#Guest Starring Friend OC | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

taegularities · 11 months ago

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meraki | jjk (m)

MERAKI (v., Greek). "to do something with soul, creativity, or love; to put something of yourself in your work." Summary: Jungkook finds you irritating; far too energetic and insistent. But his perception of you changes bit by bit, minute by minute, when he's persuaded into spending an entire night with you at places he doesn't know.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: e2l, grumpy!jk (+ photographer!jk) x sunshine!reader; fluff, smut ➳ warnings: bickering, bantering, jk is a bit rude at the beginning, flirting, tension, oc is bold and courageous, mention of someone being stoned, mention of insomnia, jk's lip rings <3, heights, not exactly e2l but more like "i find you pretty annoying" to lovers lmao, deep talks and sweet moments, one bed trope, guest appearance, jk takes pictures of pretty things, stars and sky talk <3, explicit sexual content: kissing/making out, implied pain kink? lol, fingering, manhandling, oral (f. & m. receiving), teasing, 69, spitting, one or two spanks, bit of choking, soft and hard sex, unprotected sex (oc has an iud), soft dom!jk but also glimpses of sub!jk, ofc biiiig dick!jk, doggy/riding/missionary, praises, more flirting, jk's godly body, masturbation, cum swallowing (he comes in her mouth); the lovely ending <3 ➳ word count: 26.6k <3 ➳ a/n: you guys built this fic!! 🥺 hopefully this is what we expected it to be. it's also yet another love letter to one of the gentlest men i know; happy birthday, jeon jungkook, you're the standard and i will never fall out of love with you 💕 i hope y'all enjoy it!! come and talk to me when you're done mwah <3

TAGLIST | MASTERLIST | WIPs

1:04AM, Her

There’s a word for how you do what you do.

A term you hold dearly in the crevices of your bright heart. Ever since you first learned its meaning two decades ago, you’ve made it your primary goal to breathe through life with it as your philosophy.

Passion, it is. A word certainly common in conversation and daily life — you’re not the only person to live by it. Doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to wallow in it.

Because there’s a fire behind your hard-working chest, lit up, pride residing next to it. It’s where you feel the most vivid light when you do what you love, blooming and blossoming. There are synonyms of it you know, and each of them are pretty as a growing garden.

You gatekeep them for now; haven’t yet found a person to share your knowledge with. Which is okay; in the meantime, you’ll keep looking. You do think everybody needs something like this in their lives.

Something that forces your body upright, sprinkling fairy dust and glimmer into your eyes. Something you can resort to in order to escape the trials of life.

For you, as odd it may seem to people, it’s your job.

You usually work late like today, surrounded by sounds and disquiet. But you enjoy it. You like stepping into the night afterwards, and you like the dark blanket above, the starlight sprinkled across the comforting blackness.

And you like it when it drizzles sometimes. The giggles of couples or groups of friends as they wade through the rain. The absolute quiet and relieving serenity.

You live for this. You enjoy people. You enjoy sensing life around you.

Tonight isn’t different. Even when you find yourself hastening by the end, wrapping up the event with a dozen chores to tackle; even when the host rushes to you, asking for help. Your shoes click-clack across the floor as you move left and right, up and down.

But by God, you never doubt these days’ worth.

1:04AM, Him

Sometimes, people don’t want to be photographed.

Jungkook learned that early on when he agreed to be a photographer at events. He’s encouraged and urged to ask people to pose; that’s his job. Waiting for them to force a smile before they can resume eating, debone their fish or work on their lobsters, beef, veggies.

They long to return to whatever they were doing, or to their conversations, mostly insignificant ones; Jungkook knows because he, involuntarily, hears too many of them.

It’s only when they’re dancing or drinking that they open up. That’s when they’re okay with listening to him, obedient, almost as if he’s authority, staring into the lens with flushed cheeks and wide grins.

Though it’s irritating when every other person walks up to him afterwards, inquiring when they’d be receiving the photos, or, even ruder, if at all.

Today, there are a few more comfortable people around. Not as harsh, not as grim as he feels. You’re here, too, somewhere; of course you are — you got him here in the first place. Somehow, your paths often cross. You were ready for a picture immediately, drawn in by the host, smiling.

He perceived your presence just for a second, though. Doesn’t need or want any more than that. You’re too loud, too energetic anyway; he’s rather among himself, not in any photo, indulging in the job.

He loves clicking through his camera roll; it’s the people that tire him out. Working his way through the pictures he took once home gives him joy, though. Makes his fatigue feel worth it.

But God, you’re not the only one, right? So many people here are the same amount of enthusiastic, party people to the core.

Which is why he’s happy when the night finally concludes, and he, far after midnight, stuffs his equipment back into his bag and slips into his at least somewhat chic blazer.

1:12AM, Her

You groan as your hand dives into your bag, fishing out the key that you already removed from your keychain an hour ago. Back when the man facing you approached you; he’s the last face you see when you step out of the somewhat stuffy hall.

Or so you think.

You don’t know that the night is far from over when you linger at the entrance, handing him a key that he encloses in his grip with a grateful nod and a goodbye-wave. The final interaction when you excuse yourself, breathing in the night.

It’s a hunch cooler than when you left home today; yet, the breeze feels pleasant caressing your skin. The end of August is still warm, still fairly far from fall; you regard summer nights as the best part of the season.

Sighing, you come to a halt in the middle of the pavement, studying the alley. You ponder until you remember a bus not too far from here; you need to turn left, right? Should be there. You have never been around here before, so you’re not entirely sure.

But you’ll just go with your first instinct for now. Keep walking until you detect any kind of a promising sign. You hold onto your roomy bag as you pass the rare people still around.

Some of them are faces you recognise from the party; some are strangers. One couple you spoke to just earlier even lifts a thumbs up for you, praising you for the exceptional organisation. They make you feel at ease until the road quietens.

And the place stays serene and silent until you hear the clearing of somebody’s throat. It’s not near; yet not far. Your eyes scan the area, not for long when they recognise a figure sitting on the opposite side of the narrow street.

It’s a man, clutching a heavy object with careful hands. A camera, you know it immediately. He’s hunting through the pictures he took, face slightly lit by the screen. Jutting lower lip, slowly blinking eyes.

Simple attire — dark jeans, a white shirt, and a blazer on top that hides the wide shoulders.

Constantly and undeniably handsome, albeit always grim due to the lack of a smile.

You squint to confirm it’s him you’re seeing; but when he smacks his lips in the dark of the night, nibbling at the shiny lip rings, you know you’re right. This is a habit you’ve never seen on anybody this persistently as on Jeon Jungkook.

And the one and only Jeon Jungkook must be feeling your eyes on him, because only a second later, he lifts his gaze. Instinctively, you wave a little, but Jungkook isn’t on board with your hospitality. He rolls his eyes; you don’t take it to heart, though. You’re used to this.

As he starts stuffing the camera back into his bag, you waddle over, crossing the street. Upon reaching him, you ask, “Got some good pictures tonight?”

“I’d guess so.”

His voice is as nonchalant as always, his shoulders relaxed, uncaring. To your vampire-novel-reading middle school self, he would’ve been the coolest and most mysterious riddle, waiting to be cracked. But you know how he feels about you, and that makes the situation just a little less intriguing.

Yet, you never stopped approaching him, because aside from conversations like these, you know he’s just human, too. He smiles at events whenever he gets the chance, content with the moments he captures; he likes what he does.

Photography has always been his thing; or that’s what you gathered, at least. You see the same sparkle in his eyes that you feel in yours when you work; the same joy when he fumbles with his camera, always checking, presumably changing the settings, testing it out.

You lean in a little, wondering, “Can I see?”

“Uhm…” He hesitates, lifting the strap of the camera bag higher up his shoulder. “Do you have to?”

“If I may. I brought you here, remember?”

Of course. It’s always you; you’re the one to organise this, and you’ve seen his pieces and albums before. He might not hang around you too much, always the first to tell you he has somewhere else to be, but you know he’s good. You trust him in this regard.

“You say that every time,” he argues, a tattooed hand settling on his bag, clearly reluctant.

So you click your tongue, waving your suggestion off. You try to sound as lively as ever, but your voice is more earnest as you say, “Okay, it’s fine. Don’t show me the pictures, but come on. Be a bit nice at least.

“Alright. What else? Do you need something?”

You sigh in defeat. “No. I was just going home.”

“You should go home. It’s pretty late.”

“Aren’t you going, too?”

“I am,” he responds, his voice going up at the end. “I just wanted a bit of peace before leaving.”

“Peace,” you repeat, as if trying out the word. “You can’t get it at home?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer this time. Instead, he only shifts his stare from you to the empty road ahead, exhaling a dramatically long breath before he gets into motion. You immediately react, by his side until he asks, “Are you following me?”

“Huh? Did you forget that I was literally heading this way?” He’s distracted, looking for the street signs, and you laugh at his own confusion. “Do you even know where you’re going?”

“I guess so.”

Okay, at least he’s honest, not giving himself airs. You want to see what his inner compass suggests, but then somewhat shun the thought of walking further into unknown terrain.

So you question, “You taking the bus?”

“Nope. Subway.”

“Ah. That should be this way, then,” you nod towards the direction you’re approaching, “I know the bus is, because that’s where I need to go.”

“…Are you sure?”

“Yep.”

That’s it. He doesn’t respond much; only lets out the millionth sigh, following you with something you might nearly call trust. He doesn’t attempt small talk or any other kind of interaction, so you let him sink into his thoughts.

But a beat of silence later, you still ask politely, “How did you like the party?”

“Uhhh, it was okay.” For the first time in minutes, he looks at you. “The people were weird, don’t you think? But I got some good shots in.”

“Hmm… okay. I didn’t notice anything weird about the people.” You shrug your shoulders. “Talking about shots… did you drink a little?”

He whines your name as the question is a tale as old as time, complaining, “Every single time? Why is this so important to you…” He waits, shakes his head. “No, I didn’t. Seems you did, though.”

“A little,” you say, bringing your forefinger and thumb together, indicating a tiny space. “But I’m all sober and well.” Another brief pause. “Are you okay, too?”

He licks his lower lip, dimples appearing that don’t ever need a smile to emerge. Then, he throws back, “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Dunno. You always look so bored at parties. And you always go home alone.”

You don’t know if the following laugh is sarcastic or not, but you soon discover the very answer when he lifts a finger and counts, “First off, how would you know?” Another finger added to the mix. “Secondly, I’m not bored. I’m just focused. And I don’t know anybody there.”

His hand drops again, working on his bag’s strap again. Pushing it over his shoulder. He adds, “It’s a bit different for me than for you because they’re literally your clients and you know them at least a little.”

“I mean… you know me.”

“Yeah, but you’re…” He regards you from head to toe, not the softest of expressions, and you pout. You don’t ever take him seriously, but he can be hurtful sometimes. “I just don’t think we’d be good conversation partners.”

“Weird,” you challenge, “because you’re conversing with me right now, no problem. It’s also not my fault you always argue with me at every event.”

“I don’t. You approach me.”

“You do.” You lean your face closer to his, not making it very far when his palm pushes your cheek, and you, away from him. “Ugh. Okay. Seriously, though — why do you always leave alone?”

He exhales in defeat. Seems that Jeon Jungkook is too tired to take your idiocy tonight. You understand, but you’re just trying to figure out how to convince him that you’re normal, too. That he just dislikes you because you’re different from him, and nothing else.

“Hey…” he utters, out of energy.

“I mean it,” you still declare, “there are so many sweet and nice girls around. They ask about you sometimes, you know? I’ve also met many men on such pa—”

“That’s great,” he interrupts, a palm stopping you from spilling more info, “but… I don’t think I’m interested.”

“Oh.” The syllable is short, cut, harmless. That is, until it clicks in your brain, and your eyes widen, lips parting as you turn to him in shock, stating, “Oh, wait. Do you… play for the other team?”

Jungkook blinks at you. Then lowers his gaze, turning it a couple shades darker, staring at you from under his eyelids. He looks annoyed when he spits, “No, I’m not gay. And even if I was, it’d be none of your business.”

Shit.

Okay, you were sure about your assumption, but now that it turned out wrong, this sounds pretty shitty. And annoying. And awkward.

“Sorry,” you apologise, and he gives you a taunting head tilt. “Okay… different topic then? Tell me, what do you think of this dress?” You lift the hem a little, smiling; you were convinced the moment you first saw it. “Do you think I look pretty today?”

For a second, he joins; his initial gaze is still cynical, but his voice is appealing, a whisper when he leans in and asks, “Why? Do you want to be the one I go home with?”

Ah… why do the words, the way he speaks them, tickle you just right? You’re flabbergasted, seeing your reaction on the bare skin of your arms, but all he does is back away again and once again, shake his head.

You want to retort something snarky back, but you don’t get to it when he inquires a moment later again, “Are you sure we’re going the right way?”

Right… you need to go home. You forgot.

“Uh… yeah.” You look around, finally detecting a sign, picturing a bus and a number. “There’s the bus, so the subway should be…” You stop; hum; then see two women waiting at the bus stop. “Should we ask someone?”

“Sure.”

With a nod, you separate from him, walking towards the bus station bench they’re sitting on, hands folded, conversing quietly. They’re surprised when they see a figure advance, but relax when they catch your smile.

You ask the questions floating in your brain, trying to explain where you live, what you need. They attempt an answer, gesture around, and barely a minute later, you’re thanking them and leaving again.

Jungkook stands there in anticipation, waiting for you to deliver good news — yet confused when you return with slumped shoulders instead of an enthusiastic, “We were right! Come!”

Okay, there aren’t too many reasons for Jungkook to dislike you; you want to say this much. But when you see him understand that this is going nowhere, you do get his frustration.

Especially as you kiss your lips, staring at him like a lost bunny, and explain, “So… the subway isn’t here.” Big eyes meet yours. “I’m not sure where it is, and they,” your thumb points to the girls behind you, “couldn’t help because they’re tourists.”

“Ah. Great,” he says, delivering a falsely cheerful smile. Hands thrown into the air. “So we’re stranded and should definitely not be here. What about the bus? Where does it go?”

“Uhm…” You scratch your head. “Not where I need to go. It’s a different one. But!” Immediately, your voice rises, trying to approach this with hope. It’s not the end of the world, after all! “Don’t worry! We’ll get home either way.”

“Just a lot later than necessary.”

“But nothing’s lost yet. Don’t you trust me?”

And — much as you thought — Jungkook only ogles back in silence, blinking once again before he walks away with a curse on his lips.

1:25AM, Her

You catch up to him fast.

“It’s not that big of a deal, I promise!” you vow, but you reckon it only makes matters worse.

Because he breathes air through his nose, like a bull, arguing, “I’m tired, though. This is wasting so much of my time. You always do.”

You stop in your tracks. He doesn’t. You sulk, “That was mean.”

“And you’re idiotic.”

“Well… shit.”

This time you tilt your head, grinding your teeth; less out of anger, more out of embarrassment. You don’t respond much else, and he doesn’t throw another insult. Instead, he opens the bag again with the velcro’s ripping sound, heaving out his SLR.

You peek over his shoulder, confused about the timing to indulge in a passion, and ask, “What are you doing with that?”

“Looking through them,” he mutters, thumb working on the switching button, “maybe I took a picture when I came here. A sign where to find the subway.”

His reasoning elicits a sudden laugh out of you, probably unfounded to him, but very amusing to you. He throws a bewildered and somewhat warning look, and you immediately silence; still holding yourself back when he turns away again.

You wait, listen to the quiet of the night. He doesn’t seem to find any success, and the more time passes, the funnier you find his mind. Eventually, you step next to him and give up, telling him, “Hey. Don't be so tetchy. I'm not that bad.”

Jungkook side-eyes you, tapping the screen of the heavy Sony A9 Alpha. Inhaling the pleasant late summer air, he defends, “I'm never tetchy! But you got us lost.”

“So? You’re being dramatic. There's still Google Maps.”

That’s it. This look of his.

Jungkook must’ve gotten stuck in a decade you’ve long left, because he stares at you dumbfounded, camera still firmly in his hands. He tongues his cheek, blinks.

And then, you mock, “Guess I’m not the only idiot here, right?”

His next breath is deep, and he soon averts your eyes again. You dig, “What? If anything, then low battery might be your only excuse, you know?”

He doesn’t look at you, and you break into a grin again. Shake your head. Then fish out your phone at last, ready to type in the goal, or at least, to search the nearest subway and bus that fit your demands.

Hmmm, okay. If you need to go where you think you need to go, then the subway will really be in immediate distance to the bus. So you’ll be heading in the same direction anyway.

You open your mouth to ask for his address, prepared to type it in — but as you look at him again, you detect a deeply focused Jungkook, pursing his lips at his camera and regarding it with glitter in his eyes. You see it even from here, the sparkle.

Maybe he’s waiting for you to deliver a conclusion, because you catch him moving through older pictures in the meantime. From here, you only see glimpses. Of forests and roads, and then of waterfalls. Even some of him and his friends.

He doesn’t notice it, but his eyebrows are much more relaxed now, expression not quite as steely anymore; and his lips even twitch for a tiny second, tempted to smile. As if he forgot where he’s currently standing.

You let your arms sink, both hands holding your phone, and just gaze for a while. Then move your eyes to the side. To the sky. Remember places you’ve seen and loved in this town. Still hear his harsh tone echoing in your ears.

In hindsight, you really don’t think you've ever personally hurt or offended him. He might’ve been annoyed by something else. Perhaps he was dealing with something that he never dared to speak about; or perhaps, his perception of optimism is warped, because he clearly doesn’t wade through life with it.

You’d like to see his real self, though. The real self, because your gut feeling whispers to you that this isn’t him. Maybe there’s a kind and kindred soul hidden somewhere; maybe his smile proves far more intriguing to you than these mysterious moods of his. Once it appears, that is.

But…

He’ll probably say no. Your idea isn’t dumb, you’re certain, but he very likely will not go with it. But you want to try. Want to show him that you’re not as bad, that he can trust you; want to know what burdens him; or why he talks to you like this.

You might be the only one to wish for more time with somebody who wants to avoid you like the plague.

Yet…

You don’t want this to end just yet.

So you drop a suggestion that surprise even you—

“…You know what? Let’s try something fun tonight.”

“Excuse me?”

He voices it with his attention only half on you, not quite taking you seriously; so you swallow to dampen your throat and speak firmer, suggesting, “You need to trust me on this, though.”

This time, he does look at you. Works on stuffing his camera back into his bag, opening his mouth to retort something, but you stop him with a shushing finger that he doesn’t look too happy about.

“Hold on, okay?” you exclaim. “Listen. Are you busy tomorrow?”

“Uh… not until the afternoon.”

“So you can sleep in.”

“I guess.”

You clap once, loudly and dramatically, watching the man in front of you flinch. You can’t say if he’s irritated, shocked or terrified of you. But he looks hilarious like this, blinking, scowling as his fingers clutch his bag tighter.

“What is it?” he asks as if you’ve lost your mind.

“Look. Let’s not leave yet. Fuck Google Maps,” you suggest, and his eyes grow wider by the second, baffled, as if you’re caging him. “Let me show you pretty places until the sun comes up, and if you still hate me by then, I will never talk to you again. Isn’t this tempting?”

In your head, it is. Not for yourself, but for him. In your mind, he thinks of you as a constant nuisance that stands in his way, hopping around like an overhyped puppy.

Or not. Maybe he has a dog at home; maybe he regards you as worse than cute puppies.

Whatever.

You look at him expectantly, like your persisting stare could help him land a decision. Instead, however, he grimaces, his voice higher when he asks, “What even are you sa—”

No, you won’t give up yet; even if the recurring interruptions make him tear his hair out. You click your tongue and then argue, “Come on! Give it a try.”

Hesitation. Or rather, a question wondering if you’re crazy. Clear rejection. Are you losing?

“We’d be together, so nothing to fear,” you try further, “and how much time is there till sunrise?” You glance at your watch. “It’s barely half past one. The sun comes up in less than five hours. And like, I know it sounds like a lot, but if you give me some time, I’ll give you reasons to smile.”

He keeps looking at you in this questioning, are-you-fully-mad-manner, but you’re absolutely serious and you need him to know. You bat your eyelashes a little, offering your best laugh, and add, “Like this? If you really want to hate me after that, then okay. If not, then… maybe we could go get coffee someday.”

You’ve spoken enough. He raises a hand, quieting you down, and then finally says it.

“You must be crazy.”

“I am,” you confirm.

“You think I’d do this, huh?”

“…Maaaybe?”

“No.”

Jungkook’s answer is stone cold and direct, and it shuts you up with a near-wince. There’s a faint line between his thick eyebrows, lips pressed together; he looks dangerous and very, very mean.

So you don’t say much for another minute, following when he walks away. You side-eye him, notice him type his destination into his phone. Surrendering, you trudge the path he chooses, soon detecting signs leading to the subway.

He can’t say anything to your presence by his side. Even if his answer remains a steadfast, boring no, you’ll have to go in this direction anyway.

More than halfway through, you venture into a conversation again, “Have you ever tried anything like this before?”

“What? The nonsense you suggested?” he asks, and you nod, catching up with his long legs, slightly slower with your heels. “No. I don’t think I need to.”

“You’re so… don’t you ever try anything new?”

“I mean, is this your definition of something new?” He gestures at your surroundings haphazardly. “Going through town in the middle of the night instead of getting some decent sleep?”

You shrug your shoulders, defending, “It’s not like I do it every day. And nothing one can do every day anyway. That's why I want you to try it.” Your voice is soft, friendly. “But you don’t have to.”

He doesn’t answer; only comes to a halt when a bus stop nears, peeking up to the sign with the number before he asks, “That yours?” You hum in confirmation. “Okay. Will you get home well? It’s late.”

“Yeah, of course,” you pout, kicking off a tiny stone with your shoe, “done it a few times.”

He stalls. You don’t know why, but you’re sure he does. You notice it in his slow movements, the brief pause, the way he looks to the subway he needs to approach and then back to you. You smile when his eyes linger on you for a moment too long, and then he tilts his head, sighs.

“Alright. Then… good night.”

And that’s it.

You tell him to sleep well in return, earning a tiny nod, and then he’s leaving you stranded, walking away. Your eyes stay on him until he’s out of sight, down the escalator to the subway and far, far away from the fun idea you conjured.

You mimic his sigh. Take the two or three steps to the bench under the bus stop; and then you wait.

At this time, public transport operates irregularly, so you’re not surprised when you’re still there minutes later. For a while, you remain alone — that is, until a stranger tumbles to you, swaying before he takes a seat on the other edge of the bench.

You don’t look at him; don’t want his attention on you. But to your discomfort, he garbles just a second later, “This the bus to…”

He gets a hiccup, pointing to the bus sign, and then mumbles the name of the station he needs to reach. You don’t understand, however, so you prod, “What?”

Slower now yet similarly slurred, he repeats his question, but this time, you understand and nod your head yes. He overshares, “It’s just that I’m drunk, so I need to be sure. Sorry for interrupting.”

Suddenly, you feel kind of sorry for him. Your shoulders relax; you observe him letting his arms dangle between his legs, sniffling, incredibly exhausted, it seems. What did the fella experience tonight?

You respond, “It’s okay. It’s really late. Get home well.”

“Thanks. You’re very nice.”

The same finger previously signalling to the sign now points at you; but he doesn’t touch you. In fact, his digits are still a good distance away, already falling when you feel a hand on your elbow out of the blue; you nearly react on intuition, getting into position to break somebody’s nose.

But when your eyes meet the other man’s, you recognise him as the same figure standing tall that abandoned you a couple minutes ago. His hand is still grasping the camera bag strap, and he looks calm, confident when he speaks—

“All good? Sorry, I left for too long, right? Let’s go.”

Your voice changes, a chuckle hidden in it when you blurt, “What?”

“You wanted to take a walk.”

And just like that, the snicker dies again. Is he being serious? It seems so; it’s the whole package, even. The nod towards an entirely different direction and the sudden fingers around your wrist, pulling you away.

“Uhm…” you start, feet moving automatically. You turn to the guy drowning in inebriation, leaving a last, “Good luck!” as you wave, smile. Then, to Jungkook, “I thought you went away. Did you want to do this after all?”

You’re cocking an eyebrow, but much at the back of Jungkook’s head, so he doesn’t see. But it seems he hears the tease in your voice, because half-annoyed, half-argumentative, he explains, “No. Just wanted to be a gentleman. I was going to leave the moment you got on the bus.”

Ah. So he was waiting, hiding somewhere? But you don’t mention it; it’d probably just rile him up more.

Yet, you challenge, “You’re lying. You were concerned and you thought my idea was fun after all.”

“Whatever you say,” he says, waving the white flag, probably just to shut you up, “don’t know if I can do this until sunrise, but I can walk with you for a bit. Get you closer to home. And I swear!”

Now he turns, shooting a stare at you over his shoulders, lightning bolts in the middle of his pupils, “If you’re lying and there’s literally nothing special on our way, I’m actually never talking to you again.”

Nothing easier than that.

“Deal!”

“Cool,” he so nonchalantly remarks, finally letting go of your arm, “which way are you heading then?”

“North-east.”

“Good. Works for me.”

The sun is nowhere near up yet; of course not. It’s 1:37AM. Around four and a half hours.

You’re hopeful. In your head, you imagine an uplifted demeanour in no time; try to guess what his smile might look like. A genuine one. Maybe sweet? Maybe cocky? You’ll find out. You will.

So you straighten your stance, clear your throat, sigh a content breath, and step into the night with the courage the stars lend you.

2:13AM, Her

The first almost forty minutes of your night pass leisurely.

Jungkook’s initial sighs cease soon as you advance into the town, walking down a busy main street. You guess the bustling area, the sounds of the traffic and the lights of the flashing cars relieve him somehow. Give him an excuse to not talk to you.

But as the occupied road ends and you reach and pass a crowded square, you’re back in calm and serene alleys. Some people are still wandering around, passing closed shops, much like you.

You attempt conversation every now and then, and Jungkook, having eventually realised that he needs to cooperate with you — he agreed to your idea after all — isn’t as mad anymore.

At some point, he breathes in the late summer breeze, and your head swerves into his direction immediately — maybe the magic of the night has finally reached his core, too. Perhaps he’s appreciating the journey you set out to embark on.

You, for one, cherish the quiet; you know at least this much. The alley must be part of the older corner of the town because the lampposts seem Victorian. They’re fancy, bent at the top, the light a comforting golden.

You do admire the beauty in the dead of night, you do — but the weirdly bruising feeling on your skin becomes uncomfortably apparent the more you walk. Your heels and the Achilles tendons ache, the ball of your feet sensitive to each step.

For a while, you hide the stupid pain successfully, not wanting the night to end; and you do love the heels. Feel just the way those old romcom’s protagonists probably felt, strutting through town with a man whose life they’d change.

But as an involuntary groan slips out of you, Jungkook’s view changes from the old buildings to your struggling self. His eyes settle on your contorted expression before they move further down to your sudden limp.

He asks, “You good?”

“Yeah, yeah! Just been walking for a while, is all.”

“Hmm,” he hums, regarding your heels with a suspicious look. “Do they hurt?”

“Nah. I’m used to them.”

“…Oookay.”

He drags the word, as if in disbelief; and you can’t lie your way through the minutes when the ache worsens, the suddenly paved path too much of a chore. You nearly trip when your heel gets caught between the stones.

Jungkook immediately reacts when you hiss; you’re nowhere near actually falling, but his arms still reflexively jolt, the camera bag swaying and hitting your hand when he catches your shoulders.

“Okay, seriously,” he spits, eyes wide, “that’s enough. You can’t walk in these.”

“I can!”

“Not!” He takes a look around, inspecting the place; it’s quiet here, not too many cars driving by at all. So he points to the edge of the pedestrian zone, instructing, “Sit down there. Let’s see.”

See what?

You blink, but oblige. His pointing finger is dominant, and his eyes urging; you flatten your dress, taking a seat at the edge. The road isn’t high, so it’s a little uncomfortable; but you’re pleasantly surprised when he appears in front of you, crouching.

Very, very baffled when he requests, “Can you take them off?”

“Sure,” you say, unbuckling the straps around your ankles before removing the shoes. You sigh; you must admit, it does feel great. “I’m honestly okay, though.”

Jungkook doesn’t respond, ignores your statement; instead, asks, “May I?”

You don’t understand what he means until his hands come to a float right over your toes; he wants to check for bruises, doesn’t he? You nod curtly; something about this warms your chest. You don’t think you’ve ever seen this side of him before.

Not that you ever had the chance to.

He doesn’t really hate you, does he?

Carefully, his fingers reach for your ankle. The touch is warm and pleasant; doesn’t hurt until he moves his thumbs to your heel. Your feet are overworked; you notice. But rather than the annoying pain, you can’t help but focus on your view.

The big, round nose, hiding the plump, parted lips. His eyes look hooded from here, strands of his hair covering them. Intrusive thoughts plead for your fingers to card through the dark mane; it looks soft, pretty.

And the gentleness he handles your skin with fills you with fondness; you like being cared for.

Even when he shakes his head; pulling you out of your daydream. You take a breath, and then inquire, “You don’t have a problem with touching feet?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s just feet. Besides,” he stops for a second, detecting something at the back of your foot, shaking his head, “Mom used to work as a nurse. Tough job. I massaged hers sometimes.”

Ah… a loving son, a family person. You smile.

“And I thought you have a foot kink,” you tease.

“Shut up.”

“Found anything?”

“Yeah actually. Do you know how wounded your skin is here? Were you wearing new shoes?”

You gulp with a thin-lipped smile, wondering if he’ll kill you now if you tell him. You look to some random spot on your right before you admit, “Yes.”

“God, you…” He clicks his tongue. Puts your foot on the ground cautiously, reaching for his bag. He rummages through it until he pulls out a bandage, holding it in front of you. “You’re lucky.”

You chuckle, relieved and flattered. “I guess I am.”

He puffs out a laugh, but stops it right away, calling your name under his breath before he says, “God, you’re crazy. Be careful. And admit it when you’re hurt. Why didn’t you?”

Well… you didn’t want the night to end—

“I…”

You hesitate.

He works on your other foot just the same, a tender thumb running over your ankle, probably used to the soothing touch. It distracts you. And when he stops and you don’t answer, he puts his arm on his angled leg, staring up at you in anticipation.

“Yes?” he prods.

“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t think you’d care.” Nonchalantly yet pouting, you nibble at your lower lip. “And if I’d told you they’re hurting, you might’ve suggested ending the night.”

He cocks an eyebrow as if agreeing to the most self-explanatory statement ever, nodding as he confirms, “Damn right I would’ve. We should end the night right now if you can’t walk. Not in these, at least.”

Your chest is hot, your stomach twisting a little. Jungkook really does bother; if not due to a connection he shares with you, then simply because he cares for people. Never, you have never experienced him like this before.

With a tilt of your head and a batting of your eyelashes, you suggest, “And if I was barefoot?”

Which he reacts to with a roll of his eyes. “The night isn’t that warm. Don’t do this to yourself. The ground’s dirty, too.”

You take a look at the dark grey pavement upon his argument, much as if the night could allow you to detect any of the dirt he speaks of. Once more, you hum, pretending to contemplate what to do; and when you pick up your heels, suggesting to follow your idea either way, the back of his hand gives your knee the lightest of hits.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“Watch.”

He does. Watches you place your spacious, black bag on your lap, opening the zip. Observes as your hand dips in, pulling out one pair of sneakers and replacing them with your treacherous heels. He keeps ogling when you put them on, mouth widening bit by bit.

He doesn’t speak until you’re done, socks picked out of the shoes, pulled over your feet, laces tied. You keep smiling, content with the moment, only dropping the grin when you see his puzzled expression.

“What?” you question.

“You had them with you and… Why didn’t you say so sooner?”

Your answer comes without hesitation; whatever timidity he elicited a moment ago slowly fades again. You clear your throat, back to who you are, and dauntlessly admit, “It was sweet. How you took care of me, I mean. I didn’t think you ever would.”

“But you could’ve at least worn them sooner and avoided the hurt?!”

“Well, it didn’t hurt then…”

“You’re…”

Jungkook uprights himself, towering above you. You put a flat palm onto the pavement, wanting to heave yourself up, but soon see a hand in front of your face. He’s offering it; and you’re quick to take it.

Warm and soft; gentle.

As he pulls you up, you land closer to his body than calculated; his face isn’t too far from yours… much nearer than it has ever been. He leans back; looks to the side; blinks. Clears his throat. Lets go off your hand way too late.

The breath you held escapes in a sudden blow. You swallow.

And when you’ve processed the strange moment, you feel the change in your stance. You’re standing taller now; your feet feel heavenly in your Nikes. Dusting off the front of your dress and your ass, you wait for him to say something.

But he keeps standing there on the road, in the middle of a parking space, hands on his hips. He’s judging you; you understand. Your mindset isn’t for everybody. You might seem crazy, alright.

Yet, he doesn’t scold you again. The up and down of his irked voice doesn’t appear this time when he speaks again; instead, his chin nods towards your legs, and he questions, “So you just carry around shoes with you?”

“I need to,” you say, matter-of-factly, “I can’t ride the motorcycle in heels. And!” Jungkook’s mouth opens, but you’re quick to explain. “Before you ask. No, I didn’t hide my bike anywhere. It needs some fixing, so my co-worker took it because he knows someone who’ll do it. And because he owes me a favour.”

“Right… how unfortunate.” He pauses; runs his tatted digits through the hair you longed to touch minutes ago. They look so silky, it makes you sick. His eyes settle on you, intrigued before he adds, “So, you have a bike, huh?”

“Yeah… why?”

“No reason. I do, too.”

“Mmmh,” you voice, nodding to the road ahead to suggest moving. He follows, trudging next to you again. “You didn’t use it today?”

“No…” He pats the camera bag. “Didn’t want to harm my equipment.”

You hum approvingly, fingers entangling in front of your body. You inch closer to his arm, nudging his shoulder with yours before you flash a sugary smile and say, “Thank you. For caring even a little, you know? Even if you’re always like that, it’s nice to see you like this for once.”

“I’m usually like this,” is what he, however, merely answers, accompanied by air quotes.

But you know you’ve gotten through to him at least a little. Melted bits of the frozen parts of his heart that feel so vexed by you on other nights. In truth, you think, there’s nothing but a delicate organ pumping behind his ribcage.

He’s not a robot; Jeon Jungkook is undeniably humane. If anything, then more than most people you have ever met.

And it shows when he looks away, barely able to hide his smile. You see it even from here — that the gesture does something to his eyes. Nearly squints them shut, makes them smaller, more joyful.

You inhale, proud of yourself. Watch as he toys with his lip rings before he asks eventually, “What do you mean owing you a favour, by the way?”

He sounds almost offended. You think he’ll ask about that favour, reprimand you for giving away your bike tonight of all nights. Tell you off for dragging him here, doing something big enough to entrust an entire motorcycle to somebody.

But instead, he continues with a question you never foresaw, “Are you in a quarrel with them? Am I not your arch-enemy?”

You burst into laughter immediately, covering your mouth as the other palm touches his arm. There’s a bulging bicep under his blazer, but you’ll focus on that later.

Right now, you’re fairly occupied by the satisfied eyes; he doesn’t really expect an answer. He wanted to make you laugh… Why does that set something loose in your brain?

“Oh… are you jealous? What if I told you it’s somebody else who occupies my mind at night and not you?” you wonder, wiggling your eyebrows.

“Don’t do this to me. I’ll find your co-worker and fight them for your enemyship. Word of honour.”

“It’s enmity. And stop flirting with me,” you tell him, moving towards him again, shoulder hitting shoulder. “Or is it something else with arch-enemies?”

This time, he doesn’t veil his grin. It’s bright, pretty, reminiscent of the light shed on you underneath the lampposts. And his pupils; whenever you see them clearly enough, you recognise the sky in them. Borrowed stars inside.

You shake your head a second later, winding down from your fit of laughter, and tell him, “You’re not my arch-enemy. Arch-enemies don’t exist, and you know you aren’t one. You just…” You stall, your voice quieter now. “You just regard me as one.”

He throws you an indecipherable look. Hints of joking, shreds of seriousness, you think. His gaze drifts back to the path again, regarding a passing group of three friends briefly. His hands slide into the pockets of his jacket, and he sniffles once before he utters—

“No, I don't.”

Ah. Ah.

Why do your eyebrows relax the way they do? And your shoulders; already in ease, yet they seem to fall in relief. You peer at him wordlessly; he doesn’t demand an answer, fully aware you’re looking at him.

And you don’t ask what you’ve been to him ever since he saw you at the first party probably a year ago; what irked him, what delighted him. If he thought about you at all.

Instead, you look at the neon words in the next street, asking, “Are you hungry?”

2:19AM, Him

You’re irritating to the core.

You always have been. But he’d be lying if he didn’t admit you amused him a little. No matter how much you’ve been wasting his time, you allowed a smile in this ill-lit night. Nobody else at the party did — so in some sense, you’ve already won, and somehow, he’s even grateful.

Grateful that you’re optimistic about the world at least. Glad that you suggested fetching food. Endeared by the way you thanked him for his care. Surprised that you ride a motorcycle! Relieved that you have good humour.

Even though his own humour and smile dissipate after you enter one of the few open stores still providing late night snacks. The girl behind the counter looks tired, but straightens a little when the two of you flash a polite smile.

She greets with a sweet, “Hi!” but Jungkook sees the lethargy in her drooping eyes immediately. Poor girl.

But you’re as enthusiastic as ever; maybe a little more now, maybe observing the same as him. You put your hands on the counter like a child — the image is somewhat cute. But what comes out of your mouth is not.

“Uhm… Could I have a portion of cheese tteokbokki, please? And then… A half and half corndog for my husband.”

Your… what now?

Excuse me?

Jungkook throws an immediate and scorching look your way, utterly surprised. When you meet his eyes, his thick eyebrows are closer than anybody’s ever seen. He huffs your suggestion away, and then corrects, “I’m not her husband. And I’ll take the chicken wrap.”

You chuckle, leaning into him, shielding your mouth with a hand as you warn, “They’re not usually very good at this store. Trust me.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

Right. He does. After the disaster of finding the damn bus and the deception caused by your shoes, he won’t trust you very easily anymore. His opinion clearly differs from yours, so he’ll bank on his gut feeling.

Satisfied when you shrug, as if to indicate, “If you say so,” he walks over to the window seats with you in tow, looking out to the peaceful streets. Once seated, he turns towards you, peering until you notice and ask far too purely, “What?”

“Not even your boyfriend, no… Jumped straight to making me your husband, huh?”

The lift of your shoulders brushes his concerns aside; your eyes are incredibly innocent and even somehow playful when you say, “I thought it’d be fun.”

“Was it really?”

“Well, your reaction was funny, at least.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes in disbelief. You’re courageous, he must admit. Social anxiety must fear you — is that how you live life? Unabashed, spirited, not a sheer care for anything that won’t actually hurt you.

He doesn’t know if you’re insane or if he’s jealous.

But he still reiterates, “You’re crazy. And it was embarrassing.”

“I mean,” you say, moving on your chair, folding your fingers on top of the counter but still looking at him, “it was embarrassing because you made it. It’s honestly whatever.” You blow a raspberry, and then take a swing again, “Why is it awkward anyway? We’ll never be here together again.”

He whispers a hushed, “Thankfully,” and you tap the counter with a click of your tongue. He gets it; you live differently. That’s fine. As long as you don’t pull him into your mischief, it’s fine.

Right?

He’s right, isn’t he? He knows that in his personal opinion he is; yet, he can’t help but feel that sting, suddenly deeming himself as boring. You’re never bored, are you?

Anyway…

“Even if you do something like this again,” he tells you, “at least tell me.”

“I mean, that would kinda prevent your genuine reactions from happening, but… if it makes you happy.” You grin at him, and he scoffs; wants to say something before the girl calls for you. “Food is ready.”

A couple seconds later, the two of you have settled back into place; at the sight of the snack, Jungkook salivates. He didn’t realise how hungry he actually was. The buzz and fuzz of a party makes one forget such an essential thing fast.

Or maybe, he was just immersed in his work.

The chicken smells good, at least. Or are these your tteokbokki? He can’t quite discern the scent right now; his mind is fogged by his appetite. Silently, he unwraps his food, swallowing before he digs into the wrap.

So far, so good… seems edible. He keeps chewing; swallows some more. But as the taste starts to sink in and he realises the sogginess of the wrap, the lack of proper sauces and the dryness as well as the blandness of the chicken…

He pauses. Where… are the flavours?

Slowing down, he glances at his meal. Inspects it as if he’s holding an entirely new recipe in his hands. A look of realisation creeps upon his face, unaware of your gaze, and he soon hears an amused snicker from the side.

You don’t say much when your eyes align. Only, “And?”

He knows he’s already lost when his expression changes, cringing; when he can’t answer right away, only gaping at you in confusion. Still thinking about where this recipe went wrong.

He answers, “It’s fine…”

But you catch his obvious lie; he sees it in the way you smile so devilishly. Cocking an eyebrow, enjoying another bite of your snack without ever averting your eyes. Then, you put the tiny wooden fork back into the dish, propping your cheek on your fist.

You wait; he doesn’t know what for. For him to eat again? Maybe; because you soon ask, “Do you want something else?”

“Nah.” His answer is instant this time. “I can do this. I’m an omnivore.”

“Ah, yeah. An omnivore friend right here.” You laugh, curious when he takes another bite. And then, “Jungkook, it’s okay to admit…”

But he won’t listen. Only makes a disapproving sound, stuffing his mouth with another horrendous bite. Shit; he can’t confess that you were right. That you were actually right this time.

Suddenly, he’s craving a cup of ramyeon.

But he should keep eating. Wash it down with his drink, empty the soda. And he’s almost halfway through when he notices a movement from your direction, like you’re playing with your food.

Only, he realises that you are not; rather separating the tteokbokki in two halves before shoving the porcelain dish towards him. He shakes his head, but you persist, “Take it, man.”

It does look good…

But… are you going to use the satisfaction his defeat may give you? Probably. But fuck… Fuck it.

Reluctantly, he lets the wrap fall onto the small plate, gulping down the remainder of what he just bit off, and then, accepts your generosity with a nod. And… whether it’s because of the disappointment the wrap brought or the late hunger…

Jungkook thinks he’s levitating above clouds, floating towards the sun.

It’s good. Very damn good.

And when you ask again this time, “Should we get another?” his nod comes promptly, chest risen in satisfaction as he states, “That’d be great.”

“Alright. Be right back.”

“Nah,” he says, lifting an arm as if to protect you. Mid-action, you halt, sliding back up onto your seat. “Stay here. I’ll get it… All good.”

So he does; enjoys the look of surprise when his other hand even carries dessert, four pieces of matcha mochi ice cream. He says, “This is for you.”

You gasp. He can’t deny that it’s sweet — the elation, the big eyes, the palms coming together in delight. How you look between the food and him, suddenly wiggling your feet.

“You seem to like it,” he notes, and you nod feverishly, telling him that, “Yes! Been craving it since we came in. Thank you!”

“Oh. You should’ve told me earlier! We could’ve gotten it. No worries.”

“It’s okay. I wanted to see if my dessert stomach still allowed anything. Didn’t disappoint me today.”

Jungkook gets to his own tteokbokki, halving it in the middle the way you did, pushing it towards you. It’s weird to think about it like this, but — considering how long the two of you have known each other, you might almost look like… friends.

And you don’t feel quite like an enemy either. You’re even… kind of nice. Friendly; harmless.

“I’m glad,” Jungkook responds, only looking towards the entrance when another group of three friends, two girls, a guy, enter. Then back to you, “Sorry. You were right. This,” he points to the poor, sad wrap, “was shit.”

“See? My first instinct almost never lies. And I know this store from other places… the wraps are never good.”

“Sure, but… your first instinct isn’t always right, though, is it? You did get us lost, so it was wrong at least once.”

“Hm… was it, though?”

Jungkook regards you in confusion as you put another piece on your tongue, working on the chewy thing as he asks, “What do you mean? We had no clue where we w—”

“Yeah, I mean. I agree. But… I don’t think it was that wrong. Because—”

You lick your lips clean off the tteokbokki sauce, smacking them. You look child-like, but pretty when you indulge in your element, uncaring about everything, just living. Maybe it’s not that bad that you’re bold.

And maybe, just maybe, he can power through this night easily after all; especially if you keep saying things that soothe his chest, things like—

“Because my first instinct brought me to you.”

2:49AM, Him

The temperatures are falling as the night proceeds, and the second portion of the mochi ice cream adds to the pleasant chill.

Jungkook wonders how you’re doing; your dress is skimpier than his jeans, and your arms bare. But your stance and your speech are still inconspicuous, skin free of goosebumps, your walk elegant, leisurely.

