

She blows out a deep breath before obliging. “It’s hard to picture Han doing anything but laughing or making other people laugh, he’s so goofy and lighthearted most of the time. But he’s like a different person on stage. He’s so intense, it’s almost intimidating. Not intimidating in a douchey way, though—you just get the impression that he’s very confident in himself and his music.

You don’t say another word, but don’t need to. She’s hit her stride.

“His voice and enunciation are so clear. It’s crazy how he sounds exactly like the studio recording. Plus, his delivery feels genuine; he’s not just reciting lyrics, but speaking straight from his heart.

“And this is gonna sound bad, but I didn’t know Han could dance. Like, yeah, I knew that he could dance, but not like this. His movements are so sharp that I feel like my attention is being—”

Right there.

She cuts herself off, reaching the same conclusion.

“It’s his turn to talk, and he wants you to cling to his every word," Haeun articulates slowly. "He’s demanding your attention. He needs you to listen. That’s how he performs.”

A satisfied smile bolts across your face like lightning. “Couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Haeun pictures her scrapbook again, and there are now only a few articles of clothing and accessories that fit the framework you’ve helped her forge. She’s almost dizzy with disbelief, tearing her eyes from Han to look at you instead.

“You’re brilliant, you know that?”

“I do, but I appreciate the reminder.”

She can’t help but giggle. It’s a you answer if she’s ever heard one. “Do you do that with all of your clients?”

Haeun asks the question arbitrarily, without thinking. But you respond in a way that she doesn’t think she’s ever witnessed before, and she’s momentarily baffled by the sight: you hesitate.

As the song’s final chorus approaches, Hyunjin is the one folding himself into the center of the eight-person throng. You can only see his back from this angle, but even then it’s palpable how expertly and effortlessly he molds his body to the modulations of the music; how much fervor and feeling he expresses with every jerk of his spine and flex of his hands.

Within a few short seconds, innumerable descriptors and sensations skim the surface of your mind—but one word knocks the rest clean out of the water, the way it always does when you watch Hwang Hyunjin perform.

Artistry.

“No,” you reply. “Not all of them.”

And where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?

Haeun furrows a brow, understandably puzzled by this response, but you don’t elaborate. Partially because you feel like being coy, but mostly because you know that any explanation you offer will sound like a confession.

The song ends, leaving your ears ringing with the abrupt absence of sound. The members hold their poses with heaving shoulders, staring out into the empty stands until the stage manager’s voice comes through the monitors.

“And that’s a wrap! We’re all set for tonight. Good work, everyone.”

There is a ripple of movement around the stage as the boys relax. Jeongin jogs over to Minho, hoping to review a particularly challenging dance break; the manager asks Chan if he has a second to discuss travel logistics; Seungmin plops onto the edge of the stage and downs the rest of his water; Hyunjin beelines toward you the second he sees you, because of course he does.

You get a good look at him as he skips closer. Stray blonde locks plastered against his damp skin, tank top dyed several shades darker by the perspiration rolling down his neck, the muscles of his arms actually rippling as he swings them around stupidly, a shit-eating smile plastered across his stunning face.

You’re annoyed before he says a word.

“I didn’t know they were letting fans backstage now,” he hums happily. “Want an autograph, gorgeous?”

“Put a sock in it.” You whisk the towel you’ve been holding in his direction. “Wet freak.”

But he catches and tosses it over his shoulder straightaway, and your heart sinks to your fucking ankle. You’ve seen this movie before. You know how it ends.

“No.” You take a shaky step back. “No, nope, don’t even think about—”

The next thing you know, Hyunjin is lunging towards you and winding his arms around your waist, nearly sweeping you clean off your feet as he pulls you into his sweaty embrace. To your complete dismay, your face presses flat against the clammy plane of his chest. “Call me a wet freak again, go on,” he manages to say through his laughter.

In response, one of your hands wriggles free of its slippery prison and snatches the cuff of Hyunjin’s ear with impressive accuracy. He yelps and loosens his hold on you, but doesn’t relent completely, not even when he catches sight of the murderous expression on your face and cackles so forcefully his whole head is thrown back.

You tighten your grip. “Wet,” you seethe, “freak.”

“Ow—okay, don’t make it hot, what’s wrong with you?”

“Wha—what’s wrong with YOU?!”

As the two of you dissolve into your fatuous arguing, Haeun is no longer sure that she’s still standing here. She’s not even sure if she’s in her right mind anymore. She thinks she might be hallucinating the way everything about Hyunjin softens next to you, or the way your biting tone only seems to nibble when it’s him on the receiving end.

“Psst. We’ve been placing bets on them. You want in?”

Han suddenly materializes next to Haeun, and she would have been jumpscared into a different dimension if she wasn’t so fixated upon the bizarre occurrence before her.

But what if she’s not hallucinating?

No, not all of them, you’d said, like you were disclosing a forbidden secret.

“Yes,” she says, and Han beams. “Absolutely.”

Three months ago. Seoul, South Korea. 2:26 A.M.

On a tranquil Saturday night, you’re sitting at your desk, your knees tucked to your chest, the newest episode of your drama playing quietly on your laptop, a half-empty glass of rosé and open sketchbook laid before you. This is your happy place—a safe haven that the trials and tribulations of the real world can’t reach. But you think you’ve really gone and lost your mind when you find yourself thinking about your job.

Well, not your job, exactly. More like the man who makes your job feel fucking Sisyphean.

You know your way around fabric and foundation better than anyone, but you have never struggled with anything as much as you have trying to navigate Hyunjin. You show up to work every day ready to just put some makeup on the man; instead, you wind up stumbling around the potholes of his dimples and the hills of the veins that run over his forearms and hands like a hopeless drunkard. Scouring the creases of his smile and the oscillations of his voice like they’re topographical maps. Mentally replaying your interactions with him time and time again like you’re monitoring security footage, trying to detect illicit activity in every casual touch he leaves on your shoulder or waist; every babe or gorgeous he throws your way, seemingly without a second thought.

You’ve been trying to understand him and his intentions for seven months now, and your efforts have yielded no fruit whatsoever, save for a few theories that you feel insane for even humoring.

You down the rest of the blush-colored liquid, and as you set down your empty glass you notice your fingers itch with a familiar urge. The pen that you’ve been twirling over your knuckles stills, then swivels; its tip hovers over the last free corner of the sheet of cartridge paper below you. And then it presses upon the surface and starts to move, as naturally as if on its own.

When you were little, you came across a children’s book that you no longer remember the name of, about a little girl with a magical pen that brought her every drawing to life. You decided then that you would one day be that girl.

At some point, the subjects of your incessant sketching became almost exclusively runway models and makeup advertisements. You cemented that you wanted to work in fashion as early as your high school graduation, and by then you already possessed the conviction and charisma of the industry’s most experienced members. Your portfolio was stellar; your personality prophesied of wild success. So your career took off, propelled by the neverending positions and projects that various companies continually laid before your feet.

You stand and pad to your kitchen to refill your glass, only to bring the entire bottle of wine back to your room instead. With one hand, you flick the cap off and lift the whole thing to your lips; with the other, you seize your pen again, not wanting to lose momentum.

