#Fire Flails Through Time and Space

[firebeez]

I had a dog, Athena, who was obsessed with these rubber pigs that make noise se when you squeeze them. She'd carefully carry them around, gently boop them to make the noise, and cuddle with them. Athena has some health issues that meant she often had days where she felt really bad, and she'd always gather up her multiple pigs to cuddle for comfort. She loved those pigs.

When we got another dog, Burt, she diligently taught him to be gentle with the pigs. To not wrestle with them or risk breaking them. They would certainly play with them together, running around playing keep away. But it was always very careful compared to their other toys. Beyond that however, Burt never bothered much with the pigs.

Athena unfortunately passed away rather young, a consequence of her health issues. And after she passed, we got another dog, Briar. Briar never met Athena, never learned anything from her directly. Nevertheless, Briar seems to have taken up Athena's love for those pigs. I'm sure Burt taught her to be gentle with them, that they are special. But Briar also goes to the pigs for comfort. She treats them like babies, the way Athena used to. She carefully arranges them in a nest and snuggles them when she's feeling bad.

And it's just so magical to me. These two dogs who never met, connected through their joint comfort found in these silly little pig toys.

[firebeez]

I think sometimes it also has to do with writers trying too hard to 'do it right', and thus focusing on the disorder too much. I found myself that when having a character that had a disorder of some kind, if I did too much research and put too much worry into 'portraying x accurately' I'd get too caught up in that and forget to let the character be a person.

It's a weird line to try and walk when writing a character who has a disorder that you don't, trying to be accurate but not get caught up fussing over the details. The worry about Doing It Wrong leading to perfectionism that leads to you actually doing it wrong.

Why is it that shows accidentally portray autism or ADHD well without ever realizing it, but any time they try to intentionally do it they fail terribly at it.

[snail-day]

Nanami doesn't understand Minecraft. The appeal. The garish colors, the jagged edges. A sky made of squares, a sun that moved in awkward, ticking motions. (Something you claimed to be lag?) It was like staring into a world that hadn’t finished rendering. No plot. No rules. No real purpose. Just…blocks.

He had better things to do. Things with structure, routine. A glass of wine, a warm light, a novel in hand. You tucked into his side while he read aloud, your body slowly going slack with sleep, trusting him to hold you there.

That was comfort. That was meaningful. Yet, when you’d asked him to play, with your voice bright and teasing and just a little hopeful, he didn’t say no. Your pout being rather convincing.

“The movie’s coming out soon,” you’d said. “You can’t go in blind.” “Ten minutes,” you’d bargained, tugging on the sleeve of his linen shirt. “Just ten.”

So here he was.

The gentle sound of footsteps in grass tapped from the speakers - flop, flop, flop. He moved through a clumsy world, bumping into trees, accidentally crafting buttons instead of planks. A cow lowed in the distance, slow and strangely calming. Nearby, soft music drifted in, simple piano notes, echoing into the abyss of the lonely world.

Nanami narrowed his eyes. He hated how his character’s arms flailed when he walked. Hated how the pickaxe floated in midair, like it wasn’t even touching anything. The game defying the natural laws. Was deforestation what you called a good time?

But you were leaning into his side now, draped in the oversized cardigan he’d folded over the couch for you. Your head rested on his shoulder, your body warm against his, legs tucked under you like a sleepy cat. You were watching him, tired, content, eyes starting to flutter closed.

He pressed another key.

The sound of mining echoed - chink, chink, chink. Stone cracked apart in perfect cubes - plop, plop, plop. Gathering each one carefully. When he’d collected enough, he opened the building menu, fingers moving slower now, searching through the recipes.

If he was going to do this, he was going to do it right. Loading minecraft wiki on a tab.

The house came first. Something modest but stable. No asymmetry. No ugly floating roofs like the ones you’d shown him with pride earlier that day. He used cobblestone for the frame, added a wooden roof and glass windows, and placed lanterns precisely two blocks apart along the walls.

Inside, he built shelves. Lined with books and a small fireplace in the corner. The fire crackled, low and soft, pixel sparks dancing upward. The sound of it mixed with the slow, soothing soundtrack and the gentle sounds of squids swimming (more like dying) on the beach.

He planted wheat outside on a grass patch. A small, efficient garden. You claimed there was carrots, potatoes, beets. A search for another day.

And when he found a cat - tiny, pixelated, meowing once with a high-pitched chirp - he coaxed it inside with fish and told it to sit by the fire.

You shifted against him, murmuring something soft, unintelligible, your hand unconsciously finding his and curling around it.

His chest ached.

This game…wasn’t so pointless after all.

It wasn’t about the blocks. It was about the quiet in-between. The safety. The fact that he could create a space just for you, even in this ridiculous little world. A place where the light never went out and the cat always waited by the fire.

Nanami glanced down at your sleeping form, thumb brushing your knuckles.

You deserved that.

You deserved everything.

“…You’re lucky I love you,” he said softly, kissing the crown of your head, barely above a whisper. The cat let out a quiet mrrp. Nanami, with a ghost of a smile, planted a flower by the window.

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #16

It started, as these things often did, with Clockwork showing up at 3:07 AM in Danny’s bedroom and dragging him out of bed by the ankle like a disappointed father dealing with a child who had failed Algebra. Again.

“Wha—Clockwork?!” Danny shouted, flailing in his space-themed pajama pants as he was unceremoniously yanked into a swirling portal of green and purple time goop. “I have school in four hours!”

“You won’t need it where you’re going,” Clockwork said with the kind of deadpan that made you suspect he hadn’t laughed in several centuries.

“That sounds like a threat.”

“It is.”

Next thing Danny knew, he was falling face-first onto a Persian rug that smelled faintly of incense, ancient secrets, and emotional trauma. He groaned and looked up just as a swirling portal closed behind him, revealing a tall, caped man sipping tea with the patience of a man who had seen God, mocked Him, and been promptly smacked in the face for it.

“Stephen Strange,” Clockwork said, materializing again because apparently he didn’t believe in exits, “meet Daniel Fenton. You’re going to teach him how to not accidentally vaporize the concept of space.”

“I what?” Danny blinked.

“Wait—this is the child you were talking about?” Strange said with a distinct expression of “I expected someone taller and more eldritch.”

Danny raised a hand. “Hi. Still in my pajamas. Please explain.”

Clockwork gave him a look. “You’ve been randomly tearing holes in the multiverse with your emotions. If you continue, you’ll accidentally delete the timeline where pizza was invented.”

Danny went pale. “That’s my favorite timeline!”

“That’s why you’re here.”

And that’s how Danny ended up training at the Sanctum Sanctorum instead of going to college like a normal eighteen-year-old. Not that Danny was ever normal. Or functional. Or even consistently corporeal at this point.

“Why is there a ghost teenager eating cold Pop-Tarts in my artifact room?” Wong asked the next morning, frozen mid-step with the sling ring still on his fingers.

“I live here now,” Danny said through a mouthful of Strawberry Frosted. “Clock Daddy said so.”

Wong stared at Strange. “We don’t even let you eat in here.”

“He’s technically a spectral demi-being empowered by quantum echoes,” Strange muttered. “I’m not sure he can be stopped.”

Danny quickly became the Sanctum’s chaos gremlin. The Cloak of Levitation hated him, loved him, used him as a chew toy, and then dragged him into a corner and cuddled him while he tried to watch anime at 2AM. Danny responded by naming it “Blanky.” The Cloak permitted this. Wong did not.

There was one particular week when Danny got stuck halfway between dimensions because he got emotional watching a Pixar movie. “I JUST—THEY FORGOT ABOUT BING BONG, STRANGE, THEY FORGOT—”

“Kid, I swear to the Vishanti, if you collapse another nexus realm because of children’s media—”

“HE SACRIFICED HIMSELF FOR JOY, OKAY?”

Training with Strange was like being punched in the brain repeatedly with Shakespearean insults and quantum theory. Danny tried. He did. But he was more of a vibes-based learner, while Strange was a “recite this 900-word incantation backwards while dodging metaphysical arrows” type of teacher.

“I can just blast it, though?” Danny argued, half-asleep, floating upside-down above the kitchen one night.

“No. No blasting. No phasing. No yelling ghostly wail and reducing my library to ash.”

“But I’m good at those!”

“You also set the Time Fractal on fire.”

“It had a face. It looked at me first.”

Clockwork would appear now and then, mostly to drop Danny cryptic warnings like “Avoid the one with the metal arm,” or “Never trust a raccoon with a gun,” or “Don’t play Uno with Loki. He cheats.”

“I don’t even know a Loki,” Danny protested.

“You will.”

Danny’s powers kept getting weirder. One time he coughed and spat up ectoplasm that turned into a sentient clone of himself, but with an Australian accent and a nicotine addiction. They had to banish him to the Mirror Dimension after he started flirting with Strange.

“Who made you like this?” Strange hissed, trying to undo the spell with rapidly twitching fingers.

“I think I made myself like this,” Danny whispered.

Somehow, the multiverse noticed. A portal opened on a Tuesday—because of course it did—and dropped in Peter Parker mid-panic with a half-dead demon strapped to his back and a terrified expression.

“HELP! I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING!”

Danny stared, eating a microwaved burrito. “Are you a spider?”

“Are you a ghost?!”

“Do you want a burrito?”

“Yes?!”

And that’s how Danny accidentally made a new best friend. Peter and Danny had exactly the same amount of brain cell(s), which meant Strange had to install magical barriers to keep them from combining into a singularity of disaster.

“Stop bringing the Spider-Child into my Sanctum!”

“He brought himself! Through a hole! In the air! Like me!”

“Oh god, there are two of them now,” Wong muttered, lighting incense aggressively.

The Sanctum slowly became a hub for the weird and unstable. Kamala Khan stopped by and declared Danny her new weird older cousin. America Chavez tried to punch him once and fell into his thermos. Loki found him and said, “Ah. You’re one of those,” and walked away very quickly.

One particularly cursed day, Tony Stark walked in, saw Danny floating above a bowl of ramen while casually moving furniture with his mind, and said, “Nope,” before immediately walking out.

Danny’s magic was…unconventional. When Strange taught him how to summon a shield, Danny ended up with a glowing neon green circle that said “NOPE” in ghostly cursive. When told to summon a blade, Danny pulled out a glowing halberd shaped like a Fenton Thermos with an axe edge.

“I call her ‘Big Suck.’”

“I hate you,” Strange said.

“I love me.”

Then came the Incident. Danny got bored, which, to be clear, is always the beginning of the apocalypse. He found a cursed artifact that looked like a snow globe with a tiny screaming soul inside and thought, this seems fun.

It was not fun.

He broke it open trying to use it as a nightlight and released an ancient chaos entity named The Unfathomable Carl. Carl had a god complex, seventeen mouths, and a Twitter account within four minutes of escaping.

“HOW DID HE EVEN GET A PHONE?!” Strange screamed while fending off a barrage of cursed pigeons.

“HE FOLLOWED ME ON INSTAGRAM!” Danny shouted from behind a sofa.

It took three Avengers, a packet of Mentos, and Danny screaming “YOU’RE NOT EVEN THAT SCARY, CARL!” to trap him back in the snow globe. Clockwork appeared mid-chaos, sipping ecto-tea.

“This was necessary for your growth,” he said calmly.

Danny hurled a shoe at him.

Eventually, Strange came to a horrifying realization: Danny wasn’t learning magic in the traditional sense. He was absorbing it. He was like a sponge that had been dunked in eldritch Kool-Aid and now radiated unpredictable power every time he sneezed.

“Do not, under any circumstance, let him near the Time Stone,” Strange told Wong.

“He already touched it.”

“WHAT?!”

“He said it ‘smelled like cosmic fruit roll-up’ and tried to lick it.”

“I HATE THIS CHILD.”

Danny was currently learning how to open a rift without screaming “YOLO” at the top of his lungs. Progress was…questionable.

“Did you just use Ebonic incantation slang to fold space?”

Danny grinned. “Magic, but make it ✨feral✨.”

“You’re going to give me an aneurysm.”

“I already gave Wong one.”

“You what—?”

At some point, Nick Fury showed up, stared directly into Danny’s glowing green eyes, and immediately called for backup.

“He’s a threat to national security.”

“I’m seventeen!”

“You’ve destroyed seven timelines.”

“Okay but they were minor timelines! Who needs a universe made of talking cats, anyway?”

“…I did.”

Even the Watcher started side-eyeing Danny like a nervous babysitter. Carol Danvers tried to spar with him once and ended up in a ghost trap he made out of duct tape and ambition. “I respect you,” she told him from inside the glowing cube. “But I hate you.”

“Get in line.”

By the time Danny hit six months of training, he’d accidentally absorbed a minor chaos god, reinvented ice magic as a form of dance-fighting, made friends with Mephisto (“He’s not that bad once you get past the brimstone”), and turned his hair permanently silver-blue from temporal exposure.

Strange sat in his chair, robes scorched, tea long gone cold.

“Wong,” he said softly. “I think the child is the apocalypse.”

Wong nodded solemnly. “And yet…I fear I love him.”

Danny phased through the wall with sunglasses and a churro. “Hey! Want to help me prank Odin?”

Strange sighed like a man whose karma had caught up with him.

“I’ll get the goat.”

And so it continued. Danny Phantom: Ghost Kid, Sorcerer-In-Training, Time-Space Menace, and unofficial emotional support chaos goblin of the multiverse. He may not have understood quantum geometry, astral projection, or taxes—but damn it, he had style.

And, apparently, a date with the Living Tribunal next Tuesday.

“I hear he’s into jazz,” Danny said. “Think I should bring cookies?”

“You’re going to destroy everything.”

“Yeah, but like—charmingly?”

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - the price of desire (part nine)

warnings ; well.. oral (f recieving) light choking, he hits it from the back, front, idk i lost count, she feels him in her stomach? (realism has left the chat)

prompt ; in which you learn that your dignity has a price, and unfortunately, it looks a lot like Jeon Jungkook in Calvin Klein boxers.

note ; here it is. my baby. my pride and joy. my biggest accomplishment that i will be hanging on my fridge with my hello kitty magnet. not even kidding i rewrote this part four times. four full rewrites. not because the words weren’t working, but because i knew this part had to hit just right.

writing that was hard!! i love these characters so much it physically hurts sometimes. ive lived inside this world for months now, and bringing them to this point broke something in me in the best way (also healed me??? idk dealers choice) the process wasn’t pretty. there were pacing debates, deleted scenes, google docs full of one-sentence paragraphs. through all of it though, one woman held my hand: miss taylor swift.

required listening for this part is this is me trying by tswift. (it’s actually required, the lyrics are THEIRS)

to all of you who’s sent me theories, essays, questions, unhinged keysmashes, character analyses, or even just a quiet “i love this” — thank you. thank you for seeing these characters the way i see them and for lovingly watching on the sidelines when two people experience the ache of wanting something they’re afraid they’ll ruin. you’ve made this story so fun to write!!! i hope, when you reach that last line, that it all feels right to you too. enjoy!!

playlist here

series masterlist here

When you were seven, you ran away from a kitchen fire before anyone else smelled the smoke. You bolted — barefoot, wild-eyed, arms flailing — as the toaster sparked and your mother screamed your name. You learned two things that day: one, that survival is instinct and two, that no one follows a girl who flees first. Ever since then, you’ve made an art of it, of leaving before you’re left, of outrunning the collapse before it’s had time to announce itself.

Even now, you still run like the building is burning.

You book a one-way flight back to Los Angeles with a violence that surprises even you, fingers stabbing at your phone screen, credit card number punched in before the doubt can catch up to your impulse. No pause for breath. No moment to excavate what just splintered apart in Seoul. Just the brutal efficiency of escape.

When the plane finally lifts, Korea dissolving beneath a cotton shroud of clouds, you search yourself for something that might feel like catharsis. But there's only absence. A vacuum where emotion should live.

Not the sweet release you'd imagined.

Not the peace you'd convinced yourself would follow.

Not even regret, which might have offered its own strange comfort.

There's a stillness inside you, resonating like footsteps in an empty gallery after the crowds have gone. You've become a visitor in your own body, observing from the outside.

The campaign, with all its frantic choreography of stress and miracles has finally wound down. The endless parade has halted: no more lighting to approve, no more impossible deadlines to somehow bend to your will through sheer force of determination. No more 4 A.M. calls with production when everything threatened to fall apart.

(No more Jungkook. Almost. You can taste it on the tip of your tongue.)

Tomorrow, it all launches.

You should be electric with anticipation. You should be riding the intoxication of knowing that in storefronts across continents, space is being cleared for what everyone predicts will redefine the brand's trajectory. Success is waiting,, yours to claim.

Instead, you're suspended in a strange limbo. Present but not present. Moving through the the world like someone playing the role of you in a film about your life.

You've become the most convincing ghost in your own story.

You slip back into the LA office like that same ghost returning to familiar hauntings, moving with that quietness people develop when they've spent years trying to be noticed while simultaneously proving themselves indispensable. The ritual feels stolen from another life: coffee warming one palm, the other hand clutching your phone with determination, as if the device might try to escape.

You lose yourself in the launch preparation, drowning in press releases that need one more edit, retailer confirmations requiring verification, social media calendars demanding timing. You orchestrate influencer packages like a general deploying troops, analyze backend metrics with the intensity of someone decoding ancient hieroglyphics.

Because busy hands can't text people.

Because typing another email means not typing his name.

Because every spreadsheet you complete is another reason not to wonder what he's doing right now.

When Jungkook's name illuminates your phone screen for the fifth time that day, something in your chest contracts with such sudden pain that for a moment, you forget how to breathe. You've developed a new skill: the swiftness with which you decline his calls, a movement so practiced it's become second nature. Your finger swipes across his name each time.

Voicemail. Another notification. Voicemail. The red badge multiplying like evidence.

Everything bearing his digital fingerprint gets redirected to Daniel. Meeting conflicts that need resolution, approval requests for campaign deliverables. Some tedious back-and-forth about choosing the right cover image for the website that would have once made you call Jungkook directly.

"Can you handle it?" The question leaves your mouth without inflection, your eyes never lifting from your laptop screen, afraid of what Daniel might read in them.

Daniel stands in your doorway, silent long enough that curiosity finally forces you to look up. The expression on his face carries such naked concern that you almost flinch.

"Are you really going to ghost your own campaign's face?" His voice is soft, which somehow makes you feel worse.

"He's not my anything," you say, the words emerging with a coldness that surprises even you. "He's the brand's."

The look Daniel gives you could incinerate entire cities, reduce them to smoke and memory. There's judgment there, yes, but beneath it something more dangerous: understanding. He retreats without pushing further.

You drag yourself to your hotel in Los Angeles at the hour when even the most dedicated workaholics have surrendered to basic human needs like sleep and food that isn't delivered by Uber Eats. It greets you with the enthusiasm of an abandoned museum exhibit — pristine, untouched, vaguely disappointed.

You answer emails until your retinas protest and your fingers develop their own Stockholm syndrome relationship with your keyboard. The clock on your laptop blinks an accusatory 2:17 A.M while you craft responses.

The Calvin Klein countdown timer on your open browser tab pulses with all the subtlety of a doomsday clock, a digital reminder that your exit strategy is right on schedule. This was always your personal three-step program: Get in. Get it done. Get out.

Jeon Jungkook was supposed to be a line item in your professional portfolio, not the tenant currently occupying all the premium real estate inside your head.

The fact that your brain has apparently thrown him a housewarming party complete with intrusive thoughts as party favors is just your psyche's idea of a practical joke.

One that unfortunately, you do not find the least bit funny.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

The launch doesn't just hit. It is literally a tidal wave. #jungkookcalvinklein is trending on Twitter at the ripe hour of 9am.

Before you've managed to convince the coffee maker that yes, today definitely requires the triple-shot setting, Times Square has transformed into a shrine to sculpted abs and Jungkook’s face. Stores unveil installations that somehow make minimalism feel maximalist.

He's everywhere.

Christ, that jawline probably has its own insurance policy, with Calvin Klein jeans on that defy the laws of physics by simultaneously hanging too low and fitting too well, silver chains adorning him.

The public response is teetering on obsession; less consumer enthusiasm and more mass religious conversion. You half-expect to see people speaking in tongues while clutching Calvin Klein shopping bags.

You don't even have time to perform your planned emotional collapse, which you'd scheduled right between "approve final press release" and "pretend to eat lunch." The universe, it seems, has no respect for your Google calendar.

There are calls to field, interviews to prep, press appearances to manage. But then, just to your luck, digital confetti in your inbox: the New York office is hosting a last-minute happy hour to celebrate the global rollout. The invitation lands with little subtlety in bold letters: SENIOR STAFF AND GLOBAL LEADS ONLY, with enough exclamation points to suggest someone's enthusiasm has escaped corporate blandness.

Your decision-making process rivals light speed. You book the flight with the impulsive confidence of someone fleeing a crime scene, pack your garment bag with a dress you haven’t worn in a while. It’s flowy, with an open back that lets you feel the breeze.

Daniel plops himself in the seat beside you on the plane, a one-man information hurricane disguised as your colleague.

You let his voice become white noise, because right now, even corporate jargon is preferable to the unauthorized commentary running through your head, the one narrating all the ways you're not thinking about Jungkook (which, ironically, is all you can think about.)

By the time you two land in Manhattan, it’s dusk, that magic hour when the city sheds its skin and slips into something more comfortable. The streets buzz with that New York electricity that called you even as a young girl in Busan, a current that used to light you up from the inside but now just makes you wonder if you ever really loved it at all.

The SoHo rooftop has undergone the standard office-to-party transformation: string lights creating the illusion that accounting departments can be romantic, glasses clinking.

For the first time since Seoul, you almost feel like a person again instead of a walking collection of unprocessed emotions wearing business casual. Not fixed, not whole, but at least functional, kind of like finding your favorite sweater that you thought was ruined in the wash.

You slip back into your social persona with ease. Your laugh doesn't even sound fake to your own ears, which feels like progress. The champagne bubbles tingle pleasantly, reminding you that sensations other than dread still exist.

It’s always been in your nature; telling stories, entertaining others. Your hands paint disaster scenarios in the air, voice dropping conspiratorially at just the right moments. When you describe finding the missing sample jacket locked in a janitor's closet, your audience erupts into that specific kind of corporate laughter. Even Daniel, standing beside you like your professional shadow, can't help but crack up.

It feels almost like... okay. Not perfect. Not Seoul-never-happened. But upright and breathing, like a houseplant that survived your vacation.

The moment shifts when Daniel's fingers tap your elbow gently. "Hey, walk with me for a second?" he murmurs.

"Sure," you respond, the word automatic as your brain runs rapid calculations on what this could possibly be about.

He leads you away from the celebration, past colleagues swapping war stories and marketing puns, until you reach the edge of the rooftop where the Manhattan skyline lights up the sky.

You exhale slowly, watching the city sparkle before you, thousands of windows lit up. The view is breathtaking in that uniquely New York way that somehow makes your problems feel both microscopic and monumentally important.

"Have you spoken to Jungkook?" Daniel asks carefully.

The question cuts through your momentary peace. Just like that, the city lights dim, the champagne goes flat in your veins, and you're back in Seoul, watching everything fall apart in high definition.

You don't answer immediately. Jaw clicks into lockdown mode. Your arms fold across your chest, the universal body language for "absolutely not having this conversation right now." If emotional armor could make sound, yours would be clanking into place.

Daniel watches you with that particular expression he reserves for when you're being self-destructive but he's too smart to say so directly. It's the look that has always made lying to him impossible, which is precisely why you've been avoiding direct eye contact.

You stare down at your drink where bubbles perform their slow surrender, fizzling into oblivion against the rim of your glass. There's probably a metaphor in there somewhere, but you're too tired to figure it out.

"No," you finally admit, "Not since Korea."

Daniel nods once, the motion small but definitive. "He asked if we were coming tonight."

Your heart performs an acrobatic routine that would qualify for the Olympics, some complicated tumble of hope, panic, and an unfortunate third thing. The champagne you've been nursing suddenly seems very fascinating.

"And?" The question emerges more breathless than you'd prefer.

"I didn't answer," Daniel replies with a shrug. "Wasn't my place."

You swallow hard enough that it feels like forcing down something solid.

"You don't have to tell me anything," he adds, tone dropping to that specific frequency of friendship where truth lives. "But I figured you'd want to know."

Somewhere in this universe, Jungkook might be wondering if you'd show up tonight. The thought lands like a stone in still water, ripples expanding outward.

What would he have done if he'd seen you here?

What would you have done if he flew from Seoul?

Worse: what might you still do?

You remain silent, lips pressed together in a thin line of indecision. Your voice might crack, words may betray you.

The truth is, you're standing at the crossroads of pride and longing, and you have absolutely no idea which direction to take.

You tilt your glass back, letting the alcohol wash across your lips before words form in your throat. “I don't know what you think you saw," you say, your gaze sliding sideways to catch Daniel's expression without fully committing to eye contact. "But I promise you, it's not some great love story."

Daniel makes a sound, a gentle hum that vibrates with something like understanding. “Never said it was," he offers,. "But something definitely happened. You've been walking around like someone left the door open and the wind knocked everything over inside you."

"Poetic," you say sarcastically and roll your eyes.

He shrugs. "I minored in creative writing."

A laugh escapes you, unexpected and genuine,"You minored in talking shit."

His grin unfolds slowly. "So? I'm right."

The silence that follows feels weighted, layered with everything you cannot bring yourself to say. Words gather in your chest, pressing against your ribs like birds against cage bars, but none find their way to your tongue.

Part of you — the part that still wakes at 3 A.M replaying conversations that cannot be undone — wants desperately to believe that your spiral has gone unnoticed. That you might still appear whole from certain angles, in certain lights.

When he speaks again, his voice has softened even more. “You know, you never really do things for yourself."

The observation catches you off-guard, slipping beneath your defensesd. Your brow furrows,"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I mean..." His hand lifts in a gesture that encompasses everything. His fingers trace the invisible architecture of the career you've built, brick by exhausting brick. "You do this. All of this. You're a fucking workaholic. But when was the last time you did something just because you wanted to? Just for you?"

"I wanted this campaign to succeed," you retort. Your posture straightens, shoulders squaring against accusation.

"For the company," he fires back, neither unkind nor relenting. "For the brand. For the headlines. For the part of you that refuses to lose. But not for you. Not really."

Your fingers curl more tightly around the stem of your glass. Because, like, yeah… you keep a tight ship and all, but it’s what your multimillion dollar contract calls for. In the distance, a helicopter cuts across the skyline, its searchlight briefly illuminating clouds from beneath, revealing their hidden dimensions.

Daniel turns to face you more fully, his expression shifting more dangerously sincere. "What's all this success worth if there's no one to share it with?"

