#task 3: playlist

[python333]

residual self-image — python³

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synopsis residual self-image is the mental projection of your digital self; it refers to your own physical appearance that is understood by you, that is projected unto you by yourself. you see yourself as something to be ashamed of. price sees something different.

relationships platonic!captain price & gn!reader.

characters cap. price.

word count 7.6k

warnings anxiety/panic attack [not sure exactly how to classify it; i think it's more of an anxiety attack?], reader takes SSRIs [zoloft/sertraline], suicidal thoughts and almost-suicide attempt, reader is the most unreliable narrator known to mankind, second person pov [you/your/yourself], usage of [name], usage of [c/n] for call sign/code name, bad matrix references/spoilers for the matrix and the matrix: reloaded.

note please please PLEASE let me know if this comes off as me romanticizing having anxiety or taking antidepressants so that i can fix/rewrite it /srs i don't take any form of antidepressants or anxiety medication and i also am not diagnosed with either of those!! nothing i say is final!!! i do not have firsthand experience with what reader goes through in this fic!! sorry i disappeared for a second, have some food as an apology. again, feel free to correct me on anything you think is inaccurate and i will (most likely) change it!! also sorry for like 3k words of backstory oopsies

In The Matrix, Morpheus gives Neo two options: blue pill, or red pill?

He says that if Neo takes the blue pill, “the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe”. But the second option, the red pill, if Neo takes that, he will “stay in wonderland and [he] show [Neo] how deep the rabbit hole goes”. Neo, of course, takes the red pill, and is shown the “real world”. 

Neo is thought to be “the One”. With the “O” in “One” being capitalized, so you know that it’s a pretty important title. 

In the end, Neo becomes confident in who he is and what he can do, and defeats the “Agents”. Trinity confesses her love to a “sleeping” Neo, their ship is getting attacked by whatever those weird fuckin’ creatures were called, and Neo defeats the last of the agents. The end. 

You take pills too. But yours are blue. They’re matte, powdery, baby-blue pills that are branded with the name “ZOLOFT”. It’s sertraline, to be specific, and you’ve been taking it for the past few months. You’re new to pills like these, ones meant to treat anxiety and depression and a number of other medical issues, so you didn’t know how much to take at first. You asked your doctor so many questions. You think about it often, and wonder if, even though it’s their job, that doctor had gotten annoyed at some point because of your inquiry. 

These pills do similar things to the ones in The Matrix, though. You take them, preferably at night, and wake up in your bed like you always do. You believe whatever you want to believe, and another chapter is closed at the end of every day, marking another page closer to the end of your story. 

Some days, the story feels like it’s going to end sooner than expected. 

A side effect of sertraline―or, well, Zoloft specifically―happens to be suicidal ideation. It’s not that common, not that talked about, and isn’t the most well-known. But then again, most mental disorder-treating medicines have some kind of side effect like that, and plenty of people take things like antidepressants without an issue―or so you thought―so surely you could deal with something as simple as sertraline, right?

Wrong. So, so, wrong. 

It’s probably really bad for a person who works in a military group to be dealing with such thoughts. You think about quitting sometimes, for the sake of the other people in the task force, because what could happen if the wrong straw breaks the wrong camel’s back while you’re doing an assignment? What if, caught in the crossfire between your team and your enemy, you say fuck it and decide that it’s all just too much? What are the odds of that happening? What are the odds of anything happening? What were the odds of the Earth being created, of the first animals evolving, of the first humans speaking the first languages? Statistics are so important, chance is so important, and odds determine everything. What are the odds of you deciding whether or not you have the will to live? The ability to keep going, to keep the routine you’ve always kept, to keep from taking one of those G19s from the armory and turning off the safety before pulling the trigger? To commit to such a permanent solution, one you’ve deemed as the “s-word”, because thinking about it sometimes is too much.

Or maybe it’d be a rope, your brain continues without your consent, A chain. Anything that will hold your body weight up enough for you to dangle from the fan on the ceiling―an image that makes you lean towards a chain, sickeningly enough, because of the idea of your abnormally stretched neck on display. The purple bruising that would appear, the indentations of each link, the smell of your blood and the metal of the chain unable to be told apart. Maybe your eyes would still be open, and it would look like you’re staring down at anyone who walks into your office. There’s so many possibilities. They add up, and create new odds, new chances. Every time you simply think, you are creating a new way to go about life, and that creation is sometimes stored so deeply in the back of your mind that it haunts you. It comes back around, becomes more common, the chances of it happening go up. 

Sometimes the odds feel like they aren’t in your favor at all. Sometimes you wonder how you could’ve ever thought that any part of the universe was against you. It’s not bipolar; it doesn’t come and go in extremes, it just comes and goes. The odds will lower in your favor some days, and you will deem those days “bad days”, and other days they will be so high you don’t even think about “good days” or “bad days”. But those other days are almost as bad as the “bad days”, because they go by so quickly. You take them for granted so easily, too easily, and they leak through the thin lines between your fingers, leaving you with nothing by the end of the day. 

Sometimes on “bad days”, your hands go from cupped to praying, and you will plead with yourself to just get better. You never do, on those days, and after taking your medicine you will go to sleep and believe that the next day will be better. Or, at least, convince yourself that the next day will be better. 

You would’ve understood if Neo took the blue pill. If he stayed in blissful ignorance, even after all of the weird shit that happened to him. If he continued to wake up every day in a “normal” world, to sell computer systems and hacking programs, to be anyone but “The One”. 

Because that’s what you do. You take your medicine, and go on with life as normally as possible, even with all of the things that you’ve been through. You wouldn’t want to be the one responsible for saving the world, or beating up robot-alien-things, or whatever. Just like how you don’t want to be held responsible for really just… taking care of yourself. 

Which you’re shit at, by the way, if that doesn’t make things worse. 

You take your sertraline and that’s about it. It’s not like it doesn’t work, it’s just underwhelming sometimes. Before you got on it, you would take more things to heart, think about things more, and were probably a little more prone to actually killing yourself. After starting to take it, it was admittedly pretty rough. It felt like your anxiety had increased a little, like your paranoia had only heightened, and everything felt so elevated. 

Then, maybe a few months after beginning to take it, everything dimmed out. Like one of those lightbulbs you can dim, everything gradually came back down, and even lowered to a more tolerable level. You were glad, at first, that you had endured those first few months the way that you did because you’re not sure you would’ve even been here to this day had you not. Reading several articles and Reddit posts about Zoloft definitely didn’t help, especially as someone who was taking it partially for anxiety, but still, you managed. 

And then you realized that just taking the medicine didn’t do as much as you hoped it would. 

It helps you deal with anxious and depressive thoughts, yes, but you still feel like something’s missing. That lightbulb in your mind has dimmed, but it’s only just enough light to see ahead of you. Before all of this, the light was bright enough to blind you, to make you see that dreadful stark-white that still sometimes haunts you―when it dimmed down to where it is now, it was obviously a relief, but you feel like now there’s not enough light. 

You understand the whole point of the medicine is to dim that light, to help bring down your mental state to a more “normal” one, but you think that even people who don’t have diagnosed mental disorders feel strong emotions like you used to. Maybe not as strong, but definitely something adjacent to it. You miss that, funnily enough―getting strong enough emotions. 

Right now, you’re sitting at your desk in your office, staring down at the plate of mashed potatoes in front of you. You get it almost every time it’s offered, and endure the teasing you get from your teammates, all for one purpose. 

To hide your pills in it.

Mashed potatoes are starchy, yes, but easy to swallow without chewing. They’re thick enough to help hide the feeling of the pill going down your throat, and don’t leave that weird aftertaste in your mouth that taking your medicine with water does. You tried taking the pills with water at first, like you would with any other medicine, but with this specifically you just can’t. It’s too easy to notice, they’re too big to just hide with water, and it feels like swallowing a rock every time you take them with water. 

So, mashed potatoes it is. 

The pill is already mixed into it. You had folded the small blue tablet into the mushed vegetable with a plastic fork, trying to keep it as hidden as possible, making sure no hints of blue bled through the beige-yellow of the potato.

You’re now watching the mashed potatoes, unblinking, as if it’s going to grow legs and run away from you. It’s never truly easy swallowing the medicine, even with the mashed potatoes coating it, but it’s usually easier than it is today. Then again, today was deemed a “bad day” the moment you woke up, so this was to be expected. 

You grab the white plastic fork after a brief moment of hesitation and pierce the food with it, hand trembling ever-so slightly as you do―not from anxiety, but from your lack of water intake―and pick up a clump of potato with little strength. The vegetable oddly weighs your hand down the tiniest bit more than usual, but you ignore this in favor of pushing yourself to just force the food into your mouth. You try your best not to chew, your jaw only really moving to chew the side of your cheek instead to satisfy your urges, and eventually manage to swallow the food. 

Right off the bat, you can tell the cluster you swallowed had the pill in it. Lucky me, you think almost bitterly, not sure whether you should be happy or uncomfortable, at least it’s over with. It’s not that it’s a bad thing that you got to the pill so quickly, but usually you’re able to get a few bites of medicine-less potato in before the actual medicine itself. Nonetheless, you scoop up another fork-full―fork-full?―of mashed potatoes and try to eat as much as you can to get rid of the weird feeling of having a pill going down your throat. 

Just the fleeting thought of having a pill that big going down your throat makes it feel like your esophagus is closing. You feel yourself grow closer to nausea at the feeling, setting down your fork and pushing the paper plate of your dinner aside, just to rest your elbow on the table and put your forehead in the palm of your head. It’s bad enough that you feel ashamed because of the fact you even have to take antidepressants, so it’s even worse that those same antidepressants are throwing bad side-effects at you. 

Ashamed because needing medicine to function the same way anyone else does feels so pathetic to you. Maybe it isn’t pathetic. Actually, you know it isn’t; you don’t look at other people who do the same thing and think that they should feel as ashamed as you do. But you still look at your bright orange prescription bottle, labeled with your legal name, and think that you shouldn’t need it. 

You think, for a moment, that it’s because of how much you’ve dehumanized yourself. 

Dehumanized is such an ugly word, and it leaves a strange bitterness in your mind after thinking about it, but deep down you feel that it’s true. You know that you’re human, obviously, because physically that’s what you are. You are, undeniably, a homo sapien―a person, a living being that is a bipedal primate mammal. You, in a less literal sense, have those same cords attached to you that Neo did when he first went to the “real world”. 

But you need those cords, you think, lifting your head so that your chin is resting in your palm instead of your forehead, you need to stay attached to the Matrix. 

Because you took the blue pill. You found a way to keep yourself attached to the Matrix, to keep yourself grounded to what you wish you could experience without them. And those cables weigh you down, and that pod you stay encased in limits your movement―sometimes you feel more like the pod than the person inside of it―but it all seems so worth it to you, doesn’t it? To keep believing what you want to believe, to wake up everyday and dose yourself with that fifty-milligrams worth of sertraline hidden under a pile of food, to eat that food and swallow that pill even though it makes you feel like a mutt? 

You take a shuddering breath in, your thoughts building up in volume and mass, more questions entering your mind too fast for you to process them all. You feel that familiar rush of adrenaline, the kind that triggers your ‘fight-or-flight’. It lights your nerves on fire and causes them to jump, to electrify, and you feel your fingers twitch with the feeling. It almost feels like there’s something crawling along your nerves, under your skin, and the thought almost triggers your gag reflex. Your eyelids flutter, barely shutting for just a moment before you force them open. Your gaze flits over to the still-mostly-full plate of mashed potatoes. 

You’re usually able to finish them, even on “bad days”. But today, with nausea swirling uncomfortably in your stomach, and a too-big pill going through the thin tubes inside your body, you find that it’s much harder to even think about picking that fork back up. You can almost feel your heart beating through your palm, that continuous th-thump, th-thump growing exponentially faster, and your palm getting sweatier by the second. You shift your feet and find that invisible needles are poking at the bottom of them, small pins that push and prod at your skin that leave a strange hot-cold feeling. It forces you to take the pressure off of your feet by holding them up ever-so slightly, the soles of your shoes just barely touching the ground. 

You swear your heart rate increases at all the different sensations lingering on your body. You can feel your breathing starting to pick up, and for God knows what reason, you suddenly find it difficult to keep your eyes locked onto one object. Your gaze dances around the room as a surge of chills runs up your spine. A trail of goosebumps rises after each wave of biting cold, passing over the bony projections of your dorsum. After having so many of them, you know instinctively the signs of an oncoming anxiety attack, and know how quick those symptoms escalate from simple shallow breaths to the inability to keep your breathing consistent at all. Yes, they develop slower than a panic attack does, but the gradient from fine to not-fine is hard to view as slow when there’s so many symptoms to keep track of.

At the thought of such a thing happening, your gaze instantly locks onto the prescription bottle sitting on your desk. It’s still uncapped―fortunate for you, because you’re seriously doubting your ability to uncap something with a child-proof cap on it right now―and in your eyes is practically glowing. It’s so tempting, because it’s just right there, so easily accessible, so easy to just grab and pour however many pills you need down your throat. The thought makes you realize how dry your mouth feels, how constricted your throat feels, but your mind is too filled with a flurry of incoherent thoughts to dwell on such feelings. 

With your free hand, you grab the uncapped bottle. It shakes with your hand, now more from your building anxiety than your dehydration, and makes the tablets inside rattle. You bring it to your lips, ignoring the chiding voice in the back of your mind telling you how disgusting it is to just put it on your mouth like that, and shake it just enough to get a single pill out of it. The dryness of the pill sticks to the wetness of your mouth, just below the border of your bottom lip. You set the bottle down and poke at the pill with the tip of your tongue, the weird vanilla-like taste of the medicine spreading across the muscle easily. 

Your mouth is dry, so you have to use the residual saliva sitting on your tongue to slick the pill up enough to go down somewhat-smoothly down your throat. It’s still rough, and some areas of the pill remain powdery, the feeling of it sliding down your throat enough to make you gag. For a brief moment, the action causes the pill to lodge in your throat―it’s not big enough to make you choke or anything, but it’s enough to make your heart beat faster and your hands grip onto the edge of your desk tightly. Your thumbs are tucked under the edge, the first knuckle at the tip of your finger bent and the flesh of the tips of your fingers turning lighter from the pressure. 

You cough once you feel the pill go down your esophagus entirely, and breathe raggedly afterwards. Deep down, you know that the medicine takes some time to work, and that if you gave it a little longer than a minute that you’d start feeling better. But the reeling anxiety that wraps around your throat like a chain seems to pull you impossibly farther away from that betterness, and forces your throat to tighten to a point where your breathing feels limited. You go from breathing through your nose to your mouth, where you can still taste the lingering artificial-vanilla with every inhale. 

It’s getting worse, an annoying voice tells you, one that manages to be louder than the others, the medicine’s supposed to help. You’ve only taken a hundred milligrams so far. Another and it’s a hundred and fifty. An overdose is only if it goes over two hundred.

It’s stupid logic but more tempting the more you think about it. It is, after all, only a third pill. You’d be pushing it—

Do you really care all that much that you’re pushing it? What if you want to break that limit? The limits you made, to keep yourself alive, that you still sometimes question the existence of? 

―but that doesn’t really compute well in your mind, and you soon find yourself reaching for the bottle again. Each pill shakes with your hand, and with each tremor another wave of tablets hits the sides of the bottle, like a visual representation of the thoughts that bounce off of the walls of your brain. You lift the bottle, and bring it to your lips, the area that makes contact with your mouth cooler than the rest of the bottle from earlier when you had done the same thing. You’re about to tilt it up before you hear a sudden knock at your door. 