Judging from your occasional hums and your ceaseless optimism, you’re enjoying this journey. It almost makes him feel bad; guilty about how adamantly he refused all this just an hour ago.

It hasn’t been too bad. Sure, you’re bold and intrepid, and yeah, in some ways he is, too — but his courage stems from other motivations. From adrenaline-loaded activities or joyful, temporary pains. Like his tattoos; his motorcycle; the summer he bungee-jumped for the first time.

You’re a different kind of daring; you challenge your limits in crowds and consider life a respectful joke. You don’t ever hurt anyone, he doesn’t think — you just go and see how far you can push yourself.

Perhaps in some sense, the two of you complement each other while simultaneously seeming to be cut from the same wood. Perhaps you’re different, but then again, not so much.

You’re quiet; you weren’t until you left the snack bar. As for now, however, you seem distracted, swallowing heaps of your dessert as you scan the surroundings you’ve led the two into. You’re somewhat unfazed by it, yet peering as though you’ve been here before.

Which, in retrospect, makes sense. You’ve been wanting to show him places you enjoy after all.

When the silence extends, Jungkook, along with the chirping of the nightlife, breaks it with a, “You know what?”

Your head swerves to his side, the wooden fork in your mouth. The pure gaze you give him throws him off guard for a moment — it’s somewhat sweet. But as he regains himself, he says, “I didn’t think we’d get to a housing scheme here. The main street is super close, but the vibe is so different.”

“I know. It’s a little scary at night when you’re alone. Gives very Desperate Housewives, doesn’t it? Secrets veiled behind shut curtains.” You draw closer, imitating a spooky gesture. “But I liked coming here when I was younger.”

Bingo. He thought so.

“Ah… why?”

“My friend lived here,” you explain with a tilt towards a random direction; he doubts the friend lived in just the house you gestured to, “she’s long moved out of course, but we’d play on these streets back then. Most of the neighbours knew me, too!”

Jungkook tsks, hauling his own bite out of the cup, and you add, “No, seriously! We could just knock at anybody’s door here, and they’d let me in.”

“Not if they moved out, too. A lot of time has passed.”

You bob your head. “Time has passed indeed. It does so pretty fast.”

“Doesn’t it?”

You seem to get into overdrive, gearing up; he didn’t think this topic would rev you up like this, but it appears you have a somewhat firm and fond opinion about the passing of time. Jungkook recognises the sentiment before you speak — the light of the lampposts reflects in your eyes like glitter.

Only, he doesn’t foresee what you say next, your tone teasing through the joy you display—

“Yeah! Like. Do you remember when I told you to not get the wrap and you still di—”

“Shut up.”

The roll of his eyes isn’t anything new; but the faint feeling that accompanies it, something akin to amusement, certainly is.

“Okay, but. Seriously,” you start again, sly smirk falling, voice neutralising the mock, “it felt different here. Because like, you know, where I live, it gets crowded. I’m not too far from the city centre, so… this place always felt really peaceful to me. Jieun and I played together a lot.”

Jungkook frowns.

“Jieun?”

“Hm? Oh. The friend I spoke about? She’s pretty cool.”

“Ah… Right, right.”

“Mhmm,” you hum, the end of your small fork tapping the bottom of the nearly finished cup, “you know another way to know that time passes really fast?” You pause for effect, then add, “It’s been ages since we saw each other for the first time.”

“Right. At a party, too, right? When was that anyway?”

“Hmm… Like.” You ponder, blinking, looking up to the sky. “Like two years ago?”

Jungkook’s eyes widen; if you’d asked him, he would’ve estimated a year tops. If he digs in his memory thoroughly enough, he could probably even remember what you wore that day; what you looked like.

It doesn’t feel like two years. You’re right — time truly does pass like the wind.

“Wow,” he exclaims, “it’s been this long since you started pestering me?”

“Shut up,” it’s your turn to blurt, your body swaying towards him until you push him to the side of the vacant road. “I didn’t even come near you most of the time.”

“I know, I know. You were fun to look at, though. Seemed to enjoy yourself every single time.”

Shit, why did he say that? Shouldn’t he hold onto the image he fostered; the one that’s permanently irked by you, throwing snarky remarks throughout the night?

And…

Didn’t this just break the banter, the frenemyship — frenmity? — the two of you have going on? Was it too nice? It’ll probably surprise you. Then again, is he a damn child? Why would he worry about such things? Question his own kindness?

Why would he hold onto his ego and deny you his humane side when you’ve been nothing but lovely to him all night?

The young adult rivalry is over, Jeon Jungkook. Look at her and fucking admit that you’re the arrogant one.

But funnily enough, you don’t seem to notice anyway.

“Hmmm, I do love my job,” you answer, “I have a lot of fun organising stuff. Doing something good for other people, right? See them enjoy it. I mean, of course there are days when things don’t go as planned, but.”

You lift a shoulder, indulging in the final remnants of your chewy mochi and the melted matcha ice cream inside.

“I know. It happens to me, too.”

“Really? How?”

Jungkook waves towards the sky, lists, “Heavy rain, lots of traffic, too spontaneous, issues with the camera… etcetera. Anything can happen.”

“Yeah — I get it. But yeah, I do love doing this. I meet a lot of nice people, too. And I guess that makes me feel very… blessed? It puts things into perspective.”

“How so?”

“Like, it makes you see that most people aren’t bad.”

Huh. Odd. Not that he’d ever deem the entire globe vile, putting a standardised label that he can impossibly prove. But as far as he has seen… too many people aren’t good either.

“Really?” he asks. “That’s a lucky thing to experience.”

You look genuinely surprised, turning towards him when you ask, “You don’t?”

“Uhm — rarely. I do enjoy photography. Always have.” His mind zooms into a glinting memory from the past, and his shoulders and voice rise when he recalls, “Y’know… My dad got me one of those yellow disposable Kodak cameras when I was a kid. I loved it so much.”

You nod; if he didn’t know better, he’d almost say you look… delighted. Actually interested.

“And events and weddings,” he continues, “they’re beautiful to capture. It’s probably the lights and the pretty people. And just… the memories?”

This time, he looks away, straight to the road; if he hadn’t, he’d know that your gaze is definitely fond now. No doubt about it. You listen in closely.

It’s the first time he’s talking to you like this, or to anyone — or for this long, for that matter. Most of your conversations were fleeting, fiery, a petulant back and forth that — he now realises — could’ve been something else, something better, too.

“But then it just sucks when so many of them can’t appreciate it properly,” he explains, raising his hands to emphasise, tone galled. “I mean, I look at my camera and I see a tool to create art. It’s… nothing I take for granted. Just think about it.”

The ball of fire in his chest grows; he feels it warm up, gassed-up. “A thing that can hold onto moments in absolute high definition, so that you can still remember them years later? The 18th century couldn’t have imagined. They needed to commit everything to memory just like that.”

“Wow, Jungkook… You really do love this, too.”

His arms fall to the side. He inhales the fresh flurry of air. Rethinks his passion for his job and says, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do.”

“…But?”

He knows what’s missing.

“I love the art, but I hate the clients. The event hosts. Not you, but the one even above you.”

Jungkook reckons this was a confession that long sat on his tongue unmentioned. Of course he thought about it; is always reminded when he attends these functions, standing at the back, at the front, left and right, unnoticed and taken for granted.

But now that it’s out and that he’s finally verbalised it to somebody… it definitely liberates something in his head.

You see his issue with these gatherings; he knows you do because he’s figured out this much. You’re filled with enough empathy, sympathy, every grand word ending on the same syllable to acknowledge his disappointment.

But you’re filled with humour and absurdity, too, evident in the answer you provide to diffuse the tension.

“So, that’s why you’re always in a foul mood.”

“Shu—”

“Shut up, yeah, yeah.” You giggle, but then halt for a moment, toying with the rim of your paper cup, “But you know, I think art is worth something even if just one person appreciates it. If it helps in any way… I’m always impressed. And I always appreciate it when I call you and you come despite finding me so annoying.”

One corner of your lips lifts, the smile humble and light; sends a pang of guilt through him. Have you always been so nice?

“Also, I do see the pictures almost every single time,” you add, “and you’re so good at this. At the job itself and the editing afterwards. Honestly.”

“…You think?”

Damn.

Jungkook would probably not bask in this hobby, continue his job if he wasn’t proficient in what he does. He’s known about his prowess ever since he was young.

But praises do offer a sense of magical warmth, don’t they? He doesn’t think any creative mind ever sickens of such unexpected support. And the way you say it… makes him want to never lay down his camera.

“Of course, yes,” you confirm, “not to shoot up your ego, but… you once sent a set of pictures where I found one of me. Don’t know if you even noticed? I was wearing that lilac dress and curls, I still remember — and—”

Stuck on the mention of your clothing, he immediately attaches a detail to the memory, “Sleeveless dress. Long silver earrings, right?”

“Oh… right…”

Right.

He won’t mention that he looked at that picture for just a second longer than at the others that night. Noticed for the first time how pretty you were. Not too deep of a thought, a twelve second stare, but… you wore this vibrant smile on that picture, and in some way, he did hope you’d see it, too.

It seems you did. He feels satisfied, proud even.

“Right,” you repeat, your defences somehow down, “uhm. I printed the picture. Still have it somewhere.”

Jungkook has already often wondered what people do with the pictures; put them in albums? Frame them and pin them over their couch? Right now, he also wonders — do you look at it a lot?

And this again begs the question — when you do, does your decision to book a vendor like him fill you with pride? Like your choice was right?

“That’s so nice,” he says.

“All that to say,” you inhale, “that I think you’re really fucking skilled.”

Woah. You weren’t quite certain if your consolation would bring him any solace, but you’ve done far more than that. You’ve shown him that you see what he does — and isn’t this what every artist craves? To be seen?

The tension buzzes between him and you like electricity; he doesn’t know if it’s just him lighting up or if you’re feeling a kindred link, too. But it’s somewhat intense in this moment of walking under the stars, surrounded by quietude and absolute pose.

So much so that he’s soon submerged by an odd urge to make the intensity wane, “Hey, does this feel to you like… a cliché chick flick kinda dialogue?”

You know…

The moment when two find an empty street in the middle of the night, realising that a conversation with each other isn’t the end of the world after all?

That type of thing?

But he doesn’t say any of it.

“Yeah? Maybe. But it’s also true,” you argue, “I’m an honest person and I don’t think I’d say anything I didn’t mean.”

“Ah, yeah?” Jungkook voices, taking the emptied out ice cream cup and throwing it into the bin on the side of the road, along with his own.

“Mhm, one hundred percent,” he hears you say, followed by a light, quiet smacking noise.

He doesn’t see what you’re doing until he arrives back where you stand; watches you lick the sticky rest off the pad of your thumb, smiling when you stare up at him again. It’s a mundane gesture; he’s done it ever since he was a kid.

But somehow, he can’t stop looking.

Might be the way your lips curve when you do it, or how your eyes smile when your mouth does. The authenticity you portray is rare; perhaps he just confused it with madness until now.

Seconds pass, and with that, your smile does, too. As it fades and drops, replaced by a curious expression and big eyes, you soon mutter, “What?”

There’s no response to that, really. He doesn’t know either.

He doesn’t understand how you turned out to be so right. How it’s such an ultimate truth that a serene night brings out a dreamy alter ego, hitherto undetected. Jungkook has never felt like much of a romantic, but right now, he thinks he’s on a different plane of reality.

This doesn’t feel like Earth; and the town doesn’t feel like the one he struts through during the day.

So maybe it’s not that wayward or groundless for him to lean in. To bend a bit more. Further and further until you laugh nervously; he knows you’re preparing to crack another joke, but you remain silent as he approaches.

Gauges your reaction. Will you run? You aren’t.

Instead, you gulp; let your pupils fall to his piercings, just when his own gaze moves to your lips. His right hand, tattooed, led by its own will, reaches for your cheek until he’s cupping it; and suddenly, his mouth parts — what’s happening? — and then—

And then, a vehicle roars from afar.

Both of you hear the motorcycle before you even see the blinding white light; he grips your arm, probably too harshly, dodging the street with you and jumping onto the pedestrian walk.

One must be crazy to still drive through the city at this hour. Right?

You pant, mixed with insane chuckles of relief, “Shit. We almost died.”

“We didn’t,” he refutes, “we had plenty of time.”

“Oh no,” you stretch the last word, eyes squinting. An accusing forefinger points at him before you deduce, “We almost died because you like me. Of all things!”

“I do not. You just looked kinda cute.”

Jungkook might’ve attempted an indifferent answer, but instead, he steered into an excuse that you do not accept at all. Your smirk is telling and satisfied, and if he wasn’t trying to prove a point, your Cheshire Cat grin would’ve made him laugh, too.

“But you did almost kiss me,” you persist.

Ugh, you’re bold. Laughing like it means nothing; no embarrassment, no shy restraint in you. Which is probably not too bad; somehow even charming. Explains the rosy dust on his cheeks at least. He feels it in the heat, can’t believe he almost kissed you just now.

Why does he feel like a hormonal adolescent? It’s not like he’s never kissed anybody.

You’re still enclosed by pure delight, nudging his arm repeatedly, annoyingly. And when he doesn’t answer, choosing reticence instead, you nearly shriek, as if he confirmed all you just said.

His instinctive hand slaps up to your mouth, covering it, shushing you. You’re still smiling, working on removing his palm, but before your nonsense can proceed, a sudden light flickers in the corner of Jungkook’s eye.

Immediately, he seeks out the source, soon finding a room in the house left to him lighting up. You woke somebody, it seems. A silhouette becomes clearer, its edges more refined with every second, and just before the owner of the place can shove the curtains aside, you grip Jungkook’s hand.

Within a moment, he finds himself tugged away by you, running, nearly stumbling over his own feet. You blurt, “Better get away before they kill us.”

As you leave the tranquil settlement behind, Jungkook still hears a voice from an open window, cursing the younger generation as they do; and then, out of the damn blue, a fucking dog barks.

When you turn over your shoulder, mouth dropping open, Jungkook knows you’re thinking the same as him — this happens outside of cinematic universes, too?

It takes a minute until you’ve reached another road again; one of the kind he’s more familiar with. The city type. The two of you come to a halt near some pole, and you let his hand go, leaning against it.

For a moment, you work on catching your breath, Jungkook’s hands settling on his thighs. And then, when your eyes meet, you burst into a fit of laughter, followed by a playful wiggle of his eyebrows to which you respond, “Don’t act innocent. This is your fault.”

“What? You were lau—”

“Because of you! Oh, I know you want me so bad.”

You’re jesting, of course. Swaying your head, poking his chest, a brat straight out of some TV show. But what you can do, he’s been perfecting for years.

So he answers in kind, “And if I did?”

Only for you to utter something that not even his brain can compute.

“If you did? Then… I think I’d let you.”

“Ah… Yeah? Why?”

“Because— I think you’re just half as bad.”

His snicker is half amused, half flattered. He purses his lips, nodding, and then declares, “You’re just a quarter as bad. But guess I’ve gotten so tired that I’ve started doing weird shit.”

You click your tongue, puffing out a breath, instantly reacting when he only flicks your chin and then walks away. Your startled expression prevails, a distance between him and you established, but just as he puts his hands in his jeans, he hears you finally follow.

“Hey,” you voice from behind, tapping his arm, “are you really tired?”

“I was kidding, but. Honestly? A little.”

“…Hmm. You know, my friend lives in an apartment nearby. Jieun? Didn’t move too far from her old home. We could stop there.”

Jungkook’s left eyebrow leaps up, surprised by the suggestion; the idea doesn’t sound too bad. But…

“Wasn’t the deal to go around for a whole night, though?”

“Ohhh. Are you starting to like it?”

You’re observant, he’ll give you that.

“I’m just saying,” he adds, “and also, would she just let a stranger in?”

“Oh, she’s very civilised and hospitable. She wouldn’t mind, and she’s known me for ages. She trusts me.” Maybe you detect the hesitation in his eyes and the twitch of the corner of his lips, because you immediately carry on, “We can just stay for an hour and then go.”

“Would she be awake, even?”

“She’s a night owl. I know that.”

“Uhm…”

He ponders. In some way, he’s kind of liking the breeze, the quiet side of this town. But… would Jieun find that weird? Then again, can he say no? You’re ogling at him with these hopeful eyes; maybe you need the rest, after all.

“Okay,” he says; he even thinks you jump a bit in joy, nodding.

“Okay! You’ll like her. We can leave with newfound energy afterwards. Okay, cool.”

That’s all you need to lead the way. You look around a little, making sure you’re approaching the right direction, and when you find your confidence again, you march ahead.

Your walk is energetic, not too idle anymore, your beam as dashing and fervid as ever. Jungkook knows his way around editing programs; he’s added wings to pictures before or removed unwelcome passersby on an otherwise great photo.

He even understands how to surround a body or silhouette with a glow; but he’s never seen it around an actual person outside of all these graphics editors before.

Your body is so clearly encircled by it.

Bedazzling.

Screw the 18th century. Even in these modern times of advancement, Jungkook doesn’t think he needs a camera to commit you to memory.

3:25AM, Her

You avert your eyes from the phone and turn towards Jungkook, reaching him where he’s planted firmly in front of the apartment complex. He’s been waiting, back settled against the wall, and as you near, his eyebrows rise in question.

Your friend didn’t respond until now — but just as you foretold, she’s still awake at this ungodly hour.

“Okay. She’s home, but,” you explain, already ringing the bell to her apartment, “she said she’d be leaving soon. Sounds like she’s in a rush. Typos and all.”

Jungkook waits until the buzzing sound of the opening door ceases and you’ve stepped inside, leading him up the stairs, and then wonders again with big eyes, “And she’ll just let us stay? Alone at her apartment?”

You wave his concerns off with a hand’s gesture, “She trusts me, dude. I’ve done this a couple times.”

“What for?”

Hm… you dive back into the old days. Some new, some old. What were they again? They’re mostly blurred, but some of them are carved in your core memory.

“Oh, just…” you reminisce. “If I wanted to meet guys and wouldn’t want to bring them home back when I was still with my parents? Or when I’d need a night to sober up. They would’ve killed me if I’d come home drunk. And Jieun moved out early.”

“How old is… Jieun anyway?”

Old. Not really, but you like to vex her to the point of a pout. She’s patient, but she’s also an incredibly close friend — you allow yourself to be a brat with her and she allows herself to roll her eyes.

“Early 90s kid?” you guess. “A little older than us.”

‘93, as far as you remember.

“Ah. Damn,” he voices; you don’t know why.

“Okay.” You climb the last steps to the second floor, halting in front of a white door with a copper number six on top of it. Knock thrice. “Here goes.”

She might’ve been getting ready close to the door, working on her shoes or questing for her keys. Because she opens mere three seconds later, with a radiant smile on her face able to melt hearts, and a comfortable attire that’s, however, not comfortable enough to wear at home.

A thin sweatshirt and a bun, loose strands framing her pretty face, and shorts that are definitely meant to be worn outside. She won’t be here for long. And you’re focused on this very fact and her hurry so much that you nearly don’t register how shy Jungkook gets.

His voice is somewhat smaller than before when he looks at her; your eyes shift to him, and he’s blinking before he finally breaks and mutters, “Oh. Hi.”

“Hey!” she retorts; she looks so sweet saying it. You understand his perplexity. “Date?”

“Nah. Just a friend,” you answer, which, yet again — very confusing — makes him hum in question. If he started regarding himself as your date all of a sudden, you swear…

You smile.

“Just a friend,” you repeat.

“Fabulous. So you’re not walking around alone, at least,” Jieun concludes, letting you in. In the living room, a hand on her kitchen island, she points through an open door, “Okay, so, the guest room bed is made. Use blankets on it, if you want to rest.”

Her finger shifts to signal to the entrance you came through, imitates a pulling motion, “Don’t worry about locking the door whenever you leave. Also got some leftover food in the fridge, but there’s also cup ramyeon and some frozen pizza in the freezer. Sorry… I need to go shop—”

But you interrupt, shaking your head, “Oh, no worries, really. We just ate, so we’ll just stay here for a little, work off the food coma and leave. Won’t damage anything.”

“I know you won’t, baby.”

She moves to fetch her purse from the couch, and Jungkook uses the moment to whisper in your ear, “Where is she going anyway?”

You don’t know; you shrug your shoulders, pursing your lower lip, but echo his question a moment later, louder than him, “Where are you going anyway?”

Previously cramming in her purse, checking it for content, she looks at you again, telling you, “Ah… Jongsuk is having a bad night and wants me to come over.” Regarding Jungkook, she adds, “My boyfriend. He’s an insomniac and got stoned tonight, too, and just—”

Jieun blows a raspberry, raising a hand for a whatever gesture, and Jungkook mumbles, “Oof. Sounds…”

“Yeah… I know. In any case. Make yourself comfortable, okay?”

“Yes. Thank you so much.”

“Thanks, Jieun,” you repeat.

She nods once more, waving her tiny hand and flashes one last smile before she’s out the door and has left you in full silence. You shuffle your feet for just a second before you look at him again; he still looks somewhat in a daze.

So you ask, “What’s wrong?”

“Hm? Nothing.”

Nothing, right… that’s what they all say after seeing Lee Jieun for the first time. You try not to think too hard about the teeny tiny sting in your enormous, delicate heart. Only let him know, “Don’t worry too much. What could happen? She does trust me.”

You take a couple steps towards the bedroom she offered you, and you hear him follow. Look at the neatly made bed, a thought occurring; but you don’t entertain it yet. Only add, “Besides, she owes me.”

He chuckles. “That’s how you live your life, huh?”

“It’s alright. We’ll just be here for an hour. She’s known me all her life, so nothing to doubt here. And also, think about it,” the tip of your forefinger taps against your temple, “even if something did happen or went missing, she’d know where to find me and whom to report.”

He waits, ogles at you. Then presses his lips together, nods as if you made all the sense in the world, and lifts a shoulder — agreeing, “If you say so. Then uhm — let’s lay down for a bit?”

“Sure! I’ll just sleep in her room, so you can have your privacy here.”

“Mhm. Okay.”

You stand at the door frame for a moment, feet unmoving.

He’s already turned away. And you regret not walking away when you watch him unabashedly take off the blazer and provide a glimpse to his snatched waist as inked fingers scratch his back briefly, shirt moving up. But then it’s covering his skin again.

Flawless back; pretty golden. A little further up, and you’re sure you would’ve seen strong shoulder blades, too. He’s worn fancy dress shirts at luxurious events before — you know many would kill for his built, because you’ve seen his bicep flex before.

You forget where you are for a second, but when he opts to turn, eyes on you for just a heartbeat, you stir. Blurt out an awkward apology, and then leave. Wish him a good night, barely waiting for one back before you close the door.

You laugh quietly at yourself.

Her room is just next door; you already mentally prepare for a nap. Meanwhile, Jungkook plumps onto the bed, groaning when the comfort hits, and works on getting used to the ceiling, if only briskly.

He only notices how much his head is spinning when he closes his eyes, ready to doze off. Should he set an alarm? He doesn’t want to still be here by the time Jieun returns. Maybe he should tell you, too.

But his body won’t move.

Yet, in the time he’s failed to make up his mind, he suddenly hears a knock at the door again. Must be you — must be telepathy.

He tells you to enter, and you do with a shy demeanour; only thirty seconds must have passed, right? A minute, tops. He looks at you in wonder, and you explain, “She uh— locked her room. No clue where the keys are. Guess that’s why she specifically pointed out the guest room.”

You nibble your lip, getting no answer back. He looks just as much out of ideas as you, and you still refuse to bring back the thought from before; yet, you ask, “What do we do now?”

“Well…” He looks around, though there is not much to take in. “I can sleep on the couch?”

“…The couch is too small.”

“Okay. Then I’ll just sleep on the floor.” He’s already working on getting up, no hesitation, scratching through his now messy hair, feet moving on the fluffy carpet. “I’ll take one of those pillows, though. Carpet should be good eno— what are you doing?”

You’ve charged towards the bed, climbed past him until you’re sitting behind him, facing his back and his craning neck. You say, “I’m not giving you that pillow.”

“Why?”

“You can’t sleep on the floor.”

“…Why not?”

You throw an unbelieving look, as if it’s obvious. Your flat hand gestures towards the carpet vaguely, and you argue, “It’s uncomfortable.”

“Listen, I should. This or the couch, nothing else left.” It’s crazy to you how he doesn’t even consider the bed instead of giving it up for you. “It’s just an hour. Don’t worry about it.” He stretches a hand towards you, curling his fingers in a grabby motion. “Come on. Gimme that.”

You’re astonished — beyond pleased about the fact that he cares like this. That he’s so… mindful and humble. You give up; he won’t falter and you know.

“Okay… then take this blanket, too.”

He grabs the second one that Jieun provided, head bowing a little as he says, “Thank you.”

The proceeding minutes you spend preparing for bed, slightly discomforted by your dress, pass in half-awkward, half-comfortable silence. He lays down on his unusual spot, and you cuddle into the blanket on your light, soft side.

As the rustling of blankets and sheets subsides, it gives way to the sound of the ticking clock; you focus on it, count the clicks like sheep.

But sleep doesn’t quite fall upon you yet, and you guess Jungkook feels similar when he calls your name and asks, “What does she owe you?”

Your head moves towards his voice, even though he can’t see you. “Huh?”

“Jieun. What does she owe you? And your coworker.”

“Oh. Uh. Honestly, just kindness.”

You can already see it — doe eyes rolling at another one of your cryptic answers. You know people don’t fathom your thoughts very well, and some feel annoyed by your dreamy outlook of the world. You don’t mind, but you wonder what he’s thinking.

But all he responds with is, “What?”

“Well, just. They’ve known me for ages. I’ve been there for Jieun for so long, and Jongin has always been so incredibly nice to me. Picked me up when I was dead drunk once and brought me home. Got me medicine and everything. And I’ve lent him some comfort over the years, too.”

It hasn’t been too long, so you remember. You’ve been good friends with him ever since you started your job; a steady part of your team. He and you have got each other’s back.

“These two are friends,” you say, “and I think kindness is the most we can give our loved ones.”

Jungkook hesitates. Have you bored him to sleep? Or is he pondering your words, thinking of you as weird? Maybe not—

Because he actually converses, asking, “You think? Doesn’t that mean we’re just kind to them then, so they can be kind to you in return?”

“I mean… yes and no. Owing might be the wrong word. I’m not nice to others to get something back. I’m like this because I want to be and because the world can be shitty and it’s important to be nice, and in return, I want people to be nice to me, too. It’s not an eye to eye kind of thing, it’s just about. Spreading affection in relationships. It’s what they’re here for.”

“…Hm. Is this why you’re never rude to me? Even when I deserve it,” he asks, registering a hum. “You know… you think really… uniquely.”

This is a nice way to phrase it at least. People like you; you’re good with them. But sometimes, they can be mean, too. Not that you mind. It’s natural — people occur in all types and shapes.

“But is it unique, though? Isn’t it a given?” you question.

“Yeah, probably, I just— never thought of it this deeply.”

“Mmmh. So is me thinking uniquely a compliment? I can’t say.”

He laughs, and you join immediately, exclaiming an, “I’m serious!” in the middle of it all. Jungkook’s snicker is authentic, so you enjoy hearing it; but you like his answer even better.

“Maybe. I just… I feel like a lot of people try to be different these days. Or play a role to be perceived a certain way? But I think you’re genuine — you actually mean the things you say without any hidden intention to make people forcefully like you, right?”

An intention? Oddly phrased. You think, though… that what he said was nice.

Still, you confirm, “I don’t try to be anyone for people to like me.”

“I didn’t say otherwise! This is actually just what I meant. Besides, people like you anyway because you’re you.” As if he’s reading your mind. “That’s what I was saying.”

You hum, blinking at the ceiling and the little modern light hanging there, the beam off. The darkness pleasant. You conjure another question and ask, “So you think me being me is a good thing?”

You always considered it was. You like being you. But Jungkook didn’t like whatever makes up your personality — has this changed? Apparently.

“Of course,” he surprisingly answers, “it’s always a good thing. And just because I disagree with some of your characteristics, it doesn’t mean everybody will.” Oh. Well. But wait— “Or maybe, I’m just a moaner.”

Well.

“That you are,” you verify.

“Damn.”

“But, but— you’re kind, too, you know? Not everyone says the things you just said.”

“Maybe.”

“So…” you stall, rethinking his prior words. “Do you still disagree with all those characteristics of mine?”

Another joyous sound tumbles out of him, much in the form of a breather than a laugh; hushed, but you still hear it clearly. Perhaps you’re being a little awkward; but in all honesty, you hope he’s just finding it amusing, somewhat cute.

“I mean — you’re too blunt. But brave, like, I could never. The thing you did at the shop? Never. But this isn’t bad. And you aren’t bad.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His voice is a whisper. Reminds you of a feeling akin to temptation; your mind automatically imagines the susurrating sound near your ear, exhaling the very syllable he just did. Frankly, you’re absolutely tortured by the knowledge of him being this close.

That you could probably touch his face if you rolled over to the edge of the bed, letting your arm dangle, seeking his skin. That he’s in the same room, talking to you this gently, saying things that a girl doesn’t hear too often these days anymore.

There it is. The intrusive thought from before… prevailing.

And you’re tortured by it. But mostly, by the image of him standing in front of you between the houses just a little time ago, staring at you, pupils flitting back and forth between your eyes and your lips. How he neared you. How he almost kissed you.

You might’ve joked about it then, but deep down, and especially now, you’re intrigued by the idea. Of the fantasy of a what if — what if he’d actually kissed you?

Taking a deep breath, you look to the side, staring at the door and call, “Hey, Jungkook.”

“Hm?”

“Is it uncomfortable down there?”

“Uh… a little.”

You shuffle at your spot, turning to the side. “Just thinking. What good does it do if we don’t rest well? What are we here for?”

“…What are you talking about?”

Pause. Quietude. You close your eyes, then open them again.

You’re never shy; so you don’t deem it an advantage for yourself to turn timid now either. You tell him, “Come up. I know you want to. I know I want you to.”

He doesn’t say anything; you bite your tongue. Maybe it was a mistake. But then his voice chimes again, wondering, “Are you sure?”

Your answer is immediate.

“Of course. Yes, I’m sure.”

“Okay… okay.”

As he starts to move, you gulp. You make place on the bed, moving to your previous side, pushing the blanket aside in case he wants to slip under it, too. The motions of his silhouette seem uncertain as he makes his way up to you, as if he’s uncomfortable with it.

“I… Was I wrong…? Do you not want to?” you make sure.

“What?” you hear him say; see his head shake. “Ah, that’s not it. Just want to make sure you’re really okay with it. I’m not the type of guy to…”

“I know. It’s fine. I don’t think you are.”

“Okay.” The mattress bulges where he lays down before it evens out again. He emits a couple groaning sounds, probably glad to give his back something proper. You turn to him just when he says, “Honestly… that’s a little better, yeah.”

“Thought so. Are you tired?”

“Definitely.”

“But you’re not sleeping.”

“Because you’re talking.”

Wrong. There was enough silence for him to nod off before. He was the one who started the conversation at all; you were ready to turn and toss and rest eventually.

When you don’t respond, his head turns on his pillow, too; in the darkness that you got used to, you see his eyes twinkle. Both of you know that you’re looking at each other. And he’s kind of close — closer than you thought.

And… if you’re not wrong, he just inched nearer only a nanomoment ago. He repeats in a whisper, once more accusing, “You’re talking, that’s why.”

“That’s really why, huh?”

“Mhm.”

“The only reason there really is?”

“What else could there be?”

You smile, brazen, letting out the courage you’ve gathered, “Well, I know what else it is for me.”

“Yeah?”

Daring a step further, you graze his shirt featherlightly; you don’t know whether he notices. Not until he moves his hand, fingers ghosting near yours.

Waiting until you reveal with sheer, sudden heart palpitations, “I… I want you to kiss me. You do, too, don’t you?”

He inhales, but doesn’t exhale. What does it mean? You don’t know.

You don’t know what it is until you hear the smile in his words, gentle yet tantalising when he says, “…I do.”

“Good. Good. Then kiss me.”

And the rest proceeds without hesitation and without another plea.

His body moves as if on its own accord; he seems possessed, or controlled by a puppeteer. Warm lips lock with yours before you can draw another breath.

They feel soft, full, like tiny pillows, a contrast to the metal of his piercings. And they move gently, so carefully, like he’s still scared of crossing a line despite your permission. But when you lean into him, hoping for more proximity, he blossoms a little. Initiates more.

Oh, he, too, has been waiting for this, hasn't he?

A hand, nearly as warm as his kiss, slithers up to your face, holding you closer to him. The bangs that so often cover his forehead are tickling yours now, his head tilting to give his cute nose more space.

And with that, he deepens the kiss, too. Dares a step further, separating your lips with his, trying things out. He gauges your reaction as the tip of his tongue sneaks its way into the mix, and the moment you do the same, he dives in properly.

Kisses you just a little harder, tasting you, sighing into the movements as if all the weight of the world has dropped off his shoulders. As if he’s relieved, calmed down, resting for the first time tonight.

Yet, at the same time, he’s firing himself up — moving over your body slowly, holding onto your mouth to his best abilities, as if you’d disperse if he let go for too long. As if you’d change your mind.

He cages you in to keep you underneath, not touching your face anymore but shoving his fingers into your already tousled hair. If you were still in your right mind, you’d recognise how insane this situation is. Your younger self would’ve never predicted such a moment to ever become part of your life.

But it is… it is so clearly being played into your hard drive; somehow, you already know it’ll remain stuck in your memory: the way he’s kissing you, so thirsty, so insatiable. How he’s sighing, relaxed, yet sporting an audible heartbeat against your chest.

He uses moments of switching sides to breathe but continues right away; the keenness drives you crazy. You touch his shoulders and then wrap your arms around him firmly, making him hasten closer until he’s nearly falling onto you.

What in the heavenly make out sessions is this…

It’s nasty, yet sweet. Followed by quick breaths; it takes merely a minute until you feel his lower body grinding into you, his jeans tight around his crotch all of a sudden. And the second you realise he’s hardening beneath them, your body reacts.

Reacts so effectively.

Your lower tummy tickles, dampness pooling below as he pushes into you again, harder this time. You moan, enticed by your goosebumps and the heavy bulge. Solid enough for you to crave him within a moment’s notice.

And it only worsens threefold when he whispers, “Fuck… Somebody really knows how to kiss, huh?”

“You’re talking. What was this—” He so rudely interrupts with another peck, and you laugh into it. “Yeah, this…”

Your last word dissipates like candle smoke; you don’t even know why you bother to speak. Your voice is barely perceptible when his teeth remove the short sleeve of your dress, kissing your shoulder and then down to your cleavage.

It’s easy to remove your dress; it’s light, summer-y — but he doesn’t bare you just yet. Plays around at the mounds of your tits until he pushes the neck of the dress down a bit, asking, “May I take it off?”

Oh, if you could count the times you’ve imagined his veiny hands removing this damn dress just in the last fifteen minutes…

“Of course,” you permit, “do I look like I’d reject you?”

“Mmmh.” The hum is proud, satisfied, vocalised amidst another kiss to your clavicles. “Just making sure.”

Soft, warm hands trail up your leg, leaving a path of another set of goosebumps. You want him to stay right there on your thigh, knead the flesh, press into it, showcase the lust he feels in the beguiling pain.

But instead, he pushes up your dress, fingers ghosting over your ass — and when he doesn’t find your panties but only bare skin, he stops kissing you. Looks at you. Makes out the string of your thong a second later — in the dark, you discern the way his lips round in captivation.

He’s loving this.

He tugs at the string and lets it snap back into place; you gasp even though it doesn’t hurt, but it drives you mad when he states, “Wow. Very intriguing.”

Leaving it at this for just now, he kisses you again, tongues mingling once more before he releases a sharp, nearly aggressive hiss and mumbles, “Holy fuck. I can’t stop.”

“I didn’t tell you to stop,” you guarantee.

“Good. Good, good, good.”

The dress surrounds your waist now, stopping below your breasts, and Jungkook journeys down to drag his lips around the spots he hasn’t touched yet. As if he’s trying to familiarise himself with all of you, working towards the goal of memorising you entirely.

His teeth scrape at your pelvis just lightly, seemingly contemplating whether he wants to destroy these panties or not — but then decides against it. You wouldn’t mind; you’re not showing anybody anything of you tonight but him.

And you’re already such a mess; breathing so irregularly, letting out his name and quiet sighs. He should know he could do basically anything. That you’re ready for him.

But instead, he only curses again, sucking at your skin harshly, nails digging into your hips. And then, from below, you hear him say, “Want you to suck my dick so bad.” He moves up, fingertips on your cheek, rubbing himself against your underwear, and questions, “Will you suck my dick, baby?”

Oh, he didn’t just…

Oh, the way the pet name screws with your head is irreversible. You feel sick at the mention, breathing out hard, about to get up at the speed of light to swallow him fully; to the hilt.

But you won’t give him the satisfaction yet; you’ve gotten used to the darkness, and seeing the hazy insanity in his eyes spurs you on to play with him a bit more. So you lift your body, giving him hope, but then say, “I have a better idea.”

“Ah? Where are you going?”

“Wait.”

He quietens. Falls to the side and onto his back as he watches whatever you’re trying to do unfold. You look back at him for just a blink of an eye, but you immediately perceive the hand cupping his clothed dick, moving a bit, up and down.

“Okay. Should work on this first,” you say, straddling him backwards.

You hike up your dress more, baring your back to him, and you instantly hear the breath he releases. Feel the palm touching your spine, grazing it; you imagine huge eyes ogling at you like he’s reached nirvana. You so hope he’s looking at you like this.

“My God…” he only mutters, however, proving your point when he opts to get up. But you turn as much as you can, a flat hand pushing him down again, to which he complains, “What?”

“I told you to wait, silly. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You sure? You’re being pretty mean right now.”

“I’m not being mean. You’re just not patient,” you laugh. “Give me a second and I’ll wreck your world, ‘kay?”

“Ah?”

“Mhm.”

“That I wanna se— oh. Oh.”

Exactly.

Once you’re done pulling off the dress, you shift back, enough for your pussy to align with his gorgeous face. Jungkook instinctively grabs your ass to pull you lower, and you chuckle at the restless gesture.

But you need to focus; and as best and tidily as you can, you unbutton his jeans, zipping them open until you detect his shorts. He raises his hips to help you, and you bite your lower lip, crazed by the sight that awaits you once the jeans are halfway down.

The bulge is big indeed. The imprint is insane; the light from outside allows glimpses, and you salivate, bowing your head to kiss him above his underwear, feeling him stir. And he imitates, blowing against your wetness, his finger — middle one? — curling around the string digging between your ass cheeks.

When he frees your pussy, you feel it. It hits the air in the room coldly, a contrast to his hot breath. A second more and you might drip into his tantalising mouth, just how you’re drooling over the cock you finally set free.

It springs out, veiny under your touch. Hard. Thick and long. Everything good, a fucking ideal package. You scold him, “You’ve been hiding this from me?”

“Huh? I wasn’t hiding.”

“Now I realise just how mean you are, man,” you say, shaking your head, spitting onto the slit before wiping it off again with the tip of your tongue. He swears again. “Could’ve had this make me hoarse so long ago.”

“Fuck,” he replicates, “stop talking, or I’ll fuck this mouth of yours. You want to be hoarse so bad, then try me.”

“Is this a threat? You really think I won’t let you? Stay right there, little—” You look again. “Big man. You can do whatever you want, but wait a second, alright?”

“Nah. You’re not the only one teasing. You brat,” Jungkook whispers sharply, delivering a smack to your ass; you gasp. “I just…”

You don’t know what he just — you only know that he’s attaching his mouth to your cunt right away, thong pushed aside, diving in with a tongue so eager. You squint your eyes shut, lips parting, calling his name as he holds you there roughly.

He soon wraps his arms around your hips, like a belt, lips intense as he kisses you even wetter. The sounds he eludes are dirty, sinful; and the feeling of his piercings doesn’t add to your sanity.

You decide to not let this distract you; he’s competitive, you realised, but you are, too. So you lean in, lips wrapping around the tip. Your right hand enfolds his cock, pumping him, tracing every firm vein that protrudes. He’s so pretty all around.

“Shit,” you whisper, hoping he doesn’t hear; only continue to work your tongue around the head, setting the nerves alight as he’s doing for you.

You kiss down the shaft, licking and humming to create a sort of vibration. And then, you take him in as much as you can. Despite being large, barely fitting, soon hitting your throat, you try. Hollow your cheeks, bop your head, gifting him your attention.

But it’s hard. So hard because—

God, he’s lapping you up so good.

So hungry. Out to kill you as he releases the prior belt, bringing two fingers to your pussy and thrusting them into you slowly. Mouth and digits; both at once. Thumb against the clenching hole between your ass.

He’s distracted every now and then, much like you, but he still maintains a steady pace. Cruel… so cruel. Those damn fingers propelling into you, harder sometimes before they slow down again. Curling to hit you just right, massaging the rough, walnutty spot.

Oh, Jungkook knows… knows exactly what to do.

They don’t make men like him anymore.

Your ass clenches when his skills exceed your expectations and he rubs your insides particularly well, mouth just right above your clit as the tongue circles around it. It’s nearly overwhelming; you could cry with this mouthful of dick impaling your throat.

He feels so good on you. So good in you. You want all of you filled, not just your mouth. So you soon let go with a plop, a string of saliva so lewdly connecting your mouth and his member, and you wipe your mouth.

Tell him, “This should be enough.”

And he agrees immediately, smacking his lips, as if licking up the remnants of his food, “Fuck yes. Enough.”

You want to get into the next position, put in some work, but what you don’t expect is that Jungkook is already planning a step ahead. Tapping your ass with his big manly palm, pushing you off of him until you’re crawling on all fours.

Submitted to him. And you don’t mind a bit — just for now, just for him, you’ll give into this because you’ve been craving it. It’s okay; you vow to yourself that in a while, you’ll wreck his shit just as much.

On your elbows and knees, you hear him shifting, the mattress dipping, his knees nearing you and closing your legs in. The palm covering the right side of your ass causes it to jiggle, and when you push your butt towards his pelvis, he praises, “The way you know what to do without me needing to tell you. How convenient.”

“Well,” you breathe out, “it’s not my first rodeo. But do make it the best… okay?”

“No pressure at all, huh? I’ll try my best.”

You want to react, bring a laugh straight out of your throat, but Jungkook is faster. The reaction comes alright, but not as you wanted it to. But rather in a high-pitched moan, arms quivering when he fists his cock, guiding it to your leaking cunt, and rubs the tip between your pussy folds.

You reckon he’s testing out how eager you already are; you contemplate on telling him. On pleading, on saying something that might drive him to action. You don’t mention a single word, though; only let your ass speak once more, steering towards him until he gets the message.

He must have.

Because he clicks his tongue as if to admonish you for your shortage of patience, though only briefly before he surrenders to the itch you cause. Scratching without hesitation now, he finally helps you lose your damn panties and then dips himself into you slowly.

Of course; with a length like his, there’s no way you’d be able to survive a quick push. Jungkook knows to be cautious, penetrating you sweetly; an oxymoron in a moment like this. Your fingers digging into the sheets reveal as much; there’s not much going on yet, but you’re already holding onto the soundness of your mind so desperately.

“Shit, what the fuck,” you murmur, your turn to let out profanities; you’re sure this isn’t your last. “You scared of something, Jeon? I’m… I have an IUD.”

“Scared? No. You’re not an idiot, right?” he whispers. “You would’ve told me if you couldn’t do it like this. Much rather…” He breathes heavily between his words. “I’m taking you in, y’know? Enjoying — fuck — how wet and warm you are… Gonna wreck you raw, though, no p-problem.”

No, your foul words were certainly not the last for tonight; his dick is just halfway through when he stops and another tumbles out of you. He drags the thickness back, then inside again.

Your walls are occupied to their last inch, and you know you could take all of him if you just gave yourself some time — but somehow, his care turns you on even more.

Goddamn, he’s good. All of him — his dick, his voice, his mouth, his touch. He’s so— nnghh…

You have never witnessed his fingers do much more than take the pictures you love. Whenever he operates the button with his forefinger, flexing the inked crown above his knuckle, you already know the man has a talent unmatched.

But right now… right now you have an entirely different perception of these same digits.

Like, when he leans in a bit, still deep inside you, undoing your bra in a smooth motion. Or when he caresses your back, along your spine, contradicting the touch with a harsher, harder jab now.

And shit, when he pulls your ass cheeks apart, digging in further, fucking through your seeping hole until he’s covered in slick, too. It must look so good to him; incredibly memorable.

Your whimpers are quiet and gentle, matching the way he fucks you, only rising in volume when he decides to push another inch in. You behave; you whine softly; that is until all of a sudden, he pulls back most of his cock and shoots back in, colliding with your ass with a slapping sound.