You attempt a laugh that emerges more like a strangled hiccup. Your lips part for a comeback that refuses to come out while your traitorous brain launches into a highlight reel of Jungkook: his sleepy morning smile across hotel pillows, the weight of his shoulder underneath your head during that night on the beach in Busan, his laughter spilling into crevices of the hotel bar. The memories arrive uninvited, like party crashers bringing gifts you're afraid to open.

Daniel nudges your arm, pulling you back from the your thoughts. "Look, I'm not saying go get married in a garden or whatever. Although, now that I think about it, the photos would be incredible. Very Architectural Digest meets romance novel."

He grins before his expression softens. "But maybe... just maybe... it's okay to let someone in. You know, that thing humans have been doing since, like, forever."

You meet his gaze then. It's terrifying, like standing at the edge of a high dive you're not sure you remember how to use.

He's not pushing, not wielding your vulnerability. He's just reminding you, in the way only Daniel can after years of watching you build emotional fortresses, that beneath your exoskeleton of competence and control, you're still embarrassingly human. Still allowed to want something that doesn't come with metrics, target demographics, or quarterly reviews.

You exhale slowly, turning back toward the skyline,"I don't know how to do that," you admit.

"Then start small," he says with the gentle pragmatism of a man suggesting you try a new coffee shop rather than rewire your entire emotional circuitry. "Text the guy."

You shake your head, but the gesture lacks conviction. Your fingers twitch slightly against your glass, as if already rehearsing what they might type.

You squint slightly at the skyline like the answers could be written in neon across the Empire State Building: YES or NO in flashing lights, visible from miles away.

Daniel stands beside you, patient in his silence. He's always had this gift; knowing when to push and when to simply wait, creating space for you to stumble toward your own conclusions at your own stubborn pace. Somewhere beneath the layers of denial, a small, persistent voice wonders what would happen if, this one time, you stopped running long enough to find out what might catch up to you.

Finally, you exhale. "And say what?" you mutter, mouth twisting into what might be mistaken for a smile if not for the panic flickering in your eyes. "Text him: 'Hey, can't believe I ended things between us, how's your day going? Fantastic, thanks for asking!'"

Daniel chokes mid-sip, whiskey catching in his throat as laughter erupts. Amber liquid splashes dangerously close to his shirt cuff. "Jesus Christ," he wheezes, eyes watering. "Maybe workshop that a bit before hitting send."

You laugh too at that. The momentary lightness evaporates as quickly as it appeared, leaving something heavier in its wake. Your next breath feels weighted.

"He said something I can't forget," you add, voice dropping to that particular register where confessions live. You trace the condensation on your glass with one finger, drawing invisible patterns that might spell out what you're afraid to say directly. "During this fight we had... about my family."

Daniel's expression shifts, humor draining away. He watches you with that careful attention that always makes you feel seen. "What'd he say?" he asks.

You shake your head, gaze fixed on some indeterminate point beyond the rooftop's edge. The city lights blur and sharpen with each blink. "That I didn't even want to see them. That I was back in Busan for days and didn't bother. He used it like an insult. Like proof that I don't care about anything."

Daniel's silence stretches between you, allowing your words room to exist without immediate judgment. Long enough for you to lift your glass again, for the alcohol to slide down your throat and bloom warm in your chest, for you to wonder if maybe you've said too much or not enough.

Then he speaks tentatively, "Okay. Not great. But..."

You raise an eyebrow, the gesture sharp with defiance. "But?"

"But he's also not wrong." When your eyes narrow dangerously, he lifts his hands in theatrical surrender, "Not about using it against you.. that was a dick move, solid eight out of ten on the asshole scale."

His expression softens. "But about the rest of it. You kept pushing everyone away. I think you told me to forward all calls from your mom to ‘Satan’ one time. You were so scared of being known, it was easier to hide behind quarterly reports than have coffee with the people who gave you life."

Your mouth opens, a rebuttal forming on your tongue. But the words evaporate before they reach air, leaving you momentarily speechless. Some part of your brain, the part not currently occupied with denying everything, whispers that maybe, there's a sliver of truth worth examining here.

Daniel shrugs casually, with the demeanor of someone sliding the final piece into a puzzle. "Look, I don't think he meant it to hurt you. I think you hit a nerve, and he lashed out. Poorly."

He shifts on his heels, "But he also... I don't know. He kind of seems hopelessly in love with you."

You blink rapidly, as if your eyelids might somehow filter this information into something manageable. "He- what?"

A grin unfurls across Daniel's face. "Dude's clearly gone. I've watched him stare at you like you personally invented the concept of desire. Dont tell anyone this, but he’s also been blowing up the rest of the team’s phones asking if he should expect to hear from you."

You scoff, eyes rolling skyward, but a sensation you've been systematically ignoring since Seoul unfolds within you. Since before Korea, if you're being honest, which you rarely are with yourself. The memories surface unbidden: Jungkook hunting down honey butter cookies because you'd mentioned liking once. The way he'd placed the bag in front of you without comment. The thousands of other tiny gestures you'd filed away as "just being cordial" because "being in love with you" seemed too terrifying a folder to create.

"I didn't..." you begin, then falter. The words hover, “ I don't think I know how to let someone be in love with me."

The confession hangs between you, delicate and honest. Daniel doesn't look away, "Maybe," he says simply, "it's time to learn."

The words settle over you, not a weight but an opening, a door unlocked but not yet pushed ajar.

Daniel drains the last of his drink with finality, eyes fixed on the skyline. The casual observer might think he's admiring Manhattan's glittering architecture, but you recognize this particular silence — the loaded pause before he drops something he's been strategically holding back. It's the conversational equivalent of watching someone wind up for a pitch.

And sure enough, after a calculated beat, he says, "You do realize the contract is done, right?"

You glance sideways, eyebrows lifting in a gesture that attempts indifference but lands somewhere closer to alarm.

"All the promo's scheduled. Launch assets are live. My inbox is starting to go down," he continues, ticking items off an invisible check list. "You're technically free. No more approvals.”

His voice softens around the final blow: "No more excuses."

You lean against the railing, the metal cool against your forearms "What are you saying?”

"I'm saying..." He turns toward you fully now, "You don't have to pretend this is about work anymore."

A scoff escapes you. "Please. Me? And a k-pop idol?"

Daniel delivers a look so deadpan it could be preserved in a museum, the perfect distillation of "are you actually serious right now?" compressed into a single facial expression.

You clarify, hands animating the air between you like you're conducting an invisible orchestra of denial. "The biggest k-pop idol. Like globally famous. The same dude who gets murdered everytime there’s so much as one dating rumor." Each descriptor escalates in pitch, as if the accumulation of external obstacles might somehow outweigh the internal ones.

Daniel lifts his hands in surrender, though his expression suggests he's winning whatever battle is being waged. "Yes. All true. Also.. just so we're keeping track, he's the same guy you've spent the last few months hooking up with, traveling the world with, fighting with like some married couple, and if I'm not mistaken, spending all your time with."

Your eyes narrow to slits. "You make it sound so romantic," you mutter, each word dripping with sarcasm.

"It kind of was," he says with a shrug, "In a HR-nightmare kind of way."

You roll your eyes for what feels like the hundredth time tonight, but there's no real resistance behind the gesture. If anything, you're fighting back something dangerously close to a smile.

Daniel nudges your arm, “I'm not telling you to drop everything and chase some wild fantasy. I'm not suggesting you write his name in your planner with little hearts or anything. But… if it is something, if it's more, then maybe you owe it to yourself to find out."

You stare down at the streetlights below, watching headlights weave through intersections. The city continues its relentless dance, indifferent to your crisis of heart. Somewhere down there, people are making decisions far less complicated than yours; ordering takeout, hailing cabs, choosing which Netflix show to fall asleep to.

"You should take a few days off," he adds, less the colleague who's seen you demolish incompetent vendors and more the friend who once held your hair back after three too many tequila shots at the holiday party. "You can actually take them. The company will somehow survive without you micromanaging every press release for 72 whole hours."

You don't answer, silence a familiar shield.

"I'll cover anything that comes up," he says, the offer weighted with a kindness you're not sure you deserve. "But I think you need to go."

He doesn't say where. He doesn't have to. The destination hovers between you.

Still, you say nothing, your fingers tracing idle patterns in the condensation on your glass. But something shifts in the atmosphere around you, not a decision yet, nothing so concrete or brave. More like the subtle change in molecular rearrangement that animals sense before humans do.

Because maybe there's a version of this story where you don't end up alone with your accomplishments for company, where professional triumph isn't the only warmth in your bed. The thought bubbles up, ridiculous and terrifying and somehow not entirely unwelcome.

You've spent so much of your life building walls with the focus of someone who believes safety lies in being alone, you almost forgot what it feels like to stand before a door that's already open, waiting. The possibility stretches before you, an invitation to step through and see what might exist on the other side.

Daniel slips away, leaving behind only the lingering scent of overpriced whiskey and words that hang in the air. You remain at the railing, arms folded across your chest in what your therapist would probably call a "defensive posture" if you actually went to therapy instead of just reading psychology articles at 3 A.M.

For a while, you just breathe, an activity so basic it shouldn't feel revolutionary, and yet somehow does. One inhale. One exhale. One heartbeat after another.

Then, with the slowness of someone defusing a bomb, your hand migrates to your pocket. Your fingers close around your phone, that small, glowing rectangle.

The screen illuminates instantly, revealing a notification dot so aggressively red it might as well be screaming. You tap the voicemail icon with the hesitancy of someone poking at what might be a sleeping bear. The app lags for a moment, probably collapsing under the sheer weight of messages you've been studiously ignoring.

112 unheard messages.

You stare at the number, a monument to your impressive commitment to avoidance. Gold medal material.

You haven't listened to a single one. Haven't allowed yourself even the smallest peek behind the curtain you pulled.

Your fingers hovers above the most recent message, trembling slightly. You press play before the rational part of your brain can stage an intervention.

"Hey."

His voice arrives like an ambush, rough around the edges, frayed.

"I don't even know if you'll listen to this. You probably won't. But I just... I don't know what to do anymore."

Your grip on the railing tightens, as if holding onto something sturdy might somehow anchor you against what's coming.

"You're not answering. You won't text me back. Daniel says you're 'handling things.' Whatever the fuck that means."

“You always do this. You disappear when things get hard. But this isn't just some hookup anymore. You know that."

You press the phone against your ear with unnecessary force, as if the closer it gets the more sense everything might make.

"I said something I shouldn't have. About your family. I know I crossed a line and I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."

Your throat constricts, performing an impressive impersonation of a python with its prey. The apology lingers in the universe for a second too long.

"I wanted you to know me. But… I think I forgot that I'm only just starting to know you. And I want to. God, I want to know you so bad."

The voicemail ends with a soft click that somehow sounds louder than any dramatic declaration. You don't move. You don't blink. You barely breathe. Your brain, that overachieving organ that's kept you ten steps ahead in boardrooms and client meetings, suddenly finds itself speechless.

You press play on the next message with the reckless courage of someone who's already jumped from the plane and figures the parachute situation can be sorted out mid-fall.

"Please talk to me."

The sound travels from your phone directly to some unguarded part of your chest.

"I can't sleep. I keep thinking you're gonna call. And then you don't. I get it, I do. But I miss you."

"That's pathetic, right? Missing someone who keeps running from you?"

The question hangs in the air, unanswered and devastating. You find yourself shaking your head in automatic response, as if he could somehow see you through time and digital space.

Your thumb hangs over the screen, hesitating for the briefest moment before tapping to the next message like someone poking at a bruise to see if it still hurts. And the next. And the next.

Each message is a progressive study in yearning — Jungkook's voice traveling through octaves of exhaustion and vulnerability you didn't know existed. Each one reveals another layer of him spiraling, leaving behind a man who can't understand why someone disappeared.

"I think I'm in love with you.”

There it is. The message that finally breaks through the elaborate wall of denial you've been maintaining. Kind of like the sprinkler system activating after the fire's already spread to every room.

You bite down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, your body's desperate attempt to keep everything contained as your eyes begin to burn with the particular sting that follows with tears. You lock your phone with fingers that suddenly feel clumsy.

The breath you draw in trembles, your chest expanding around a feeling you've been ignoring since Seoul.

You can feel it now rushing toward you with the unstoppable momentum of a train whose brakes have failed. The devastation you left behind, casually strewn across continents like discarded clothing. The truth you didn't want to admit, even in the privacy of your own thoughts. The stupid, impossible, terrifying fact that somewhere between contract negotiations and late night 1-on-1 strategy sessions, between stolen moments in hotel bars and shared laughter over take-out containers that he forced you to eat, between arguments that felt too personal and kisses that felt too intimate, Jeon Jungkook somehow slipped past every defense system you'd installed and became more than just another project to complete.

He became the person you think about when good things happen.

The voice you want to come home to on difficult days.

The laugh that somehow makes everything lighter.

Oh.

The realization lands with surprising gentleness.

Oh shit.

You wipe your cheek with the back of your hand for tears that somehow manifested on your face. For the first time since you left Korea, the weight that's been compressing your lungs begins to lift. Not because the ache has diminished or because the fear has subsided, but because you've finally granted it permission to exist.

The realization settles into your bones, that what you want has never resided in quarterly projections or campaign metrics or the professional detachment you've perfected over years of holding people at a distance.

What you want, what you've wanted while convincing yourself otherwise, exists in a hotel room in Korea where a boy with gentle hands and knowing eyes has been waiting for your voice. The thought arrives with clarity, cutting through layers of cynicism and self-protection: you've been running from the very thing you most desperately need.

Your fingers find your phone with newfound certainty, navigating to your travel app with none of the hesitation that's characterized every interaction with this device recently. The flight options materialize on the screen. You select the earliest departure, credit card information autofilling as if your technology recognized this decision before you made it. The laughter and chatter from your coworkers seems so far away despite how close they actually are.

It’s just you and the simple, terrifying recognition that some journeys can only be postponed, never avoided — and the surprising discovery that stepping toward what frightens you can feel remarkably like coming home.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Okay… so you’ve definitely done more degrading things before. Right?

You're sweating through your blouse with the enthusiasm of someone auditioning for a deodorant commercial (and failing. To your own detriment.)

This isn't the "post-workout glow" fitness influencers pretend is attractive. No, this is your body's formal declaration of mutiny, a rebellion against rational thought executed through every pore. Your armpits, palms, and the back of your neck have formed an alliance dedicated to transforming your clothes into soggy evidence of your composure.

What the fuck are you doing?

Outside Jeon Jungkook's front door, you've established a pacing perimeter worthy of a security detail, shoes padding against pavement. The neighborhood is all manicured hedges and tasteful architecture, houses standing witness to what is undoubtedly the most unhinged moment of your professional career.

You halt abruptly, pivot, and resume your trajectory in the opposite direction. Each step carries you further into the absurdity of your situation while bringing you no closer to resolution.

"What the fuck am I doing?" The question emerges as a desperate whisper, fingers wrapped around your purse strap "What the actual fuck am I doing?"

The universe, in its infinite wisdom, offers no response. Not even a convenient sign from the heavens, no fortuitous text message, not so much as a symbolic bird flying overhead. Silence, highlighting the void where your rational decision-making process should be.

The most devastating part of this is your complete lack of preparation — you, who once created a thirty-page document for a photoshoot involving a temperamental cat. You, who color-codes your calendar down to 15-minute increments and keeps emergency protein bars in every bag you own. You, who has never entered a meeting without 3 different strategic approaches and a mental flowchart of possible outcomes.

You flew across the Pacific Ocean on nothing but emotional autopilot, your normally meticulous planning abandoned. You landed, changed your shirt three times in the Incheon airport bathroom while arguing with your reflection, and then navigated to this address with single-minded determination.

His address was acquired through means that would make your company's legal department develop hives. Extracted from the Calvin Klein executive contact database with the moral flexibility of someone who has left all professional ethics back in Manhattan along with her common sense. The violation of privacy policies sits in your phone.

You are experiencing what can only be described as a crash landing; no runway in sight, no landing gear deployed. The metaphorical wreckage spreads across this quiet street, invisible to everyone but acutely, painfully apparent to you.

You excavate your phone from the abyss of your bag and open the Notes app for the third time in 10 minutes, staring with mounting horror at the single sentence you managed to compose somewhere over the ocean — the grand thesis statement that was supposed to carry you across this threshold:

"I'm sorry, and I think I like you."

You blink at it, the words swimming on the screen like poorly translated instructions for assembling complicated furniture. A scoff escapes you in part disbelief, part surrender to the cosmic joke your life has become.

Jesus Christ. That's the line?

That's the earth-shattering revelation that propelled you across international date lines and multiple time zones?

It has all the weight of a middle schooler passing a folded note in math class. "I think I like you" — the verbal equivalent of bringing a water pistol to a nuclear war. The confession carries all the emotional awareness of someone who just discovered feelings exist yesterday and hasn't figured out the instruction manual.

You are pathetic.

You shove the phone back into your bag with force, bearing witness to perhaps the most pitiful declaration of affection ever composed by an allegedly successful adult. Another shaky breath fills your lungs, doing absolutely nothing to calm you.

You haven't knocked yet. You're just standing here, marinating in your own anxiety sweat. Your current strategy appears to be hoping for divine intervention. Perhaps the earth might split open and swallow you whole, or a targeted meteorite might strike just this spot on this particular street in Korea. At this point, even a localized power grid failure would be welcome, anything to ensure that no one ever discovers the depths of your desperate, transcontinental travels for this man.

You feel that urge to run again.

But your feet remain rooted to the concrete, overriding any escape plans.

Underneath the panic, the dampening of your shirt, and the chorus of doubt performing a full operatic production in your head, you know exactly why you're here.

Because of that voice on the phone that carved something permanent into your memory.

Because of the way he looked at you across crowded rooms.

Because for once in your existence, this isn't about control or power or securing the optimal outcome.

This is about choosing someone, even if it makes your knees perform a dance of terror. Even if it required theft of confidential information from a database you definitely shouldn't have access to.

You take one more breath, and step forward with the confidence of someone who still has approximately 14 seconds before complete collapse.

Your knuckles connect with the door in what's meant to be a confident knock but comes as more like the hesitant tapping of someone who's not entirely sure they've got the right house and is already formulating an apology to potential strangers.

The door swings open. There's no cinematic pause, no buffer zone during which you might remember how to be a functioning human capable of speech and basic facial control.

And there he is.

Jungkook.

Standing in his doorway like some kind of domesticated Greek god, barefoot in sweatpants that hang from hipbones, wearing a black t-shirt that clings to his torso. His silver chain catches the light, hair artfully disheveled.

There are shadows beneath his eyes that speak volumes, the look of someone waiting too long for a response that never arrived, for a message that never delivered.

He looks frozen in a moment of suspended animation.

And you.. well, you look like someone who's just realized they've accidentally booked a one-way ticket to their own reckoning without packing appropriate attire. Your professional persona is dissolving faster than cheap mascara in a rainstorm.

Your mouth opens automatically, but your brain has apparently decided to go offline. Not a greeting emerges. Not a witty remark. Not the apology you composed and discarded a dozen times between your airplane seat and this moment.

How do you explain what it means to see him again?To see the evidence of what you did inscribed across his features? To stand there and have a million feelings rushing into you?

And worst of all, to realize that somewhere along the way, between "professional boundaries" and "conflict of interest," you've managed to accomplish something you never planned for: you've fallen catastrophically, inconveniently, undeniably for Jeon Jungkook.

His eyes sweep over you once, then return for a second pass. There's a flicker of disbelief in his expression, as if his brain is running diagnostics on whether you're actually standing on his doorstep or if he's finally cracked and started hallucinating ex-whatever-you-weres.

And then, with the simplicity of someone handling something that might shatter, he says your name.

No accusation coloring the syllables. It’s your name, floating between you like a verbal lifeline extended without judgment.

You swallow with enough force to be audible, fingers doing that twitchy dance at your sides. The emotional menu before you offers several options — spontaneous crying, inappropriate nervous laughter, or your personal favorite: the tactical retreat.

But you stay put. No running shoes required.

You look at him with all your barricades temporarily offline. You’re thinking of that beach, that night you tried to bury. Thinking of the way he looked at you then, like you were still salvageable. Thinking of when he told you, “Hi is a good place to start.” You didn’t say it at your mother’s house. Couldn’t. But maybe now, with the weight of everything lingering in the quiet, maybe now’s your second chance.

So you take it.

"Hi," you whisper, the syllable emerging with all the confidence of a first-time public speaker.

He stares at you. You stare back.

Finally, Jungkook breaks the silence, his voice scratchier than you remember. There's a rawness to it, an edge that suggests maybe he got tired of speaking into the void of your unanswered messages. “What the fuck are you doing here?"

And just like that, your mental hard drive crashes. The speeches you rehearsed somewhere over the terrain vanish like airplane meals — unmemorable and completely inadequate for the situation.

You stand there, watching his chest rise and fall with slightly uneven breaths, and realize that you're going to have to improvise without a safety net.

The only thing your brain can process is the sound of blood whooshing behind your ears and the embarrassing tremor in your fingers as they begin to battle the suddenly complex engineering marvel that is your purse zipper.

"I—" you stammer, voice cracking like a thirteen-year-old boy asking someone to dance. "Hold on—just—"

You excavate the dig site formerly known as your handbag, pushing past convenience store receipts, a lipstick, and a charging cable that's currently charging absolutely nothing. Your fingers finally close around what you've flown across the world to deliver.

It's not exactly presentation-ready; it’s crumpled like it's been stuffed in a blender, folded and smudged around the edges.

With the triumph of someone who just discovered treasure, you extract the contract. His contract. Holy grail of paperwork.

The very same contract for Calvin Klein that consumed months of your life, prompted 17 panic attacks, and served as the professional excuse for every personal boundary violation you've committed since meeting him.

You unfold it clumsily, then thrust it toward him like an artifact that could explain your entire emotional state without requiring actual human communication.

"Your contract is up," you announce. "It ended this week."

Jungkook blinks at you with confusion. His eyebrows pull together, creating that little crease you've definitely never memorized. "Okay...?" he questions.

You look at him with the desperate stare of someone whose entire communication strategy is telepathy while your throat constricts. The words scream inside your head with megaphone clarity: Don't you get it? Don't you see what I'm trying to say?!

But all that emerges is a breath.

He glances down at the paper, then back at your face "I know," he says slowly, "I was there when I signed it."

A sound escapes you. This is what your life has become — standing on a doorstep, physically shaking, brandishing legal paperwork like it's a love letter. You, who once negotiated a seven-figure deal without breaking a sweat, reduced to communicating your feelings through expired contractual obligations and hoping he somehow translates this into "I've made a terrible mistake and flown across the world to fix it."

He's still examining the contract, tilting his head slightly, eyes narrowing, as if proper legal documentation might suddenly reveal invisible ink.

It's really just paper and ink and legal jargon that somehow became the flimsiest of excuses to orbit each other's lives.

Your fingers tighten around the document before it goes limp in your hands, dangling between you. “You think I care about this contract? Do you really think I flew across the world to remind you about paperwork? What am I, the world's most dedicated courier service?"

His eyes lock onto yours now. He's silent, still, letting you speak.

"I don't give a shit about Calvin Klein," you continue. "Or the campaign. Or the storefronts. I mean... I do, I did, but not like that. Not more than this." You gesture vaguely between the two of you with the contract, which has now been demoted from legal document to impromptu prop.

You're fully in verbal freefall now, thoughts colliding in real-time, each one crashing into the next before either can reach a proper conclusion.

"Do you know what you did to me?" The question is more of a whisper. "You made me feel things I don't let myself feel. You made me lose control. You — God, you made me talk."

His jaw tightens eyes simultaneously sharp and soft. He's bracing himself, his body language shifting.

"For the first time in a year, I saw my mother," you continue, the confession tumbling out with the momentum of something that's been held back too long. "I held my sister. I went home."

You blink rapidly, your eyes performing emergency protocols to contain the tears. "Do you know what kind of man it takes to make me do that?"

Jungkook's lips part like he's about to speak, but nothing leaves, as if the dictionary of possible responses has been wiped from his memory. You step closer, closing the distance between you.

"You got me to sit on a beach and tell you things I've never said out loud. You got me to let you in. Without trying.. or asking." Your hands wave vaguely in the air, as if trying to physically grasp the concept. "You just... did. You're the first man who's ever made me feel something that wasn't transactional. You make me feel like a person, Jungkook.“

He's standing with the frozen stillness of someone who just discovered they're in a minefield, but his chest is rising and falling. You know he's hearing it all; every word, every crack in your voice, every truth you've been swallowing since you pushed him away.

"I didn't come here to fix anything," you murmur, "I just needed you to know that you mattered. That you weren't some mistake for me."

And then, quieter, “You were the only thing that ever felt real.“

Jungkook blinks once. And then again. If a human could display a buffering sign, it would be rotating above his head right now.

He's speechless, which considering he's a man who performs in front of stadium crowds and has entire teams dedicated to crafting his public statements, is quite the achievement to add to your professional resume.

You just let him look at you. There's no persona to hide behind, not anymore.

And the longer he stands there, wordless as a statue, watching you, jaw clenched tight, the more your stomach flip-flops inside you.

You've never been this exposed. Not even in the heat of his bed, when physical nakedness seemed like the most vulnerable state possible (how adorably naive that belief seems now.) This is an entirely different category of exposure.

Still, he says nothing. The audacity of this silence is almost impressive.

So you redirect, falling back on the one thing you understand: paperwork.

Your fingers tremble, but you manage to grip the contract and tear it straight down the middle with surprising dramatic flair.

Again. And again. And again.

Until it's nothing but corporate confetti. Thin little fragments of legally binding language and signature and structure, falling in what your brain identifies as a metaphor so on-the-nose it would be rejected from a first year creative writing workshop.

"I don't care about this," you whisper, gesturing to the paper carnage. "I mean, I do care about this. Just… not the way I care about you." You immediately recognize this as the kind of line that would make you roll your eyes if you heard it in a movie, yet here you are, delivering it with complete sincerity. The universe has a twisted sense of humor.

Nothing. Nada. Zilch. His silence has evolved from awkward to actually embarrassing now.

You’re starting to think you may be too late. Maybe he got back together with his ex. Maybe him and Jennie are fucking again.

You blink back the burn in your eyes, throat closing around words. "Please," you breathe out, "Tell me I'm not too late. Tell me I didn't fuck up another thing in my life—"

You barely finish getting the words out before he moves.

One second you're standing there, and the next, his hands are on your waist, pulling you in, grounding you like gravity suddenly remembered your specific coordinates.

To your surprise — he’s kissing you.