The noise is startling and makes you drop the bottle, the pills spilling over the edge of it and onto the table. 

“Shit,” you curse quietly under your breath, quickly flattening your hand and sweeping all of the pills into a pile, and picking them up in clusters. You manage to get them all back in the bottle before another knock sounds out, and cap the bottle before opening up one of the small drawers on the side of your desk and shoving it in there. 

“Come in!” you call out in a strained voice, praying that you’ll be able to keep it steady for as long as the person at the door needs to talk to you. You close the drawer just as the door creaks open. 

Much to your horror, you look up to see your Captain. 

Your palms are still sweaty as he walks in, so you try to discreetly wipe them off on your pants, and hope to whoever can help you that he doesn’t pay too much attention to the sweat gathered on your forehead. You take a deep breath as silently as you can, attempting to gather yourself before Price can notice anything being wrong.

“It’s a quarter past two,” Price comments once he walks in, closing the door behind him, “why are you still awake?” 

You look over to the digital clock on your desk almost immediately and, oh shit, it is exactly 2:15. You look back over at Price, who is busying himself with pulling the chair that was once in front of your desk around it, presumably to sit next to you. You still feel the dreadfully fast pace of your heart, that th-thump, th-thump, th-thump that you can hear blaring in your ears. It makes itself known in your chest, in your wrist, even in the base of your throat―almost every pulse point in your body has forced you to become aware of its existence.

You swallow dryly, trying to ignore said feeling, and reply, “Why are you still awake?”

Price raises an eyebrow at you, pulling the chair up beside you and sitting down in it, “I asked first.” 

You look at him with an unimpressed look on your face. “Can’t sleep. Why are you up?”

Price hums and leans back in his seat, arms crossing over each other, “Same reason.”

It doesn’t sound like a lie, but it doesn’t sound entirely true either, in your opinion. It’s not that you don’t trust him, but he just seems like he’s up to something. What that something is, though, you aren’t sure. 

“Why the food?” Price nods over to the plate of mashed potatoes, very noticeably unfinished. 

Your gaze follows his to the mashed potatoes. You can still feel the moisture on the palms of your hands, the small tremors that wrack your fingers, and Price’s presence does nothing to soothe your flaming nerves.

“Wanted dinner,” you shrug as casually as you can, forcing a neutral expression onto your face―you briefly overthink what a neutral expression looks like, and decidedly just let your face relax the best you can, “I didn’t get any when everyone else went, I was busy with something, and didn’t really want to head over to the mess with so many people over there, plus I was busy.” 

You look over at Price after your lengthy explanation, not realizing just how lengthy it was, and watch the corners of his lips quirk up into an amused-yet-worried smile. 

“You said you were busy twice,” he points out, before pausing, and pointing out again, “and it looks like you’ve taken a few bites out o’that at most.” 

You don’t bother to look at the mashed potatoes again; you know very well how they look, and know how undeniably full the plate looks. 

“Didn’t feel that hungry,” you make up a poorly thought-out excuse, that even you can understand is unbelievable. 

Price blinks at you, slowly, before sighing. 

“Are you alright?” Price asks, looking more concerned than amused now. You should’ve known from the moment that he walked in that you wouldn’t be able to hide anything from him. If not for the fact that he always seems to know what’s going on, then because of the overwhelming presence of your disquietude. 

You look at him and try to figure out what to say. What is there to say? You were panicking just two minutes ago, with your prescription bottle in one hand, the other too shaky to hold up the damn thing. You can still taste that vanilla. You can still taste the plastic. The bottle itself never once touched your tongue, but every time your tongue rests in your mouth, the tip of it pokes at the same exact place the bottle made contact with. You expect it to taste of vanilla, like its contents, but it doesn’t; it tastes like the pharmacy you got it at. It tastes like the sterile white of the counter, the fingers of the person who handed it to you, the money you spent on it, and the time it took you to get it. 

It’s nothing pleasant. The strange vanilla of the pills aren’t either, but they’re preferable to the bottle itself. 

Price notices you zoning out for a moment, and waves a hand in front of your face. Your eyes unconsciously track his hand for a moment before you blink back into reality and look at him. You knew you were fucked earlier, but when you look at his expression, at the look in his eyes as he watches you snap back to reality, you know that he knows. Maybe he doesn’t know exactly what happened, or how it happened, but he knows something. Fuck, he knows. 

Or, maybe he does know. Maybe he heard your cursing through the door, even with your low voice, maybe he heard the pills spill onto the desk, maybe he heard the opening and closing of the drawer, maybe he―

He’s staring at you.

―has security cameras set up in here, because he does in every room, every hall, everywhere but the bathrooms and the sleeping quarters―

He’s talking. It’s muffled by the sound of your own heavy breathing.

―or maybe it’s just intuition, a gut feeling he has, where he just knows that something’s wrong, that same gut feeling that everyone seems to get when something isn’t the way it’s supposed to be―

Your palms are sweaty. Your heart is pounding out of your chest. You’re starting to feel a little lightheaded.

―the same “gut feeling” that you experience every day but have to ignore because it’s not a gut feeling it’s anxiety and your real gut feelings feel the almost the exact same way anxiety does so you may never know if you ever get an actual one―

Price grabs onto your arm, though the feeling of his skin on yours can’t push past the skin-crawling sensation that coats your skin.

―but how do you really know that your gut feelings aren’t gut feelings? How do you know that anything is anything? That it’s really Price that’s sitting next to you, that it’s your own office you’re sitting in, that―

“[name]!” Price’s voice snaps you out of the trance you seem to be in, and you sharply inhale at the sound of his voice, his volume much louder than you expected it to be. 

You didn’t realize how fast and heavy your breathing had really gotten until this point. You look at Price, a little more on the panicked side now, with restless eyes that can’t stop flitting all over his face. He takes his hand off of your arm before you can even notice it was there in the first place, and leans back away from you. 

You try to take deep breaths, but each breath feels like trying to breathe underwater, and each inhale-exhale leaves you shuddering. You look down at your lap, breath hitching and stuttering, and the moment you open your mouth in the hopes of breathing easier, you are all too aware of just how dry it’s become. You’re sure you let out some kind of sound that alerts Price of your growing distress, because he hesitantly leans forward and takes a deep breath. 

“[name],” Price keeps his voice soft and quiet, quieter than he’d been just a few seconds ago, his soothing voice a gentle wave crashing against the rock of your mind, “you’re okay. Look at me, soldier.” 

Like a remote to TV static, the noisiness of your mind is partially calmed and the waves that wash over your brain provide sweet escape from the overwhelming adrenaline and cortisol thrumming in your veins.

Mindlessly, you do as he asks, his words grounding you and tugging you back down to Earth more effectively than any anchor could. When you look at him, his eyes are clouded with concern and there’s a small frown on his face that almost perfectly juxtaposes his usual quokka-smile.

You know you’re still trembling. You can feel the hairs that stick up on your legs and arms, the weird hot-cold feeling that creates pinpricks of discomfort across your body, the way your heart is trying to escape the prison cell of your ribcage—but none of it compares to the unbelievable dizziness you feel. Your head is a balloon filled with helium and it is slowly deflating, but not fast enough. You feel like you’re no longer in control of your own body—or were you ever in control? 

Your stomach is churning. There’s a sense of dread that dwells there. You might throw up. 

Cutting through your thoughts is Price once again.

“You listenin’?” your Captain asks, to which you nod after a delay of a few seconds. Price holds a hand out and gives you a questioning look, the question of ‘can I touch you?’ clear enough on his face that you nod lightly and he takes your hand gingerly.

“Do y’know where you are?” Price asks. You nod, and he softly requests, “can you tell me where?”

“My office,” you answer simply, the gravel in your voice making you wince. The warbling that escapes your mouth is nowhere near your usual voice, and for a moment you think you might be right about needing to vomit, but you manage to push it down and pray. Price ignores this and pushes on.

“And who am I?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know. 

“... The Captain.” Price purses his lips—he doesn’t really want to accept this as an answer, because he wants you to say his actual name, but he knows what you mean, and you know what he’s doing. He knows that you mean that you’re here, that you’re present, and you know that he’s trying to ground you the best he can.

“Do you know my name?” he questions, to which you nod again, though a little more moderately, seeing as the repetition of nodding your head only makes you more lightheaded, “what’s my name?”

You take a few shaky breaths, ones that are shallow and uneven, ones that hitch enough for it to be so noticeable that Price manages to pick up on it. You open your mouth to talk, but find that your tongue is too heavy to lift to create coherent sounds. The thought somehow heightens your anxiety, something that seems to be noticeable to Price, judging by how his expression shifts to something impossibly softer.

“Here, let me—” Without another word, Price cautiously brings your hand up to the middle of his chest, where his sternum is. 

He exaggerates his breathing, taking long, deep breaths in, and similarly long exhales. His chest rises and falls satisfyingly, and it’s clear that he wants you to copy him. You try your best at first, taking that same too-deep breath that he does and fail almost immediately as you choke on the air you attempt to inhale. Price brushes his thumb over the back of your hand and takes another exaggerated breath, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. You keep your gaze more focused on the lower half of his face as you copy him, oxygen going in through your nose, and carbon dioxide going out through your mouth. 

That one successful breath is followed by an unsuccessful one, then another successful one, then another, and it’s a little rocky but you find that soon enough you’re breathing. There’s air flowing in and out of your body smoothly, with each exaggerated breath you take, almost in sync with Price, until finally he puts your hand back into your lap but continues to hold it. He squeezes it once before letting go, and clasps his hands together. 

“What’s my name, soldier?” he asks, and this time you think you can answer him. 

“John Price,” his name feels weird coming out of your mouth, especially with no honorifics, but he accepts the answer anyway. 

“Good,” Price praises, giving you a small smile, “you’re doing good.”

The approval he gives you helps to calm your nerves the tiniest bit, and you feel yourself slowly coming down from the God awful high that you’d just been on. Again, you’re not sure how he knows, but he senses that you’re calming down―is it because your breathing is steadier? You aren’t nearly as restless? You’re no longer zoning out?―so he leans back in his chair and watches as you do the same. 

“Now,” he breathes out, “can you tell me what’s going on with you?” 

You look away from him for the briefest moment, sparing a glance at the cabinet you know the bottle of your pills lays in, before looking back at him. If he noticed you pulling your gaze away from him for a split second, he doesn’t mention it nor does he make it known that he did. 

“There’s not really anything going on,” you shrug, to which Price scoffs. 

“[c/n],” he looks at you, disbelieving, “two seconds ago I had to help you breathe normally. I know that there’s something that’s going on, somethin’ that had to trigger what just happened.” 

You stay quiet and he gives you an expectant look. The pressure from his fixed glare makes you feel like you’re about to explode. 

Finally, you answer him defeatedly, though vaguely, “I was in the middle of taking my medicine when you knocked.”

Price stays silent, expecting you to elaborate. 

“And…” you try to find a way to make it sound less awkward than it does in your mind, though you suppose there’s never really a correct way to go about something like this, “I almost took more medicine than I needed to.” 

The silence continues, but now Price looks less expectant, and instead more of a mix between concern and something else you can’t identify. That something, though, is still soft, and still has a hint of pity―maybe sympathy?―to it.

“Almost?” he repeats, “was that on purpose?” 

When you think about it, it’s complicated. You didn’t necessarily intend to overdose, you just dismissed the idea of it. Or, at least, you don’t remember trying to overtly kill yourself. Then again, you knew the risks of taking more pills than prescribed to you; had you taken that third pill, you would’ve only been one more away from an overdose, and even then you’d still probably get some kind of health issue. 

Price’s face hardens when you don’t answer immediately. He must be taking your silence as a “yes”. 

“Not… really,” you answer slowly, “I don’t know what I was thinking.” 

He nods, waiting a few seconds before asking, “Have you thought about it before?”

By it, for some reason, you sense that he isn’t asking exclusively about taking one too many tablets.

It’s tempting to be dishonest about it; it’s a shameful thing to you, to use the things that are supposed to help you to harm yourself, to be so careless with your own life. You know that it isn’t necessarily all your fault, but there’s still that small part of you that can’t help but feel guilty for using something so many other people try so hard to get to almost kill yourself with. 

After a few beats of silence, you decide to answer, “Yeah.” 

Price nods again, and he looks like he expected that answer. “D’you want to tell me more about that?”

You could, hypothetically, go in-depth about all of your weird thoughts about committing. The ones you’d been having just, what, fifteen minutes ago? Thirty minutes ago? The ones about chains wrapped around your throat, stolen guns from the armory, deep purple bruising and a stretched neck. Those thoughts, the ones that try to make ending your life sound pretty, that try to make it sound appealing. It’s not to convince yourself, you don’t think, but rather to help you come to terms with the fact that you were already convinced that you were going to commit at some point. The thought still scares you, because you’re a pussy―terrible, terrible choice of words, a voice at the back of your mind insists, you’re not a pussy, you’re just like anyone else―but you felt like you just knew that you were gonna die by your own hands. That you’d already made the choice, and now you have to understand it, to realize it. 

You are in that room full of TVs, with The Architect in front of you, telling you that you have no choice. That, in fact, the problem is choice. You are surrounded by a million other yous, all protesting, all denying that you have no choice but to kill yourself, all yelling “Bullshit!” because deniability is the most predictable of all human responses. 

But, you remind yourself, The Architect was wrong. He told Neo that he couldn’t do anything to save Trinity from her “fate”, but Neo did save her. He plunged his hand into her chest and forced her heart to beat. 

That’s true. 

And, you add on, The Architect is a computer program, tasked with mimicking human emotions, despite never having felt them. He could never understand the power of human will, of the desperation so many humans have to live. 

Because The Architect was never alive. He is a sentient computer program, whose job is to create a world in which humans can “live” while they are fed on in the real world, but his problem was his inability to create anything less than perfect. We aren’t expected to be perfect, and are taught that flawlessness doesn’t exist, which is why he came to the conclusion that he needed a “lesser mind” to help him create a better Matrix. 

You aren’t supposed to succumb to the idea of having no choice. Because that, in itself, is a choice. Everything you do is a choice. Even if everything you do will only add up to the same ending, to the same fate, why should you waste time not making the choices you want to make? When you assume that you have no choice, you assume that everything you do will go to waste, but that’s not true. You aren’t the only person that exists. You aren’t the only person who makes choices. The choices you make affect other people’s choices, and those choices affect another person, and another, and another. You still have to live through the choices you make, as does everyone else, so even if everything will end the same, why should you make inherently bad decisions when you could be making good ones? Why should you go through things you don’t have to go through, just because you believe that nothing matters in the end?

“Not really,” you answer Price, snapping yourself out of your thoughts, “I don’t… want to think about it too much right now.” 

Price looks a little more worried now but he doesn’t protest your decision.

“Is there anything in here that you could use to hurt yourself?” he asks after a moment, “Or that you’ve already used?” 

You bite your tongue. Technically, the pills count, you suppose, but those are your meds. You can’t really have those confiscated.

“Other than the medicine, no,” you answer truthfully, much to Price’s relief, as is evident on his face as his hardened expression softens. 

“Good, good,” he shifts in his seat. 

He’s gearing up for something. You can tell with the way he subtly presses his clasped hands together, the way his face goes through a mix of emotions, and the way the deafening silence of the room really seems to be getting to him. 

Suddenly, he asks you, “D’you think you’re going to… ?” 

He doesn’t ask you explicitly, but you have a good idea of what he’s asking.

“I was thinking about it,” you respond softly, “before you came in.”