Yelping, you hold the sheets until your fingers hurt, and he bolts forwards, a hand slamming your mouth shut and muffling your mewls. Way too close to your ear, he says, “Sh sh sh… my God. Jieun has neighbours, babe — don’t spoil her reputation.”

He proceeds to kiss the skin under your ear, taking your arms captive until they’re pinned to your back. Fingers intertwine messily, holding your limbs in place, and as he frees your mouth again, you laugh — it’s all you can do to not feel too weirded out by the mention of Jieun’s name right now.

You tell him, “Use my panties then.”

“Your panties, huh? Do you want me to?” You nod, but he’s not obliging enough to give into your wishes. Teasing you to no end. “Nah. I’ll just…”

Jungkook doesn’t finish the sentence; what he does is much more alluring, nearly forcing tears of lust to your waterline. He grabs the back of your neck, urging you to look at him, and just as you register his face close to yours, he kisses you again.

Your body immediately blossoms. You breathe as much as the kiss allows, yielding to his tongue. Let him push you down and into the mattress, imprisoning you under him. And he kisses you… kisses you… kisses you more…

Basks in your dimmed moans as he hits from behind again, hard. Sheathes himself inside you thoroughly and with impact; he’s enjoying the fact that you want to yell, but need to restrain yourself at this time of the night.

Because he’s right. You don’t want Lee Jieun to earn looks in the morning because of you.

As if provoking you, he blatantly asks, “You good?”

“Yes— yes!”

“Mhm…”

He’s out of breath; can barely emit another word. But he doesn’t waste any moment at all; kisses your neck, bites your earlobe. Pushes his hands under your body to get ahold of your tits. Fucks you into space, lifting one of your hands to your face, entangling his fingers with yours.

You shift up and down the mattress, just a little; the position, with him on you, doesn’t allow too many extreme movements, and you’re more than fine with it. There’s something about him going unhinged on you like this.

But… it does awaken the need to retaliate, too.

So you use the opportunity when he decides to pause, running out of energy, gasping for breath. He leaves you empty and yearning, pulling back and sitting up, and judging from the touch on your tummy, you assume he wants to flip you on your spot.

Instead, however, you turn on your own accord, both palms that he held captive minutes ago shoving at him. He produces a strange sound as he falls backwards, landing on the mattress and onto the pillow with big eyes that almost don’t fit his Greek God-esque physique.

Goodness, the damp dark hair. The abs. The pecs. The nipples…

You might dribble onto his sweaty, shiny skin. And you don’t veil your innermost thoughts this time, straddling him as you say, “My turn. Need to ride you so bad.”

He visibly relaxes; leads his fingers to your hips, thumb drawing patterns on them. His tongue darts out to play with the lip rings, and he eyes you up and down. He’s taking you in for the first time properly, just as you are him.

Just as your eyes drifted over his muscular body, he now makes stops along the journey — your pussy on the length of his cock. The tits and the perked nipples. The ruined hair, sticking to your collarbones.

You wonder how he likes what he sees.

Probably enough if he can respond with something like, “I won’t stop you.”

Good to know.

So you take a comfortable seat on top of him, still keeping him down, lining up your sex with his. When you welcome him in again this time, you do so fully. No slow torture, no waiting. You claim your throne until your ass hits his hardened balls.

He says, not quite expecting an answer, so you don’t give one, “You’ll kill me today, right?”

And then you start. Put in all the effort you can gather. He feels heavenly inside you, the perfectly curved length moving just the way it needs to. His groans and calls of your names sound promising, telling; you suppose you’re doing a good enough job if his eyes roll back like this.

The hands on your hips push into your flesh more, and when you remove one and bring it to your mouth, sucking his forefinger with your eyes set on him, he loses his shit. Starts pumping up from below, meeting your up-and-down ministrations.

“Shi— what— do you think,” he attempts, stagnant breathing, “you’re doing…”

But he’s grunting in ardour, so you don’t stop; don’t let him take over fully just yet. No — you roll your hips, bend your back, catch a patch of his hair and then angle your body to crash your lips onto his.

The kiss weakens his defences. For a moment, you do feel his nails bruising your skin, but another second later, his touch is as soft as a feather. He’s so ultimately at your mercy that he lets you trace his abs and kiss his pecs.

Lets you get into a crouch, your palms settling below his chest for support. And then… then you navigate north and south, repeatedly, fucking him into you with vigour. He throws his head back, but then looks at you again, blinking fast before his eyes squint shut once more.

“The fuck are you—” he tries, but you start circling his cock again, moving in eight-curves, seeking support in his biceps.

“What?” you voice. “Not good?”

“You fucking— kidding me?” His lower lip trembles when he parts his mouth. You see it even with the lights dimmed. “This is such… a good fucking pussy. I was an idiot to push you aside.”

You’re too dazed to really pout, but you do hear the undertone; ask to clarify, “You’re just saying that f-for… getting my pussy, huh?”

“What— no. Fuck no. Look at me.” His hand reaches out, fingers poking into your cheeks, and he pulls you down to him, makes you meet his eyes. You slow down. “I wouldn’t just do this for any pussy— I… not with you. I don’t just. I don’t just go home with anybody. ‘Kay?”

His words bloom in your chest like a bouquet of flowers. In such a vulgar moment, you shouldn’t be feeling like this, but you can’t help but acknowledge the warmth spreading throughout your body. Burning up your already aflame muscles.

You want to know more; so you query sneakily, “What does this mean?”

“What it means?” he echoes, words blurry, as if drunk. “That you’re beautiful. And… honestly, kind of cool. So annoying but so fucking funny and— hot—”

“I am? Look at this,” you say, still moving but tired; touching his face, his cheeks, his sweet nose, “look at you…”

“No.” He grits his teeth. You don’t know what comes over him, but he’s inhaling way too deeply, lightly aggressive again as he retorts, “Look at fucking you.”

And with that, he gets what he desired earlier; flips you over, climbing over you. With your shield lowered, you didn’t expect this, and now you’re right where you began. And for some reason, the sharp jaw, the furrowed eyebrows, the starved look hits you even harder than before.

The many inches he sports fell out as he took over, but as he plunges into you again with embarrassing ease, something feels different. How he looks at you. How he touches you, pushing your hair back, kissing your lips with such softness.

And how he holds you when you finally see the stars you waited for, his face in your neck, his thumb on your cheek, his palm on your jaw. Kissing your shoulder, delighted as you seek an anchor in his back, tightening around him impossibly as he fucks you through your high and your broken moans.

“Jungkook—” you repeat over and over, and in return, he mutters constant, “I know, I know.”

Again and again and again until his sounds become more uncurbed. Only syllables, rumbling, his chest vibrating against yours until he lifts himself up and retracts his cock.

His pupils shake as he jerks himself off, and you know what he’s seeking, quickly getting to your knees, helping out. You replace his hand with yours, sticking out your tongue before you engulf his dick rapidly.

In surprise, he lets out, “Oh, fff—”

Shit, how he sounds. And how wicked he feels in your mouth, tasting like you, tasting like him. Wet and slippery, his balls hard when you cup them. And then— a mere moment later, he’s shooting ropes of white down your throat.

You’ll never get used to the feeling. You didn’t with your exes, didn’t with any other guy you’ve been with. It’s sudden, your gag reflex kicking, but you don’t want to stop until he has.

Sticky and hot, you let him; look up to him. His jaw glimmers due to the sheen of sweat, and he holds your hand to keep himself upright. Nearly growls when he’s done, and then calms down bit by bit. Pulls out of you. Plumps back onto his ass.

Catches his breath; and once the two of you have relieved your burning lungs, you with your legs under your butt, you look at each other again. A sudden laugh. He lets his head drop onto his shoulder, and then shakes it before getting back on his knees, nearing your joyous form.

The last kiss of the night is endlessly more chaste. No tongue, no making out. Just a couple pecks, a hand around the nape of your neck, noses grazing. Once, twice. And then, he’s smiling again.

You tell him, “Can’t believe this actually happened.”

“Crazy… right?”

“Crazy, yeah. We…” You gulp. “We can leave it right here, though. Guess we were both riled up.”

He nods, humming, looking to the side. “We could. But we don’t have to. It felt too good to forget, you know?”

You gleam and glow; if you could, you’d curl your fingers into fists, screeching like an excited high schooler in her room, acknowledged by a crush. But you only press your lips together, corners twitching up, cheeks hot.

Then, you say, “You know what… I might just agree.”

“Good.” Another one of his stares to the side, through the door of the room. “You think we should very quickly and very harmlessly use Jieun’s shower? She probably wouldn’t mind.”

“I don’t think she would. But she’d certainly know what happened.”

“Least of our concerns,” he argues, getting up stark naked. He pats your thigh and then tugs at your arm, adding, “We’ll be tidy. And then we can rest a bit and leave. Am too fired up anyway.”

You know things might change again once you’ve slipped into your clothes and walked out into the night air. Perhaps the passion was reserved for this very room, actually a result of unbridled lust and tension.

But you think it’s okay. It’s okay as you giggle in the shower, flirting and bantering.

Because even if you part from Jeon Jungkook and all this as just a saccharine memory, you’re ready to seize just a little more of this stolen moment before reality sets back in.

5:12AM, Him

Whether it’s the numbers glowing on his digital watch or the fact that the two of you didn’t rest as much as you’d anticipated after all, he doesn’t know.

The residual heat of the past hour has warmed his body and relaxed his muscles; your touches still haunt him, crawling over his skin and sitting on his knees, tempting them to buckle. And your voice, your sounds… like a ghost in his mind.

And you urging him to climb the nearby hill with you, surprisingly steep, doesn’t help. He doesn’t know why you’d choose such a place at such an hour. The occasional forest around you is dark, chirping, and the road is empty.

Perhaps you feel secure in the presence of another; in this sense, it’s even flattering that you trust him this much.

But he’ll admit that his still wobbly condition and this stop of the night are slowly bringing him to his limits. The blazer, at least, is already hanging over his arm, giving him more space to breathe.

You’re piloting the way, careful, navigating with the help of the light beaming from the occasional street lamps. Jungkook sighs in a half-complaint when the road doesn’t end, nobody around far and wide.

You’re similarly out of breath when you turn to look over your shoulder, barely for a moment before you continue to escort him further up. Then, you encourage, “Come on! We just rested. How are you already tired?”

“Woman. We’ve been walking for a pretty long time.”

“Uhmmm,” you exclaim, swaying when you pull your hair over your left shoulder, “tell me something. What’s your sleep schedule usually like?”

Well, shit.

Jungkook can already tell what you’re referring to, but the counterargument already sits ready in his brain, just in case. Yet, he hesitates. Studies his surroundings to make sure he knows the way back, stalling on purpose, and when you ask, “And?”

He answers, “Uh. Late. I slept at 7AM just last week.”

“What?!” Your voice is high-pitched, in disbelief, and whatever point you wanted to make is stuck in your throat upon the revelation he divulged. “Holy shit, Jungkook.”

“Yeah, but like,” he immediately works on justifying, making use of the comeback he’d already thought out, “I don’t walk around town, you know? I spend these nights eating or singing or—”

“Woah. You sing?”

“Yes, but. I will not sing to you now.”

He catches up with you in one long step, regarding your countenance. Even in the dim light and the pitch dark, he recognises the roll of your eyes, as if to say, “I wasn’t even going to ask.”

But instead of vocalising that very overt thought, your answer comes as smoothly as silk, “It’s fine. You sang to me plenty tonight.”

Jungkook nearly chokes on his spit, disguising his surprise as in the hike reasoned exhaustion. His mind needs a moment to fix itself, but when the balance is restored again, he wisecracks, “You’re one to talk. May I remind you of what you sounded like earlier?”

“You can. But I do remember myself, thank you.”

Damn it. You’re a step ahead all the time. He can’t even outsmart you the way he wants to.

“Way to diss me. You’re hardcore,” he complains, “and here I thought you were kind and sweet and all of that.”

Jungkook nearly retracts his statement, because you throw such a perplexed and disbelieving stare back that he shrinks, reprimanded, “Can’t I be both? A woman can certainly be both, man.”

“Of course,” he agrees, hands up as if he’s being arrested, “of course. You’re both, for sure.”

He anticipates more scolding and scowls, but it seems you’re satisfied with the response he gives. You grant him a pleased, lopsided smirk that resembles his own, and then sigh into the night air, long and deep before your breath morphs into—

A mixture of a gasp and a shriek.

“Wh—” Jungkook blurts, barely registering the movement scurrying from the left side of the forest into the trees right of him. “The fuck.”

And just as fast as your gasp appeared, it diminishes, too, turning into a throaty laugh. Jungkook listens in to the echo of the rustles, still seeing the bushes move; whether because of the animal that just flit past or the breeze, he can’t say.

His eyebrows shoot up when he looks at you, coming down from the quiet chuckle, and he only realises that your elated joy stems from the way he’s standing right now.

He must’ve instinctively dashed forward, an arm in front of your body, shielding it with his. It was just a squirrel, and in all honesty, it is the two of you who are trespassing, disturbing the forest life with your presence at such a time.

Yet, his reaction must’ve been immediate enough to protect you from whatever loomed in the dark, and you seem to like it for some reason. Because as he clears his throat and lets his arm sink, all you comment is a fascinated, content, “Wow.”

“Uh… all good.”

“Yes. All good indeed.”

Your voice is tinged with a combination of gratification and tease, as if you’re one utterance away from adding a little, “My knight in shining armour.”

Instead, you bite your tongue and look around; Jungkook sees what you perceive a mere moment later. The surroundings clear, the forest less dense; on the left side, a vast opening appears, a wide path ending in a… cliff?

And behind that, the town.

If there was a soundtrack to his life, he’d probably hear violins playing right now. Reminiscent of the wind, perhaps accompanied by piano keys that sound like the softly glimmering stars above.

The picture is breathtaking. Not that he hasn’t been at such a spot before — he grew up in a big, mountainous city.

But since he didn’t expect for the hill’s peak to allow such art, he’s a little more overwhelmed than he expected to be.

From behind, he hears you say, “In any case. Let’s rest here?”

“Uh-huh.”

It’s hard to avert his eyes. All night long, he’s only felt like this once; this marks the second time.

Gratefully, he walks up to where you’re making yourself comfortable, flattening your dress and settling your bag on your lap. You pull a thin, short cardigan out of it, slipping into it. It’s certainly cooler up here.

And then, you pat the spot next to you, and he lets himself fall with a sigh; it’s been a long night, and despite the restful-not-restful hour you spent at Jieun’s, it feels as though he’s truly easing up just now.

Jungkook puffs out a breath and takes another look. Properly this time, blinking as if this could help his eyes focus better. Gorgeous. He can see the river from here, flowing through the town in curves, like a snake.

He can’t see the entire city, but most of it; it goes up and down. Skyscrapers and then cosy houses like the ones before again. Mountains far away and the lights of the amusement park somewhere in the east. They’re the brightest of them all.

“Wait,” he says; you oblige, waiting, watching as he heaves the camera out of his bag.

He only registers you from his side vision, but he thinks you’re wearing a smile; confirmed when you breathe to speak again, and his eyes drift to you, immediately decoding the pride in your sparkling pupils.

Why do you look proud? Then again, he guesses he would, too, if he showed you something that he loved and you enjoyed it, too.

Thinking about it, he kind of wants to do it someday.

He pulls at his lower lip, releasing it soon, blinking again as if to release the thought. Instead, he listens as you ask, “You’ve never been here before?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Hidden spot then.”

“It’s beautiful. Look there,” he points to a spot that you carefully follow, even squinting an eye shut; it makes him smile. “That’s the ferris wheel in the amusement park. Can you see? Wait.”

The camera comes to use when he points the lens at the direction he signalled towards, nimble hands working on zooming in. The picture unfocuses before the lights of the amusement park flicker again.

It’s late, he thinks; then again, the summer is coming to an end, the last nights used to keep such attractions open late. September will bring forth grey clouds again, leaving behind the prior season’s heat. Raining down on him, forcing the leather jacket out of his closet.

He likes it that way.

No offence to the summer whatsoever; but he likes the fresh gust dishevelling his soft hair. Likes it when the rain patters against the window glass so softly. He sleeps better that way, too.

Barely sitting for a moment, Jungkook already gets to his feet, nearing the edge until he’s kneeling on the ground. The distance has only faded by a couple feet, not much of a difference. But the feeling of the city nearing still persists somehow, tickling his mind just right.

He doesn’t know how long he squats there against the backdrop of the luminescent sea, but when he comes back to you, you’re still sporting that excited smile, eyebrows high. Your eyes fall to the camera, humming when he says, “Look. There.”

He magnifies the picture, every spot of it good enough to pin against the living room wall. Carefully, he hands you the camera; surprising, because he regards this pricey piece of plastic as sacred. You probably don’t know how big of a deal it is that he lets you handle it.

If you did, you’d never let him live it down.

You scoot closer, your temple now nearly touching his. You stare with an interest he hasn’t witnessed too often before. People do not care much about pictures of scenery; in the age of media, how could they anyway? When every stock picture is already memorised and used to the point of insignificance?

But you — your mouth parts as you switch around, taking in details.

“Good?” he asks.

“Beautiful,” you sincerely mutter, returning the camera to him. You hold it like a kitten; perhaps you do know what the gesture meant. “This is exactly why I wanted us to come here.”

The moment is so serene, like balm, and he nods along with your words, calmly conversing. So it takes a heartbeat to truly untangle your words in his mind and tie them with the meaning your intention conveys.

He assumed you were just showing him random spots of the town, to allow him a glimpse into your mind and to crack your true nature. All this time, he thought you wanted to lead him to bright spaces to lighten up his perception of you.

But what you’re doing instead is turn the spotlight towards him and what he loves.

“You… did it for me?” he asks.

You, casually, as if the thoughtful act doesn’t flood him with serotonin, reply, “Yeah. To capture a couple pretty pictures. You really do love it, so.”

“I do… wow, thanks.” He pauses. Looks down to the buttons on his camera, to his hands; then back to you. “You thought of it all, right? The nice places and the short rest at Jieun’s. Now this.”

“Hmm, tried as much as possible so spontaneously.”

“Thank you. Really.”

You return his gratitude with a polite nod, leaning away until you touch the backrest of the bench. Jungkook indulges in some more that nature offers, toying with the settings, zooming in just to observe sights from a closer point.

He doesn’t notice when you sigh or when you zone off; or when your thoughts shift back to the minutes and hours of the night. He doesn’t notice; and in return, you don’t know that he’s still thinking about the intention that brought him here; that you were attentive enough to truly show that some people appreciate art.

There aren’t only fleeting nights and then forgotten memories. Because this… this right here is a core memory.

Because of you.

Are you thinking the same? Are you proud that his enmity has faded, replaced by a tender smile? Satisfied that your efforts were worth it after all — a goal reached that you set for yourself earlier tonight.

Let me show you pretty places until the sun comes up, and if you still hate me by then, I will never talk to you again.

But…

He’d love to talk to you again.

However, your mind hasn’t quite drifted in this direction; in truth, he honestly can’t analyse or interpret you at all, because the question you pose next is far from what he’d been thinking about.

“Talking about pretty… uhm. Did you think Jieun was pretty?”

Jungkook blinks. One eyebrow cocks up; the camera drops back onto his lap. He flashes you a squinted look, a confused laugh erupting before he asks back, “What?”

“Ah, don’t lie. She’s very pretty.”

“Sure? She is.”

He’s nearly forgotten what she looked like. But beauty is still perceived and remembered — he guesses he found her good-looking.

“And she’s everyone’s type,” you prod, “what do you think, though? If she didn’t have a boyfriend, could you imagine liking her?”

Jungkook thinks about it. Not because he wants to, but because you seem to have found an odd interest in whatever attracts him; maybe your questions are leading up to something. So he’ll play along.

“Hmm… Maybe,” he answers.

“So she is your type.”

Or maybe, you’re trying to get something out of him that you want to hear specifically. You seem so shy about it all of a sudden; not necessarily an adjective he’d assign to you.

And coming from you of all people, he somehow does not find the topic interesting. It’s weird; he doesn’t want to talk about it; he doesn’t care about Jieun, either.

So he shrugs his shoulders indifferently, lifting his camera up again. He points it at you, eternalising your surprised expression just when you open your mouth to leave out a shocked, “Hey!”

“That’s what you get for asking such strange stuff.”

“It’s not strange! I’m just small-talking.”

“You do not small-talk.”

“It could be a deeper conversation if you just admitted it.”

He chuckles, turning his body towards you, half his leg on the bench, “Admit what?”

“The type thing!”

“Sure. I don’t just have one type, though, you know?”

The dispute brought your bodies a little closer, your face far enough for him to still identify his surroundings, but near enough for him to see your eyes twinkling. The light is dancing in them. And it’s much easier to focus on it when you silence like this.

Just for a second.

Because you breathe in again ten seconds later, lightly slapping the thigh resting on the bench. The touch is cursory, tiny, nothing to overthink about — but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want it to linger.

In some way, it still does.

You ask, “Okay? What are your types then?”

“Different girls.” This time, only one shoulder shoots up. His eyes match his pensive hum. “Whoever suits me. Pretty girls but also nice girls. Especially nice girls.”

“Alright, be honest,” you begin, mimicking his position until your leg lifts onto the bench, knee nearly touching his. You’re warming up now. Finally spitting the true question soon, “Do you think I’m pretty?”

Cute.

But he’s not giving in this easily.

He smirks; he feels the dimple on one side of his lopsided smile the moment you look at it. You’re distracted enough — so he uses the mental absence to attack you with yet another picture.

For a couple blinks, you’re startled — but as he reacts to his own nonsense with a content chortle, proud of his prank, you sigh. His shoulders rise with his sneering joy, head low as he inspects the picture just taken on his camera.

He zooms into your face, mouth open and eyes wide. You do look so pretty, he thinks — better even since you washed most of your make up off. Yet, he can’t contain himself when he shows you the screen, telling you, “You look alright.”

You laugh, rolling your eyes and your gaze to the view; your giggles start quietly, and then mix with his. Before—

They soon become part of a bad harmony as more voices join your very own night. Somebody is nearing. Jungkook hears the laughter already, but the road is curved and dark; so he can’t see them yet.

You might not have expected this, because you push closer to Jungkook on reflex; just at the same time as him. He didn’t know he had it in him to always stay so alert around you. Ready to throw himself at intruders.

Crazy.

But once the voices grow in volume, the two of you are soon met with a couple walking past. They’re in love, because amidst their titter, there’s another lewd sound. Or maybe, not too bad; playful kisses?

Yes.

The guy — he’s smooching his girl’s cheek, releasing with a, “Mwah” each time. Your initial surprise soon fades and turns into delight; Jungkook sees it in the way your smile returns. And in the furrowed yet amused eyebrows…

When the couple spots the two of you, they gasp; the girl’s hand immediately bolts to her chest, as if she just encountered a wild boar. But she catches herself soon, apologising, “Oh. Sorry. We’re sorry.”

You respond with an, “It’s okay!” Jungkook shakes his head politely to shrink their worries. They’ve walked away as soon as they came, but he still hears the woman’s scolding, effect lessened by the still occurring belly laugh, “I told you to calm yourself—”

As the world quietens again, Jungkook huffs, tilting his head as he deduces, “So late and yet… Not much of a hidden spot after all.”

“It feels like an ancient hill to me. I don’t often meet others here.” You breathe in the wind, then tongue your cheek. “They probably didn’t even notice where they were going. People in love never do.”

“I guess so.”

He guesses so.

It’s been a while since he fell in love.

Your head bobs once more before you lose yourself in the skyline, sucking in more of the crisp air that’ll grace you in the upcoming months. Fall is upon the town. He inbreathes the peace, too.

His hands operate on their own; one last time, he lifts it towards you, peeks through the lens again, adjusting the focus until the object clicks again. You’re not looking at him; he caught your side profile, this time not out of mock or tease.

He means it. And you seem to know.

Because when you look at him this time, you’re not mad or irritated.

Only look at him softly, a smile that truly matches the heights you took him on.

READ BELOW!!

the fic isn't over yet – as always, tumblr has a 1k block limit that makes our lives harder than necessary lmao. read the last scene and the remaining 3k words of meraki here 🥰

#jungkook fluff #bts fluff #jungkook smut #bts smut #jeongguk smut #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #bts x you #bts imagines #jungkook fic #jungkook

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oh-no-its-bird · 6 months ago

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Celebrating my 21'st birthday by posting an obnoxious amount of

Warring States Hatake OC things !

Continuing the warring states era Hatake oc train as I try to fill up all 21 slots for the clan !!! I honestly don't know if I'll make all 21, but I'd like to at least give them all names, just to make the world feel lived in. I might ask someone else to donate an oc or two in the future to guest star in the cast, idk

But anyways !!!! In a clan who loves to adopt, it stands to reason that they ofc have people among them who weren't born Hatake.

With that said: Pyromaniac explosion enthusiast Hatake who was a failed bloodline theft anyone ???

Both Sora and Tsuki are pretty fucking horrendous towards Tetsuo, but in large part it's Tsuki leading the charge. Sora follows his lead, as he's the first friend she made in the clan. They're honestly pretty close

Meanwhile: Sora remains the biggest Haruka fan ever. Being saved from the bloodline thief camp by the woman really cemented her in her mind as her hero.

After Sora lost her arm at 12 when playing with an explosion seal she'd explicitly been told not to play with, Tsuki proposed they learn to do hand signs together.

Sora would eventually be able to figure out how to do pull off a jutsu with only one hand, but it takes a long time to get there— and even when she is there, it still takes longer than if she had 2 hands. Working with Tsuki, they can both pull off just about any jutsu as fast as any one person can. Faster, even

Top ten images taken 5 seconds before disaster...

I was gonna draw 2 more pages for this, of the actual drowning attempt, but I got tired and wanted to post this today so you get a summary of what comes next instead. (Maybe I'll finish drawing it and post it separately another day)

Tsuki and Sora bullied Tetsuo pretty relentlessly till the boys were about 13, when Tsuki took things a step too far and basically tried to drown Tetsuo. Tetsuo fought back, beating both Tsuki and Sora's asses pretty soundly— and catching Haruka's attention in the process.

Seeing Tetsuo fend off the other two made up Haruka's mind, and she declared he'd be her new heir. Which he... didn't actually want to be. Oops!

Sora was pretty effectively scared out of bullying Tetsuo any further, and Tsuki mellowed out a good amount— though he remained mischievous, but that was pretty standard for him.

The blue tint of Tetsuo's skin would fade only some months later as he grew out of his Hoshigaki traits and into his Hatake blood. This also helped to lessen teasing from the other kids, along with the whole "he's the new clan heir now" thing.

Good for him.

The next day Tetsuo is super pissy and sleep deprived while Tsuki is suspiciously smug and well rested. On the bright side, Tetsuo has officially learned his lesson and will now refuse to let Tsuki ever give anyone anything he's drawn ominous spirals on.

As adults, Tetsuo and Tsuki are... fine, honestly. They're friends, in a way. Might even be counted as close— or as close as you can be, with Tsuki.

The fact that Tsuki got himself permanantly posessed by an Uzu spiral demon on that mission gone wrong in Wave doesn't make things as complicated than you'd think. Tetsuo seems to often land himself in the position of acting as Tsuki (and often times Sora's) handler.

I had a few more things I wanted to draw, but ran out of time. I'll probably just try and draw and post it later. No Sora piercing lore, Daisuke introduction post or full Tetsuo drowning comic for you!!! (Yet)

Umm final thoughts:

Tetsuo is doomed to forever be surrounded by maniacs

Early Konoha oc art pt. [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9]

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nochukoo97 · 2 years ago

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boyfriend drabbles (pt.33)

pairing: jungkook x oc

summary: the one where you and jungkook celebrate christmas, and you get a tiny bit jealous

word count: 1.4k+

masterlist

sometimes you curse the universe for intoxicating you, making you become addicted to him like a drug. every moment spent with him made you find another reason to love him, another reason to gaze at him and think one thing: forever.

to you, jungkook is like an angel, glowing the brightest amongst all darkness and light in your life, always there to catch you if you fall. it makes you wonder just how much you’ve done in your past life to deserve a man like him.

that’s what you think as you hold the front door open for your boyfriend, who’s grunting as he tugs the christmas tree into your apartment. the lights in the apartment have yet to be switched on, and only the little cat lamp that jungkook had bought you a few years ago provides minimal light to guide the both of you through the door.

yet even the small lamp manages to make his face glow, his eyes meeting yours for a second when he realises your staring, again. instantly it’s like you’re falling in love all over again, and jungkook loves every moment of it. the way your pupils dilate the moment you look at him, or the way your eyes instantly light up even at the mere sight of him.

“where should the tree go?” he hums, halting in his steps as he pulls the tree to stand upright, huffing when the weight finally lifts off his hands.

“right next to the fireplace,” you point over to the empty spot where a plant use to sit, before you had overwatered it and caused its death. “right… here!”

jungkook carefully adjusts the tree, realising it might have been much larger than the both of you had expected it to be, as he notices how close it is to the ceiling.

“baby, are you sure this is the right size?” he laughs as you peer up to the top of the tree, bewilderment written all over your face as you try to recall if it was meant to be this big.

“i think we got the wrong size!” you whine, realising that since the top of the tree was so close to the ceiling, the star that you had planned to place at the top would definitely not fit.

“it’s okay, you know what they say, the bigger the better,” he snorts, sending you a wink as you gasp at his sudden innuendo, before sending a smack to his chest as you sigh.

“oh, you two are finally here!” your sister squeals when she opens the door, your niece running to peek at you and jungkook between her mum's legs as she waves at you shyly.

“yeah, sorry we got caught in a jam,” your boyfriend explains, passing the huge bag of gifts that he insisted the two of you needed to get for your niece, the small girl hiding behind her mum now curiously peering into the bag.

“come in, come in, ___ everyone’s excited to see him,” she snickers as you roll your eyes.

every year your family hosts a huge christmas celebration with friends and relatives, and one thing that doesn’t fail to happen is the guests gushing over jungkook.

“oh, jungkook is here!” your mum immediately calls out when she spots him supporting you as you remove your heels, your boyfriend chuckling when the aunties squeal a little louder than usual, him becoming the center of attention as he greets everyone.

“all good?” he turns to you, whispering slightly so that only you can hear his words, and you turn to him and meet his gaze.

“yeah, seems like you have fans here too,” you joke, poking his rib, jungkook laughing before he’s being called to answer more questions about, ‘what have you been up to lately’ and ‘you look more handsome”

as the conversations flow, you’re having a pretty good time catching up with your relatives, and chatting with newly made friends, but there was a sight that poked at your nerves ever so slightly.

a girl, looking about your age, which you had been sure was your sister’s college friend, batting her eyelashes at your boyfriend as she attempts to flirt with him.

“you’re so muscular, i’m sure you’d be able to lift me up so easily,” she giggles, reaching her hand out to slap over jungkook’s, but not before he quickly slips his hand off the table and onto your thigh, thumb stroking the exposed skin as he laughs nervously.

“so, how long have you guys been together anyways, like a year? ten months?” she smiles a little too widely, gesturing to you sitting next to him.

“we’ve been together for six years,” he proudly says, now shifting his arm around your shoulder as he shifts his gaze to you, noticing the slightly stiff and awkward look on your face.

the girl on the other hand tried to conceal her surprised expression, which she doesn’t do very well considering both you and jungkook noticed the shift in her demeanor.

“i’m gonna refill my drink,” you awkwardly shuffle out of your seat, grabbing your cup that couldn’t have been less than half full, quickly walking towards the table where the pitcher of water was.

“baby,” you hear jungkook walking up behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist as he shifts your body to face him.

“save me from her, please,” you hear him plead, now looking up to meet his eyes.

you almost burst out laughing at the desperate look of pure torture on his face.

“she’s being so obvious, when i’m literally sitting next to you,” you roll your eyes, pouring the water into your cup before jungkook takes the pitcher from your grasp.

“jealous?” he smirks at you, now passing you the full cup of water, “i’ll make sure she knows i have the fattest crush on you,”

you let jungkook drag you back to the table, not missing how the girl squints at your interlocked hands that disappear under the table when the both of you sit back down.

suddenly, a piece of meat is being brought to your mouth, as you widen your eyes in surprise, but you happily accept it as you open your mouth, letting jungkook feed you.

“good?” he asks you, making his voice loud enough for the girl sitting opposite to hear, and you nod, pressing a kiss to his lips, and staying there a little longer than needed, but just long enough to send her a message.

she seems to receive the message well when she scoffs and pokes at the potato on her plate.

“finally,” you huff, clicking in your seatbelt as jungkook gets in the driver’s seat and shuts his door.

the engine hums softly as you drive home, the warmth of the car cocooning you both.

jungkook, still riding the high of the night, reaches over to intertwine his fingers with yours, his thumb gently tracing patterns on your hand.

stopping at a red light, jungkook turns to you with a playful grin. “can you believe that girl thought we'd been together for only a year?” he chuckles,

“six years of putting up with you, and she thought it was just a year,” you playfully quip, earning a light nudge from him.

the familiar scent of your apartment greets you as you step through the door, and jungkook wastes no time pulling you into a tight embrace, his warmth enveloping you.

“i missed this," he murmurs against your hair, and you smile, reciprocating the hug.

“me too, maybe next time we should make out in front of her,” you giggle, making jungkook tut at your words.

you decide to unwind on the couch, the soft glow of christmas lights creating a cozy atmosphere. jungkook wraps a blanket around both of you, his arm draped casually over your shoulder. with the tv remote in hand, he navigates through the movie options with playful commentary.

“let’s watch the grinch,” you point at the tv when it lands on the movie, and he nods, clicking on it.

as the movie begins, jungkook’s affectionate nature takes center stage. he presses gentle kisses to the top of your head, his fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns on your arm.

“baby, focus on the movie,” you giggle when his breath fans against your ear, tickling the skin and making you squirm.

“shh, let me love you,”

with the room bathed in the soft glow of holiday lights and whispered conversations between scenes, jungkook’s fingers find their way through yours, a silent reassurance that he's there, grounding you in the moment.

you rest your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. his fingers gently play with your hair, and the room is filled with a sense of contentment. the outside world fading away as you lose yourselves in the movie and the warmth of each other's presence.

taglist!: @imlyfie @jksgirlhere @laylasbunbunny @borahaexoxo @jklvrs-world @jksoftii @yoongisgirl69

#jungkook fluff #jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook au #jungkook ff #jungkook smut #jungkook x oc #bts #jungkook drabble #jungkook angst #jungkook imagine #jungkook imagines #jungkook fanfic #jungkook scenarios #jungkook x you

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enticingmelanin · 3 months ago

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Royal Blood Ch. 1: Savior

Royal Blood Series {Ch. 1- Savior} || Aaron Pierre OC x Black Female OC

Starring Aaron Pierre as Stone Delverne and Jayme Lawson as Akira Monroe.

Series Masterlist & Cast

Rating: E for Erotic.

Word Count: 12k+

Warnings: TRIGGER WARNING! Mentions of sexual assault, domestic violence, blood, death, stalking, smut, and explicit language. NSFW. 18+ Only.

Summary: Men… they were nothing more than fleeting distractions—occasional moments of pleasure, if they even knew how to deliver. But beneath their touch, there was always a shadow of pain, fear, and loss in Akira’s life. One man, in particular, nearly brought her to the brink of death, but a twist of fate intervened. With a second chance at life, Akira took matters into her own hands, determined to bury her past and her demons. She was skilled at it, or so she thought. But when the past resurfaces with a vengeance, will she succumb to the pressure, or will fate step in to tip the scale once more?

The rhythmic clack of Akira Monroe’s red bottoms echoed through the lobby of her Manhattan high-rise, each step a sharp contrast to the late-night silence. The night had started off beautifully—champagne, laughter, a rooftop full of music and city lights—but it ended as abruptly as the storm that rolled in. Thunder cracked through the sky, sending guests scattering in sleek heels and expensive shoes as cold rain poured without warning.

She was still damp, her hair frizzing slightly despite the coat she’d thrown over her head. She promised her friends she would partake in a night of fun again another time. Her mind, always overthinking, had already returned to work. Monday’s market open was only a few days away and her mind ticked with numbers. Life as a day trader was risky but rewarding. Numbers had always come easily to her.

At her door, she slipped the key in and paused. A twinge—small, subtle—curled in her stomach. Something was off. Not loud or obvious. Just… off.

The lock clicked as she turned the key. She pushed the door open and stepped into the darkness of her entryway.

Before she could reach for the light switch, her chest tightened with alarm. A silhouette sat calmly in the corner of her living room, almost absorbed into the darkness. Her breath hitched—not from need, but instinct—as her keys and clutch slipped from her hand and hit the floor with a soft thud.

Then came a voice. Deep. Calm. Unmistakably Caribbean. Each syllable poured like warm molasses and lava.

“Shhh… Relax. Relax. I’m not here to hurt you. Lock the door, now.”

Akira hesitated, every muscle on edge. But something about the voice, so steady and calm, cut through the panic.

Her hand reached back, locking the door behind her. With the flick of a switch light flooded the space a moment later.

There he was.

He sat with the patience of a man who had nothing to fear. His bronze-caramel skin gleamed subtly beneath the apartment’s warm lighting. Sharp cheekbones framed a face sculpted with timeless precision, and a neatly trimmed beard added to the air of danger that clung to him. His hair is dark and cropped close, but curly. His full lips curled ever so slightly at the corners, as though he knew secrets the world had forgotten. But it was his eyes— light, stormy, and unnervingly clear —that pinned her where she stood.

He wore a sharp, tailored black suit beneath a long overcoat that draped from his broad shoulders like a river of ink. Every line of him was precise. Composed. He looked like he belonged in another century... or another world entirely. He appeared youthful, but his presence was heavy with time and power.

Akira didn’t speak. She didn’t move a fraction.

“Sit,” he said gently, gesturing to her plush gray couch across from him. “Please.”

She moved slowly, tension in every step, stopping just before the edge of the cushion.

She sat, but her eyes never left him.

What the fuck...

Her voice was quiet, controlled. “You’re not human,” she said as she searched the air for the sound of a heartbeat.

The frighteningly handsome man tilted his head, a faint, knowing smile tugging at his lips.

“Not anymore.” He paused. “Neither are you,” he said, matter-of-fact.

Akira’s body stiffened, spine locking in place like a steel pole. Her breath caught in her chest as a sudden surge of heat rushed through her, not from fear—but from something far more primal, protective, and lethal. Her light brown eyes, usually warm with flickers of gold and kindness, ignited in a blaze of bloody crimson, glowing with fury. Her lips parted, exposing her elongated, sharp canines—and for a breathless moment, the only sound in the room was the electric silence of instincts awakening.

But the man didn’t move. He didn’t flinch, didn’t falter, didn’t so much as blink. He simply watched her—his own irises glowing with that same blood-red fire, his features shifting subtly into something no longer bound by human softness. His cheekbones sharpened like sculpted clay. His presence grew until the walls of her apartment felt smaller, swallowed by the gravity of him. Ancient power radiated from him, slow and steady like a beating drum.

Akira’s jaw clenched. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, sharp stiletto nails pressing at her palms. She didn’t understand what he was, if he was like her or something else entirely. But she knew what he wasn’t—he wasn’t human. Not anymore.

And then it hit her like a second wave.

Not anymore... Neither are you...

The words fell in her mind like a whisper from someplace familiar but long forgotten.

How would he know that...

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

Stone tilted his head slightly, his tone velvet-smooth and weighted with something inevitable.

“Saving you.”

Akira stared at him, unmoving. “From what?”

“The FBI,” he said plainly, as if he knew what was to come. “They’re preparing to raid your apartment as we speak. They’ve had their eyes on you for years… but now they’re acting.”

Her brow furrowed, confusion and disbelief warring on her face. “That can't be...”

Stone uncrossed his legs and leaned forward, the light from the hallway catching the outline of his frame.

“Your ex-fiancé… and your former boss. Both found within the same stretch of land. You were careful. Smart. You buried them deep in a stretch of Pine Barrens out in Jersey—far from surveillance, far from curiosity. But five years later, that land’s being gutted for development. Subdivisions. A shiny new neighborhood for people with golden retrievers and baby strollers. The machines dug deep… and found bones.”

Akira’s heart dropped.

“No…” she whispered, her voice thinner than breath.

“Teeth. Rib fragments. Bits of fabric. Dental records told the rest of the story. You’re back on their radar.”

Her legs went stiff, her mind trying to sprint in a dozen directions, but her body refused to follow.

She forced the words out, her voice breaking slightly. “Why would you care? Who are you?”

He looked at her then—into the depths of her—with eyes that saw more than who she presented to be now.

“Think,” he murmured. “You remember me.”

She blinked. Her lips parted, but no words came. Yet something inside her shifted—like a long-closed door slowly creaking open. His eyes. That voice. That impossible calm.

And suddenly...

She was back in her abusive relationship five years ago.

She was twenty-seven, living with Donte, a man whose charm had long since dissolved into cruelty. It had started with slaps masked as jokes, possessiveness parading as love, manipulation draped in diamond promises. But that night… that night he stopped pretending.

He came home drunk... again. The smell of liquor thick on his breath, his eyes already glassy and mean. They argued. Again. But this time it escalated into something darker, something that slipped past the edges of even her worst fears. She was preparing t leave, but it seems it was too late.

“How dare you ignore my calls,” he slurred, grabbing her arm, pulling her close enough for her to smell the sourness on his breath. “You forget who takes care of you?”

“I don’t need you,” she snapped, yanking her arm free.

His hand struck her cheek hard enough to split her lip.

She staggered back, dazed, the pain spreading hot across her face. But she didn’t cry. Not yet.

Then he reached for her again—rough, desperate, drunk with power and rage—and this time it wasn’t to hit her. He tried to shove her toward the couch, muttering about “making her remember who she belonged to.” She fought, screamed, kicked, scratched, but he overpowered her, dragging her back by her hair.

His hands fumbled at the waist of her jeans.

“Don’t! Stop, D! Please!” she screamed.

He didn’t.

Terror exploded in her chest. She twisted, landed a punch to his throat, enough to make him choke and stumble. She bolted toward the front door and he followed. Her foot caught on the rumpled rug. She fell backward, slamming her head into the sharp corner of the glass coffee table.

Pain. Cracking. Then...nothing.

She lay there, bleeding out, her skull fractured, the room spinning sideways. Her breaths grew shallower, each one harder to find. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream anymore. Her light brown eyes stared up at the ceiling, blinking through the tears and blood clouding her vision.

Donte stood above her, horror etched into his face.

“Baby? Baby, I didn’t mean—” he muttered. He backed away, pacing, cursing. “I didn’t mean—shit!”

He fled. Left her bleeding out on the floor.

The air grew cold. The edges of the room faded.

And then—

A figure immerged. Eyes glowing red in the dim light.

He knelt beside her, his face both terrible and beautiful, foreign and yet familiar. His hand brushed against her cheek, his voice low and mythic, speaking words in a language her soul understood even if her ears did not.

His mouth hovered over her neck.

And then—pain—quick, electric, and piercing.

It felt like every fiber of her being was lit on fire.

Her last breath was not a gasp, but a surrender.

She had died and been born again.

Changed...

Akira’s back pressed against her couch, hands over her mouth, trembling. Tears welled in her eyes—thick, hot, red with old blood and newly awakened memory. They slipped silently down her cheeks, one after another, staining the edges of her face with grief.

And then he was there.

He moved so quickly the air barely shifted, but he was suddenly kneeling before her, his large, cool hands cradling her face. His thumbs brushed away her tears with tenderness, as though afraid she might break.

She couldn’t stop crying. The sobs came from someplace deeper than pain. A place only he could reach.

“You…” she whimpered, voice small and shaking. “It was you…”

He nodded, his forehead resting gently against hers.

“Yes. And I’m here to save you again.”

Her voice cracked open, hollow and trembling.

“But you left me. I was confused. Broken… alone.”

His hands shifted, brushing her hair away from her damp face, and his gaze softened.

“I thought it was best,” he said. “I didn’t want to take anything more from you. I didn’t want to be another man who left you scarred. I wanted you to choose justice on your own terms. And you did. You survived. You thrived.”

He looked at her, something dark and proud burning behind his eyes.

“But outside forces… they’ve caught up.”

Her voice dropped, barely above a whisper.

“So… you’ve been watching me?”

A faint smile touched his lips.

“Always. Even when your boss tried to cross the line… I was there. Had you not beaten me to it, I would’ve torn him apart, piece by piece.” His smile turned wicked, tinged with something feral. “You’ve always had a gift for vengeance, Akira Monroe.”