The world narrows to this: his hands on your body, warm and solid and real. The faint scent of his musky cologne mixing with a body wash that is uniquely him. The pressure of his lips against yours, lip ring cool against your warm mouth.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, a small voice wonders if this counts as a successful business negotiation or a breach of ethics. The rest of your consciousness tells that voice, quite firmly, to shut the hell up.

You melt into him, shaking and breathless, fingers curling into his t-shirt as your lips part under his with enthusiasm.

This isn't some tentative, exploratory first kiss from a Hinge meetup. This isn't the calculated kiss of someone testing chemistry before deciding if a dinner date was worth the investment.

This is a kiss that announces "you're home" with little to no subtlety.

His mouth remains attached to yours as he backs into the doorway, pulling you along and tethering your body to his like you might run. His paranoia, you have to admit, isn't entirely unreasonable given your track record of vanishing acts.

The torn contract lies abandoned on the welcome mat. The wind shifts behind you as the door clicks shut with finality.

Inside, it's warm. Dim. Quiet. Smells like a mix of spices and some kind of candle. His soft lips move over yours, intoxicating enough that your educated brain has forgotten how to form coherent sentences in any known language.

He walks you backward through his home, the kiss breaking only in microsecond intervals.

"I waited for you," he whispers between kisses. You respond with a sound between a whimper and a sigh, palms pressing into his chest as he lightly pushes you against the nearest wall with surprising authority. His breath fans hot against your cheek, “I told myself to let it go. That maybe I'd imagined all of it, that you didn't feel the same."

You gasp as his teeth graze your skin with just enough pressure to short-circuit your higher reasoning capabilities. One of his hands slides up beneath your blouse, his touch somehow managing to be both needy and soft.

Your last coherent thought before surrendering entirely to this expected plot twist is that Daniel is never, ever going to let you live this down when you return to New York.

"I've never felt this way about anyone," he exhales against the base of your throat, words tumbling out. "Not once."

It’s real when he says it. All of it. Every emotional shard he left scattered across like breadcrumbs, still waiting for you to come back and attempt the world's most ill-advised puzzle reassembly.

You pull him closer with upper body strength you didn't know you possessed, kissing him like your respiratory system has been recently reconfigured to run exclusively on Jeon Jungkook. Your hands slip beneath the hem of his shirt, cataloging the warmth of him, the tension coiled in his muscles.

"Jungkook..." You begin, caught between a moan and a murmur.

But he shakes his head, kissing you harder, "Don't. Don't say anything yet. Just be here." The request comes with the desperation of someone who's still half-convinced they're hallucinating.

You have absolutely no idea of how you've navigated this far into his house. Your last clear memory involves standing on a doorstep watching shredded corporate paperwork fall to the gravel.

The walls blur, corners cease to exist. Every hallway becomes a perfect clone when your mouth remains fused to his. You maintain only peripheral awareness of your own movement, shoes occasionally slipping against the floor with all the grace of a newborn giraffe, his hands gripping your waist to steady you. You careen into one wall, then another, turning his home into an obstacle course neither of you seems particularly interested in navigating efficiently.

He's talking through it all, and you don't realize you're crying until his thumb brushes over your cheekbone in adoration.

"I thought I lost you," he mumbles, his mouth creating a cartography of your features; the edge of your lips, the angle of your jaw, the sensitive spot just below your ear. "You were gone. I thought that was it."

You shake your head, and he doesn't even wait for verbal confirmation before kissing you again. Deeper this time, with the kind of attention to your body that makes you wonder if perhaps your entire professional career has just been an elaborate prelude to this specific moment in this hallway with this person.

Your fingers fumble with the hem of his shirt, tugging the fabric upward in what's meant to be a smooth, seductive motion. He lifts his arms automatically anyway as if he is just as desperate to eliminate any non-skin barriers between you.

His shirt gets tossed somewhere, your hand firmly planted on the plane of his chest, the taut muscle underneath.

"Fuck," he mutters against your collarbone, as he presses you against yet another wall (his home apparently consisting of nothing but convenient vertical surfaces.) One hand slips beneath your blouse while the other slides up your clothed thigh with intent. "You can't do that to me again."

"I won't," you promise, hands trembling against his chest "I swear."

He kisses you again like he doesn't quite believe you but has decided the potential heartbreak is an acceptable risk if it means having this fragment of connection.

Clothes begin their gradual migration to the floor — not the choreographed disrobing of movie sex scenes where garments somehow land in artful arrangements, but the realistic, occasionally awkward shedding. Your blouse gets caught on one earring. He helps with buttons while simultaneously trying to maintain mouth-to-mouth contact, resulting in misaligned kisses that land at the corner of your lips.

There's a brief, silent negotiation about whether your shoes should come off before or after your pants. Jeans are discarded, fingers brushing against your lace underwear.

You don't even care about the logistics anymore, the who-goes-where and what-happens-when that your organizational brain would typically want to map out. You just know one essential truth.

You need him.

Not in the scratch-an-itch way of previous encounters.

You're letting him see you now, unfiltered and unedited.

You don't try to steady your hands as they trail down his sides. Don't stabilize your voice to hide the crack when you whisper his name like it's become a more honest version of your own. You don't armor yourself when he looks down at you, shirtless and flushed, and murmurs with wonder: "You came back."

And that's when he lifts you, hands sliding under your thighs, holding you firmly to him. You wrap your legs around him, arms circling his neck, surrendering to being transported like the world's most willing hostage.

You have only the vaguest awareness of your surroundings. Some room, presumably his bedroom, though frankly it could have been his kitchen or laundry room and you wouldn't have noticed or cared. Geography has become thoroughly irrelevant to your current priorities.

The only thing actually registering in your sensory catalog is him; breath warming your collarbone, skin pressed against skin, lips trailing slow, wet kisses along the slope of your shoulder. He lays you down on his bed, gaze taking inventory of every inch of you.

His expression carries the stunned disbelief of someone who can't quite convince himself he's allowed to have you after you pulled your disappearing act.

The room is quiet except for your combined breathing and the soft rustle of sheets. Jungkook's palms drag up the sides of your thighs with a confidence that makes your skin tingle in anticipation, thumbs grazing the curve of your hips. He lowers himself, dark hair falling across his forehead. He presses a kiss just above your knee that sends an electrical current straight to your core which has apparently been in hibernation.

"You always look like this for me?" he murmurs. His fingers toy with the delicate hem of your lace underwear — the good ones you'd packed with what you now recognize was blatant optimism disguised as practicality. His eyes flicker up to catch yours, and you recognize him on his knees in his own bedroom, and suddenly breathing seems like an advanced skill you never quite mastered. "Spread out, soft... waiting?"

You can only nod, lips parted and pulse fluttering beneath your skin. Because when he's like this, looking at you like you're some kind of miracle he's afraid to blink and miss, it's impossible to maintain the illusion that you were ever in control of this situation.

Your eyes flutter shut, hands curling into the sheets. He hasn't even properly touched you yet, but you're already unraveling faster than a cheap sweater in the dryer, undone by nothing more than his mouth hovering in your general vicinity.

You feel the delicate tug of lace between your thighs, the slow drag of your underwear as he bites at the waistband. He pulls them down with his teeth like he's personally offended by the concept of using hands for their intended purpose, savoring each millimeter of progress.

He drops the lace to the floor with casual disregard, like it’s unimportant — which, right now, it is — and without hesitation, he leans in, pressing the softest kiss to your soaked core.

You jolt visibly, audibly, a shaky sound catching in your throat as your legs try to twitch closed out of instinct. Not that he allows this sudden attack of modesty to proceed.

No, he’s already got his hands under your thighs, dragging you closer to the edge of the bed, closer to his mouth, to the heat of his breath, to the place he plans to keep you until you forget your name.

And then he hooks your legs over his shoulders with practiced expertise, essentially wearing your thighs like the world's most inappropriate neck pillow.

“There we go,” he mutters, like he’s pleased with himself, like he’s settling in. His fingers dig into your thighs to maintain his access route, thumbs brushing over skin softly that somehow makes everything worse (or better, depending on your perspective.) He’s spreading you wide open for him, singing your praises, “Nice and close. Stay just like that, baby.”

And you do, despite your brain's distant, feeble protests about maintaining some semblance of dignity. Your hands scramble through the sheets, heart thundering in your chest.

A single coherent thought manages to penetrate the fog of sensation overtaking your higher reasoning capabilities: you are so, so screwed. Metaphorically, for now. Though given current trajectory, the literal interpretation seems imminent.

His grip on your thighs tightens just before his mouth finds your cunt. It’s one singular lick, tongue dividing between your folds. Your fingers dive into his hair with the desperate urgency of someone grabbing the last life preserver on a sinking ship, threading through the soft strands until you're practically clutching his head. “F-fuck!”

It’s consistent laps up and down your folds, your juices coating his lips, the coldness of his lip ring sending you into oblivion. He doesn’t ease up. He doesn’t tease. He devours you, tongue beginning to speed up.

You feel completely exposed, like you've accidentally sent your most private thoughts to a company-wide email thread, and somehow this vulnerability only intensifies everything, your body apparently interpreting danger signals as "please, sir, more of that."

Then his tongue flicks across your clit with the precise timing of someone who's memorized your particular user manual, and the noise that escapes you resembles something between a hiccup and the beginning of an embarrassing performance. Some pathetic little "uh" sound bubbles up from your throat.

You’re spread out beneath him, legs shaking, sheets twisted in your fists as he keeps going — his tongue relentless, lips slick, chin wet with you. His jaw glistens with evidence of your arousal, creating the kind of mess that would horrify you normally but currently registers as the hottest thing you've ever witnessed.

He groans against you, the vibration adding yet another layer of sensation to the overwhelming cascade, a sound so deep and raw it seems to originate from somewhere primal. Maybe he's just as far gone as you are, equally lost in this moment of reconnection. Or maybe… god, who cares, he just really can’t stop.

Your brain is syrupy now, thick and slow, synapses misfiring as your body spins somewhere between pleasure and delirium. Every drag of his tongue has you twitching, every suck of his lips on your clit sends another wave crashing through you, and your body doesn’t know what to do with any of it.

“Fuck—Jungkook, I—I can’t—” you gasp, practically ripping his hair out of his scalp. Your voice has adopted qualities you've never heard before — high, fractured, entirely unbefitting for someone who once made a junior copywriter cry with a single raised eyebrow.

“I love eating this pussy,” he mutters, muffled against your soaked cunt. Like he's experiencing a religious epiphany that happens to be centered between your thighs. “Swear to god, I’d live here. Every damn day.”

You respond with a choked sob that would mortify you in literally any other context but seems perfectly reasonable given that your central nervous system is currently experiencing the neurological equivalent of fireworks.

“You taste so fuckin’ sweet,” he murmurs, dragging his tongue in one long, devastating stripe. “So good for me. You feel that, baby? The way you’re dripping all over me? The way your little cunt’s beggin’ for it?”

Your hips buck upward, but he counters this rebellion, mouth locking around your clit with such pressure that your eyes roll back like they're trying to retreat into your skull for safety.

“You’re mine,” he says, voice containing equal parts possession and wonder, as if he's surprised by his own declaration. “You know that? I’m never letting you go.”

You’re gone. Dizzy, spinning, stars behind your eyes. There’s a scream climbing up your throat, and your entire body is about to break apart, lit from within by a chain reaction that has precisely one catalyst: him, him, him.

Just when you think you’re about to tip over the edge, when every muscle in your body is coiled and quaking, Jungkook pulls back slightly, enough to keep you hovering. His tongue slows to an excruciating crawl, tracing soft circles around your clit. Barely there. Absolutely criminal.

Your whole body jolts, hips twitching helplessly, chasing more, chasing anything. But he keeps you right there, locked in with the pads of his fingers bruising your thighs.

"N-no—don't stop," you whimper, voice hitting notes that would embarrass you in any other context. "Feels so good, I—fuck, since when— since when did you get this good?"

He hums against you, the vibration hitting exactly where you need it most, sounding entirely too pleased with himself. His tongue resumes its torturously slow rhythm, each deliberate stroke designed for maximum frustration. He's moving like he's got all day to keep you on this edge.

"I mean it," you babble, vocabulary reduced to the primitive language center of someone who's forgotten they once intimidated an entire marketing department. "God, it's—fuck, I swear, what the fuck, it feels so —ahh— good!”

You glance down, desperate for visual confirmation that this is actually happening, and discover he's already looking up at you. Eyes dark and hazed over like he's sampled something significantly stronger than the recommended dosage, half-lidded and wild.

And the moment your eyes lock, it hits you like a punch to the chest. Somehow, it feels too raw.

His tongue doesn’t stop, slow and cruel in its own way, but his eyes stay locked on yours. Completely unflinching, intense, like he wants you to see him, like he’s trying to tell you something with every flick of his tongue.

Your tone fractures like cheap glassware. "Jungkook... please, please don't stop, I can't—"

He doesn't (clearly a man who follows through on his commitments.)

Just when you think you’ve adjusted to the slow torture of his tongue, Jungkook shifts.

This time, there's no trace of the earlier restraint. No more teasing. No more measured patience. His tongue flattens and drags against your slit, before circling your clit rapidly, flicking in tight, rhythmic strokes that have your entire body seizing.

You cry out with sounds that would be mortifying if recorded, hands clutching his hair like stress balls. "J-Jungkook—oh my God—don't stop, don't—fuck, please—"

"Keep still," he whispers against you,"Take it just like this."

And then he’s back on you, tongue working you over, flicking fast, then flattening again, sucking your clit into his mouth and rolling the sensitive nub over in devastating circles.

You're spiraling into some delirious dimension where coherent speech is a distant memory. "God—fuck—Jungkook, what the fuck, you're—nnh, please keep going."

He chuckles into you, vibration shooting through your spine. “Want you to cum on my face.”

And then — just when your nerve endings have adjusted to his particular brand of torture — he pauses.

You whine at the sudden loss, body shaking, on the very edge of begging. But then you feel it: two fingers, thick and warm, sliding slowly into you. The stretch makes your back arch, mouth falling open on a broken moan as he sinks them deep and curls them just right.

Your walls clamp around him instantly, greedy and desperate, like they've been waiting for exactly this intrusion.

“Oh my God,” you gasp, eyes flying open. “Fuck!”

He pulls his mouth back a bit to speak, lips slick with you, fingers never leaving you. “Hmm, I’ve always known how to fuck you right.”

He leans in again, multitasking with impressive coordination; his tongue returning to your sopping wet core with determination while his fingers establish a rhythm inside you that can only be described as diabolically perfect. They curl against your sweet spot that makes your vision develop lens flares at the edges.

"Cum for me," he begs, "Cum on my fingers. Cum on my tongue. I want all of it."

And there's nothing left in your arsenal of resistance to fight this particular hostile takeover.

Not when he's looking at you with that expression. Especially not when his fingers are pumping inside you.

Your orgasm tears through you with a force that feels almost violent, body snapping taut beneath him as your back arches off the bed and a involuntary cry rips from your throat.

This is a full system meltdown. A white-hot supernova behind your eyelids, a full-body seismic event that has you gasping for oxygen. Your thighs clamp around Jungkook's head but he doesn't even flinch — he holds steady, fingers maintaining their rhythm, mouth still attending to your clit with dedication.

Everything in the known universe disappears except the overwhelming input of sensation; his mouth, his hands, his voice murmuring something against your trembling flesh that your pleasure-scrambled brain files under "process later" in a folder that may never actually be opened.

And then — oh God. There it is.

A gush of warmth, uncontrollable, spilling out of you before you can stop it,, and maybe you do squirt, maybe it’s just a near miss, but who’s to say? All you know with absolute certainty is that you're essentially baptizing his face, and the animalistic sound he produces in response is obscene, so proud, that it sends another aftershock ripping through your core.

Your whole body vibrates. Wrecked. Utterly demolished.

Jungkook finally pulls back, face glistening. He looks both flushed and triumphant, eyes dilated, staring at you like you've just performed some rare cosmic event he was lucky enough to witness.

"Holy shit," you exhale, "What the fuck was that."

He has a shit-eating grin on his face, wiping his chin with the back of his hand in a gesture that should be gross but somehow isn't, managing to look simultaneously cocky and awestruck. "Guess I don't have to wonder if you came."

You release a sound that exists somewhere between laughter and delirium, flinging an arm over your eyes. “I think I just blacked out," you murmur, the confession slipping out too easily.

Jungkook leans over you, starts to get off his knees, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh, then another softer one. "Good," he says.

You blink at the ceiling with disoriented wonder. "Fuck, I missed this. Even if it wasn't that long of a break."

He chuckles. "I don't care how long it was, I still missed it."

You blink through the haze clouding your vision just in time to witness Jungkook fully rising to his feet at the edge of the bed, his gaze locked on you. His hands hook into the waistband of his boxers, dragging them down his thighs. Then he's there, hard, thick, and flushed, cock cradled in his hand as he strokes himself.

His eyes trail over your body with the thorough documentation of someone creating a visual archive. You can feel yourself responding in eagerness, walls clenching around nothing like they're experiencing separation anxiety.

"I'm never letting you go again," he says, voice dropping the playful edge, becoming something serious. “You get that, right?"

You attempt to formulate a response, but discover your mouth has apparently decided to cosplay as the Sahara. All you can manage is a nod that barely qualifies as movement.

He’s slightly hovering over you, arms sliding under your thighs, clamping around them as he drags you down the bed in one swift movement. You gasp as your ass makes abrupt contact with the edge of the mattress, cool air hitting newly exposed skin while your legs fall open, and then — holy evolutionary biology —

His cock slides through your folds, the weight and heat of him dragging against your already hypersensitive clit like a match strike against sandpaper. You whimper, legs twitching, your body apparently unable to decide if it's too sensitive for more stimulation or desperately craving it.

He repeats the motion again. And again. The thick, velvety length of his cock glides through your slick evidence, teasing your entrance. He lets you feel every ridge and vein without giving you the satisfaction of actual penetration, slaps his length against your juices a few times.

"Feel that?" he speaks softly, "That's mine. This whole fucking pussy. All of you." The possessive declaration should trigger your feminist alarm bells, but your body apparently didn't get the memo, responding instead with an endorsement.

Your hips jerk upward instinctively. “Jungkook, please."

He looks down at you, pupils so dilated they've nearly consumed the black holes. His jaw clenches, sweat creating a subtle sheen at his temple that catches the dim light. His cock twitches against you, leaving another hot trail of precum across your folds like some kind of territorial marking. “Say it," he growls, "Say you're mine."

Your fingers claw at the sheets, completely useless against the solid weight of him positioned between your thighs. You're wet to a degree that should concern you, but it somehow doesn’t. “Jungkook," you moan, "Please. I—I need you."

He grits his teeth, cock jumping between your folds. His expression broadcasts a man barely maintaining his composure. “Say it," he repeats. "Tell me you're mine."

You gasp, legs shuddering in his iron grip. “I'm yours," you whisper, the words escaping before your pride can intercept them. "I'm yours, Jungkook. I'm fucking yours. Please.. just fuck me. I can't, I need it, need you—"

That's all it takes; your desperate declaration being the final passcode to unlock whatever restraint he's been maintaining.

He growls under his breath incoherently, pushing his full length devastatingly slow into you.

And the stretch..

Sweet merciful heaven, it's always been llike discovering a new dimension of sensation. Always been the best you’ve ever had.

He's thick, pressing deeper into you than before, walls struggling to accommodate him. Each inch creates a delicious burn that makes your mouth fall open silently.

Your back arches, hands flying to his forearms with a desperate grip. Your lungs attempt to remember their primary function.

"Fuck," Jungkook hisses through teeth clenched, the grip on your thighs now firmly in bruise-manufacturing territory as he watches himself disappear into you. "You're so tight. Shit, always so wet for me."

You attempt to form words, but they never come. You're too full, stretched beyond what you thought possible. All you manage is a whimper as he bottoms out, hips flush against yours, the substantial weight of him seated so deep you feel claimed from the inside out.

He hovers over you, his forehead brushing yours with unexpected tenderness. "You feel that?" he says under his breath. "That stretch? That fullness? That's me, baby."

You nod frantically, nails creating temporary artwork on his toned arms, walls clenching around him with rhythmic pulses. “I can feel you everywhere," you whisper, "You're—fuck, you're so deep, I—"

Jungkook holds still inside you for one suspended moment, long enough for your body to adjust to the size. Your legs twitch where they remain trapped in his grasp, feet dangling in the air.

Then, without verbal warning or mercy, he withdraws completely.

All the way out.

The sudden emptiness hits you like sensory whiplash, your walls clutching at nothing, muscles fluttering with panic, and then he pushes back in unhurriedly, dragging every impressive inch into your slick cunt.

Head tilting back, you moan out something that sounds like a profanity. He follows your movement like he's tethered to you, leaning down with a groan.

That's when you feel it; the gentle tap of cold metal against your chin.

His silver chain. You never really did appreciate that jewelry piece.

It swings, providing cool metallic kisses against your overheated skin. The visual of it dangling above you, catching light with each oscillation, nearly sends you to heaven.

You will never get tired of this man again.

You grab him by the neck with the decisive urgency of someone who's finally stopped overthinking everything, dragging him down against you, crashing your mouth to his with absolutely zero concern for technique or dignity.

Fuck, the taste.

You taste yourself on his lips, a complex, slightly salty sweetness that you'd never admit to anyone you find strangely intoxicating. Mixed with the warmth of his tongue and the slick slide of his mouth, your brain temporarily suspends all higher functions. He maintains that unhurried rhythm below, deep thrusts that end with a grind.

Your teeth accidentally catch his bottom lip in your eagerness and his breath hitches against your mouth.

"God," you exhale into his mouth, "you feel so fucking good. I-I missed you so m-much.”

Jungkook moans wantonly, forehead pressing against yours in that surprisingly tender gesture that somehow makes everything more intimate than the actual sex itself. His hips maintain that tempo, drawing out pleasure.

"You drive me insane," he whines. "You're so fucking tight, so perfect. I could do this all night. Never get tired of being inside you."

You shudder, gasping into the half-kiss, legs tightening around his waist with newfound plans to eliminate any remaining space between your bodies.

When he thrusts again, harder this time, you swear the room performs a slow rotation around you. He breaks the kiss with a muttered profanity that somehow sounds like poetry, staring down at you. In this moment, in this bed, with this man… you’ve never felt more safe and loved.

Yet the careful, teasing rhythm he’s been making love to you with shatters like fine china dropped from a height.

Jungkook drives into you with a force that makes your breath catch, his hips connecting with yours. The soundtrack becomes deliciously obscene — skin meeting skin with wet smacking. The headboard begins its own contribution, banging against the wall with a volume that would concern you if you weren't well past caring about such mundane considerations.

You cry out incredibly loud, “Oh my God — fuck — Jungkook, don't stop," your nails drag across his back and shoulders, anywhere within reach, as your body jerks beneath him.

"Not fucking planning to," he responds with grim determination, thrusting harder, deeper.

Thank God he doesn't have neighbors.

High, broken sounds emerge from your throat that seem to bypass your vocal cords entirely. And Jungkook? He's producing a collection of grunts and groans, punctuating each thrust with your name.

"You hear that?" he pants, fucking into you with enough force to make the bedframe collapse at this rate. "That's how wet you are for me. That sound—fuuck—you hear how good it sounds?"

You can't formulate a coherent response but your body registers only the essential data points: the way his cock hits that sweet spot each time, the way your walls grip him, the feel of his muscles underneath your fingertips.

You're the visual definition of dishevelment — hair stuck to your face, eyes glazed mouth open and—oh god—actually drooling slightly as you beg for more.

Jungkook's hand comes up to grab your jaw with gentleness, tilting your face to meet his gaze. “You are so, so beautiful."

The sincerity punches through your pleasure-riddled brain. You suddenly recognize this look — the one he's been giving you for weeks while you've been busy pretending he wasn’t. The realization lands with the subtlety of a piano dropped from a third-story window: you're the oblivious protagonist in your own romantic story.

Without warning or consultation, Jungkook rearranges your legs, hooking them over his shoulders like he's claiming ownership… which, at this particular moment, feels like a completely reasonable arrangement.

He thrusts back in, so deep your mouth drops open in a silent scream. Your walls clamp down on them, juices leaking out onto the sheets below you.

"Holy shit," you gasp, "I can't, I can't, you're so deep, Jungkook, I—"

Somehow, in this moment of incoherence and surrender, you've never felt more genuinely yourself. There's something terrifying and liberating about being seen so completely, being known in this most primitive, honest way, and that you’ll let him have you like this.

He groans, abs flexing with roll of his hips. From this angle, escape from visual impact is impossible; he's looming above you, hair falling into eyes, jaw squared. His chest rises and falls in a quick, shallow rhythm but has decided breathing is less important than the task at hand.

"Fuck," he growls, gaze traveling downward to where your bodies connect, where every drag of his cock exhibits a ring of cream soaking his base. "Taking me so well. You're so fucking tight baby, squeezing me like you want me to cum."

You respond with some sound, legs twitching on his shoulders, toes curling behind his back with enough force to cause minor cramping.

"You were made for me," he rasps, "Made to take my cock."

His hand slides to your lower abdomen, pushing down with gentle pressure, and… wait, what is that? You can actually feel him inside you, a distinct bulge moving with each thrust, and your brain momentarily abandons pleasure to engage in scientific inquiry. How is that even possible? Isn't that one of those myths perpetuated by romance novels written by people with questionable understanding of female anatomy? Yet here you are, experiencing the impossible, your own body betraying your skepticism.

"Oh my God," you cry out, "I can feel your—I can't— Jungkook, I can't—"

"Yes, you can," he counters, leaning further forward. He pounds into you, driving his hips even faster. "You're doing so fucking good for me. You're perfect. So perfect."

The praise sends you down a delirious spiral. It's embarrassing how effective simple validation can be, how the right words at the right moment can dismantle any fears you had.

Jungkook's rhythm falters momentarily, before he suddenly stills, cock pulsing inside you with a distinct throb, your walls gripping him with contractions. “Get up," he rasps.

You blink up at him with the unfocused bewilderment of someone who's forgotten how limbs work, body vibrating.

But then his hands are under your thighs, guiding your legs down. He helps you upright, being as careful and soothing as possible. As soon as you’re vertical, back of your knees hitting the edge of the bed, he grabs your face with urgency and kisses you — not the polite, exploratory kiss of early dating, but the kind that has already memorized the topography of your mouth.

His tongue slides in with confidence, and you respond with some sound that gets muffled in his mouth, drunk on the cocktail of hormones, endorphins, and the intoxication of tasting yourself on someone else's lips. Jungkook grips your jaw, hand trailing down to play with one of your pebbled nipples.

Without warning or a proper transition period, his other hand executes a perfect southward journey to your ass and delivers a sharp smack that somehow hits the precise intersection of pleasure and startled indignation.