Price nods, having expected that answer. You’re not sure if it was obvious, or if he just assumed you were thinking about it because of you confessing to having thoughts of it before this. 

“Y’know I have to tell someone about this, right?” Price reminds you gently, as if you didn’t already know, “Someone up the chain. Might be Laswell.” 

You hum affirmatively, because you didn’t expect anything less from him, and know that it’s for the better. It doesn’t make you feel any better, obviously, but you know how to be realistic when the time calls for it, and you know that if the roles were reversed you’d do the same thing. Not because it’s mandatory, but because when you imagine Price in your situation, the thought wraps itself around your heart and twists. 

The room is silent for a beat, and you get the feeling that Price is somehow more uncomfortable with the quiet than you are. He shifts in his seat while you stay still, and he clears his throat to break the silence for a brief moment before speaking up again. 

“It’s late,” he points out the obvious, before pausing and irresolutely asking, “do you want to head back to my quarters with me for the night?” 

His words confuse you for a moment. You open your mouth to ask why, before it suddenly hits you―oh, right, you just basically confessed to being suicidal. He doesn’t want to leave you alone right now. 

“Yeah, sure,” you agree, less questioning than Price expected you to be judging by his momentary look of surprise, before he nods and begins to get up. 

He pushes his chair behind him, standing up straight, and holds a hand out for you to grab. You grab it gingerly and use it to haul yourself up, your knees cracking as you do after having been sat for so long. You wince at the sound and Price gives a light-hearted chuckle.

“I thought I was s’posed to be the old one?” he teases, making you give him an unimpressed look and let go of his hand. The room falls back into soundlessness.

You both remain silent as Price leads you out the door of your office, turning off the lights and closing the door after you, and continues to lead you down to his sleeping quarters. His are farther down the hall from yours, because of his higher rank, and therefore takes longer to walk to from your office. The long walk is quiet enough to hear a pin drop, but you both don’t mind this, as the atmosphere here is more comfortable than the one in your office. 

Eventually, you make it to his room, where he opens the door for you and signals for you to walk in first with his hand. You enter the room and hear him enter shortly after you, and go to sit on his bed before pausing. 

“I’m still in my…” you gesture to your clothes, gear-less but still not your “normal” sleeping clothes. Price raises an eyebrow at you as you wave at the state of yourself. 

“I’ve seen you sleep in worse,” he points out, “and I think you sleep in this than in your actual sleeping clothes.” 

You’re about to ask how he even knows about that, before he answers you before you can voice your question, “I’ve seen you walking back t’your quarters in these clothes and hear you snoring a second later at least ten times.”

You close your mouth and sigh through your nose, before muttering, “Didn’t know I was talkin’ to fuckin’ Sherlock Holmes.” 

Price snorts at your retort, “If I’m Sherlock, are you Watson?”

You think about it for a moment, before shaking your head negatively. 

“No?” Price toes off his boots and walks over to you, sitting on the bed, “Then who are you?” 

You sit down next to him, “I dunno. I’m like…” 

“Like Neo,” you continue, ignoring the way Price’s eyebrows immediately raise, “and you’re Morpheus. But less smart.”

“You’re not Neo,” he scoffs, “and I’m not a less-smart Morpheus.” 

“I wasn’t askin’ you,” you grumble, shaking your already-loose boots off of your feet and crawling up Price’s bed. You manage to snake under the covers and feel Price’s eyes on you as you do, staring holes into your face.

He hums in acknowledgment, not bothering to answer you verbally, and instead gets up to lift up the covers and get into bed. The bed is small enough as-is, but with two people inside of it, it obviously gets much smaller. Price doesn’t seem to mind, though, and turns so that his back is facing the door and his front is facing you. Directly in front of you is the base of his neck, but if you tilt your head up, you can see him looking down at you with tired eyes. 

You let out a soft breath through your nose and realize just how tired you are. Price seems to notice this, because his arm comes up and rests across your side, his hand splaying across the middle of your back. He gives you a comforting sweep of his hand, before settling it on your upper back, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb in soothing circles against your clothed back. 

You close your eyes, and he closes his, and it feels like you’ve woken up in the real world and removed the cables from your body.

[arsenicflame]

∞

tysm!!!!! the song was I Become Silver by Fiskur, which actually doesnt have any lyrics anywhere online but heres my best attempt at transcription:

All my fears forgotten, writing's on the wall as we tumble into trouble, i didn't hear you fall

put a "∞" in my ask box and I'll shuffle my music player and give you my favorite lyric from the song that comes up.

[vriskabot]

it MAY be time to steal some more music on the internet

[cityselcouth]

runway

pairing: rafayel x reader

summary: when your top model meets with an accident that keeps him off his feet for a while, you have no choice but to take on the arrogant Qi Rafayel in his absence. dealing with a creative rut and a temperamental model who has endless amounts of audacity when you have fashion week to worry about is no easy task, and he certainly doesn't make it any better.....does he?

themes: strangers to lovers, co-workers to lovers, mild enemies/annoyances to lovers, celebrity! au, model! rafayel, fashion designer! mc, fluff, angst, slowburn, sexual tension, profanity, alcohol consumption, abadonment issues, petnames, lots of banter, explicit sexual content (fingering, nipple sucking, praise, cowgirl, protected sex), plot with porn, mc is a girlboss with a temper, rafayel is a brat and an asshole, they're both flawed and emotionally constipated lmao

word count: 35.7k

playlist: vogue by madonna, fashion killa by a$ap rocky, xs by rina sawayama, glamorous by fergie & ludacris, fashion! by lady gaga, disturbia by rihanna, louboutins by nesra, city of blinding lights by u2, empire state of mind (part ii) by alicia keys.

lyns notes: i rewatched 'the devil wears prada' (one of my fav movies fr) and this was born 🫡 I am a self proclaimed fashion girlie so this was a total blast to write and celebrity aus are my fav!! unfortunately I have not made it as an intern during fashion week yet, so please excuse the inevitable inaccuracies. model raf you will always be famous to me. enjoy <3

Your coffee was cold. 

Simone stared at you nervously, her years of working as your assistant telling her all she needed to know in that moment. She watched as your fingers drummed against the dark wood of your desk, picking up on all the signs of your distress. Your lips pulled into a grimace, the slight tick in your jaw, and how you looked at the cup of coffee before you. All your employees knew that you were strictly a hot coffee drinker. 

“How is he?”

She scrambled to answer. “Xavier is….recovering.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, exhaling slowly. “Elaborate.”

“His leg is broken in two places. Some scratches, but thats the extent of his injuries. He was lucky.”

Your frustration with the situation at hand knew no bounds, and your mood soured even further with the new information. Clicking your tongue, you pressed your index finger and thumb against your temple, already feeling one of your headaches coming on. “Send a bouquet with a card to his hospital room.”

“Of course.” Simone pulled out her phone and began making the arrangements. “Anything else?”

“Coffee that isn’t frigid.” 

Nodding quickly, she walked over and plucked up the cup from your table, giving you a final nod and stepping out of your office. Out of the dozens of assistants you had had, Simone had turned out to be the most competent and tolerable of all, and unlike her predecessors, had withstood your sky-high expectations and sharp tongue.

One word people would use to describe you is difficult. Others included delightful descriptions such as ‘unreasonable’ and ‘overbearing’, or perhaps the synonyms so many journalists had used in their pieces about you, including but not limited to: uptight, stubborn and ill-tempered. It was to the point where you had to applaud them for their creativity and commitment to the bit, never failing to find a new word to describe you in a bad light, even if you were the fashion world's current darling. 

But this world you were so blessed to be a part of was cutthroat and unforgiving. Smiles and pretty manners would have never gotten you out of the tiny apartments you lived in after graduating from fashion school. Even sheer talent wasn’t enough, so you steeled yourself over those arduous years, using your ambition like the sharp tool it was to overcome the hurdles that had blocked your way to the top.

You had built your brand from the bottom up, and it had been worth it. Every tear, every candle you burned late at night, and every nick on your now-perfectly manicured fingers had gotten you to where you were. Some would say you had your success handed to you, but you knew better. You remembered all the times you nearly gave up, all the years you spent running around and interning for brands that treated you like trash. One couldn’t just forget their roots, even if everyone around them insisted on pretending they didn’t exist.

And so here you were, at twenty-seven years old: Y/n L/n, one of the youngest successful fashion designers in the world, and the founder and CEO of luxury fashion label, Lumiere. 

For a brand that was merely five years old, it had quickly turned into a status symbol. Owning a single piece of clothing from any one of Lumiere’s high-end collections set one apart instantly. Your designs were exquisite, and your ability to take any fabric and turn it into a work of art was truly extraordinary. Every collection you breathed life into stunned critics and fellow designers alike, cementing your position as one of the most respected creatives in the industry today. 

Respected or not, being a woman in power was a tough act to keep up. Sitting on the throne meant you had to rule with an iron fist. You weren’t allowed to slip up or make mistakes.

Especially not with Paris Fashion Week coming up. 

The spring and summer collections would be revealed to the world at the most important fashion week. Everything had been going smoothly under your careful watch. 

Until, of course, right now.

Yesterday, your top model met with an accident. Xavier Shen had been with you since the very start of Lumiere and was practically synonymous with its branding. Together, the two of you had taken the world's hottest runways by storm with his award-winning walk and your impeccable designs. In terms of real friendships, he might have been the only one you had.

And now, when you needed him, he was out of commission. There was no way he’d be walking for anyone any time soon.

Your black Louboutins pressed into the carpet beneath your feet as you fought off the wave of annoyance that cut through your concern for Xavier. It wasn’t really aimed at him, no, it was because you couldn’t have possibly predicted such a thing happening. 

Money– you had lots of it. More than you could count, and enough to never worry about making a dent in your bank balance ever again. What was most important to you now was control. 

Simone rushed back in, placing a steaming cup of coffee on your desk with a polite smile. “Anything else?”

Picking up the cup and taking a sip, you savoured the hot, bitter flavour that coated your taste buds. “A closer for the show would be nice. And someone to model the new line.”

Xavier had always been the one to fill in those shoes, sometimes quite literally. Now, you were left to figure out how to replace him temporarily while retaining the integrity of your brand. You couldn’t just take on anybody.

She didn’t flinch at your cold tone. “Sylus Qin?”

You shook your head, resting your elbows against the mahogany of your desk and cupping the mug of coffee, letting its warmth seep into your skin. “He’s walking for the Dior show, which is only an hour before ours. And he doesn’t particularly fit our image.” Sylus was, no doubt, an excellent model and a current favourite, but wasn’t what you wanted representing your brand. “And don’t even think of recommending Zayne Li. He’s been Miu Miu’s poster boy for the last year, and I have no intention of riding on their coattails.”

Simone began listing models, but none seemed fitting. Yes, this was a problem that you had to solve as quickly as possible, but you refused to settle for anything but the best. As she rattled off names, you turned your attention to the floor-to-ceiling window panes that adorned the back of your office, which revealed a stunning view of the city below. The sun was setting, spilling its orange-red rays all over the buildings and buzzing streets of New York. 

It didn’t matter how many times you had been met with this view, it would never grow tiresome. New York would forever be your second love after fashion. It was unforgiving as it was generous, a contradictory quality you liked to think you shared with it.

“What about Qi Rafayel?”

You turned back to her at the unfamiliar name, raising a singular eyebrow. “Who?”

“Rafayel,” she repeated his name, tapping the screen of her tablet and approaching you, holding it out for you to see. On it was the cover of the most recent Vogue issue, and on it was a man covered in colour, the white shirt he wore a victim of this photoshoot's concept. Hues of blue and fuchsia painted his cheekbones and neck, and his dark eyes seemed to stare right into your soul, his features somehow striking a balance between sharp and gentle all at once. 

“Tell me more.”

“He’s probably the most talked about in modelling right now. GQ named him Model of the Year.” She droned on about everything she knew, and you were once again reminded of her competency. “He’s under the Lemuria Modelling Agency and has achieved supermodel status with how sensational his walk is.” 

You hummed, intrigued now. “How come I’ve never heard of him?”

“From what I’ve heard, he’s very selective about who he walks for, which makes everyone want him even more, of course. Word is that he isn’t walking for any fashion week shows yet. He’s refused all offers.” 

Oh? Most models jumped at any chance they got to walk for fashion week. It was the pinnacle of the modelling world as much as it was for the fashion world, with every model competing for the coveted few spots on the runway. 

Leaning forward, you studied the magazine cover for a few more seconds. He did seem to give off the same regal air that Xavier did, at least from the shoot you were looking at, which meant it was at least worth considering taking him on. Potential was something you’d have to bet on.

“This might do,” you muttered, waving your hand in her direction. “Arrange a meeting with him and his manager and add it to my schedule.”

Rafayel adored a good party. 

Sprawled out on the length of his couch with one arm hanging off of it, he lifted his glass with a satisfied half-smile, cocking his head as he observed the chaos that unfolded around him. The mess currently being made would undoubtedly be a problem, but it was one that a future version of himself would have to deal with. Right now, he was content with being the facilitator. 

The bass reverberated through his body, the music so obnoxiously loud that it somehow managed to drown out the raucous laughter and chatter that travelled around the large room. He tipped back the glass, savouring the burn of the alcohol that kissed his throat so soothingly. It provided a pleasant buzz, one that he had been carefully maintaining all evening and the night so far. 

People were dancing on his coffee table. Corners of the large room were occupied by pairs that were a little too close, but the darkness provided them with privacy. Beautiful women sauntered around, a couple hovering around him like moths to a flame. One even sat on the velvet armrest of the couch, right behind where his head lay and reached out to touch his hair, which would have annoyed him if he wasn’t halfway to drunk already. The attention didn’t faze him in the slightest, he was used to being at the centre of it. 

He was the life of every party, the drug that kept it going, and everyone wanted a piece of that sweet high. His parties were all the rage, and anyone with so much as a speck of fame wanted to be in attendance at them, singers, actors and fellow models alike. 

Sighing blissfully, he downed the rest of his drink. The delightful thing about alcohol was that once you had had enough of it, you hardly noticed the taste. He looked up at the woman who so boldly played with his hair, watching how she batted her eyelashes and flashed a coy smile at him. A smirk teased at his lips as he entertained the idea of taking his fun a little further.

Nothing could possibly ruin such a perfect night.

“RAFAYEL!”

Oh dear. 

He didn’t have to look to know who had yelled his name. There was only one person in the world who could say his name with such astronomical levels of exasperation. His manager spotted him and stormed over, setting one foot furiously in front of the other until he was right beside the couch. Rafayel lazily opened an eye, peering up at the intruder.

“Lovely to see you, Thomas. Here to join in the fun?”

Thomas scowled. “I suggest throwing that expensive phone of yours out if it doesn’t work.”

“It works just fine.”

“Then why haven’t you bothered to answer any of my calls?”

The model sighed and sat up, giving the women at his side an apologetic look. “Excuse me, ladies,” he said, charm oozing out of every syllable that spilled from him. “I need to talk to my friend here, and I’ll be right back.” 

With practised grace, he got to his feet and beckoned for Thomas to follow him into the kitchen, which was miraculously deserted. Leaning against the marble counter, he picked up a bottle of gin and poured it into a clean glass before offering it to the frazzled man. When all he received in return was a glare, he shrugged and tipped it back. 

“I’ve been trying to get hold of you all day,” Thomas said through gritted teeth, tapping his foot against the floor and folding his arms over his chest. Rafayel barely flinched at his agitation, used to it by this point.

“I’ve been busy.”