And though her tears hadn’t stopped, something fierce lit behind them. He had saved her once. And now, when the world threatened to take everything again... he was back.

Had her heart still pumped, Akira was certain it would’ve swelled against her ribs with a strange, overpowering warmth—a warmth she didn’t expect to feel for someone so terrifying, so mysterious, so... surreal. Yet somehow, in his presence, the fear dulled.

She could still feel the imprint of his hands on her face. The truth in his voice lingered, coiling through her like a spell.

Her gaze searched his with a quiet intensity. “But you still haven’t told me who you are.”

The corners of his mouth lifted—not quite a smile, not quite a smirk.

“My name is Stone Delverne,” he said, voice dipped in gravel and silk. “Some know me as king. Others once knew me as vengeance.”

Akira’s brows rose slowly. “So… you’re some ancient vampire king?”

“Yes,” he said simply, as though it was no more strange than calling himself a man.

A beat of silence passed, heavy with what that meant.

She shifted her weight, eyes still locked to his. “But how’d you find me to begin with?”

That smile grew a fraction deeper.

“We have eternity to get to know one another,” he said gently. “I’ll answer every question your mind can conjure, but I can hear them coming. They’re seconds away from reaching this floor.”

His voice sharpened with urgency. “We have to go.”

Akira’s body tensed. The gravity of his words crashing down as everything around her—the lights, the window, the chilled air on her skin—suddenly felt like a world she no longer belonged to.

“What about my things?” she asked, startled by how quickly her life was unraveling. “Where are we even going?”

Stone turned toward the window, his form outlined by the city’s golden haze.

“I’ll send my people to retrieve anything you desire,” he promised, casting her a reassuring glance. “Where we’re going, you will want for nothing. But I’ll explain once we’re safe.”

He stepped toward her and took her hand in his. His fingers—long, strong, elegant—seemed both a promise and a challenge.

“Do you know how to surge?”

Akira blinked in confusion. ��What?”

A low, rich chuckle spilled from his lips, warm enough to make her chest tighten.

“I have much to teach you,” he murmured as he scooped her into his arms with startling ease. “Hold on to me. I’m going to get us out of here.”

She barely had time to react before instinct took over. Her arms looped tightly around his neck. Her black mini dress slid up her thighs as her legs clutched his waist for balance, her chest clenching at the firm strength of his body pressed against hers. He went to the entryway, gathering her clutch in his hand while keeping her balanced in his arms. He turns off her phone, making sure it can’t possibly ping any towers.

Then—

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“AKIRA MONROE! FBI! OPEN THE DOOR!”

The voice outside was sharp, commanding. Boots shuffled on the other side of the wall.

And in a single, fluid motion, Stone turned, went to her balcony, and leapt.

They fell.

Akira stifled a cry as the world dipped and tilted, but before she could process it, he landed with the elegance of a dove—knees bent, shoes silent against the asphalt below. Then they soared faster than thought.

The city around them blurred. Lights melted into streaks. Time fractured into flashes. Akira clung to him, stunned, exhilarated, terrified and thrilled as they weaved between buildings, surged through alleyways, past stunned pigeons and flickering neon signs. No one saw them. Not truly. To human eyes, they were nothing more than a breeze and a shadow.

All the while, she stared at his face. Unmoving. Focused. Handsome. Otherworldly.

They raced north. The chaos of Manhattan faded into the whisper of suburbs, into the hush of rural backroads, and finally... into trees.

The Adirondack Mountains rose like sleeping giants, cloaked in the darkness of night. The forest closed around them—tall, proud evergreens with thick trunks, branches whispering secrets only the wild knew. The air changed. Sharpened. Damp ground and moss filled her nose. Moonlight filtered through the trees, making patterns across Stone’s skin as he finally slowed to a stop.

Then silence.

A silence so complete it rang in her ears.

He set her down gently in a thick bed of pine needles, her body running against his sculpted torso. The forest dim and haunting around them, illuminated only by strands of moonlight. Leaves rustled overhead.

Stone stepped forward, lips parting as he spoke words she didn’t recognize—low, ancient, and powerful. The sound curled in the air like smoke. It wasn’t French, not exactly… something like Creole, only older. Something deeper.

The last word left his tongue like a kiss to the wind.

And then—

With a sudden shimmer, space cracked open before her eyes, revealing something that should not have existed. Akira took a step back, voice caught in her throat.

Stone turned to her, his silhouette sharp against the moonlight.

“Welcome to your new life,” he said, extending his hand once more.

Akira blinked hard, her hand clutching Stone’s once again as a mysterious aircraft—no, vessel—came into full view. Sleek, black, with a sheen that shimmered like obsidian under the forest moonlight, it didn't play by human design. It had no seams, no visible engines, only a gleaming door that seemed to anticipate their arrival, opening slowly before them.

She stepped forward slowly, looking from the smooth landing legs to the warm amber light glowing from within. “What the fuck is this thing?” she muttered, disbelief dripping from every word.

Stone snickered, the sound low and gravelly, as he guided her up the short ramp. “This,” he said smoothly, “is our way home.”

Her brows scrunched and her eyes widened, scanning every inch of the luxurious interior as her heels clicked against the black marble floor. “And where is home exactly?” she asked, her voice still laced with doubt and wonder.

“You’ll see, love. Trust me, it will be worth the wait.”

Inside, the aircraft was bathed in a soft amber glow that accented the warm caramel leather seats, sleek black marble table, and bronze accents lining the walls and ceiling. The forest shown through the panoramic windows at the front, stars sparkling across the night sky. Akira slid onto one of the cozy seats, which hugged her frame like it had been made for her.

Stone stepped forward and spoke to the pilot seated in the cockpit, a lean young man with umber skin, short platinum locs tied back neatly, and a cool, relaxed energy about him.

“Lyle,” Stone called, “we’re set.”

The pilot turned his head slightly, revealing crimson-tinted eyes behind gold-framed glasses. “Aye, we’ll be off in five. Winds are perfect tonight.” He paused, eyes flicking to Akira with a smirk. “So this is the infamous Akira? Pleasure to meet you. The king here can’t stop talking about you.”

Akira raised a brow and slowly turned her head to Stone, suspicion playing on her face.

Stone let out a dry chuckle. “You’re two seconds from being out of a job.”

Lyle put his hands up in surrender, laughing. “My bad, boss.”

Stone took the seat beside her, long legs stretched out, his coat folding around him like a cloak. The aircraft hummed softly, and within seconds, they began to ascend smoothly into the starry sky. The forest and mountains blurred beneath them as they slipped past the atmosphere with the grace of a bird.

Akira’s eyes wandered—along the smooth leather, the ambient strip lighting glowing beneath her heels.

She didn’t breathe—not because she was holding it in shock or awe, but because she simply didn’t need to. None of them did. Vampires had evolved beyond the need for oxygen, and any hint of inhalation or exhalation was for the comfort of mortals and expression. A performance. A lingering habit of humanity meant to soothe the humans around them. Even now, as she sat beside Stone in utter silence, not a single rise or fall of her chest gave her away.

Stone tilted his head, watching her quietly. He could feel the racing storm of thoughts unfolding inside her like dark ribbon, stretching across her mind.

“I know you have many questions,” he said gently, voice velvet over steel. “Understandably so. I just want you to absorb the moment. I know all of this is overwhelming.”

Akira didn’t speak. She simply nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the impossible vessel soaring soundlessly through the clouds, as her world unraveled and reshaped itself all at once.

As they flew farther from the life she used to know, the skyline of Manhattan becoming a glittering memory beneath them, something in Akira's chest ached—tight and unfamiliar, like an echo of a past heartbeat. Her gaze drifted to the sleek glass windows curving around them, watching the city lights stretch into nothingness.

Her throat tightened. That was the thing about being what she was now—vampire or not, pain didn’t vanish with the mortality. It lived in the bones, the memory, the blood. If anything, immortality made it harder to outrun.

She blinked slowly, lashes trembling as crimson tears welled and traced silent lines down her flawless skin. Her eyes didn’t burn, but her soul did.

“I fought,” she whispered, her voice barely above the soft hum of the aircraft. “So damn hard. I fought to survive, to be free, to never be a victim again. And still... I’m running.”

Stone, who had been quietly watching her from his seat beside her, turned his body slightly to face her more fully. His expression was unreadable at first—serious, calm—but as her words sank in, his gaze softened, lips parting to speak before thinking better of it. Instead, he let her keep going.

“I buried them,” she continued, her voice trembling but steady. “Buried my past—literally. I covered my tracks. I endured, I healed—or I thought I did. I built a life. I made myself powerful in my own way. And now all of it’s gone in one night.”

She ran her fingers over her thighs, smoothing down the fabric of her dress that had crept up during their flight. “It’s like no matter what I do… I’m still that scared girl trying to claw her way out.”

Stone exhaled softly out of habit. A gesture for her sake, a mirror of human empathy. He reached for her hand gently, his fingers cool and steady.

“You didn’t fail,” he said, voice like velvet with an edge of iron. “Akira… you endured the kind of pain that should have broken you in half. And not only did you survive, you transformed. You took back your story.”

She looked at him, her eyes filled with centuries’ worth of questions, though she had only lived this second life for a fraction of the time. “Then why do I still feel like I’m falling apart?”

He let the silence stretch before answering.

“Because even steel bends under pressure. Even the strongest need to fall before they rise. And rise, you will.”

She didn’t pull her hand away, even when the blood tears dripped onto her lap. He didn’t flinch. Instead, he reached up and brushed one away with his thumb.

“This weight,” he said, “this guilt, this pain—it was never meant to be yours forever. You held it long enough. Let me carry some of it.”

Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, she nodded slowly, pressing her lips together to stop the sob from escaping her throat. Stone leaned in, his forehead resting gently against hers, and for the first time since that night five years ago, the storm inside her began to calm.

Their flight continued in silence, but this time, it wasn’t the silence of fear.

It was the silence of something new beginning.

The craft moved swiftly and effortlessly through the sky, humming with a low, almost musical frequency that seemed to hum through Akira’s bones. Whatever this vessel was made of, it wasn't of this world—or at least not of the modern human one. It danced between clouds, past the hush of commercial airways and satellites, cloaked in something archaic and unseen.

They soared over the Atlantic Ocean now, the stars shimmering faintly above them, the dark expanse of water rippling. Time felt suspended, warped even, until Lyle’s voice came through the cabin with an easy, almost lazy drawl.

“We’re here,” he said, a grin in his voice. “Welcome home.”

Akira’s brows furrowed. She leaned toward the window, peering down and around, searching. All she could see was water—endless, undisturbed ocean as far as the eye could see. “What do you mean, ‘here’?” she asked, voice skeptical, almost sharp. “There’s nothing here but sea.”

Stone didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he turned his head and watched her, eyes shining faintly crimson in the golden glow of the aircraft’s ambient lighting. That slow, knowing smirk of his curved across his mouth, as if he were savoring this moment. Like he had waited a very long time to show her something secret and exclusive.

“Patience, love,” he murmured.

Akira turned her gaze back to the sea, chest tightening, instinct rising even in her immortal stillness. Her throat tightened as the sea below began to shift.

She sat upright, eyes wide now, glued to the scene before her.

A massive square—so perfect, so exact it didn’t seem natural—opened silently in the ocean’s surface like a door parting through liquid velvet. The water itself rolled away as if obeying command, revealing not a void, not a trench, but light. Glowing lines traced ancient runes across the revealed entryway, golden and pulsing, like veins carrying energy through the earth itself.

Beneath the opening, a sprawling city glittered in impossible beauty. Towers carved from black stone and glinting crystal pierced upward. Bridges arched high over flowing rivers, and open courtyards sparkled with violet trees under a false, twilight sky. The architecture was unlike anything she'd seen before—otherworldly, regal, eternal.

Akira’s lips parted in stunned silence, her chest rising.

“Welcome to Kutha’Mara,” Stone said, his voice laced with pride, reverence, and love. “The City of Second Breath. My kingdom.”

She turned to him slowly, her voice barely a whisper. “It’s beautiful.”

Stone's expression softened, the smirk fading into something gentler. “It is sanctuary. A place where those like us can exist beyond the laws of men and monsters. A haven for those reborn… and those who still carry their scars.”

Akira sat back in awe as the aircraft began its descent, the entryway sealing silently behind them like the sea had never parted.

Kutha’Mara awaited.

The aircraft dipped beneath the ocean’s surface, yet the transition was seamless—no rush of water, no pressure shift. It was like they had passed through a veil, a secret layer of reality tucked beneath the chaos of the human world.

Inside, the craft glided smoothly between the sprawling towers and glowing pathways of Kutha’Mara. Akira pressed her palm to the window, eyes wide as they flew past an immense temple of obsidian wrapped in silver lining. Below, people moved along illuminated paths, some pausing to look up as though sensing the ship’s arrival.

She turned toward Stone, her voice hushed, awed. “How is this even possible?”

Stone’s gaze lingered out the window, as if he were seeing the city through her wonder-struck eyes. “The city’s bones are older than time itself,” he said softly. “But the sanctuary? That part I built for us. For those the world tried to erase. Those who were hunted. Forgotten.”

Akira studied him—his sharp profile lit by soft amber light, the tension in his jaw when he spoke of the broken. He hadn’t simply endured immortality; he had shaped it into something defiant and sacred.

“You built all this?” she asked.

He nodded once. “With others. But yes. It was born from the promise I made to my mother, Nyanda.”

Akira leaned back, absorbing the cabin’s warmth. “I don’t know how to feel,” she murmured. “Part of me wants to cry. Part of me doesn’t even believe any of this is real. And part of me…”

Stone looked at her now, quietly waiting.

“…part of me feels like I’ve already been here before. Like I knew you before tonight.”

He inclined his head. “You did. In a way. When I saved you, I gave you more than immortality. I gave you a part of me. The kind that marks and binds.”

The aircraft banked slightly, revealing a waterfall of violet light cascading down from the side of a crystalline spire. Akira watched it glimmer, but her thoughts stayed wrapped around his words.

“Why me?” she asked, voice low. “Why did you choose me?”

Stone didn’t answer right away. He reached over, brushing a stray curl from her face, his fingers lingering at her temple. His touch carried no chill—only certainty and depth.

“Because when I found you—broken, bloodied, still fighting even as your life slipped—I saw a reflection,” he said. “And because your pain called to mine.”

Akira’s body stilled from something deeper than fear or awe. She wasn’t sure what name to give it, but it was a positive feeling.

They sat in silence, the space between them thick with what hadn’t yet been said. Two souls who had died, who had risen, and finally shared space.

As the vessel slowed over a wide obsidian platform, the glow of Kutha’Mara surrounded them like twilight. From this height, she could see the entire city.

Gleaming towers of onyx and midnight blue rose like sculptures into the sky, their balconies edged with gold and draped in flowering vines. The soft hum of magic pulsed through the cobblestone streets below, lit by warm, golden lamps that flickered like fireflies. Domed halls of crystal and carved iron shimmered beneath the full moon.

Manicured gardens burst with color—lavender, crimson, pink, deep jade. The pathways wound seamlessly through glowing parks, quiet alcoves, and grand plazas where statues told history to those who listened. Everything moved with purpose, but nothing rushed. This city was not built for survival.

It was built for living.

Akira whispered, “I think I want to know everything.”

Stone’s gaze locked with hers. “You will, love. In time. Tonight is only the beginning.”

The craft descended in a gentle arc, gliding over the spired skyline of Kutha’Mara before veering toward the northern cliffs. There, perched on a rise that overlooked the entire city, stood Stone’s home.

Akira leaned forward, eyes catching the dark silhouette of the estate against the moonlit clouds. It was vast and regal, carved in black stone that gleamed under the ambient light of the city below. Every window glowed warm gold, as if the house itself pulsed with life. Twin waterfalls flanked the lower gardens, feeding into pools that mirrored the stars. Steps climbed toward grand double doors framed by arches, ivy clinging to the columns.

The aircraft settled on a circular platform nearby, soundless in its descent. When the hatch hissed open, a cool breeze met them, tinged with the faint scent of wet stone and jasmine.

Akira stepped out first, her red-bottom black stilettos clicking against the polished stone path. She paused, taking it all in—the way the house towered over the hillside like a cathedral of shadows and light. Behind her, Stone emerged without a word, his black overcoat tailored and commanding, catching the breeze. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. He stood beside her as the wind played with her curls and the silence folded gently around them.

From here, the city below shimmered like a dream—its lantern-lit streets winding like golden veins through the dark.

“This is your home?” Akira asked, her voice hushed in awe as she took in the estate’s beauty.

“Yes,” Stone replied, his gaze not on the house but on her. “And now it’s your home, too. That is, if you accept. Or I can always arrange for you your own place in the city.”

Akira turned to him, touched by the offer and the softness in his tone. A smile curved her lips. “This is more than enough, Stone… I don’t want distance between us again.”

His expression shifted, touched by her words. He reached out, took her hand in his, and brought it to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to the back of it.

“Neither do I,” he murmured. “Come on, there’s some people I want you to meet… and then I’ll give you a tour.”

They walked up the wide marble steps side by side. As they reached the top landing, the grand double doors swung open in perfect synchrony, held by two attendants dressed in deep charcoal uniforms with subtle silver embroidery.

Warm golden light spilled from the entryway, casting a soft glow across the polished floors and up the vast staircase. The foyer was breathtaking—expansive yet elegant, with pristine white columns, gleaming marble floors, and a chandelier like starlight hanging above. Black carpet ran the length of the stairs, flanked by wrought-iron railings and stone urns at their base.

Stone gave a small nod to the staff, his voice calm but full of quiet regard. “Thank you.”

They bowed with a kind of reverence that spoke to more than just duty—it was loyalty. Akira could hear the thrum of heartbeats and the smell of blood... Some of them were human.

Interesting...

“This,” he said, turning to Akira as their footsteps echoed softly in the foyer, “is Akira Monroe.”

A few of the staff smiled, their eyes kind as they acknowledged her.

“She is under my protection, and now, yours. Treat her as you would treat me.”

The room seemed to shift subtly at his words, as though the space itself recognized her arrival. A gentle warmth settled in Akira’s chest at his words—at the way he anchored her, claimed her without confinement.

One of the attendants stepped forward, a woman of Asian descent with silver-streaked hair and knowing eyes. “Welcome, Akira,” she said softly. “I’m Aiko, the estate manager. If there’s anything you need, just let me know. It’s an honor to have you here.”

Akira offered a quiet smile, still in awe of it all. “Thank you. It’s nice t meet you, too. It’s… more than I imagined.”

Stone glanced at her, that ever-present restraint in his expression softening once more. He led her deeper into the heart of the house, their footsteps quiet against the gleaming marble as the double doors closed behind them. The golden chandelier above faded into the distance as they turned down a softly lit corridor, the air rich with the scent of white sandalwood and something darker—older.

A pair of grand doors opened ahead, and Akira felt a shift in energy, like something alert had stirred.

In the spacious lounge that opened before them, four figures turned from quiet conversation. Each exuded their own commanding presence, and yet there was a comfortable ease between them—like family forged in fire.

“Akira,” Stone said, his voice smooth but proud, “these are my people.”

The first to step forward was Nathaniel—Nate—broad-shouldered and alert, with warm brown skin and a trimmed beard that framed a smile both charming and protective. His eyes flicked over Akira, not in suspicion, but in silent assessment. Like a soldier sizing up someone worth protecting.

“Welcome,” Nate said, his voice low and grounded, offering her his hand. “Any friend of Stone’s is already in my circle. I’m head of security around here… which means if you need anything, I’m the guy.”

As she took his hand, he tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing with faint amusement. “Ah, Akira...” he repeated thoughtfully. “That’s real close to Akasha… the Queen Mother.”

Akira raised a curious brow. “Queen Mother?”

Nate grinned, his sharp teeth glistening. “Old vampire lore. Powerful, revered, dangerous when she had to be. Just sayin’, might be a name to live up to.”

She chuckled lightly, and Nate winked before stepping aside, letting the others have their turn.

Next was Claire—lithe and poised, with expressive dark brows and a quiet fire behind her eyes. She tucked a piece of wavy brunette hair behind one ear, stepping forward in tailored black.

“Hi, I’m Claire,” she said with a warm smile. “I keep this place from flipping upside down. Also, I’m your new go-to if you want someone to shop with, or rant to when the boys get too unbearable.”

Akira laughed, the tension in her shoulders easing. “I might take you up on both.”

Then came Manuel—lean and angular, with a magnetic energy that drew you in. He grinned as he walked up, a bit of mischief dancing in his eyes.

“Manuel,” he said, giving a half-bow that somehow still felt suave. “Resident tech and mischief-maker. If anything breaks, it’s probably my fault—but I’ll fix it better than before.”

“And last but never least,” Stone said, turning as the final figure stepped closer.

"Tajé. "

Statuesque, with dark, smooth skin that glowed under the soft lighting, and eyes like molten gold. Her locs were pulled back in an elegant knot, and her entire presence was commanding.

“It’s good to finally meet you,” she said, voice like velvet and steel. “Stone speaks highly of you.”

Akira found herself stunned by the woman’s grace but managed a genuine smile. “You all live here?”

Tajé nodded. “We have places in the city, but Stone lets us come and go as we please... until we annoy him.”

They exchanged a few more warm words before Stone placed a hand lightly at the small of Akira’s back. “Come,” he said, “let me show you the rest.”

The tour carried them through rooms bathed in whites, creams, and soft golds—always accented with elegant blacks. It was a balance of power and peace, much like Stone himself.

First was the kitchen. It was a masterpiece of dark elegance—floor-to-ceiling black cabinetry accented with gold, decorated with ornate carvings and a grand chandelier that glittered beneath a vaulted ceiling. Marble countertops gleamed under the moonlight pouring through towering arched windows and glass doors that opened to a courtyard.

Then he led her past an indoor pool with still, clear water that shimmered with underlit glass tiles, and then beyond to the outdoor infinity pool carved into the side of the cliff, overlooking the twinkle of the city.

The gym was unlike anything Akira had seen—equipment forged from reinforced steel, heavy columns for climbing, and gravity-defying platforms that tested vampiric speed and strength.

A private movie theater followed, with velvet seating and walls that absorbed every sound. Then a game room—sleek, polished, with an old billiards table, arcade games, and high-tech simulators that buzzed quietly in the corners.

He showed her the study next—lined with towering shelves of ancient tomes and newer novels, golden sconces casting a warm glow on polished blackwood desks.

“Reading is the one vice I’ll never grow out of,” Stone said quietly as she ran her fingers over a leather-bound spine.

Finally, they passed guest rooms—each uniquely styled, yet united by the mansion’s color scheme. When they reached a particular door, he paused.

“This one’s yours, if you want it,” he said.

Akira turned to him. “And yours?”

“End of the hall,” he said. “Close enough, if you ever need me.”

Stone opened the door with a gentle push, stepping aside so Akira could take it all in.

Her bedroom was elegance and drama mixed—soft grays, black, and white, white orchids blooming from crystal vases, and a bed fit for royalty. The chandelier above glimmered with a thousand tiny lights, reflecting on the molding that lined the ceiling like lace. Thick, plush carpet cushioned her steps and large windows drew the light in. Soft silver shadows casted across the room as evening settled.

Akira let out a soft breath. “Wow... this is—beautiful.”

Stone’s lips curled, pleased by her reaction. “Come,” he said gently, guiding her to the open doors of the ensuite bathroom.

If her bedroom was an invitation, the bathroom was a seduction. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the city, moonlight bathing the black and white marble in a dreamy glow. The large tub sat beneath the arched windows, filled with warm milk and scattered with rose petals, their delicate scent mixing with honey and vanilla. Candles flickered from every ledge and corner, casting a golden shimmer across the polished floor and glass shower.

She turned to him, eyes wide, chest stirring with something she didn’t want to name just yet. “You did this?”

He nodded once, his expression soft. “I thought you could use something comforting.”

Without hesitation, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. It was a quick, instinctual motion—but sincere. Her cheek pressed to his chest. Caught off guard, Stone froze for just a beat before his arms came around her, protective and solid. He pressed a kiss to her head.

After a quiet moment, he eased back, brushing his thumb along her shoulder. “I’m going to check in with everyone downstairs—make a few calls. Take your time. Enjoy this. And if you feel like exploring more… the house is yours.”

She watched him go, closing the door gently behind him. Alone now, Akira let the silence wash over her. She undressed slowly, leaving her clothes folded on a nearby bench, and sank into the waiting bath. The warmth enveloped her instantly. She exhaled deeply, letting the tension in her shoulders dissolve. The scent in the air—soft, sweet, sensual—wrapped around her like a second skin.

Her mind wandered as she soaked. So much had changed in so little time.

Would she ever see her friends again? Would she have to build a new life from scratch? She didn’t feel unsafe. But the unknown stretched out before her like the dark Atlantic they'd flown over.

She thought of Stone. His presence, his calm, the way he looked at her like he already knew her. She felt drawn to him, magnetized, but she didn’t know why. Not yet. She needed to know more bout him and this place.

Rising from the tub, she dried off slowly. The room had grown even softer in tone, the moonlight more prominent, dancing against the milk on her skin. When she stepped into the bedroom again, she paused. A black silk nightgown and matching panties were laid neatly across the bed.

She smiled. It was unexpected but thoughtful.

She slipped them on—the silk gliding across her skin—then padded barefoot into the hallway. Most of the lights were off now, the mansion quiet and still, except for the subtle glow of foyer sconces downstairs. Shadows stretched long across the wood floors as she made her way to the study.

When she stepped inside, it was like entering another world.

Cathedral ceilings arched above her, painted like the night sky. Shelves of books reached two stories high, kissed by warm, golden lamplight. The room breathed history, magic, and mystery. She let her fingers drift along the spines of old and new books and the curves of the ornate furniture.

Then—something caught her eye. A single document encased in glass, mounted elegantly on the wall like a relic.

She stepped closer.

It was handwritten. Dark ink on parchment, elegant but unpretentious. It didn’t announce itself with a title—only a date that had long since faded into the page.

She leaned in, eyes scanning the delicate strokes, and began to read.

They say I was the first of my kind, but that's untrue. There were vampires before me. Cruel ones. Ravenous. Blood-crazed kings who saw mortals as cattle, slaves, sport. I was not the first. But I was the first to ask, why must it be this way? I was born Stone Delverne, son of Nyanda—a healer whose spirit was stronger than any god I’ve met since. In Sierra Leone, in a village carved between rivers and stars, she raised me to respect life. To protect the broken. To feed the hungry. To speak only when silence failed. But even the strongest mothers fall ill. Nyanda withered before my eyes. Her breath grew shallow. Her skin, once warm as morning soil, turned cold. The sickness laughed at my prayers. I watched her life slip through my fingers—and I was helpless. Until I wasn’t. The spirits called to me on the night the moon bled. I followed their voice to the cliffs above Bureh Beach, where no man returned the same. There, cloaked in the scent of rain and blood, she came to me. Asayo—the silent loa, mistress of dusk, watcher of the veil. She said nothing, but I understood. Your mother will live, she promised, not in words, but in thunder. But you will not. I gave her my name. My life. My soul. She marked me with her darkness... and gave me one gift in return. The Sun. While the others of my kind hide in shadow, I walk beneath the sky. But there was a price. As long as you carry this light, Asayo warned, you will walk alone. No love will last, unless they too can face the sun. And so I have lived… centuries without a lasting love. My mother, Nyanda, awoke the next morning. Whole. Alive. But when she looked at me, her eyes filled with fear. “You are not my son,” she whispered. And perhaps she was right. I did not age. I did not hunger for food or water. Only blood. But not just any blood. I hunted the wicked. The slavers. The killers. The defilers. I took from those who took too much. And when I found the broken—the hunted, the harmed—I gave them a choice. Death… or eternity. In time, I built a city for them. Kutha’Mara. The City of Second Breath. Hidden deep in a wound of the earth no map dares name. There, the lost find shelter. The hunted become hunters. And I sit upon a throne made of silence and bone. They call me merciful. But mercy is not weakness. Mercy is a blade sharper than vengeance. I am Stone Delverne. Vampire King. Chosen of Asayo. Walker in the Sun. I did not choose this throne. But I was forged for it in blood and love. And somewhere out there beneath the same sun that kisses my skin… She waits for me. The one whose soul does not burn in daylight. The one who will make me whole again.

Akira’s fingers lingered on the edge of the frame, frozen. She didn’t blink.

Her eyes traced the last lines again. She waits for me… The one whose soul does not burn in daylight. She swallowed, her throat tight. Not from sadness—but from admiration. He had given everything for his mother. His name. His life. His soul. There was no glory in it—only grief and devotion. A kind of love that transcended human understanding.

She imagined his hands, once calloused from tending to crops or carrying water for Nyanda. She imagined his silence—not stoic, but sacred. And she wondered what it had cost him… to lose her like that. To be seen and not recognized. To walk centuries alone, just figuring things out. And still, he chose to protect. To build. To offer mercy when the world only gave him pain.

The sound was so soft, she barely heard it. Just the whisper of a door. She turned—startled but composed.

Stone stood in the doorway, framed by the soft amber glow spilling from the hall behind him. He hadn’t said a word, but she could feel the change in the air. That dense, quiet gravity he carried wherever he went. His eyes met hers, then flicked to the glass-encased document. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

“You found it,” he said simply.

Akira stepped back, giving space, though her gaze never left his. “I didn’t mean to snoop.”

“You weren’t snooping,” he said gently, entering the room. “It’s meant to be read.”

His voice was lower than usual, softer, but there was something raw beneath it. A shadow of memory, of loss that hadn’t dulled with time. She hesitated, then asked, “Is it true? All of it?”

Stone’s eyes moved to the parchment. “Every word.”

Akira looked back at the document, then to him again. “You gave up everything for her.”

“She was my world.” It wasn’t boastful. It wasn’t tragic. It was simply the truth.

Akira’s chest ached from empathy and understanding. Because somewhere deep inside, she knew what it was to love someone so fiercely, you’d tear yourself apart to keep them breathing.

“I’ve never read anything like it,” she whispered.

Stone studied her for a moment, something unreadable flickering across his expression. Then he stepped closer, slow, measured, until they stood only a few feet apart.

“I didn’t expect you to find that tonight,” he said softly.

“I’m glad I did,” she said, voice quiet but steady.

His eyes lingered on her face, tracing the contours as if memorizing a map he’d searched lifetimes for. “So am I.”

The chandelier light caught in her thick hair. Her eyes gleamed—not with pity, but something sharper. He recognized it. Reflection. Recognition. A soul not unfamiliar with sacrifice.

They stood in the study like that for a long moment—two immortals surrounded by history and stories.

“When were you turned?” Akira’s voice rose softly in the stillness, cutting through the silence like a careful blade.

Stone tilted his head, arms crossed loosely. The corners of his mouth tugged in a slow, knowing smirk.

“1692.”

Akira’s head snapped toward him, eyes wide in disbelief. “Come again?”

He chuckled under his breath, the sound rich and quiet, like velvet dragging over stone. “You heard me.”

“Sixteen ninety-two?” she repeated, incredulous, as if saying it again might make it more plausible. “That’s… centuries ago.”

Stone walked forward, his steps soundless across the polished floor. “Three hundred and thirty-three years, to be exact.”

Akira blinked, trying to picture it—him, alive in a world of muskets and monarchies, of powder and conquest. He wore the centuries well, like a custom-made suit.

“You don’t look a day over… thirty,” she muttered, her tone laced with awe.

“Charmer,” he murmured with a wink, then added, “I was twenty-eight when I died. Give or take. Time was softer back then.”

She took a step toward him, her gaze still locked on his. “And your mother?”

He nodded once. “Lived well into her nineties. Happy. Married again. Had stepchildren.” He paused. “I never let her see me again, but I watched over her and let that be enough.”

Akira’s heart—or whatever filled the space where it used to beat—tightened. She didn’t press. She didn’t need to. His eyes had already answered everything.

Stone glanced at the encased letter behind her. “You really read it all?”

She nodded, her voice hushed. “Every word.”

He looked away for a moment, as if the act of being known, truly known, was still something he hadn’t quite learned how to sit with.

“What you did for her…” Akira’s voice dropped into something reverent. “That kind of love... it’s rare. Even in life.”

Stone met her gaze again. This time, there was no smirk. Only stillness. “She was everything. Still is.”

Akira nodded, the gravity of his story settling deep within her. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “For sharing that with me and for saving me when you didn’t have to.”

Stone offered a soft, half-smile. “You didn’t need saving, you needed a soft place to land.”

She wanted to ask more—to delve into the centuries of stories he carried behind his eyes—but the weight of the day was catching up to her. Everything she’d seen, everything she’d felt, sat heavy in her bones.

“I think I should get some sleep,” she admitted.

“Of course,” Stone said. He walked with her in comfortable silence, escorting her back to her bedroom.

When they reached the doorway, he turned to her with a soft smile. “Goodnight, Akira.”

“Goodnight, Stone.”

She stepped inside, the quiet click of the door behind her marking a soft end to the evening. Crawling into bed, she tucked herself beneath the covers, but as time progressed sleep refused to come. She tossed and turned, not from discomfort—the bed was like a cloud—but from the restlessness clawing at her mind.

She couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Stone, with his centuries of solitude. Stone, who had given up his life for love. Stone, whose very soul seemed carved out of devotion and silence.

He was doomed, she realized, to walk alone until someone could share the sun with him.

And deep down, she wanted to be that someone. But that was wishful thinking.

She wouldn’t call it love. Not yet. There was still so much to learn, but the ache she felt—to be near him, to feel his presence again—was undeniable. It ignited inside her like a secret flame, and when she shifted beneath the sheets, the damp heat between her thighs betrayed just how deeply her body ached too.

She let out a soft, frustrated huff, sitting up in bed. The room was still, painted in shadows and moonlight.

Quietly, she crept from the bed, careful not to make a sound. Her bare feet padded softly along the cool floor, leading her down the hallway toward the double doors she knew hid his room.

She paused before them, her fingers hovering just above the handle.

Then, slowly, she pushed one open…

Akira slipped through the door, careful to close it without a sound. The room greeted her like a secret—lavish and dark, wrapped in black and gold opulence. The elaborate chandelier above hung from the glossy tiled ceiling. Every glint shimmered like a star pulled from the night sky, burning and bright.

Stone lay on the bed, still and regal, his face half-turned into a pillow, chest still. Asleep, or simply pretending. Either way, he didn’t move.

She hovered near the door for a moment, uncertain, then padded deeper into the room. Her eyes drank in the space.

The black-on-black damask wallpaper caught the light in intricate patterns, like hidden language. The massive headboard, with its dark tufted velvet, indicated a bed fit for a king. Two gold-trimmed nightstands flanked the king bed, each topped with matching lamps.

A fur throw lay draped over the bed, decadent and soft. She reached out and ran her fingers along the edge. Luxurious like everything here.

The mirrored floor beneath her feet reflected not only the room, but her—small, unsure, drawn like a moth to the flame of him.

She turned toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. Beyond them, a private balcony stretched wide, overseeing the lavish backyard.

This wasn’t just a bedroom. It was a story. Every choice was intentional. Power, control, mystery, seduction… and solitude. For all its opulence, the room felt lived in only by one. No signs of shared space. No softness meant for another. Until now.

She let her gaze return to him, still unmoving, and whispered, “This is beautiful… like you.”

And though he didn’t stir, she swore the corner of his mouth lifted—just barely.

Akira moved past the edge of the bed, still quiet in her steps, drawn by the curiosity clawing at her chest. To know someone like Stone—legendary, unreadable, endlessly composed—meant reading between the lines of what he didn’t say. So, she wandered deeper into the suite, letting her curiosity lead.

The door to his bathroom was slightly ajar. She eased it open and stepped into a space that made her pause at it's beauty. Deep black marble covered the floor and walls, traced with silver and gold veins that shimmered beneath soft lighting. A grand, oval soaking tub sat atop a raised platform rimmed in gold, its surface gleaming. A modern chandelier hung from the intricately designed ceiling, and a row of arched, glass-doored showers stood at the far end. Everything was rich, decadent, and flawlessly arranged—another extension of the vampire himself.

Everything was immaculate. Towels folded with precision. A razor resting atop a glass tray. Even his cologne bottles—dark, heavy, expensive—sat in an organized row, like soldiers. She brushed her fingers across one and let herself breathe him in, eyes fluttering shut. Dark. Spicy. Addictive.

She turned from the bathroom and crossed into his walk-in closet—and immediately stopped short.

It was like entering the wardrobe of a man who’d lived many lives. Suits in rich shades—midnight, charcoal, wine—hung neatly in rows. Each piece tailored, handcrafted, a symphony of textures and timeless cuts. Polished shoes lined the bottom shelves in a gradient of shadows. Along one wall, his collection of watches gleamed like quiet trophies, time suspended in every ticking one.

But it wasn’t cold, not here. It felt curated, yes, but not untouchable. She ran her hand along the edge of a jacket sleeve, fingers trailing the fabric. It was like touching part of him—strong, refined, unyielding.

She let out a soft, wistful sigh.

“You’re quite the little trespasser.”

Akira jumped.

Stone’s voice, low and velvet-smooth, slid down her spine before she even turned. He was right behind her, so close she could feel the air shift. Her chest rose as she slowly turned to meet his gaze.

"We'll have to work on your environmental awareness," he teased.

He had on loose brown silk pajama pants that clung low on his hips. His chest was bare, muscular, with light chest hair catching the chandelier’s glow. A faint trail of hair led down from his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his pants. His arms were crossed, and there was that smirk again—lazy, knowing, and far too pleased.

“I—I couldn’t sleep.”

He tilted his head slightly, amusement dancing in those stormy eyes. “So you decided to investigate?”

She swallowed, suddenly aware of how intimate the moment had become. “I wanted to understand you better.”

His smirk deepened. “And?” he asked, voice barely a whisper now. “Do you?”

Akira held his gaze, her voice softer now. “A little,” she admitted. “Enough to know you're… you're a bit guarded, detail-oriented, stylish, sexy, and mysterious. Most of all, you're caring.”

Stone’s smirk faltered, just slightly. The word caring always struck something in him. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until there was barely a breath between them. “You see all that from a few suits and cologne bottles?” he murmured, eyes flicking down to her lips before returning to her eyes.

She tilted her head, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “No,” she whispered. “I see it in the way you looked at me when you saved me. In the bath you had drawn. The room you gave me. The way you tell your story... like it's a burden and an oath at the same time.”

His chest rose, slowly. That quiet intensity in her voice—like she saw right through him—unsettled him in a way nothing had in centuries. He reached up, brushing a stray curl from her cheek, letting his knuckles linger against her skin.

“You're dangerous,” he said softly.

She blinked. “Me?”

He nodded once. “You make me forget I was ever cursed,” he said softly.

Their silence pulsed with electricity—restrained yearning.

Then, almost imperceptibly, she leaned forward.

“Wait, Akira,” Stone said suddenly.

She stopped, lips inches from his, her movement stilling.

“I... want you. I do,” he said, voice low and laced with conflict. “But... you read my testament. I haven’t had anything more than short ‘situationships,’ as you youngins say.”

A soft snicker bubbled up between them, breaking the tension like a flicker of light.

But Stone’s expression soon sobered again.

“Anytime I’ve felt for someone, the feelings were short-lived. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it. And if I’m being honest...” He exhaled deeply. “Another reason I left you alone was because I could feel the stir of those feelings inside me. I didn’t want to be another man who disappointed you. So... I can’t give you more than this... more than who Asayo made me to be,” he said, eyes locking with hers.

“What I can promise you is that I will never abandon you again. I can promise you’ll always have a place in Kutha’Mara… and a friend in me—no matter if this love lasts or not.”

Love...

Akira’s eyes widened, soft and startled.

“You... you love me?” she whispered.

Stone nodded slowly, his chest visibly tightening with the weight of confession. “I’ve loved you since you made the move to New York and blossomed into the woman I knew you could be. Since the first time I heard you singing freely in your apartment. Since the first time a smile graced your lips after all the hell he put you thro—”

He didn’t get to finish. Akira surged forward, catching his lips in a deep, hungry kiss, rising onto her toes as if needing to close every last inch between them. Stone met her with the same hunger, one hand cradling her neck, the other wrapping around her waist like a promise.

They paused, lips only centimeters apart.

“I know there’s only so much you can give me, but you gave me something even better than love. You gave me safety. However long your love lasts... I’ll cherish it and our connection forever. Already I feel deeply for you... and I don’t want to fight it.”

Stone’s thumb gently traced her jawline. “I just don’t want to hurt you.”

She smiled, eyes soft but sure. “I’m a big girl, Stone. I understand the risk. But the reward outweighs it. I’d rather be loved properly, even if it’s for a short time, than never experience it at all.”

A slow, pleased smile curved across Stone’s lips. Then, without warning, he turned her around, pressing close until his lips brushed her ear.

“Well in that case,” he murmured, “you wanna show me just how much of a big girl you can be?”

Akira’s body responded instantly, her core pulsing with need as she pushed back against the thick erection pressing into her.

“I do,” she breathed. “But the real question is… can you keep up, old man?”

Stone let out a low, seductive chuckle, a mischievous gleam lighting his stormy eyes.

“Once I’m done with you, you’re going to forget your name,” he growled, before licking slowly up her neck and sucking gently on her ear.

The feel of Stone’s hand trailing up to her left breast sent tingles across her skin. He rubbed and pinched her nipple through the silk of her nightgown, teasing her until it stiffened beneath his touch. A cool draft kissed her thighs as his other hand lifted the hem of her nightgown, baring her ass to the air.

His lips kissed down her neck, past her shoulders, and over the curve of her back until he knelt behind her, face level with her ass.

“These were a great choice, if I do say so myself,” he purred, admiring the way the silk panties hugged her skin. “But they’re in my way.”

He hooked his fingers beneath the delicate fabric and slowly slid them down her toned legs. Akira bit her lip and swayed her hips with deliberate seduction as she stepped out of the garment. She moaned, startled by the light scrape of his teeth across her ass, the gentle nibbles sending sparks through her. His smooth, cool hands kneaded her thighs, lips pressing soft kisses to the fullness of her cheeks.

“Bend over the island,” he murmured.

She obeyed, letting the cold marble press against her front, her nipples tightening at the contact. His hands eased her legs farther apart, granting him a perfect view. She felt bare, wide open, exposed—but she didn’t care. She wanted this. Needed it. And there was no time for hesitation.

Stone’s thumbs spread her slick folds, revealing all of her. His dick twitched behind his pajama pants at the sight. She was stunning—glossy, soft, glistening. Like the most decadent treat he'd ever laid eyes on. Like a juicy chocolate-covered strawberry.

Akira gasped, jolting forward at the sudden swipe of his tongue. A deep, wicked chuckle rumbled behind her just before he dove in again, tongue slow and deliberate as he licked into her sweet center.

He pressed in closer, taking long, slow swipes over her clit with his tongue. Akira whimpered against the back of her hand, resting her head on her crossed forearms. His full lips gave delicate sucks to each fold before latching onto her clit, drawing it into his mouth.

"Uunh!" she moaned loudly.

Her moans were a symphony to Stone’s ears. Every sensual pull of his mouth sent throbbing waves of pleasure through her core. His tongue swirled against her clit before dipping into her clenching entrance, bobbing in and out of her like he was savoring the sweetest fruit. Her back arched as he reached her flooding depth, each stroke dragging her closer to the edge.

"Ooh, that feels s-so good," she stammered, her voice trembling under the weight of her nearing climax. Stone quickened his pace, bringing his fingers to her clit and rubbing in tight, deliberate circles. Akira’s knees buckled as she neared the finish, her pulsing core gripping his tongue with every surge.

Stone groaned into her, savoring the feel of her about to cum. He slipped his tongue from her soaked entrance and licked a firm trail over her puckered rim and up the curve of her ass. Akira whimpered in desperate need, but he soothed her with a low whisper.

“Patience, baby girl.”

He rose and pressed his body flush to hers, lifting her upright against him. One hand slipped down, and he slid his long middle and ring fingers deep inside her, curling them as his palm stroked her clit in rhythmic pulses.

“Now... cum all over these fingers,” he commanded—right as his canines elongated and sank into the very spot of her neck he had sunk into 5 years prior.

A scream tore from Akira’s throat, pleasure-filled and wild, almost melodic. The bite sent her spiraling into the most intense orgasm she’d ever had. Her head fell back against him, eyes wide and fixed on the starry sky visible through the ceiling window. Her light brown irises shifted to glowing red—sex, as she knew it, forever changed. They were connected in ways beyond the physical.

Stone held her trembling form, his fingers still coaxing her through the last waves of her climax. He licked at the blood seeping from her neck, sealing it with soft kisses along her jaw.

Her head turned, their crimson eyes locking—hers alight with something new and powerful.

Then, their lips met in a hungry, breathless kiss.