You gasp, body performing an involuntary jump, and he grins against your lips with the smug satisfaction of someone who's just confirmed a long-held hypothesis (which is that you’ve always liked it when he slapped you. Which he knew.)

"Atta girl," he murmurs, "Now turn around."

You comply eagerly, positioning yourself on wobbly knees on the bed and arching your back in what you hope resembles sexy feline grace rather than a person about to cum in under five seconds. Your hands clutch the sheets with a desperate grip.

Behind you, the mattress creaks with his movement, his hands beginning a leisurely expedition up your back, wandering against your spine. He leans in, his breath cool on your overheated skin, and begins planting kisses down your spine. Each contact of his lips sends tiny electrical currents branching outward, tongue occasionally making guest appearances.

"You're unreal," Jungkook whispers, his voice carrying the raspy quality of genuine awe. "Every inch of you."

And then his hands find your hips with purposeful intent, pulling you backward, and you already know.

You already know you're not ready; not in the sense of being unwilling, but in the way that your body is still recovering from the previous position and probably needs another moment. Normally, under other circumstances, you might’ve stopped whoever, but because it’s him and somehow it feels like it’s been too long, you whimper in excitement.

He taps his cock against your slit a few time, collecting the arousal, and that elicits another wanton moan from you. He slides back in easily, and the sensation of fullness is immediately overwhelming, spine curving in automatic response like you're trying to make space for him inside your body. Your forehead drops to the mattress as a cry escapes your throat, “O-oh fuck, Jungkook!”

"Fuuuck," he groans behind you. His hips connect with your backside forcefully, and repeatedly. "This pussy's fucking perfect. God, I’m going to fuck y-you everyday."

Your entire form jolts with each impact, hands clutching the sheets. Your sensory awareness has narrowed to a hyper-focused inventory of feeling: every inch of him, each purposeful grind of his hips, the smell of his leftover aftershave still on your body, the sound of skin slapping echoing throughout the room. “F-Fuck me like I’m yours.”

That pretty much sends him on a rampage.

His hands press flat between your shoulder blades, effectively pinning you as he speeds his tempo.

"You like this?" he pants against your ear, breath hot against your neck as he leans over you. "Being bent over, dripping all over my cock?"

Your moan comes out high-pitched, needy, and completely stripped of dignity.

"Yes," you whisper, "Yes, Jungkook — fuck, it's so good. You feel so good—"

"That's right," he groans, emphasizing his point with even more forceful thrusts. "Say my name. Let me hear who's fucking you like this."

You obligingly repeat it, volume increasing with each iteration, “Jungkook—Jungkook—"

With absolute certainty, you realize your impending orgasm has become less a question of "if" and more a matter of "how explosively.”

His hand leaves your back. And suddenly, he’s reaching around your front, fingers slick with his own saliva (you think) as they find your clit, rubbing tight, relentless circles that make your whole body seize up.

“J-Jungkook— oh my god —” you choke out.

“You gonna cum for me again?” he begs against your ear, his weight looming on you. “Gonna fall apart on my cock like the filthy little thing you are?”

And yes, of course you are — your body is already approaching the cliff edge — but your brain knew that while your whole being simultaneously sends a very clear memo: We are absolutely fine with this particular brand of objectification at this specific moment, thank you very much.

You attempt to formulate a verbal response, but your vernacular has apparently gone on strike, only a stuttering noise that emerges from you. “Y-yes. Please make me cum, oooh.”

His fingers speed up, merciless on your clit, and his other hand tangles in your hair and pulls. Spine arching, head yanked back until you’re forced to look up, eyes wide and glassy.

"Fuck, fuck," you practically sob, his fingers entangled so deep in your scalp as he gathers his own makeshift ponytail. "I can't—I oh my god—"

"Yeah?" Jungkook hisses, lips brushing your cheek with unexpected tenderness given what's happening elsewhere. "That cockdrunk already?"

"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna fucking cum again, I—ahh, fuck," you babble with the coherence of someone experiencing a minor stroke, words slurring together, "Jungkook, please—"

"That's it," he bites his lip roughly, nearly drawing blood, his thrusts increasing in both frequency and force. Every circle of his fingers winds the tension tighter in your core. "Say my name while you lose your fucking mind on my cock."

Your mouth drops open in a perfect O, the pressure building in your stomach. Through it all, he remains the constant; grinding into you, fingers maintaining their devastating rhythm on your clit, hand still firmly grasping your hair.

God, you’re right there, so close you can almost…

Jungkook suddenly withdraws completely, creating a void so unexpected your body responds with a sob that comes from somewhere deeper than conscious thought, your entire body trembling and slick and utterly wrecked.

But before you can think again, he's gripping your waist, flipping you over onto your back, your body responding with the cooperative limpness of a rag doll. Thighs still unfortunately shaking from everything he’s done to you. You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s back between your legs, spreading them wide, staring down at the soaked mess between you two.

“Need to see you,” he pants, pupils blown wide. “Need to watch you cum.”

He's kissing you again, less a romantic gesture and more like someone attempting to consume you through your mouth. Tongue hot and demanding, lips slick with everything you’ve given him. It’s messy, desperate, teeth clashing, breaths swallowed. Your hands claw at his back, his hair, needing something to hold onto as he thrusts back into you.

You cry out into his mouth, sound mangled, your head spinning as he fucks you hard from above. His chain swings again with every thrust, cold metal smacking into your bouncing breasts.

Jungkook’s tattooed hand comes up to your throat, wrapping his fingers around the skin, enough to remind you who’s in control.

Your eyes snap open to meet his, and what you find there makes your internal organs perform cartwheels. Possession, worship, and hunger, as if he's been starving for years and you're the first real thing he’s had.

"You're gonna cum for me like this," he whines. His hand maintains its position at your throat, his chain now swinging with abandon, occasionally delivering metallic kisses to your chest. Hands are firmly placed on your hips, your legs flailing with each thrust. "Right here, while I'm inside you."

Your clit throbs at his words with almost painful insistence while your walls contract around his cock, your body apparently making decisions without consulting your brain first.

"Jungkook, right there," you mewl, hand gripping his shoulder tightly, "I can't—I'm gonna—I'm—"

"That's it," he grunts, reclaiming your mouth in a kiss that effectively silences whatever embarrassing sounds were about to escape. “Cum for me, baby."

And you do.

Your orgasm doesn’t just hit — it erupts. It detonates from deep inside you, hot and electric, tearing through your entire body like a lightning strike. Your back arches off the mattress, thighs snapping around Jungkook’s waist as your cunt clamps down on him, squeezing so tight it rips a guttural noise from his throat.

You’re sobbing something that might be his name, might be a prayer, might just be air torn from your lungs.

The world performs an impressive disappearing act. Your vision whites out. You're gone, temporarily relocated to some dimension where only he exists. Every muscle in your body spasms and shakes. It's raw and messy and completely unhinged.

Jungkook feels every microsecond of your unraveling. Each pulse. Each ripple of your body's meltdown beneath him.

"Fuck—" he groans, hips stuttering as your walls flutter around him. His grip intensifies — at your throat, your hip, anywhere he can establish anchor points — his self-control visibly deteriorating with each passing second. "Jesus Christ, you're— fuck, you're squeezing me so hard — baby, I'm not gonna—"

He’s panting now, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping from his temple as he tries not to lose it. This whole time you've been running from him, pretending not to notice what's been right in front of you; his almost painful beauty, the devastating architecture of his features, the way his eyes contain entire universes. (Okay, fine, you noticed. Sometimes. Often. Constantly. But admitting it then would have meant admitting other things you weren't ready for.)

"Look at you," he manages, the words coming out with obvious effort as he watches you completely disintegrate beneath him. "You're so goddamn beautiful when you cum."

"Shit," he gasps, "you're gonna make me—fuck, baby, I'm gonna—"

And still, he doesn’t stop praising you, even as his self-control cracks beneath the weight of your body convulsing around his cock.

“So tight. So wet. You’re perfect,” he growls, each compliment landing like a physical touch. “Made for me. My perfect girl.”

Even as his composure fractures atop the weight of your body, he continues his litany of praise. He's trembling above you now, jaw tightly clenched, every muscle locked as he continues moving through your climax, pursuing his own with increasingly desperate determination.

"Jungkook, fuck, I can't—" you sob, the overstimulation too much for you to even breathe, let alone think.

With one final, decisive thrust, he finishes, harder than he ever has in his natural life.

A sound escapes him, raw and primal and startlingly vulnerable. His head drops to your shoulder, hips moving with an erratic rhythm. His body pulses inside yours, hot ropes of cum painting your walls, your toes curling.

"Fuck, fuck, fuuuck—" he whimpers, hips making two more valiant efforts as he empties himself completely. "So good my girl, so fucking good—I can't, shit—"

This moment of complete abandon is when you finally let yourself see him. Not Calvin Klein's global ambassador. Not South Korea's beloved idol. Not the carefully constructed public image or even the man who you cared less about in those first meetings. Just Jungkook, beautiful when his own walls are down.

You spent so long running from this, from him, pretending not to notice how the light catches his features at certain angles, how his eyes tell stories when he looks at you, how the slope of his nose looks like somewhere butterflies land.

Now, watching him come undone because of you, inside you, the realization lands with catastrophic clearness: he was always yours to have. Completely, irrevocably yours in a way that both terrifies and exhilarates you.

His whole body trembles with aftershocks, chest heaving as he presses impossibly deeper, seeking maximum contact. Jungkook’s hand migrates from your throat to your waist, fingers grasping the warm skin.

Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, not from sadness or even overwhelm, but from some emotion too big for your body to contain. Your legs try to remain wrapped around him, but your muscles give out entirely. Your whole body has gone pleasantly boneless, nerves humming, heart performing a drum solo against your ribs.

He pants against your collarbone, his chain now a cool, slightly sticky presence trapped between your overheated bodies, lips brushing your jaw with tenderness.

"I didn't mean — fuck — I didn't mean to cum that hard," he murmurs, voice sandpaper-rough.

You manage a sound that's adjacent to laughter, breathless and slightly broken, your lips struggling to form actual words through the haze of endorphins. "It’s okay."

He allows his weight to settle near you, forehead resting against your shoulder, still intimately connected.

Neither of you move for a long time. Neither of you really want to.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

You don't know how long it's been since the world stopped spinning on its axis, time having apparently become an optional concept rather than a reliable constant.

The sheets beneath you are warm, air carrying a complex bouquet — skin and breath and something that exists in the undefined territory between forgiveness and desire. Your legs remain stubbornly intertwined with his own, as if your body is staging its own rebellion against separation, operating on some fear that distance equals disappearance.

Jungkook has maintained silence. You've been equally restrained in your contributions to the non-conversation.

But his hand continues its cartography against your skin. Slow, featherlight circles mapped across your back. Periodically, his lips find your hairline, the gesture so natural it seems less of a conscious choice, but instead an involuntary reflex.

Your head occupies the territory of his shoulder, lips occasionally brushing his collarbone in what could be kisses or simply the accident of proximity. Beneath your ear, his chest rises and falls, his heartbeat a steady percussion under your palm.

You allow your gaze to travel upward.

You look at Jungkook in his unfiltered state — eyes heavy-lidded with satisfied exhaustion, torso bare of everything except his tattoo sleeve, the silver chain and a thin sheen of cooling sweat that catches what little light seeps in from the hallway. A faint crimson mark decorates his jaw where you clearly got too excited. He looks beautifully dismantled.

"I want to make this work."

He blinks. Then freezes in place like someone who's just spotted a rare and potentially skittish creature.

You register when he stops his movement against your back, feel the subtle hitch in his respiratory rhythm before it recalibrates to steadiness. But what matters more is what doesn't happen. He doesn't retreat. Doesn't deflect with humor. Doesn't repackage vulnerability into something more manageable.

Instead, he turns his head to look at you with an expression of wonder, gaze soft around the edges, mouth slightly parted as if he's afraid that acknowledging what you've said might cause you to take it back.

"I don't know how. I'm not... I don't want to be your girlfriend yet. I know I'm not ready for that," you admit, the confession emerging with all the tentative vulnerability of someone stepping onto ice they're not convinced will hold. "But I want to try to get there with you."

You don't explicitly mention fear, don't need to catalog the specific anxieties currently living in your chest. It's encoded in every accelerated heartbeat, every microexpression, every subtle tension in the muscles that have spent years building barriers around your emotions.

You're not hiding behind power dynamics or professional distance or the fortress of pride you've constructed brick by brick. You're just here. In his bed. Body curved around his like a physical manifestation of the promise your words have just placed in the air between you.

Jungkook exhales through his nose, a sound that is the audio equivalent of relief wearing joy's clothing, and presses his forehead to your scalp.

"Then let's try," he murmurs.

The silence expands between you, but it isn't awkward at all.

You adjust your position slightly, one leg claiming territory around his waist. His skin radiates warmth against yours, offering a security that feels foreign but essential. Yet your throat constricts anyway.

"Well," you sigh, "I don't know how to be with you, to be honest."

His eyes move to yours. As always, he doesn't attempt solutions. He listens with the rare patience of someone who understands that witnessing is sometimes more valuable than fixing.

You lick your lips and continue, "I don't know how to be someone who texts good morning. Or someone who talks about their feelings over dinner. Or someone who... who knows how to let another person in without feeling like I'm losing something in return."

The admission costs you something — you can feel it leaving your body, years of self-protection dismantling in real time. For a woman who's built her career on knowing exactly what to say and how to say it, this raw honesty feels like jumping off a bridge with no harness.

He remains silent. But his gaze holds yours with steady assurance, eyes dark and patient in the dim light like he's prepared to wait as long as necessary for whatever comes next.

You hesitate, but then add ,"Is that okay?"

The question hangs between you two. About whether someone like him, who seems to navigate genuine connection with the ease of breathing, could possibly want someone like you, for whom emotional transparency feels like a foreign language.

For what seems like ages, he doesn't answer.

Then he lifts a hand to your hair, brushing it back from your face with a sweetness that makes your chest ache in places you didn't know could feel.

"Yeah," he affirms, "That's okay."

Two words. Simple. Direct. And somehow containing the most profound acceptance you've ever been offered.

"I don't need you to be perfect," he continues, "I don't need you to turn into someone else just to be with me. Honestly, i would hate that.”

His thumb traces your jawline, eyes maintaining their focus on yours steadily. “I just need you to try."

You blink back the tears threatening to compromise your maintained image as someone who doesn't cry over boys or sad movies or particularly moving commercials featuring rescue animals.

"That's the problem," you confess, "I don't know how to try without trying to win or turning everything into something to conquer."

"I know," he says with the certainty of someone stating that water is wet. "You're the most guarded person I've ever met."

You narrow your eyes with mock indignation. "You're terrible at comforting people."

Which… is a lie so transparent it wouldn't fool a toddler. The man clearly possesses emotional intelligence bordering on supernatural — he somehow got you, corporate warrior queen and professional feelings-avoider, to actually visit your family after a year of strategic absence. If that's not evidence of psychological wizardry, nothing is.

He smiles genuinely, "You didn't come all the way here because I'm good at comforting people."

Your lips twitch traitorously, the beginnings of a smile staging a coup. Jungkook leans closer, "You don't have to know how to be with me right now. You just have to stay."

You press your face into the sanctuary of his skin, inhaling his scent. “You're not afraid?" you ask.

"Terrified," he replies without even a millisecond's hesitation. "But I'd rather be afraid with you than safe without you."

The line would sound rehearsed coming from anyone else, but his voice carries this authenticity of someone speaking their unfiltered truth. He looks at you like you're the answer to questions he didn't even know he was asking, like someone who's found their favorite person in a world of seven billion options and is amazed by his good fortune.

You don't respond verbally. You don't need to.

Because your arms remain wrapped around him, your body more honest than your words have ever managed to be. And you haven't let go or run away yet — a physical declaration more powerful than any verbal agreement.

The soft moment only lasts so long, however , because he's a man and therefore incapable of sustaining emotional vulnerability beyond the FDA-recommended dosage, his chest rumbles with that low frequency that signals a subject change is imminent.

"So," he says, "wanna hop in the shower with me?"

The question carries all the subtlety of a neon sign, but you find yourself smiling anyway — partly because it's such a perfectly timed relief for the emotional pressure that's been building, and partly because even this transparent attempt at distraction is infused with affection. His eyes still look at you like you've personally hung the moon and stars, even while proposing something as mundane as shared hygiene.

You blink for a moment. Then lift your head just enough to give him a look that questions both his sanity and possibly basic human biology. “You're joking."

He returns your gaze with an expression balanced perfectly between amusement and innocence. "Why would I be joking?"

"Because it's physically impossible that you still have anything left," you retort ,eyebrows climbing toward your forehead in a silent judgment of his audacity.

He just shrugs, "I hydrate. I stretch. I take care of myself."

You drop your head back onto his chest with a groan that contains multitudes; exhaustion, disbelief, and a reluctant hint of admiration. "Oh my god."

He grins, entirely unbothered by your exasperation, fingers tracing a path down your side. "You're the one who came crawling back to me, remember?"

You lift your head again, fixing him with a glare that would wither lesser men. "Crawling is a strong word."

He arches a single eyebrow. "You showed up at my house with a crumpled contract and a face that said please, take me back my lover."

You have the simultaneous desire to slap him, kiss him senseless, and then perhaps slap him once more for good measure. But you opt for your mouth opening, then closing again, resembling an indignant goldfish as your brain frantically searches for a comeback and finds the cupboard disappointingly bare.

"Yeah," he smirks, "that's what I thought."

You grab the nearest pillow and smack him squarely in the face with it — the universal last resort of those who have lost the argument but refuse to concede defeat.

He laughs as he effortlessly confiscates your improvised weapon and tosses it aside. With fluid coordination, he tugs you back toward him, arms locking around your waist.

"I'm serious," he murmurs,"Shower with me."

His expression might be teasing, but his eyes tell a different story, one where this request is about far more than shared hygiene. They look at you with the softness reserved for someone who still can't quite believe you're actually here, in his bed, in his arms, agreeing to try.

You pull back just enough to examine him properly, the way his smile goes slightly lopsided when genuine, how his eyes crinkle at the corners when they're not performing for a lens. And underneath all of that visible surface-level perfection: relief. Quiet, unmistakable relief that you're actually here, that this isn't another near miss in your shared history of almosts.

You trace a thumb along his jawline, "If I go in there with you, you're not allowed to make a single comment about your 'stamina.'"

He presses a kiss to your wrist. "Fine."

"Or your flexibility."

"Okay."

"Or how good your skin looks wet."

He snorts with amusement. "You do like it though."

You deliver one final shove to his shoulder, the gesture containing all the force of a gentle breeze as he begins to sit up. His arms are already reaching for you again, the blanket abandoning its post as he pulls you back into him. A laugh escapes your throat before you can intercept it, muffled against the skin that's become more familiar to you than anything.

This unexpected development is precisely what you never permitted yourself to envision. What your risk assessments classified as statistically improbable.

But here it is. Materializing in this moment. Occupying this bed with the certainty of something that's always been inevitable.

You look at him again, and he returns your gaze.

Perhaps love isn't orchestrated declarations or cinematic gestures performed with optimal lighting.

Perhaps it's this.

The quietly profound silence that says despite all logical arguments to the contrary, you stayed.

And the next few days unfold with that same magic of moments you weren't supposed to have; soft, unanticipated.

You extend your return flight as if you’re postponing a dentist appointment. Once. Then again and again. Until the concept of departure transforms from definitive plan to vague hypothetical.

Your hotel sends increasingly concerned emails about your room you haven't seen and don’t plan to. Your suitcase maintains its position in the corner of Jungkook's bedroom, untouched and increasingly irrelevant.

Now? You essentially live here.

At least, that's the only conclusion based on available evidence.

Your limbs are entangled with his at all times; on his comfortable couch, in his ridiculously large bed, half-conscious on the floor in front of his massive TV. Your hairbrush has made good friends with his bathroom drawer. There's a bottle of your overpriced moisturizer holding territory on his nightstand. His kitchen now carries the scent of your morning coffee, and he never allows you to prepare it without supervision.

"Let me do it," he insists, "You'll make it too strong."

"You're weak," you counter, "Own it."

But he just shrugs with nonchalance, delivers a kiss to your cheekbone, and activates the kettle anyway.

Daniel, from across the world, hasn't made contact. He doesn't need to. Your discretion levels are currently hovering around zero.

You sent him a single text, a masterpiece of vagueness claiming you're "taken care of." His response consisted of three laughing emojis and a GIF depicting a calendar engulfed in flames. You chose not to follow up on that particular conversation thread.

No other member of the team has demonstrated the courage needed to disturb your unauthorized sabbatical.

For perhaps the first time in your adult life, you experience zero guilt about any of it.

For once, your life isn't structured around the strategy decks at dawn and press releases at midnight. You're eating toast over Jungkook's kitchen sink, while behind you, he performs a lip sync routine using a wooden spoon as his microphone. You're curled up on his couch wearing one of his shirts (which naturally, fits you like a dress), your laptop exiled to the coffee table. His head rests in your lap while he tells you tales from his trainee days that simultaneously explain his discipline and make you wonder how anyone survives the k-pop industry with their sanity intact.

You find yourself watching him smile, the authentic ones that transforms his entire face and makes something in your chest bloom. Somewhere between months ago and this moment, your brain recategorized him, filing him under "person I might actually miss" rather than "professional chaos requiring PR aide."

Each night, you fall asleep in his bed with windows slightly ajar, Seoul's night air drifting in, his arm draped across your waist.

Some days you wake to find him already conscious, just... looking at you, blinking as if he’s conducting reality checks.

"You okay?" you whisper during one such morning surveillance, voice still rough with sleep.

He nods. Smiles that stupid bunny smile that makes you all fuzzy. “Just making sure you're real."

You don't try to respond. Kiss him instead.

You don't know what comes next in this unscripted thing you've stumbled into. Your professional life has always operated according to meticulous planning but there's no PowerPoint template for whatever this is. No key performance indicators to measure the success of accidentally falling for the person you were supposed to keep at a professional distance.

Finally though, when reality does come crashing down, when the email confirmation materializes in your inbox, it feels like some alternate version of yourself made these arrangements. Some corporate doppelgänger who still prioritizes quarterly projections over the way Jungkook's voice sounds when he's half-asleep.

Your return to New York.

A city that once represented the pinnacle of your ambitions, now reduced to a collection of skyscrapers and deadlines.

You stare at the itinerary, thumb hovering over the screen. The return remains theoretical until you forward it to your assistant.

Subject line: returning next week. please keep calendar clear until I land.

What your assistant doesn't know… is that this departure comes with a loophole.

Not so much an ending as a comma in a sentence still being written.

There's another ticket purchased with the stealth of a spy. Under Jungkook's legal name. Scheduled for precisely seventy-two hours after yours — a buffer zone necessary for him to navigate the bureaucracy that runs his existence. A whispered promise that he'll follow once HYBE's legal department, publicity team, and some other people sign off on the logistical nightmare that is "globally famous person attempts to ‘try things’ with c-suite member of said person’s latest marketing campaign.”

There will be tabloid landmines to sidestep. Calendar schedules to master. Seemingly trivial concerns that will eventually mean something, like calculating time differences before sending texts, ensuring you’ve made space for his skincare in your New York apartment, and perfecting the art of arriving at the same location via different entrances.

“Trying to make it work” with an international popstar, it turns out, requires the same level of strategic planning as a corporate merger.

Right now, though, you're standing in the doorway of Jungkook's apartment, performing the world's most reluctant exit. Your suitcase waits by your feet, coat draped over your arm, heart lodged so firmly in your throat. The car service downstairs is undoubtedly charging by the minute while the driver wonders what drama is delaying your descent.

Jungkook’s standing before you, barefoot and hoodie carelessly thrown on, eyes carrying sleepiness. Beneath that morning haze, he's unmistakably present. Awake in the way that silently pleads don't leave without saying what we both know is true.

You haven't told him yet. The words you've been rehearsing in your head.

The truth you've been aware of for days while pretending otherwise.

His voicemail still plays on repeat, the one you finally had the courage to hear on that Manhattan rooftop, glass abandoned as his voice crackled through your phone speaker.

"I think I'm in love with you."

He never demanded reciprocation. Never presented it as a transaction. And now you're stuck thinking about your mother's favorite lecture, delivered with the exasperation reserved for a child too smart for her own good. "Don't lie if you can't carry it."

As your fingers make contact with the cold metal of the door handle, you pause. Turn to him.

Your eyes connect with Jungkook’s — they’re always wide with anticipation, patiently waiting, hopeful in that quiet, unassuming way he hopes for things. Your mouth opens, words still stubbornly refusing to leave.

Finally, with the triumphant relief of someone who's been holding their breath underwater, you manage to speak.

"I.. I-I think I'm starting to fall in love with you too."

He blinks at you. Like perhaps his sleep-deprived brain has misinterpreted that. Like maybe this is some elaborate dream his subconscious has constructed to torture him.

But then there’s that slow, sunrise smile that spreads across his entire face. That small, stunned shake of his head. His eyes soften, and he steps forward, reaching for your hand like it's the only anchor in a storm.

He presses his lips to your knuckles — a gentleman's compromise, the only part of you he apparently trusts himself to touch without dragging you back to bed.

"I'll see you in New York," he mutters.

In some way, those words say exactly what you know they mean. You nod, swallowing past the lump in your throat, forming a smile that doesn't look like you're about to cry.

The distance between Seoul and New York has never seemed so vast and so insignificant.

And when you walk out the door, heart thundering, you slide into the backseat of the car. Not any less yourself, not someone’s girlfriend, but with the promise of something new. Hands are still buzzing, gaze lingering on the city you used to avoid calling home.

As the driver pulls away from the curb, you feel your phone buzz once in your lap.

Eomma.

You blink at your phone.

Without hesitation, without fear, without guilt, you answer the call.

“Hi, Eomma,” you say, smiling softly. “I’ve missed you! Sorry I didn’t call since last week, I was crazy busy. But I do have a story for you.”

Everything in your chest feels entirely new.

Because at this point in time, you’re not running from something.

You’re walking toward it.