His manager scoffed, throwing his hands up in the air. “Busy? You call this being busy?” He gestured to the doorway that led back to the party, making Rafayel wish he was still there, instead of here, facing the wrath of his uptight manager when he wasn’t as drunk as he wished he was for it. Rolling his eyes, he prepared to give his usual excuses and get it over with so that he could go back to his fun.

“Look–”

“No, you look,” Thomas took a step forward. “Your shoot for Vogue was three weeks ago. Since then, you’ve had numerous offers to walk in fashion week. More than any model I’ve previously managed.” The way he phrased it was incredulous, as if he couldn’t fathom how he had managed such a thing. “So I’m gonna need you to tell me why you’ve turned all of them down.”

Ugh. If Rafayel had been just a little faster, he could have been in his bedroom with that woman and avoided this interaction altogether. He placed the glass back down, running a finger along the rim of it as he hummed. 

“None of the brands spoke to me.”

Thomas looked like he was about to implode. He shut his eyes, letting out a long-suffering sigh. “You just have to walk. Pose a little. There's no speaking involved. You should know what your job entails by now.”

Rafayel placed a hand over his heart, feeling rather attacked at the moment. “Don’t patronise me.”

To that, he was met with a mirthless laugh. “Patronise you? You’re too smart for me to even try, and yet you still insist on acting like a child.” It was always entertaining when his manager lost his patience like this, and he always turned it into a game of sorts, testing to see just how far he could push back.

“You wound me, my friend.” 

“Your aunt expects you to walk for fashion week.” 

Of course, she did. Immediately, his easy-going persona vanished, and he clicked his tongue in an attempt to push down his irritation. “Talia wants me to do so much, doesn’t she?” 

He couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice, but it didn’t matter. His opinion rarely ever did when it was up against his aunts, but he supposed it was his fault. He was the one who had decided working under her would be a good idea, thinking that the familial connection would help further his career. It turned out, however, that while it had certainly given him a headstart, he had become her favourite project.

Back in her prime, Talia had been an extremely successful supermodel herself. After getting married, she didn’t return to the runway, but instead started her own modelling agency: Lemuria Modelling Agency. Since she knew the ins and outs of the business so intimately, she had experienced what felt like overnight success with it.

When Rafayel came along, it was as if she wanted to live vicariously through him, pushing him into shoots and brand deals for fashion houses that she had once worked for herself. It was only recently that he put his foot down and insisted on choosing his projects for himself, refusing to be a puppet for any longer. Surprisingly, she had agreed, and it had somehow worked out even better than before, with his career taking off like never before.

He had no intention of turning out to be another version of her, even if he had technically followed in her footsteps. He was well aware of his worth and he’d be damned if he allowed himself to settle for anything less than perfect.

“You have another offer for fashion week and a contract for a couple of months.” 

“I’m not interested.” His answer was immediate. He disliked speaking of work during his downtime, but since he had been ignoring all of his calls, he didn’t have the right to complain about that right now.

“You haven’t even heard who it's for yet.” Thomas groaned. “Lumiere is a highly respected brand. It’s short notice, but you’re lucky you’re being offered the position at all.”

“I don’t care how great they are,” he muttered dryly, reaching for the bottle once again. He despised being told what to do, regarding himself as a free spirit despite his perfectionist tendencies. 

For a moment, he thought he had won this argument, taking the other man's silence as acceptance. His presumptuous joy was short-lived.

“Get your head in the fucking game, Rafayel. This whole stuck-up artist thing you have going on might have worked out in your favour so far, but it won’t cut it in the long run.” Thomas snapped, sufficiently vexed. “You will take on Lumiere, and you will walk for them. I don’t care if I have to drag you to Paris kicking and screaming, you're coming.” 

Rafayel bit back his surprise at the outburst, feeling his pride take a hit at Thomas’s words. Stuck-up artist? If life had gone the way he had intended it to, then perhaps he would have been exactly that. Not that he was complaining about the life he had now, he enjoyed every second of it thoroughly, for he was nothing if not a patron of indulgence. Still, the accusation stung just a tad. 

He was caught so off-guard that he couldn’t respond with his normal unbothered quips. The man in front of him didn’t let up on his glare, but finally moved out of Rafayel’s personal space, clicking his tongue in triumph like a disappointed father would at his child. 

“We have a meeting scheduled with them for next week. Don’t be late. And for god’s sake, check your phone. I’ll send over the details.” 

With that final statement, Thomas walked out, as eager to leave the party as Rafayel had been to rejoin it just a few minutes ago. With nothing left to do but nurse his bruised ego, he poured himself another drink to keep him company while he sulked over how that conversation had gone so terribly.

You stepped out of the car, immediately holding a hand over your face at a distance that let you see what was in front of you while simultaneously shielding yourself from the onslaught of camera flashes and paparazzi yelling at you to spare them a glance. Forcing a neutral expression, you let your feet carry you to the entrance of the restaurant as quickly as possible, wanting nothing more than to escape the unwanted attention. 

Frankly, you should have been used to the paparazzi by now after having dealt with it for five years and counting, but there was something so jarring about having cameras shoved in your face or following you while you tried to go about your daily life. When you started out, all you had wanted to do was create your clothing, but fame had come along with your accomplishments, launching you into a spotlight that was meant for your designs. You had media training and publicists working to keep your image squeaky-clean.

The ambience on the inside provided you with respite from the press, and the tension in your shoulders instantly dissipated. Warm, dim lighting and the pleasant clinking of glasses and cutlery travelled all around you, combining with the smooth jazz that played, creating a melody of its own. This was one of your favourite places to dine, which was precisely why you had chosen it for today. 

Walking further into the restaurant, you spotted the person you were here to meet and made your way over. The woman sitting at the reserved table scanned the menu. 

“Gabriette,” You smiled pleasantly, making your presence known. She looked up at you, eyes lighting up.

“Y/n!”

Gabriette got to her feet and embraced you politely, giving you a customary kiss on each cheek in greeting. You returned the gesture before removing your coat, draping it on the empty seat across from hers and sitting down. 

“I hope I didn’t make you wait too long.” You picked up your menu as a server filled your glass with some water, flipping through the pages. 

“Not at all! I’m so glad we could make time to meet.” 

Gabriette Dubois was a celebrity fashion designer, much like yourself, whom you had met years ago while in Paris for your first ever fashion week. She was a little older than you but somehow managed to not look a day over twenty-five, petite in every sense of the word. Her own fashion house, Dubois Designs, was all the rage just as yours was. This meant that while you were friendly with her, she was less of a friend and more of an acquaintance.

Competitor would have been the right word. 

“How have you been?” She was in New York for a few weeks and insisted on having lunch with you. She was far from your favourite person, but you knew the importance of nurturing and maintaining connections. If not for that pesky reason, you would have cut all contact with her a long time ago. Your temper made it so that you lacked patience when it came to people like her, but thankfully, she lived in Paris, which meant you only had to bite your tongue and force a smile on occasion.

“I’ve been fantastic,” she beamed, her French accent curling the ends of her words. “I’ve been busy the whole time I have been in this city, but you know how it is. The busier you are, the better business is, yes?” The subtle brag was not lost on you.

You suspected she was the one who had called the press. They loved tailing you around anyway, but catching two high-profile fashion designers together? That was the same thing as finding gold to them.

“I know what you mean.” You ordered a glass of red wine after agreeing with her. She opted for some rosé. “Finding time to rest is rare.” 

“I bet you miss the days when Lumiere was still a small little thing,” she said with the same smile on her face, but you weren’t naive enough to miss the slight condescending lilt of her voice. While she treated you perfectly well, you knew that she didn’t quite see you as an equal, purposely choosing to turn a blind eye to your achievements. She thought of you as beneath her, even though your success outshone even hers at times. 

You didn’t need her approval. All this was a formality anyways. 

“Sometimes,” you admitted good-naturedly, choosing not to take the bait. The drinks arrived, and you took a nice, long sip of yours, reminding yourself of why you even agreed to meet her in the first place. “Sorry, I just remembered, I have something I’d like to ask you.”

Gabriette might have had a superiority complex, but this also meant she loved to shove all her accomplishments in other people's faces. Bragging was something she viewed as her birthright, and you had mastered the art of using it to your advantage. 

The server returned, and the two of you placed your orders before resuming conversation. “Ask away.”

“It’s about a model,” you started carefully. “My top model is out of commission right now, and I need a replacement for a little while.” 

She leaned back in her seat and sipped her rosé. “Oh yes, I heard about Xavier. Go on.”

No doubt she assumed you were about to ask her to help you find someone to take his place. You had no intention of doing such a thing since you were going to meet your potential temporary replacement in three days, thanks to Simone. What you wanted was a little information from someone who had directly had contact with him. 

“You’ve worked with Rafayel before, haven’t you?” 

You phrased it as if you didn’t know this already, when in reality, you had done your research. It wasn’t your job to do so– you could have easily gotten any of your employees to do it– but this was a big deal. You refused to have just anyone take Xavier’s place, even if it was only for a short while. Simone had already run a background check on him, and you had to admit that from all the surface-level knowledge that you had that he did fit with your brand's image quite well.

Gabriette peered at you from over her glass, raising an eyebrow as she nodded slowly. “Yeah, a couple of years ago. Why?”

“I hadn’t really heard of him until recently.” You placed your glass down, and at that moment, the server returned with your food. She didn’t bother to hide her scoff as she picked up her fork, digging into her salad immediately. 

“That’s on you. Rafayel has been around for a while.” She took a bite of lettuce and croutons, taking her time with the morsel before she pounced once more, taking a concealed jab at you. “But I guess it’s expected when you live under a rock. If you weren’t so caught up with insisting on only working with Xavier for even a minute, you would have seen him around.” 

You refused to let her get under your skin. So what if you were picky about who you took on? Consistency was something you valued, and you had your reasons, ones that you didn’t have to divulge to her and waste your breath. 

A tired exhale left your lips. “I’m thinking of taking him on.”

“Good luck with that.” 

Huh. You sat up straighter. “What do you mean?”

“Rafayel is a talented model, no one can say anything about that, but I doubt you’d be able to handle him.”

Handle him? Oddly enough, this statement of hers sounded less like a concealed insult and more genuine. Feigning indifference, you nibbled at your own food. “Why so?”

She laughed curtly, toying with her fork. “He’s a great way to make headlines, that's for sure. The world loves him right now, even with his scandalous behaviour, but when it comes down to it…” You made a mental note to look into what she meant by scandalous behaviour later when she trailed off, silently prompting her to continue. 

Gabriette pressed her lips together, a flash of irritation taking over her eyes for a brief moment, but it wasn’t aimed at you.

“He’s a total nightmare to work with.”

Rafayel waltzed into the meeting room ten minutes late, his head held up high like he owned the place. 

This did not amuse you, the actual owner.

A man who you could only assume was his manager entered behind him, looking so defeated that you almost felt sorry for him. Almost, because you had no sympathy for people who wasted your time like they had. Simone had gotten you a second cup of coffee to pass the time, and you had just about finished it, ignoring the last few dregs in the cup in favour of narrowing your eyes at the two men. 

“I’m so sorry about the delay,” he said quickly, taking a seat at the table after Rafeyel did. “There was– er– unavoidable traffic. I’m Thomas, Rafayel’s manager. Your assistant spoke with me last week.” The excuse was pathetic, and you didn’t miss the brief scathing look he sent the model when he stumbled over the words. The latter looked utterly unbothered, his elbow on the armrest of the chair, his chin resting on his palm. 

If you weren’t in such a terrible situation, you would have probably asked them to leave, but not only were you running on a tight schedule, but you were also fresh out of options. 

“Don’t worry about it. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.” 

You looked at Rafayel to finally asses him in person, mild surprise running through you when you realised he was already staring right at you. Most people avoided eye contact with you because of how intense you could be, but he seemed to be having no such trouble; his eyes locked onto yours, a bored look lingering in them. 

Now that you were looking at him in person, you had to admit that he was quite breathtaking. You had watched a couple of his most famous runway moments, but the way he looked through a screen did not compare to the real thing. He was positively gorgeous, which wasn’t something you thought all that often, considering you were surrounded by beautiful people all the time. Rafayel, however, was in a league of his own, with soft, dark hair that fell over his forehead and into his mesmerising eyes. Smooth skin that surely had skincare companies begging him to be in their advertisements, lips that were the perfect pinkish hue, and elegant, high cheekbones; he was a work of art. 

A work of art whose impudence was currently pissing you off. 

“Rafayel,” You finally directly addressed him. “I take it that you’ve agreed to model for Lumiere for the next four months.” 

His lips twitched. “It seems that I have.”

“We’re thrilled to have you on board.”  You gestured to Simone. “My assistant here has drawn up the contract, which you can take to look over before signing it.” Dutifully, she placed a file before them, which he picked up, flipping through and scanning over the details and terms.

This is where the meeting would usually end. He’d smile, nod and leave, and you’d go back to your office and hopefully review some of the recent sketches you had done. They needed some reworking as soon as possible, especially if you wanted to stay on schedule. 

Except it didn’t. 

He tossed the contract back on the table. “Thats all well and good, but I have a condition of my own.”

His manager glanced at him apprehensively. Your look on your face must have betrayed how bewildered you felt, because the edge of his mouth quirked upwards in amusement ever so slightly at your reaction. 

“A….condition?” You echoed his words incredulously, fingers curling around the Montblanc pen you were just about to hand to him. His smile widened, and he nodded, leaning forward with his elbows resting on the edge of the table like he was about to divulge to you a secret you should have been dying to know.

“Whatever you make me wear, I have to approve of it. I have to like it, or I don’t wear it.”

You weren’t quite sure you had heard him right at first, blinking twice as you registered what he had just said. Honestly, even the idea was so ridiculous that you were sure you had misinterpreted, because this wasn’t a condition. It was a demand, one that he expected you to meet, as if it wasn’t completely audacious of him to do so. 

“I’m sorry?”

“You heard me. This is a dealbreaker.” 

Thomas looked so alarmed that it would have been funny in any other context. Clearly, he had no hand in this and was just as caught off guard as you were, but nowhere near as outraged. 

Simone realised the meeting was going awry, and swiftly swooped in, clearing her throat before you exploded right then and there in the conference room. She was surprised that the pen you were holding hadn't snapped in two yet with how tight your grip on it was. 

“I’m sure we can work something out,” she said smoothly, taking over for you as you glowered. “We’re delighted to have you working with us, Mr. Qi.”

No part of you was delighted. Sure, he ticked off all the boxes: attractive, seasoned and acclaimed, but there was something about how he carried himself that didn’t sit quite right with you. This had nothing to do with any of the scandals that he had found himself in, though you had looked into them to make sure it wouldn’t impact your brand. Dating scandals and rumours of him being a womaniser– stuff like that never held any weight for too long, especially not for a man. You didn’t care about his personal life, no, your annoyance stemmed from his haughty attitude. 

Rafayel grinned, not bothering to even look at her, winking at you instead for good measure. “Pleasure doing business with you.” 

The fucking audacity.

Once they had left, you stormed into your office, your stilettos carrying the heavy weight of the pure, unadulterated rage you felt at that instant. Simone followed, bracing herself for the inevitable downpour of your wrath and clutching her tablet in the hopes it would help her calm you down. Of course, she knew there was no shot in hell of that happening; when you were like this, it would take nothing short of a miracle to placate you. 

To say you were a proud person would be an understatement. There were not very many instances where you willingly let someone else have control in a situation, and you were well aware of what your work was worth. There was a reason you were at the top of the game. 

It made his condition all the more absurd.

“He has to approve of it?” You seethed, spinning around to glare at the only person around to take the brunt of your fury. “Who the hell does he think he is?” 