Tongues danced, lips sucked, and her essence was savored. Once her body stilled from the waves of pleasure, Stone withdrew his fingers and slipped the rest of her nightgown off. His wet fingers trailed slow circles around her right chocolate nipple before he bent down and drew it into his mouth. Every nerve ending he touched was hypersensitive, and Akira couldn’t help but moan.

Her hand reached behind her, rubbing at the monster restrained in his pants. He groaned, his tongue swirling over her nipple before giving it one final suck and stepping back to remove his silk pajamas. His thick length dropped heavily against her backside. She wiggled teasingly against him, earning a sharp smack to her left ass cheek. She bit her bottom lip, a soft whimper escaping her.

“So needy... You want this dick, baby?” he murmured, sliding the tip along her dripping slit.

“Mmm, please give it to me,” she purred.

Stone smirked as he slid into her slowly, feeding her inch by deliberate inch. Her gasp echoed through the closet as she rose onto her toes in a futile attempt to escape the stretch. His large hand wrapped firmly around her neck while the other gripped her waist, angling her body just right.

“Uh uh, I thought you were a big girl, Kira baby,” he teased, thrusting into her with slow, deep strokes.

Akira whimpered, her body shivering at both his rhythm and the way he said her name. “I—mmm... I am,” she moaned.

“Then,” he growled, turning her face toward his, eyes smoldering, “take it like a big girl.”

And with that, he sank deeper inside her, sucking on her bottom lip as she moaned in pleasure. Her hand gripped the one at her waist, her sharp stiletto nails scratching at the glossy island surface for something to hold onto.

Their moans mingled as they shared a rough, hungry kiss. The head of his dick felt like it was buried in her stomach as his strokes grew deeper, harder.

“Oh shiiit, you're so deep,” she moaned against his lips.

Stone groaned low. “And you take me so well… mmm, perfectly.”

Akira’s hand slid from his to his thigh, gripping tightly as he fucked her faster. He was pounding at the gates of ecstasy, and she was ready to enter with him. Her walls clenched around him, wetness coating the base of his thick length. A guttural moan escaped him as he savored the feel—and the look—of her arousal.

“Fuck, there you go. That’s it, love,” he panted into her ear.

Akira tried to keep her squeals buried in her chest, but she failed the moment he angled his hips just right and his dick curved perfectly against her spot. Her nails raked his thigh, her stomach tightening as her climax approached. Moonlight disappeared behind her fluttering eyelids.

Stone’s grip on her neck tightened slightly as he studied every reaction. “Hmm... that it, baby? That’s the spot?”

“Y-yesssss, ple-ease don’t sto-op,” she stammered.

His groans in her ear, the rhythm of his strokes, his towering presence, and the lingering pulse of his bite—it was the perfect storm. And just when she thought she couldn’t take anymore, his fingers tapped at her clit and began rubbing up and down, summoning her release.

“Stone! Fuuuck!” she cried out as the pearly gates flew open. Her body trembled, pussy pulsing around him, milking his own release. He grunted deeply into her shoulder as he spilled thick, hot cum inside her. His thrusts slowed, guiding them both gently through the high.

When he stilled and her senses returned to Earth, a breathless giggle slipped from her lips. Stone smiled against her shoulder at the sound.

“I think... I just saw God,” she murmured, and he chuckled softly.

His plush lips trailed slow kisses along her neck as he let her go from his gentle hold. “Glad to hear it,” he murmured.

“I haven’t had any partners since turning,” she confessed quietly. “I’ve pleasured myself, of course... but it never felt quite like this.”

Stone smirked at her honesty. He eased out of her, their mixed release dripping from her onto the dark wood floor. He turned her gently by the waist to face him.

“Sex as a vampire is... more heightened,” he said, studying her features as if seeing her for the first time. “But with you... it’s almost overstimulating. I think when I turned you and gave you my blood, it threaded something deeper between us.”

His thumb rubbed along her cheek while his arm remained hooked around her waist, holding her close.

She looked up at him, brows knitting in curiosity, still dazed from the intensity of it all. “You’ve never done that before?” she asked.

He shook his head slowly, brushing her hair from her face. “No. I’ve never felt the urge to. But that night... it felt necessary. Maybe it was the blood loss, maybe it was something more. Whatever it was... I don’t regret it,” he said, his gaze warm. “This? This is a beautiful bonus.”

Akira's eyes twinkled as she stared up at him, biting her lower lip. Knowing she was the only one to ever receive his blood in all his vampire existence did something to her. It was as if he had claimed her once with the turning, then again with the bite. She knew whatever this was might be temporary, but for now, she would savor every moment.

Stone's thumb brushed over her bottom lip as he stared into her eyes. “Keep looking at me like that... and watch what happens,” he teased, voice low and threatening in the most delicious way.

Akira’s lips curved into a sly smile as she parted them and sucked on his thumb.

Don’t threaten me with a good time...

His dick twitched against her stomach, and in the next breath—faster than she could react—he lifted her into the air, her thighs hooking instinctively into the crook of his arms. She squealed in surprise, laughing breathlessly as she looped her arms around his neck while he carried her toward the bedroom.

The silver light pouring in from his balcony washed over the sharp lines of his handsome face, casting him in a celestial glow. She couldn't help but drink him in—the striking beauty of him, the hungry, possessive look he gave her.

Her trance shattered the moment he lowered her onto his dick and plunged deep inside her soaked pussy.

“Shit...” she gasped, eyes rolling back as her back arched and her head lolled.

Stone groaned low in his throat, pressing his mouth to her sensitive nipple. He demonstrated his inhuman strength easily, bouncing her on his thick length with powerful arms. The sound of their bodies meeting filled the room, raw and intense.

"Fuck, you look so pretty taking this dick," Stone growled, his eyes drinking in her every reaction. Her breasts bounced with every thrust, nipples stiff and needy, her lips parted in moans aimed toward the ceiling. He had fantasized about this moment countless times—but nothing compared to the real thing.

Akira felt like she might break from the relentless pleasure he was driving into her. Her hands slid down to grip his biceps tightly, nails digging into his skin as her whines and cries filled the room. Wet, squelching sounds echoed between them, her pussy drenching and gripping his thick shaft with every thrust. Tears welled in her eyes from the overwhelming sensation.

"Stone... pl-please," she whimpered.

He groaned, easing her up until only the swollen tip of him teased her entrance, making her whine in frustration. "Please what, baby?"

She whimpered again, trying to grind herself onto him for more. "Please let me cum... please," she moaned desperately.

"Look at me," he commanded, keeping his shallow thrusts maddeningly slow.

Akira struggled, but managed to open her eyes, meeting the intensity of his gaze. A shiver bolted down her body straight to her clit and deep into her core. This man was ruining her in the most glorious way.

"I want to see you cum. Keep those pretty eyes open. Understand?" he groaned.

She nodded urgently.

"Words, baby," he demanded, plunging deep enough to make her squeal.

"Yes, Daddy! Fuck!" she cried out.

Their grunts and needy moans mixed in the air as he filled her again and again, each deep thrust brushing her swollen g-spot, pushing her closer to the edge. Her eyes fluttered, struggling to stay open.

"S-Stone," she stuttered breathlessly.

"Cum for me, Akira," he ordered as her walls clamped down around him. "Give it to me."

He drew her tighter against him, delivering short, powerful thrusts. The friction against her clit with every movement was the final push she needed.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck, shit!" she sobbed as her brow furrowed and a gush of warm release squirted against his pelvis and abs. Tears slid down her cheeks as her orgasm ripped through her like a force of nature.

"That's a good girl," Stone murmured between grunts.

As he released his heavy load inside her, sealing their connection with a deep, hungry kiss, neither noticed the pair of envious eyes watching them from the shadows of the balcony.

To be continued...

Welp! Who do y'all think was being a peeping Tom, hm? I am so excited to go down this journey. I'm not sure how many parts there will be by the end of this... I wanted to do four, but the way my mind is coming up with ideas, I don't think four will do. I'll make a post with the face claims and all the things—just stay tuned.

Just got back from Sinners and it's put a battery in my back. I really hope you enjoyed the first part of my vampire romance. Let me know what you think, and if you'd like to be in my taglist for all my work.

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Taglist:

@slvt4her @wanderingreigns @avoidthings @xjjawsomex @that-one-anxious-mango @wabi-sabi1090 @nubiawrites @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @kianaleani @slutsareteacherstoo @slyy-foxx @dxddykenn @moujg @naughtynolly @wildcardmelaninfreak @pocketsizedpanther @wabi-sabi1090 @styleismyaddiction @novahreign @transparentphantomface @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @babymelaninn @jasmynn05 @notapradagurl7 @starcrossedxwriter

#aaron pierre #aaron pierre smut #terry richmond #terry richmond smut #jayme lawson #fanfic #aaron pierre fic #black writers #fanfiction #vampire smut #vampire oc #vampire fanfiction #aaron pierre x black reader #aaron pierre fanfic #aaron pierre x black!oc #aaron pierre x oc

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aurora-starshine · 1 month ago

Note

Hey there- Ho there - Hi there! :D

So I have a few questions!

I am curious of some parts of the school

1] How the sorting happens? Like what is the ritual?

2] What each dorm is like look and vibe wise? Also how do the students get into them? Like is there a Mirror Halls like place for them as well? Do they also have housewardens as well? What determines who became a housewarden if there is one?

3] What sort of classes are in the school and what sort of clubs are there?

I think knowing these it helps a lot of other OC creators.

Thank you for your answers in advance! ^^

Alrighty! top down, lets go! Cutoff because its a very, very long post:

1. When each girl comes to the school for orientation, they are brought into a large Observatory. Each first year will take a turn coming up to a large floating star, and wordlessly it will glow in the color of their dorm. Blue - Wonderwacken Purple - Nottingwood Green - Atlantivilla Teal - Jawharaoasis Red - Blancwittchen Orange - Astrapiheros Pink - Belladormir

2. Each dorm can be accessed similarly to the dorms in NRC, through a hall of doors. Each student is given a key adorned with symbols of their dorm, this is needed to open the door. So guests need to be let in by a girl from that respective dorm. Each door is similarly decorated by symbols for the dorm (Roses for Belladormir, Shells for Atlantivilla, etc) The vibes vary for each dorm, but theyre pretty peaceful overall. For Wonderwacken, it's various mid sized buildings, each decorated like some aspect of Wonderland. such as a house based on the mushrooms, or the white rabbits cottage. all surrounded by a colorful forest that glows softly at night For Atlantivilla it is a castle by the seaside. A large beach is the main focus for most of the students, perfect for surfing, swimming, and tanning. The castle is also nice, with colorful caribbean decor Jawharaoasis is very similar to Scarabia, only that it is surrounding a large Oasis. Students here are known to favor swimming in the cooling water, or studying under the shady trees

Blancwittchen is a bit odd in that instead of a central building, or several larger buildings, it is instead cottages that house four first years, two second years, and one first year. These smaller groups usually become good friends

Astrapiheros is one big giant roman style castle, surrounding a courtyard big enough for its students to study, train, and generally spend time together in. Its walls are painted with murals of old myths Nottingwood is akin to an old english town. a central castle where most of its activities and study places are, and smaller houses which are fairly close together to act as rooms. its easy to walk from ones "house" to the castle And Belladormir is one giant castle with enough rooms for its students, surrounded by fields of grass and flowers. The castle interior is the most classical with its stone walls and nearly ceiling high stained glass windows. It also hosts a large garden which is the most common hang out spot for the dorm.

Instead of housewardens, the leaders of each dorm is called the "Princess". it is one of the most controversial parts of the charm school, as with each batch of new students, there's a chance the star from orientation will choose a new princess for the dorm. For instance, when Allison arrived, the title of princess was taken from a third year, and given to her. Many questions have been asked to the current head of the school, but she has been unable to answer why the star does this 3. The current classes and clubs are as follows: Classes: Etiquette, Choir, PE, Politics and leadership, Dance, Riding, Literature, Art, Home economics, history, Animal languages, Mathmatics, Astrology, etc (A lack of magic courses because this is not considered a mage school, but instead a charm school) Clubs: Boardgame, Animal care, Equestrian, Music, Tennis (But this is very likely to grow as more characters are added, so if you have a club idea, go for it!)

#blue fairy charm school #Big explanation post #BFCS Orientation #classes #clubs #art #clipstudiopaint #twst oc #twisted wonderland oc #twisted wonderland #twst #conceptart #twst fanart #characterdesign #twst fanschool

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jazziejax · 6 months ago

Text

𝐏𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐚 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧’

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Kelvin Harrison Jr. x Black!OC & Damson Idris x Black!OC

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - In which past lovers turned fling and a set best friends, that connection seems deeper than platonic, have to sit through a Prada fashion show and it’s after party all while keeping face in front of the waiting cameras, when all they can contemplate is how they’ll spend the rest of their time in Milan.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - flirting, suggestive conversation, roleplay(?), ex’s to flings, some descriptions, jealousy, best friends that lowkey want each other.

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - UNEDITED, sorry for any spelling errors and grammar mistakes. I did this because I’m in a Damson Idris type of mindset and there’s literally nothing for him, he’s nonexistent here. Then I remembered when I saw Kelvin at the Prada show, I was like “Both my men in one room and they didn’t even interact.” So I made this. This could’ve went the throuple route, and I still might do that, but this was my first reaction.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 5,218+

The energy in the air was palpable and electric, a mix of flashing cameras as high-profile guests arrived, fans screams along with photographers demands filled the air, and the ever-present hum of fashion’s elite mingling before the show began.

Evette, dressed in mix of a Prada items, her clam look exuded confidence, but beneath the surface, she was still adjusting to this new chapter of her life. She exhaled slowly, grounding herself as she stepped onto the carpet.

The attention was still something she was adjusting to—Mufasa: The Lion King had catapulted her career into a different stratosphere and put her further into the public eye, and while she had always been comfortable in front of an audience the constant scrutiny was something she was still learning to navigate.

She posed with effortless grace, her outfit casual but cute nonetheless. She turned slightly, letting the cameras catch her best angles. Questions flew at her—about the film, future roles, even whispers of her personal life—but she handled them with the same cool demeanor that had gotten her this far.

Once inside, the energy shifted, less chaotic but still intense. She let out another sigh, releasing her anxious tension before looking down at the encouraging and hilarious messages from Nala.

I need more known so I can become a Brand Ambassador. This struggling actor shit is played out 🙄

She chuckled, shaking her head softly at the girl. She texted her a quick response before pocketing her phone and looking up. She began walking again as she glanced around, seeing the familiar faces of people she’d seen on telephone or tv screen, and others she hadn’t a clue of.

And then, right before she could make it to her seat, she saw him.

Kelvin Harrison Jr.

He looked good—annoyingly so. Dressed in a sleek Prada ensemble, the bright green color of his collar making his skin pop. He exuded the kind of ease that only came with confidence. Evette tensed, but only slightly. It’s not like it’s been long since she’d last seen him, and they were…friends now? If you could call what they had going in as friends. . They had long since moved past the initial post-breakup unease, settling into something familiar, easy. But what was it exactly? They weren’t just exes. They weren’t just co-stars. And after everything that had happened between them in the quiet, stolen moments off-camera… fling didn’t feel quite right either. She couldn’t help the feeling that wrapped around her beating heart at the sight of him. Admiring him from afar as he eased his way through the crowds of other celebrities.

Kelvin must have sensed her watching because he glanced up, locking eyes with her. A slow smile spread across his face—one of those knowing ones that made her stomach flip, even after all this time.

“Evette.” Kelvin greeted smoothly, his eyes flickering with something unreadable. His grinned, his dimples poking through his cheeks.

“Kelvin.” She returned softly, smiling at him.

“You look good,” he said, eyes flickering over her outfit, appreciation evident.

She smirked. “You clean up nice yourself. I didn’t know you’d be here.” She said coyly. Kelvin’s brows twitched in confusion, slightly squinting at her. “What? Yes you did.” He said, letting out a small laugh with the twinkle still in his eye.

Evette’s smile dropped as she smacked her lips. “I was trying to do a bit.” She grumbled softly, her bright demeanor dropping. Kelvin just let out a small laugh at her as she stepped closer. He then quirked a brow, looking down at her. “A bit? You mean like role play?” He quipped, his tone lower than before with a smirk showing his pearly whites. Evette scoffed although she couldn’t help the smile that was making its way onto her face. She reached up to give his shoulder a small push. “Really?" She squinted at him. "In public? At a fashion show?" She hissed through clenched teeth, tilting her head close so that there was no chance that their conversation could be heard, even over the chaos of the venue.

Kelvin’s smirk widened, clearly enjoying the playful banter. He leaned in a little closer, his voice dropping even lower. “You know I like to keep things interesting, Evette.” He said in a sultry tone, his eyes giving her a quick once over, subconsciously licking his plump lips before his eyes made their way back to hers. "Plus, what's wrong with a little roleplay?"

"I'm not having this conversation with you Kelvin. Not here." She said, trying to sound firm, but her grin was undeniable. She stepped around him, her coconut scent wafting in her wake. He was quick to turn and follow behind her, catching sight of her pearly smirk as she threw him a quick look over her shoulder. He grinned as he followed after her, his eye trained on the back of her curly pixie cut.

She ended up stopping behind one of the many busy crowds that flooded the place, all of the celebrity guests trying to either find their seats or speak with their industry friends. Giving the perfect opportunity for Kelvin to come up behind her, almost pressing against her back. "I like your hair." He purred. Evette hummed, not turning to look at him. "Thank you." She replied. They stood close, too close, the charged air between them impossible to ignore. It had been like this for months—lingering stares, unsaid words, touches that lasted longer than they should. They had danced around whatever this was for too long. And now, they had to keep everything in check, with no Aaron Pierre or Nala around to distract from the weight of their history.

It was silent between them then, the pair moving with the slow-paced crowd that was dispersing throughout the large building.

"So back to this roleplay thing." He said, and Evette instantly let small laugh.

"Do you ever listen?"

"No." He grinned. "I'm just saying. I believe the most healthy of couples do it?" He quipped with a shrug.

And then he froze, his eyes widened as he registered what just slipped out of his mouth. His heart began to race quickly, his eyes jumping between the side of her face and elsewhere. Evette could feel him stiffen, behind her, and she did as well. She began to blink, wondering if she heard that word leave his lips. They both wanted nothing more than clarity, but to have a conversation on what you would call their current sexual but also a friendly relationship was not one to have at a brand event.

Unexpectedly, a grin broke out on Evette's face. It was small, but it drew Kelvin's attention as she turned her head his way. “Interesting. Is that what you’re calling it now?” She crossed her arms, standing her ground even as her pulse quickened under the heat of his gaze. Kelvin froze, his lids fluttering as he tried to come up with a response under her now sultry gaze. She quirked a brow at him, causing him to stumble over his words. "Is this a part of the whole roleplay thing?" She continued when she got no response from him. A smirk on her lips. Kelvin blinked, his eyes squinting briefly as he looked at her. He then shrugged, looking almost nonchalant as he leaned back slightly, glancing around at the chaotic scene. “Hey, it’s a fashion show. Everyone’s acting like they’re the main character. I’m just doing my part.” His eyes flicked back to hers, the playful glint not fading.

She raised an eyebrow, her lips quirking to one side. “And your part is roleplay?" She asked. "And the main character? You’re more like a supporting role at best, Kelvin.”

“Ouch, damn." He said, placing a hand over his heart in mock pain, though his grin never faltered. The crowd began to disperse, leading the pair over to the small podiums they were supposed to sit at. “First off, I have been the main character of plenty of projects." He sassed at her as their steps became quicker in the free space. "And second, if I’m a supporting character, then you’re the lead, huh?"

Evette let out a short, amused breath, turning her head to look at the sea of flashing cameras.

"Why wouldn't I be the main character? This is my roleplay scenario after all, isn't it?" She asked. And if Kelvin had a drink he would've spit it out. He couldn’t believe she was really playing along with his stupid scenario. He also didn’t know that his joking could actually lead to something she could be into. Kelvin blinked, momentarily stunned, before a slow, impressed grin spread across his face. He tilted his head, stepping a little closer as they neared their seats. "Oh, so now it’s your scenario? I thought you didn’t do roleplay, Evette?”

She shrugged, casually adjusting the straps of her outfit. "I don’t.” She said, then glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "But if I did, I’d obviously be the lead. And iI’s obviously so it with you. It’s just the natural order of things.” She stated, Kelvin’s gaze getting trapped looking at her bloody lips that excused the sultry tone she spoke in. He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "You’re unbelievable." Was all he could muster, barely a mumbled, as he began to become aroused at a public event, looking at the woman in front of him

"And you’re predictable.” She shot back, glancing down at the lower half of his body to see if he obvious attraction was alerting anyone else in the building into. When he couldn’t see anything, she looked back up at the man. "Always trying to keep up." She said as they came upon their seat, Evette looking for her name plate on one of them.

Kelvin scoffed, nit even caring to look for his seat as he followed after her. "Keep up? Please. If anything, I’m the plot twist. The unexpected character development. The fan-favorite side character that steals the show." He said, and he knew he had began rambling with just about anything to distract himself from the tent that would show up in his pants if they kept their little conversation from earlier up, and he did not want pictures of that encounter popping up on the internet.

Evette hummed, pretending to consider. "Mmm... More like comedic relief."

Kelvin clutched his chest in mock offense, his dimples deepening as he fought back a grin. "Wow. So I’m just here for laughs now?"

"Well.” She teased, dragging out the word as she found her seat, her name written in nice ink on a piece of cardstock. She grinned as she moved the paper and then took a seat. She crossing her legs and then looked up at his figure towering over her. “You are entertaining." She said with a shrug.

Kelvin narrowed his eyes, his lips twitching. "Okay.” He simply shrugged before taking the seat next to her, not even nothing to check the name, only moving the tag back a little so he didn’t smush it. As he took his seat, sitting so close, his slack covered legs brushed against bare ones, due to her denim skirt. Chills ran down her legs at the feelings, but slammed if lighted when he placed his hand on his leg, his fingers beginning to brush against her smooth skin. The touch was brief but intentional, and the heat of it lingered between them. Evette raised an eyebrow, unimpressed but clearly amused.

"That’s it?" She asked dryly. "That’s your big comeback? A caress of skin? Wow. Riveting. I’m so turned on."

Kelvin huffed a laugh, shaking his head as he sat back. "Nah, I’m just warming up. This is how it started off, two people meeting at a fashion show, but the obvious connection is there.” He said, his tone low, as well as his eyes as he glanced at her. “See, I know you. You act like you’re cool, calm, and collected, but you love when I get under your skin."

Evette scoffed, rolling her eyes. "Kelvin, please." She said before gulping. She could really only pay attention to his last statement, the explanation of the beginning of their role play infighting a fire within her stomach she didn’t know she had. And she was bit about to get fired up and he wasn’t going to commit.

"Nah, nah, nah, let’s be real.” He said, tilting his head as he studied her. "You say you don’t do roleplay, but you’re way too good at this for a beginner, unless this is the acting talking. It’s almost like you’ve been waiting for someone to match your energy."

Evette didn’t answer right away, just smiled knowingly as she adjusted her posture, her confidence radiating. "You talk a lot for someone who just got demoted to comedic relief.” She finally said, her voice dripping with amusement. “Stranger.” She shrugged, counting to add onto the bit.

Kelvin exhaled a laugh, dragging a hand over his face before shaking his head. "You got jokes tonight, huh?"

"I always have jokes.” She countered easily. "You just have to get to know me. Plus you make it too easy.”

Kelvin studied her for a moment, his expression shifting just slightly—still playful, but with an underlying curiosity. "You know, Stranger," He mused, his voice softer now, “For all the talking we’re doing, we still haven’t actually said anything."

Evette met his gaze, the energy between them shifting just slightly. She tilted her head, considering him. "Maybe some things don’t need to be said."

Kelvin held her stare for a beat longer before smirking. "Or maybe," he murmured, leaning just a fraction closer, "You’re just scared of the conversation."

Evette’s lips twitched, but before she could respond, movement from across the room caught her attention.

Their banter paused as the cameras outside the glass walls flashed wildly. A commotion. A shift in energy.

And then she saw them.

Damson Idris and Noémie Adebayo.

Evette’s eyes flickered toward Kelvin’s, seeing that he had noticed them too. Damson and Noémie were locked in a tight embrace, their reunion playing out in full view of the crowd. The cameras caught everything—the warmth, the familiarity, the unspoken history between them.

Kelvin let out a low whistle. "Well, damn."

Evette hummed in agreement, watching as Damson and Noémie exchanged words within each others embrace, their body language easy and comfortable, but tinged with something deeper.

"You think there’s something there?" Kelvin asked, not looking at her but rather at the scene unfolding in front of them.

Evette considered before shrugging. "Could be.” She said. "Some things never really go away."

Kelvin glanced at her then, something unreadable in his expression. "Yeah," He murmured. "Some things don’t."

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Evette smirked. "But if they start roleplaying in public, then we’ll really have something to talk about."

Kelvin barked out a laugh, shaking his head. "You really think you’re funny, huh?"

Evette just grinned. "No, Kelvin. I know I am."

Kelvin leaned back, watching her with a look that was equal parts amused and intrigued. "Alright then, miss main character. Let’s see how this story plays out."

“Don’t flatter me.” She aid, straightening her posture. “You’re looking a little too good tonight to be calling me the star.”

His eyes lingered on her a beat too long, his gaze unreadable, but it was enough to make Evette feel a flutter of something unfamiliar in her stomach. She looked away, trying to play it cool.

“Anyway, you should get to your seat.” She said, beginning to brush imaginary dust off his attire before nodding her head to the seat across from her, which held his name. “Enjoy the show, Mr.” She grinned.

“Well don’t be such a stranger, Miss. We’re both here for the same reason, right? To have a little fun.” He grinned back at her before wining from his seat next to her and moving to the one that held his name, directly across from her.

And over in the paparazzi frenzy, were the pair that would for sure be the stars of the night.

Noémie Adebayo and Damson Idris.

Two people who didn’t need an introduction, not to anyone in the industry.

The Prada show had already been a spectacle, but for Noémie Adebayo, the real event was happening off the runway. She was stunning in her designer denim dress ensemble, held herself with effortless poise. She posed for the cameras, her relaxed manner showing her ever confidence in her appearance. It had been about two years since the last season of Snowfall aired, since then, her and her busy costars have kind of been off the grid. She’s been working on her part in the Special Opps: Lioness, where she plays a young but ruthless CIA agent with a tragic backstory. And she was also starring in the 2025 movie OPUS with a her good friend Ayo Edebiri.

So even with the show coming to an end, that doesn’t mean the work stopped. And with being so busy, she and her best friend have been separated for a long time.

Ever since the first season of Snowfall, the viewers fell in love with her and Damson’s on-screen chemistry. The connection between Franklin and Diana felt real. She hadn’t seen Damson in what felt like ages—not properly, at least. Their last season of Snowfall had wrapped with a dramatic, gut-wrenching ending, their on-screen chemistry immortalized in the eyes of fans. And the connection between Damson and Noémie felt real as well. People loved to see them together, from the pictures and videos that came from set, to the moments they’d have in red carpets, to the paparazzi photos that surfaced of them spending time in each other’s home town. Their chemistry was alive and apparent, no matter how much they denied it. But after the show ended in 2023, their public interactions had dwindled. Life had moved forward. Damson had went open—very publicly—with his relationship with a gorgeous model, while Noémie poured herself into new projects, and the occasional friendly check-ins had dwindled to near silence.

Damson had been the first to notice her, his genuine smile growing as he closed the distance between them, coming up behind her. “Well, well. Noémie Adebayo.”

“Damson!” She replied once he turned around, letting his name roll off her tongue excitedly, before ringing him into a tight embrace. “Oh, it’s been so long!” She gushed, her head placed on his shoulder as he bent to her height a bit. So close that she was breathing in nothing but his woodsy scent. He raised to his full height, lifting her up in their tight hug. She squealed briefly before her feet hit the ground again, the cameras flashing quickly to catch the moment between the two stars. The shouts of fans and press became louder to get their attention, but they were entrapped within their win moment. Damson chuckled with his wrapped his arms around her, hands low on her waist and holding her just a beat longer than necessary. “Too long, my love.” He murmured near her ear before pulling back. His hands lingered on her waist as he looked down at her, taking in her outfit. “Damn, look at you.” He grinned.

Noémie smirked, adjusting the collar of his sleek Prada coat. “Looking sharp yourself. I see the Milan air has been treating this melanin well.” She said before quirking a brow at him. “Or all of those other vacations of yours.” She smirked, alluding to his various of paparazzi photos of him and his new girlfriend in various vacation spots, soaking in the sun.

“I could say the same.” He shot back, eyes sweeping over her denim dress ensemble. “Special Ops, huh? Trading the L.A. streets for CIA territory?” He asked. “Diana would be ashamed of you.” He reached out absentmindedly to adjust the collar of her blazer, his fingers brushing against her shoulder. She stilled, her breath catching for just a second, but neither of them acknowledged the moment. Instead, they kept talking, falling into the same effortless rhythm they always had.

She laughed. “I know! But I had to switch it up. Plus, they let me do some cool shit in this.”

“Selling drugs and killing people wasn’t cool shit?” He asked, his grin widening.

“No, it was, but now I’m doing, like, next level stuff. Like, in season two, I’m jumping out of helicopters.” She grinned. Damson’s brows raised at that, looking down at her with his hands still placed on her waist. “Oh, now that, I’d pay to see. ‘Cause aren’t you scared of heights?”

“Yes!”

Before she could explain more, the cameras swarmed them. Photographers called their names, flashing bulbs illuminating their faces as they stood there, side by side. The internet was already catching fire—two years since Snowfall ended, and here they were again, looking as comfortable, as close, as right as ever. Seeing them together again, the spark was undeniable. It wasn’t just nostalgia. It was muscle memory. Six seasons of playing lovers, knowing each other’s rhythms, finishing each other’s sentences—it all lingered in the way they looked at each other, the way her lips twitched into a smirk before he even said a word.

Noémie turned her head slightly, lowering her voice. “Are you ready?” She asked

Damson raised an eyebrow. “For what?”

“For the internet to explode.” She said before letting out a long sigh, knowing that this would be a topic in her phone for at least two weeks. He let out a laugh, shaking his head. “They never let up, huh?”

“You know they don’t.” She said before beginning to pose for photos with him next to her. Damson moved his hand on her waist, her hand on top of his as they posed for the plethora of cameras. “But you should be used to it though.” She said, trying not to disrupt her smile too much as she glanced up at him. “I seen that scene of you in Swarm, Mr.Idris.” She grinned, just as they felt that those were enough pictures. Damson laughed, shaking his head and he walked in front of her, holding his hand out for her to take. She took it, it even paying attention to the cameras and press that wanted to speak as he led her since if the venue. “Oh, you saw that?” He asked rhetorically.

“Everybody and they mama saw it, Damson!” She grinned as they continued to talk, just as what they said would happen, happened. Social media was already in a frenzy, dissecting every glance, every touch, every shift in body language.

Were they just friends? Was there something more? Had there always been something more?

Damson was still looking at her when someone from the event staff came over, politely letting them know it was time to head to their seats.

“Come on.” Noémie said, nudging him playfully. “Can’t have Prada waiting.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He replied, walking beside her, still hand in hand.

As they weaved through the crowd, still hand in hand, the noise around them faded into the background. It had been two years, but being with Noémie felt like no time had passed at all. Damson glanced down at her, taking in her easy stride, the way she carried herself like she was born for this.

“So, CIA agent now, huh? What else have you been up to?” He asked, finally letting her hand go as they approached the private seating area, only for him to gently push her in don’t of him as the crowd became thick and he didn’t want to lose her or for her to get hurt.

Noémie hummed, adjusting her dress slightly. “Been working non-stop. Special Ops has me in the gym every day, training like I’m actually about to take on a mission. OPUS press hasn’t started, I don’t even think the trailers dropped yet. And then there’s Sinners with Michael.”

At the mention of Michael B. Jordan, Damson’s expression shifted. He didn’t react immediately, but she caught the slight tension in his jaw. His gaze was trained above her head, trying his dammdest to look anywhere but her eyes at the moment. “Right.” He began. “I saw those pictures.” His voice was casual—too casual.

She glanced up at him, a confused grin on her lips. “What pictures?”

Damson scoffed. “You know what pictures. You and him, all cozy, looking like a damn power couple in New York.”

Noémie blinked, thinking of why he was talking about before she laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, that was just press.” She said, a small smile on her face, not sensing the tensions Damson had in his frame. “We’re filming together, and we were just having dinner that day. The media grabbed a whole of it and took it with the wind.” She grinned, although her tone bridged in annoyance as she remembered the day those photos dropped. That lasted for months, but she was just glad that she last season had already aired or else that red carpet for the premiere would’ve been a little awkward for her. She glanced back up at him due to his silence, quirking a brow. “Don’t tell me you thought—” She trailed off, her smirk widening as she caught the way his lips pressed into a thin line. “You thought me and him were a thing?” She questioned.

He clicked his tongue, looking away. “Nah.”

She nudged his arm playfully. “Yes, you did! Damson, come on. You think I’d date Michael?”

“I mean, you were looking quite comfortable.” He said, finally glancing back down at her and connecting eyes. She blinked up at him, amusement clear on her face along with questioning. “Out all day, holding hands.” He listed.

“We were just holding hands.” She told him, giving a lousy gesture to behind them as she brought up only moments ago when they walked into the building, hand in hand.

“Yeah, but we’re best friends, I’ve known you for almost ten years. You’ve known him, what, three?” He scoffed out. Noémie looked up at him, her amusement still clear as they continued walking to their seats, the occasional camera clicking their way, caring them in action as they moved. She couldn’t help but smile at Damson’s obvious jealousy, because he was right. Such a great friendship for ten years and neither of them got a heads up on who the other one was dating. At least, not on her end. But that’s because she wasn’t dating Micheal! He probably felt that he was being relied on her life or something, she thought.

She rolled her eyes at him. “Because we’re friends, and we’re in a movie together. That’s it.” She paused, tilting her head at him. “But why do you care?” She asked, wanting to hear the words from his mouth instead of making up her own assumptions.

Damson opened his mouth, then shut it. He exhaled through his nose, running a hand over his jaw. “It’s just… weird, innit? You & Michael. He’s…” He trailed off, his voice quieter now. “Lori’s ex.”

Noémie’s teasing smile faltered slightly, not expecting that to be what he said. “And she’s your girlfriend. Is that what this is about?”

He sighed, rubbing his chin. “Me and Lori… we’re done.”

Noémie raised an eyebrow. “Done as in… on a break? Or done done?”

“Done done.” He admitted. “It’s been rocky for a while. We tried, but…” He shrugged. “It wasn’t working.”

She studied him for a moment, her teasing demeanor fading into something softer. “You okay?”

Damson shrugged again, though this time, his smile was a little more genuine. “Yeah. Just… moving on.” He shot her a look. “Which I thought you were doing with Michael.” He added, looking down at accusingly. “I was going crazy on all those trips when those photos drooped, thinking ‘How could by beating not tell me this?’ And you dating my, at the time, girlfriend’s ex boyfriend didn’t help either.”

Noémie rolled her eyes. “Michael is a friend. He’s not even my type, I think.” She shrugged.

Damson arched a brow. “Not your type? You think? Man’s a superstar, rich, got the muscles and all that.”

She smirked up at him at that. “Sounds like he’s your type.” She quipped, causing Damson to smack his lips as he nudged her forward a little. “So annoying.” He grumbled. “And you’re nosey.” She shot back playfully. “You were on vacation with you boo worried about what I had going on. You’re no better than those people on The Shaderoom.” She smirked.

Before he could retort, a staff member gently tapped his shoulder, gaining both of their attention. The polite man smiled at them before stating that he would lead them to their seat. He then signaling for them to take their seats when they arrived and Damson barely had time to process their conversation before he was led toward his assigned spot.

“See you after,” Noémie said, flashing him a knowing smile before slipping into her own seat as the man led Damson to the one across from her.

As the lights dimmed slightly and guests settled in, the two men exchanged glances, acknowledging each other with a polite nod. They weren’t close, but they were familiar enough—two industry men who had crossed paths before.

Damson settled in next to Kelvin Harrison Jr., who was already watching him with a smirk.

Kelvin leaned in slightly. “You good, bro?”

Damson exhaled, shaking his head. “Man… I don’t even know.”

Kelvin chuckled, nodding toward Noémie across the table. “Yeah. I can see that.”

Noémie found herself next to Evette, who had just finished her own set of conversations and photo ops from the press that came by to take photos of her in her seat. Across from them, directly in their line of sight, were Kelvin and Damson.

Evette barely glanced at Kelvin before shifting her attention to Noémie. “How was the reunion?” She asked, nodding her head over to the commotion they unintentionally caused at the entrance.

Noémie exhaled through a laugh. “Exactly what you’d expect.”

Evette hummed, stealing a glance at the two men across from them. “Well, you have his attention.”

Kelvin and Damson sat back, their body language relaxed but their eyes locked onto the women in front of them. Each man subtly watched the woman across from him—the way Kelvin’s gaze lingered on Evette’s animated expressions as she spoke, the way Damson’s eyes traced Noémie’s movements as she laughed.

Kelvin finally spoke, low enough for only Damson to hear. “So… that’s Noémie.”

Damson smirked, not taking his eyes off her. “That’s Noémie.”

Kelvin nodded, a knowing look passing between them. “Yeah. I get it.”

Damson finally turned to him, chuckling. “And you? You’re looking at Evette like she owes you something.”

Kelvin’s jaw tightened slightly before he masked it with a grin. “Maybe she does.”

Damson raised an eyebrow but didn’t press further. Instead, his attention drifted back to Noémie, who had caught him staring and was now arching a playful eyebrow in return.

The show hadn’t even started, and yet, all eyes were already on them.

-evette

liked by kelvharrjr, noemieadebayo, nanalicampbell, and 34,000 others

evette first fashion show, kinda nervous :/…

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nanalicampbell wow! you’re, like, famous now!

⤷ evette don’t be weird Nala

⤷ nanalicampbell what?…

kelvharrjr who’s that dapper gentleman loafer next to you? I would like for you to tell him he’s dressed rather nice.

⤷ evette they will delete my account for the words I’m about to say to you.

⤷ kelvharrjr 🫢

noemieadebayo it was so nice talking to you! we have ti catch up some time again.

⤷ evette yes, it was so nice speaking to you as well! you’re messy and I love that, we gotta link again!

randomuser97 oh so they were at the Prada show other?…which could mean nothing.

⤷ otheruser1133 mind you, they’re both brand ambassadors for Prada?

randomeuserouthere idk if I wanna be her or him…

randomuser I could be their third 🫡

anotheruser when did she cut her hair? why is no in freaking out about this?

⤷ otheruser1133 baby, her hair been cut…

- noemieadebayo

liked by, damsonidris, evette, michaelbjordan, Prada, and 85,000 others

noemieadebayo prada dem

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evette the real runway diva

⤷ noemieadebayo 🤫

damsonidris my mini me! 😘

⤷ noemieadebayo damsie!

⤷ Prada the prada family! ❤️

Prada we love you!!💕

noemieadebayo luv u Prada <3

damsonidrisfanpage is that who I think it is?….i know that ain’t my man

⤷ otheruser1133 and he’s sending kissy faces in the chat 😔 that’s her man I fear

otheruser1133 they need to date already. I’ve been here for ten years!

randomuser10 mhmm, see that’s what I’m taking about. A black king right there!

If you wanted to be added to this tag list or any others, let a sista know! Let me know if you like it, I gotta write a dissertation for university now. If this gets enough likes, I’ll do some more parts to this but be warned, after they leave that fashion show thing might get a little freaky…

@theclownmimi @vile-harlot @notapradagurl7 @nubiagurllll @saltburnsworld @imsohappyilovekbop @jazzycool30 @kaylaahisthebestest- @mccteez @officialthrad @irishmanwhore

#kelvin harrison jr.#damson idris #kelvin harrison jr. fic #kelvin harrison jr x black oc #kelvinharrisonjrfanfic #kelvin harrison jr. x black oc #kelvin harrison jr x black reader #kelvin harrison jr. x reader #kelvin harrison jr x black!reader #kelvin harrison jr x reader #damson idris x black oc #damson idris x black reader #damson idris x black!oc #damson idris x black!reader #damson idris fanfic #damson idris x reader #jazziejaxwriting

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mountainsandmayhem · 2 months ago

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Maid Discreetly - Chapter Four

Tommy Miller x Female OC (18+ only)

Story Summary: After what he did to your best friend, fuck Joel Miller and the horse he rode in on! But a twist of fate has you falling for his brother, who is also your dad’s friend. Oh, and did you mention that you hate him? Can love really conquer all, or should you just settle for kinky hot sex with an older man? Chapter Summary: Fourth of July is supposed to be a holiday, so why does it feel like you're living your worst nightmare; aside from Tommy, that is. AN: Trigger warnings are underneath the cut in small red letters to avoid spoilers. Please remember to follow @mountainsandmayhem-updates for all future chapters. Divders by @saradika-graphics. As always thank you to @lotusbxtch and @for-a-longlongtime for helping me expand on my ideas and add all my punctuation xo. WC: 3.9k

Story Masterlist || My Masterlist || Joel and Kim

TW: mentions of emotional abuse/manipulation (not by Tommy), parents being parents, drinking alcohol and eating, emotional distress (Female OC is going through it, okay?)

You

Fourth of July

“Kiddo!” Your dad bellows up the stairs, “Let’s go. Guests are going to arrive soon and your mom needs help in the kitchen.”

I’m almost twenty five, you scream internally as you apply the last swipe of your red lipstick and double check to make sure your black winged eyeliner is even. For as long as you can remember, people have been telling you that you look like Audrey Hepburn or a young Elizabeth Taylor. All of those comments have shaped your style; a carefully curated blend of 1950’s and modern. Today, your long chestnut brown hair is in a high ponytail with the ends curled under, a white and red checkered ribbon tied in a bow around the elastic. You spin in the mirror, checking to make sure your high waisted navy blue shorts aren’t showing anything they shouldn’t be and then adjust the tie of your white button up shirt. You undo another top button. The bits of collarbone and the sliver of skin between the bottom of your shirt and the top of the shorts gives your outfit that flirty, modern edge you often incorporate.

“KIDDO!” Your dad yells again, right outside your bedroom door this time.

“Ya, I heard you,” You deadpan, grabbing your white flip flops and opening the door.

“There’s my little Hollywood star,” he says, smiling down at you as if he and your mother haven't spent all morning stress yelling at you, and each other, over every little thing. “You look beautiful.”

“Thanks, Dad,” you reply with a smile. “I’ll go see what Mom needs.”

Over the next hour or so, you and your mom chop, mix, and set everything out. Your parents are some of the wealthiest people in Austin, yet refused to hire people to help with the party. You wanted to be mad about it, but when your mom said that everyone deserves a day with their families you had to respect it. People with your kind of money are usually not concerned with anyone but themselves. You can often see that trait in your father, but your mom always puts others before herself.

As you head out the patio doors to the yard, your mind wanders to Tommy. You saw him briefly when he came to pick your dad up for a round of golf the other day. It was the first time you saw him in short sleeves. You tried not to stare at his arms…you really fucking tried. Unfortunately for you, Tommy Miller was not only ripped, but his arms are also covered in tattoos. Every inch of his exposed skin, aside from his hands, was covered in black, grey and white designs. Your dad’s voice pulls you from your memories of Tommy.

“Here, kiddo,” he says, handing you a bag of ice. “For the bar.”

Your parents’ large backyard is all decked out in red, white, and blue. The pool is set to the perfect temperature, towels embroidered with the family crest rolled perfectly on the chairs, striped umbrellas popped open to offer shade to those who want it. Tables of food and small seating areas occupy the grass. Lights are strung above the entire yard for when it gets dark. It’s another incredibly hot day, so your dad had misters brought in to keep people cool. You switch the one on by the open bar before dumping the ice into the tub then double check to make sure every drink ingredient known to mankind is out for the guests. As you pour yourself a glass of chilled white wine, the one voice you didn’t want to ever hear again sounds from far too close behind you.

“Bar maid, I’ll take a whiskey sour.” Preston laughs, thinking his jokes about you being his maid are one, still funny and two, don’t make him a misogynistic asshole.

“Just when I thought I might actually enjoy this party,” you sigh, spinning to face him.

He holds his hand out as if he’s expecting his drink to appear. Just the sight of him sets your teeth on edge.

“Absolutely not,” you state, trying to step around him. His footsteps follow yours, blocking you between him and the bar; his eyes on your exposed skin makes you feel itchy.

“It used to be your pleasure to make a drink for me. Remember?” His eyes haven’t met yours once, they started on your lips and are now firmly planted on your chest.