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

masterlist + request

note ; if you’re reading this — welcome! you survived the end of the price of desire, and i love you for it. thank you for reading.

now to show my love and affection… i’ll be doing 3-4 epilogue drabbles/blurbs based off your guys’ requests (bc it’s no fun if im just doing whatever i please, duhh!!) send in some ideas (smut, fluff, even some angst) of what you would want to see as epilogue blurbs and i’ll choose the ones that inspire me :-) THIS IS NOW CLOSED! THANK YOU FOR ALL THE REQUESTS 🫶

taglist ; @lovingkoalaface @maybetheproblemisme @mimi1097 @mar-lo-pap @mysjammy @yooniepot @tinytan-gerine @ashslight @sky-23s-world @myzzysstuff @elinaki92 @7fever @munchkin-kitty7-blog @uarmygguk @jjkluver7 @coletaehyung @jkxlvrr @amarawayne @kooslilhoe @bangchanwantsmesobad @kpopslur @senaqsstuff @sugakookies77 @tteokbokibyjk @emmie2308 @neurospicynugget @prxdajeon @majesticjung-97 @jksusawife @rkivesarchive @hyunjinswifetingzz @bjoriis @nan4rf @parkinglot-nights @travelgurrl @softhaes @bexxs @magicalnachocreator @wisebouquetbarbarian @futuristicenemychaos @jadestonedaeho7

[luvst4rc0r3]

“Drunken courage”

Sevika x reader

The Last Drop was loud, chaotic, and reeking of sweat, smoke, and bad decisions—just the way Sevika liked it. After the argument earlier, she’d needed space, a drink, and a place where no one expected her to talk.

So, there she was, nursing a glass of something strong, letting the background noise swallow her frustration.

Then you walked in.

Sevika froze, her grip on her drink tightening. Shit.

She thought you’d gone home. After all, you were the one who told her to leave—yelling, pacing, getting that little crease between your brows that meant you were beyond mad. Sevika hadn’t fought back much; she knew when to pick her battles, and tonight, she’d chosen to retreat.

And now, here you were, looking like trouble.

You marched straight to the bar, ordered something way too strong, then downed it like you were trying to set your insides on fire. You didn’t even notice her at first. Just strode up to the bar, ordered a drink, then another… then another. Sevika wasn’t even sure what had you so pissed off anymore. It had started over something small, but like all fights with you, it had spiraled into something bigger. You were mad, she was mad, and neither of you were ever good at backing down.

Sevika sighed, rolling her shoulders. She should’ve left before you saw her.

But she didn’t.

She stayed.

And the second you turned your head, your gaze landed on her.

For a moment, you just blinked. Then your expression twisted into something fiery, familiar.

“You!” you slurred, pointing dramatically. “You absolute, thick-headed, stubborn-ass—do you even hear yourself when you talk?! Do you think before you open your damn mouth?!”

Sevika exhaled through her nose, tilting her glass back. “Here we go.”

“No, no, don’t ‘here we go’ me!” You stumbled forward, eyes blazing, hands moving like you were trying to swat at invisible problems. “You—ugh, you drive me insane, Sevika! Do you even—do you even hear yourself when you talk? You think you’re all big and bad and—gods, you’re so stubborn! And—and frustrating! And—ugh!”

The Last Drop had never been this quiet.

Every gambler, every drinker, every brawler who had ever seen Sevika knock a man out cold with a single punch… was now witnessing you, standing in front of her, absolutely going off like she was some rookie enforcer who’d just tripped on their own billy club. every brawler who had ever seen Sevika destroy men twice her size… was now watching her sit there, completely still, as you unleashed all your fury on her.

And she just took it.

Didn’t argue. Didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t tell you to shut up.

She just sat there, letting you get it all out, watching you with something… soft in her gaze.

“You always act like you don’t care, but then—then you do these little things,” you accused, voice wavering. “Like making sure I get home safe. Or bringing me food when I forget to eat. Or—gods, Sevika, you act like you don’t give a damn, but I know you do!”

“You always have to act like you’re the biggest, baddest bitch in the room, but when it comes to us? You run!” you accused, hands flailing in exasperation. “Oh, I need to be alone. Oh, I don’t have time for feelings—Sevika, if you don’t want this, just say it! Just—just say you don’t care and I’ll stop wasting my damn time!”

Your voice cracked, and Sevika’s jaw clenched. She wanted to reach for you, but she knew better. You weren’t done yet.

“I—” Your breath hitched, and you swallowed hard. “I just don’t get it. If you want me, just say it. If you don’t, then—then let me go. But stop acting like you can just walk away and I won’t care, because I do, Sev. I care too much and it sucks.”

You were almost crying by the time you finished, eyes glassy, shoulders tense. The silence stretched between you both, thick enough to choke on. Around you, waiting to see what would happen.

Silence.

The whole bar was watching. Hell, they’d stopped pretending not to.

Sevika sighed, slow and heavy, before pushing herself up from her seat.

You immediately stiffened, like you expected her to storm off. Maybe you even wanted her to.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she stepped forward, closing the space between you, her human hand reaching up to cup your jaw. Her thumb brushed over your cheek—so, so gentle.

“Of course I want you,” she murmured. “I thought that was obvious.”

You blinked up at her, lips parting, but no words came out.

“You’re drunk.”

Your hands balled into fists. “No shit, genius.”

“And you’re gonna regret this in the morning.”

“I regret you,” you shot back, still fuming.

Sevika let out a sharp exhale through her nose—was that a laugh? Oh, that just made you madder.

“I hate you,” you grumbled, crossing your arms like a petulant child.

Once her laugher died down she exhaled softly. “I’m not good at this,” she admitted, her voice quieter now, just for you. “Talking. Feeling. I don’t know how to say the right things, and I don’t want to screw this up, so… yeah. I left. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

Your bottom lip wobbled slightly, and Sevika had to fight every instinct to just pull you into her arms right then and there.

“You done yelling at me?” she teased, the corner of her lips twitching up just the slightest bit.

You let out a breathy, exhausted laugh. “No. But I’m tired.”

Sevika huffed, shaking her head before wrapping an arm around you. “C’mon,” she muttered, steering you toward the door. “Let’s get you home before you start crying in front of a bunch of thugs.”

You grumbled something into her shoulder, but let her lead you out, letting yourself lean into her warmth.

“You’re gonna hate yourself in the morning, and I really don’t feel like dealing with your hungover whining.”

And as the doors of The Last Drop swung shut behind you, the whispers and bets started.

“Never thought I’d see her get chewed out like that.”

“Yeah? And live to tell the tale?”

“Man, she’s so whipped.”

IM TRYING TO COMPLETE REQUESTS AND MANAGE HOMEWORK😭

I NEED SLEEP RN I AM DEPRIVED OF IT

[darklordofthesimp]

Anything VII (König x Reader)

The 7th instalment in the Anything-Verse

Main Masterlist

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - 7 - Part 8

Like the characters? Read their fics below!

Sunshine Masterlist || Saint Masterlist

Series Summary:  A lack of information from the chain of command results in König mistaking you for an enemy sniper.

A/N: I’ve already got the next chapter mapped out hee hee

Category: Angst || Hurt/Comfort || Unrequited Pining || Tension

Warning: Graphic Language

You’d barely slept, how could you?

Though you supposed that you should have been used to broken rest, this time it wasn’t for the usual reasons. There were no nightmares that clawed at your mind, no anger that made you sweat- but, there was paranoia. 

There was crippling anxiety that had you wanting to hide beneath the covers, there was fear that gripped you by the throat. The sensation of being stunned was overwhelming, your thoughts were scattered and your world was tipped upside down.

Everything that you believed, everything that you had come to terms with, it was all a lie. 

You risked a glance at the clock, groaning as you realised that you’d have to get up. It was a mission, more so than usual. Dragging your sorry ass from the safety of your sheets was proving difficult, but the knowledge that you’d have to go train with König made it all the more impossible. 

You took a deep breath in as you pulled your top over your head. It was different now, the lines were blurred and König might not be the enemy that you imagined him to be. If there was anyone that was going to help you unravel this with the same urgency that you felt, it was going to be him. 

He’d do anything to prove himself, anything to stay as a sniper.

He wanted to keep the life he’d stolen from you. 

Your stomach turned at the thought, the words weren’t sitting as right as they used to. The anger that occupied your chest with relentless heat has begun to cool as of late. If König was truly misinformed, it would mean that he really was just trying to do his job. 

It meant that he was paying the consequences for someone else's misdeeds. 

It meant that he was also a victim. 

A chill ran down your spine and the fire in your chest reignited. Maybe he was a victim, but he sure as fuck didn’t look like one- he didn’t look like you. 

You groaned as you stepped through your broken doorway, the reminder of how unhinged König could truly be was unwelcome as always. You thought that the Austrian kicking the door down would terrify you, it told you that you were never safe no matter where you locked yourself up. Instead, the fact that he’d done it to ensure your safety confused you. 

You mulled over it as you walked towards the gym, mindlessly stepping one foot in front of the other. 

A couple of minutes spent trying to decipher how you felt towards König felt like hours, any small bead of energy expended suddenly blew out to exhaustion. The man was an enigma who left you stranded in your own thoughts, flailing to find land.

“Good morning, Birdy.” 

You forced yourself not to flinch away from König’s voice as you stood deathly still in the doorway. The man offered you a small wave from inside the gym, his arm stretched over his head as he loosened his muscles. 

You didn’t want to gawk at him, honestly. It was just kind of hard not to. 

He was larger than life, something that would never fail to amaze you. The sheer size of him was one thing, but his presence took up the rest of the space in the room. The breath in your lungs dissipated into nothing as you took in his visage. 

“Good morning, König,” you managed to say softly. 

You both froze for a moment, the gentle return of his greeting had caught the pair of you off guard. You supposed that there had been a shift between the two of you over the past few weeks. 

But the way you felt about the man before you gave you whiplash.

Torn between hatred, fear, familiarity and comfort, you wished you could just chalk him down to a psychotic beast that wished you harm. 

But he wasn’t and he didn’t. 

The path your mind had begun to wander reminded you of the revelation you’d come to. 

König cleared his throat, slowly standing upright as if he didn’t want to shatter the fragile friendliness between you both. Finally, you stepped into the room, one heavy foot after the other and your heart in your throat. You wanted to break the silence between you before that unnamed tension could grow, feeding on the quiet and everything that went unsaid. 

“What did you have planned today?” You questioned with a raised brow, “anything torturous and terrifying?” 

The Austrian snorted softly through his nose, crossing his arms over his chest. The slight smirk that pulled his lips upward had your breath catching in your throat. He cast his eyes downward before flicking that jade gaze back up to meet yours.  

“Isn’t everything I do “torturous” and “terrifying” according to you?” König said, the playful tone was obvious but tentative.

You took a deep breath. He wasn’t diminishing the incident, he was finding some semblance of humour between the both of you. You swallowed the small drops of rage that threatened to open the floodgates. 

“No,” you said, pushing your hands into the pockets of your hoodie. “That’s just you, I meant the training this time.” 

You watched the shift in König’s features, the way his shoulders relaxed and his eyes softened. The olive branch had been extended, received and the see-saw of emotions between you had finally tipped to fall on the opposite end. 

“Well,” König offered a small smile, “I promise that the training today will not be as scary as I am.” 

You tried to ignore the genuine relief that flooded through your chest, tried to maintain the easy-going air that had settled in the space between you. Despite your best efforts, anxiety threaded itself across your throat as you stepped closer to the looming figure before you. 

König slowly uncrossed his arms, sensing the shift in your attitude. It seemed like he always knew, even when you said nothing and your face didn’t change, he knew. Sometimes it irked you, but at times like these when he could read you and adjust, you appreciated it. 

“I promise,” he reiterated, that jade gaze as soft as ever. 

You took in a shaky breath, then released. “Okay.”

“Okay?” König repeated, taking a step toward you. 

“Okay.” 

And right there and then was the first time you’d seen him smile. 

It was brief, barely a flash of his teeth as he quickly regained control of himself, but it was enough. You knew that you’d never be able to dispel that image from your mind, you knew that you’d be thinking about it as you went through the never ending cycle of wondering whether you hated him or not. 

You knew that you’d want to see it again. 

A shiver ran along the length of your spine and an unfamiliar heat spread across your neck. You cleared your throat in an attempt to clear your thoughts. It might have been unsuccessful in that regard but it did get König to step into action.

“Right,” he said with a sigh, scanning the space around him. “The sooner we get started the sooner you can escape the torture.” 

Now it was your turn to snort as you took your sneakers off. “If only it were that easy.” 

König rolled his eyes, approaching you with slow and lazy steps that had your heart racing. You straightened up, letting him move closer until he was barely a breath away. The moment that you had both shared in the kitchen raced across your mind, the scene beginning to look dangerously similar- hopefully Graves wouldn’t appear around the corner to trigger your fight or flight reflex this time.  

“Can I help you?” You managed to choke out, dropping your gaze from his. 

“Uh, no.” There was mirth in his voice. The man took a step backward, his hands raised with his palms facing outward. “Are you not ready?” 

You tried to not look at the size of his fingers, you tried not to remember how they felt wrapped around your throat. 

“Ready?” You stammered. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to make eye contact, frozen as you stared at those fucking hands. They’d done so much damage, so much. 

You tried not to remember. 

Saint had always told you to replace a negative interaction with a positive interaction whenever you’d begun to spiral. When you remembered how hard his eyes had been when you'd been on that roof, you tried to remember how soft they were when he spoke to you now. 

Your mind fell back to the moment in the kitchen. 

“I’m ready.” You nodded, taking in a deep breath as he moved in close again. The scent of him flooded your senses, the faint recollection of his deodorant, something sweet and woodsy. 

Those hands slowly lowered and you watched as they fell to rest on your forearms. 

You remembered them holding you down, pinning you to the concrete as the weight of him pressed into your stomach. But, you also remembered those same fingers holding you ever so softly as he inspected you for burns. 

You let loose a soft breath, forcing your gaze upward. He was already watching your face, his eyes scanning your features for any sign of serious distress. 

“Well,” König murmured, his words tasting of the caramel latte he’d been sipping on earlier. “You going to take me down or not, kleine vogel?” 

You raised a brow, “you don’t need to cuss me out, I’m getting there.” 

The man frowned for a short moment, mouth opening and closing as he fought to find the appropriate response. “I did not swear at you?” 

The sentence was more of a question than a statement and while he was stuck in his confusion, you saw opportunity. 

You swung your hands around the grip that he had on your forearms, digging your fingers into his skin instead. You dragged him towards you with a sudden jerk that took every ounce of strength that you had. 

For a moment, you were worried that the giant wouldn’t budge. However, his whole body fell forward as you dropped onto your back with him above you. Both your feet came up to rest on his pelvic bone, bracing as the entirety of his weight fell onto your legs. The momentum was your best friend with this movement, pulling his hands to your chest as you kicked him over your head. 

The sound of 300 pounds hitting the ground hard behind you had your heart soaring. Adrenaline was pumping through your system, propelling you to your feet as you spun to mount your victim. 

König’s face was contorted, teeth bared as he gritted them hard. His hands were above his shoulders, fists clenched and you could tell that you’d stunned him. 

Satisfaction flooded your being. 

You scrambled up the length of his body, pressing your weight onto him as you clenched your knees hard onto either side of his hips. Your hands came down to push against his wrists, pinning his body as best as you could. 

The silence between you both was only broken by the sounds of panting. König’s chest heaved beneath, shallow and quick breaths as his eyes slowly fluttered open to glare up at you. 

“That was rude,” he groaned. “Smart. But rude.” 

“Yeah, well,” you replied with a shrug, taking a moment to try and wet the dryness in your throat. “Fights are often unfair.” 

König’s eyes narrowed for a moment before conceding your point. “Yes. Yes, they are.” 

You’d seen the signs too late, the way his lips quirked upward before he ripped his hands from yours. You’d felt his fingers grip your waist but you were unable to react before the world tipped from beneath you. The floor met your back hard enough to banish the air from your chest and your body froze as you were spun right back into the disadvantage. 

A gasp ripped from your throat, eyes wide as you stared at the man now above you. His hair fell across his forehead, resting atop his lashes as he watched you through a hooded gaze. Neither of you said a word and you didn’t bother trying to fight him off. König made a show of slowly moving to grip your biceps, your fingers scrabbling uselessly against his forearms as he pressed you into the ground.

His body was tucked between your thighs, spreading your legs far enough apart that they were rendered useless from beneath him. You swallowed hard, struggling to catch your breath. 

“Very unfair,” he confirmed with a husky murmur. 

“It’s always unfair with you,” you rasped, your fingers gripping his skin tightly. “Always, König.”

König’s face fell, any trace of satisfaction turning into something akin to sorrow. He cast his gaze aside. 

“Perhaps,” he said. “ But, perhaps if you were prepared it wouldn’t have been so unfair.” 

You watched him carefully. 

“Wrong place, wrong time.” You whispered. 

König met your gaze again, observing you for a long moment before offering a hesitant nod. “Yes.” 

Maybe, this was your chance. This was the opportunity to talk to him about what you suspected, to hear his side of the story entirely. Maybe, if you could sift through the discrepancies between your stories and what his chain-of-command had told him, you could both unravel the mystery. 

Either someone was trying to kill you and used him as the weapon to do so or something bigger was at play. 

Maybe, both? 

“Speaking of,” you began shakily, your fingers nervously tapping against his skin. There was no real way to gently ease into the topic, you’d just have to drop the bomb. “Do you think that maybe the whole incident was a little too… convenient?” 

König fell completely still, his eyes baring into yours. 

You supposed that maybe you could have been a little more tactful. 

You swallowed nervously when his chest didn’t move to breathe, he was as still as a sniper watching for their target. He reminded you of a snake lying in wait, preparing to strike out at any given moment. Suddenly, you didn’t feel so confident that he was the one that you should have spoken to about it. 

The man said nothing and you’d begun to realise that he didn’t plan to. 

“I just mean that,” you scrambled for words, anxiety clawing at your throat when he only stared. “I just mean that maybe it wasn’t just an accident or a miscommunication, maybe they were using you as a way to get what they want.” 

König’s face didn’t change when he spoke. “And what would that be?” 

You hated how perfectly still he was. 

“To take me out.” You could barely spit out the sentence.

The mans grip tightened against your arms and the small amount of trust that you’d built between each other teetered on the edge of a proverbial cliff. Adrenaline dumped into your system when he took in a deep breath, clenching his jaw. His eyes never left yours, holding you captive not just physically but mentally. You were scrambling for air. 

“I think that you are overthinking,” he finally said, relaxing his grip and releasing the tension from his lungs. 

Your heart dropped. 

Overthinking? 

Why wouldn’t he want to investigate this further? It would exonerate him, it would relieve him of the guilt, it would make him innocent. 

“What?” You rasped, blinking as though it would clear your confusion. “How can you say that?” 

“Easily,” König said, sitting up. His demeanour was suddenly so cold. He let go of your arms, shooting you one last look before he attempted to stand up. “You’ve been through a traumatic event. Overthinking is normal.” 

Desperation clawed at your chest. Before you could stop yourself, you reached upward to snatch his hands. König’s fingers interlocked with yours and his eyes widened when you pulled him back toward you. Your hands were trapped between his and the floor once more, his face only a breath away. 

But you couldn’t even think about the proximity and, for once, you didn’t even care. 

How could he just dismiss you like that? 

How could he just try to leave without even hearing you out? 

“König,” you whispered pleadingly. “Please, just listen.” 

The man shook his head immediately, trying to pull his hands from your grip. You held on as tight as you can manage, his name falling from your lips over and over as you begged him to stay. You needed him to hear it, you needed him to help you. 

“Let go, Birdy,” his voice was firmer than you’d heard in months, the sound of it a shock to your system. How the tables had turned, this time you were not the one trying to escape. Regardless, you disobeyed, only tightening your hold on him. 

“Just tell me what happened, maybe we can work it out,” the words sounded desperate, even to you. You sounded like a lover pleading for a second chance to make the relationship work. You sounded like you were holding to your last tether of sanity. You sounded crazy. 

König’s face was hard when he tugged back again. “We already know what happened, Birdy.” 

“Listen to me-” 

“Let it go, Birdy.” 

“But if you just-” 

“Enough!” 

You recoiled, flinching as he yanked his hands from yours, breaking your grip as easily as tearing a cobweb. König’s fingers wrapped around your biceps, pushing you back against the floor, restraining you from getting a steady hold on him.

The man leaned down, jade eyes alight with something you’d never seen. He burned, the thunderous expression painted across his features warned you that his blood was simmering beneath his skin. 

“Enough,” König seethed, his voice dangerously quiet. 

Fear trickled down your spine. 

Your heart dropped. 

As you watched the Austrian soldier lean over you with a ferocity that rivalled that godforsaken night, you realised that in your desperation you had been so stupid. So, so, so fucking stupid. 

König wasn’t going to help you. 

König was in on it.

[twooftheluckyones]

Cult of the Lamb: Luck of the Lamb Part 4: Reap the Whirlwind

The physical body does not exist within the afterlife, instead the land is inhabited by the souls of the dead or departed. Resurrection repairs the mortal coil, but godly wounds ceaselessly weep. Thus, a god cannot survive death without the healing properties of a conduit crown. Despite this many have tried, though normally its not someone else's power keeping them clinging to the margins of life. A power now bonded through the sheer force of will to share a lonely throne. ~Previous/Next~ ~Start~ ~~~~ Story Segment Under Cut ~~~~

Rage. Betrayal. Vengeance.

Their fight filled the afterlife with destruction and violence. Two gods wrestling for the key to their power. Blade and blood met flame and fury.

Narinder was an old god, powerful beyond measure even in his imprisonment. He had commanded life and death, and weilded curses effortlessly. Una would not be the first god he'd killed.

Yet fate had other plans.

She crackled with divine energy, dancing around his attacks effortlessly.

Lucky.

It felt like ages, and yet before he knew it, it was over. Her blade, made of his crown, plunged into his chest, and his eldritch form crumbled. A god defeated, reduced to nothing.

And then...

Pain. Nothing but searing hot, agonizing pain. Narinder felt lost in a sea of torment, his body suddenly awash with screaming flesh. Through burning nerves he distantly noticed the world around him felt different, the brittle bone meal landscape of the gateway gone. Instead, he felt stone, grass, and chill air against his skin. His eyes felt like hot coals shoved in their sockets, and even trying to open them felt like a dagger to the skull. The sensations were nothing but a candle to the raging inferno of suffering. In another time, he wondered if this was what the mortals he damned in the afterlife felt like. Perhaps that was his fate now. Eternal pain. Fitting. Yet as he laid there, squirming weakly in the depths of agony, something approached. "Nrdnr?! Hly Shtt!" Muffled words reached his ears, soft hands scrambling over his skin. Some demonic tormentor, come to perpetuate or relish in his state? "Hld Stlll! Fgk Fgk!" It was impossible to think over the agony, and they pushed away his hands as he feebly tried to fend them off. The cold ground under him suddenly felt warm and sticky, the silken robes he wore suddenly wet with something. "Hre! Ths iz phor thg baain." His attacker grabbed his head, shoving some vial of something against his lips. The biter oily fluid hit the back of his throat, a spasm of coughs making his body jerk and flail, each one feeling like barbed wire was being flossed through his bones. This really was hell. Hands yanked his tattered robes off, exposing his skin to the cold air. Some kind of cloth wrapped around his arms, pulled tight against the angry nerves. More on his chest, pushed against the spaces in his ribs where an echo of betrayal now bled. Two betrayals. Twice now he'd trusted and lost for it. At least the last time he hadn't been alive to feel what dying was like. "Hold still! Where did all this blood come from?!" A sudden calmness entered his mind, and the fire of agony faded into a foggy, numb abyss. Narinder opened his eyes. Stars met him, the half moon's pale light shining down. He tilted his head up, the movement feeling like lifting a boulder. Some figure hunched over him, their hands covered in inky black liquid as they quickly unrolled another bandage and began wrapping it around his chest. Almost instantly the white fabric turned black. The fog around his head grew thicker, eyes fluttering heavily as consciousness became fleeting and fickle. The figure glanced at him, red meeting red. Despite his injuries, Narinder still possessed enough strength to recognize them.

"Narinder," Una's voice poured with grief. "I'm so sorry, please just hold on. Its going to be okay."

Another empty deceitful lie. "Una..." he muttered, voice a mere whisper through his scratchy and weak throat. "Narinder?" Her eyes wept a river of tears, the guilt in her words echoed across her face. The traitorous eye of his former crown gazed down from atop her head, watching with unending apathy. Rage bloomed in his oozing chest, a small surge of fury granting him some measure of energy. He summoned all of his remaining power, defiance filling his fading mind. "Fuck you." Darkness.

[hotluncheddie]

Day 5: Possessive Steve

"Rockstar"

Ao3

wc: 1.7k | rated: E | tags: Sub Eddie Munson, established relationship, blowjobs, mention of exhibitionism

written for @subeddieweek <3

🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸

Eddie always gets like this after a show - flighty and restless, unable to sit down. Even after a good fucking show like they had tonight. A good fucking metal fucking show. 

He just can’t ever seem to wind down, to stop, to think. 

He tried to fix it with whisky, but that didn’t go well. Not for anyone. He tried weed too and that works, sometimes, if he gets the timings right it can help him sleep. But mostly he just paces, while he waits. waits for the one thing he knows will help. Help him out of his head. Help him relax enough to go eat with the band, get some sleep tonight. Ready to start it all over again tomorrow. 

‘Hey rockstar.’ 

Steve. 

Steve smiles at Eddie’s from where he leans against the open doorway, arms crossed. He looks perfect like always; neat and put together and sinful in one of Eddie’s old merch designs. 

He strides over, pulling Steve in and closing the door, locking it and grabbing Steve’s hand, stepping in for a kiss and just as quickly stepping out again, pulling him further into the room. 

Eddie doesn’t realise he’s asking questions too close together, hands flailing, not leaving any breath for an answer. ‘Do you want a drink? Food? How was the show? Was your seat okay? Are you tired?’ Until Steve squeezes his hand and steps in real close, ghosting his mouth over Eddie’s. 

‘No, no, really fucking good, yes and no stop worrying.’ Steve mumbles, stopping Eddie in his tracks, arms limp at his sides. Steve tugging them closer by Eddies belt loops. 

Steve’s voice is low, soothing, playful. ‘My seat was perfect, I could see you so well. And….’ Steve leans in, hot breath against Eddie’s ear. ‘There was a couple in front of me tonight, wanna know what they were talking about?’

Eddie shivers, Steve stepping them back once, twice, Eddie’s back hitting the wall. Steve’s fingers digging into his waist. He waits for Eddie, eyeing him. ‘Please’ Eddie whispers eventually, mind finally catching up, body ready for what might be about to come. 

Steve smirks, dipping in close again. ‘The girl said she wanted you as her hall pass baby, and her boyfriend said okay. Said he understood.’ Steve whispers, shoving his thigh between Eddie’s. ‘My little slut. Showing off for the crowd all night. You love it don’t you?’ Steve kisses down Eddies neck. ‘I bet a whole stadium of people would pay just to watch you, just to see you like this. You’d like that wouldn’t you?’ 

Eddie chokes on his spit, writhing under Steve’s hold. His cock rapidly hardening. ‘Fuck. Steve.’