Simone winced, “It’s certainly….an odd request.”

“A request? A request would be if he asked us for tea, Simone. This is an insult.” He had to have known that, too, unless he was a total idiot. You were starting to believe that because models didn’t choose what they wore. The implication was that you didn’t know how to dress your models, as if all the skills you had honed were worth nothing. “Who the hell does he think he is?”

Despite having just met him, the smug look he had given you was already burned into your memory. You couldn’t remember the last time you had outright disliked someone this quickly.

“Rafayel is eccentric, yes,” Simone said tentatively. He had sounded so confident, like it was a given that you would agree. “But maybe he didn’t mean to offend you?”

“Xavier would never do this,” You groaned, mourning the absence of your darling top model. “Tell me, is there a chance we can get someone else on board instead?”

Unfortunately, you knew the answer without her giving it to you. Keeping your brand's image intact was of utmost importance to you, and you were nothing if not meticulous. Xavier’s sudden unavailability had thrown a real wrench in all your careful planning, and though it wasn’t his fault, it still left you extremely frustrated. Replacing him was nearly impossible, and you were lucky to have chanced upon Rafayel.

Undoubtedly, he would fit in with your curation seamlessly. He’d look fantastic modelling your clothing, and he’d be perfect for the PFW show. The hype that currently existed around him would also help tremendously. Your publicist was about to have an absolute field day with this collaboration. 

“He’s our only viable option at the moment. The chances of him disapproving of your clothes are slim to none, anyway.” Your assistant said comfortingly. “It’ll be fine.”

God, you hoped so.

QI RAFAYEL SIGNED WITH LUMIERE?

Word is that the most elusive model of the decade has put down roots with the hottest brand, and boy, does the partnership seem fitting! It’s a wonder, especially with Rafayel's sudden disappearance from the modelling scene right at the height of his career. Known for his fearlessness when it comes to experimental designs and his ability to embody any look, the model is truly at the top of his game, so it makes perfect sense for him to work with a brand that shares that very status.

We can’t wait to witness his comeback with Lumiere very soon!

The fitting room was in chaos when you arrived.

You grimaced at the disarray you were met with; stylists rushing around and shouting various instructions at each other. There were different types of fabric all around, clothing items you could recognise at a single glance, falling off their hangers and display mannequins. Amidst it all stood Rafayel, who looked utterly uninterested, his arms over his chest, wrinkling the deep purple Ralph Lauren shirt he was wearing. The colour suited him.

But why was he still in his personal clothes? In two hours, he was to be at a shoot for the brand's website and social media pages, but here he was, just standing around. At least his makeup was done, you supposed.

“Miss Y/n!” One of the stylists paused her movements and greeted you. “We are right on track!”

Were they? You glanced around at the confusion, stepping over the shoes that were right in front of the doorway and walked up closer to one of the mannequins. Wordlessly, you held your hand out, and immediately they all knew what to do, scrambling to hand you a pin. Placing it between your teeth, you folded over a part of the waist of the pants to readjust the pleating and secured it in place. 

“It doesn’t seem like it.” Your eyes sliced back to the model, who was now looking right at you. “He’s not ready.”

Typically, you would never visit a fitting like this, trusting your employees to get the job done. You were too busy to make the time to show up for things like these, simply giving the orders and checking in once the job was done. Even Xavier didn’t get any surprise pop-ins from you, and he was someone you actually cared for. 

But no part of you inherently trusted Rafayel to cooperate. The stylist who handed you the pin dropped her voice and signalled towards him. “He’s a little difficult.” 

Of course. 

Leaving the mannequin, you walked up to Rafayel and levelled him with a stare. “Would you care to enlighten me as to why you’re giving my stylists a hard time?”

He looked around and pointed to the clothing that another stylist held up with a helpless expression. It was a lovely white silk shirt with an asymmetrical cut, the buttons starting at the right shoulder and ending at the left side of the waist. This was paired with trousers to complete the look, but it wasn’t supposed to take away from the shirt, which was the main event. 

“I’m not wearing this.”

Irritation was a feeling you were well-versed in. The way it flared up inside of you so quickly when he spoke was still shocking. 

“And why not?” You briefly wondered why everyone around you seemed to take pleasure in wasting your time as of late. This was only one of the outfits he had to be photographed in, the others lined up neatly on a clothing rack. 

“It’s boring,” Rafayel said casually, as if he were remarking on the weather. “Where's the colour? The life? I look at it and feel nothing.” 

Oh, he felt nothing, did he? Briefly, you wondered if he’d feel the slap you were so tempted to give him. All he had done since stepping into your building was insult you and parade around like he was better than everyone, and you didn’t take either of those things lightly. “It’s the highest quality silk and stitching.” 

“Everything you’re having me wear is in black and white.”

“I’m so glad you can tell colour.” 

Your stylists flinched a little at your apathetic tone, despite being all too used to your snippy remarks. You were hard on everyone who worked for you, but that was only because you held your employees to the same high standards that you did yourself when it came to the work they were supposed to do. Their paychecks certainly made up for it, as did your generosity when it came to granting them leave. 

“Black and white is plain.” He sighed dramatically, like the lack of colour was personally offending him. “Chanel already has that rodeo down to the ‘t’. 

His audacity left you astounded once more, and you were even more pissed off when you unwittingly realised that he had a point. Still, even if Chanel did have a thing for black and white styling, you liked to think that you had put your unique spin on the clothes that distinguished them from competing brands. You didn’t just think it; you knew your designs were amazing. The man in front of you didn’t allow you to tell him this, since he had already started speaking again. 

“If I wanted to wear Chanel, I would have accepted their offer.”

“Why didn’t you?”

You knew damn well that it was a good thing he had agreed to work for you, but that didn’t mean he had to. Rafayel’s lips tipped upwards, as if your annoyance entertained him. “I already told you. I find black and white boring, and even though it’s all I see right now,” he gestured around the room and at the clothing rack, “I don’t think it’s all you’re capable of.”

Was that a compliment? If it was, he was shit at giving them out. Not that you were any better, but that hardly mattered in the grand scheme of things. It wasn’t your job to be nice, it was your job to make sure things got done the way you wanted them. 

So, against all your severely miffed instincts, you sucked in a deep breath to calm yourself down. “This collection is already public. We just need the pictures for social media.”

He looked disappointed. “Fine. I’ll make an exception just this once.”

How positively saintly of him. You wondered if he expected you to drop and kiss his feet for making such a compromise. 

Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t going to get any of that. You pressed your lips together, deciding you had wasted enough of your time already and that it was time to get back to those sketches of yours you had been putting off. Nodding curtly, you moved to leave, but he opened his mouth again.

“A word of advice?”

Well, wasn’t he chatty today? You sighed, pressing two fingers against your temple and rubbing in the hopes it would soothe you. “You’re going to give it to me even if I say no, aren’t you?”

He proved you right. “If your Paris Fashion Week collection is going to be as uninspired as this, then I suggest you start rethinking it.”

The stylist closest to the two of you gasped.

Uninspired? This was a collection you had revealed recently at a show a couple of weeks ago, and critics had been all over it, practically kissing your feet with the amount of praise they had dished out. Uninspired definitely wasn’t one of the words they had used to describe it.

You didn’t miss the smirk on his lips as he watched you react to his harsh words. He had gotten under your skin, and he knew it. It had been so long since someone had managed to do so that you forgot how it felt, and you despised the feeling. Your eyebrows raised in fury that was plain as day, leaning away from him like his presence stung just as much as his words did.

Rafayel didn’t want to admit it, but he was having way too much fun with this. The day he first showed up at the Lumiere building, he was pretty much dragged there against his will by Thomas. He had heard of it in passing and was expecting yet another high-fashion brand that had lost all its integrity in favour of stagnating and staying relevant through its namesake. When he had looked into its previous seasons, however, he began to begrudgingly appreciate the creativity of their clothing, as well as its authenticity.

Finding out that Lumiere was only five years old came as a surprise, as did the news of the meeting with the founder and head of the company herself. To say that was unconventional would be an understatement. Typically, these types of meetings consisted of him only meeting an assistant or two, but never the designers themselves. Sure, eventually he’d speak to them at a show or afterparty he was obligated to be at, but never had he met them upfront like this.

Moreover, he certainly hadn’t expected the designer to be a beautiful young woman. Rafayel had always had an eye for pretty things, so one look at you was enough for him to see that you were just that. Beautiful didn’t even cut it, actually, so much so that you could probably walk in your own fashion shows.

So you were pretty. Rafayel was aware enough of it, and although he tended to gravitate towards that, you weren’t exactly his type. He typically went for women who were generous with the smiles they gave him and found pleasure in his reputation, the type who giggled at everything he said and touched his arm to make sure their intentions were clear. As far as he was concerned, a type meant there was a pattern involved, and that would be the best way to describe the women he had gotten involved with in the past. 

You were too intense for his taste, with your calculating gaze and perfectly pinned-up hair without a single strand out of place. Breathtaking in the most intimidating way. He was all for dancing through life while having a good time and breaking a few rules if he had to. You, on the other hand, looked like you had written the rules and expected everyone else to abide by them.

It was probably a good thing that he didn’t want to get with someone who was technically his boss.

But you were oh-so easy to rile up. 

“Uninspired?” You hissed, and if looks could kill, the one you were giving him right now would have probably landed him six feet under. “Excuse me?”

Feisty. My, my, he was going to have a blast with this. Shrugging, he started unbuttoning the front of his shirt, and the stylists, who had been standing frozen while the two of you had a stare-off, jumped back into action. They seemed relieved that he was finally cooperating, one of them assisting him with his shirt and the other holding the one you designed open and ready to slip onto his body.

Your eyes dropped to his now exposed torso as the shirt was peeled off of him for just a second before you sliced them back up to his. That infuriating smirk remained on his face throughout. 

“Need some clarification?”

So this is what Gabriette meant when she said he was a nightmare to work with. 

“There is nothing uninspired about my clothing,” you snapped, unable to keep your temper from flaring up anymore. “From now on, keep any advice you have to yourself.”

Everything that had come out of his mouth so far had been unwanted, and you were starting to think he was doing it on purpose, especially with how he was watching your every reaction like a hawk. Refusing to dignify him with one, you turned and walked out of the room, emerging into the hallways of the Lumiere building. The familiarity of the decor and soothing warm lighting should have helped with your agitation, but nothing of the sort happened.

Now, you understood why Gabriette said all that stuff about not being able to handle him. 

Four months of this madness before everything would go back to normal. In comparison to other things you’ve dealt with in the past, this was trivial. You were a professional, considered a damn genius for your work and the sheer levels of success you were graced with at such a young age. There was nothing you couldn’t do, even if it was dealing with a self-important model that seemingly took pleasure in irking you.

In any case, you could refrain from pushing him out of a window. 

“Oh, these are great. I’m gonna have to hide them from Jeremiah.”

Xavier placed the box of chocolates you had gotten him on the coffee table in front of where he sat on the couch. You joined him there, eyes lingering on the cast on his leg that spanned from his ankle up to just below his knee. He caught you staring at it in contempt and grinned.

“Wanna sign it?”

You scoffed and leaned against the throw pillows. “You know I don’t.” 

Despite your hectic schedule, you had made sure to set aside some time to visit the injured man now that he had returned from the hospital. His roommate had let you in when you arrived, since Xavier was strictly instructed to stay off his feet as much as possible. The irony of that wasn’t lost to either of you. 

“Worth a shot.”

He was pretty much homebound and stuck in that cast for twelve weeks, and after that would have to go through physical therapy for a bit before he was back on his feet. It was certainly a blow to his career’s momentum, especially since it quite literally depended on his ability to walk. Eventually, he’d get back onto the runway, you knew, but you couldn’t help but feel bad. 

Considering all this, he seemed to be in a good mood, smiling gently at you. Xavier, unlike you, had endless amounts of patience and had a temperament that was as angelic as he looked. He was plenty successful, and Lumiere was by no means the only fashion house he modelled for, even if it was the one he worked with the most. He had seen the ambitious girl who powered through all the doubts thrown in her face when you had taken the leap and started your brand, and had stuck by you ever since. 

This was why he was your only true friend. He had seen something in you when you hadn’t quite figured yourself out just yet. For the past five years, he had stayed by your side without wavering even once, and as a result of this, he could read you like you were an open book. 

“You’re upset with me.” He noted. You sighed, shaking your head. 

“No, I’m upset with the circumstance.” You gestured towards his leg. “The timing is terrible.” 

Xavier quirked an eyebrow in amusement. “Apologies. The next time I plan on breaking my bones, I’ll let you know in advance.” 

“Please let there never be another time,” You let out a tired sigh. “Replacing you is a hassle. Get better. I need you back at work.”

“And here I thought you missed me for me.” He lightly teased.

“You know I do.” You looked at him meaningfully. “You know what I mean.” 

He did. You had never been the best at being vulnerable or expressing yourself, but he had long since learnt how to read between the lines. 

“I’ve heard that you managed to find someone to fill in.” He circled back to your point about replacing him and looked at you expectantly, waiting for you to fill him in on all the happenings he had missed. Things were progressing slower than you would have liked, but smoothly, nonetheless. 

Except for one little thing. One person, more accurately. 

If you were being honest, you didn’t particularly want to talk about the cause of all your recent headaches. Instead, you eyed his cast again, trying your best to keep the bitterness out of your voice. “Does it hurt?”

“It’s just a dull ache now,” he reached down and scratched over the plaster. “And it’s uncomfortable, but it doesn’t hurt.” Then, he gave you a pointed look. “Do you think I can’t tell when you’re changing the subject?”

Damn. You pulled your hair free from its tight ponytail, letting it cascade over your shoulders and letting your scalp breathe. It wasn’t often you let your guard down like this, but you knew you were safe with Xavier. You also knew that you needed to be as relaxed as possible if you were going to talk about your latest problem. 

“I did find someone to fill in.” Your lips twisted in displeasure. “But I’m counting down the days till you return.” 

“That bad?”

“Rafayel is impossible.” 

Xavier cocked his head to the side. “Thats new. You generally comment on someone's incompetence.”

“Oh, he’s plenty competent.” It was the truth. You almost wished he were terrible at his job, but that wasn’t the case. The pictures for your social media had turned out amazing, and you had spent quite a lot of time looking over them, trying to find a reason to be unsatisfied, but to no avail. 

A great model. An exasperating person. 

Over the past two weeks, you had seen too much of him. He was constantly complaining about something, showing up late, or making snide comments and going out of his way to make everyone’s jobs harder. You had heard of models that thought they were untouchable, but Rafayel was a whole other level, a bona-fide diva.

If you weren’t so desperate, you would have already fired him. Desperation was not a feeling you enjoyed, but you didn’t want to go through the hassle of having to select someone else to fill in the void Xavier had left in his absence. 

“So, what do you mean by impossible?” He propped an arm on the couch's backrest, rubbing the back of his neck. 

You indulged Xavier with the details, telling him all about Rafayel’s complaints about your clothing and all the ways he had managed to drive you up the wall. You were frustrated with his behaviour, but also with yourself for being so caught up about it when you had more important things to worry about. 

A charity gala you were supposed to attend next week. Prepping for Paris Fashion Week. 

“Oh, Y/n. He does sound like a handful.” Xavier muttered sympathetically after you had aired out all your grievances. His admission made you feel a lot better about the situation. 

“He’s more than a handful.”

“But I’ve never seen you back down from any challenge.” He remarked. “And thats basically what he’s doing. Challenging you.”