For the year or so after you joined the industry, you basked in your idyllic prosperity. Even the doodles you scrawled on random napkins during banal business lunches would appear on some of the world’s most renowned faces the next week. You had indubitably become the little girl from your story; made a career out of giving your imagination tangible form. And what a fruitful career it was going to be.

If only you knew how it would strengthen you in ways you never wanted.

The first time someone called you cold, it took you a while to realize that they were talking about you. The phrase was said so casually and lightheartedly that it sounded at first like a piece of unimportant small talk. But the whisper of cold bitch was then followed by a bout of stifled laughter and what was undoubtedly your name. Your heart stopped along with your footsteps, and you looked towards the source: two interns whose names you had yet to learn, while yours was already in their mouths.

You felt nothing until you were three stops away from your apartment, and then the bottom of the subway gave out beneath you and suddenly you were feeling everything. Only confusion, hurt, and rage at first, but then the other emotions that you’d been smothering tirelessly for who-knows-how-long tore free of their cerebral shackles too, and together they formed an amalgamation of anxiety that closed up your throat within seconds.

As your pen studs details into a shapely jawline, you remember how you’d shoved your way off the subway and made a mad dash into the night air. You remember how you collapsed against a utility pole in an unfamiliar neighborhood, how your knuckles paled around the ashen wood, how your tears tumbled over your lips and salted your tongue. You remember wanting to go home so badly that you thought your ribcage would cave in on itself with the weight of it. You remember begging for air, for you.

By the time the oxygen had returned to your lungs, the streets were empty save for you, crouched on the curb, your face buried in your arms, spent, shattered, and alone. You were only nineteen at the time.

You are now twenty-two, and the word “cold” has become a regular guest in the lodgings of your heart. You never invite it over, but you’re no longer surprised to find it at your door. It’s a thief, swiping pieces of you when it thinks you’re not looking—a fragment above the fireplace, a scrap from the cracks between the couch—and you know whenever you’re being robbed, know that you lose parts of yourself upon its every visit. But better that than acknowledging what you lose.

You allow it to walk away with full pockets every time.

Hyunjin does not.

“Three words to describe yourself. Go,” he said a few days ago, the two of you heading back to the tour bus after a filming session.

You were so used to these irrational inquiries of his that you didn’t bother trying to dodge this one. “You first.”

“Smart, sexy, suave,” he said immediately, but burst into a sheepish laugh at the sight of your weary glare. “Fine, fine, let me think. Ambitious, for one. Introspective, definitely—maybe overly so. And artistic. I’d like to think so, at least. Satisfied?”

The most creative person you knew doubting his own ingenuity was absurd to you, but you nodded begrudgingly. It was a good answer, for the most part.

“Now you.”

Honestly, the thief had surfaced the moment you heard the question, but you weren’t sure if you wanted to inform Hyunjin of its existence. Not because you didn’t trust him—you did, more than you had anyone in years—but because you didn’t know what you’d do with yourself if he agreed. You weren’t sure your heart would be able to take it.

When you met the boy’s gaze, though, the carob brown of his eyes was so curious and so comforting that you suspected that was never a possibility.

“Cold,” you mumbled. “I’ve been called cold before.”

There was a pregnant pause. You found yourself holding your breath. And then—

“That’s a joke, right?”

Hyunjin began to count off his fingers.

“Mean. So mean. Impossibly, infuriatingly confident. Talented, stubborn, strong. Funny, sometimes, I guess, though I’d rather you hit me with a metal pipe than admit that ever again.”

At this, you caved; a laugh erupted from your lips, leaving a genuine smile in its wake.

“Determined. Eloquent. Bossy. Some kind of evil, twisted genius. Contemplative, caring, compassionate. Fearless,” he went on. “You get my point. You’re a lot of things, Y/N, but cold isn’t one—”

He was about to say something mind-numbingly stupid. You could sense it in the air.

“—and not just because you’re hot.”

You smacked his bicep, the smile on your face now an uninhibited, helpless grin. And as he vanished into a fit of high-pitched laughter, you thought you sensed him crack open your door and slip your missing artifacts back to their rightful places.

Hyunjin began to climb into the bus, and you caught the cuff of his sleeve, your feet still planted on the pavement.

“Thank you,” you said.

The tremors of his fond chuckle traveled to your very core.

“Idiot,” he sighed softly.

Idiot, you write, and the drawings are complete.

When you stand up, the bottle is mostly gone—and so are you. You splash some water on your face in lieu of your skincare routine and prod the inside of your mouth a few times using a dry toothbrush, and then you dive beneath your duvet and are dead asleep in minutes. Your slumber is interrupted only by dreams of a world where your theories about Hyunjin aren’t just theories.

If you’d had even one mouthful less of rosé, you might’ve remembered that you picked up your phone and opened your most recent conversation somewhere between steps two and three.

[3:10 A.M.] To: Hwang Hyunjin (Stray Kids, JYP) Audio Message.wav

Hi. I’m drunk and I’m going to regret this tomorrow. But that’s tomorrow’s business. There’s something I need to tell you tonight.

After I moved to Seoul, I used to get these bouts of homesickness. Not in a standard ‘I wanna go home’ kind of way, but in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below me. I was always ready for it to swallow me alive. I would’ve been happy for it to.

But I haven’t felt that way since I met you. I realized this not too long ago, and it threw me for a fucking loop. I’ve never felt seen the way you see me. I’ve never been known the way you know me. Every time I look at you or hear your voice, it feels so much like returning home that I don’t have to dream of it anymore.

You called me fearless the other day, but you’re wrong. I’m terrified. I’m terrified that history is going to repeat itself, that another home will slip through the cracks between my fingers and there will be nothing I can do to stop it. And that’s why I’m so hesitant towards you, towards whatever this is, because I don’t want to go through that ever again.

So the thing I need to tell you is that I care about you. I care so much that I’m scared speaking it into existence will make it real and vulnerable to all the worst parts of the world. But it’s not speaking it into existence if I’m drunk, right? Maybe I have no idea what I’m talking about. Maybe you’ll never even hear this. So it doesn’t count. That’s how that works, surely.

Sorry if this was totally nonsensical. And sorry that I’m so bad at feelings. You must think I’m impossible, and I don’t blame you.

Good night, Hyunjin. Thank you, again.

One month ago. Los Angeles, United States. 12:37 A.M.

When Hyunjin steps out of the hotel’s tall glass double doors, he’s wearing a teatree facemask, and his bags are draped over the crooks of his elbows like he’s an upper-echelon socialite on his way back from a lavish shopping spree. And then he sees you standing next to the curb, and the situation dawns on him in bits and pieces.

You’re the only one here. The vans that were supposed to take you to the airport are nowhere to be seen. Boarding begins in four minutes.

A soft flinch crimps his features. Oops.

“Tomorrow night,” you’re saying into your receiver, but your attention is on him only, your penetrative gaze putting the dead in deadpan. “The absolute earliest. You’re sure?”

When you finish listening to the manager’s response, you heave a sigh that sags your shoulders and end the call with a jab that should’ve splintered your screen protector.

Then, you start walking towards him.