“Things were different then,” you say. The way he stands there, one hand out in demand, the other buried in the pocket of his red dress shorts - which he’s paired with blue suede loafers and white button up shirt - is almost predatory. Even though you know him, alarm bells ring through your entire body and you move your drink out of his reach. He’s not much taller than you, but you feel small and exposed as his midnight blue eyes try to burn holes into your shirt.

“Be the obedient daughter your dad and I always wanted, baby.” His voice is low and almost serpentine; like could strike at any time. “Make us proud. Make my drink with a smile, like you actually understand what an honour it is to serve someone from the Barnes family tree.”

His words get sharper towards the end. Red splotches appear on his neck; your sign to either listen to him or get the fuck out of there. Preston Barnes never hit you, he was never physically abusive, but he was this. Manipulative. Conniving. He’d make a great politician, and the thought of that is enough to have bile rising in your throat.

“No.” You hate that it comes out as a shaky whisper.

“Come on, be a good girl.” He steps in closer and you inhale as if to brace yourself for whatever is going to come next. A high-pitched voice interrupts whatever he’s trying to prove here.

“Preston, baby! I was looking for you.” A perfect, little blonde woman appears in your vision and as she continues you pick up a hint of an accent, “Oh, hi! I’m Sasha, Preston’s fiancé.”

It shouldn’t feel like a slap in the face or like being doused with cold water and hot water collectively, but it does. She holds out her left hand, a too large square diamond perched on the slender finger she wiggles in your direction. Either she is blissfully unaware of who you are, or she’s a total bitch and you and your friend group will now have a new person to gossip about. Of course Preston would move on quickly, on paper he is a perfect match. He pulls her into his side and places a kiss on top of her head.

“I was just getting us a drink and catching up with my old friend,” he looks back at you, at your eyes this time. He doesn’t bother to introduce you, a power move he often bragged to you about when you were on his arm. He told you he’d do it when the person in front of him isn’t worth knowing. “If you’ll excuse me though, I’d like to make my petite love a drink.”

The switch in his personality from intimidating you to love bombing her is almost enough to knock the air right out of you. As you step around him, you see Tommy across the yard. You hold his gaze for a second too long, but for whatever reason, looking in his golden brown eyes calms you; brings you back to who you are and who you promised to never be again. The insecure woman you were with Preston is not who you are today. As Preston and Sasha make their drinks, he loudly tells her about how he wants to introduce her to Jim since he’s in line to become CEO of Maid Discreetly. You swallow down the rage and walk off, letting the warmth of Tommy’s eyes burn off the oily feeling that Preston’s spiteful gaze left.

Once everyone has finished eating, you move to help clean up, collecting serving dishes and American flag embossed paper plates and napkins. Preston has found a way to pop up in every circle of conversation you’ve participated in tonight, and much to your dismay, he always manages to bring up his fiancee. Turns out, Sasha is quite a talented ballerina. She grew up in Russia, and came to America at twelve to study dance. She recently turned nineteen and her dream is to dance for the New York City Ballet. When she mentioned her goals, Preston quickly told her that she has two years before he wants a family and she’s not getting any younger. You almost feel bad for her. As you stack dishes to go into the house in your arms, Tommy’s hands appear.

“Can I help you?” He asks before grabbing the few Pyrex dishes you have resting in your arms.

“I’m not in the mood, Tommy,” you huff, avoiding looking at him.

“I promise you, I just want to help.”

You place the dishes in his hands, let out a sigh, and then grab more dishes before following him into the house. As you place everything on the island, you can feel his gaze is fixed to your profile. He’s shoulder to shoulder with you - or as much as he can be since he’s almost a full foot taller than you - and close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body and smell his cologne; a mix of fresh mountain air and sawdust.

“Thank you,” you say, trying to muster any sort of happiness into your voice, keeping your eyes on the dishes and the counter. You’ve been raised to smile and be polite, say “it’s good to see you” even if it isn’t, but something about Tommy feels…well, you aren’t really sure, since you’ve never felt this before. At first you thought it was comfort or care, but neither of those words seem strong enough.

“Of course.” He leans forward a bit in your peripheral, getting a view of your face. “Hey, are you ok?”

Sasha’s melodic laugh comes through the large open window above the sink and rage bubbles deep in your gut. You brush past Tommy to slide it shut with a wince and a huff. He says your name softly and when you finally look at him you finally have a word for how Tommy Miller makes you feel.

Safe.

It’s like a live wire, humming, but not dangerous, and none of it makes sense because just a few weeks ago you looked at him and thought ‘asshole’. The only logical explanation is that anyone looks good when compared to Preston, but you also thought about crawling into Tommy’s lap in your dad’s office the other week. Maybe he’s just around too often when you’re feeling vulnerable. Or he’s trying to use you to get an in - just like Preston did.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Tommy asks.

It happens before you can stop it: an embarrassingly sad sob works its way up your throat and out your mouth.

“Shit, sweetheart.” This time the pet name you thought you hated comes out sincere and full of love. “Come here.”

Tommy

He pulls you by the wrist into the butler’s pantry. This would be what a normal person's kitchen would look like if they were hosting a party like this; cutting boards and knives in the sink, half empty boxes of crackers and open bags of chips ready to refill bowls. He leads you to the stool in front of the counter and guides you to lean back on it before looking for tissue.

“Sorry,” you sniff.

“You don’t have to be. Just let it out,” he says, handing you a few Kleenexes.

You dab gently under your eyes, looking at your lap. “This is so embarrassing.”

He should keep his hands to himself, he should get your mom or someone to come in here. He knows it's going to be his undoing, but he places his hands on the outside of your thighs and crouches in front of you.

“Hey, look at me,” he whispers. Your sad, sparkling green eyes collide with his and his heart cracks at how broken and defeated you look. “I’m here, or I can go get someone else if you want. But I think you need to get some things out, and that’s nothing to be embarrassed about. If anyone should be embarrassed, it’s me. I could tell you were uncomfortable by the bar earlier, but I didn’t think you’d want me to intervene.”

You take a deep shuddering breath in. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Tommy.”

“This time,” he says with a small smile and you laugh humorlessly. He should have stepped in, he knows that, but he's all turned around in his head as to where the two of you stand. Plus, he’s still feeling guilty about what he said at the gala. When you don’t respond, he speaks again.

“Do you want me to get someone else? Your mom, maybe?” His fingers flex into the soft warmth of your smooth thighs subconsciously, not wanting to go.

You shake your head, more tears flooding your lash line.

“Alright. Are you okay?”

“No, it’s - I’ll be fine.” You give him a fake smile, just like you gave your dad in his office. He’s not fooled by that in the slightest and hates that you feel the need to act like that with him. However, he hasn’t proven to you yet the type of guy he really is, so he’s the only one in this pantry to blame for your actions.

“I didn’t ask if you’d be fine. I know you will come out of this stronger than you already are. I asked, at this moment, if you’re okay. Those are two very different questions, sweetheart.” He swirls his thumb along your skin as you let out a slow, sad exhale.

“Preston is my ex-fiancé. My dad fucking loves him.” He watches as you swallow hard, and even though his knees are screaming in this position, he refuses to move. “I don’t know how much you know about my family, but when I was seven, my older brother passed away. As gross or outdated as this sounds, families like ours are supposed to have a son to carry on the legacy. He’s going to give the business to Preston. I’m sure of it.”

“I’m sorry you’re dealing with all of this. For what it’s worth, your father speaks very highly of you and I’ve never once heard him mention Preston when he talks about being in California.”

A tear escapes the corner of your eye and he catches it before you can. For a split second he swears you lean into his touch as the pad of his middle finger wipes the tear away, your skin is soft and warm under his hands. His mouth waters as he catches the pear and mint scent of your perfume. Your bright green eyes sparkle sadly, but he revels in the feeling of you really looking at him for once.

“Thank you for saying that,” you whisper.

“I don’t say things that aren’t true, sweetheart.”

“I’m sorry for ruining your time, Tommy.”

He stands, and without thinking about it, cups your chin and tilts your gaze up to his. “Stop apologizing to me. I know we started off wrong, but if you aren’t having a good time, then neither am I. Understand?”

You nod into his palm, and then your hand lands on top of the one he still has on your leg, holding him there. “I just wish my dad would see me on the same level as Preston. He should see me above him since I’m his daughter. Fuck, at this point I would settle for equal.”

Everything about this night is killing Tommy; the feeling of your skin against his, the tears that line your lash line. If he couldn’t get you out of his mind before, he’s utterly fucked now. Regardless of that, he’s not letting go until you do.

He clears the sand that’s formed in his throat before speaking. “I think that’s a tricky thing about dads and their daughters. They’ll always see them as their little baby girl, regardless of how old they get. My niece is twenty six and a doctor, but Joel just sees that little girl he taught to ride a bike.”

The realization of what he just said hits him like a Mack truck. Jim mentioned you were almost twenty five, which means you’re younger than Sarah. And Tommy’s standing here at thirty nine cradling your chin and wishing he could press his lips to yours and tell you everything is going to be ok. Your skin starts to burn under his palms. This is wrong. What he’s feeling, what he hopes you want, too; everything about it is wrong. He pulls his hands away and steps back, his rough palm scratching against your soft thigh as he does. He has to get some distance before he does something cataclysmic.

“I know that’s not helpful, sweetheart, but your dad is proud of you. I think I’ve heard more about you than any thoughts he has for the renovations.”

You smile and then bite the inside of your cheek before speaking. “Thank you, Tommy.”

God, he wants to kiss you.

“Of course, sweetheart. I know we don’t know each other well, but I’m always here. Okay?”

“Yea,” you say with a nod. When you stand he steps further back to stop himself from grabbing you.

“We should get back.” He says, jerking his head towards the kitchen and the party.

“I’m just going to go check my makeup. Thank you, Tommy. I know I already said that, but I mean it. You are slowly proving that you maybe aren’t such an asshole after all.”

He can’t stop the shit-eating grin from spreading across his face. With a laugh he says, “That killed you to say, didn’t it?”

You laugh, too, easy and genuine as you walk past him and into the kitchen. “Fuck off, Miller.”

You

It’s been a few weeks since the Fourth of July. The rest of the party went smoothly; Preston and Sasha were gone when you got back outside, and you ended up having a really good time. Laren eventually showed up and the two of you floated in the pool on large flamingos, drinking champagne and watching the fireworks your dad arranged. Tommy looked absolutely beautiful under the dim lights. You tried not to sneak glances his way, but you swear anytime you weren’t directly looking at him, he was looking at you.

You have a meeting with him next month to discuss the office renovation, and every time you see it in your calendar, you get butterflies. It’s ridiculous, really; he’s got to be nearing forty, what is he going to want with someone younger than his niece? Granted, Kim is younger than Joel's daughter and that didn’t stop them. Since she’s on your mind, you send Kim a quick text to see how her internship is going before heading to the office kitchen to make a coffee.

Knowing that you’re going to be in charge of the renovation has you looking at the office differently lately. Your dad and the finance department have their offices on one side; meanwhile, you and all the other departments are on the other. There’s a large lobby and breakroom in between the two sets of offices. The lobby rarely gets used since your dad goes to the clients homes to properly quote their services, and most of the contracts are done through email or your dad meeting them for lunch or a drink. Furthermore, the purchaser’s office is downstairs in the warehouse. It’s simply not practical to have all the offices spread out like this. Your dad laid out a budget and even though it’s not much, you think you and Tommy will be able to come up with something much more efficient.

As you steam your oat milk, Yolanda, your dad’s assistant, knocks on the door frame of the kitchen and says your name. “Your dad would like to see you.”

She’s a firecracker of a woman; small and Hispanic, and not someone anyone would dare to mess with. She runs around the office getting your dad exactly what, or who, he needs. Anyone else in her position would be perpetually stressed, but she takes no shit and everyone, your dad included, asks ‘how high’ when she says ‘jump’. She nudges you out of the way, your cue to let her finish your coffee so you don’t keep your dad waiting.

You knock on the open door as you walk into your dad’s office. “You asked to see me?”

Another thing that bothers you about the offices is how differently each person's office is decorated, like they were all designed by someone else and the furniture was an afterthought. Case in point: your office has large windows, a glass desk and pink and gold furniture, while your dad’s has one window with a cheap plastic shade over it, a cherry wood desk that’s way too big for the space, and a black metal filing cabinet.

Your dad extends a hand towards the chairs across from his desk and you take a seat in one of the worn down blue chairs across from him. “Honey, I want to discuss your additional task when you’re sitting in for me. As you know, I’m going to California to start expanding and I know you’ve been chomping at the bit to onboard clients.”

“Are you giving me a client?” you ask, trying not to sound too eager or presumptuous.

“Kiddo, you know the pricing structure better than anyone else, but you also know this future client so I think it will be a good practice round.”

Excitement bubbles in your chest and you beam up at him. “Thank you, Dad!”

“It’s a bit out of town, so factor your mileage in when quoting it.” He slides a black folder with the Maid Discreetly logo on it across to you. It’s silly, but you remember when you ordered these custom folders. They’re the only black folders allowed in the office and every single one of them stays with your dad. They hold the confidential information of the hundreds of clients. Each one gets locked in that ugly black metal cabinet.

“He’s expecting you on Wednesday at 10 AM. That gives you today and tomorrow to ensure you’re free all day for him.”

You smile. “Wednesday, 10 AM,” you repeat. “I won’t let you down.”

Yolanda appears with your coffee in hand. After you take it from her, she taps her foot impatiently, like your dad has something more important to attend to now. “Is that everything, Dad?”

“Don’t lose that folder,” he says sternly.

“Of course, Jim,” you say, using his first name so he knows how serious you’re taking this moment. You keep it pressed tightly to your body as you make a beeline for your office. It feels like every employee in the office is staring at you as you carry that important folder. Anyone who isn’t your father or the billing department has no business being in possession of this file. When you get to your office, you shut the door and take a calming breath. The name written at the top of this file is about to change the trajectory of your career, putting you on the path that you’ve been dying to take.

You sit at your desk with shaky knees before opening the folder slowly. Your eyes eagerly scan over the name of your first potential client. Your heart thunders as you read the name again. This person both excites and terrifies you; it’s someone you can’t wait to see again but also won’t hold back with how you do during the onboarding process.

Tommy Miller.

#tommy miller the last of us #tommy miller tlou #tommy tlou #tommy the last of us #tommy miller smut #tommy miller x reader #tommy miller #tommy miller x female oc #tommy miller x y/n #tommy miller x you #Tommy Miller AU #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fic #the last of us #hbo the last of us #hbo tlou #tlou hbo #the last of us hbo #gabriel luna

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neeeooon · 4 months ago

Note

can I request a (platonic) one-shot or smth oc kunigami post wc and bm!player reader who's basically outgoing, whimsical and everything? think like sunshine & grump.

for example like reade just yap to kunigami 24/7 uninterrupted while he just listens and does whatever

I feel like isagi would wonder how reader could even get kunigami to listen to them yap (and sometimes get responses) while all he can get is just a simple rude remark or smth lol

YES i love platonic reader & bllk posts idc idc

yapper best friend (for real)

bm!kunigami & bm!player reader. platonic, crack, reader is very hinata shoyo coded, guest starring isagi

bm!kunigami ties his shoes as he listens to you go on about the match. "and then i was like, wham! and you were like, whoosh, ka-blam! right, kunigami?!"

bm!kunigami simply nods his head, used to your nonsensical rants by now, as his teammates stare at the two of you in awe. you waved your hands as you continued narrating the play that just happened, as if kunigami didn't also experience it, but he never once interrupted.

bm!kunigami ignores the others when hiori and kurona shove isagi forward, but you light up and wave. "oh, hey, guys! did you see the play?! where i was like, wham—"

"y/n," isagi cuts you off and rubs awkwardly at his nape. "how can you get kunigami to listen to you yap? when i tried going over the play with him, he called me a dung beetle..."

bm!kunigami watches as you scrunch your shoulders up and smile at your teammates. "easy! i'm his best friend, for real!"

they wait patiently for bm!kunigami to correct you, but he simply turns his head away to sip his water.

bm!kunigami waits for them to leave before turning all his attention back onto you as you pick up right where you left off.

bm!kunigami eventually packs his stuff to return to the dorms for the day, and surprise surprise, you’re right on his trail. “wanna sit together at dinner? i know you like eating by yourself, but it’s gotta get lonely, right? it’s my best friend duty to keep you company!”

bm!kunigami prefers eating alone, but he knows it’s pointless to get a word in with you. he nods once instead and watches you celebrate for only a second before hurrying back to his room.

#requested!#blue lock #bllk #blue lock headcanons #bllk headcanons #bllk x you #blue lock x you #bllk fanfic #blue lock fanfic #kunigami rensuke #bllk kunigami #blue lock kunigami #kunigami oneshot #kunigami headcanons #kunigami fluff #wildcard kunigami

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flipppyflopp · 9 months ago

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“No sleeping in, not even on my birthday. There’s too much to get done to waste the day in bed.” 🎉✨

Happy birthday to my twst oc, Arlen Nox! I decided to do my spin on the new birthday card theme for Arlen even though they haven’t released a Diasomnia character yet, so Arlen might not match Silver and the others when they come out. Trey and Floyd were big inspirations for Arlen’s card from his to his pajamas. Specifically for his pajamas I wanted to incorporate Kingdom Hearts elements since Arlen’s main inspiration is Riku, so I tied in some dream eater references.

If you swipe you can see how Arlen spent part of his birthday as well as what presents he received from his friends. Below you can read Arlen’s birthday vignette written in a similar style to the new birthday vignettes, which guest stars the character voted as Arlen’s duo partner on Instagram…Silver! I hope you all enjoy and if you have any questions about Arlen, feel free to leave them in my inbox! ✨

.✨✨✨.

Arlen: Alright, I should be able to take these back to my room before track practice.

Arlen: Wait a second…who’s that lying on the ground up ahead? Are they hurt?

Arlen: Oh, it’s just Silver. I don’t have time to waste…but I hate to leave him in case he’s in a hurry to get somewhere too.

Arlen: Silver? Wake up, Silver. Now’s not the time to be napping. Silver! SILVER!

Silver: Huh? What? Oh, Arlen, it’s you.

Arlen: Yeah, sorry about yelling in your ear. You were sleeping pretty soundly.

Silver: Sorry for the trouble I caused. I appreciate you taking the time to wake me up.

Arlen: It’s fine. I was just on my way back from the post office and saw you laying there on the side of the path.

Silver: Post office? Not many students go there with all the technology available today.

Arlen: Unfortunately, I’m not the best with technology, so I go there quite frequently. Today, I was picking up a card my stepparents sent me.

Silver: A card? Were they congratulating you about your performance in the recent track meet?

Arlen: No, they sent me a birthday card.

Silver: Birthday? I’m terribly sorry if I missed it. Happy-

Arlen: Slow down, Silver, my birthday’s not until tomorrow.

Silver: Really? I apologize for getting ahead of myself.

Arlen: Quit apologizing, birthdays aren’t a big deal anyways. Just another day of the year.

Silver: Oh? Are you not a fan of big celebrations on your birthday?

Arlen: Not really? I don’t know, I just don’t understand the need to get so worked up about them. All you’re doing is getting older, what’s there to really celebrate?

Silver: Hmm. I suppose people just like to celebrate that you lived another year, uplifting your growth and the memories you made in that short span of time.

Arlen: Sounds about right, I guess. The best part’s getting to eat cake.

Silver: Really? I thought you weren’t a fan of sweets?

Arlen: Just ice cream, it’s way too sugary for my tastes. I enjoy cakes and pies just fine.

Silver: That explains Malleus’s initial reaction to you…

Arlen: Huh?

Silver: It’s nothing, just…hold on a moment, I just got a text from Sebek.

Silver: Oh no, I was asleep longer than I thought. I must be getting to the Equestrian Club. Farewell, Arlen!

Arlen: Bye, Silver.

Arlen: Guess I’d better hurry on myself. Chatting with Silver’s nice, but I can’t be late to practice or else I’ll have to run extra laps.

.✨✨✨.

Arlen: There’s nothing like a hot shower after practice.

Arlen: Speaking of practice, I need to write down my new personal best. Can’t believe I managed to shave off four seconds today. Maybe it’s some early birthday luck.

Arlen: The next track meet isn’t for another month, so I’ve got plenty of time to cut down more time off my personal best. I wish I could shave off some more time from our relay record, it could definitely use some improvement.

Arlen: Competing individually comes easier to me than competing as a group. When it’s just me, I only have to worry about myself. When I’m competing with others, I not only worry about myself, but I have to worry about the other guys as well. It’s a lot of trusting one another, which doesn’t come easily…especially in a school like Night Raven College.

Arlen: Luckily, Jack and Deuce handle their share of the relay just fine. Although, I wonder if by becoming closer it would shave off time for our relay….hmmm. Maybe I’ll treat them to dinner tomorrow after practice, they’d enjoy that.

*Bzzt*

Arlen: My phone? Who could that be? Oh, Soren wants to FaceTime. Sure for just a couple minutes.

Soren: ARLEN! What took you so long? It took you like three rings instead of two! What-

Arlen: Slow down, Soren. I just got back from showering after practice. I’m a bit sore today.

Soren: Oh, I see! Must be trying to beat my time from the track meet last week.

Arlen: Yeah right, you’re the one trying to catch up to me. Speaking of which, you’re going to have to work harder, I just shaved off four more seconds.

Soren: WAIT WHAT?! YOU GOTTA BE KIDDING ME! Kai won’t believe me when I tell him tomorrow.

Arlen: I could always send you a picture of my time as proof.

Soren: Ha ha, very funny. Laugh it up while you can, you’ll be eating my dust soon enough.

Arlen: As if.

Soren: Oh let me tell you what happened in class today! So I was sitting with Neige…

*Time Passes*

Soren: I couldn’t believe it when Chenya came out of alchemy lab with bright green hands.

Arlen: Well that’s what you get when you mix aloe and pixie dust.

*Knock*

Lilia: Arlen, it’s past lights out. Off to bed with you.

Arlen: My bad!

Arlen: Sorry, Soren, we’ll have to talk later.

Soren: That’s fine. But before you go, I’ve got one last thing to say to you.

Arlen: What?

Soren: Happy birthday, Arlen!

*Click*

Arlen: Huh? Is it really-

Arlen: We talked for that long!? So that’s why he kept flying through topics, just to get to midnight.

Arlen: Wait…

Arlen: Why was Lilia doing lights out checks so late!? What was he doing?!

Arlen: No use wasting time thinking about that. I’ve got to get to bed so I can get up early.

.✨✨✨.

Arlen: Time to start the day. It’s nice waking up early because the dorm bathroom is completely empty. Most people don’t get up at the crack of dawn like I do. Sometimes I run into Sebek or Malleus, which is quite the jump scare as Idia would say.

Arlen: Alright, quick shower then it’s time to head out.

Arlen: I don’t spend too much time on my appearance. Just combing my hair, brushing my teeth, the usual. No point spending extra time when it’ll just get messy from the wind later.

Arlen: Some guys go all out with makeup and hair products, but that’s just not my thing. Just some lotion will do just fine. Dry skin gets on my last nerve.

Arlen: Alright, next on my morning routine. Time to go get the feed from my room. I like being outside early, it’s a good way to clear my head. I feed the animals around the dorm while I’m at, might as well since I’m already out.

Arlen: I can see the birds waiting up in the rafters of the courtyard. They always wait up there, never getting close till I put the feed out…I hope they’ll grow to like me some day. Animals just don’t seem to like me, I get it though.

Arlen: Hmm?

Arlen: A little sparrow is hopping right in front of me? Want something to eat little guy?

Arlen: Huh? Another bird’s come down? A rabbit too? I haven’t even put down any food yet!?

???: Getting along with the animals, Arlen?

Arlen: Silver! That explains why the animals got closer than normal.

Silver: I’m sure they’re just finally coming around to you.

Arlen: As if.

Silver: You just gotta have more confidence in yourself. The animals can tell you’re nervous. Here.

Arlen: Huh? What are you doing with that bird? Silver, wait-

Silver: Just put your hand out like so and the bird will have a nice place to sit. Perfect.

Arlen: Silver, take it back before I hurt-

Silver: You’re fine, just breathe. See? It’s okay.

Arlen: …

Silver: Arlen? I’m sorry if I rushed you into-

Arlen: So what are you doing up so early? Doesn’t a sleepyhead like you snooze through the morning.

Silver: Usually, yes, but I had something important this morning.

Arlen: Really?

Silver: Arlen, happy birthday.

Arlen: Huh? Ha…ha ha ha!

Silver: What’s so funny?

Arlen: Something important? It’s just my birthday. You said that like it was the secret to saving the world from darkness or something.

Silver: It’s important to me. I wanted you to know your birthday mattered to me, so much so I wanted to be the first to say it.

Arlen: Really? That’s…really kind of you. Thank you, Silver.

Silver: You’re welcome, Arlen. I hope you don’t think that’s all I prepared, I also made some coffee cake in the kitchen for breakfast.

Arlen: Pulling out all the stops aren’t you.

Silver: Of course for a friend like you.

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taegularities · 2 years ago

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colour me in: translucent | jjk (m)

Summary: And whenever the world seems to fall apart and your thoughts cast a shadow over your heart, he rushes to lift you to your feet. Conjoining your hearts and souls, again and again and again.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: fwb/f2l, fake dating; some healthy angst, so much fluff, smut ➳ warnings: y’all. So. Much. Fluff, talk about stars, talk about his hometown, mention of a wedding 😁, 1 nara mention, a guest appearance!!, and another guest appearance…, daddy issues mention, oc has a tummy ache :(, banter, conversation with her mom, badass oc, their friends <3, moving and work stress, overworking, kook panics in this one, oc does too, tears and tears and tea–, abandonment issues, overthinking!!!, they communicate too late bc they’re scared, pregnancy scare, mention of throwing up, kissing and hand holding <3, petnames, insecurities/slight envy; explicit sexual content: diving right into the smut as the chapter starts 🤭, tie around oc’s neck ha ha, oral (f. receiving) (over panties and without 🥲), fingering, brief masturbation (m.), making out, jk takes the backseat and oc drives for a while <3, bit of choking, they’re half clothed for a bit, tiddie and butt love, tears, flirting, big dick jk, soft dom jk, emotions omg 😷, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, squirting, he unloads in her mouth 😄, and yeah, maybe more but i forgot – lmk if you notice smth! also… THE 👏 EN 👏 DING 🚨🚨🚨 ➳ word count: 35.8k 💀 ➳ a/n: here it is… after a long ass fight with tumblr and my tears, it’s here! i don’t have much to say this time except that this chapter means the world to me. and i hope you love it just as much. shoutout to @missgeniality for betaing parts of this and helping me with difficult scenes, i truly struggled!! <3 if you guys enjoy this one, let me know and don’t be shy to reach out!! love you and let’s dive in 🥺 ➳ listen to: say you won't let go by james arthur | full collaborative playlist 🤍

SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST MASTERLIST | WIPs | DC SERVER

The whispers cease the moment your door closes.

The whispers of the world, of all traffic, of all passersby, of all echoes. And those in your head, susurrating since you left the glass building and its conference hall.

They dim the moment you drop your palm off the door; your heart is still a nervous mess as you take your shoes off, watch him take his shoes off. He places them neatly in the shoe cabinet, jacket hung on one of the coat hooks.

Right here, you’re surrounded by a tranquil, quiet dome. Not as subdued as the emotions the outer world elicits; just an arena that feels perpetually warm, sepia and still.

And amidst that warmth, there’s yearning. You feel it in every nerve of your body, burning through your limbs. Stunning sentiments pull at your soul, making it heavy; and your heart floats, perpetually above the clouds.

As he rubs his cheek with a soft hand — you know, because you were holding it just two minutes ago, clutching it in the car for dear life —, you take a step forward, your mouth open, but not quite capable of saying all that’s weighing on your tongue.

They’re good things; amazing things. And he hasn’t yet gathered all his thoughts either to truly voice what he’s been hiding since you left the chaos. Only opting for the living room, painfully slowly, as if he’s waiting to face you again.

And maybe… maybe he really is. And maybe he doesn’t need to talk at all.

Because he stops the moment you speak, tenderly calling, “Jungkook.”

It’s all he needs. Combined with the lightest touch to his elbow, a hint of your voice is all he needs. He wants to keep hearing his name. Again and again and again. And today, announcing it to the world, you promised that you’ll be doing just that.

Shit. What have you done to his heart? He wants to ask questions that neither of you has an answer to; or, not one that can be verbalised. One that could explain this euphoria.

So he doesn’t say anything at all.

Instead, he stumbles as he turns back to you again, taking a deep breath before his head tilts. The unbounded amount of want is swimming in his tired eyes, and you barely manage a hushed, “Should we—” before his fingers flutter and he—

Dashes straight toward you. One large step, both hands jacking up to take your face captive. He raises your head, eyes closing, mouth parting an inch before it’s locked with yours.

If he hadn’t started, you would have.

The same thumb always caressing your skin pulls your lower lip down. An unfaltering habit, tender whenever he spirals. You trip backwards, with him in tow, immediately gripping his arms with a wild, accelerating heartbeat.

Your soul was already awake, lit up from today’s events; but he dunks it in a brighter shine — and now it flushes pink.

For a while, your kiss’ sounds are all that echo off the wall, mixing with your sighs. He starts gently, head angled, diving deeper.

Every now and then, he tugs at your lip ever-so-slightly, teeth and tongue dragging over it. The wet muscle is soft against yours, and you let your touch drop down to his waist to hold him closer.

But there’s not that much time to dissolve into him right here, against your entrance door, because Jungkook backs away before you can bid your sanity adieu. Maybe that’s for later.

Maybe you need to be okay with his breath grazing your skin for now, for the words he murmurs so close to your lips, “You’re crazy for this. Absolutely crazy.”

You are. Both okay with this, and incredibly crazy.

There’s never been more certainty in your actions or your intentions than whatever you do with him. For him — if that deems you crazy, then you absolutely are.

Heated from the kiss, Jungkook steps away, but not without entangling your fingers with his. On the way to the bedroom, you ignore everything that doesn’t entail him.

Like, the humming of the fridge. Or the sound of the traffic outside, audible through the tilted window. And the buzzing of your phone; it’s been doing that for a while now.

Of course it is.

But you don’t hesitate to deposit it on your bedside table mere seconds later; you barely manage to put it there, nearly watching it slide down as Jungkook pulls you back. You clash against his body, and the tongue once again mingling with yours only enhances your disorientation.

God, you’re a lost cause. Nothing else to expect with his palm holding your jaw, arm slung around you, kissing you senseless.

Time slows down; the sensation turns electric. His motions are rhythmic, fingers brushing your neck. And despite the bitterness he must have felt at the conference, he tastes so , so sweet.

Heady desire growing, you grip the back of his head, pushing it closer. You’re insatiable. Yearning for more of his damp, soft lips, hysterical when he lets out a craving, small moan.

“Do you have any idea,” he starts, giving your neck no more than a handful of teasing pecks, “what that did to me?”

He moves back until you plummet into the mattress; your eyes follow when he leans in and falls to his knees. Placing a hand at the nape of your neck, tenderly moving your face a bit closer to his.

“Without a warning, too,” he continues, “what, were you planning to drive me mad for so long?”

Not the angry kind of mad. His smile and the fondness in his eyes reveal that much. No — the mad that a lover is.

“Did it work?” you ask, and he flashes his teeth, beloved crinkles around his eyes.

“Did it? What do you think?” He kisses your nose; then, the apple of your cheek. “You didn’t notice any of it today? Or any other time before that?”

“I wanted to… I want everyone to know. I was going to tell you when you came home, but… I wanted to say it in front of everybody. That,” you touch the collar of his blazer, rubbing it between your fingertips, “I’m done with their games. I don’t care anymore, Jungkook.”

“I know… You don’t care.” His hand leaves the nape of your neck, caressing your face. “But you care about me, yes? You care so much.”

It’s not really a question. It’s a statement, a reassurance to himself. A mantra, as if he needs to repeat it and let it reverberate in his mind until he’s grasped its meaning.

“I do,” you whisper, peeling the blazer off his shoulder by only a few inches, “and I want to stay. Can I… just stay here?”

“You’re crazy,” he echoes once more, emphasising his words with a shake of his head, “to think I’ll let you go again. You’ll see.”

Although he still establishes a brief, temporary distance between the two of you right after; you’re reluctant to stop feeling his warmth when he stands. He towers over you, and you muster utmost courage to not faint.

Because the sight is one to behold.

How he removes the blazer in a swift movement, discarding it on top of the table at the wall. He rolls up the sleeve of his shirt, but only one side, glancing at you throughout the ordeal.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you ask.

“Why is your mouth open like that?”

“Do this exactly in front of a mirror, and… and you’ll know why.”

He smirks. “Right. And stare at yourself in the mirror for longer than a second, and you’ll know why, too.”

God, this guy…

And he actually doesn’t stop.

His pupils keep wandering; to your eyes, to your lips, to your heaving chest. To how you close your legs when he loosens his tie with tattooed fingers, lettered knuckles on full display. He opens a single button of his dress shirt; enough to reveal a patch of golden skin.

The tie dangles off his neck, doing wonders to your mind, and you resist the urge to grab it and pull him down to you. But you don’t need to; you only get to cherish the sight for another second.

Because right after, he pulls it over his head, baring the highly kissable mole on his neck before—

“What are you doing?” you wonder, eyes wide, and probably filled with anticipation as he puts the tie around your neck. “I’m…”

“Looks a lot better on you.”

One more shake of his head. You subtly catch a jerk behind his pants, and your gaze drops instantly. Behind the dark slacks, he’s already waiting for you, and the thought leaves you frothing at the mouth.

“You’re not looking bad yourself…” you say, drifting off, barely looking into his face as your hand reaches out. “May I?”

“What, baby?”

“Just…”

You move forward, a palm to his thigh, and close your eyes before placing a kiss to the growing bulge. It twitches under your lips, and you drag your mouth lightly over his dick’s outline.

“Should’ve known,” Jungkook breathes, affected straight away, “but somehow, this is worse than your hand.”

“Really?”

He clicks his tongue when you do it again, unfazed by the layer between you as you give his clothed cock an open-mouthed kiss. Two of his fingers settle underneath your chin, and he raises your head in order to meet your gaze.

Then, he pushes you back a little, within a second back to one knee; then the other. He cocks an eyebrow as if to reprimand you, but then gulps down a chuckle as he says, “Really. But wait a bit more.”

You need to wait, because he prioritises your pleasure. One demand you’re ready to give into.

So, so prepared, when he asks politely, “Open your slacks?” You do. The way he drags his hands over your thigh and up to your hips, starting to discard your pants, is arguably less polite. “Here we go. Raise your ass.”

You help him out as best as you can. But he attaches his lips to your naked thigh the moment it comes into view, scattering kisses over your hot skin as he casts it off of you entirely.

You raise your feet a bit above the ground, and he uses the moment to separate your legs. Doesn’t even bother taking off your panties first; casually making himself at home between your limbs.

Light-headed, you open your eyelids halfway to glance at the blurry ceiling light; you never noticed when you closed them. Maybe when the sweetness spread over your thighs’ skin.

Maybe he’s as dizzy as you — only, when your whirling stare descends to his face, he’s smirking. And for a second, you don’t understand why. Puzzled, you keep looking, observing the tempting lick over his lips; the deep exhale; the barely-there blinking.

And then he says, “Never thought about it. But you should wear light-coloured panties more often.”

“…Why?”

But you soon get why.

Because you feel the arousal behind the fabric. How it glues your pussy to it, the damp spot probably growing. It’s visible — that’s what he’s liking so much.

He can see all of the desire you harbour for him, showcased so blatantly. And despite the embarrassment, watching his face flush in that rosy dust boosts your ego, too.

Your face burns.

“You’ve been like that for…” he starts, shrugging his shoulders in curiosity, “how long now?”

“Long enough. And I dare you to do something about it.”

Because fuck, he talks too much. In hindsight, only really when you need him to shut up; deliberately.

“Oh god,” he exclaims, dramatic as ever; as he raises a hand, you nearly think he’ll place it on his chest for further effect, but he only touches your knee, “now if you’re daring me, I’ll have to.”

“Mhm. I’m sure you’re not a sore lo—”

“Yeah, yeah.”

It’s a rude interruption, and the sudden push of his fingertip against your clit is ruder. It’s a momentary touch, fleeting, as opposed to the slow and calculated way that he buries his face in your panties. Eyes glued to yours for a moment.

And then…

Then, you relish the first taste of Heaven — as does he, you suppose.

Because the satisfied sigh is outrageous, hot against your covered folds. He licks over the damp stain, only the tip of his tongue; thoroughly salivated, because you feel the wetness seeping through the clothing.

There’s no moment between the start of his action and your immediate, ”Fuck.”

And to him, your reaction sets just the tone for a woozy night to come. He nods between your legs, gelled back strands tickling, hums so sweetly. You adjust on your seat, though the subtle change affects nothing; only drives you wilder as you shift deeper into his face.

His tongue is painting circles over your clit. Drawing out sensations, and you don’t understand how… there’s underwear between him and you. A barrier, aching to be removed, so how is he doing this, howishedoingit—

“No! Oh god—”

You can’t decipher why you voiced the rejection; you don’t want him to leave. Frustrated when he does, mouth open, waiting for you to speak up until you do, “Sorry. Sorry, I don’t fucking know…”

“Babe…” He shakes his head… He’s doing so much of this today. But one of the loose strands keeps moving so gorgeously over his forehead, so if it was up to you, he could keep doing it. “Don’t scare me like that.”

“Sorry…”

“Nah.” He says it when you press your lips together, hot and bothered as he licks another stripe along your cunt. “Didn’t mean it that way. Open that pretty mouth. Do scream, yeah?”

You could melt into the ground. Or into the sheets; he always knows what to say. No matter what the situation. A verbal monster once, a graceful poet another time.

They say, get you a man who can do both. But he can do all million things known to humankind and the book of romance.

His mouth works deeper into where you ache. Tongue action expanded, he returns to the panties, seeking one of your nether lips to tease it, pull at it. He’s ruining your garment, making it stick to your pussy.

Pries your legs open when he comes back to the clit, and then drops down to the overflowing sex again. The sensual gestures are toying with your nerves, and you still can’t figure out how. Leaves you waiting, yearning, craving the lack of a blockade in between.

And once the uncomfortable, wet cotton of your panties rubs against the inside of your folds, you finally speak up, “Why are you—”

“Sorry,” he interjects, aware of his bestiality. You see it in his stupid wicked smile. “I know. This is just…” Big eyes stare back down, albeit hazier than before; his finger touches the drenched patch for a second. “So good to look at.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Of course.”

Shit, he’s so cheeky. If you had the strength, you’d wipe that bubbly smile off his face; not good for your heart. Would smooch it away. But fret not — you’ll get your chance, too.

For now, you need to grant him this win. Not least of all, because it feels so good for you, too.

So you don’t defy him when he suddenly moves in more. Hooks a finger into your panties and slides them aside, letting them snap back against the juncture between your pussy and leg. And then, you guess the actual fun starts.

Because he throws one carnal look at you before his arms wander under your legs. You can barely gather your thoughts before he digs in again, properly this time. Lips directly attaching to your skin, he starts diligent work on soiling your body.

And god, does he do it well…

So experienced. Aware. Studied you and your body well enough — because the agonisingly slow tease isn’t random. He knows how much you hate it; knows how much you love it.

How it builds anticipation, and how it grows your desire.

He’s a little fuck, but maybe that’s why he never fails to break you this hard. You know he’s enjoying this — delighted when your eyebrows furrow, close to weeping as he breathes against your pussy.

Even though a man starved, he takes his time. For a second. Then another. And then parts your folds with his fingers, whispering, “Would you say that’s better?”

Like he’s at some meeting. Goddamn.

You blink, responding, “I don’t know. Better than the panties, worse than…” His finger slips in mid-speech, just halfway through when you manage a breathy, “this.”

“I… Shit, you’re… hot as fuck.”

Right.

Even you’re turned on by how your head tips back again, eyes rolling inward when he diminishes the distance and kisses your cunt. Nobody else is going to raise your confidence like he does.

“Mmmh,” he voices as the make out session intensifies, smacking noises sounding from below. He lifts his lips by a mere inch, only to mumble, “So hot. So fucking good.”

And that’s it — back to business.

“Nnnghkook…”

The arms he dropped under your legs sling around them, hooking in, and somehow, he’s able to reach to your back like that. Raises your legs in the process, pulling you in. Deeper in your heat, big button nose against your pelvis.

Your right hand attempts to grip his hair before you threaten to fall backwards, failing miserably. You immediately place both your palms back on the bed, because you doubt you can trust that damned left arm to hold you upright — quivering like this.

The tip of your tongue touches the arch of your upper lip, and then you tilt your head, warning him, “Fuck… if you don’t fuck my brains out today, Jungkook…”

Brains? Plural? Acting as though even one’s present in your head right now.

Jungkook chuckles, licking you dry; the little sound combined with the sinful ordeal is a delightful one. Contrary, but gifting the moment some reality. Some tenderness. You’re having fun.

He stops to throw the escaping strands back again — all in vain, of course — and brings his hand to your ass, moving you over the bed until you’re off the edge. You yelp, close to falling, but he holds you carefully.

Ass half dangling, he throws your legs over broad shoulders, kissing your thigh before he promises, “Don’t worry at all. Won’t leave a single thought in either of our heads.”

You wince when he bites the flesh of your leg, and then proceeds to advance his soft lips to the tender ache. He collects saliva on his tongue, probably ready to dive in again; moves in at least, tickling your pelvis with his breath.

His nose takes a deep breath, inhaling you, dizzy from your scent. And his thumb — it floats over your clit, preparing for more insanity. But when the position elicits some discomfort, you say, “Put me on the bed. Can I… bed properly.”

Fragments of sentences. They make him smile.

“Sure,” he says rather calmly; you’re anything but.

It’s not normal. Watching a guy like Jeon Jungkook push his hair back with his jaw on full display; tongue darting out.

He signals his approval once more as he pats your thigh, and you make quick work at weakly turning around and crawling onto the bed. You’re still trembling as you get on all fours, very conscious of what you’re doing.

Casually, you say, “I’ll get the lube, too.”

Of course you know what might follow. What will follow. He never stops raving, daydreaming, bragging about your ass — walking past you in the kitchen, just to grapple a handful and to innocently claim, “What? I love your butt.”

But before he strikes this time, you’re only barely able to grab the lube out of the drawer, placing it next to the pillow instead of handing it back to him. Because… because before you know it—

There’s already a finger to your pussy.

“Shit,” you curse, “you and your impatience.”

“Do you want me to wait?” he asks, as purely as the butt-love-statements as his touch retracts. Mellow voice; only a flutter of his lashes is missing, really. “I can wait.”

No, he can’t. Liar.

“No,” you repeat, readily letting your upper body fall. You bring your fingertips back to your ass, tracing it down until met with your arousal. “Don’t do this to me now.”

You know his answer before he utters it, “Don’t you do this to me now.” You hear a click of his tongue; a poised beam plays around your lips. “Alright. But.”

He snatches your legs from under your body until you’re flat on your tummy; you grunt just a bit. Not expecting the soft, little, “Do tell me if I do too much.”

As if…

He knows his limits. But the constant, caring pleads still always grip your heart; so you nod.

“Okay.”

Simultaneous with a fond slap, that word is the last verbal sign of his presence that you receive for a while. Whatever follows is a pure testing of limitations; of jumbling up your senses.

Because the moment Jungkook lifts your ass to his face, his tongue is already out. Experimental at first, of course, patient. He takes a second for languid kisses and soft necking, fingers exploring the inside of your thigh as if to soothe your restlessness.

And it helps. Your limbs shake a bit less, your mind focused on where his touches go. Fingertips near your folds. Lips kissing around your pussy. Then, repeating the same brush of his hands as before, but on your other leg, moving inward.

Despite the first taste he already got, he’s suddenly changed his tactic; and you’re greedy. Mewling in tiny, quiet sounds, barely realising that they’re coming out of you. You repeat his name over and over, but it never quite tumbles out in its entirety.

So you keep it at moaning, eyes closed, so infinitely relaxed.

He moves back, gently asking, “All good?”

“So far… do more, please.”

It’s what he always waits for. You know. Jungkook has a fetish for your pleas, and the tiniest fragment of your beseeching voice is usually enough for him.

Like now.

Encouraged, he pushes your shirt up to your tits, halting right under them. He touches your naked stomach, brushing your belly button, grazing a palm over your lower back and straight to your ass.

The tongue ghosting around your sex finally dares a step forward. Gets a little taste of what’s to come. Circles around your folds, then to your nub; spit gathered on the tip, never too hard, oh-so-mildly — and maybe that’s what makes it even worse.