He was right, you weren’t someone who backed down easily. Your conversation drifted to other things: his time at the hospital, the terrible food they made him eat, and other such tragedies. You realised how much you truly missed having Xavier around, being able to talk to someone like this wasn’t something you were able to do often. 

You made a mental note to visit him as much as possible.

“It’s a challenge,” Xavier reminded before you left, popping one of the chocolates you had gotten him in his mouth as he gave you one last piece of advice about your Rafayel problem. “Don’t let him win.”

Behind a camera, Qi Rafayel was more than tolerable.

So much about the man pissed you off. From his slow manner of speaking that tested your patience, to the lazy half-grin he seemed to perpetually have plastered on his face, you could probably list out all the things about him you disliked. He made it so easy with his incessant attempts at driving you up the wall.

Still, it was evident that even with all his antics, he was a professional.

Now, he was in archival Lumiere, one of the collections from the start of your career. There were only a few pieces of the structured jacket he wore in circulation since they were handmade. In fact, he was wearing the very piece that had appeared on the runway all those years ago. It hung from his shoulders as he posed, staring into the camera as it shuttered. 

You had personally chosen this piece for this shoot, asking your stylists to work with it because you knew he wouldn’t be able to complain. It was a stunning jacket, and apparently, he agreed. 

Every few seconds, he’d change the pose, each more dramatic than the last. A hand raised in a flourish near his face, back facing the camera, with him looking back at it, legs spread with his arms behind his head as he stared straight ahead through a half-lidded gaze. Watching him go through the motions like it was second nature was mesmerising. 

You were starting to understand his appeal. There was a certain playfulness to his sensuality, and he knew exactly how to use it to his advantage. Something about him felt dangerous, unpredictable in an exciting way, and that quality of his was his greatest selling point. 

The makeup on him was bolder this time, accentuating his siren-esque features. His hair was artfully slicked back, different from his normal look and showing off his forehead. 

He was going to be on the cover of Elle, styled with Lumiere, of course. In this particular issue, they were going to include a one-on-one interview with you as well, which was why you were present at the shoot. After they were done with him, they’d be taking a couple of shots of you to include with your interview. 

And it seemed they had just wrapped up. 

The intense expression on his face immediately dropped, giving way to a relaxed one, his eyes travelling around the room until they met yours. The photographer thanked him for his time, but he was already moving towards you. As he approached, a staff member popped up at your side.

“Would you like some coffee, miss?” 

You turned to the woman who asked you the question. “Hot, without any sugar.”

She nodded and looked at Rafayel, who had stopped by your side. “And for you, sir?”

“Cold coffee. As much whipped cream and sugar as you can manage.” He dropped a wink in with his order for good measure, and the staff faltered ever so slightly, trying to hide how charmed she was as she left to get the drinks. Once she was gone, he looked at you, his perfect pink lips twitching. 

It was obvious that he wanted to say something, and it would no doubt be something that ticked you off. Still, you relented and finally asked.

“What is it?”

He studied you for a moment. “Nothing. It’s just so predictable that you take your coffee plain.”

You bristled. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“I never said there was,” He drawled, and then dropped the subject. “Seems like it's your turn to get behind the camera, Miss Designer. Ready?”

“It’s not my first time,” You said as the staff returned with your coffees. Grabbing yours, you took a slow sip and continued. “We had to model quite a bit in fashion school for various projects and assignments.”

It wasn’t as if you were claiming to be better than him, but you did have some experience. He hummed an idle tune, bringing the straw of his drink to his mouth and sipping it in delight.

You had to bite back a frown at the monstrosity he received, the swirls of whipped cream over milky coffee. There were even sprinkles on the damn thing. You understood his comment about your order being predictable because that being his somehow made a lot of sense. Globs of the whipped cream spilt over the side of the glass and slipped down its length, the entire thing was over the top and messy.

A lot like him, you supposed. 

“Want some?” He asked cheekily, tilting the glass in your direction. He knew you were going to refuse, but the way you scrunched your nose and did such a terrible job at hiding your aversion was too entertaining to pass up on. 

“I’m good.” 

“Suit yourself.” 

You shot Rafayel a displeased look, scanning him from top to bottom. The jacket you had so carefully handstitched was unbuttoned and open so that his abs could peak through in the pictures. You didn’t let your eyes linger there, snapping them back up to his. 

“Don’t stain the jacket.” You muttered sternly, adjusting the collar of your top and centring your jewellery with one hand, the other gripping the handle of your cup. He was holding his coffee too close to himself for your liking, especially with the way the top of the whipped cream was leaning to the side, as if it was about to tip over any second now. 

“Yes, we wouldn’t want that.”

The patronising lilt of his voice told you that he was trying to get a rise out of you, but you knew he liked the jacket. When he had been made to put it on, he had looked at it appreciatively and hadn’t complained even once, which felt like nothing short of a miracle. You purposely looked anywhere but him, instead opting to watch the photographer set up for your turn. 

But Rafayel wasn’t someone you could just ignore. His presence was magnetic and all-consuming, and even when he was silent, he was distracting. The effect he had was strange and inexplicable, cutting through your general dislike towards him. 

Thankfully, the photographer turned to you and nodded. “Whenever you’re ready, miss.”

Without sparing Rafayel another glance, you handed your coffee to the staff member closest to you and strutted over, taking your place behind the camera. You took a seat on the stool they had put out for you as a makeup artist came over to give you a touch-up and fix your hair. Focusing on the camera lens, you reminded yourself what you were here for in the first place. 

But when your traitorous gaze flickered back to Rafayel, he was already looking at you.

Pages filled with sketches lay strewn out over the desk of your home office, with you hunched over them in concentration. You ran your fingers through your hair and tugged at the ends, your other hand gripping your mechanical pencil.

You may have looked like the picture of productivity, but right now, you were feeling the complete opposite. It was nearly one in the morning, and you had skipped out on dinner in favour of trying to get the conceptual designs for the spring collection done. You had been procrastinating working on them for a while now, but with only three months left before the show, the pressure was starting to set in. You usually never left things to the last minute like this – last year you had the clothes ready by this time – but for reason reason, you were having trouble with it.

All you had added to the sketches were a couple of idle lines that changed absolutely nothing. The ideas were good, very reminiscent of the typical silhouettes you tended to go for, but it felt like something was missing. 

It felt uninspired.

Not that you’d ever admit that out loud. It was bad enough that you were struggling with what you were supposed to be a genius at, but to use the very words Rafayel did to explain your predicament? That was just humiliating. 

Groaning, you ran a hand over your face and leaned back in your chair, your back sore from the horrible posture you had been maintaining for the past two-ish hours. You were distracted, but you couldn’t figure out why, because the only sounds around were the ticking of your clock and the drumming of your foot against the floor.

Finally, you gave up, emerging from your office and into the living room of your penthouse. All the lights were off, but the large ceiling-to-floor windows you had lit up the place just enough, casting shadows around in the moonlight. You had bought the place when Lumiere had just taken off, and you had more money than you ever had in your life. As a result, you ended up with an apartment on the top floor that the elevator opened directly into, that only you had access to and too much space for your good. 

The muffled sounds of New York City in the distance kept you company as you padded to your kitchen. Your appetite was non-existent – a result of your hyper-focused state – but you knew you had to eat something. 

You had been feeling unsatisfied with your sketches for a while now, and Rafayel’s comments about ensuring nothing was uninspired had hit too close to home. The last thing you wanted to do was release something you were unhappy with or considered subpar. 

God knows you hated to admit that insolent man had a point, but he did.

And you had to figure out a way around it fast.

The thing you loved more about New York was how alive it felt.

You walked down the streets, sunglasses perched on your nose. It was a Saturday, and you had decided to take a day off for yourself in the hopes that the reset would grant you some motivation for the spring collection. 

So far, you had had no run-ins with the paparazzi. Maybe this was one of those days when they had decided to be more subtle with their approach to getting content, but whatever it was, you were grateful for the sense of privacy it gave you. Realistically, even if it wasn’t the paparazzi, you knew someone would get a picture of you walking in and out of stores and post it online. That was fine, simply part and parcel of the life you had made for yourself. 

You were enjoying the peace, the cacophony of the city melting into a song so uniquely New York. You were someone who knew how to enjoy your own company, but perhaps that stemmed from the fact that you had no one else to share it with. Sure, Xavier was there, but you knew the moment the two of you hung out for extensive periods anywhere but his or your place, or the Lumiere building itself, there would be dating rumours springing about everywhere. 

Neither of you had the time nor the energy to deal with that nonsense. At least like this, you had control of the narrative, and that peace you loved so much.

Ah, yes, peace. The very thing that shattered immediately as a man ran into you. 

Okay, so you hadn’t exactly been paying attention, lost in your thoughts as you walked, but words laced with annoyance immediately tumbled out of your mouth. “Hey! Watch where you’re going!”

“Jeez, lady, I’m sorry, okay– wait, Y/n?”

Oh no. You knew that voice. 

You peered up at the offender, taking in the butter yellow cap that sat over his smushed hair, long lashes framing those beguiling eyes that were currently wide in shock. His hands flew to your arms, gripping them as he steadied both of you at the same time. You had about two seconds to acknowledge the way he was up in your personal space, pushing your sunglasses up to see if you were seeing things correctly.

“Rafayel?”

He swore under his breath, releasing your forearms as he jerked away, glaring. “Could you not yell it out for the entire street to hear?”

Why the hell was he annoyed? He was the one who had walked into you. If anyone had the right to glare like that, it was you. You blinked up at him in exasperation, wondering for the umpteenth time where he got the gall.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” You bit sarcastically, “My bad for being the unsuspecting soul you run into. Next time, I hope it's a pole.” 

He cast you a droll look that you were sure was meant to last longer, but he seemed skittish today. This was the most casually dressed you had ever seen him, a simple sweatshirt over jeans and….were those sneakers? All you had seen him in up until this moment were shirts and clothing you designed. 

Then, without warning, he grabbed your hand and pulled you along with him.

Right into a dark, dingy alley.

“What the fuck?” You blurted, more puzzled than anything else, as you yanked your hand out of his touch, holding it close to your body. “Are you high? Why on earth have you–”

“Sorry,” he breathed, holding his palm out in a manner that told you he needed a second. Not that you cared in the slightest, narrowing your eyes at him and propping a hand on your hip. 

“You have two minutes to explain why you’ve dragged me with you here.” 

A vibrant blush spread across the apples of his cheeks and ears. Well, at least he had the decency to look embarrassed. He interlaced his fingers behind his neck and glanced up a the sky, before looking back at you. 

“I was trying to outrun the paps.”

“By running into me?”

“I didn’t plan that!” He snapped, and you had to admit that it was nice to see him be the irritated one for a change. His eyebrows knitted together, an indignant pout taking over his usual, nonchalant countenance. All things considered, it was kind of cute.

“I’m not hearing any explanations.” You reminded him impatiently, raising an eyebrow. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose for two whole seconds like he was contemplating whether you were worth explaining it to. You were tempted to tell him that his two minutes were swiftly passing by.

“I ran into an ex of mine.” He confessed finally. “Cassandra Corin. Cassie.”

The name was vaguely familiar– an actress, if you remembered correctly. Blonde, blue-eyed, gorgeous. You were sure you had seen some of her work in passing, and so you nodded, prompting him to continue. “I’ve heard of her.”

“Yeah. Well, we were together for like a month, but she’s a very, uh…..dramatic person, if you will. I happened to walk out of a store, and she was right outside with the press, who she had obviously called.” There wasn’t an ounce of fondness in his voice as he spoke about the woman.

“Did she plan for you to be there?” You asked, bewildered.

“I don’t think so, but she’s the type of celebrity that subscribes to the ‘all publicity is good publicity’ agenda. A pic of us together would certainly help with that.” He explained with a surprising amount of patience. “I’ve kind of been lying low as of late, so they’re hungrier than usual to get a couple of shots. I had to run out of there, and I don’t like running.” 

Ah, there it was. You should have known he couldn’t go more than five minutes without complaining. Still, you could sympathise with his predicament, having had your fair share of experiences with trying to avoid the paparazzi.

“Right,” you raised an eyebrow. “I still don’t get why you’ve forced me into hiding with you.”

Rafayel mirrored the unimpressed look you were currently giving him. “It would be ten times worse if they saw us together. I was trying to be inconspicuous and you–” He paused, gesturing towards you from top to bottom, “–look anything but.”

Glancing down at your outfit, you let out an offended sound. “Excuse me? I can be inconspicuous.”

You were a vision, dressed in what only someone with too much money would consider casual: a light pink Chanel cardigan over a t-shirt and Prada loafers on your feet. You carried a Hermes Mini Kelly bag on your arm, Miu Miu shades pushed up on your head like a headband as you stared at him, poorly hiding your displeasure. 

“No.” Rafayel had to fight back a smile, shaking his head. “You really can’t.”

It wasn’t a bad thing, per se. He knew a thing or two about having a commanding presence, having used his own to his advantage his entire life. Unfortunately, that meant that the two of you in one place at the same time was a recipe for disaster, especially when he was trying his damnedest to avoid it.

Your scowl deepened. “You’re insufferable, I hope you know that.” 

“I’ve been told it brings out my eyes.”

Unbelievable. His ego had to be sky-high, taller than the Empire State Building. Never before had you wanted to knock someone down a couple of pegs so badly. His tone was light and airy, as if he now found the ordeal funny, and while that infuriated you, there was something melodic about his voice that you couldn’t ignore. 

“You love wasting my time, don’t you?” You grumbled under your breath, wondering how on earth you managed to get yourself into such a position and, more importantly, why you were still in it. You could have easily walked out of this stupid alley already. His eyes sparkled, but before he could say anything aggravating, another sound cut through.

MROW!

You startled at the high-pitched yowl, dropping your gaze to find an orange cat sitting by your shoes. It looked fat and happy, like too many restaurants had taken pity on it and fed the little thing leftovers. Its black eyes stared up at you, as if waiting for you to give it something to eat as well, before letting out another pitiful meow.

And how did the man standing in front of you react to this?

Rafayel yelped.

Loudly. Embarrassingly, even. He practically jumped away from you and the cat, hands in front of him in a protective stance. You blinked rapidly, unsure of how to react to that.

“Are you…okay?”

“Do I look okay?” He hissed, the action seeming very catlike. “Where the hell did that thing come from?”

That thing? You looked down at the cat that had busied itself with rubbing against your ankles, weaving in between your legs before settling back down into a seated position. 

“Rafayel,” you did your best to keep your voice level, speaking slowly, as if you were talking to a skittish animal. “Are you afraid of cats?”

“Nonsense. Why would I be afraid of them?” He eyed the cat with such disdain that one would think it had personally murdered one of his family members, or something along those lines. Regardless of what he had said, he looked terrified, his body language stiff and unnatural. You had never seen him like this, so used to his cavalier attitude and manner of carrying himself. He sniffed, still maintaining a safe distance. “They’re vile creatures. I just don’t want them anywhere near me.” 

His mouth was twisted downward in horror, and his eyebrows were raised so high they looked like they disappeared underneath the cap he had on. It resulted in an expression so comical that you had to bite the inside of your cheek in a genuine attempt to keep a straight face, but failed miserably.

You burst into laughter.

It was so sudden that it stunned Rafayel, his lips parting in shock as the sound washed over him. It felt like someone had dumped cold water on him because your laughter was intoxicating, so much brighter than he had anticipated, not that he had. It made you look younger, so much more carefree than you did with the tight-lipped facade you typically donned. Your lips stretched upwards, the edges of your eyes crinkling as you giggled at his expense.

A rare crack in your carefully crafted exterior. Intrigued, the urge to know more about you rose out of nowhere, but he clamped it down immediately.