“Hi,” Hyunjin says, his eyes pleading for mercy. “You are so talented and beautiful. I don’t tell you that often enough, do I?”

He expects you to grab him by the cuff of his ear again, to throw him a retort that’s twice as mean as it is witty, something along those lines. But you merely push your suitcase in his direction, and it is then when he notices that your face is hard enough to chip enamel; that your eyes are eerily, entirely empty. The tendril of warmth that’s always dancing among the subtleties of your expressions, that he’s always pursuing to the very borders of his dreamscapes, is nowhere to be seen.

A shiver travels down Hyunjin’s spine as he curls his fingers around the plastic handle.

Something’s not right.

“We’re gonna have to stay here another day,” you say. “Can you check us in? I have some calls to make.”

“Us?” Hyunjin repeats.

“Junghan could only reserve one room,” you reply, your phone already glued back to your ear. “The hotel is fully booked for the next few months.”

With that, you’re already preoccupied with the next thing, turning to the side to reschedule a meeting. But Hyunjin can only stare blankly at your profile, trying and failing to grasp that he’s going to spend a night with the subject of his every daydream. Though you might be leaning more towards the nightmare end of the spectrum at the moment, considering the way your head snaps back in his direction like a woman possessed.

Go, you mouth, and he obliges.

A few minutes later, Hyunjin is in the elevator by himself. He speculates it’s an ingenious, intentional choice that the lights are turned off, so that whoever’s inside can watch the psychedelic lights of Los Angeles sprawl further and wider the higher they go. But he can’t think of anything except for the subzero nothingness where your irises should’ve been.

Hyunjin’s initial guess was that he crossed a line with this missed plane, but the more he thinks about it the clearer it becomes that this isn’t an isolated issue. It’s the culmination of something bigger. Something continuous.

You have become as familiar to him as the lines of his eyes or the ridges of his knuckles. He’s learned where to look for your feelings when he can’t find them in your face; studied your words and the undertones of your voice like they’re verses of scripture. Yet, it was around two months ago when Hyunjin looked at your side profile and couldn’t recognize you. He’d blinked, startled, and then you’d asked why he was looking at you so strangely, and everything returned to normal. He wrote it off as a side effect of sleep deprivation and paid it no more mind that day.

Except it happened again a few days later; again, not too long after, and Hyunjin began to suspect that he was losing his mind. You didn’t seem all that different—a bit more taciturn than usual, maybe, but you’d been busier than usual, too, your workspace always full of empty coffee cups by the end of the day, the pages of your planner more colorful and crammed than ever. The minor variances never struck him as a reason for worry.

“Stupid,” Hyunjin whispers bitterly.

He replays your interaction one more time. You, shoving your suitcase against his palm, telling him to go check in. Him, fastening his hand around the handle, sensing the bottomless void within you, feeling like he’d been dismissed from before your throne.

As he steps off the elevator and walks towards your designated room, he doesn’t understand how or why—but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s failed you.

Nearly an hour passes. The room only has one bed, so Hyunjin turns off the lights, folds himself onto the armchair by the floor-to-ceiling window, drapes a complimentary robe over his shoulders, and tries to sleep. He doesn’t know why he even tries. He’s exhausted, but he knows damn well there’s no hope of him getting any rest until he has you in his proximity again.

He doesn’t look at the door when he finally hears it open, but the knot of tension in his chest comes undone as soon as your silhouette appears in the hallway. He takes out his first real breath since leaving you at the hotel’s entrance.

You hear the sound it makes. You fall still.

“Hyunjin?”

His heart physically aches at how tired you sound. “Yeah?”

“Oh, you’re awake,” you answer. “Move to the bed. You’re not sleeping on that thing.”

He remains where he is, his chin resting on the side of his fist, his eyes glued to the flickering panorama of neon lights below him. You crouch to unzip something, and there’s a heavy thud of metal meeting cloth, presumably your laptop being tossed onto the bed’s mattress.

“Hello? Did you—”

“Is everything okay?”

A short pause follows his interruption.

“I still have a few emails to write, but everything’s been rescheduled, so as long as you don’t miss tomorrow’s flight, too, we should be—”

The robe slides off his lap as he pushes himself to his feet. “That’s not what I mean.”

The only source of light in the room is the lone light above the entrance, but it’s enough for him to see your face and the surprise etched upon it. You open your mouth, utter one syllable, and stop yourself immediately after, stunned into silence by the sobriety in Hyunjin’s expression.

“Enlighten me, then,” you say finally.

“You really don’t know?”

“What is there to know? That you missed a flight and pissed me the fuck off? Trust me, I’m aware.”

“No, that’s not—”

“So what are you talking about, then? Why are you talking in riddles? Fuck, what is it that you want from me?”

There’s real frustration in your voice, and it’s the first time you’ve shown him any emotion in pure, unadulterated form. With this, Hyunjin understands that he was right; this conversation is heading towards a culmination of some kind, and so are you, with the devastating force of a natural phenomenon.

He wonders if you’re prepared to destroy yourself, too.

“I know how you are around me,” you whisper. “You’re always acting like you’re trying to unearth something, and I figure this ‘something’ must be wonderful, because you look at me like I’m made of stars; you speak to me like you’re serenading a lover. But I am constantly, ceaselessly haunted by the possibility that this ‘something’ doesn’t exist, that you’re looking for the wrong thing in the wrong person.

“I know it’s selfish to ask for anything more than what you’ve already given me—you’re so kind, Hyunjin, and you’ve been nothing but since the day we met. But grant me one more wish, even if it is the last time you ever do.

“Tell me what you see in me,” you plead. “Otherwise, I will spend the rest of my life mourning the months of yours that you wasted on me.”

With that, it occurs to Hyunjin, falls upon and cracks open his mind like a piece of firewood, that you have never been aware of—never asked for—the throne you sit upon.

For an indeterminate amount of time, the two of you stay there, standing in silence on opposite sides of your dark hotel room. You haven’t felt anything like this in a long time, your chest heaving with your heavy breaths, your vision muddied by both the lack of light and the desperation searing through your windpipe.

When Hyunjin finally begins to speak, his words wrest the oxygen from your lungs.

“After you moved to Seoul, you used to get these bouts of homesickness.”

Your mind careens; your heart reels.

“They came in a way that felt like a hole had opened up in the ground below you.” He takes a tentative step towards you. “You thought it was going to swallow you alive. You would’ve been happy for it to.”

You never got to listen to your voice note. You were blacked out when you recorded it and horrified when you discovered it in your chat logs the next morning; the wretched thing was unsent so quickly that you couldn’t check for a read receipt.

But there’s not a doubt in your mind that these are your words falling from Hyunjin’s lips.

“You haven’t felt that way since you met me, though.” He is only a few feet away from you now, and getting closer still. “You’ve never felt seen the way I see you. You’ve never been known the way I know you.”

God, you said that? Did you propose to him too?

“You’re terrified that another home will slip through the cracks between your fingers and there will be nothing you can do to stop it.” Hyunjin flattens his left hand upon the drywall next to your ear; pushes you back ever-so-gently against the hard surface. “I must think you’re impossible.”