‘You’re going to give me what all those fans out there were wishing for.’ Steve’s hard length is pressed against Eddie’s hip, grinding. ‘But it’s all mine isn’t it.’

‘Yeah, yeah Steve, yeah.’ Eddie’s feels on fire, head rapidly loosing space for any thoughts that aren’t Steve and the feeling of their bodies pressed flush together. 

Steve laces their fingers and lifts them so Eddie’s hands are either side of his head. ‘Think you can keep these still for me?’ He asks and Eddie nods, he does, he can. 

‘Good, don’t wanna mess up my hair.’ Steve winks and sinks to his knees. 

The clack of his belt being undone makes Eddie blink slow and breathe deep through his nose. ‘You want me to stop just move your hands okay? But if you want to be good then keep them still.’ Steve explains as he palms eddies cock through his boxers. 

Eddie’s eyes widen, he can’t look away, can never look away from Steve when he’s like this, in control and touching. Teasing and tasting and sending Eddie insane. 

Steve slides his mouth all the way down, Eddie buried all the way in his throat. Steve breaths deep through his nose, nuzzles into Eddie’s pubes - said he likes it, having Eddie inside him like this, powerful. 

Eddie balls his fists and wills his hips not to move, sweat beading at his temples. Eddie likes Steve like this too, feels powerless. 

Steve swallows and Eddie whines, throat tired from the stage but he can’t help it when Steve is doing this, can’t help anything when he’s around Steve. 

Steve pulls off and keeps working Eddie with his hand. Lips pink and glossy with spit. Eddie groans. 

‘Feeling good baby?’ Steve asks, smiling up at him, watching Eddie fall apart. 

He nods, arms aching from holding them up, but the ache adds to his high, helps him feel grounded and under Steve’s thumb. 

Steve kissed his tip and tugs his leather pants down further, fingers dancing over his balls and towards his hole. Petting at it and pressing into Eddie’s taint, making him see stars. 

‘Steve.’ Eddie whimpers, thighs shaking and tip pearling, starting to leak. 

‘What?’ Steve asks, innocent. ‘You said it was mine didn’t you?’ He pouts and Eddie wants to thrash, wants to scream but he doesn’t want Steve to ever stop touching him, playing with him. 

‘S’yours. S’yours, always.’ Eddie pants, eyes squeezing shut, leaning heavily on the wall to keep from keeling over. 

Steve pushes his thumb roughly into Eddie’s slit, gathering the cum to slide it over his cock. Eddie’s eyes fly open. ‘Good. Eyes on me baby.’ Steve coos. ‘Now I want you to imagine all those fans are seeing you like this, who think big tough rockstar Eddie Munson could dick them down so well, I want you to show them what you really are okay baby?’ Eddie nods, frantic, not daring to move his eyes from Steve’s face, his hands. ‘Show them what a little slut you are for me, my own little play thing, can you do that baby? Cum down my throat the way all those fans would’ve killed for tonight?’ 

Eddie moans, tensing as Steve’s mouth envelops him again, hot and wet and tight. Bobbing his head and hollowing his cheeks the way he knows Eddie loves. That sends him close, and reeling. 

And he does like it. Likes having all those eyes on him, the attention and praise. Even if they don’t really know him, just think he’s hot. that’s enough. It’s why he chooses pants cut extra tight, why he slices the ends off all his t-shirts, why he lets his mascara run and never wipes the sweat from his neck. He wants the crowd to want him, look at him and hunger for him. Even though they’ll never really know him. It’s okay. 

He has Steve, and Steve knows everything. 

Steve’s fingers move again, teasing and pressing at Eddie’s taint, at the bundle of nerves inside him. 

Eddie can’t help but move now, edging closer and closer. He thrusts forwards and rolls his hips, sinking deeper, filthy. Moves the way he does sometimes on stage, when he wants every pair of eyes on him, wants Steve’s eyes on him. Wants to be Steve’s own special rockstar, porn star. Steve’s anything. 

‘Oh god.’ Eddie moans, pushing in deeper and Steve holds him there, hand on his ass, other hand still knuckling his taint. Everything impossibly warm, impossibly close. Held together by this man on his knees. Eddie bucks once as much as he can, mind flashing with the movements of the night, Steves words, the lights and noise of the crowd. 

Steve squeezes and pushes and swallows and Eddie looses himself in everything. Spurting thick and hot down Steve’s throat. Chest heaving and eyes clumping with tears. 

‘’Tevie’ He whimpers, as Steve pulls away and surges up, ripping open the fly of his jeans and latching on to Eddie’s neck. Taking Eddies stiffened arms and fingers into his own. Wrapping them around his waist and holding Eddie close. 

He licks over a spot and bites, hard. No doubt it’ll be a bruise by morning, front and centre for anyone to see. 

‘Ah ah’ Eddie pants as Steve dips lower and bites again, littering his neck with blooms of red. Eddie feels how Steves fisting his own cock, bumping against Eddie’s abdomen, hot breath over his neck. 

Steve licks a long stripe from his collarbone to the hinge of Eddie’s jaw, sealing the marks and leaving a hot, wet, open mouthed kiss on Eddie’s lips. 

‘Wear your hair up tomorrow, want everyone to see.’ Steve pants, close. ‘Promise me.’ Se’s so close, the wet end of his tip slicking Eddie’s happy trail, his own cock giving a twitch. 

Eddie kisses Steve back, licks into his mouth and sucks on his tongue. Eddie eyes roll at Steve’s groan. ‘Anything, anything. promise.’ He whines, wants everyone to see, wants people to know. 

Eddie rubs his nose agains Steve’s cheek, still feeling stretched thin and fragile from his orgasm. Steves hot breath on his face. ‘Belong to you.’ He mumbles, voice high and breathy and achingly soft. But this is who he is, who he wants to be. 

Steve buried his hand in Eddie’s hair, tensing and pushing him into the wall, releasing all over Eddie’s hip and pubes. Steve pants for a moment, Eddie sinking into the warm pressure, mouthing at Steve’s cheek and squeezing Steve’s waist. Keeping them close. 

Eddie sniffs, burying himself in Steve’s neck, nuzzling and smelling him, kissing over Steve’s tanned skin. Always so pretty, so perfect. His Steve. 

‘Hey rockstar, you okay?’ Steve asks, pulling Eddie’s head out and ghosting his lips over Eddie’s fluttering eyelids. Kissing his flush cheeks and sweaty forehead. 

Eddie hums, a little loopy, still off in space. But Steve just keeps kissing him, smiling through it, nipping at Eddie’s dimples. ‘’M so proud of you Ed’s, the show was so good tonight.’ Steve mumbles, then sucks lightly on Eddie’s bottom lip. 

Eddie lens into in, kissing Steve back, he feels happy and settled and like his bones are all back in the right place, all the staticky anxiety gone from his brain. ‘You mean the show out there or the one in here?’ He asks, grin forming, still not opening his eyes. 

Steve pinches him on the hip and Eddie yelps, giggling. Steve kisses him once more, murmuring a fond little ‘brat’ before stepping away to get tissues, tucking himself back in his jeans. 

‘Come on.’ Steve claps, once Eddie’s clean and his pants are re-buttoned, ‘I want dinner.’ He says, walking Eddie out of the door, plastered against his back. 

Eddie goes willingly, ready for food with the band, to have a couple drinks, enjoy Steve’s hand on his thigh. Then, sleep. 

And then he’ll do it all again tomorrow. 

🎸🎸🎸🎸🎸

Tag List: @pearynice @xxfiction-is-my-realityxx @scoops-aboy86 @chickensinrainboots @cheesedoctor @marvel-ous-m

[firebeez]

Fun fact: back when the big thing was posts about the astrological signs as random things, there was a post of the signs as fancy chickens, and sometimes I remember it and am still gripped by unreasonable rage about it. It was just basic ass chicken breeds! NONE of the actually fancy breeds were on there! Three of the signs were the SAME BREED JUST WITH DIFFERENT COLORINGS!!!! IT MAKES ME SO MAD!!! IT LITERALLY DOES NOT MATTER! FREE ME FROM THIS HATRED!

[johnwickb1tsch]

The Girl Next Door - XIII

A Constantine x FemVampire!Reader (feat John Wick!) fic based on this imagine. all chapters gen. warnings: NSFW, blood, biting, violence divider by animatedglittergraphics-n-more pic is BRZRKR #11 cover 😍

⚠Trigger warning: UNBRIDLED AND GRAPHIC VIOLENCE, if that squicks you DO NOT READ!⚠

13. ride the lightning

How does one describe the chaos of sitting in the eye of a lightning storm?

Wick is as terrifying as he is breathtaking, and you watch with horror as he is unleashed upon the room. Vampires seem to materialize from the very shadows, sounding the alarm, trying to combat the lethal threat in their midst. All of them die as they come against the inexorable force that is the dhampir John Wick.

He tears them limb from limb, using teeth and hands and the very chains he'd been bound with, the manacles still encircling his wrists. He uses them like flails, whipping his opponents with all the force of a hurricane. 

All this practically happens in the blink of an eye. Don Juan barely has time to react before the maelstrom descends upon him. Wick hits him hard enough to knock him across the room, blood spouting like a fountain. There is no reprieve before the dhampir has pounced on him again, and the two powerful monsters tumble and brawl like mad dogs. It seems Juan has the upper hand until Wick coils from his back and kicks him away, sending the vampire soaring into the black depths of the cave.

The battle rages and the hive continues to swarm, Juan’s vampires foolishly daring to challenge the dhampir in the throes of this berzerker rage. One of them has Wick’s sword, and when Wick takes it from him the tables turn even more ridiculously in the slayer’s favor. He severs limbs and lops heads, leaving blood and gore in his wake. You think you see him extract a heart with his bare hand, gripping it in his fist before crushing it into a pulp. 

That is when don Juan appears again from the shadows, his face a bloody mask, with a broadsword in hand and the fires of Hell shining in his eyes. “Dhampir!” he seethes. “I will END you for this!” 

Wick bellows back wordlessly, the power of his rage filling the enclosed space with crackling energy. You watch wide-eyed as a good chunk of the cave ceiling breaks free above you, crashing at your feet. 

Jesus Christ. They’ll bring the whole place down around you all, you fear, even as you cannot look away from the impending battle. 

Maybe he gives the impression of the soft-handed gentleman of leisure, but it quickly becomes apparent that don Juan knows how to use a sword as he and Wick clash. Toledo steel meets Japanese Tamahagane, and sparks fly, blades flashing too fast for the eye to see. Juan is the only vampire yet who could actually match Wick for strength and speed, and you watch with dread as Wick barely dodges losing his head. In turn Juan keeps ahead of Wick’s every slash and thrust, moving with a speed and grace that is as mesmerizing as it is infuriating. 

You scream as the vampire breaks the steel of Wick’s sword in half with a mighty blow, and hits the dhampir with some kind of power that knocks him flat on his back. Juan makes a fist, and Wick writhes on the floor as though his guts are in Juan’s clawed hand. Straining against your chains, you gather what little psychic power is left to you, imagining it formed into a sharp needle as you fling it at Juan. 

It does not really damage him, but he pauses to look at you with a snarl–it’s the only window Wick needs to swipe with what remains of his razor sharp blade, right through don Juan’s legs at the knees. 

With a horrified expression Juan falls to the cave floor. Wick gets to his feet, picking Juan up by his throat with a fearsome snarl, and hurls him again towards the back of the cave. More vampires are appearing from the depths–holy fuck how many can there be?--and with a single, feral look back at you Wick picks up Juan’s broadsword, and charges back into the fray.    

The enraged dhampir disappears further into the shadows of the cave. The din of the battle echoes back to you–until the cacophony finally fades, and then, there is just eerie, heavy, silence.

Your heart lodges in your throat, and does not budge until you see the outline of Wick’s imposing form again at the edge of the torch light. His chains are gone. He is hurt, clearly limping. He makes his way to you, and only belatedly do you realize he is dragging don Juan by his one remaining limb. 

The vampire is unconscious, and Wick drops him unceremoniously before you like an offering, and the sword clatters to the floor soon after. You should be horrified, but it smacks of a hunter laying a kill at his woman’s feet in a time when man lived in caves, and you are not unmoved. But that blue light has not receded from his eyes, and he stalks towards you like a predator. 

I kill vampires. It’s what I am.

Could he kill you?

“John?”

He only grumbles in response, stalking towards you, and you are afraid.

“Jardani?”

“Don’t say it unless you mean it, ptichka,” he growls, his huge hands encircling your waist, pulling you against him. You are practically naked, and he is covered in blood from the massacre he just unleashed; that is not what frightens you. His eyes still glow that eerie blue, and you wonder if it is not like the warning glow of a fuse on a bomb. Maybe he’s injured, but you would be a fool to think him wrung out yet.  

“You’re scaring me,” you tell him honestly, and you feel him deflate against you, burying his face in the curve of your neck as his arms wrap around your torso, breathing you in. You feel it as that crackling energy recedes back inside him, leaving him as close to human as he can ever be. 

“I would never hurt you.” He whispers it with the vehemence of a vow against your skin, and you want to believe him. God, do you want to believe him. You fold yourself against him with your hands still bound above your head, letting him engulf you with his larger form. 

You don’t want to cry; it’s embarrassing, and you don’t have time for it, but after what don Juan did to you it comes out anyway in hiccupping sobs and he holds you like something precious in his hands that could just as easily tear you in two. You don’t understand the soft things he says to you, hushed murmurs in Russian or some long dead dialect of it, but they calm you anyway. That intoxicating aroma of flowers and spice envelops you again like an opium haze, and you melt into the shelter of this man.  

When at last you quiet he draws back to look at you with those ageless dark eyes, though he does not let you go. When he brushes his lips against yours in an achingly gentle kiss it feels as though nothing could be more right in the world. 

You are so fucked.

You look up at your wrists encircled in iron, jangling your chains. “Can you find the key for me?” you ask quietly, as if you speak too loud you might break this spell of precious calm between you.

The low sound that rumbles from his chest echoes straight to your womb. He runs blunt fingers up the underside of your arm lightly, a maddening touch that makes your good sense go fuzzy at the edges. “Jardani…”

His grip upon you tightens; he leans in to kiss you again, claiming your mouth as his weight presses you back into the wall. 

The warmth of his blood-slicked skin upon yours is bliss, though a trill of hesitance surfaces in the very back of your mind. As though he senses it he speaks. “I want to be a better man for you,” he tells you roughly, his voice hoarse from battle and desire. “But I would be a liar, if I claimed this is not exactly how I want you.” 

Where don Juan’s hands on you made you want to scream, Wick’s rough paw tracing your curves is maddening in a completely opposite way. It is hard to tell what is that intoxicating dhampir magic upon you, consuming you, and what is just…your own rampant desire. You forget that you are not lovers, that you have not done this before. Maybe you are in love with John Constantine, and he was inside you not hours ago…but it is so easy to forget everything, in Wick’s arms. Deep down, you know that you want him in a way that feels as though his name was always written upon your soul. 

He nuzzles the bend of your neck, grazing your pulse with his fangs. You know he must be hungry, after such an expenditure of energy and taking such damage. You fight a war with yourself, aching to feel his fangs in you again, but you're not sure he'll stop, once he starts, and you don't have much to spare. Logic wars with lust, the eternal battle of wits versus hormones.

Usually, the latter wins. 

“Jardani…” you coax, hoping sanity will prevail. “You have to set me free.”

He groans in response, kissing your pulse. “I don't have to,” he protests, and though there's a hint of his usual insouciance, mostly you're afraid he's absolutely serious. You open your mouth to protest again, but he swallows whatever you intended to say with his lips on yours, like a starving man who intends to eat you whole, starting with your mouth. 

You're not sure who escalates this already torrid exchange with a fang piercing your tongue–all you know is that what was already a bonfire escalates into a full on inferno. He eats at your mouth, lapping at your tongue as that agonizingly wonderful wave of desire fills your every cell. As you strain against your chains to be closer to him, to have more, he takes mercy on you with one of those muscle-strapped thighs between yours. You grind on him desperately, too far gone for anything resembling restraint, your pride totally forgotten. 

He migrates from your mouth to your neck, piercing your flesh and drinking you down, grabbing handfuls of your curves to hold you close. That scintillating, excruciating pleasure pulses and purrs inside you. It is him, but also, it is the two of you together, and when that magic reaches its shining peak in your loins you think you might implode for the exquisite rapture of it, release like a chain explosion sparking and spreading from your greedy cunt up your spine. Through the ringing in your ears it takes you a few moments to realize he is talking you through it, whispering low words in your ear that you do not understand, but you feel all too well. 

He kisses you again with your blood in his mouth, a slow and sensual thing that manages to curl your toes all over again, his tongue swiping the seam of your lips. “My pretty little bird,” he whispers. “The things I am going to do you, when we have time and a soft bed…” 

The sound you make in answer is barely human–but then, neither are you. 

When he produces the key you don’t know if you want to smack him, or laugh. He had it all along? Did he take it from Juan, or one of the other vampires? With a knowing little smile he reaches up to unlock your manacles, smirking down at you with a warmth in his eyes that could start a forest fire. 

If you had any sense left to your name, you would be furious for this little bit of trickery. However, that is not what you need. When you throw your arms around his neck he embraces you hard, enveloping you in those strong arms and lifting you off your feet. You feel your heart glowing like a hot ember in your chest, and you have no fucking idea how all this is going to work out in the end, but at the moment it doesn’t matter. 

A flash of an image surfaces in your mind: tangled under warm blankets with this man’s powerful body curled around yours while the winter winds and the hungry wolves howl outside, and you are unfalteringly certain that nothing bad can ever touch you again. 

You feel that way now, pulling back to look at him, searching his handsome, blood-flecked face. You say nothing, and neither does he, but you know he senses some shift in you. Whether in the widening of your eyes, or the hitch of your breath–but he makes no life-altering demands. All he asks of you, is for another toe-curling kiss with the tilt of his head. His soft lips on yours feel like a promise, and for the umteenth time this night you think to yourself: you are so fucked. 

“We have to go find Constantine,” you say as you pull away from him. “I know he’s in danger.” You feel it tugging on you at the distant end of your metaphysical cord. Trepidation. Fear. Resolve. You’re not sure if taking you from him was meant as a trap, or a distraction, but it can’t be good. 

“You’re too late.” The thing at your feet that only vaguely now resembles don Juan grins a bloody grin. “They have the psychic, that woman detective, and they’re doing the ritual tonight. Mamon will rise, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” 

“Where?” demands Wick with a growl that raises the hair on the back of your neck. 

Don Juan, however, just spits blood at the dhampir’s feet. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“You can heal this eventually,” says Wick with a dismissive wave at the vampire’s missing limbs. “Tell me, or I will take your head too.”

“You won’t leave me alive,” scoffs Juan. “I was not born yesterday.”

“My word.” 

“As a gentleman?” The laughter that grates from Juan’s lips is bitter as the betrayal of a friend. He is not biting–and you are running out of time.  

Wick casts a look at you before returning to the vampire. “As a husband,” he answers. “It is the only vow that I ever held truly sacred.”

“John Wick, murderer and romantic…how sweet,” taunts Juan, rolling his eyes. Even in this state, he cannot be anything but that what he truly is: an asshole of the purest grade. 

 “Tell me,” says Wick darkly, brandishing a knife produced from somewhere. “Or I will keep you like this for centuries more. I will take pieces from you until you are nothing but the talking head you are, but you won’t die. Trust me, I know.” 

Juan just glares, until Wick begins advancing on him with the knife, seemingly going for an ear. “Fine!” shouts the vampire, desperately leaning away just before the blade touches his skin. “Fine, fine, hijo de puta.” Lower, under his breath he continues to grumble, “Chinga su madre, pinche pendejo...”

“You were saying?” 

Mad as a rattlesnake, but realizing he has no other alternative, Juan spills the beans. 

—-----------

*hijo de puta - son of a bitch *chinga su madre - fuck your mother *pinche pendejo - fucking bastard *🤣🤣 i’m so sorry…

[wannaeatramyeon]

The Crew Heads with Reader: Television

G/N. (Jake Kim, Eli Jang, Johan Seong, Samuel Seo).

Bro Code | Dinner | Shopping | Television | Gacha | Board Games | Suits

Samuel replaces your old crackly television-

A relic from the 90s where you can almost count the pixels and a logo is permanently burned into the screen-

with a 4k monstrosity.

Jake's choice of words but monstrosity is a bit harsh, Eli thinks. Knowing Samuel-

(and Eli does now know him too well to bear thinking about. Seriously, how on earth has that happened?! but that's a train of thought for another time.)

It'll be the best. Top of the line and no expenses spared.

Except.

"It's too big," Eli comments as Jake starts to rip open the cardboard and packaging.

"Yep," Jake grins. Focused on the task at hand though never giving up an opportunity to rib Samuel, "70 inches for Y/N's tiny apartment. Can tell you dropped out of middle school."

"Shut up," is all Samuel manages to muster and the other two snort in response.

Samuel scoffs. Refuses to admit that yes, it is far too big. That only now he has realised it'll take up at least half the dividing wall between the living room and your bedroom, and there is nowhere near enough space to get a good viewing distance.

Which, by the way, has nothing to do with being a dropout.

Refusing to sink to their level and asinine comments, he continues to supervise. Watching Eli now joining to rip away the plastic and styrofoam and cardboard. Doesn't lift a finger to help. Why should he? He's already opened his wallet.

.

.

"Hey, brat," Jake shouts. Even with his and Eli's immense strength, they struggle to manoeuvre the awkwardly oversized, unwieldy object to position on the wall. "Come help out if you wanna join in in anymore movie nights."

Everyone knows 'brat' is Johan, who is currently lounging on the sofa. The insult having been tossed out casually one time by you, then adopted by everyone else because, hey - it's apt.

Johan rolls his eyes. Unglues himself from the sofa and acts as if this is an absolute waste of his time. That he has been thoroughly put out by needing to help these idiots.

But the additional pair of hands make quick work of hanging up the TV. Eli and Johan holding opposite sides as Jake tightens the screws.

Once done, all three stand back to admire their handiwork and the new screen. The sleek lines and shiny edging.

Oohs and aahs as Samuel flicks through the channels and sets it up.

United for once in front of the new technology, like cavemen when fire was first discovered.

.

.

You step back to take in the screen.

Then another.

And another.

And another-

The back of your legs hits the sofa. You start to flail but Eli grips you around the waist, steadying you before you stumble.

Huh. There are no more steps to take and the screen is still fucking huge.

(The quiet unnerved you when you first step foot through the door. You're used to coming home to voices raised and squabbling. The occasional broken ornament, dented pan, broken chair.

You had walked in to find them all looking equally pleased, which unnerved you even more.

Until you noticed the new television.)

"Thanks Sammy." You smile at him and he ignores the heat rising to his cheeks, "This is great. Really. But isn't it a bit... big?"

Eli chuckles as Jake stage-whispers, "Sammy failed math,"

"Samuel," Sammy corrects, out of habit more than anything, "I'm only being considerate of Johan's shit eyesight."

Johan doesn't bother to look up from his phone. "Fuck off, four eyes."

[stylesonfilms]

ink & innocence - 9

word count: 5.6k

did somebody say... jealousy?

"Oh my god?!" Isobel practically screamed, her voice echoing through their small apartment as she grabbed Aspen by the shoulders. Her eyes were wide with excitement, and her grip felt like it might leave marks.

"Sh, sh, shhh!" Aspen hissed, flailing her arms in a futile attempt to quiet her best friend. She glanced nervously at the apartment walls, half-expecting the neighbors to bang on them. But Isobel was undeterred. She jumped up and down, shaking Aspen slightly as if that would get the truth out faster.

"He kissed you? You kissed him?" Isobel's voice only grew louder, her excitement bubbling over like a kettle about to burst. Aspen's face burned hotter than the sun, and that all-too-familiar blush crept up her neck, painting her cheeks an unmistakable shade of red.

"Maybe," Aspen squeaked, her voice barely audible over Isobel's giddy outburst. Her hair was now a tousled mess from Isobel's enthusiastic shaking, and she tried to smooth it down with trembling hands. But Isobel was relentless. She leaped onto the sofa, planting herself on her knees, practically invading Aspen's space with her wide, curious eyes.

"What do you mean you guys kissed?!" Isobel demanded, her hands gripping the pillow in her lap so tightly that Aspen thought it might explode.

To be fair, Aspen had come home chirpier than usual. Normally, her movie nights with Isobel were quiet affairs, filled with comfort and silence, but this time... Aspen couldn't help herself. With a pillow hugged to her chest and a bowl of spaghetti perched in her lap, she had let it slip.

"By the way, we kissed."

That was all she'd said— quiet, nonchalant, like it was no big deal. But of course, Isobel took it as the biggest deal in the world. Aspen's shy delivery had only fueled her friend's insatiable curiosity.

Now, Isobel was a whirlwind of questions. "Did he do it first? Or did you? No... not you. It was definitely him. Right? Was it good? Was it a peck or a kiss? Or a kiss kiss? Or, oh my god— did you make out with him? How many times? When did this start? Is he a good kisser? Did he say you were a good kisser? Oh my god, does Zayn know? I have to tell Zay—."

"Isobel!" Aspen huffed, finally setting her bowl of spaghetti down on the coffee table with a clatter. "It isn't a big deal. It's just a kiss. You do it all the time!" She crossed her arms and looked away, hoping to deflect the onslaught of questions. But Isobel wasn't buying it. Not for a second.

Isobel scoffed, sitting back on her heels but still maintaining that intense, penetrating gaze. "Just a kiss?!" she repeated, her voice dripping with disbelief. "Asp, it's not just a kiss. It's your first kiss. And it wasn't just with anyone— it was with Harry!"

Aspen's blush deepened, if that were even possible. She could feel Isobel's excitement radiating off her like heat from a fire, and it made her want to curl up and disappear into the couch. "So?" she muttered, her voice quiet and defensive. "It's not a big deal."

"So?!" Isobel practically shrieked. She flopped dramatically onto the couch beside Aspen, throwing her arms in the air like Aspen had just said the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard. "Aspen, it's Harry. Tall, brooding, tattooed, probably-can-bench-press-a-car Harry! And you kissed him. No— he kissed you. Do you know what that means?"

"It means I'm going to regret telling you this for the rest of my life," Aspen mumbled, hiding her face behind her hands. She could hear Isobel laughing, a bright and joyful sound that somehow made Aspen's embarrassment worse.

"It means," Isobel continued, ignoring her friend's protest, "that he likes you. Like, actually likes you. And you kissed him back, which means you like him."

Aspen peeked out from between her fingers, her eyes narrowing. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to," Isobel said smugly, her grin as wide as the Cheshire Cat's. "Your face says it all."