“You’re laughing at me.” He accused, trying to keep the indignation in his voice. 

“I’m sorry!” You managed in between puffs of laughter, and now he knew something had to be very wrong with him, because he nearly told you not to apologise for it. “It’s just–it’s so adorable!” You bent down and scooped up the cat into your arms, forgetting yourself for a moment as you watched the animal snuggle against you. “How can you be scared of this?”

He thought this was ridiculous. A woman like you, dressed head to toe in designer clothing, letting a stray cat all over her. It was completely unexpected and strangely alluring.

“Put that thing down.” He narrowed his eyes at the cat as you scratched under his chin. Just as quickly as it had slipped off, he could see you compose yourself once again. You straightened out your posture, your smile fading and turning less genuine and more polite, practised. He couldn’t help but immediately miss the unfiltered version of you he had just gotten the briefest of glimpses of. 

“It’s not a thing, Rafayel, it’s a cat.” You sounded amused. “Look at how harmless it is.”

You held out the cat, and he recoiled away from you, glaring at the feline. He took his cap off, shaking his head and huffing. “It’s a viscous beast. If it scratches or bites you, don’t expect me to help you.”

The quick reply he expected from your end never came, because when he met your gaze again, you were staring at him – at his head, specifically. For all he knew, you were taking note of how terrible he looked now that he had lost the cap. Those things always made his scalp sweat, but they were his best bet at hiding his face without coming off looking too suspicious. 

“Your hair is curly.”

Your cadence was back to being clipped, short, but there was something different there as well. Softer. 

“Wow. Ladies and gentlemen, we have with us the real-life Sherlock Holmes.” He snorted, running his fingers through his tangled locks, before offering up the explanation you were clearly expecting. “Stylists usually end up straightening it. Something about it fitting my image better.”

“I see.” You studied him for a moment longer before looking back down at the cat. You quite liked his natural hair, but then again, he could probably pull off a trash bag and somehow make it look stylish. Not that he’d ever agree to that, but the thought almost made you laugh again.

Speaking of trash bags, you looked distastefully at your surroundings. “Can we get out of here now? I’m sure the press would have moved on by now.” 

“Only if you lose the cat.”

You sat behind your desk, going over some paperwork. It was the less exciting part of your job, and you always ended up letting it pile up until you had an unreasonable amount to get through all at once. Most of your employees had gone home already, and you had sent Simone on her way as well. 

The bright light of your office made your eyes hurt after the long day you had had, and you pressed your palms against them, sighing deeply. 

“Wow. Do you just live here?”

The hell? You glanced up to see Rafayel standing by the door, leaning against the doorway with his arms folded, looking right at you. The sight of him made something in the pit of your stomach turn. 

Ever since the incident with the cat from a week ago, being around him no longer boiled your blood as much as it once did. He had been going out of his way to interact with you a lot more, and you hadn’t done anything to discourage it. Make no mistake, he still got on your nerves, but you tolerated him for some reason, even when he got too casual with you.

Perhaps you had been a little too lenient.

“What are you doing here?” You demanded, pushing the paperwork to the side and narrowing your eyes at him. He pushed off the wall and walked over to your desk, plopping down in the seat across from you without any invitation to do so. 

“I could ask you the same question. I had a meeting with Andrew about rehearsals for fashion week, but I left my jacket behind, so I came back for it. Your office is the only one with the light still on, and my curiosity won. Your turn to tell me why you’re still here since it's–” he glanced down at the Rolex on his wrist. “ –Nine p.m.”

You waved your hand over the papers in front of you. “Work.”

“But you’re the only one here. Do you do this often?” He frowned, and if you paid close attention, his voice had a note of disapproval. That made sense, he seemed like the type of person to abhor working even a second overtime. Unfortunately, you were well-versed in it.

“Most days, yes.” 

He blinked. “Okay, no. Get your things. We’re leaving.”

Definitely too lenient. “We are?”

“Yep, come on. You can do….whatever you’re doing now tomorrow.” He got to his feet and stared at you expectantly, evidently waiting for you to follow suit. “I don’t think you know what a break is, but you’re going to take one right now.”

Wow. Truly, the man had unprecedented levels of entitlement to try and boss you around when technically, you were his boss.  Scoffing under your breath, your defiant gaze met his stubborn one. 

“I’m busy.” 

“You’ll be just as busy tomorrow.” 

This was ridiculous. No one dared to speak to you so brazenly, and yet there he was, doing just that if there wouldn’t be a single consequence. What you should have done was tell him to piss off and leave you alone so you finish your work like you had set out to do.

So why on earth did you grab your coat and follow him out of your office instead?

“Is this another instance of you wasting my time, Rafayel?” You asked as you approached his car in the parking lot. You still weren’t sure what possessed you to actually follow him, but it was too late to back out of it now. A smirk teased his lips.

“Maybe.” His response resulted in you grumbling under your breath, and he laughed, fishing his keys out of his pocket and pressing a button to unlock his sleek, black Mercedes. He slid into the drivers seat and cocked his head in your direction. “Get in.”

God help you, because for some reason, you complied. “Are you going to tell me where you’re taking me?” You settled in the passenger seat, taking in the interior, because, of course, the seats were covered in bright red leather. It was as unashamedly flashy as he was in every sense of the word.

“It’s a surprise.” 

“I don’t like surprises.”

Rafayel started the car, smoothly pulling out of the parking lot and onto the road. With one hand on the gear stick and the other on the steering wheel, the scene of him driving was ridiculously attractive for something so normal. You told yourself it was just because he was a conventionally attractive person. “Of course, you don’t. Relax, Miss Designer, don’t you ever loosen up?” 

“Not if I can help it.”

“I figured. You look like the type to not know the meaning of fun” And clearly, he was a stranger to the concept of holding his tongue. One glance at the offended look on your face only made him want to tease you even more. Not too long ago, he was convinced the only expressions you were capable of were scowls and glares, but he had recently learned that you had an entire arsenal of them. Your nose would scrunch when you were disgusted, your lips would part when you were caught off guard, and if something happened to amuse you, you wouldn’t smile immediately. Instead, the smile would start in your eyes, and oftentimes stay there. 

It felt like he was slowly but surely unlocking new sides to you, and he wanted nothing more than to unravel all of them. Most of all, he wanted to figure out how to get that pretty laugh out of you once more. 

For no reason in particular. He was just a naturally curious person. 

“Look,” he reasoned with you. “You’re gonna have to trust me on this one, alright? It’s not far off and it's worth it.” 

“...Fine.” You finally relented, relaxing just a little as you leaned back in the passenger seat and busied yourself by looking out of the window as he drove. Minutes later, he pulled up by a modern-looking structure that consisted of only a ground floor. Once he parked, he cleared his throat.

“Ready?”

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be ready for,” you said dryly, undoing your seatbelt and getting out of the car. He grinned like he had won the lottery. 

“That’s what makes it even better.” Faulty logic and all, he led you to the entrance of the building and opened the door, sauntering inside like he owned the place. You lingered outside, noting how all the lights were off, and it clearly looked like it was closed. 

You couldn’t not be suspicious. “Are we trespassing?” 

“Nah. Trespassing would mean we’re here without permission.” Rafayel gestured for you to follow him into the darkness, the moonlight filtering in through the door and letting you see just enough of him to not lose your bearings. He reached out and felt around the wall before humming triumphantly and flipping a switch. “There we go. Stop thinking so much and trust me, yeah?” 

Squinting to readjust your eyesight to the now-bright lighting, you were left even more dumbfounded than before. “We’re in an….art gallery?”

White walls with frames hanging on them surrounded you, each with little plaques under the art pieces with the artist's information. Some of the walls were constructed in the centre of the room for people to walk around as they inspected the art. There didn’t seem to be any sort of theme with the current display, from what you could tell. 

“Again, with those deduction skills,” he teased, and strangely enough, you didn’t want to slap him for it. “I’ll have you know that art can be very therapeutic. Great for taking a break from working”

It wasn’t every day you found yourself spontaneously being dragged to an art gallery, and having company was something even rarer. You had long since made peace with your lifestyle and its lonesome nature, but you were admittedly enjoying his presence, even if it was a little too chaotic for your liking. 

“I’m pretty sure thats to do with creating it.” You almost smiled when he glared at you for your rebuttal. Huffing, he turned and walked further into the gallery, leaving you with no choice but to follow along. You were well aware that you were encouraging his crazy behaviour, but it wasn’t like you could stop now. 

So you picked up your pace, pulling your coat around yourself tighter as you took in the different art pieces. Portraits, landscapes and some abstract pieces, the different art styles captivated you. You had always had an affinity for art, since fashion was so intrinsically intertwined with it. 

Lost in your thoughts, you almost walked right into his back. Fortunately, he turned around at the perfect moment and reached out, hand on your shoulder. The contact snapped you out of it, and you looked up at him only to find an apprehensive look in his eyes. That didn’t make much sense though, considering how cocky and self-assured he was. 

Raising your eyebrows in silent question, he sighed and moved out of your line of sight, revealing a wall.

Your eyes widened, all the air in your lungs leaving you at once.

The wall was covered in artwork of the sea. Every single piece was extremely detailed, some moody with their depictions of storms and deadly waves and others painting a picture of the sea at its calmest. 

It was stunning, and even that word felt like an understatement. It simply did not do what you were currently looking at justice. The artist had captured the terrifying beauty of the sea so perfectly that looking at it stirred something akin to inspiration inside of you.

To you, the seafom resembled lace. The wheels in your head began to turn as more comparisons burst forth – the sand could be chiffon, and the waves themselves draped like silk. It had been so long since you had felt creativity like this that all you could do was stare, letting your skills take over and work through all the ideas that rushed forth, feeling overwhelmed and delighted all at once.

A singular plaque on the wall sat low and hidden away, tucked under all the art. You crouched down slightly, eager to know the person who had inspired you once more.

Anonymous.

You blinked, rising to your full height as you looked back at the art, dazed. “It’s beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

You spun around, unable to stop yourself from gaping at him. His stance was relaxed, hands in his pockets, and his eyes trained on the artwork. At first, you had thought you had misheard him, but the tone of his voice and the way he was looking at the paintings with what could only be described as pride told you otherwise.

“You made these?” 

Your disbelief was unmistakable, and it stung a little. He chuckled at the incredulity in your voice as you asked the question, nodding slowly.  “Surprised?”

“Very, yes.” You glanced between the art and him. “Why have you shown me this, Rafayel?”

“You don’t think very much of me,” It was a statement, rather than a question. He said it with a small simper, but it was unlike the one he usually wore. It was genuine, if not a little sad, no traces of that signature smirk of his as he met your eyes now. 

“You’ve never given me a reason to.” 

“Well, there you go. Here’s your reason.” His voice was oddly quiet. “To think of me better, that is.”

You truly didn’t know what to make of that. Only one question remained in your mind as you eyed the artist's plaque that held no information about the man beside you. “Why have you chosen to be anonymous? Your work is wonderful.”

Pride flickered to life in his eyes once more, like your compliment meant something. “Because this way, people will appreciate my art for what it is, without my affiliation. I’m not an idiot, Y/n, I know the entire world knows who I am. The moment they find out I’m the one who painted these, it won’t just be about the art anymore. It’ll be about me. Sure, it would get a lot more attention than it does here, sitting in the back of a barely known art gallery, but at least whatever attention it does get is real.”

Oh.

Rafayel was shallow, with a silver tongue he didn’t know how to control. He infuriated you to no end and thought much too highly of himself for his own good. He was vain, arrogant, and about a dozen other things that you thought of as faults. 

But he was so much more. As of late, you were beginning to see who he was past all of that. You saw the man who was irrationally afraid of cats and, for some reason, went out of his way to talk to you. You saw the artist behind the model, curls and all. The softer smiles and perceptiveness that you would have never attributed to him before. 

“I won’t say this often, so don’t get used to it.” You said slowly, glancing back at him. “But you were right, I did need a break. Thank you for this.”

He and you weren’t so different. Both of you were artists in your own right, seeking control over the art you created. The only difference was that he held that control by distancing himself from his work, whereas you were the very essence of yourself. Both of you had pride that clashed and egos that didn’t take kindly to bruising.

You no longer knew what to make of Qi Rafayel. That should have scared you. 

But when he flashed you a boyish grin at your admittance to him being right, you realised that it didn’t.

It was past ten when Rafayel dropped you back home.

You made a beeline for your home office, forgetting to take off your shoes in your frenzied state. Within minutes, you were hunched over new, fresh pieces of paper, your old sketches discarded in a trash can and forgotten about. Your pencil flew over the pages as you frantically began to draw out new designs, eager to capture the ideas that had been swirling around in your head the moment you saw those paintings. 

Inspiration was powerful, but fleeting. For the next two hours, you poured everything out onto those pages, and it felt like you were submerged underwater, unable to come up for air until you were finished. Your newest collection came to fruition that night, born from an unexpected muse. 

When you were done and the sound of waves in your mind receded, you were left with the sounds of the city and a sense of tired satisfaction. 

Jimmy Choo's were meant to be savoured. They were the type of shoes that people glided in, they made the simple act of walking an experience to remember. 

They were not meant for the furious strides of one very livid fashion designer.

“Andrew!” Your model's manager flinched at the sharpness in your voice as you addressed him. “Why on earth are they not walking yet?”

“There’s just been a small delay–”

“I am in no mood for excuses.” You snapped, sweeping your gaze over the lineup of models standing ready but doing absolutely nothing. “Honestly, I’m starting to think I’m surrounded by imbeciles. First, I find out that the hems of an entire rack of shirts have been messed up and have to spend my entire morning explaining how to fix that problem to people who apparently don’t know how to do their jobs. Then I come here to check on how rehearsal is going, only to see that it hasn’t even begun.” 

Andrew scrambled to appease you. “We’re starting right away!”

With that strangled declaration, he jumped into action, snapping his fingers in the direction of the models. “All of you! Behind the curtain, stat! In order, I want all of you walking out like you will for the show, understood? Chop Chop!”

Rafayel watched you from the end of the line, moving along with it until he was positioned correctly. This was the first rehearsal for the Paris Fashion Week show that was rapidly approaching, with only about two months left before the final day. Today, all that was taking place were run-throughs of the walks and setting the order of the models walking. His position was confirmed since the start, he would be the last one to walk, the much-anticipated closer of the show. 

He noticed your tense shoulders, the way your lips were pressed together in a thin, displeased line. The first model walked out, and you studied her like a hawk, no doubt mentally filing away all your criticisms. Imposing as ever, your bad mood was evident.

For some crazy reason, he wanted to help alleviate it. He had seen past this untouchable facade you put up and had peeked through the cracks in your walls a couple of times now, when your pink lips curled upward just slightly, and your eyes glimmered a little brighter than usual. When you were just yourself, instead of the persona you played to stay at the top. 

It seemed to him that you didn’t let anyone see that side of you. Instead, you did everything in your power to avoid letting it show.

What a lonely existence that must have been. 

He walked out onto the practice runway when it was his turn, one foot in front of the other as he glided smoothly, focusing on a spot on the wall directly in front of him. It was the same old routine he had practised and perfected for years now.

When he reached the end, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other before turning around. His view shifted to you, and he let it linger, savouring the way you stared at him. For a split second, he was sure your expression softened, but just as quickly, that softness vanished. He continued his walk until he disappeared behind the curtain once more.

Another run-through with Andrew yelling out the changes he wanted each model to make, and then they were all afforded a generous ten-minute break. Rafeyel did not know why he found himself gravitating towards where you stood. 