And he brings his face so, so close to yours; looks at you with so much adoration, so much tenderness, that you feel the final bulwark around your heart fracture—

“I don’t,” Hyunjin breathes, cradling your cheek, “because you’re not. And I want to prove it to you, even if it takes me the rest of my life. That’s what I see in you.”

—and crumble.

You form fists in the lining of his hoodie. Hyunjin’s hand tightens where it lays over the curve of your jaw.

When you crash your lips upon his, he tastes the metallic sheen of electricity and the salt of tearwater both; he witnesses crying lightning, for the first time in human history.

Present day. Cannes, France. 9:15 P.M.

Hyunjin never thinks when he fucks you.

One part of it is that he physically can’t; his cognitive facilities shut down when he has you quivering beneath him, like his desire to pleasure you is too overwhelming for his mind to bear. The other part is that he doesn’t want to. He’s afraid that the voices of cynicism and trepidation that plague his mind every waking moment will taint the actualization of his wildest dreams.

Lucky for him, you manage to erase his mind on a daily basis with only one accidental touch or an apparition of a smile, so he doesn’t stand a chance whenever you let him between your legs.

“Trust me?” He whispers, imprinting the words upon the inside of your thigh.

“More than anyone,” you breathe, and just this has him tenting against his satin slacks.

Hyunjin used to see you scolding managers or moving racks twice your weight and think that was you in your element—tonight, he learned otherwise. You were so confident that even just the way you puffed your chest out prompted heads to turn and low voices to ask for your name; so charming that even by the end of your self-introduction you had every guest you spoke to eating out the palm of your hand.

Eating out your pussy, though, is Hyunjin’s privilege alone.

He wraps his fingers around the hem of your dress and pushes it upwards, creating a halo of red fabric around your midriff; slides your panties off your legs and tosses them over his shoulder. All obstacles out of the way, Hyunjin winds his arms around your thighs and pins your hips to the mattress, slotting himself between your knees as they fall apart. Your ankles fold over the top of his head, and you’re about to ask if he’s okay like this, but then you feel the hot muscle of his tongue trace over your dripping folds—and every word of every language you’ve ever known is dispelled from your brain and your mouth in the form of a stuttered, euphoric moan.

He teases you first, drags his mouth over you so that he’s lapped up all of your slick, and just when you feel your patience thinning he pulls you apart with reverent hands and begins to suckle on your clit, as attentive to your every solicitation as always. You arch your back so high off the bed that your ankles knock Hyunjin’s head down a few inches, but the new angle is even better; grants him access to more of you.

He reinforces his grip around you, presses his torso right up against the side of the mattress, and gorges: sluices your labia until you’re spilling from his chin onto the sheets; flicks against your bundle of nerves until it’s pulsating and swollen on his mouth; fucks his tongue against your favorite spot until you’re curling your toes, seeing the whole solar system.

“Coming,” you blabber after some time. Tell me something I don’t know, he thinks to himself. “Coming, Hyune. I’m—fuck—”

Hyunjin is aware of the way you clench so hard around nothing that your pelvis hurts. He is aware of the way you’re so dilapidated from pleasure that you’re genuinely struggling to breathe. He doesn’t care. He wants to get the cadences of your climax tattooed into the gray matter of his brain, and there can’t be rests in the sheet music, can there?

He presses a hand flat on your stomach in preparation for your body’s protest, then returns his face to its place between your thighs; starts to leave kitten licks around the edges of your puffy folds before you can finish riding out your high. You press your tongue against the back of your front teeth, emitting a pained hiss as you draw a sharp breath, tears stinging at your eyes.

“Son of a bitch—”

“Trust me?” He asks again, his voice vibrating against your sore cunt, and your complaints quiet into whimpers as you bring a hand over your quivering mouth, and nod.

At least Hyunjin bridles his thirst the second time he eats your pussy open, his lips smacking openly and slowly over your every inch except the one that would be truly unbearable for you right now. He’s so rough and so fucking careful at once like he can’t decide between obliterating and worshipping your cunt.

He’ll end up doing both.

Within a few minutes, your legs have gone slack on either side of Hyunjin once again, and another coil has begun to tighten behind your bellybutton, equal parts pain and pleasure—but he knows your pussy just as well as he does your person by now, and it’s not long before the former is compounding with the latter.

Round two has a faster ascent and a steeper drop. He finds your spot again with the precision and ease of a trained marksman and fixates upon it like a man starved. It has your cries devolving to incoherent profanities and, to his unfettered delight, your foot actually shaking, your heel tapping against the back of his neck every time it comes down.

As if referencing a metronome, Hyunjin matches the rhythm of his tongue to your accelerando. Only when your leg is nearly convulsing does he wrap his lips back around your clit; slide two fingers into the place he leaves empty and pumps them into you until you are liquifying, igniting around him, your mewls lamenting the second orgasm he plucks from your core.

After your body has stilled, Hyunjin lifts his head, his face drenched in perspiration and saliva and you. His eyes travel over the slopes of your arms and the hills of your breasts, over the tears streaming from your eyes and staining the pillow you lie on. It is this last bit that has him shrugging off his shirt and undoing his dress pants with one hand, palming his throbbing cock with the other.

He clambers over you, and the kiss that follows is filthy, your mouth falling apart when he rolls your nipples between his fingers, strands of spit suspending between your tongues before dripping down onto your collarbone. You can sense what he wants in his craving lips, his pleading tongue—and you know he won’t ask for it. He’s tested you enough tonight; he’d rather your comfort than his pleasure.

But you guide his leaking head to your entrance, returning his stupefied look with a watery smile.

“Love me?” You ask this time, for the first time.

There is not even a nanosecond of hesitation when he answers, “with everything in me.”

He comes inside you the moment he bottoms out, your name leaving his lips in breathless, desperate repetition like a broken prayer as he topples off the same cliff he’d dropped you from moments ago. You curl a hand in his hair as he stutters against you, bring your lips flush against his ear, and whisper that you love him too—and the sight of you beneath him blurs he also starts to tear up.

This is the reality Hyunjin lives in, presumably because he was a saint in his past life, and it would be his utmost pleasure to see it through.

Two years later. Milan, Italy. 11:28 A.M.

For the last half hour, a ray of sunlight has repeatedly struck the diamond that sits between the second and third knuckle of your ring finger, and the Vogue journalist on the other side of your desk thinks he is slowly losing his vision. But when he asks his final question, your hand comes to a much-appreciated stop, the fountain pen you’ve been twirling around clattering to your tabletop.

“Where do you find your inspiration?”

As the journalist blinks the phosphenes from his eyes, he finally manages to get a good look at the face of Versace’s newest designer, and he detects something ineffable and warm in your expression.

“My inspiration, hm?” You fall silent for a short time, thinking. “If you asked me this at the start of my career, I’d have said ‘people.’ Their postures, their expressions, their wardrobes. I knew I was a goner when I watched a fashion show for the first time and noticed how the models’ attire helped them harness their innate power and grace—I wanted to orchestrate that kind of symbiosis, too. In that aspect, nothing has changed, actually. I still find wonder in human beings, and not just the ones on the runway. I think it would be difficult not to, don’t you?