Aspen groaned, sinking further into the couch. "I hate you."

"No, you don't," Isobel said cheerfully. She grabbed a throw pillow and hugged it to her chest, her excitement far from fading. "So, c'mon. Tell me everything. How did it happen? Where did it happen? And don't leave out any details."

Aspen hesitated, her mind flashing back to Harry's office, to the way his hands felt on her hips, the way his lips felt against hers, the way he'd looked at her like she was the only person in the room. Her heart fluttered at the memory, and she knew there was no way she could hide the truth from Isobel—not completely, anyway.

"Fine," she muttered, barely audible. "But if you tell anyone, I'll never forgive you."

"Cross my heart," Isobel said, making an exaggerated motion across her chest. "Now spill."

And so, reluctantly, Aspen began to recount the events of the day, her voice quiet and her cheeks red, while Isobel hung on her every word like it was the juiciest gossip she'd ever heard.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Harry blinked, caught off guard by Zayn's question. "What the hell are you talking about?" he muttered, sitting up straighter in the chair. His ring clad fingers gripped the arm rest. His tone was sharp, defensive, but Zayn didn't flinch. If anything, his smirk grew wider.

"I'm serious, man. You've got something shiny on your lips." Zayn gestured toward Harry's mouth, leaning against the reception counter like he was about to deliver a stand-up routine. "Either you're experimenting with a new look, or..." His eyebrows waggled suggestively. "You've been busy."

Harry wiped at his lips with the back of his hand, his jaw tightening when he saw a faint sheen of Aspen's lip gloss on his knuckles. Damn it.

Zayn caught the motion and laughed. "Oh, this is rich." He pushed off the counter and folded his arms, his grin downright mischievous now. "You kissed her, didn't you?"

Harry's green eyes narrowed, his usual scowl deepening. "Mind your business."

"Oh, come on, mate. It's me. You know I'm not gonna drop this." Zayn circled around to the other side of the counter, pulling up a stool and sitting down across from Harry like they were about to have a serious heart-to-heart. "You've been acting weird for weeks. All quiet and broody—more than usual. And now Aspen's coming in here looking all starry-eyed, and you've got lip gloss on your face. You're not exactly subtle."

Harry groaned, leaning back in the chair and dragging a hand down his face. He knew Zayn wouldn't let it go—his best friend was as stubborn as they came. "You're imagining things."

"Right. And Niall doesn't inhale tacos like it's an Olympic sport." Zayn crossed his arms, clearly unimpressed with Harry's deflection. "Just admit it, man. You kissed her."

Harry's jaw ticked, his patience wearing thin. "I'm not having this conversation with you."

"Why not? You can tattoo a flaming skull on some bloke's back, but you can't talk about kissing a girl?" Zayn teased, his grin never faltering. "I'm just trying to help, you know. It's not every day you start acting like a lovesick teenager."

"I'm not—." Harry stopped himself, his voice rising before he could catch it. He let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his messy curls. "You're so bloody annoying, you know that?"

"Yup." Zayn leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "Now spill. Did you kiss her, or what?"

Harry glared at him, his fists clenching on the armrests of the chair. He could feel the words bubbling up, his irritation reaching a boiling point. Finally, he snapped. "Fine. Yeah, I kissed her. Happy now?"

Zayn's eyes widened slightly, but his grin only grew. "Knew it!" He pointed at Harry like he'd just won a bet. "So, how was it? Was it all shy and sweet, like I imagine, or did she surprise you? She doesn't seem like the type to—."

"Zayn," Harry interrupted, his voice low and threatening. "Don't."

"Alright, alright." Zayn held up his hands in mock surrender, though his expression was still smug. "I won't pry. But seriously, man... Aspen? Never thought I'd see the day."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry snapped, his glare sharpening.

"Nothing bad, mate. Just... she's different. Sweet. Quiet. Not the kind of girl you usually go for." Zayn tilted his head, studying Harry carefully. "But maybe that's a good thing."

Sweet. She was sweet, and she tasted it, too.

Harry didn't respond, his gaze drifting to the glass door Aspen had walked through just minutes ago. He hated how much he already missed her, how much he wanted to chase after her and keep talking, keep touching.

Zayn's voice pulled him back. "So, what's the plan?"

"There is no plan," Harry muttered, his tone clipped.

"Really? 'Cause from where I'm standing, it looks like you've got it bad." Zayn's smirk softened into something more genuine. "Don't screw it up, man. She's a good one."

Harry didn't reply, but his silence spoke volumes. Zayn clapped him on the shoulder before hopping off the stool and heading to the back of the shop, leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.

He sat there for a moment, staring at the door, before finally pulling out his sketchbook. His hand moved almost instinctively, pencil scratching against the paper as Aspen's face began to take shape. The pencil etched little words and phrases around the sketch of Aspen from their ride back home, sitting on the bench with her full attention being sucked between the pages of her book. Suddenly, his phone chimed.

Zayn: Shared a contact: Aspen. 

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Tuesday afternoon rolled around pretty quick. It flashed by with ease, although Isobel was constantly nagging into Aspens ear about Harry. Today, she had plans to meet up with a classmate to go over a new class schedule for the following semester. He was a year older and in the same major as her, so she figured the information he could provide would be helpful. The girl felt her phone buzz in her back pocket, and she was confused to see a text from an unknown number.

4159559305: Hey. 

Another buzz.

4159559305: It's Harry, by the way.

A smile crept up onto her lips. Of course, she mumbled to herself while her fingers went to edit his contact after typing out a quick reply.

Aspen: hi ! how'd you get my number lol?

Harry ⭐: Zayn. Do you have a second?

Aspen: yea! whats up?

The girl set her open phone on her dresser as she clasped her bracelet around her wrist, shaking it around before his text came through.

Harry ⭐: I was thinking we could hang out sometime. Are you free today?

Aspen bit back the smile creeping up to her face. But then she remembered she had to meet Shawn in half an hour and would likely be out all night due to her shift at the library. Her thumbs scattered after lingering over the keyboard.

Aspen: that sounds nice but im out today :(

She could see that Harry almost instantly read it, but the typing bubble didn't show for a good moment. So she set her phone down again and rummaged through Isobels perfume collection to snag one of hers to dress herself. Buzz. Finally.

Harry ⭐: Oh?

Just one word? Regardless, she didn't let herself think much of it. But as she began to type again, he texted once more.

Harry ⭐: Where you off to?

Aspen: having lunch with a friend! he's helping me out

The text was read immediately, but no response. She clicked her phone shut after a good few seconds and stuffed her feet into her worn Converse to lace them up. She was quick to realize he didn't text back, but she assumed he got busy or distracted with something at the shop. Slinging her tote over her shoulder, she bid goodbye to Isobel.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Harry stared at the text from Aspen on his phone. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard but ultimately, he decided on not responding. What was he to say? He surely wouldn't bid her a good time with him, whoever she was going to see. And help her with what? What could he possibly help her with that Harry wouldn't be able to? His painted nails, chipped now, curled into his fist and dig into the flesh. A huff fell through his nose while he looked up to scan the semi-busy shop. He had a piercing client to do in a couple of minutes but then his shift was over. He originally planned to ask Aspen if she would be interested in doing something, to which he would figure out what to do if she even agreed. But she didn't. She was off to spend time with someone else, another man at that.

Harry couldn't shake the coil of jealousy in his chest. It had him on the edge of his seat, literally. He had scooted from the back of his leather seater to just the edge. At first it was from excitement, and he hadn't realize how far he came up until he fell back in defeat. When he closed his eyes to take a breath to lose the feeling, her text flooded his mind once again. Who was she going to go see? It wasn't just like she was meeting him for help, but to have lunch. Practically a date!

Harry's jaw clenched as he stared at his phone, the text from Aspen glowing in his mind like a taunt. Her words replayed in his head— having lunch with a friend!—and the image of her laughing, talking, or worse, smiling at some other guy sent a sharp pang of jealousy through his chest. He had no right to feel this way, he knew that, but it didn’t stop the green-eyed monster from twisting the knife. His fingers twitched as he unlocked his phone and scrolled down his contacts.

Kirsten.

The name stared back at him like a challenge. He tapped it and started typing.

Harry: You down to hang out tonight?

He hovered for a moment before hitting send. His thumb lingered over the screen, half-expecting to regret it the moment the message delivered. He stared blankly at the client forms on the counter, the thought of Aspen with her so-called "friend" still gnawing at him.

The reply came back almost instantly.

Kirsten: When and where?

Harry leaned back on the worn couch, his boots propped on the edge of the coffee table, as the amber liquid in his glass swirled lazily with each flick of his wrist. Kirsten sat across from him, her long legs crossed and one arm draped casually along the back of the chair. She had poured herself a generous drink and was spinning the glass between her fingers, her smile lingering in that knowing way that always seemed to unsettle him.

“You’re unusually quiet tonight,” Kirsten remarked, her eyes narrowing playfully as she took another sip. “What’s on your mind? Or should I say, who?”

Harry huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “No one,” he muttered, though the lie felt weak even to him. The truth was, Aspen was all he could think about—her shy smile, the way she’d tucked her hair behind her ear when she was nervous, the sound of her laugh. The memory of her text, of her having lunch with him, lingered like a bad taste in his mouth.

Kirsten tilted her head, studying him with a sly grin. “You’re a terrible liar, you know that?” She leaned forward, setting her glass down on the table between them. “Whoever she is, she’s clearly got you all twisted up.”

Harry’s jaw tightened, his grip on his glass firming. “Drop it, Kirsten.”

But Kirsten wasn’t one to let things go, especially when she saw an opportunity to needle him. She slid off the chair and joined him on the couch, her knee brushing against his as she settled in close.

“C’mon, Harry,” she teased, her voice dropping to a softer, more coaxing tone. “It’s me. You can talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” he said, his words clipped, though his resolve was starting to fray. The warmth of the whiskey and the press of her leg against his weren’t helping.

Kirsten laughed, a low, throaty sound, and reached for his glass, plucking it from his hand before he could protest. “Then stop sulking and drink with me.” She took a sip and handed it back, her fingers grazing his as she did.

Harry exhaled sharply, leaning back against the couch. If nothing else, Kirsten was a distraction—a welcome one, maybe, considering how much Aspen had been occupying his thoughts.

The drinks flowed more easily after that. Kirsten kept the conversation light, regaling him with stories of her latest escapades and antics, and Harry found himself relaxing despite himself. He laughed at her jokes, the sound rumbling in his chest, and before long, the tension that had been knotting his shoulders began to unravel.

Somewhere between refilling their glasses and Kirsten poking fun at one of his tattoos, things began to shift. She scooted closer, her arm brushing against his, her laughter softer and more intimate. Harry felt the warmth of her presence, the scent of her perfume mingling with the faint tang of alcohol.

“You know,” she said, her voice low as she traced the edge of the tattoo on his forearm with her fingertip, “I kind of miss this.”

Harry glanced at her, his brows knitting together. “Miss what?”

“This,” Kirsten said, gesturing between them. “Us. Hanging out, drinking, messing around.” She smiled, tilting her head. “You used to let loose more.”

Harry chuckled, though it lacked conviction. “Maybe I’m getting old.”

“Please,” Kirsten scoffed, leaning in so close he could feel her breath against his neck. “You’re still the same Harry. Just... a little more broody.”

He didn’t pull away when her hand rested on his thigh, her touch light but lingering. The whiskey was dulling his edges, making it harder to think clearly. For a moment, he let himself sink into the familiarity of her—the way she smiled at him, the ease with which she filled the space between them.

Kirsten tilted her head, her eyes locking on his. “You okay?” she asked, her voice softer now.

“Yeah,” Harry muttered, though it wasn’t entirely true. His mind flickered to Aspen, unbidden, and he hated himself for it. What was she doing right now? Was she thinking about him at all?

Kirsten’s fingers moved, tracing slow circles on his knee. “Good,” she murmured, her lips curling into a faint smile.

The line between familiarity and something more blurred further when Kirsten leaned in, her hand sliding up to his shoulder. She pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, lingering just long enough for Harry to feel the heat of it.

He didn’t stop her. He didn’t encourage her, either, but he didn’t move away. It felt easy, familiar, like falling into an old habit.

Kirsten pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her eyes searching his face. “There’s that smile,” she teased, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.

The moment was interrupted by the sound of her phone buzzing on the table. She ignored it, reaching instead for her phone’s camera.

“C’mon, let’s document this rare moment of Harry actually having fun,” she teased, leaning into his side as she held up the phone.

“Kirsten, don’t—.” Harry started, but she had already snapped the picture.

Her laughter bubbled up as she looked at the screen. “Relax, it’s a good one,” she said, her thumb moving to post it to her story.

Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. 

The photo was innocent enough—or at least it seemed that way at first glance. But the way Kirsten was pressed into Harry’s side, her head tilted close to his, her smile confident and flirtatious—it told a different story.

Aspen didn’t see it until halfway through her shift at the library. She had been shelving books when her phone buzzed in her pocket. Curious, she glanced at the notification, her heart skipping a beat when she saw Kirsten’s name.

The picture made her stomach twist. Her fingers tightened around the phone as she stared at the screen, the edges of her vision blurring.

Harry. With Kirsten. Smiling. Close.

Her mind raced. Was this why he hadn’t texted her back? Had she misread everything between them?

Aspen quickly locked her phone and shoved it back into her pocket, but the image burned in her mind. She tried to focus on her work, but the knot in her chest wouldn’t loosen.

Aspen shoved her phone into her pocket, her hands trembling as she clutched the edges of the book cart for support. Her chest felt tight, and no amount of deep breaths seemed to loosen the knot forming there. The picture—the way Kirsten was practically draped against Harry, her confident smile, her hand resting on his chest like she belonged there—kept flashing in her mind.

It wasn’t just the photo itself. It was the timing. The fact that Harry had texted her earlier, asking to hang out, and now he was spending the night with her. Aspen’s cheeks burned, a mix of anger and something else she couldn’t name swirling in her chest.

Why does it bother me this much? she thought, pushing the cart down the aisle with more force than necessary. She nearly knocked over a stack of books, muttering an apology to a nearby patron before retreating deeper into the library.

She leaned against a shelf, her phone burning a hole in her pocket. She tried to focus on the task at hand, but her mind kept drifting back to Harry. The way he’d looked at her when he showed her around the shop, the way his lips had lingered on hers the other night. Had that all meant nothing? Or worse—was she just something to pass the time before Kirsten inevitably came back around?

No, Aspen told herself, shaking her head. Harry didn’t seem like that. He’d been different with her—so much softer than she’d expected. But then, why was he with Kirsten now? Drinking, laughing, letting her post that picture. Aspen pulled her phone out again, her fingers hovering over the screen as she stared at the image.

Her chest tightened further. It wasn’t fair. She hadn’t done anything wrong—she had plans with Shawn, sure, but it wasn’t like she’d rubbed that in Harry’s face. And Shawn was just a friend, someone she genuinely needed help from. But Kirsten? The way she leaned into Harry made it clear there was history there, something Aspen could never compete with.

Aspen couldn’t ignore the ache in her chest any longer. Only a half hour passed but it was too long. She ducked into the break room, pulling out her phone and staring at the picture again. A pang of jealousy shot through her as she noticed the way Harry’s arm rested so casually on the back of the couch, his posture relaxed in a way she hadn’t seen before.

She couldn’t help but wonder if he’d ever felt that at ease around her. Was he laughing with Kirsten now? Sharing inside jokes and stories Aspen would never be part of?

Her mind raced with questions, each one more painful than the last. And yet, beneath the jealousy, there was something even harder to admit: fear. Fear that she wasn’t enough, that Harry would always choose someone like Kirsten over someone like her.

Aspen clenched her fists, setting her phone on the counter before taking a shaky breath. She wasn’t the type to let jealousy consume her, but this was different. This wasn’t just anyone—this was Harry. And she didn’t know why that mattered so much, but it did.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

Across town, Harry slumped further into the couch, Kirsten’s laughter ringing in his ears like static. He stared at the empty glass in his hand, swirling the remnants of his drink as his thoughts drifted back to the text exchange with Aspen.

Her last message replayed in his mind. Having lunch with a friend. He’s helping me out. Harry’s grip on the glass tightened. His jaw clenched as the jealousy from earlier resurfaced, twisting low in his gut.

Who the hell was he? Harry thought bitterly, picturing some faceless guy sitting across from Aspen, making her smile, stealing her attention. The thought had driven him crazy all afternoon, and the whiskey in his system only magnified it.

That was why he’d texted Kirsten. That was why he’d invited her over, poured them both drinks, and let the night spiral into something reckless. It wasn’t because he wanted Kirsten. It wasn’t even about her. It was about silencing the jealousy, about filling the emptiness Aspen had unknowingly left behind when she turned him down.

But even with Kirsten sitting beside him, her hand resting comfortably on his arm, Harry couldn’t shake the thought of Aspen. Her quiet laughter, the way she’d hesitated before saying goodbye earlier, the way she’d looked at him like he wasn’t the disaster he felt like most days.

“You’re awfully quiet again,” Kirsten said, breaking him out of his thoughts.

Harry blinked, glancing at her. She was smiling, but there was an edge of curiosity behind her eyes.

“Just tired,” he mumbled, running a hand through his hair.

Kirsten raised an eyebrow, but she didn’t push. Instead, she reached for her phone, pulling up the picture she’d posted earlier. “This one’s already getting a few comments,” she said with a smirk, tilting the screen toward him.

Harry barely glanced at it before looking away, his stomach twisting. He hated the idea of Aspen seeing it, of her misunderstanding—but then again, wasn’t that what he wanted? For her to feel even a fraction of the jealousy that had been eating at him all day?

Kirsten shifted closer, her knee brushing against Harry’s. He tensed for a moment but didn’t move away. She took another sip of her drink, setting the glass down on the coffee table before leaning toward him.

“You’ve been acting weird all night,” she said, her voice dipping into something softer. Her hand came up to rest lightly on his shoulder, her fingers trailing along the edge of his shirt. “Come on, Harry. Talk to me.”

Harry tilted his head back against the couch, letting out a heavy sigh. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, but even he didn’t believe the words.

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.” Kirsten’s voice was low now, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his arm. “You’re all tense. Let me help you relax.”

Harry glanced at her, his expression conflicted. He could see the intent in her eyes, the way her body leaned just a little closer, her hand resting on his arm like an invitation. For a brief moment, he considered it. It would be easy to give in—to let Kirsten distract him, to drown out the thoughts of Aspen that had been plaguing him all day.

Kirsten moved her hand to his chest, her nails grazing lightly against the fabric of his shirt. “You’ve always been so wound up,” she murmured, her voice teasing. “You need to let loose every once in a while, you know?”

Harry exhaled sharply, his gaze flickering down to her hand before meeting her eyes. There was something magnetic about the way she was looking at him—like she could pull him under if he wasn’t careful. He felt the weight of her presence, the pull of her touch, and for a moment, he let himself lean into it.

Her hand slid up to the side of his neck, her thumb brushing against his jaw. “There you are,” she whispered, her lips curving into a small smile.

Harry’s head dipped slightly, his body leaning closer to hers almost on instinct. The tension between them thickened, and for a fleeting second, he thought about closing the gap entirely. Maybe this was what he needed—something simple, something that didn’t make him feel like his chest was being torn in two.

But just as quickly as the thought came, it vanished. Aspen’s face flashed in his mind again—the way she looked at him, the way her lips felt against his, the way her quiet presence had a way of settling the storm inside him.

He pulled back abruptly, breaking the moment. Kirsten’s hand lingered for a beat before falling away, her expression flickering with a mix of confusion and disappointment.

“You okay?” she asked, her tone lighter now, but there was a trace of something deeper behind her words. Harry cleared his throat, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. I just—I think I need some air.”

Kirsten’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she didn’t push. Instead, she reached for her phone, her lips curving into a sly smile. “Sure thing." 

As Harry leaned against the railing of his balcony, the cold air barely registering against his skin, his jaw tightened. His drink, now forgotten in his hand, grew warmer with each passing minute. The image of Aspen’s text replayed in his mind like a taunt.

Lunch with a friend… he’s helping me out.

The words felt innocent enough on the surface, but they burned in his chest like an ember he couldn’t snuff out. He hated how vague it sounded, hated the way it left too much room for his imagination to fill in the blanks. Who was this guy? What was so important that she’d drop her plans to spend time with him instead?

His grip tightened around the glass, the tension in his body coiling tighter with every thought. He knew he had no right to feel this way. Aspen wasn’t his, and she didn’t owe him an explanation. But logic didn’t quiet the bitter jealousy coursing through him.

She could’ve said yes, he thought bitterly, staring out into the night. She could’ve spent the afternoon with me, but she chose him.

He thought about the way she’d smiled at him in the shop, the way her shy demeanor had started to crack just a little around him. For a moment, he’d let himself believe that meant something. But now… now, it felt like a punch to the gut.

And the worst part? He couldn’t even be mad at her, not really. He was mad at himself for caring this much, for letting her crawl under his skin in a way that no one else ever had. He barely knew her, and yet here he was, seething at the idea of her spending time with someone else.

His thoughts grew darker, fueled by the alcohol and the frustration he couldn’t shake. What did he have that Harry didn't? The question gnawed at him, petty and unworthy, but relentless all the same.

Maybe this other guy was more her type— polished, stable, easy to bring home to her parents. Someone who could fit into her world without the jagged edges that came with Harry’s. He thought about the tattoos that snaked up his arms, the chipped paint on his nails, the hours he spent in a noisy shop filled with ink and adrenaline.

He wasn't exactly the boy you'd take home to mom, he reminded himself bitterly, his lips twisting into a humorless smile.

And yet, he couldn’t stop wanting her.

The jealousy simmered, refusing to let go. It wasn’t just about the guy she was with— it was the fact that she’d picked him over Harry. That stung in a way he wasn’t prepared for. He’d asked her to hang out, to spend time together, and she’d turned him down like it was nothing.

What the hell was I thinking? he thought, running a hand through his hair. I barely know her, and I’m acting like…

Like what? Like he had a claim to her? Like they were something more than a few charged moments and a kiss that had left his head spinning?

He downed the rest of his drink, the burn in his throat doing little to dull the frustration. He hated feeling this way-- vulnerable, exposed, like a raw nerve waiting to be struck. But no matter how hard he tried to push it down, it kept bubbling back up.

He thought about texting her again, asking how her lunch went, trying to pull some kind of reassurance from her reply. But the idea of her saying something that might confirm his fears stopped him cold. He didn’t want to hear her gush about how helpful this guy was, or how great of a time they’d had.

Instead, he did the one thing he swore he shouldn't do: he went back to Kirsten.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The mans long legs draped over Kirstens hips on his couch, her hands under the thin material of her shirt. He nosed at the woman's bare neck, muttering something to himself that somehow drove her crazy without hearing it. His fingers were still decorated with their rings and chipped black polish while they held tightly onto Kirsten's hip over the lace she wore. His other arm, to her side, propped him up as he slotted his thigh between hers. He stood up to gaze down at her half naked body, and that's when guilt shot right through him so hard he swore he could collapse. 

He sucked in a sharp breath, letting go of her body. "This isn't going to work. It's best if you leave." Harry stood up to his full frame now, removing his body from hers. Kirsten propped herself on her back elbows, brows furrowed. "Really?" When he only nodded and tossed her jeans back to her, she scoffed but got dressed again. 

Harry chose to ignore the rude mutters she spoke under her breath, knowing he'd only scowl back at her if he heard.

Kirsten slammed his apartment door a little too hard, making Jasper swivel out from behind his cat tree followed by a hiss which made Harry's lips turn up a bit before guilt continued to consume him. Jasper came to tangle himself between Harrys feet, skimming along his owners fingertips before running off again. Harry buried his face into his hands with a heavy sigh. What was he doing? 

Looking back up at the glasses and drinks on the table to the caved in spot where Kirsten lay moments ago, he had only wished it was Aspen instead. And instead of beers and bottles, he wanted to see books and journals and pencils and Aspen.

Regret flashed through his heavy green eyes. He was so fucked.

[roseytoesy]

Safe space 3

Sorry this has taken a while to get to. Life got busy and I wanted to really pour some emotions and comfort into this fic. So have this mess of emotions. Enjoy!

A comforting promise

They had found something so hidden and locked away that it was practically untouched other than rubble and dust from the slow decay around it. They were almost giddy with excitement. A way out. The executives elevator. Something only they and a select few could even know about, hidden behind 4 different thick safe doors.  Locked with 3 different scans, a key card, a code, and the omnihand of course. And after all of that, in a room that anyone over 6” would have to duck due to its closet size, was a glistening red elevator. 

EP quietly cheered to themselves, it seemed to still be in working order, with an easy access panel on the side too! They quickly slid the work pack off of their back, pulling out some welding tools and other tools as they got to work ensuring everything could still work. They got the door open and found the open shaft leading up into darkness and same downward, a draft wafting up, smelling of death. Then again with the piles outside the prison and the many corpses they had to pass to even get this deep into the factory it wasn't too uncommon of a smell.

They hesitantly pushed the call button, fingers crossed as the elevator shuttered to life. It came to them and opened its doors. The inside was a pale white cream and dark steel, covered with dust and looking fairly cold. They were about to step on when a yowl startled them. A large Nightmare critter was staring at them, a swarm of smaller critters forming behind them. 

EP yelped as a critter flew past them into the elevator, They grabbed their flare gun and shot, scaring most of the smalls away, but the Simon smoke bigger body did not move, the flare bouncing off its shoulder, a puff of smoky laugher hissing out of its open mouth. EP watched in horror as it got down on all fours and started to breathe in deeply, a seemingly impossible amount of air. They turned back, about to jump into the elevator when they tripped over their own legs. They were never very athletic and they could hear their coworkers snickering echoes. 

“Can’t even walk on the bridge, why the hell did boss think they were a good choice, watch them flail like a damn sad dear.” They laughed as they kicked the rope bridge. Only a small wobble, but EP stumbled hard, hands flying forward and Their hand jamming through the wooden planks, a snap and-

They shook their head remembering the danger they were in and awkwardly dove to the side as the Simon smoke released a fireball. Right into the elevator. EP screamed as it exploded, the shockwave blasting over them thanks to their half cover, the doors melting shut from the fire within, a creaking and screaming crashing sound echoed in the shaft as the elevator plummeted. Before EP could even Scream the Simon smoke beat them to it, as the other toys who got burned turned on him, They all scampered back down the twisting maze of rooms screaming and roaring.

EP sat there, adrenaline pumping and their breathing ragged, they turned to the elevator, slowly approaching it, as if there was some way to undo what had happened. The metal had cooled, a smoldering mass of metal and charred rubble was all it was now. Not even the call button had remained. EP sobbed, startling themselves at their own sound of defeat. They were so close, So close to getting out. 