The lack of any force. How pleasant it feels. And you let him know — respond with a desperate, unheard sound, goosebumps sprawling over your skin.

Jungkook discerns it as a signal to go on; to do more. His nose buries between your ass, pushing his tongue in a little further, alternating between licking and kissing and collecting spit. Your lust shoots to the sky; you twist and move, but he holds you in place with a single hand.

And when he disappears, you regret it immediately. You hear him say, “Hey, hey… Don’t you want me to fuck your brains out, sweetheart? Isn’t that what you said?”

“Mmhyes, yes, please.”

“…Then stop moving.” His nails are harsh against your waist, and you whimper. “The more you behave now,” he leaves a kiss on your butt, loosening his grip around your waist, “the harder I’ll go later.”

“…Okay. Okay. I’m sorry.”

He chuckles. What an ass; leaving you physically and mentally covetting, and then enjoying your reactions.

“Are you okay with this?” he asks, biting a little, stroking your hips, holding onto your ass cheeks.

“Mhm.” It’s all you can voice at this point. You don’t have any power over your body; can’t lift it off the mattress. “Love it.”

“Perfect.”

And then, everything seems to happen faster.

Arousal and orgasm have already built from his advances, and he gives you the rest when he starts drawing circles around your pussy again. Heightens your senses, slurps and drinks you up. Every single time it feels like he’s learned something new; you swoon at the attention to detail.

What might he be looking like right now?

Perhaps he’s biting his lip. Maybe his eyebrows are furrowed, usually tell-tale signs of either him enjoying his meal or him enjoying his meal.

“Shit,” you mumble, but you don’t think he hears it — too busy sucking at your folds, adding a finger to the mix.

Sometimes, the licks are generous, wide-tongued; sometimes, he focuses on each part individually. The insides, the clit; how you sound, how you wind.

There’s truly an utter craze you feel for this man; no matter which hazy or soft or delicate situation, he fits you like a missing puzzle piece. Like a match made in Heaven. Knows what he’s doing.

Because he knows you. Because he studies you. Observes you.

Sex is only one instance of his attentiveness.

And perhaps that’s the whipped thought that pushes you over the edge eventually. Maybe that’s why the moment passes so quickly and explosions blind you all of a sudden. Why your face glows so hot, sweat collecting over your upper lip.

It must be.

Because as he stimulates you for another minute, your sensitive cunt submits, the knot in your lower stomach unwinding. He unties it fully, eliciting a stirring feeling that makes your pussy flutter.

“Holy shit…”

You only register your voice when the peeping in your ear stops. Your voice is still damped, the world around you vanishing a bit; except for him. Always except for him.

And.

You also notice that your fingers are hurting. Did you dig them into the sheets too hard? Tug too hard? You don’t know… but their pads are almost numb.

Jungkook’s mouth is still there, though lighter now, and his finger is slightly slapping your cunt, encouraging you to keep letting go. Catching you on his tongue.

And then… it’s over. You remain quiet.

You’ll be a mess for the foreseeable future; or at least, the upcoming one or two minutes. Your back and neck are already covered in a sheen of sweat; it’s so unbearably hot, as opposed to the recklessly approaching cold outside.

Remaining like this, you let him kiss your body through your orgasm, delicately soothing the pain his fingers caused across your ass. Hovering above the small of your back, he asks, “Can you move?”

“Not yet. But…” You scan the spot next to the pillow until you find the lube, throwing it back to him at last. “I can watch.”

No objection. So you turn around.

When you finally meet his gaze again, having started missing it, he’s already unbuckling his pants. Right there, towering above you, looking directly at you. Jaw chiselled, lips swollen.

You decide to spur him on; bring the tie between your covered tits before gentle fingers grasp them deftly. Rolling your digits around their outline before squeezing them. There’s an instant reaction: The hard bite of his lip, the rushed discarding of his clothes.

And fuck, he’s beautiful. So pretty how he despairs bit by bit, only letting his pants make it to his knees before his cock has sprung out. A true monster, bloodshot like this, further growing as it twitches and jerks… blue veins wanting to be licked.

But it’s lube-day, and neither of you can wait.

So you let him make a fist around his thickness, stroking it and momentarily letting out a groan. His chest seems to deflate, shoulders dropping as he jerks himself off once more, squirts some lube into his palm, and returns to his intentions.

“Good,” you praise, watching his cheeks grow rosier, “wish you could go all out.”

“I can’t.”

You know. You know, because he’s storing all his patience for what’s to come. With and for you.

Breath stagnating, you watch a drop of sweat trail down between his tanned pecs and then into his shirt; fabric sticking to his skin. He doesn’t notice it, dazy as hell, wiping his tip clear of the precum. Every damn time you’re in disbelief when his cock grows in size, firmer and rock hard.

So many veins adorning it as it rises to his belly button; you’re sure you’ll feel them against your walls, too. You get on wobbly knees, hair already a mess, both of you still in your soaked white dress shirts.

Jungkook’s mane is falling apart much as yours, messier now, but soaking him in so much more sex appeal. There are no boundaries to his beauty; it transcends your understanding.

Enough of watching, you mentally capitulate a minute later. Too many moans and clipped vocals fill the room, whiny once, deep later; so you float up once your body allows, targeting his cock straight-forwardly.

You only deliver one surprise kiss, helping him out as you drag your tongue along the tiny slit. He reacts, caught off guard, voicing, “Oh—”

But against his possible expectations, you don’t continue. Instead, you drag your hand along his cock only twice — up and down, feeling the smooth skin, the slippery lube, the hardness underneath.

And then, you order, “Sit. Please.”

“What?”

“Here,” you point to the headboard, on your knees, kissing his sides and up his chest until you reach the open button. “Sit down for me.”

He pauses. Waits for a moment, touching your cheek when your face aligns with his. And when you keep your begging, soft gaze intact, he huffs out a broken laugh, and states, “Not sure if I can trust you to not kill me. But…” A kiss to your left eyebrow. “Anything for you.”

And whatever happens next, passes by fast.

How he obliges, dick dangling in front of his body, waiting for ruin. How he hisses a little when the sweat-drenched back touches the cold headboard. And how you adjust your body, soon sitting in reverse, facing the closet.

Floating over his cock, straddling him, spreading your pussy with your fingers. He stutters behind you, grasping for words, but silences when you move and wiggle your ass a little, only dropping a few inches until your cock can prod your entrance.

And that’s all you do. Multiple times. Practising restraint, focusing on the closet, blinking rapidly. Perhaps you’re more patient this time, because from behind, you hear another sharp hiss, and then a somewhat agitated, but endlessly turned on, “The hell are you doing to me?”

“Nothing,” you promise; the jest costs you all your energy, “what are you talking about?”

“You’re so funny, aren’t you?”

His words are accentuated by sudden grabs of your ass. One or two pinches. You should’ve known. But despite his impatience, he never forces you down onto his cock. Lets you do.

“I’m not trying to be,” you argue, aligning yourself with him gradually. Preparing yourself mentally and physically. Leaking to no end. “You’re just delusional.”

“Must be. Too good to be real.”

If you had it in you, you’d laugh. But the approaching sins and the image of his affected expressions fog your brain. Your body burns, your lower tummy tenses; your muscles feel heavy as you loom over him, and you only endure another moment.

Because soon enough, your thirst overpowers every other thought; the weight of your desire drags your body down, thankful that he’s keeping his cock upright. And then, just like that… so easily, no resistance detected, you slide down.

His tip splits you open first, eliciting an immediate sensation. New every freaking time; like the craze he fucks your mind into space with wipes your memory each time.

“Hnnngh, this is just…”

Whatever it is, there’s no word yet invented for it. So you give up right away, squinting your eye shut until you see dots and forms, breath stuck in your throat. The lack of regular inhales muddles your mind, and you feel further heat rise to your cheeks.

“Go— slow,” he pants behind you.

Of course he’s not all the way in yet. No matter how much it feels like it; you could keep going and going. Hard and monstrous, burying inside you, no end in sight.

The filling feeling catches you off guard each time; the way he leaves no room inside, causing butterflies in your stomach, wandering straight to your pussy. A ridiculously perfect phenomenon, like a key to its lock.

God. You’re overspilling.

As soon as he’s bottomed out, you relish the feeling of his skin against your ass for a moment, registering how his fingers sneak to your flesh slowly. And then, you angle your body forward, clutching the sheets before you start moving.

You keep your pace slow. Put all your intention on delicate motions, all the way up with a whimper, and then slamming back down with a gasp. The farther you go, the wetter you get. Until you’ve probably left a shimmering liquid all over his cock, gliding too damn easily.

“That’s… that’s new,” Jungkook mutters. At least that’s what you think you hear. “Gotta do it again.”

And you’re not even done with this time. But you understand — oh, you fucking understand. There’s something about not yet seeing his face but imagining all of it. How fucked out he must look. How red the apples of his cheeks must be. How sweaty his hairline is.

You grip the sheets tighter, legs closer to his, head between your shoulders. All you manage between the heavy breathing is a high-pitched, ”Jungkook—”

“Yes. Yeah, baby. This is…”

“I know. I know, keep talking.”

Which is an unfair command. He can think as much as you; you can barely comprehend letters, even less put them into actual words. But somehow, he still mutters whatever nonsense he can think of.

“Gotta do it again,” he repeats as you fasten your pace.

“Why always play such an angel, huh?” he asks as you moan and whine.

“When you’re a… a fucking demon. Literally,” he declares when you blow out breaths, letting out a crying sound.

He feels glorious inside you. Solid and gorgeous. He holds your ass cheeks in a tight grip, the strength nearly bruising when you let a hand wander back between your legs, grazing his firm balls.

When you turn around to check briefly, slowing your motions, he looks up, meets your eyes. Apparently, he wasn’t gazing at you directly at all; and you imagine there wasn’t much to see other than a bouncing mane anyway.

What he’s actually so distracted by must be…

“How’s it… it look?” you ask, circling your hips, feeling every vein, as predicted.

“It looks…”

Must be art.

Combined with his love for your ass, he must be enjoying the view; at least judging from the constant kneading and spreading. Allowing a direct, front-seat show of his cock appearing out of you, disappearing inside of you.

Glistening. Sucking him in. It must…

“Looks so fuck—ing insane from where I sit.”

The swear word is interrupted by a millisecond, breathy as hell. Allows a glimpse into how delirious he might already be, possibly faring worse than you. Impatient, seeking more.

And you do know your Jeon Jungkook well.

Because not even another breath later, his body that slid down halfway, bolts up. You feel the shift clearly; it pulls you backwards along with him. Only, you realise the movement isn’t the only source straightening you so fast.

First and foremost, it’s the freaking hand. Covered in letters and more ink, tugging at the dangling tie and following it up to the slowly unravelling knot before… abruptly snaking around your neck. Fingers right under your jaw, lifting your head.

He tugs you in until your back collides with his chest, and to your chagrin, you notice that neither of you has gotten rid of those stupid dress shirts. You won’t be able to wear them again without drifting to this memory…

Sleeve open, he wraps his arm around your body, just under your tits, and whispers, “Why… drive me mad like this?”

“H–huh?”

“So far away. Weren’t you ffffu—” The messy zero you’re drawing with your hips interrupts his string of thoughts, and he spends a second finding it again before he finishes, “Weren’t you far away long enough?”

Shit…

This isn’t just an affair. This isn’t temporary. Your brain still can’t quite understand that you’ve actually occupied this man’s heart.

That your gestures and touches aren’t a fleeting dream, but blissfully real. That you’re his, and that he’s yours.

He’s right. You were far away for too long.

So you sneak your arm back, around the back of his neck and pull him closer by his hair. His lips brush your cheek and then retreat to your ear. Nibbling for a moment. Kissing it.

You don’t know what to focus on — on the way his teeth light up your nerves, or the way his hand moves down your shirt and bra, and up your body. Soon taking your tits captive, squeezing hard, pinching your nipples.

“Move a bit,” he orders, though you don’t really have to.

His hand remains on your neck, so he pulls you forward; guess he’s sick of the shirt, too.

“You too,” you murmur.

“Yes. Patience, love.”

No. Fuck no.

Is it the nickname or his actions that empty your head this time? You don’t know. But you react.

Moaning, but it soon transitions into a yelp when he jerks up suddenly, balls deep. Your voice breaks, and you’re breathless; grateful when he unbuttons your shirt, dragging it down your shoulders.

Helping him however you can, you pull at the clothing almost aggressively, over your hand until it’s stuck there. Sporting a shirt paw, you hear Jungkook laugh behind you, peppering more kisses to your shoulder as he says, “Ah… take it easy. You’re with me tonight.”

One quick pause, and then, “You’re always with me. No rush anymore, okay? Yeah, baby?”

He aids you out of the shirt and tie with tender pecks. Thoroughly affected when you only nod so softly, eyebrows kissing. He unclasps your bra swiftly, breathing against your neck as he bares your body once and for all, putting the garment aside.

And then his forefinger moves along your neck again, only barely touching over your vocal cords; feeling your gulp before he journeys further down, back to your tits. Probably leaving scars; his nails are reckless today.

“Wanted to see those pretty tits so bad,” he says, though he doesn’t halt here — tiptoes south to your pelvis, and then to your clit. “Been thinking about this all day.”

Really?

So each of these touches consume his thoughts every damn moment of the day, too?

“You wanna see them… properly?” you wonder. You haven’t moved in a bit, lost in him, mentally tracing the lines he draws on your body. “‘Cause I wanna see you.”

“Mmmmhm. Doesn’t sound too bad.”

“Then I’ll…”

You don’t speak further; busy with your further advances. Your pussy feels lonely the moment you let him slip out. You’re terribly wobbly on your knees, your thighs visibly shaking as you turn around.

Jungkook holds a hand towards you, a safety net in case you tip over. He holds your wrist gently as you move over the mattress; never more than now are you glad that his isn’t as soft as yours back at the house.

Keeping your balance, you straddle him again, back in a similar position, albeit finally facing him now. And your eyes roll back just the moment he fills you up again.

Your legs are exhausted; the moment you start moving, you barely make it far enough, and Jungkook notices immediately, whispering, “My baby tired?”

And when you nod, he holds you tight, wrapping you in his arms, and—

“Hold– hold onto me, okay?”

You do. And then — he thrusts up once.

When your head falls, his eyelids drop a little, nose touching your jaw as he says, “I could fuck you all goddamn day.”

“Do it… you can now.” His head descends to your chest, mouth open. You’re not sure what you’re opting for, but you still call his name, “Kook…”

Repeatedly lunging in, he collects the words he needs to say, so irresistibly frenzied when he vows, “I’m yours. Okay? And… I need you to stay. Am yours, baby.”

Out of nowhere — or maybe not. Maybe these very sentiments were swimming in his eyes all the time; you could just not see them yet.

Lips a hair width apart, you opt for one single kiss, only a ghost touch. You tell him, “Promised the world. Will promise it to you… too.”

“Good.” His nails scrape your back, and you tug at his hair. A moan tumbles out of him, transforming into words as he holds your body in place, pumping into you, “Fuck, you– feel so good. Just you. So, so good.”

“Ngh, I—”

“I know, I can… can’t breathe, either.”

He kisses your shoulder, the skin flaming under his mouth. Although late, you imitate his prior gesture, peeling off his intruding shirt as smoothly and fast as you possibly can. It’s been a wall between you for too long now; you need to see those pretty tits, too.

And once the buttons open and the shirt flies, you finally bask in the toned beauty. Soaked chest, brawny, chocolate chip nipples as hard as yours. Soon pressing into you, lips thirsting for you, slamming against your mouth.

The fever rises, the temperature akin to lava. Your sounds are desperate and wanting, and you hold onto him for dear life. And before you know it, you’re not claiming your throne anymore.

Suddenly, you find yourself floating for a moment, and then sinking into the mattress, and then curling your hands into fists and him slamming into you harder, deeper, all the way in...

Fuck.

Towering over you, he spreads your legs wide, temptingly licking his thumb before it presses down onto your swollen clit. One jab. A second. Another and another and another.

“Yes. Yes, please—” you beg and yell, letting him pound you into oblivion.

The first hint of stars already grace the darkness behind your eyelids, but then Jungkook starts delivering rapid, light slaps to your nub. He’s chasing your high as much as you are; you know. The chaos unfolding doesn’t hold him back from observing your reactions.

Only focusing on his own end of pleasure when you’re done.

Tears gather at the corners of your eyes, and you cling to his arms, his hands pushing into your waist. And it takes just a moment longer. And another second. Several more shoves, the curve of his cock dragging along your walls and your sensitive spot.

Thoroughly drenched, both of you, as he drives all of him into you. Parting your legs whenever they attempt to shut again. And the universe finally expands, a million celestial bodies dying and imploding, much like you and…

Suddenly, you’re off the cliff.

Falling into a deep ocean. Or the vast night sky. You don’t know — you don’t feel real.

All you know is that your thighs and ass are wet. That you ruined yet another sheet. That Jungkook is out of breath, fucking you through your high, ensuring that you come back to him only bit by bit, so, so slowly.

Gentler now, you feel his body subside, down to you. His skin is glowing with sweat when your eyes crack open just a slit, though they instantly drop close again when he kisses you once more.

He does it only softly this time, as if he’s trying it out. Gauging your reaction. And you do reciprocate the touch, even if weakly. You’re still too gone to look at him properly, but that doesn’t deter him from casting another spell in your heart.

Because his words reach every fibre of you. Butterflies swarm your stomach as he says, “I still can't believe that you’re staying. You did this… you fucking did this—”

“Why not? Wh–why can’t you believe it?”

“Because you’re staying with me. You stayed with me. And…”

Somewhere, it stings. That he’s surprised by constant company. By someone not leaving… by someone worth all his affection glueing themselves to him. And yet, you understand.

That’s a pain the two of you share.

He stares through your gaze, as if he’s frisking for something specific. With each passing moment, it’s like he’s realising something new, yet unable to really verbalise it.

Like something’s burning on his tongue.

But all he does whisper is, “How do I ever stay away from you now, huh?”

“Don’t.” You touch his face, and he doesn’t waste a second to lean into your touch, kissing your palm. “Please just don’t.”

“Won’t be able to… And it sucks that—”

He frees your face from your stick hair strands, still moving inside you. His own tresses hang into your forehead; his thumb touches your lower lip.

“That I can’t be with you every damn second of the day. I mean…” He leans in. Pecks your eyelids; your heart bursts. “What if I can’t move an inch from you?”

You keep staring. Unable to answer. Keep looking and drinking in every emotion laid bare in his confessions. Your misty mind feels calm; not as heavy as hours ago.

And you’re woozy; so indescribably giddy when he adds, “You… you mean so much to me.”

Damn. Damndamndamn.

And you’re fucking obsessed with him. Want his kiss on you all the time; words tattooed on your brain, etched into your soul.

“Jungkook.”

“Huh— yeah?”

“Can you…” You gulp, drooling at the thought, and then spitting it out at once, “Finish in my mouth.”

“Shit,” he exclaims, though the word is more a maniac laugh than anything else, “you know exactly you— you can’t say this to me.”

You know. Because any image of his cock ramming your throat empties his head.

Once more, he mumbles, ”Damn it,” before he’s picking up on pace. You move your hands over his broad shoulders, soon curling your fingers in to hold tight — it’s what the situation suddenly requires. Because gradually, his hips slam into you faster.

The dull sound of his thighs meeting yours repeatedly is lewd, volume increasing when he starts jackhammering into you. Your rhythmic, breathless cries become irregular and broken, turning into screams, and you feel a droplet escaping the corner of your eye.

Throat dry and jaw aching from the parted mouth, you keen from the sensitive feeling inside. You’re so full. So invigorated. Holding onto him tight, so you don’t crumble.

And just as you yell out a dozen curses, Jungkook, voice raised, states, “Fuck, fuuuck, gonna come, babe, f— open your mouth—”

You do. Instantly, tongue out, choking because it’s so much harder to breathe like that. Jungkook trembles over you, lips wet; his arms threaten to give out, letting his body nearly collapse on you, but just a moment before he does, he pulls out.

Hurrying, his knees dig closer to you, cock and ass right above your face as he holds the length between strong fingers. Secured in his palm, he strokes himself over you, glancing into your hungry eyes.

“Pretty girl,” his other digits raise your head by your chin, and his body is swinging, unstable; shoulders high. “My sweet baby… You can’t just…”

Pinching your chin fondly, he digs his cock into your mouth, still pumping the base and touching his balls. You raise your head to not suffocate in the process, and he lets your chin go to grip your hair, lifting you halfway just in time before—

His load finally spills. All of it. So much of it. Hot and sticky, thick as the ropes shoot straight into your throat. You nearly gag, keeping yourself together, swallowing diligently as he empties his balls.

There’s fucking buckets of it, shit…

You close your eyes, focusing on breathing, and once he’s done, you close your lips around his cock. Still hard, although slowly softening, you lick the remnants of his arousal and whatever’s left of you. The tastes mingle, and your head spins…

And then, he pulls back. You’re beaten, gulping, smacking away the saltiness.

Still overwhelmed from the taste, you let your head fall back onto the pillow; but your fingers still seek his touch. The mattress next to you flattens again as his knees retract, and soon enough, laying down beside you.

Both of you are too done in to speak, even less to move. So you let a few minutes pass. Then, you find his fingers, entangling them with yours; waiting a bit more.

And only when your heart rate calms a bit, you stir, hearing him suggest, “Quick shower?”

You smile. The kisses aren’t over yet.

For a while longer, the profuse heat lingers.

The radiator is off, and some of the windows were open when you came home. And despite choosing to stay bare after the shower for some more, you don’t register any of the cold yet; you’re sheltered, safe and so, so warm.

Jungkook’s fingers keep trailing up and down way after you’re done, lips planting generous kisses to your scalp and face. He paves his way to the corner of your mouth and then up to your eyebrows; and when he reaches your nose again, you lift your head abruptly.

Chasing his kiss, even if for just a second, a hand on his cheek and shoulders rising. Occasional giggles and smiles, tickles and pinches keep you busy temporarily; you don’t know how much time passes, nor do you care.

You only snap out of your daydreams when his kisses gain on urgency, tongue diligent. A palm creeps dangerously close to your ass, threatening to slink to your beaten sex.

But your reaction is quicker than his sly attempt, and you say, “Wait— no. Can’t do it again.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Of course.” Damn his shoulder shrug. You tap his pelvis before you wrap a leg around his waist, teasing, “I didn’t feel the twitch at all.”

He shakes his head. “No, you didn’t. But it’s not my fault that you’re so stubbornly sexy.”

“Stubbo—” You giggle mid-sentence, imitating the shake of his head. “I hope you know I’d let you tie me down and do whatever the fuck—”

“My god. Stop saying it like that.”

“—but my body won’t let me yet. I also still stink.”

“Stink?” He shifts dramatically, burying his nose between your tits. His voice is muffled when he asks, “Do you?”

“Stop. You’re so weird,” you scold, but the word is drenched in laughter; you forcefully lift his head again. “We still need to change the sheets and the shower was quick. Do I not?”

“You kinda do. Like cherry blossoms.”

“Shut up.”

“What? Sue me for telling the truth. My girlfriend smells like cherry blossoms.”

Oh… oh?

Wait.

Your mouth shuts tight.

Did he…

The beam that spreads on your face is almost embarrassing; surprise, joy and affection conjoin, your guts twisting. You take a breath. Feel the sparkles in your own damn eyes; tender gaze directed at him.

And the freaking flutter in your heart; the temperature in your cheeks. Do these things ever stop?

The words sink in slowly; and Jungkook takes the time to ask, “What?”

“You… you haven’t called me that yet, have you?”

He’s perplexed. Guess even to him, it was a Freudian slip, because his eyes are wider than ever. He waits, thinks for a moment; then admits, “Uhm. No. I don’t think so.”

“Well, I… like the sound of it.”

“It’s… it’s true. You’re my girlfriend, aren’t you?” His eyes smile before he does; unrestrained devotion in them. “My baby?”

He says it so innocently, so sweetly that you can’t help but coo. Teasingly, you pat his cheek, telling him, “I mean I hope I am. Considering I’m moving in with you.”

“Yes. You are. Of course you are.”

“…Girlfriend.” Sheepishly, much like a teenage girl, you keep your twinkle intact, still feeling the lasting gleam on your face. You must be reminiscent of the sun and the moon. Emboldened, you start, “Then… boyfriend. Can I ask you something?”

The term elicits similar glee in him, teeth out, grin bright. He waits wordlessly with sparkling eyes, and you touch his lip, asking, “How do you feel right now? About all that?”

“I feel… I’m in disbelief. You’re moving in with me and just. Somehow, even saying it feels surreal.” He sighs, searching for words. “I’m in disbelief and crazy for you. That’s all I know.”

Falling deeper and without an end is possible. Jungkook has taught you that; still does.

“…I was so scared you wouldn’t like me doing this,” you confess.

“What? Saying yes to being with me all the time? Sounds horrible.” He laughs. “I’m happy. And I’m happy that you’re happy, too. Okay?”

“I wasn’t for a while, you know? You make me feel good. Take me by my word and give yourself credit for it.” He needs to. He might have doubted his role in everyone else’s life so far, but his value to you needs to be clear at all times. “Not just now, Kook, but, you always make me feel good. I hope you know that.”

“I do. This time, I do…” Content, you smile; until he stalls for dramatic effect, mouth open to indicate something to come. Your beam expands to exhilarated laughter when he squeezes your ass again, adding with another snicker, “What kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn’t make my favourite munchkin feel good?”

“…There’s more than one?!”

Hmm…

That’s what you’d been yearning for all this time.

Because there’s something so vulnerable about your elation; the enlivened titter. About your newfound feelings. About these very first phases of a sensitive relationship. Something serene.

And the meaning behind your words keeps changing with him; carries much more weight, and makes you feel so much lighter. As if levitating on cotton clouds.

Girlfriend. Boyfriend.

Peace reigns supreme and for a while you’re hopeful enough to doubt anything could disrupt it. Even the world is quiet when you look out the window.

September isn’t yet harsh enough to cover all above pitch black, but it’s still dark grey and drab. The sky still somewhat illuminates the unruffled room through the tilted window.

But just when tranquillity reaches its peak, your phone vibrates on the bedside table; you flinch.

The screen’s shine overshadows the faded monochrome of the world. It’s unwelcome, intruding — and once you lean over, holding the blanket over your chest, you realise that the message is just as unsought.

Mom [7:12PM]: We need to talk. Mom [7:12PM]: I’m still at Charmante for another hour and a half.

…At this time?

Did you leave her this desperate?

“What is it?” a dulcet voice asks from behind.

You hear the bed creak a little, his body cold without yours. Despising the distance, he puts a gentle hand to your shoulder, planting a kiss right next to it; when you lack his desired reaction, he asks again, “Everything okay?”

“Hm?” You barely tilt your head, eyes still glued to the words that you’ve already internalised. You cover his hand with yours. “Yeah. Just. Look.”

You hold the phone into his face; the penetrant white floodlights his skin. The warm gold shines in the glow, his lips drier than before. They move as he reads, and then, they close, giving way to a hum.

The initial silence suggests that he might be thinking the same as you — to bail. To shut the phone again, slide it to the edge of the bedside table and drop back against his chest, above his heart.

But you should know Jungkook better; he won’t discourage a familial reunion, praying for a better outcome than he ever had. He’s always spoken for your relationship with them — thinking back, he has never truly badmouthed your mother.

So you’re not too surprised when he hands you the phone back, careful to not turn your mother’s two marks blue, and suggests, “Maybe you should go.”

You sigh. You don’t want to. It’s too early for confrontation; time hasn’t passed, and the issue hasn’t yet marinated. Then again, the problem might only grow if you postpone this.

But your heart is biased, angry, refusing to oblige to her demands one more time. So you ask for yet another confirmation, “Right now? But I…”

You turn back to him, shaking your head slowly, troubled. He props his head up, eyes staring down to you as you lay flat on your back, hands folded under your breasts.

“Give yourself closure, babe.”

“I got closure.”

“No,” he strikes back, fingers lifting to your jawline. He touches it lightly, brushing it delicately, “Actual closure. To finish this. And she deserves it, too, you know? She’s still waiting there, angel.”

“Jungkook, you…” You click your tongue, gaze swerving to the unlit ceiling light and then back to him. “You’re too good.”

“I’m sorry.”

You smile, and he throws a palpitation-inducing twinkle back. You know he’s right — it must have been a shock for her after all. More or less double-crossed by her own daughter, humiliated in a public setting — her brain must be frying.

Reluctantly, you stretch your arm to the side, tapping for your phone, and roll your eyes at Jungkook playfully when you open the message to type back. His body floats down, lips planting a barely-there kiss to your collarbone.

You [7:14PM]: I’ll be there in half an hour.

“Alright then…”

Your body lifts off the mattress with the idlest of movements. The afterglow might die once you’re there, but you guess you need the confrontation–fight? Argument?—to ensure more, blissful nights.

This time, you don’t bother with your clothing as much as you did when you prepared for the press conference. You slip into the first best jeans you find, throwing a cosy pullover over your torso.

Busy with the rush, you don’t notice that Jungkook isn’t standing behind you in his usual grey joggers but in jeans, too. He’s fiddling with your car keys, stuffing his wallet into a pocket, and you stare wide-eyed, waiting for an explanation.

And once your digging stare pierces through him, he reciprocates it with similar confusion, half his hand still in the pocket as he inquires, “What?”

“What are you doing?” you ask, gesturing up and down his body.

“What do you mean?”

The back and forth of questions leaves you further bewildered, and you step closer, softly snatching the keys out of his fingers as you say, “Babe… It won’t take long.”

You don’t think he quite understands — it seems that to him, it was a given this entire time that he’d accompany you to your work building. But when it seeps through, his expression changes, more relaxed.

His head tilts, blinking slowly as he assures, “I won’t let you go alone.”

“Kook—”

“It’s honestly not a big deal. You said it won’t take long, so I’ll wait outside.” He shrugs, forefinger at the nape of his neck, scratching. “Plus, I’ll just get bored here alone.”

A warm flutter engulfs your heart. You wonder how couples spend days, months, years together without burning up every moment during their togetherness. Because you don’t think you’ll ever get over the fire he sets ablaze in your lungs — how does one get accustomed to affection like this?

You don’t know.

Maybe you don’t need to know.

Not more than what his eyes say, at least.

“What did you do all the time I wasn’t here?”

His grin is playful, but there’s tender truth in his words, “Something any guy waiting for you would do,” big brown irides meet yours, fingers fiddling, “counted the seconds until I could see you again.”

Your laugh is sudden before you ask, “Is that a quote from SpongeBob?”

And the joy holds on as you leave the apartment and rush down the flight of stairs. The short comedic journey to your car is distracting — most of reality only dawns on you when you step into the car.

Reminiscent of the last time the two of you drove over to a confrontation — just a little after his vacation; just a bit before the heartbreak.

The streets are quieter and emptier at this hour, the repose enhanced by the gentle drizzle. It’s significantly darker than when you arrived home, though it hasn’t been too long since you drove this exact way in the opposite direction. Two hours?

Maybe it’s the cloudy, almost black sky, accompanied by the hushed sound of the rain that’s amplifying your fears. Because the calming ambience from a minute ago worries you the closer you get — this once, you’d rather bask in sunshine and daydreams.

But no.

Hope is on your side; you’re done worrying, right?

As you sit up straight in your seat, Jungkook glances from you from the driver’s seat, eyes shooting to and fro between you and the street. His lips part as he operates the wheel with one hand, using the other to wrap around your fingers.

“Don’t be nervous,” he says, squeezing once before he lets go, brushing over the back of your hand and gripping the wheel again, “there’s just so much she can say. You made a decision as a full adult and she’ll have to accept it.”

“Yeah.” You follow the streetlamps and their warm radiance, redirecting your focus on the next as you pass each. “I hope so.”

The ride home was different; you were filled to the brim with energy and adrenaline. Your legs were putty, so he insisted for you to freeze on the passenger’s seat, reluctant to hand you the keys to drive.

You were waiting for the streets to end, to shut his door behind you, and to breathe and sigh through a sleepless night with him. The anticipation, combined with the aftermath of the press conference made you restless — you wouldn’t stop gnawing on your thumb.

And he didn’t interrupt your thoughts, let you flick through them until he finally looked at you at a traffic light. Raising the back of his digits to your cheek, assuring, “It’s okay, angel.”

Maybe the breathy tone and the hundred promises wrapped into one reassurance prompted your reaction at his place at all.

Jungkook turns into your work street, and you hold your breath. Your heart knocks violently against your ribcage, disabling a proper thread of thoughts. Which is a shame, because you really wanted to draw a collection of snappy remarks you could retort in there.

Instead, you merely look at the entrance far at the end of the street, unmoving as Jungkook moves into a parking lot and kills the engine. You blink; then blink some more. The gulp, you think, is audible in the small space of the car.

“Do you want me to come with you?” he asks.

“No… I don’t think she’d want that.”

“Okay,” he murmurs, leaning forward to pinch your chin between two fingers. He moves your head toward him, eyes a liquid, wavy ocean at night. Affectionate. “She’s your mom. Despite everything, I know she loves you.”

“I don’t know…”

“She does. I saw it the night I picked you up and I saw it Monday morning, too. So.” The head tilt, the soft curve of his eyebrows, the care in his pupils — they’re a healing bandage around your heart. “Don’t be scared.”

He leans over the centre console armrest, still holding your face in his grasp, and presses his lips just barely, sweetly to your wrinkled forehead. You think the muscles react immediately, temples relaxing.

For a second, he lingers, and then he pulls back a fraction, looking at you from an inch-wide distance, and whispers, “Don’t be. I’ll be here all the time.”

Right — armour-clad, like a knight. You finally nod, a weight dropping off your heart. You cement his smile deeper into your mind; a coping strategy in case things escalate in there.

Once more, you squint at the entrance doors, though barely visible from here. Hand on the handle, you say, “If I’m not out in twenty minutes, call the police.”

Jungkook tsks, eyes rolling with badly hidden amusement, ordering, “Just go. Will be here.”

Yes. Breathe.

He’ll be right here when you come back. And it’ll all be over then.

The building feels sinister, empty like this. Nothing of the busy and lively mood remains; the lack of the chatter and footsteps drenches the entrance hall in gloom.

It reminds you of horror movie locations; you can’t help but hesitate as you walk in.

Especially today, the silence is unbearably odd; the press isn’t lurking anymore, isn’t swarming you anymore. You don’t want to imagine how hard it must’ve been to convince the reporters to finally leave.

You sigh…

In less than a day, they’ll have today’s highlights printed in newspapers and posted; feasting. Big, bold headlines will narrate the words you uttered; of course they will. With your family relishing a local celebrity status, the media would be damned if it didn’t make any profit out of you.

For the first time, however… you don’t care. You inhale.

And as you walk past the glass walls and up the stairs, clutching your work keys, you don’t feel the overwhelming urge to run away from this place anymore.

You’ve liked your job since you started, no doubt, despite your initial worries and fears. But the thought of losing against the world, or of losing him terrified you. Maybe you were too naive to fight those who wished you harm mere months ago, freshly out of college.

But now that you realise that you won’t be roaming these hallways in a couple weeks, that you have dropped the mic in a way they won’t be able to pick it up to hurt you again, you feel relieved.

Feel a sense of responsibility. Like an adult.

Okay.

She told you she’d wait in an unoccupied office on the first floor — you usually frequent it with Zara, sifting through theories and changes. You wonder why your mother didn’t settle on her own office — then again, you imagine it must hurt to suffer defeat in the very room where she’s supposed to reign.

As you reach the room, your fist lifts to the door. Though you soon realise that it might be entirely unnecessary, judging the slight gap and the soft noise from within. So you gently push the ajar door open, met with a tired figure behind an imposing desk.

She’s lost in thought, but as you enter, her gaze slowly ascends, her posture reclining. And you see it immediately.

The usually cold eyes, now brimming with disappointment and sorrow.

Her eyes flit, as you assume unintentionally, into a corner. She dodges a simple greeting when you mumble a timid, “Hi,” and you drop the formalities right away. Don’t even attempt to sit — stand there, towering in front of her, not intending to stay long anyway.

And it seems her thoughts and intentions align, because she refuses to beat around the bush, a weary voice asking, “Why did you do that?”

“Mmh… You’re asking like I shouldn’t have.”

“Because you shouldn’t have.” Typical. Her point of view will always be her only truth. You listen on, but can’t help but tense. “Your father and I built this for you, and we intended to forward it to you. You know that.”

You don’t like that tone; you never have. It always ran over your spine as a shiver, weakening your knees. Even today, you’re conditioned to buckle just a bit. You exhale.

“Mom, have you ever heard yourself speak? You’ve never even remotely tried giving me anything else that way,” you complain, leaning to clutch the chair with one hand, the other gesturing around the room. “You built this stupid empire for yourself and kept it intact for me, so I can continue your work.”

You huff out a mocking breath, shaking your head just a little. “You never even asked me. You just told me to do it all.”

Her voice is sharper when she responds, “We didn’t hand it to you to make you suffer, for god’s sake.” She’s irritated, eyebrows deeply furrowed. “Christ, you were supposed to have a good future.”

“Yes, and I will! I’m happier than I have been all summer. Do you even have any idea what happened during that time?!”

You pause. She doesn’t answer, clearly sorting out a hundred answers.

Because a lot happened — most of it a direct effect of her or the media’s bullshit. Of course she won’t be able to pick out just one single thing.

So you explain, “Did you even understand that Jungkook broke up with me because of the thing you pulled with that dumb journalist?” You spit the word like a curse, grimacing. “And that he avoided me because he thought he was ruining me?”

You try to make it sound as ridiculous as you can muster, wondering if the realisation is dawning on her.

“Did you even notice how I didn’t come out of my room for da—”

“Just why,” she interrupts, eyes shutting tight in disbelief and agitation, palms toward the ceiling, “would you jeopardise your life and emotions because of him?”

Jeopardise. Holy fuck.

She has a whack understanding of villainhood.

“Because he’s important to me! You can’t even imagine how hurtful it is to only be talking about work to you. You never ask me if I eat or sleep enough. You didn’t even give me a graduation present. He did! But you wouldn’t know!”

You think back to the lamp in your room, the one she has never seen — remember the dark ceiling, the aurora and stars projected to it. The touches that followed.

“He’s unbelievably important to me, Mom. Okay?”

“You’ve been with him for just a while.”

You grit your teeth. It’s like talking to a wall; a daycare child would catch the sentiment better than her.

“Yeah,” you say, scoffing, “and it makes me embarrassed for you, because I’ve known you my entire life and you never cared this much. Like, fuck, even Dad did.”

Her jaw clenches as you swear, nostrils close to flaring as you concede more pain, “Jungkook actually makes me feel human.” There’s a sting in your eyes. You blink it away. “I’ve been feeling like a person, which just… made me understand that—”

You gulp, your throat tied and your head heavier now. You wait, shrugging. Then—

“That I can receive affection, too.”

Your friends are your first memory of care; barring them, you only had a faint idea of what devotion entailed. Learning what it means to be genuinely important to someone had been on your bucket list — this year, you ticked it off.

“I just hate that he had to glue me together first for me to understand.”

Because she broke you first. The contrast couldn’t be more crystal clear.

She doesn’t dig your monologue. Her countenance fills with different shades of ridicule and embarrassment, shreds of anger thrown into the mix. Filed nails tap against an open folder, the other hand rubbing her forehead.

“You sound ridiculous,” she derides, “you can’t throw your future away because of love. It won’t pay your bills.”

“I’m gonna be a manager, though. I’ll pay my fucking bills. And Jungkook is working his way up, too.” Your latter statement gains a sceptical stare, followed by a skyrocketing eyebrow. It satisfies you. “He is. He’s getting his own part at an exhibition. We’ll be fine.”

She frowns, mouth already agape as she psyches herself up for another answer, and you already roll your eyes, prepared to interrupt.

“You—”

“You were so grateful last weekend,” you argue.

“Because you almost killed yourself!”

“No! If you’re so worried, then call! You could’ve called and asked where I was like mothers do. Made sure I was well and not drunk out of my mind!”

“Stop it,” she stands, her voice as damaging as a serrated knife. You flinch as she charges for you, and you breathe out, ready for a slap — but her body halts in front of yours. “How do you expect to run from this just by switching to another company? Novaura’s still mine, too.”

No…

You hold your breath. Straighten your back, hands sweaty as your nails dig in. She’s been predictable half her life; not always quite vile. But you know what she’ll say next, and you know it’ll be the most odious thing she’s ever uttered.

“And I could keep you here if I wanted to. They’d throw you out if I told them, too.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, and you blink, scorning, “You’re serious?”

A breath of laughter escapes your chest, and you shake your head in disbelief. You’re done.

You press your lips into a thin line before smacking them, nodding in faux agreement before you say, “Okay. Go ahead. But if you do, I won’t shut up this time. Today, I was being nice. I praised you, and none of my nice talk was actually deserved.”

Choosing your words carefully, you pronounce every syllable as if explaining molecular biology. She listens, not spitting an answer immediately.

So you challenge further, “You want to throw me out? Do it. It’s your reputation. I didn’t say anything wrong at the conference today, because it’s my right to choose the career I want. You’d be abandoning your own daughter if you pulled this through.”

You have her attention. Her lips stay sealed.

“And when they ask me,” you continue, eyes now fiery; you’re so done. So, so done. “I will let them know that you did it out of spite. Try finding an excuse why you did when we’re there. I won’t be at any disadvantage.”

You press into your palms one more time, relaxing your jaw, and opt to turn and walk away. Hurling one more glare towards her, you spit, “I have a degree, just a reminder.”

And that should be it.

Pride unfurls across your chest, warm in your stomach as you take long strides out of her office. You hear the quiet call of your name, suddenly desperate. But now that you’ve said your part of the truth, you don’t turn around anymore.

Only shut the door behind you hard; shutting all she’d hoped for with it.

Despite the satisfaction still bubbling in your stomach, you can’t shake the clump in your throat and the anxiety in your heart. The post-fight adrenaline pumps through your veins, and your fingers shake.

There’s discomfort in deserting your own mother; the irrational fears were to be expected. You didn’t do anything wrong, you know, you know. But your organ still thumps like drums, and you lift a hand to your chest. A vain attempt to calm your breathing.

And then… something miraculous happens.

The brisky gust of the evening brushes your cheeks; the bright lights of the city contribute to your sudden peace. They’re a reminder that the world is far wider than this damn building. Than her.

But more than anything, your worries dissipate when the strolling figure grows in your sight. As you walk the short distance to your car, you feel your heart lighten — your forehead and temples relax.

He has his hands on his waist, chin slightly raised as if watching the stars that hide in the city sky anyway. His steps are small, and his eyebrows calm. He looks serene.

And once his hands slide into his open jacket’s pockets, he looks down the street again, surprised when you’re mere steps apart.

“Ah,” he voices, one palm already out as he stretches it toward you, “barely fifteen minutes. I was about to come in.”

Deep sigh in, you let his arm pull you in his embrace, swiftly wrapped around your torso. He smells like fresh clothes, after-rain, and vibrant, like the lights in the sky.

Your arms sling around his body with an urgency, and you muffle your voice against his chest as you ask, “Already?”

“Already?” he repeats, though dragging the word more than you did. His arm squeezes you once as his other hand escapes his pocket, too, stroking your head. “Those weren’t days? I swear I felt myself ageing in there.”

Your fist thumps against his chest lightly, and you giggle against his sweater. “Don’t be so dramatic.” Eyes slowly unfocusing, you rub the zipper teeth of his jacket between your fingers, softly mumbling, “Thank you for being here. You’re the best.”

You feel a movement over your head; he’s lowering his chin to your hair, still caressing your head as if lulling you into sleep. And it’s working — you feel drowsier by the second.

But then, his chest rumbles as he hums, cautious as he asks, “Are you okay?”

Are you?

You’re about to start a new life where you desire, with whom you desire. Finding permanent residency in his presence the way he finds it in your thoughts.

A few more steps, and you can make yourself home. Not in those rooms, but in him. Because that’s what he is.

A blanket, a radiator, the comforting voice that soothes and heals. Worshipping you within the same four walls every single day.

You’re not just okay — you’re craving.

Leaving his warmth and scent, you lean back and look at him. His eyes are as big as you’re used to, awaiting an answer, genuinely curious. Your heart threatens to burst; the sting is painfully sweet.

“Yeah,” you answer, touching the purple sweater, “I promise I am.”

Because. Because that’s all you ever wanted.

It’s over. You’re going home — you are home.

You can’t remember whether it was your fingers clawing into Jungkook’s shirt or his hand brushing through your hair that kept you in the sheets twenty minutes longer than anticipated.

The plan was to snooze once and get into a routine with divided work. One prepares breakfast, the other makes the bed and cleans up before leaving the apartment.