“Some time ago, a good friend of mine was having trouble with an outfit for her client. She asked me a similar question, and only then did I realize that it was no longer just people that inspired me most, but a singular person. I had always been skeptical of the idea of a ‘muse’ until I met him. But I could only spend so long denying how he ventured closer to my soul than anything ever had, how he knew me and saw me like nobody ever could. He understood my art. He was my art, so—”

Your eyes dart over your ring, and the journalist would’ve flinched out of habit if he wasn’t so mesmerized by your eloquence.

“—where better to find inspiration than inspiration himself?”

A few seconds elapse, and then you clear your throat and straighten your back, returning to your office from your trip down memory lane.

“That’s the long answer, anyways. The short answer would be my fiancé.”

The journalist laughs, and he doubts you’ll give him this next piece of information—but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.

“And who would that be?”

He’s right. You don’t answer the question. But you do flash him an enigmatic smile, and for some reason it reminds him of lightning.

🔖 (send an ask to be added)・@astraystayyh・@like-a-diamondinthesky・@fire-08・@starsandrqindrops・@txtxlz・@laylasbunbunny・@strayghibli・@nuronhe

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lillymmb · 6 months ago

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Lewis Hamilton x Brazilian Reader Relationship HeadCanons

Lewis would absolutely love the energy that comes with dating someone from Brazil. Your vibrant, fun-loving nature would match his zest for life. He’d appreciate the warmth you bring, and the way you live life with so much enthusiasm. Whether it’s dancing to samba, cheering on the national soccer team, or just having a good time with friends, Lewis would be all in.

Lewis would make an effort to learn some Portuguese to better connect with you and your family. You’d teach him phrases, and sometimes, you'd hear him casually try to speak to you in Portuguese with that adorable, slightly off accent, making you smile. You’d love how hard he tries, especially when he surprises you with something you taught him in conversation.

When it comes to food, Lewis would quickly fall in love with Brazilian cuisine—especially the feijoada and pão de queijo (cheese bread). You’d cook traditional dishes for him, and he’d be hooked on the flavors. You'd also have many cozy nights enjoying Brazilian BBQs with friends and family, with lots of caipirinhas and laughter.

You’d love to teach Lewis to dance, particularly samba or forró. At first, he might be a little hesitant, but with your encouragement, he’d quickly pick up the rhythm and start having fun with it. At a party or a family gathering, he'd be more than happy to get out on the dance floor, showing off his moves and laughing together as you both dance the night away.

Spending time with your family would be such a joy for Lewis. He’d love the closeness and sense of community that comes with Brazilian family dynamics. Your mom might teach him how to cook, and he’d bond with your cousins over soccer games. Holidays would always be a big, vibrant celebration, and Lewis would find himself immersed in the warmth and togetherness of your culture.

You’d share your love for Brazil with him, telling him about the beauty of your country, the music, the festivals, and even the social struggles. Lewis would listen intently and would be incredibly supportive of the causes important to you. His activism would mesh with your passion for making a positive difference, and you’d both work together to raise awareness and support various causes.

Brazilian culture tends to be very affectionate, and Lewis would embrace that side of your relationship. He wouldn’t shy away from holding your hand, giving you sweet pecks on the cheek, or whispering sweet nothings in your ear when the two of you are out and about. He’d love the way your relationship feels so warm and easygoing, and it would bring a level of intimacy that the media and fans wouldn’t fully understand.

Lewis would be all about experiencing Brazilian holidays with you, especially Carnaval. He’d get into the spirit of the festival, trying on a samba costume and joining in on the parade with you. You’d both dance, sing, and have the time of your life celebrating Brazil’s biggest celebration, making unforgettable memories together.

Knowing how important the beach is to you, Lewis would make time to visit Brazil’s beautiful coastline, whether it’s Copacabana or the more secluded beaches. He’d love the relaxed atmosphere, with you both strolling hand-in-hand on the sand, enjoying the ocean breeze, and just basking in each other's company.

Lewis would love to support you in everything you do, especially your personal goals and dreams. Whether it’s your career, a creative endeavor, or charity work, he’d encourage you every step of the way. He’d admire your passion and dedication to your culture and would often tell you how much he learns from you and your strength.

You and Lewis would take amazing trips together, exploring Brazil from top to bottom. Whether it’s hiking in the Amazon, visiting the historic cities like Salvador, or taking in the breathtaking Iguazu Falls, Lewis would be all about exploring the beauty of your home country while enjoying your shared sense of adventure.

Lewis would be captivated by Brazilian music. You’d share your favorite Brazilian artists with him, from bossa nova legends like João Gilberto to modern pop and funk artists. It wouldn’t be uncommon for you two to have spontaneous dance parties in your living room, with the smooth rhythms of Brazilian music filling the air. He’d love how expressive and soulful the music is and would often ask for recommendations for new songs or artists to listen to.

Lewis would gain a deep respect for Brazilian culture and heritage, from the diversity within the country to its history. He’d take a genuine interest in learning about the different indigenous tribes, the African influence in Brazilian culture, and the ways people of various backgrounds have shaped modern Brazil. You’d both have deep conversations about race, identity, and social justice, bringing you closer together.

a/n: as a brazilian girl herself this is so cute i might do a portuguese one just for the brazilian readers!

#lh44 x reader #team lh44 #lh44 #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton one shot #lewis hamilton #lewis hamilton fanfic #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fic #f1 fanfic #f1 #brasil #português #rio de janeiro

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missxwrites · 1 year ago

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fix you too - jake seresin

(loosely based on 'fix you too' - megan moroney ft. kameron marlowe)

jake 'hangman' seresin x plus size!reader

Summary: Jake had a summer fling the year he graduated from Top Gun, but what he doesn't know is that she's still in Miramar with more than just a fleeting memory of the green eyed pilot. (multi-part series!!) Word count: 780+ (short first chapter, i'm sorry!) Warnings: use of y/n, some assumption about size, reader is gendered afab (but I promise I'm trying to get better at the neutral tone!), mentions of pregnancy/single parenting A/N: This is the first reader fic I've posted in almost 10 (!!!) years, please be gentle. (I'm rusty as F*CK) anyways, I'm head over heels for the top gun universe and my husband makes fun of me for it, so this is my creative release (: pls enjoy

There was always something ungodly hot about summers in Miramar, California, but thankfully the beach stretched for miles along the coastline as the sun beat down on those who chose to participate. The rolling waves weren't ideal for surfing, but the day was perfect for swimming with family... which is exactly what she was doing. Without a care in the world, she sat up on a beach towel near the water line. Sand covered the bottom half of her thighs as they reached over the edges of the absorbent fabric beneath her. There was a relaxed air around her as she watched a child play not too far away, a bemused smile crossing her lips.

A smile spread across the girl's face as she ran back to her mother with her hands out, dripping wet sand dollar still in her hand, blonde hair plastered to her face from digging in the waves and her all-too-familiar green eyes staring up at her. "Mommy, look!"

The woman laughed at her child's approach as she gently took the small sea creature from her hands. "It's beautiful, baby."