Over the last week and a half they had helped fix things, built a plan for those who wanted to stay, helped catch and tame some of the critters near safe haven, and created a defense so strong the prototype couldn't even approach without setting alarms and traps off. But What EP really wanted was to leave, ever since Huggy came to life, they just wanted to leave. They weren't a true employee here, they just did repairs around the factory a long time ago, a nobody, as many would remind them. They continued to cry as the horrible memories swirled. Buried vision and cruel voices laughing at them. The sounds of warped laughter echoing in their ears calling them a pathetic piece of meat. 

It wasn’t until they heard some rumbling footsteps and the unmistakable sound of dough squishing quickly. They tried to get up but their vision swam, everything was red… No the smoke. They turned to the elevator and noticed something spewing out of it.  They stumbled away and into the soft hands of Doey. Who quickly took in their state and took them quickly to a nearby padded room. A 'therapy room.' more like an asylum. 

“Hey, EP, look at me.” Doey said calmly. EP still flinched in his hold, the nightmare gas changing their vision, too many eyes and sharp red teeth- they were breathing hard. Doey gently cupped their face, dough covering their eyes, they scratched at Doey before his calm voice was all they could focus on, they followed his guidance to breathe, to relax, that they are safe. Wanted. 

After a few minutes to calm down EP gently shifted in his hold to stand, Doey let them and made sure they were steady before retreating. His orange hand stayed somewhat nearby. 

“Mathew…” EP said quietly, holding the hand. Doey nodded, taking a seat near them, Head lowering a bit to be eye level. 

“Im here, We are here.” Doey said gently. 

“I- I need, I need a hug.” EP says feeling so tired. Pathetic. A voice whispers in their mind. They shake their head. 

“Outside hug or…” He left the question hanging the option there yet unspoken to try and not make things too awkward. Ep thinks for a moment before a soft smile graces their soot and tear smeared face, looking down at Doeys belly.

“Gotcha, Come on in I’ve got you. We’re here.” Doeys voice is soft and gentle as the hands on his belly shift and move, becoming more than just a pattern on his front, thickening enough to dig into the dough and create an opening by pulling the belly dough apart. A small crawl space opening up on Doeys middle. His normal large hands to the sides, like a low hug at the ready

EP can’t help the thankful smile they give Doey who just nods back, eyes closing in understanding. They could see the 3 sets of colors glowing faintly within the crawlspace as they entered. Quickly curling against a wall and patting the yellow head a few times, watching in awe as the dough closed around them. They shifted a bit more in the now enclosed space. 

The yellow head seemed like it wanted to lunch forward for a hug, but orange somehow beat them to it. As soon as EP stopped moving There was a presence wrapping around their front. Orange eyes looking downtrodden and understanding. The look alone sent new stings through EP’s eyes as tears formed. They curled around Orange, Mathew. Kevin staying back and Jack gently hugging a leg, unsure what else he could do. 

EP sobbed about being sorry. For failing and messing another thing up, for being the clumsy ditz everyone always called them. Mathew just holds them. Running a few hands down their back and arms. Assuring them that they didn’t fail, they still found a direct way out. And that they were ok despite the danger. After a while EP just sits back exhausted. Mathew still gently massaging their arms and Jack gently trying to wipe a few stray tears. 

“I just wanted to find us a way out. With the prototype cut off from ever reaching out of the labs, we can finally leave. But all the ways are so treacherous with the rubble and everyone in safe haven needing help.” They looked sadly into their hands. “It was so close... I was so close.” 

“We will help you get out.” Mathew said. Kevin and Jack looked at him surprised. After all it was him that made the tape reminding himself to stay to care for the other toys. 

“You will? But, safe haven, the prison-” EP started.

“Doesn’t matter. If we can leave, We can find a new, safe space. And we wouldn’t be abandoning Safe Haven if we could get everyone.” Mathew reasoned. 

Kevin looked a bit irked at first but just huffed and sank back into the wall. Doey moving toward Safe haven most likely. Mathew and Jack just sat with EP comforting them when the nightmares started to affect them. As they were lulled in and out of exhausted sleep from their adventure.

“Are we really going to leave mathew?” Jack asked, looking at the older personality. 

“I… Yes.” Mathew asked after a moment. It had been 10 years. 10 long years of just surviving, trying and losing so so many friends and resources. And here was finally a way out, not just for them, for everyone they could carry. So Mathew just sat in thought, molding his hand in different ways as Kevin took them all home to rest, to plan. Not like he didn’t want to leave either, but too many times have promises like that turned south. He would talk to Matthew about it later that night. 

He grumbled a bit as he swung from platforms and stretched openings to fit through thanks to their current passenger. But whatever. He would try to ignore how nice it felt to have them there, to feel his brothers other sides care for this person that was stuck down here too. Silently hoping that Mathew would have a good plan for them all.

[riseokau]

One-Time Offer

pairing: Verkwan seungkwan x vernon

w/c: 3k

genre: idol, fluff, romance, Slice of Life / Idolverse AU, Light Humor,

requested by: @as133p

summary: After a grueling concert, Seungkwan stumbles into the dorm like a man defeated—until Vernon offers him a massage… in exchange for a private serenade. What begins as dramatic banter turns into soft touches, sleepy ballads, and tangled limbs under a shared blanket. Somewhere between aching muscles and whispered “I love you”s, they find comfort in each other—and maybe, just maybe, a little peace.

I'd love to know your thoughts about this story knowing it's my first time writing a mxm if you have any reaquests they're open if you liked the story reblog it so other people can also enjoy it :)

The dorm door swung open with a theatrical creak that echoed down the hallway like the opening note of a grand overture. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t quiet. It was, in every sense, dramatic.

And that was exactly how Seungkwan intended it.

He stood in the doorway like a soldier returning from war—though, to be fair, the war in question was a three-hour concert followed by two hours of meet-and-greets, a triple encore, and a final group photo where he’d been told to “smile more” despite his spine feeling like it had folded into a paper crane.

His shoes barely made it past the entryway before he launched them off his feet with a groan so profound it might’ve summoned rain. One shoe bounced off the wall and landed lopsided in the corner like a defeated knight; the other rolled merrily into the living room and disappeared under the coffee table.

“I have been through hell,” he declared, arms stretched heavenward like he was offering his pain to the gods. “My shoulder blades? Pulverized. My soul? Gone. Evaporated. Turned to dust and scattered into the Seoul skyline.”

His voice rang out through the dimly lit dorm, which smelled faintly of fabric softener, takeout ramen, and the uniquely comforting scent of home. The only response to his monologue was a dull, wet scrape-scrape—the sound of plastic meeting the bottom of a yogurt cup.

Vernon, lounging on the couch with the languid grace of someone who hadn’t moved in an hour, didn’t even lift his head. His legs were propped up on the coffee table, one sock slipping off slightly. His hoodie was two sizes too big, the sleeves bunched halfway up his forearms. He gave the impression of someone who had not known stress in decades.

He finally glanced over, eyebrows raised in an unbothered arch. “You look like a penguin trying to moonwalk.”

Seungkwan froze mid-limp, turning his glare toward the couch with the fire of a thousand suns. “Excuse you?”

Vernon shrugged, spoon still in his mouth. “Just calling it like I see it.”

“How dare you insult a man in agony?” Seungkwan stomped—well, shuffled dramatically—into the living room, arms flailing slightly for balance. “I gave my entire being to the stage tonight. I hit a D5 while spinning, and smiled through a leg cramp the size of Jeju Island. I deserve respect, Vernon. Sympathy.”

“You’re getting judgment instead,” Vernon said, licking his spoon with zero remorse.

Seungkwan threw himself onto the couch cushions with a groan that could’ve curdled milk. The couch made a whumph noise as it absorbed the weight of his exhaustion. He twisted and squirmed, shifting until he found a position that didn’t make him want to cry.

Vernon raised the now-empty yogurt cup. “You want this? It’s peach.”

Seungkwan gave him a withering look. “Does peach yogurt look like it could fix my spine?”

“No, but you could use the sugar.”

“You’re impossible,” Seungkwan muttered, flipping onto his stomach and burying his face into the nearest pillow.

The dorm fell into a momentary silence, the soft buzz of the old refrigerator in the kitchenette the only sound filling the space. It was late—past 1 AM—but the city outside the windows still hummed with distant traffic and glowing neon.

Vernon tilted his head. “You sounded really good tonight, by the way.”

Seungkwan peeked up from the pillow, suspicious. “Is this a trap?”

“No trap,” Vernon said, smiling lazily. “You killed it. That ad-lib in the bridge? Unreal. Gave me chills.”

Seungkwan squinted at him. “Are you buttering me up because you want something?”

“Maybe,” Vernon said. Then he patted the empty space beside him on the couch cushion. “Come here. One-time offer.”

Seungkwan didn’t move. “Define ‘offer.’”

“I fix your back. You sing me the sad ballad I like. The one with the long falsetto at the end.”

Seungkwan recoiled like he’d been slapped. “What? That’s the catch? You want me to serenade you while you jam your fridge-strength thumbs into my shoulder blades?”

Vernon’s grin widened. “Exactly.”

“That’s extortion,” Seungkwan accused. “That’s—emotional blackmail.”

Vernon shrugged, unapologetic. “Take it or leave it.”

Seungkwan grabbed a cushion and hurled it. It smacked Vernon in the chest with a muffled thud. Vernon didn’t even flinch.

“You’re a menace,” Seungkwan huffed. “A manipulative little gremlin.”

“Say that again,” Vernon said, leaning forward, eyes twinkling, “but slower.”

Seungkwan rolled his eyes so hard it was medically concerning. “I’m breaking up with you.”

“Lies,” Vernon said. “You love me too much.”

“I hate how true that is.”

Another beat of quiet passed. Seungkwan groaned into the pillow, then peeked up with a reluctant expression. “Your massages do help.”

“I know.”

“And my back does feel like it’s made of splinters.”

“Exactly.”

Seungkwan groaned again, dragging himself into a seated position like a man preparing to meet his fate. “If I do this, you better actually fix me. None of that poking and running your thumb down my spine like you’re tuning a cello.”

Vernon held up a hand. “Massage fairy’s honor.”

“Massage fairy?” Seungkwan repeated, offended. “What fairy needs blackmail to get a performance?”

“A special kind,” Vernon said smugly.

“I swear—”

“Floor,” Vernon said, patting the carpet in front of the couch again. “Come on, diva.”

Seungkwan stared at him like he was debating launching another cushion. Then, with a long, tortured sigh, he got up and shuffled to the indicated spot.

He dropped down with all the grace of a collapsing building. “I’m a broken man,” he muttered. “Be gentle. I have the bones of a grandma.”

Vernon chuckled, adjusting his seat so his legs framed Seungkwan’s sides. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s see what I’m working with.”

He rested his hands on Seungkwan’s shoulders, thumbs brushing lightly along the muscle there.

Seungkwan flinched. “No sudden moves. I will sue.”

“Relax,” Vernon said, voice dropping just a little. His tone smoothed out like warm butter—calm, steady, familiar.

The first press of Vernon’s thumbs was gentle, exploratory. He worked slowly, kneading along the tension-knotted muscles with practiced care. It was clear this wasn’t his first time untangling Seungkwan’s post-performance aches.

“Wow,” Vernon muttered after a moment. “Your shoulders are made of literal bricks.”

“It’s from carrying the vocal line. And the stage. And the team’s sense of humor.”

Vernon snorted. “Sure it’s not from how tightly you clench during rehearsals?”

“It’s called being prepared,” Seungkwan snapped, but the bite was gone from his voice. He was already beginning to melt beneath Vernon’s touch.

The couch cushion shifted slightly as Vernon leaned in closer, thumbs pressing just a bit deeper, drawing small gasps and groans from Seungkwan.

It wasn’t long before Vernon began to hum.

Soft, low, and familiar.

Seungkwan stilled. He knew that tune. He could sing it in his sleep.

“You’re really gonna make me do this?” he said, lifting his head an inch.

Vernon smiled against the back of his neck. “You agreed to the terms. I am the massage fairy. I have rules.”

Seungkwan sighed, but this time, it was a quieter sound—less dramatic, more resigned.

He took a breath.

And then he began to sing.

His voice, even worn thin by hours of performance, floated gently into the dim room. It was softer than usual—more fragile, more intimate—like the song wasn’t meant for a crowd this time but just for the boy behind him, hands coaxing tension from his tired muscles. The first verse flowed like a whisper, every note tinged with that post-show rasp that made it feel even more real.

Vernon didn’t say anything. Didn’t tease. He just listened.

And massaged.

His thumbs moved in slow, steady circles along Seungkwan’s shoulder blades, drifting outward to the tight muscles of his upper back. Each motion was practiced, familiar. The warmth of his hands seeped through the thin fabric of Seungkwan’s loose shirt, a grounding pressure that made it easier to let go of the day. He used the heel of his palm along the base of Seungkwan’s neck, then shifted to knead along the spine with his fingertips. There was a rhythm to it—press, release, smooth, repeat—that matched the lilt of the song.

“You’ve got a knot the size of Busan right here,” Vernon murmured, fingers digging just slightly into Seungkwan’s left shoulder.

“That one’s from the encore spin,” Seungkwan mumbled mid-verse. “My body gave up halfway through but I kept smiling. For the fans.”

“Martyr,” Vernon said, voice fond.

“Saint,” Seungkwan corrected. “Put it on my grave. Saint Seungkwan of the Stage.”

The teasing faded as he reached the chorus, notes rising gently in the stillness. His breath hitched slightly when Vernon found another knot and worked it loose, but he sang through it—just a tiny break in the sound, almost like a sigh.

Vernon leaned forward, a little closer now, his breath brushing the nape of Seungkwan’s neck as he hummed along under his breath. Not loud enough to compete—just enough to join in. To support. His hands shifted to the tops of Seungkwan’s arms, thumbs running up the curve of his shoulders and then back down with the care of someone sculpting clay.

“Relax,” he whispered, when he felt Seungkwan tense again. “You don’t have to impress anyone right now.”

Seungkwan didn’t answer, but he did let his shoulders drop a little. His voice, somehow, grew softer still—tender and hushed. He stumbled over one line, breath catching, and paused.

Vernon’s hands never stopped moving. “You’re doing perfect,” he said.

Another breath. Then Seungkwan sang on.

The ballad unfolded like a slow unraveling, each lyric tugging another knot loose—not just in his body, but somewhere deeper. The city noise outside had faded, the world reduced to the warmth of Vernon’s hands and the pulse of his voice threading through the stillness.

Somewhere around the bridge, Vernon’s fingers slowed.

The motion lost its rhythm—became softer, lazier. Seungkwan didn’t notice at first, too caught in the emotion of the melody. But by the time he reached the falsetto, Vernon’s touch had turned to nothing more than a gentle resting of palms against his back.

Seungkwan blinked, glancing over his shoulder.

Vernon was leaning forward, eyes closed, his forehead now pressed lightly between Seungkwan’s shoulder blades. His head dipped slightly with each breath, soft and even. His hands still touched Seungkwan’s back, but they’d gone slack, no longer massaging—just there, warm and heavy.

“...Seriously?” Seungkwan whispered.

No response.

The softest snore.

Seungkwan rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips curved despite himself. “You snored through my live solo,” he muttered. “I should sue.”

Vernon didn’t move. His hair was brushing against the back of Seungkwan’s neck now, tickling slightly. The weight of him was comforting in a way that made Seungkwan’s chest ache. Somehow, even like this—half-slumped and utterly unconscious—he still felt like home.

So Seungkwan stayed where he was, spine straight, shoulders slouched forward, letting Vernon rest against him.

And he kept singing.

Softer now, the words barely more than breath. The lyrics wrapped around them both, a private melody just for this moment. His voice didn’t soar anymore—it floated. Quiet and still and sure.

He sang to the end.

And when the final note faded into silence, he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t move.

He just closed his eyes, let Vernon breathe against his back, and sat in the stillness that followed.

Eventually, the lamp clicked softly as it dimmed itself to sleep mode.

The night wrapped around them like a blanket.

And Seungkwan, his bones aching but his heart strangely full, leaned back just a little—enough to rest his head against Vernon’s shoulder. Vernon stirred slightly in his sleep but didn’t wake.

Seungkwan smiled.

“Stupid massage fairy,” he whispered. “Guess I really do love you too much.”

It was hard to tell when the massage had ended and the cuddling began.

At some point, Seungkwan had shifted to lean sideways, carefully guiding Vernon’s sleep-heavy body down with him. The cushions from the couch had been pulled off and rearranged into a haphazard but functional nest, and a fleece throw blanket—light gray with tiny faded stars—had been yanked from the back of the sofa and tossed over them like a finishing touch.

Now, under the soft weight of the blanket, they lay on their sides, facing each other in the lazy sprawl of people who had no immediate reason to move. The lamp in the corner cast a warm pool of light across the room, turning everything golden at the edges. The shadows were soft. The silence, softer.

Seungkwan blinked slowly, gaze fixed on the boy in front of him.

Vernon’s lashes twitched.

Then—slowly—his eyes fluttered open.

He looked around in a daze for a second, brows knitting slightly as he registered the weight of the blanket, the faint echo of a ballad still in the room, and the warmth of Seungkwan’s legs tangled with his.

“Did I fall asleep?” he croaked, voice rough with sleep.

Seungkwan narrowed his eyes. “You snored through my live solo.”

Vernon groaned, burying his face into the pillow with a muffled, “Noooo.”

“Yes,” Seungkwan confirmed, voice deadly calm. “You, Hansol Vernon Chwe, fell asleep. On me. During my emotional falsetto.”

“I was too relaxed,” Vernon whined. “That’s on you. You sang like an angel. My body shut down in self-defense.”

Seungkwan glared. But not really. “Unbelievable. The disrespect.”

“I meant it as a compliment.”

“Don’t try to weasel your way out of this with sweet words and puppy eyes—”

“You do have magic hands, though,” Vernon added, reaching forward to poke Seungkwan in the ribs. “That voice? It’s illegal to combine that with a back massage. Too powerful. I had no choice.”

Seungkwan scoffed, but the edges of his mouth twitched upward. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Vernon grinned sleepily, eyes half-lidded. “You always say that.”

“That’s because it’s always true,” Seungkwan muttered, and then—more quietly—“Also, you’re annoying.”

“I know,” Vernon said. Then, softer still: “You always kill it. Even when you don’t think you do.”

The room stilled for a moment. Seungkwan blinked slowly, lips parting like he was about to argue—instinct, maybe. He always did. But nothing came out.

Instead, he exhaled.

And nudged Vernon in the shoulder with his knuckles. “Shut up.”

Vernon smirked. “Never.”

But Seungkwan was looking at him now—really looking—eyes softer, expression suddenly stripped of all the performance and teasing. And before he could second-guess it, before his mouth could do the overthinking his brain usually demanded, he let the words fall out.

“I love you, you know?”

Vernon’s smirk didn’t fade—but it curved into something gentler. Something real. He reached out and laced their fingers together between them, thumb brushing lightly across Seungkwan’s knuckles.

“I love you more,” he whispered.

Seungkwan made a face like he was about to throw up. “Gross.”

“Admit it, you’re swooning.”

“I will physically fight you for this.”

“Or you could kiss me instead.”

Seungkwan stared at him.

Then, slowly—like gravity had finally won—he leaned in.

Their lips met in the quietest of kisses, soft and sure. There was no urgency, no grand music swelling in the background—just the hush of their breathing, the warmth of the blanket around them, and the steady thrum of two hearts in sync.

The kiss deepened slightly, but never lost its gentleness. It was familiar. Sweet. Like coming home after a long day.

Halfway through, Seungkwan cracked one eye open. He pulled back just enough to murmur, “You still taste like yogurt.”

Vernon grinned into the next kiss. “You taste like drama.”

Seungkwan laughed against his mouth, the sound muffled and bright. Vernon kissed him again—once, twice, and then again, as if he couldn’t help it. Each kiss punctuated with quiet laughter, their noses bumping clumsily between smiles.

They broke apart eventually, breath mingling in the small space between them. Vernon rested his forehead against Seungkwan’s, both of them still smiling, still so tangled in each other it was impossible to tell where one ended and the other began.

The lamp’s light flickered slightly, casting golden streaks over the curve of Seungkwan’s cheek, the slope of Vernon’s nose. Their hands remained linked, thumbs brushing idle patterns across skin.

A quiet settled between them—not awkward, not heavy. Just... still.

The kind of stillness that spoke volumes.

Seungkwan’s voice came again, softer than ever. “You scared me a little, earlier.”

Vernon blinked. “What?”

“When you stopped moving. I thought maybe you were messing with me. But then I felt your forehead on my back and—” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It was dumb. But I didn’t want to move.”

Vernon squeezed his hand gently. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know.” Seungkwan looked down at their hands, then back up. “I think I liked singing to you like that. Even if you were unconscious.”

“I heard some of it,” Vernon said. “I think. Dream-Seungkwan sang with you a little.”

Seungkwan snorted. “Bet he was pitchy.”

Vernon grinned. “A little.”

They lay there like that for a while—limbs tangled under the blanket, laughter echoing quietly into the corners of the room. The glow of the lamp made their skin look soft, golden. The dorm was still quiet, the hum of the refrigerator like a distant lullaby.

Eventually, Seungkwan sighed. Not a dramatic one this time—just soft. Content.

“We should sleep.”

“We should,” Vernon agreed, making no move to untangle himself.

Instead, he shifted closer, tucking his chin gently against Seungkwan’s shoulder. Seungkwan pulled the blanket tighter around them, their legs finding the familiar rhythm of curling close.

The silence stretched long and comfortable.

And just before sleep claimed them both, Seungkwan whispered, “You’re still a menace.”

Vernon smiled, already half-asleep. “And you still love me.”

“I really, really hate how true that is.”

Vernon’s answer was a soft kiss against his temple.

Then sleep.

And the dorm, wrapped in the last threads of their laughter and love, finally settled into peace.

THE END

[user500269]

Hi there, love your work!

Can I ask for something with Chilchuck x reader where the reader decided to share their secret good wine stash with Chilchuck and they somehow end up sloppily making out?

chilchuck x reader

summary: sharing your favorite spot with your favorite person

wc: 872

content warning: fluff, making out drunk (consent is important!!)

author's note: hi anon, i have been meaning to get to this request for a loooong time, but my francis content blew up by then!! idk what's going on in this one, but the fluff was entirely self-indulgent omg. anyway, thank u sm for the great request, i hope you enjoy this one :) not proof read!!

"it's just through here," you whispered, squeezing chilchuck's hand lightly.

you pulled him through the narrow hallway, taking an abrupt left to reveal your hidden treasure. it was your most prized possession, hidden from the rest of the party for many years.

chilchuck's eyes widened when you had dragged him through the curtain, sliding it shut. "this is..."

"amazing?" you finished his sentence, letting go of his hand to pluck a good bottle of wine from your stash.

"how long have you had all of...this?" he trailed off, looking around in awe. the accumulation of alcohol in such a tiny space would've set the entire dungeon floor on fire.

you chuckled at the awe on his face, sauntering over to his. "you'll catch flies, chi," you tapped his jaw close, ushering over to the little chairs you had set up. "just a few years..."

"we're resting tomorrow so we can drink 'till we vomit," you slid into your chair across from him, popping the cork off the bottle. "then do it all over again!" you cheered, generously pouring into his glass.

when you slid his glass over, you poured yours the same amount, just a smidge more. "cheers," you tipped your glass, his clinking against yours.

"this is some good fucking wine," he swirled his cup after taking a swig, slouching back in his chair.

this wine had been kept here for years, aged for better taste. you had refrained from binge-drinking every bottle and let them further ferment in your hidden storage room.

"you're getting red, angel," chilchuck chuckled, inspected how droopy your eyes got, every blink getting heavier.

unfortunately for you, you were a lightweight.

"no, 'm fine, chi," you shook your head, brows furrowed and nose scrunched, unable to control the contortions of your facial features. "just a little dizzy," you sighed, taking another sip.

although he wanted to indulge you, the dad in him wouldn't allow you to take another sip. "that's enough for you," he smiled, pulling your glass closer to him.

you frowned, trying to grasp at straws. "hey! that's mine," you scoffed, throwing yourself on your own two feet, though wobbly. you threw your arms around, flailing like a fish fresh out of water.

"uh-huh..." he mindless nodded, placing your glass on a nearby end-table. you stumbled over to him, finding yourself placed between his thighs.

your arms were limp beside you, looking down at chilchuck. his hands softly held your waist, looking right back up at you.

"you're pretty," he smiled, reaching a hand up to caress your cheek.

his thumb gently brushed against your rosy cheeks, slowly guiding you down to his lips. when his lips pressed against yours, you made a little noise. he pulled away thinking he hurt you, but you just latched yourself back onto his lips, hand holding the side of his jaw.

the warmth of your body coursed through your fingertips, the heat tingling against his skin. it was entirely silent. even when you climbed onto his lap, hands grabbing his face to press his lips against yours, bodies moving against each other.

you two were so entirely smitten with each other.

and when you pulled away, he'd look at you with that look in his eyes. it was so stupid, it made you feel like a little school girl. "makin' me blush, chi," you mumbled, brushing his bangs out of his eyes.

"you were already blushing before," he smirked, pinching your cheek softly, making you wince.

you sighed, looking him more deeply in the eye. you didn't know if it was the alcohol talking, but you wanted to consume him whole if you could. kissing him for hours sounded like a good plan.

you leaned in, not close enough to kiss, but close enough. you looked down at his lips, flicking back to look up at his eyes, but ultimately sticking to admire the plushness of his lips.

"you gonna kiss me?" he whispered. you gulped, licking your suddenly dry lips.

"mhm..." you leaned in, kissing him again.

you felt yourself burning from his touch, your toes tingling, your heart beating, and your lips chasing after his every time you parted. you two kissed like two horny teens making out for the first time, rutting against each other like you weren't allowed to have sex.

neither of your hands slipped beyond your clothes, fingers just fidgeting with the fabric. "someone's needier than usual," chilchuck mumbled, fluttering his eyes open to look at what you looked like.

your lips were puffy, covered in his spit. you huffed against him, foreheads touching. "missed our alone time," you smiled, pressing a kiss against his temple.

his hand lowered to your back, supporting your tired figure. the alcohol was getting to you, sleepiness overtaking you.

"me too, angel," he agreed, throwing your face into the crook of his neck. he let you rest there, rubbing his hand on your back.

he heard your little snores, laughing under his breath. you were a quick, heavy sleeper, there was no way he would be able to wake you up once you were out.

"night, angel," he kissed the crown of your head, leaning his head against yours with a big, relieved sigh.