But it seems that so far, your routine has consisted of lazy mornings. Tired hums. Quiet, hushed and slightly hoarse good mornings and entangled limbs.

You pressed between his shoulder blades as he strokes your head, planting kisses on your temple and your forehead.

“Slept well?” he asked today. Another peck in between. Then, drowsy and sighing, “Is the mattress okay, by the way? I like the firmer ones better since they’re good for your back, but I know you had a softer one, so if you need…”

“No, not at all,” you promised, warm and safe under the covers. “This is perfect.”

No… the softness wasn’t needed. Your muscles were so relaxed, you were sinking into the bed anyway. Sleeping a dent into it. At peace as his nails gently scraped over your scalp, massaging and caressing.

He could’ve lulled you into sleep like that; and his voice served as soft, white background noise. The words he used. The honey sweet tone. The past tense in what you had, and what you have now.

If you hadn’t been so lethargic, you would’ve floated through your chores. But when the clock ticked too dangerously fast and brought your working hours sickeningly close, you decided to eat out instead.

You always fool around at breakfast too much — stretching it longer than it needs to be. A café was, surprisingly, the smarter, more time-efficient option.

And a great opportunity and excuse to explore the places near you. Jungkook promised there was an amazing bakery nearby, and you trudged along, tummy rumbling, now that you weren’t in bed with him and satiated anymore.

“You’re sure you’ll be at home by the evening?”

You gather the remaining crumbs of your pastry with the pad of your thumb, waiting for Jungkook to slurp the last of his coffee. He nods, soon answering, “Mhm. I won’t be at work for long. Might come home before you do, actually.”

“Okay,” you suckle at your thumb, shoulders relaxing as you stare at the drizzle outside. The day started out grey. “And then tomorrow, I’ll be off work by the afternoon, so I should be able to bring more things over from the house.”

Tired from the morning, your eyes remain on the customers trudging in and out of the café. They shake the water drops off their umbrellas, or sigh at the prospect of stepping out into the rain again.

Their expressions aren’t quite dispirited, but… perhaps a little dim.

You raise a side of your lips in empathy, and then continue, “And then on Saturday, I’m getting the truck to the house, for the rest of my stuff.”

“Babe,” Jungkook interrupts, pausing to smack the coffee’s taste away. His hand slides over the table, wrapping his fingers around three of yours. “Let me come with you tomorrow. You’re already doing too much.”

“Absolutely not. I won’t drag you there unless I absolutely have to. Besides,” your voice is soft when you lean forward, raising your entangled digits to your lower lip. “You’ve been busy plenty, too.”

And it’s true.

He’s been taking care of the apartment and cooking dinner these days. Organising documents with you, so you have whatever needed to change your address and whatnot. Doing small purchases for the household and vacating some of the closet to make place for your stuff.

Two weeks have passed since the press conference — and Jungkook has been a pillar of strength and sanity as much as you have been his. You communicate each night, regulating finances, dividing roles and sharing comfort.

You don’t think you’ve ever witnessed or felt a relationship as symbiotic as this one… and you’re just starting out.

His thumb brushes over your fingers, still reassuring you, much as you expected, “I honestly don’t mind.”

“It’s okay,” you argue, “we still have a lot more to do. Save your energy for that. I’d still love these deco vines for the living room, remember? Let’s get them together.”

Your words are breathy, as if you’re being reborn. A breeze of refreshment — and he feels it, too. There’s something about the thought of simplicity livening up your bustling days.

Mundane tasks, like shopping for casual things together.

Groceries. Decoration. Plants.

With all the planning of switching work and homes, the two of you have been incredibly breathless. You even told him about a meeting at your new place today, a discussion about trivial matters, general know-how and preparation you need to do.

The sliver of stress is visible in your eyes — you’ll be seeing the other managers today. And you’re nervous about it, unsure what vibe the meeting might set.

But despite the stress, you’ve been as bright as Venus in the night sky. He understands. If anyone does, then him.

Because the idea of strolling through Ikea's tableware department is balm to his mind. Your laughter sounding through its hallways, half your body leaning over the shopping cart, because you surely seem like the type to do so.

His voice is as gentle as the mizzle outside when he promises, “We’ll get anything you want.”

“Really?” Your smile is radiant, cheeks glowing as you press the lightest kiss to one of his knuckles. “Sounds good to me.”

Time passing has always been a bummer. Despite the quiet noise in the café, the clock ticks as if in a deafening volume, a reminder that you need to let this hand go soon.

Sometimes, you do worry. About the attachment, and the healthy obsession with him. And on the other side, about every moment he worships you, and every second he misses you.

How there’s discomfort in being apart, even if for mere hours. Maybe that’s why he holds you so tight at night. Or why you’re constantly itching to get home.

Perhaps there’s a lingering fear that your time separated brought, a sneaking anxiety of being dragged apart again.

Yet, instead of dwelling in improbable what-ifs, you breathe in the air of the room, direct your senses away from the clock and toward the increasing patter of rain against the window panes.

You squeeze the fingers around you harder, delving into one last soft conversation as you ask, “You’re at lunch with Joon later, right?”

“Yeah, he promised me burgers today.”

“What for again?”

“Because I’m his favourite staff member?” Jungkook lifts your hand to your mouth when you open it, shushing you with your own fingers. “Don’t say it. I am his favourite staff member.”

“‘Kay. Understandable.”

“You know…” He shrugs his shoulder nonchalantly, but the soft drop of his gaze, fingers fiddling and toying with yours betrays him. He’s still so delicate around you. “If you want, you can join.”

“Oh. Mmmh,” you think for a moment, but then click your tongue, insisting, “it’d be weird, I think. Dunno if he’d want it.”

“I would want it.”

He always does.

Yearning. Obsession. A humane way of falling in love.

You feel like a person. No matter how odd the phrase might sound in your head, the painful truth behind it is undeniable. You feel like a person.

“Okay,” you reply, slowly reclaiming your hand, reluctantly preparing to leave. “I’ll see if I find time and energy during my lunch break.” You halt, unblinking, before you look back at him with squinting, uncertain eyes. “Totes Bag Street, was it?”

The sudden, choking laugh erupting out of Jungkook is a surprise. If his coffee cup wasn’t empty yet, he’d still be sipping, probably ruining the white, silky shirt you’re sporting today.

You actually mean it, don’t you?

His trademark laugh is high-pitched, melodious, though a little more controlled in the public space, but the flashing of his teeth and his dimples implies genuine joy.

You already know: the lighthearted banter has become a hallmark of your connection. Doesn’t get old. Heartwarming — albeit right now, very confusing to you.

So you cock an eyebrow, questioning, “What?”

“Babe,” he simply mutters, hands coming together in a mock prayer. “Shit, you’re so fucking cute.”

He lowers his head between his shoulders, torso shaking, and you pull his palms apart again to dig with another, ”Hey. What?”

“Boats Track Street. Not Totes Bag Street,” he corrects, endeared by your wide eyes. The back of two of his fingers grazes your temple, and then down your face, before playfully pinching your chin. “You’re so cute. And a dummy. I mean it.”

“You’re a dummy,” you reply, forcing your face back and out of his grip. “Besides, that’s a pretty stupid name.”

“To be fair… I agree.”

A hesitant smile spreading on your face, your gaze wanders to the clock at the opposite wall again. The beam drops a little, giving way to a small sigh.

“It’s okay. I’ll probably be busy anyway… will join you guys another time.” You shove the chair back, getting off with a fatigued groan and a hand rubbing your tummy. “And I feel a bit weird today, too. Shouldn’t have eaten before bed because I’m feeling the effects right now.”

“Ahhh, I told you. No worries. I’ll make you something light tonight. And some peppermint tea.” His hands wave you goodbye, making a begone motion. “Go for now. The longer you stay, the worse the next hours will be for me.”

“Dork. You must survive.”

You huff, eyes rolling at the dramatics, and push your bag behind your body before you lean into him. A hand on his cheek, you watch his eyes close, setting your lips onto his.

The two-second long goodbye peck remains just that before his fingers, pushing against the nape of your neck, tug you in again.

Against your lips, he mutters, “Eat, okay? Call if your stomach bothers you. Anytime. And don’t be nervous. You’ll have fun.”

And before you can answer, he kisses you again.

Once, and then twice more. Your guts somersault, even when he finally lets you go. Your lungs feel dry all of a sudden.

All you have left in you is to nod. For your wobbly legs to step away. Looking back a few more times until the door opens, the bell chiming, your transparent flower umbrella spreading over your head.

Jungkook watches as your careful steps wander away, your head never lowered like every other passerby’s. They’re hiding from the rain, but you’re staring up, observing the movement of the clouds before your focus falls on the road — and a minute later, you disappear out of his sight.

His chest and muscles relax, a quiet laughter still tumbling out as he repeats, “Totes Bag Street.”

The sky may be colourless. The people might look into the world dimly.

But despite the rain tapping against the window, no inch of you is painted in a dismal, drab grey. You’re the brilliant, gleaming sun.

The location of your new job isn’t as fancy as the area around Charmante. The building certainly isn’t made of reflecting glass throughout.

There’s wood and actual walls; not every door opens with a chip, but a key, and the luxuries are limited. Compared to your old building, this one is humble, but it still oozes wealth and success — guess that’s what a subsidiary looks like.

The meeting room for today is somewhere on the third floor. Your mind races as you fix your clothes in the elevator, throwing regular glances into the mirror to guarantee that your hair sits as perfectly as three seconds prior.

You breathe deeply, exhale through a rounded mouth. Whether it’s this meeting or something you ate, your stomach does not feel great.

As the nerves start kicking in, you think of Jungkook’s hand in yours and the everlasting smile. You use him as your safe place; close your eyes for those few seconds that the elevator floats up.

And it works. Feels like an oasis, calm and lovely.

That is, until the bell pings, forcing your eyes open. You stare up at the number, nearly stepping out until you realise that — you’re not on the third, but on the second floor. Were you supposed to halt here?

No. And there’s nobody outside, waiting.

Until, someone is.

Rushed steps move to the elevator, a nice but stressed voice urging, “Ah! Keep the doors open, I’m coming!”

Strange. Oddly familiar voice.

You can’t say why, but you already prepare a polite smile, trying not to let the ticking seconds stress you out. Rationally, you know you’re not late, but the time passing messes with your nerves.

And it seems it doesn’t get better when the figure finally rushes in, pressing the already lit number 3 before he says, “Good. Just in time.” Looks back at you, delighted as if he expected you somewhere around, and adds, “Ah! Hello!

It takes a moment. Then another.

One more until you figure out who he is, why you feel like hurling and how maybe, just maybe, he might be heading to the same room as you — as another new manager of Novaura.

You blow a raspberry at the boxes in your backseat.

Deciding to at least take your favourite box up with you, you leave the rest here for now; you don’t want to bug Jungkook yet. You can heave it all upstairs on the weekend, in peace.

It’s only moderately heavy — but with both your hands busy, the task is a hassle. You secure it under your arm as you close the door of your vehicle with your hip, clutching the phone previously tucked between your cheek and shoulder.

You straighten your head, reflexively looking up to Jungkook’s apartment window. To your apartment window. Doesn’t quite roll off the tongue just yet.

Somehow managing to open the entrance door, you sigh into the phone, giving Taehyung a relieved, “I’m finally back home.”

“Mmmh,” Taehyung voices, and you imagine his full lips in a line, tiny nods serious, “how’s it feel? Knowing that this is where you’re gonna be for the foreseeable future?”

“It feels… quiet.”

“What, he bore you to death like that?”

You giggle, taking deep breaths as you ascend the staircase; though slightly irritated by the slowly and constantly slipping box. You heave it back up.

“Absolutely. You’ve no idea, really.”

Taehyung laughs, but your joke doesn’t stick for long. You feel bad immediately — even in a playful tone, your heart knows nothing for Jungkook but praise. You guess that’s how kindness affects people.

And your brain stays mean, prolonging your pout — because it conjures pictures of a crooked smile, wrinkles around tender eyes, a tilted head as shoulders rise when the laughter reaches its peak…

A sting jabs your chest.

The longing is unbearable, and you’re barely another level from the apartment. He’s waiting for you on the other side of that flat’s door, and you know his pupils will widen in his dark brown eyes the moment they fall on you.

“No, that feels horrible to say,” you correct, shaking your head. You pause in the middle of the staircase for a moment, gaze fixated on a dirty spot before you shake your head once more. “You know Jungkook. If he’s not joy personified, then I don’t know.”

And it’s true — despite his own demons, you don’t think you’ve ever seen anyone spread this much comfort.

“I just meant that my mind’s been quiet. And a lot more peaceful. Not a hundred worries whirling around anymore,” you tell him, your steps upward slower now.

“Just ninety-nine, huh?”

You smile. “Maybe. But he’s not one of them.”

Dull background noise interrupts your thoughts; Taehyung doesn’t respond to you, but reprimands Yoongi in a distant mumble. He’s been doing it since he called, covering his phone to argue with his friend.

Apparently, Yoongi had been with him for hours before you picked up Taehyung’s call; they’ve been settling the rest of the arrangements, scurrying through paperwork. The apartment you considered is entirely their adventure now, but you aided in anything they needed.

Which basically just meant clearing things with the landlord and then answering his new tenant’s million questions.

As in — how were you thinking of decorating it? Why were you going to take it? Did you calculate monthly costs including rent, water and gas? You didn’t mind, because Yoongi might be one of the most polite people you have ever met.

But it seems he’s reluctant to return to his dorm’s lonely walls, too.

Because Taehyung values alone-time, and Yoongi hasn’t granted it for hours. You feel kinda bad for Yoongi. And while the younger man attempts his hardest to maintain the gentle tone, you hear the exhaustion in his voice.

“I’ll drive you home after this, ‘kay?” he tells Yoongi; you snicker at the groan that returns. “You got this, bro.” Attention back to you, a murmur of your name. “Anyway. Everything should be good now.”

“I’m glad. That was… quite something.”

A euphemism, really. The handful of visits weren’t fun; not to mention the stuff you had to get over with for your own move. And then all those calls. You needed minutes upon minutes of preparation for each of them. One hell of a businesswoman, you are.

“No, say it as it is. ‘Cause it knocked me the fuck out. You guys really had to drag me into this.”

You feel guilty about making Taehyung your spokesman here; but as an already residing individual of the building, he was a great support in this matter.

“We— love you,” you tell him, inhaling deeply between your words. You rub the dirt off your soles on the welcoming mat and hold the box tight, not opening the door yet. “Tell your forehead to feel kissed.”

“Nah. You’re gonna upset Eun.”

“Why? Eun and I are more in love then the two of you might ever be. She’ll choose my side.”

“Ha. Fair. Whatever.” His voice doesn’t carry an ounce of solemnity. Once again, you imagine him pulling a face, waving your statement off. “Enjoy your life. Your voice has been echo-y forever. Also, don’t forget to talk to Jungkook about what we discussed.”

Ah… yeah. There’s more than just one thing you need to clear, actually.

“Aye, aye, Captain,” you confirm, though arguing, “I’m surprised you haven’t done it yet.”

“You do it. I know he’ll like hearing it from you better.” He pauses to answer his friend; you don’t even know what he said. “Okay. I’ll go grappling with Yoongi then.”

“Good luck.”

“Buy me sushi.”

One last laugh before you cut the call.

The clicking sound of your keys turning in the lock is music to your ears and balm to your feet. You skip the threshold with a relieved release of air; the apartment smells like diffusers, so warm compared to the declining temperatures outside.

You don’t hear a movement until you get to your knees, seating the box next to the shoe cabinet. As you start working on your jacket, you register a shuffle from the living room, but no voice — Jungkook said he’d be home before you. Perhaps he’s painting; or gaming.

A short text message during lunch assured him he could start dinner without you; deep down, however, you understood he wouldn’t listen anyway. And the obvious lack of aromatic scents wafting from the living room proves it.

You don’t enjoy eating alone — and he knows.

Clearing your throat, you announce your arrival, bent as you take your shoes off and rub your aching heels for a moment. You wish you could float. Offer them reprieve.

Stumbling in the anteroom, you wait for a greeting, but it seems he didn’t hear or notice you. You lick your lips, standing straight, and then speak into the hallway—

“I swear I don’t have a foot fetish,” a short pause — nothing, “but can you massage my feet again today?” You wait. Not a word comes back. So you joke, “Actually, just massage my whole body? I don’t mind. Need some hands-on relaxation.”

Subjectively, you think you’re hilarious. You giggle on your way to the living room, cheerful despite the jam-packed day — but your laughter ebbs down soon. Because he’s standing in the middle of the room, lips pressed into a tiny smile, head lowered, hands in his pockets.

And right in front of him, a timid woman in a coat. Blinking at you.

Your eyes dodge her gaze immediately. It’s an impolite reflex, heart pounding as you watch Jungkook’s hand lift to his forehead, hiding behind his bangs as he rubs. When he looks at you again, there’s an equal amount of worry and amusement in his expression.

“Shit,” you mumble, another mishap, and you continue cursing internally. Stupid, stupid, stupid. And then, “I’m sorry.”

She looks like him. Same sweet aura, short hair, big eyes.

Her right digits are wrapped around the fingers of her other hand, mouth shut tight, though smiling. She knows less what to say than you, and the moment stretches and stretches and does not end and—

“Hi,” you finally murmur, bowing slightly before you cringe. Too much? Not enough? You clear your throat again, and then introduce yourself quietly. “You must be Mrs. Jeon. I… I didn’t know you’d be here or I would’ve come earlier! I’m very sorry.”

Are you rambling?

How horrid. You’d feel so uncomfortable if you were her.

Only, she barely showcases any sign of displeasure or irritation. Despite striking you as an introvert, her movements soon prove confidence — the type to know what she’s saying or doing, but in a humble and gentle way.

She unfolds her fingers and lets them dangle, soon moving up to clutch the strap of her bag. Looking between Jungkook and you once, she raises her eyebrows and shakes her head, as if to promise that there’s no reason for any tension.

You sigh when she speaks, “Oh, it’s alright. I didn’t stay long and I need to go in a minute anyway.”

“Oh?”

“I was going to leave ages ago, but,” she points to her son with rolling eyes, and the man in question shrugs in faux guilt before she speaks on, “that one wanted me to see you for at least a second. I wanted to meet you properly… prepare dinner and all, but. It’s still nice to meet you.”

Her eyes are kind, taking you in; if you could guess, you’d say she’s… excited. Urging to finally speak to her son’s girlfriend.

She moves a teeny tiny bit, as if opting to offer her palm to you, or to— maybe hug you? But maybe she realises the timing, or sees your terrified expression, because she holds back for now politely.

“I see. It’s wonderful to meet you, too.” Incredible how you spoke about initiatives just this morning, rambling in the office until someone had to interrupt you for their own turn. Now, you can’t get a word out. “But, I… I am still sorry I barged in so rudely.”

She grimaces, moving closer to you with a waving motion, “You didn’t barge into your own apartment. It’s all good.”

Jungkook doesn’t interrupt much; doesn’t interfere with his own jests and statements. They mirror each other so much, though. In the way they smile, and in the way they talk.

Even the manner in which she places her hand on your arm, reassuring you, delivers the same warmth. You tense for a moment, not quite expecting the touch; but it’s motherly. Soft.

A new emotion floods your heart, but you can’t decode it. Too many thoughts streaming in, brain working overtime to come up with a full sentence without stuttering, without those dumb hesitation markers that your studies taught you to avoid.

And maybe you’ve succeeded — only, the clump in your throat, accompanied by a strange twist in your stomach builds a barrier now.

Her touch feels… good.

“Do you… would you like to sit?” you ask, voice softer by an infinite amount. “I have a variety of tea here, and you could choose one. If you…”

You want to talk. About whatever. Not the slip occurring a couple minutes ago; maybe you just finally want to know who made Jungkook the man he is today. It wasn’t necessarily his father, was he?

Somewhere, this incessant, constant comfort derived from. But.

“I’d like nothing more than that,” she admits, “but I have massage therapy in a bit, and should get going. An adult’s back.” You laugh, and she gestures towards you with an open palm. “Oh, don’t you work in an office? Take care of yourself, too.”

“Not just an office, Mom,” Jungkook interrupts, inching closer until next to you and rubbing your back, proud, “she’s a manager. She walks around a lot, so the problem are,” he nods toward your feet, “these.”

True. Just today alone, your heels made it feel like you ran a marathon. Learning about each corner and wandering around that building drained you.

“Ah… I thought so,” she says.

You blink in faint confusion until you realise. Jungkook lets out a breathy laugh, brief but telling, and his mother smiles in awkward amusement. Hell.

Your blood shoots back into your face, warming it thoroughly, and just before you can opt for another apology, she says, “You have him to take care of you. Make him spoil you! You do, don’t you?”

Her voice changes the moment she faces her son, a little strict but all in good fun; her eyes squint and he exclaims, “I do!” the moment you defend, “Oh, he does! He definitely does.”

She seems to like this. There’s a sparkle in her eyes, similar to the one you already know; perhaps she’s just as endeared as mothers–usually?–get, realising their children are happy and settling.

“We take care of each other,” you tell her then, and she responds with a content nod.

“Good. It’d be a shame if not. Taught him how to treat people.”

“He knows for sure, ma’am. I don’t think you’ll ever need to worry about that.”

You’re careful with your gestures, your smiles, your movements. Even though she’s made clear as day that she’s not to fear, you still shift your entire focus on the delivery of your words.

If you weren’t, you’d be more lax. Looking through the room, exchanging glances with Jungkook. If you weren’t so distracted, you’d notice that he’s playing with the ends of your hair.

And you’d see the way he looks at you.

With those barely blinking, calm eyes. An ocean of fondness in them, a light, lost smile around his face. As though you’re soothing him, pumping oxygen into his lungs.

You don’t see any of it; but his mother does. And you register the drift of her pupils, the minimal upward movement in her eyebrows as she shoots a glance at him — then back at you.

But when you follow her gaze to him, he’s already snapped out of it, clearing his throat.

“You should go before you’re late,” Jungkook reminds her, removing his hand from your hair, “I’ll go spoil her as you taught me, Mama.”

“You better. Pressure’s on.”

He smirks, lopsided as he slings an arm around her shoulder. She’s so much smaller than him. “Tell Dad Hi from me.”

A slight drop of his lips. He doesn’t look at her but the ground. Tell-tale signs of a distant ache, hidden behind an attempt to find a cure.

The sting is palpable, right in the middle of your heart, but it dissipates bit by bit as he smiles at you again. Genuine once more, back to where he was only five seconds ago.

You nod at her, one last, non-verbal confirmation that you feel cosy here. There’s something inarguably sweet in her instant care. How she instantly roots for your happiness. How she’s pouring all her empathy into you with a single look.

A stare that usually understands someone else’s pain; and then hopes for eternal peace for them.

She doesn’t even know you — does she? You wonder if he ever did speak about you.

“Okay then. Tell me if you need anything,” she says it to Jungkook, but promptly turns to you, promising you, “you can, too. Of course.”

“I will. Thank you so much.”

Purse lifted further up her shoulder, she starts a move toward the exit, already starting to wave you goodbye before she suddenly stops. Looks at you, and blurts, “Oh, and— has he uhhh…?”

She starts the sentence with hesitation, ending it with uncertainty and a look over her shoulder. You follow her eyes, barely catching him throwing a warning sign. His eyes are ripped open, head delivering tiny shakes, but he returns to normal the moment he catches you staring.

Okay. Something happened there that you’re not part of.

But that you’re supposed to be part of? You don’t know.

You’re curious, though. Already aware of what you’ll be pestering him with tonight.

She shuts up, letting out a short, tiny breath. Her small, sweet fingers curl just once before she releases them again, and she flattens her coat, nodding.

“I’ll leave you two alone then,” she declares.

“You should stay for dinner next time, though!” you offer.

“Of course. I’m eating with my husband after the appointment, so he’ll probably already be waiting, but. Next time for sure. And you should come, too, someday.”

Right.

It doesn’t stop. It’s permanently odd hearing someone talking about that man other than Jungkook. Shouldn’t be, because she’s the closest and dearest individual to him, sharing a home and marital bed. But…

It’s like people don’t quite feel real from stories until one actually faces them. His mom’s subtle, harmless words about her husband make him feel realer, and Jungkook’s issues with them.

But most of all you wonder — why has he never visited here? You wish he had. You wish he would sometimes. But she didn’t even suggest bringing him with her next time. Or how his father would be delighted about a visit, too.

It doesn’t seem to faze Jungkook. Or maybe it does, but he doesn’t let it show. Or — worse. Has he gotten used to it? His father’s absence, or the term that defines their relationship.

Because he nods, a soft smile as a son usually throws at his mother. Casual but loving. He says, “Won’t keep you here then.”

Jungkook kisses her head at the door, and she stuffs her hands in her coat, politely bidding you goodbye.

You watch as she approaches the staircase, still waving when she turns around one more time. You sigh in relief — she was friendly. No panic. You didn’t fuck up entirely.

And despite the last moments of gloom that the mention of her husband evoked, you hear Jungkook’s chuckle resonate once the door finally closes. His steps move toward the living room, his shoulders shaking.

You nearly slide down the closed door as you watch him, head falling back before he falls into a wholehearted laugh. You imagine deep, multiple crinkles around his eyes, mouth wide in joy.

Eyebrows kissing, you follow him inside, nearly bumping against him when you realise he’s standing in the middle of the room, body still shaking from the chortle. He’s facing the ground, and you hit his arm from the back.

“Shut up,” you only order, opting to walk away.

But he turns to you, a hand around your elbow; he can barely breathe when he assures, “Okay. Okay, I’ll stop. Sorry, I just—” He sniffles as you look at him, sulking and trying his gloating not to make you laugh, too. “What were you doing?”

“That’s not funny!”

“I’m not trying to be funny! I’m serious.”

Which he clearly isn’t. The smile is too infuriatingly wide, and the tug at your arm too affectionate. He’s amused and you hate–love?–that you are, too. You keep the act of agitation intact for another moment.

But pieces of you break, your heart a melting mess when you watch his eyes nearly close, nose scrunched up. His shoulders rise — they always do whenever his laughter increases, bunny teeth protruding and the mole under his mouth a magnet to your lips.

And when he raises his hands to your face, cradling it, and speaks, you lose it entirely.

“What were you even saying, munchkin, huh? You’re such a little idiot, you know?” he playfully scolds, squishing your cheeks; peppering kisses on your skin and your lips; barely allowing you a moment to talk.

“And you’re—” you say between tiny kisses, distracted by the childlike, muah-ish sound effects that accompany his pecks, “so mean.”

“And you are the sweetest thing to exist.” The lovingly aggressive touch vanishes from your cheek to be replaced by sudden pinches; your protests are high-pitched, and unfortunately, enhance his statement. “Okay, okay. Come on.”

He flicks your chin as if to provoke you further, but dodges all your teeny tiny rage to come when he moves past your body. Warning abandoned, his fingers tweak your ass as he targets the kitchen, and you yelp, instantly slapping a hand over your butt.

“Freshen up and let’s get to dinner. And hurry. Gotta give you hands-on relaxation later.”

“You’re the worst, I mean it.”

But his evil snicker isn’t.

He might make your hackles rise, and test your patience the way he used to so long ago. Back when you’d seek him out in a miniscule dorm room, eyebrows furrowed just to see him a bit longer after class.

You’re always baffled how your foundation still stands; after all the shattering and agony and stings that fractured your heart. Only now, you’ll be surrounded by the bicker every hour of the day.

And you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Living through an odd day at work, driving around town and embarrassing yourself in front of your boyfriend’s mother makes one dizzyingly hungry, you realised. Stress didn’t let you eat properly today.

Even now, there’s something you need to reveal to him — but the moment you sit down to eat and crack the first joke, you don’t have the heart to. And then, combined with the rush still lingering from the awkward, wholesome interaction before, and the shift in mood, you soon do the worst:

Forget about the issue.

Your eyes meet the bottom of your bowl sooner than preferred, your stomach still seemingly as empty as before. Whatever magic Jungkook seasoned the dish with, you want him to sprinkle it on your tastebuds every day.

Jungkook is sipping on his water when you suddenly look up and place a hand on his bicep, shaking him for attention. A guilty Oh slips out of you as you watch droplets roll down his chin, and he tries not to choke as he puts the glass back on the table.

“Babe—”

“I’m sorry!” you exclaim, thumb wiping at the fluid dampening his chin. “Just. Can we have more? That helped with that sickness all day, and… I’m still hungry.”

Along with the lack of appetite, you assumed the stress and the constant overworking dragged the feeling of illness and stomach ache throughout the day, too. Jungkook keeps warning you about burnouts — doing a thousand things at once, you’ve been thoroughly burdened.

But honestly. Maybe it was just hunger for a real meal.

“Oh? I'm so glad it helped then! And sure,” he responds. “Go ahead, there’s enough for like four people.”

You blink. “And you?” He shakes his head, patting his full tummy, attempting another try at drinking. You argue, “I’m not eating alone, though!”

“Angel, I’ve had like two portions. I'll be full until next dinner.”

“Lame!” You shift on the couch, half of your ass holding you onto it, “And if we found ways to burn it off?”

“…Ah?”

“I mean… You like working out. So just work me out.”

“Shut up. You’re impossible.”

You’ve long given up — you’re not an ass. You would never force him to eat or not to eat, unless he hasn’t in hours. But you also need a foolproof way of amusing him.

Which, despite his very unimpressed expression, you know you did. His lips still twitch.

Sombre, his tongue pokes the inside of his cheek before he shakes his head. You pat his strong thighs, standing from the couch with a hungry groan.

“Fine. I’ll go heat up some for myself then,” you announce, but Jungkook’s shrill alarm bells ring immediately, his body jumping off his seat.

“Not the microwave.”

“Jungkook—”

“Not! The microwave. Just toss it in the pan and heat it up there.”

You tiptoe to the kitchen just a little faster, playful as he hurries after you. You spend your seconds explaining why the microwave won’t explode; how tickling you won’t change anything; how you’ll break something if he doesn’t stop.

But most of all, you spend your seconds allowing him to chase away all sorrows you carried for so goddamn long.

Shut up. You’re impossible.

His prior agitation truly wasn’t one at all.

Because despite your obvious jests, the calories lost on the couch rob you of all sanity at last. A hand in your hair, a body pushing yours down, free fingers roaming your sides and your legs, and lips never separating from yours.

He doesn’t strip you off a single piece of clothing. Doesn’t dig a hand underneath your shirt, focused on how your mouth feels, how his name rolling off your tongue sounds.

The eyes he stares into are vivid and bright, and he uses up all his power to not let them kill him. Your body wraps around his like the most tender of all embraces; he doesn’t need you bare for it, no matter how blank the thought leaves his mind.

Only needs the proximity. The tongue touching his, the nails testing his shirt’s quality.

You miss most of the movie that he suggested, eating each other up, a fist around the hem of his shirt until he nearly falls off the couch and wakes you from your dream. You giggle and joke, spending the second half of the film yawning, sipping the peppermint tea.

Jungkook uses the quiet time for whispered conversations; massages your feet as you pleaded for, repeatedly asking for your comfort.

The moments aren’t anything big, in theory. You’re not in a fantasy novel, not throwing a ring into a volcano. You’re mortal and here, surrounded by humane domesticity and drowning in casual conversations.

Yet — even though you’re not living through spectacular adventures, you’re breathing through special moments nevertheless. Because not a single second spent with him feels mundane, after all.

Sometime as the ending nears, you let your legs fall, pulled close to Jungkook by your hip. You don’t quite understand when or how he does it, but miraculously, you land half on his lap, ass barely on the couch and cheek pressed to his temple.

Jungkook pushes a hand against your thigh, heaving you up further and moving you until you’re comfortable. There’s a light groan, followed by a feathery kiss to your jaw; and you wrap an arm around his shoulder to hold on, shifting even closer.

Your touchy warmth isn’t new to Jungkook; but it seems that the changes in your lives made your inhibitions disperse. Like you broke the bars trapping you so far.

Because the increasing clinginess feels carefree; you don’t overthink your movements tonight. Even before, there was lightness in your interactions; how you’d breathe in his presence, compared to when the world intruded.

The difference was still never quite veiled.

He saw it when he called from so far away all those weeks ago, staring at the distress in your face through a device — versus when he returned to your world.

Or just recently, when you stood on that tiny stage, talking down to reporters — as opposed to when you whispered for him to get you home.

Your shoulders always dropped in relief the moment you stood in his soothing radius. And yet—

There was quiet discomfort in your eyes. And today — today he doesn’t see that usual steam frying your brain. Your smile isn’t burdened; you’re weightless, like you’re breathing.

Overwhelmed and endeared, Jungkook gulps. The pricking needle rods his heart, simultaneously flicking the wounds. He could cry.

He watches you busy your fingers with his shirt, unable to put his thoughts into a coherent string of sentences; so he only says, “You’re so cosy today.”

“Hm? I’m always cosy.”

“Mmmh… a bit more tonight.”

Your forefinger traces the outline of his pecs over his shirt, and you nod with a hum before you declare, “That’s because I’m trying to establish a healthy balance.”

“A healthy balance? How so?”

“I need to be nice, because you’re not.”

His eyes follow your finger’s slow movements, so his voice is soft, barely concerned. But his brain can’t quite compute as he asks, “I’m not nice?”

“You’ve always been mean, actually.”

He laughs. Taps your thigh rhythmically, close to your butt. “How am I mean to you?”

“Like,” you press your palm flat in the middle of his chest, looking at him. There’s a crease between your eyebrows, the slightest hint of a pout on your lips. “You ass could’ve answered when I came home. You didn’t say anything! Or did you really not hear me?”

Oh.

Ogling into your anticipating, subtly piqued eyes, he suppresses a laugh. His lips form a thin line, but the glow in his dark eyes betrays him. Your hand lifts a little, ready to spank his pecs, but you close the gap again as you grant him another chance.

“Hey, if you tell me you didn’t hear, I’ll let it slide.”

You’re well aware Jungkook graduated as the best of his year in Teasing You, and holds the degree proudly to your face every day — but you also know he’s honest.

So you’re not surprised when he admits, eyes mischievous, “I heard you.” Your slow blinking, the scolding gaze are hilarious to him; he looks unspeakably pleased. “I wanted to see what you’d do.”

Now you do slap his tits.

“And you didn’t expect me to say that shit?!” you reprimand. He wraps his arms around you, his laughter a deep, genuine emergence from his chest. “I’m an idiot, in case you didn’t know.”

“Of course. I do know,” he suddenly deadpans. Wow. That couldn’t have come any more naturally. “I know you well, baby.”

“And yet…”

He waves your concerns off, hand soon returning to your back to pull you closer. “She’s chill. I knew you were gonna amuse her right away.”

“Oh god. You planned this… Wait. You didn’t shush her when you heard the door open, right?”

He doesn’t answer. Just keeps looking at you. And then… is he…

Is he zoning out?

“Jungkook,” you call again.

“Hm?” He stares at you beguiled, as if utterly distracted by whatever. “Sorry. Can’t hear you—”

“You so can. We’re alone and I’m speaking loud and cl—”

“Nah, you’re just so pretty. I can barely focus.”

“I hate you.”

But you don’t.

He doesn’t need to spell his intentions out for you to understand. He might be testing your patience, but there’s a hidden meaning in his words that he can’t hide as well as he intends to after all.

Because you know he just wanted you to be yourself instead of playing a different role; just like he has never pretended in front of your parents. He knows you’d try extra hard for him — but he needed you to come in and receive affection as the person that you already are.

Guess whatever you blurted was the first impression he wanted to leave of you.

“So,” you start after a moment, back to tapping his chest, “do you think I did amuse her?”

“Oh, she loved it.” Of course she did. You could see the Jeon-esque endearment in her eyes the moment you stepped into the living room. Humbles you. “She’s gonna adore you, too.”

“Ah. Like you adore me.”

Jungkook’s response arrives in the form of a long, semi-damp kiss, delivered to the corner of your mouth. You grimace, torso moving backwards at his gentle force. He adds another Mmmhhh to the gesture until you’re nearly falling off his lap, pushing him away again with a giggly, “Stop!”

He leans back with a content sigh, eliminating more of the distance between you until his head almost rests against your chest. But when you speak again, he looks up into your face.

“Hey. Your mom was saying something as she was leaving. What was it again?”

“Uhh…”

His pupils roll up in thought, one shoulder already rising to shrug, but then it drops again before he voices, “Oh… Yeah…” A break in thought; then, “I figured you’d be busy with everything going on, so I was being reluctant about asking. Didn’t wanna put you in a difficult position.”

You wait. He speaks on, “But my cousin’s getting married next month, and I’m invited.”

There’s a beat of a pause, and you anticipate, already sensing a presentiment before he spits it out—

“And you are, too.”

Hold on.

Weddings. More often than not, weddings happen in big places, filled with a great number of guests. Of friends. And… of family members.

If what he’s suggesting isn’t a hallucination, it means that’d be how you’d step into the battlefield. Attempting your best to be yourself, to charm his family with whatever strategy.

Is he thinking of the same thing?

Because you’re speechless.

You close the mouth you only now notice stood agape, trying not to show the bubbling exhilaration too blatantly. That’d be your first joyful event together.

Oh god.

You might squeal; faint of nervousness. If you could, you’d press your fists to your lips and stomp your feet and twirl your hair and—

“Wait… You want me to go to a wedding with you?” you finally ask instead, keeping your voice in a normal pitch.

“Only if you feel like it.”

“And… and you?” you inquire, wide eyes looking into his wider ones. He’s nervous, too. “Do you want me to?”

“I… yeah. I do. I really, really don’t want to go without you, actually.”

Shit.

“Where is the wedding?”

“Yeah, see, that’s why I was afraid to ask. You’re so busy and your job’s so new. But we’d—” He hesitates, as if scared of rejection. Clicks his tongue, evaluating his words. “The thing is that we’d have to drive all the way down. It’s back at home.”

You need a moment. Back at home; you’re home. Meaning, it’s not here.

Meaning, it’s in his hometown. Meaning, you wouldn’t just meet his family, but walk through a place of memories and deeply rooted, nostalgic affection, too.

Which is… such a huge fucking thing.

Especially for a girlfriend.

Eun always says it doesn’t do bringing a girlfriend or boyfriend to big events such as birthday parties or weddings. It’s disadvantageous for the pictures, she claims. Who knows how the future might play out?

But Jungkook isn’t concerned with these issues. Jungkook wants you all the way down there, lurking on streets with him that he grew up on; tripped on; played on.

These are places with core remembrances. So easily expanded when more are added to them in later years; and so easily shattered when hearts break.

But a heart breaking is not an option, is it? Not anymore.

“You’re… taking me to your hometown?” you ask. You immediately realise the choice of words, and don’t hesitate as you add, “I mean. You’d be taking me home. You’d like to—”

“Is that—” he interrupts, suddenly unsure, “bad? Did it change your mind? You don’t have to, I promise.”

“No. I actually might cry.”

His expression momentarily softens, a big, clear Awwwh written in it. Gentle fingers brush your hair back, observing the vulnerability in your eyes. But shit, you mean it.

You could cry.

Because you talked about this so long ago.

Back when he was miles away, yet so deeply settled in your heart. Sneaking his way into your head, eating you up inside. When he broke off a piece of you and took it with him as he left, no relief for weeks on end.

And when he came back, he promised he’d take you with him one day.

Is that it? Is that now?

“Fuck,” you curse under a quiet laugh, confused by the burning in your eyes.

Jungkook’s hand brushes over your cheek, eyebrows slightly cocked. He might not have expected you to react with such… emotion. You hadn’t either.

“Hey,” his voice soothes, “don’t cry. It’ll be good. And if it’s not, or if you don’t want to, we can just stay here and never go again.”

You’re gonna sob. How did you deserve him?

Of course you want to go. Of course you’d make the best of it. No fibre in you wants to reject his offer.

In fact, you’re already daydreaming. Because…

How’s it gonna be? Will you see more stars there? Will his family like you? His Dad like you? And what are weddings with boyfriends like? Will you be seeing him in every flower in the hall, in every kiss the couple shares?

“No,” you say, “I’ll go. I will go because you’re too obsessed with me to leave without me.”

Jungkook chuckles immediately, but not speaking before rolling his eyes, “And you’re a brat.”

You wait a moment, smiling in unison with him, and then ask, “Honestly, I… I’d love to. Can I just still ask…” You’re curious; but you also want to keep feeling that warmth. More tranquillity from his words. “Why would you not go without me?”

He doesn’t stall.

“Because it’s such a big event, and… so far away. I don’t want to leave you here. And the thought of being at the most lovey-dovey place without my favourite person sucks.”

You’ll freaking screech.

“Jungkook!”

Half of the name is muffled when your lips drop to the crook of his neck, back uncomfortably arching and face heating up. Your ass threatens to fall back on the couch, legs still over his, and he hugs you close as he snickers again.

He shakes your body gently, trying to lift your face. Calling your name when your breath tickles his skin, asking, “Are we embarrassed?”

“No.”

But when you look at him again, your smile is wide enough to freeze your muscles in place. He shakes his head, flooded with aching joy, and makes sure again, “So you want to go, yeah? Don’t need time to think or something? It’s okay if you do.”

“As if. I really wanna go. I’m gonna make this,” you touch his collarbones, then your own, “work.”

He smiles. Grants you a short break to organise your thoughts. And while what you query next shouldn’t come as a surprise, it does introduce a delighted shift in mood.

“What am I gonna wear?”

Jungkook puffs out a breath.

You don’t notice; your focus drifts, directed to the carpet. You mentally scurry your closet, quietly trying to recall appropriate attire for weddings. Which is odd, because you should have the entire catalogue of your and every other place cemented in your mind.

“What do I wear?” you repeat, back to looking at him, barely allowing him a moment to think. “And don’t say anything would look good on me. Serious answers only.”

“You know a question like this prompts nothing but unserious answers from m—”

“Kook—”

“Okay. I mean, you have such pretty dresses. Lemme just choose one and we’re supplied.”

It’s an easy idea; fair enough. Only, you’re barely listening, earning a side-eye from Jungkook when you say, “I should buy a new one.”

Which still doesn’t deter him, though. “Cool. I’ll go with you then.”

“Or will I seem overdressed?”

“It’s a wedding, baby. Overdress like hell.”

“And… if I’m underdressed?”

“You’re still gonna be the hottest around!” he exclaims, and you flinch just a little. He’s not truly agitated, but there’s playful frustration in his voice, a grin around his lips. “Don’t worry about the dress, okay? It won’t stay on you anyway.”

Jungkook expects you to react with similar scolding, using it to hide how timidly flattered you actually are. But you’re too fired up, restless in his grip as your voice grows shriller, “I’m so. Fuck, I’m so excited!”

“I am, too. But…”

His palm moves up and down your back, one eye squinting shut as you start swaying a bit, pumped with serotonin. Like a thrilled child. You’re so…

He lowers his gaze; you might just see the heart eyes otherwise.

“Okay, hey,” he tries again, calming you as his fingers grasp your wrist. “Should we go to bed for now, though?”

You wait with your answer, relaxing your body. Stopping your elevated sounds, you draw the deepest breath in history, and then breathe out a whispery, “Yeah.”

“Yeah. Good. Oh.”

“Hm?”

“You haven’t actually been to the bedroom yet, right?”

“Oh…”

True. Since you came home, you only conversed with his mother, then rushed to take a shower as she left, still filled with prickling and nervous emotions. And then you hurried back to him, starving, eating, watching TV.

And now you’re here.

Was something different about the bedroom, though? You don’t think so.

“You’re right,” you tell him, “no, not really. Just to shower. Why?”

“Just…”

“…What?”

“Okay. Hold onto me.”

“Hold ont— oh, f—”

You gasp for air when two strong arms replace his soft hands, settling under your kneepits and around your back. He shifts dangerously on the couch, moving forward before he starts to lift with a self-motivating grunt.

“And— off we go.”

You sling your arms around his neck immediately, hiding, letting out a panicked, ”Be careful, I’m sli—”

“All good. Relax.” His arms wrap more properly around your limbs, and you dare to listen. Allowing your legs to dangle, you let him carry you calmly, breathing air through O-shaped lips. “Good girl. I won't just let you fall.”

“You better not.”

“No. Just wait.”

He looks at you with a comical grin, throwing a kiss into the air and down to you. Using your feet to kick the door open, he halts at the threshold; for a second, he looks… up.

And just when he finally enters the room, you quietly follow his gaze. The question as to what to wait for gets stuck in your throat when you realise what it is he needed you to see.

Holy shit.

the chapter isn't over yet – much to go!! tumblr just doesn't allow more than 1k blocks/paragraphs. apologies for the scrolling, but i promise it's worth it :'D here's the rest! <3

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