After a few moments of admiring the shell creature, the little girl ran back to the waves with a giggle that echoed down the whole beach. She watched her daughter with a loving gaze each time her little hands held up a new treasure. The sly smile that crossed her child's lips brought up several memories from a few years back...

An eruption of laughter echoed through The Hard Deck as several officers entered the bar, the salty coastal air bringing in a refreshing breeze with them. Most of them made their way to the back with the pool table, all but one particular tall blonde lieutenant who b-lined for the table near the back door. A sly grin laced his lips as he neared the woman who'd been absorbed into the book in her hands. Without any hesitation, Jake scooped her up out of the chair that she'd been sitting in with ease. A combination of surprised yelps left her mouth as he hoisted her against him, his long legs crossing the floor of the bar with ease. What felt like seconds later they managed their way outside to the beach. Large arms cradled her against his chest as they entered the water. His pleased laughter reverberated through him as she struggled to cling to him. He set her down, the evening waves lapping at their legs gently as his face gained a more serious expression. His hand came up to brace the side of her face as she looked up into his light seafoam green eyes that were now crossed with an unreadable emotion. The two words that parted his lips next shook her world upside down: "I'm leaving."

Snapping back to reality, she shook her head with a heavy sigh. After a few deep breaths, she called out to her daughter to start rounding up her toys as she stood up to shake out the towel she'd been sitting on. A combination of vehicle doors closing caught her attention from a distance.

Her heart fluttered for a moment recognizing the Bronco that had just pulled in, one of the Dagger squad's very own. Bradley... But if Bradley was back in town, did that mean Jake was too?

She didn't realize she was holding her breath, standing stone still until her daughter's little arms wrapped around her thigh. The little girl looked up at her mom with concern. She tried to ease her daughter with a smile, ruffling the messy blonde hair on her head. "I'm okay baby, let's go."

A few moments later, she rounded the back side of The Hard Deck for the parking lot nearby. She stopped suddenly in her tracks, the black lifted Chevy Silverado parked right next to her SUV made her want to cry. She'd have known that truck anywhere. It was Jake's.

Despite the emotions in the back of her throat, she smiled down at her daughter as she crossed the lot to the SUV. She hoisted the little girl into the back seat easily, giggling with her as she sang her ABCs. Grabbing the sandy beach items from the ground next to her and shaking them out lightly. With very little ceremony, she tossed them into the back of the vehicle.

Her hair stood up on the back of her neck as she recognized a figure reflected in the rear window as she slammed the trunk of the SUV. The moment she turned around, she saw the face of her greatest fear.

Jake.

The man was right here, in front of her, and she had no words to say.

"Y/n?"

#jake seresin #jake hangman seresin #top gun maverick #jake seresin x reader #jake hangman seresin x reader #hangman x reader #top gun #jake seresin fic #plus size reader

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randomidiocyncrazies · 1 month ago

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TBHX settling note 10

City Districts

Map of the city: Hero Tower is located in the center circle, and the industrial district is along the coastline. The stacked shipping containers evoke a desolate atmosphere. The Hero Tower is located in the absolute center of the city, where all the big businesses are run—a busy and luxurious district.

The Commission unified the city's administration and development. As the city develops and expands outwards, it now has 71 districts in total. Due to the different rates of development, the city is mainly divided into the following zones: the City Central of districts 1-11, Hero City where old money resides in districts 12-22, the largest Residential Area in districts 23-32, the Industrial Ghost Town comprising districts 33-40, Harbor Zone of districts 41-51, the Tech HQ of districts 52-59, Casino City of districts 60-65, and the Countryside of districts 66-71.

The City Central is the heart of the city where the Hero Tower, the Commission and the biggest names of the hero agency industry are located. it's the place where elites of every stripe reside, with politicians and those involved in the hero industry taking the lead. The 6 centermost districts is filled with all sorts of entertainment and luxuries, and serves as the central hub for social interactions.

((As always, feel free to let me know if I got something wrong! I took some creative liberties with the zone names, but I try my best to not misinterpret the meaning & vibes of the zones.))

#tbhx #tbhx setting notes #to be hero x

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redlikemercury · 2 years ago

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𝚂𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍

choso kamo x blk fem reader

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

☆ Summary: Choso and you are going on vacation, but first he has to put you back in your place.

☆ cw: pet names (angel, darling, baby, dove), oral receiving (f & m), dirty talk, degradation, fingering, size kink?, unprotected, squirting, brat taming? overstim? 18+

☆ a/n: it's been a while since my last post, anyways plz let me know if I forgot anything, and enjoy!

☆ wc: 3.6k

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

His aloof and stoic nature was something that drew you to Choso. The two of you had been close for a while now. He was so sweet to you and a bit old-fashioned around you. He’ll call you ‘Dove’ or ‘Angel’ when he speaks to you. At first, it bothered you, but he would apologize when you spoke against it, only to turn around and call you again. It was a force of habit. Eventually, it stuck as it grew on you. He was thoughtful of you when the two of you hung out, attentive to your every need, surprising you with gifts while stopping by your home. Choso would give you the moon if you desired it. The loyal, lovesick man was deeply under your spell. Being around him was like heaven; he was perfect, especially in bed. He’ll lay on his back, begging you to bounce faster on his dick. Your noisy pussy would already be filled to the brim from the five rounds, creaming all over his shaft. He was a greedy bastard loving how he molded your walls to take his cock. Those whimpering moans of his were what had you keep going. It was an intoxicating sound. Riding his face was best of all. When he was horny, you swore your clit would have died and went to heaven.

Despite this, you would try everything in your power to tip the odds in your favor for him to be the dominant one, but it’ll always end up the same. When you told him directly one night, he dismissed altogether, and you went to bed early, leaving him to jerk off in the bathroom so he wouldn’t disturb your rest. You still didn’t give up, though. You were going to have your way. The opportunity seemed perfect with the upcoming beach trip the two of you had planned. A lovely resort alongside a shimmering coastline, having the bright white sand in between your freshly painted toes meeting the cold crystal-clear water. The peaceful atmosphere and luxurious amenities had your mind already at peace. All this was paid for by your faithful boyfriend, of course. It would indeed be a wonderful vacation for the two of you.

“Dove, did you remember to get the beach umbrella?” He asked over the phone as the two of you FaceTime while shopping for a new bathing suit. “Yeah, I did. Stop being such a worrywort, darling.” You teased, causing the dark-haired man to pout his lips a bit. “I’m just double checking, no need to tease. I told you I could do it, angel.” He retorted back, causing you to roll your eyes playfully. “I know, I know. Just tone it down with the worrying. I can handle getting a few things for this trip. Honestly, you act like I can’t handle this alone.” You spoke back. You just wanted to show off your vacation box braids as you shopped. You decided to be creative and get them long this time, the medium-sized plaits stopping at your ass. Choso couldn’t be mad at your response, though. He was fully aware of how much he spoiled you. He admired your sun-kissed skin at this hour and how radiant your brown complexion glowed, watching through his tiny phone screen. He could only imagine the intoxicating sweet smell of your perfume and how he would stick his head in the crook of your neck, inhaling such a refreshing scent. It made his dick twinge with excitement. “Just be careful, angel.” He urged with a soft smile creeping on his lips. You grinned before blowing an air kiss through the phone at him, prompting Choso to catch it. “I will, now bye-bye, baby. Love you.” You spoke, and Choso replied with an ‘I love you too’ back before the two of you hung up.

You were determined with your secret motives, striding down the hustle and bustle of the streets on the prowl for the perfect shop. Large rectangular buildings towered above you, casting shadows on the busy sidewalk, and numerous people traveled down the pavement. An abundance of city sounds of cars honking, conversations, and distance music created some enthusiasm for your venture.

A fashion boutique caught your eye with its dazzling display of hot new swimwear with bright prints and a rather scanty display window that encouraged you to enter the establishment. The bone-chilling air condition caused a shudder to run up your spine as you looked around the place. “Damn, it’s cold.” You muttered, walking around and looking at various swimwear. You quickly realize how packed and popular this store seems to be, causing you to be a little discouraged about finding a good bathing suit here, but to your surprise, you find one. On the rack next to you, pick up the sexy red thong bikini as it is to your liking. It would certainly have your more than reserved boyfriend to pay some attention to you. The thought came across that others would be staring too, but all you wanted more was your boyfriend to crack underneath the pressure, even if it had to be something a bit untasteful. You don’t plan on cheating on him in any way, but you were sure a couple of stares from other people would have him asserting that dominant nature in no time.

After waiting in line for an entire century, you paid for your things using Choso’s card as always and returned to your cozy home. Sliding off your shoes at the front door, you made your way upstairs, packing for your trip. You were delighted that your devious plan was getting put into action tomorrow. Once all packed, you took a much-needed shower from the long hot day. Shooting a quick ‘goodnight’ text to Choso and putting on your bonnet, you went to bed.

That next morning, around eleven, you were getting ready, brushing your teeth, putting on some lotion, and sliding on your skimpy new bathing suit with a flimsy, very much see-through beach coverup. Once you had your shades sitting on top of your head, you were ready to go, bringing all your bags and forgetting about the beach umbrella that had stumbled under your bed. Sitting pretty on the couch until Choso came, but your nerves were getting the best of you after a while. The palpitations of your heart were soaring as you folded one leg over the other tightly. The thought of how Choso would react to your body was killing you. Through the fabric of your coverup, you felt the feeling of the excellent plush leather couch against your ass and thighs, squirming around to get comfortable. The red swimsuit felt as if it was becoming tighter on your skin as you were waiting, especially the thong that was getting swallowed up in the back between your plush ass cheeks. That sweet scent of your favorite lotion became more evident to your senses. Such an inviting scent will send your boyfriend over the edge. The cool A/C was the only thing keeping your boiling body from combusting.

Waiting for Choso was agonizing.

You could have simply turned on the television or scrolled on your phone to calm your high-rising nerves, but you knew it wouldn’t. The excitement of seeing Choso’s face when you opened the door is what exhilarated you the most, the sheer jaw-dropping awe. Choso was a man of his word when meeting with you, so you knew he would be here on time, at twelve, like he said on the dot. It was five minutes til twelve, and you stood up and paced in the hall before he arrived. ‘Why can’t time go by faster? This is taking forever!’ You thought to yourself, irritated as your braids swayed back and forth, brushing against your sides and rear.

Ding! Dong!

The sound nearly made your heart jump onto the floor as you exhaled, taking a deep breath. You checked yourself into the mirror one last time before opening the door. Choso stood in front of your eyes in his floral Hawaiian shirt unbuttoned, showing off his muscular figure and some swimming trunks. His lips parted to speak, but nothing came out as he had seen in your flimsy coverup. There was nothing left to the imagination as he stared at your bikini underneath. Time felt like it had slowed, and the world faded into a haze of desire. His gaze was lecherous and memorized, taking in your figure; every inch of that sexy body of yours made his thirst grow. A gluttonous intent flickered in his eyes, watching those pretty titties when your chest rose and fell. He stepped closer to you, closing the distance and making your heart pound. A desirable tension formed between you once his warm fingers trailed over your cold skin. A soft gasp left your lips, expanding Choso's yearning for you. He entered the house, slamming the door shut before looking back at you with a piercing gaze.

“Angel.. C’mere.” He spoke, but this tone of his was unusual. It was commanding.

As you approached him, a hand cupped your face as his thumb stroked your cheek. Choso’s free hand placed firmly on your waist, tightening his grip. Without warning, he dragged you in for a sloppy kiss, his tongue purging your mouth while entangling your tongue with his. He moaned deeply into the kiss, feeling the drool dripping down his chin. Your arms snaked around his neck, pulling and holding him tightly against your body. Some soft gasps seeped through your lips while he gave you an inch, intoxicating you with vulgarity. Your legs were growing weak, hearing the wet smacking noise the two of you were producing. “Mphmm…” Choso whimpered, caressing your cheek more with a sense of possessiveness. ‘Oh fuck!’ You thought to yourself, feeling like you were on cloud nine. A few more kisses were shared between you and him before it broke. The two of you breathed heavily, trying to catch your breath.

Choso soon returned to his modest behavior and kissed your forehead, eyeing your bags next to the couch. “We gotta get going, angel, or we’ll miss check-in time.” He uttered to you, walking over to your bags and swiftly picking them up. You stood there almost dumbfounded. You had only shared such a small amount of time with that animalistic side of him, craving more of it. Seeing back at his usual tendency, smiling for you to lead the way out the door irked you to a small degree. You rolled your eyes and walked outside down the pavement to his car parked in the front.

Choso knew he had gotten underneath his skin, choosing to play coy until he felt like snapping you back down to size. His eyes followed intensely on your fat ass, watching it move side to side. He was highly aware of how much he spoiled you—giving you one of his credit cards, buying you lovely things, taking you on nice trips, paying your bills even though you never asked him. Hell, he paid for any hairstyle you’ve ever gotten since you two started dating.

In Choso’s mind, you’re his only lady, and he would make damn sure you knew that. He knew you would try something like this the moment you asked him first for him to treat you like a slutty whore, a few weeks back. He objected but immediately regretted it, remembering the repercussions. He had his reasons. He wouldn’t mind getting rough with you, but only if you were a total brat, even if it took some ‘encouragement’ to get you there. He wanted nothing more than to see you get so angry at him, only to end up a shaking mess creaming in his dick in a whimpering helplessly. Lewd images of such acts are only left to the imagination. You were rarely ever mad at him. The times that you were sparking a glimmer of hope in his eyes, but you were such a good girlfriend that you would always sit down and talk with him about why you were upset. He couldn’t be mad at that, and he admired the way the two of you were honest and open with each other. He still couldn't help wishing for a bit of rise out of you, though, something to spice up the passionate sex between the two of you.

You were slowly shifting into that spoiled bratty personality he wanted to see after that half-assed kiss. Choso grinned while watching that thong get swallowed up by that ass. At best, he was a cunning man, knowing his girlfriend like that back his hand. He just needed to be patient.

Choso had packed all the heavy luggage in the back of his trunk and a few minuscule items into the backseat. He entered the driver’s side. Your arms rested on the passenger side door with a slumped posture. Those furrows, arch brows, and full pouty lips made Choso's cock throb just a little. Despite the devious thoughts Choso had felt, you were highly pissed. To you, it seemed like your plan wouldn’t be accordingly. How could he kiss you like that just to leave you hanging? You were highly needy of him, and the sly bastard knew it, too.

Before the two of you pulled off Choso double-checked all the things you two needed. He noticed the beach umbrella you promised to get wasn’t in the trunk. “Angel, where’s the umbrella?” He asked in a smooth tone. Hearing his voice irked you more and you slung your braids behind your back. Some of them whipped Choso in the face, he was caught off guard with that attitude of yours. “I don't know, it’s probably in the house still.” You said nonchalantly walking back to the house. Choso sighed heavily watching you leave, following behind you. Back in the home, you and Choso looked around for the umbrella.

Choso was becoming just as annoyed as you when you started doing a lousy job helping him search. The tension between the two of you filled with frustration with every passing moment. “Just look upstairs, I’ll look down here.” He spoke in an irked tone. You sighed, annoyed, storming up the stairs. “Whatever.” You snapped back, heading to your bedroom. Choso's eyes furrowed, searching the whole downstairs for the damn beach umbrella, the two of you would be late for check-in time. He didn’t like being late. Going upstairs, he found you in your bedroom lying on the bed. You weren’t even trying to look and wasting time on your phone. “I thought you were looking up here?” He spoke angrily. You scoffed. “I figured you would find it already. I mean, you’re good at everything else.” You said pretty bluntly. Choso rubbed the side of his temples and came up close to you. “This is your damn house; you were responsible for getting it.” He hissed. Your eyes widened when he cursed at you, and you sat up on the bed. “Dammit, don’t get mad at me. We can just leave the stupid thing here.” You sassed him. Choso couldn’t believe that you were so okay with such suggestion. “You’re so stupid sometimes.” He said. Something about seeing the smoldering intensity of his eyes, that jaw being clenched tight, the low authoritative tone had your pussy purring. “Oh really?” You said in a somewhat seductive tone. Choso scowled and approached you, his nose touching yours. Quickly catching onto your advances, it couldn’t be helped that he was just as excited as you were. The fact you were acting out like this, made the bulge he been trying to hide in swimming trunks throbbed.

He had been ignoring the thoughts for a while now, but this was his moment. “On your knees.” He commanded, and you swiftly got into position on the mattress. His hands already pulling up your coverup, pulling down that thong of yours. His two long fingers grazing the lines of your slick folds, before tracing small circles on your needy clit. A soft moan, escaped your lips as you moaned silently. “You’re such fucking hassle you that angel? I’m always giving you my best, and all I expect you to do is be a good girl for me.” His voice was raspy, watching with a lustrous gaze in his eyes before reaching to spring free his thick dick coated in his precum. All that bitching you were doing, while you were getting wet like this drove him insane, he was going to put you back in your place. Pulling his digits free from your needy cunt, his big hands pull you up from bed and turn you around quickly. Your face is nearly touching his cock. “Open wide angel.” He demanded and like the obedient slut you were you did it. His dick invades your mouth slamming his tip to the back of your throat. Gagging and slobbering over his shaft he whines. “God, it feels ss-so good making you shut up.” He whimpers, thrusting faster, as his balls slap against your chin. The rough thrusts had you clenching on his thighs tightly.

Drool coated his girthy cock as you were doing your best to take of him, your throat became sore from the way he slammed into you. The way your eyes looked watered with the tears staining your cheeks from the intensity of it all made him speed up getting sloppy with each thrust. Choso thought it was such a delight seeing you whimper, you were at his command, while you staring down at you made him smirk. Choso got a kick out of those pleading eyes, he gonna fuck the absolute shit out of you for that nasty attitude of yours. Those big hands of his traveled to your box braids, gripping your scalp. He made your head bob faster up down his drenched shaft, with his thrust getting needier. “Shit, angel, I’m gonna show you want a filthy mouth gets you.” He mumbled before he shot the warm cum into your mouth. Choso let out a long whimpering moan, with his head tossed back. He pulled his dick out slowly, before lifting your head to him. “Swallow it. Now.” He demanded you with a deadpan look. Your eyes widened for a second but you didn’t dare question it and swallowed all of it. He smiles wickedly before pushing your body down onto the cool silk sheets. The cool contrast and your hot body made you shiver as you were trying to compose yourself.

“Open them wide for me darling,” Choso spoke, his hands slowly massaging your thighs. His warm touch made you moan softly, opening up your legs wide for him. Your breath was heavy as you were still trying to get hold of yourself, you couldn’t believe he wasn’t giving much of a break. Sliding down his finger to that sloppy hold of yours once again, and using his thumb to circle your clit. The sensation was like no other, as you squirmed on the silk sheets underneath your skin, it felt like you were gliding and sliding everywhere.

“Ch-choso I’m s-sorry..” You whimpered, but that only dug his fingers deeper into your sobbing hole. “Shh-shit.” You moaned. “That shitty apology isn’t going to cut it, angel. We’re already going to be late, because of that nasty attitude of yours. So it’ll be best if I bring the ocean to us….” He chuckled to himself a bit wickedly before finishing his sentence. “yeah, to us, so squirt for me.” He spoke, eyeing your glistening cunt.

His fingers easily slip into that sweet spot of yours making you moan relentlessly, and before you knew what had hit you, your pussy had squirted all over Choso’s abs. He smirks at your fluids pooling on the silk sheets. “Ohh, my god! Ch-choso! I s-said I’m sss-sorry.” You whined, and his free hand gave your thigh a tight squeeze. “Yeah, I heard.” He huffed, still pumping his fingers into your tight walls. “Your filthy attitude is matching this nasty pussy of yours. So do it again for me.” He says, hearing the squelching of dripping cunt. “A—aah! Ohhh!” You moan, and before you knew it you squirted again, the warm fluid dripping down Choso’s abs made him groan. Taking his hand off your thigh, he takes two of his fingers to scoop some up and taste it. “Soo sweet.” He murmurs and uses both of his hands to spread out your thighs.

Cranking up the assault on your needy pussy, he feasts on you intoxicated by your breathy mewls. Your toes started to curl up from the pleasurable sensation, and your back arch further up. “Fuck, you taste so sweet angel, almost makes me forget why I was mad in the first place.” He rasped against your sobbing cunt, before diving in to devour you. “I, uh, I’m gonna cum!” You whimpered, but Choso was too pussydrunk to care, he was becoming greedy. Swirling his tongue around in languid strokes through your pulsing release, slurping up every last drop as your body convulses on the mattress.

Choso lifted his head high to look at your fucked out face and smiled. He leaned closer to you and planted some kisses along your jawline. “Mhmm, I guess being late will be okay, I’ll accept your apology from earlier.” He whispers in your ear. Your eyes flicker over to him as you now can catch your breath. “You do?” You asked softly, as Choso gave a simple nod. “Yes, I figured I should, especially since I want to do this all over again at the hotel, next to an actual ocean.” He said as he saw the beach umbrella peeking from under your bed.

END!

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