“Shouldn’t you be with the rest of the models?” You raised an eyebrow as he approached you, trying your best to sound as indifferent as possible. That wasn’t something you typically had trouble with, but now it felt a little harder to do when faced with the intensity of his attention. 

“When have I ever done anything I was supposed to?” 

You exhaled, shaking your head bemusedly. “Don’t sound so proud of it.”

“You look stressed.” Rafayel's voice was low and thoughtful, almost as if he actually cared. You snuffed out that thought. He had been on your mind a dangerous amount as of late, but there was a perfectly rational explanation for that: he had inspired you. 

“I’m always stressed. I’ve been on my feet all day.” You rubbed the spot between your eyebrows with your index and middle finger, smoothening out the frown that had formed. 

“Have you learnt nothing from being around me? What happened to taking breaks?” He groaned, but it was more theatrical than genuinely perturbed. “Or do you need me around to make sure you take them?”

Absolutely not. Having Rafayel around was proving to be detrimental to your sanity for reasons entirely different to those expected. You tilted your head towards the other models and waved your hand in their general direction. “What I need you to do is your job, not loiter around here.” 

 He laughed like you had told the world's funniest joke, pinning you in place with a knowing look. “Oh, just admit it already. I’m the most entertainment you’ve had in a while. You love being around me, even if you don’t want to admit it. 

You pursed your lips. “The jury’s still out on that one.”

“Is it, though?” His habit of incessantly questioning you was getting old, but that addictive drawl of his voice pulled you right back in. “You’re smiling.”

To your mild dismay, you realised he was right. Now that he pointed it out, you could feel how the apples of your cheeks were raised with the upward curve of the sides of your mouth. Scoffing, you tried your best to erase any evidence of the sort as you turned away, but to no avail. 

“Your break is over, you can stop pestering me now.” But your tone was lighter than it had been all day. He rolled his eyes good-naturedly and walked off, joining the group of models who were gearing up to practice their walks once more. As the distance between the two of you increased, you realised with a start that you unfortunately did quite like being around him. 

But there wasn’t a rule that said you had to admit to such a thing. Rafayel was like a breath of fresh air after almost drowning, or a lagoon in the middle of a desert. Unpredictable and against everything you knew to be true about life, and yet…

There was something undeniably charged between the two of you, from the way he sought you out and how you let him linger. Neither of you dared to acknowledge this, however, keeping your distance literally and figuratively. 

As he paraded down the runway once again with the elegance of a swan but the flamboyance of a peacock, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was that predictability and control you so desperately clung to that held you back. The second you let yourself go for just a little while, you found the inspiration you had been so desperately waiting for.

The past week had you being more productive than you had in months, your designs for fashion week already in production. With how everything was going, the collection for the runway would be ready by next week, which would finally put everything back on track. You had to constantly check in to ensure things were going exactly how you wanted them to, but for the first time in a long time, it felt like you could let go of your tight hold and just breathe.

And if a certain pretty boy was plaguing your thoughts, well, that was no one else's business. 

Maybe he was rubbing off on you.

“This way.” You turned the corner into yet another hallway, causing Rafayel to wonder just how big the Lumiere building was. You had summoned him there out of the blue, giving him no explanation as to why you wanted him there and only reminding him to be on time. The request was definitely unlike your usual self, more aligned with his impulsive nature, but he couldn’t bring himself to refuse.

And so there he was, following you through the endless corridors. When he had asked why he was there, all he received was an uncharacteristically mischievous look in your eyes and nothing more. When he probed for answers, you only said one thing: “I thought you liked surprises.”

Never in a million years had he expected you, of all people, to throw his words back in his face. You had successfully piqued his curiosity, and he trailed behind you now, eager to see what you had in store.

Finally, you stopped in front of a door and brought out a pair of keys. “Currently, only select individuals have access to this room,” you informed him as you unlocked it, before pausing and looking at him. “You’ll be the first and only person who isn’t from Lumiere itself to witness what I’m about to show you. It goes without saying that it’s a secret for now.”

“I feel like the Sherlock joke has gone a little too far,” he muttered dryly. “You have a thing for suspense now.”

Your lips twitched, and you pushed the door open, letting him enter first. When he did, he froze in place, jaw falling open as he made sense of what he was looking at.

Mannequins filled the room, the same number as the number of models there were for the fashion week show. Each form had complete outfits on, and each one was exquisite in ways he couldn’t properly describe the way it deserved. Navy blue satin gowns with hand-stitched embroidery and ivory-coloured lace hems, intricate golden beading on cream corset tops, deep turquoise shirts made of the finest silk, and skirts that looked like waterfalls, layered with intent, short in the front and long in the back. Netted tops and coats with the most gorgeous pearl detailing he had ever seen, flowy chiffon shirts that were artfully tucked into white pants – every piece was thoughtfully designed and lovingly put together. 

Rafayel was rendered completely speechless. 

“Introducing Lumiere’s 20[XX]  Spring Collection.” You announced, stepping beside him and regarding your work with pride. Your hands were tucked behind your back, your stance bashful, but he could tell you were anything but. You knew what your work was worth, and you weren’t shy about it. 

He wasn’t the type of person who was used to having nothing to say – quite the opposite – but there he was, rooted to the spot in awe as you walked over to one of the mannequins and slightly adjusted the skirt on it. The simple action told him just how much each piece meant to you, how well you knew them. He intimately understood the familiarity an artist had with their work, but seeing that mirrored in you was something else entirely.

“Y/n,” he breathed out, “This is…”

“I’m hoping you’re going to say ‘impressive.’ It might be a little too late to walk for Chanel now.” There you were again, throwing his own words back in his face, and he couldn’t, for the life of him, figure out why he liked it so much. It was so completely unlike you. 

“It’s more than impressive, you’ve outdone yourself.” He said, finally managing to break out of the reverie he had found himself in. 

“Is that so?” You looked over your shoulder back at him, the slightest of smiles teasing your lips. “You haven’t even seen what you’re going to wear yet.” 

Without so much as another glance in his direction, you gracefully weaved through the mannequins to the back of the room. It was all he could do to follow along, doing his utmost best not to knock anything over as he gaped. As he passed each outfit up close, details he hadn't seen before revealed themselves, and he had to resist reaching out to touch.

And in the back, on the final mannequin, was the garment that took his breath away. 

A shirt made from blood red organza silk that had an iridescent quality to it, shifting colours when the light hit it from different angles. From red to blue to violet, Rafayel found himself entranced by its ever-changing nature, eyeing the pale blue pearl details on the collar with deep appreciation. It was completely sheer, with subtle winding patterns stitched into the delicate fabric that resembled coral. 

“I hand-stitched this one myself, and in three weeks, you’ll be the one wearing it to close my show.” You said softly, trailing your fingers over the sleeve with care. You toyed with the end of it, watching how his eyes went wide and lips parted in something close to reverence. 

“It’s phenomenal. All of it is.” He couldn’t tear his eyes away from it, taking a step closer to you and the mannequin. “It’s so different from anything I’ve seen, especially from you.”

“Yeah, well, I realised that I didn’t just want to put out a collection that meant nothing.” It was true, the very thing that had driven you as you had put the collection around you together. “Fashion is more than just clothing. It’s an art form. It’s supposed to evoke a feeling, to be able to tell a story and have its own identity.” 

The devotion you possessed towards your work was admirable, it was so plainly obvious that this was exactly what you were meant to do. Utterly enamoured, he spoke, “It’s gonna be one hell of a show.”

The sincerity in his voice caught you off guard. You had been around him long enough to know he wasn’t someone who took anything too seriously, but the earnest look he was giving you that he definitely took this – and by extension, you – very seriously. 

“Good, but I don’t want to just want to put on any show. I want it to be a performance.” You aimed to leave an impact, for people to leave the show and think about the experience for weeks, maybe even months, after. Rafayel realised that you were trusting him with enabling that by divulging your vision to him.

“Then it’s an honour to be one of your performers.”

That earned him a proper smile, not just the hint of one. It was small but mighty, starting in your eyes like your smiles always did, but this one was the rare type that reached your mouth and lit up your features. He found himself feeling winded for the second time in the past ten minutes, but this time it was because of you and not the clothing. At least he could explain the latter option.

“In that case, what do you think about a more permanent position at Lumiere?”

It wasn’t like this was the first time he had been offered this, but shock infiltrated his system anyway. “Like Xavier Shen?”

You nodded. “Like Xavier. A brand ambassador.” Waving a hand around, you continued, “You fit with Lumiere’s image and the vision I have for my brand, so I believe you won’t disappoint. I don’t say that lightly, or to every model. Of course, I’m not forcing anything on you, and you can take your time to think about it.” 

Such plainly stated praise from the impossible-to-please Y/n L/n was practically unheard of, but there you were, staring at him with finality in your eyes. Arms folded over your chest, hair pinned up in that perfect bun as always and stiletto-clad feet, you were the same as always and yet he couldn’t seem to perceive you as he had in the past. 

Thomas would be overjoyed at him finally taking something seriously. His aunt would certainly approve of the collaboration, and he’d be walking for a fashion house he actually cared about. It seemed perfect.

“I don’t need time.” Rafayel looked at the shirt that he would soon be wearing. “You’ve got yourself a new brand ambassador.”

The airhostess led you to your seat in first class, dragging your carry-on suitcase behind her. Once your bag was in the overhead cabin and you were settled in your seat, she returned a couple of minutes later with the drinks menu and a cart, patiently waiting for your order. You leaned back in the plush seat and scanned over the available options. 

“A glass of Dom Pérignon, please.”

God knows, you’d need the drink. Alcohol now acquired, you took a leisurely sip and tried your best to relax, but that was easier said than done. Boarding was still going on, and in about half an hour, you’d be airborne. The thought caused your stomach to churn. 

To say you weren’t a fan of flying would be an understatement. Sure, you had to do it a lot for work and should’ve probably been used to it by now, but that wasn’t the case at all. Oftentimes, you found yourself clutching at the armrests for dear life during take-off, which, in your opinion, was the worst bit, and remained on edge throughout the flight. Even the comfort of first class didn’t help very much. 

When you landed in Paris, there would be exactly ten days before the start of Fashion Week. You would be at your busiest since NYFW, and the added stress of anticipating that only added to your jittery state. Sighing deeply, you closed your eyes for a moment to ground yourself, index and middle finger rubbing against your temple. 

“Well, hello there, neighbour. Fancy seeing you here.”

Your eyes flew open, settling on the culprit of the voice. 

Rafayel stood in the booth right next to yours, looking the opposite of how you felt, completely at ease in this setting. 

“Why are you here?”

He raised an eyebrow. “The same as you, I presume, to get to Paris. Did you expect me to take a boat or something?” And then, as if he owned the place (which was his usual way of carrying himself), he rested his arms over the walls of your small enclosure, chin propped in his palm. “I guess Thomas booked the same flight as yours.”

“It certainly seems that way. Are you going to bother me the entire flight?” You felt mildly embarrassed at how you had blurted out the question so disgracefully. 

“As much as I possibly can, yes.” He beamed like he had delivered the best news of your life. “Isn't it lucky our seats are so close?”

“Such a blessing,” You deadpanned, needing another drink despite your current one not being anywhere close to finished. The rest of the first class was completely empty, which meant you were stuck with his relentless pestering, whether you liked it or not, confined to the same space as him for the next seven and a half hours. 

Brilliant. 

Rafayel snorted. “I’m going to pretend that you meant that.” The airhostess appeared once again with her cart, and he opted for whiskey, neat and on the rocks. Once he had obtained his drink, he turned to you and held his glass out. “Cheers.” 

You were too busy giving him an unimpressed look to remember your flying anxiety, until one of the airhostesses stepped into the first class section and announced that the takeoff would be soon. Immediately, you put your drink in its holder and frantically gripped the armrest as she went through the motions of the safety debrief. Rafayel sat down in his own seat, but looked over at you in amusement. 

“You seriously pay attention to these things?”

“What does it look like?”

“I mean, haven’t you been on enough flights to know the basics by now?” He fastened his seatbelt as the safety instructions were done, and the lights dimmed, the plane getting ready for take-off. 

“It doesn’t hurt to be reminded.” You muttered under your breath, but the cadence of your voice had taken a shaky turn, which was a far cry from its usual firm, clipped nature. Rafayel shot you an inquisitive look before noticing the death grip you had on the armrest and the tense set of your shoulders. 

Whatever teasing comment that lay on the tip of his tongue dissolved as he dropped his voice. “Hey. Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.”

“That was the most unconvincing ‘I’m fine’ I’ve ever heard.” He tilted his head and studied you for a moment. “You’re pale.” 

The plane began to pick up speed, causing you to dig your manicured nails into the leather of the armrest and stare straight ahead at the blank screen in front of you. Usually, you always started a movie by now to distract yourself from your fear, but this time, you had paid so much attention to Rafayel that you had forgotten your routine when it came to flying.

But your silence told Rafayel everything he needed to know. “Hey. Look at me.”

“Rafayel, I am in no mood for your–”

“Tell me about the Spring Collection.”

You whipped your head to him, considerably confused by the sudden change of topic. “What? Why? You’ve seen the entire thing upfront.”

He sighed theatrically and gave you a pointed look. “Just do it, will you?”

This bizarre man. You didn’t think you’d ever be able to understand how his brain worked. Still, if there was one thing you allowed yourself to brag about, it was your work. Crossing your legs, you tried your best to relax in your seat. 

“It’s inspired by the sea, which actually, you have yourself to thank for,” you said, getting straight to the point without beating around the bush. 

Rafayel’s lips parted. “I do?” 

“Your art.” You clarified, giving him a meaningful look. “It really struck a chord in me. One look at it and I knew exactly what I wanted to do for the collection, which was surprising considering I had been going through a bit of a creative rut.” You recalled how your creativity had come rushing back to you all at once, the moment you set your eyes on his paintings. 

He told himself he’d dissect the warm feeling in his gut later, a smug look taking over his features. “I am nothing if not inspiring.”

You scoffed under your breath, shaking your head in disbelief at his conceitedness and wondering why-oh-why you found it somewhat endearing now. “Don’t let it get to your head.”

“Too late.” A slow, languid smirk stretched out on his lips as he took a sip of his whiskey, the amber liquid swirling around in his glass. Your eyes betrayed you, dropping to his mouth and watching as his tongue darted out to lick his lips. “I’m gonna brag about this forever. Where is the show going to be held?”

“In a cathedral.” You averted your gaze, feeling heat creep up your neck and onto the apples of your cheeks. Clearing your throat, you sipped your champagne in an attempt to soothe your ruffled feathers, hoping it would cool you down and keep your face from flushing. 

What the fuck was wrong with you? 

“A cathedral, huh? You’re really going all out.” He rubbed his chin in thought. “It’s gonna have a very operatic feel to it.” 

“That’s exactly what I’m going for,” you admitted, pleasantly surprised that he had grasped exactly what you wanted to put across without you going in depth at all. It was as if he had reached into your mind and taken the words out of your mouth. Even Xavier wasn’t this perceptive.

Now, why on earth were you comparing him to Xavier? This was madness. Something was obviously very wrong with you since your train of thought had never been this outlandish before. You couldn’t make sense of it at all, simply because you had never been subjected to feeling this way before. Why was there a fluttery sensation in the pits of your stomach? What was this warmth that seemed to simmer underneath the expanse of your skin every time he looked at you? 

Oh my god. Were you flustered by Qi Rafayel?

As that absolutely insane possibility made itself known, the lights in the cabin flickered back on, pulling you out of your thoughts and back to reality. Rafayel was already watching you, amused, taking another leisurely sip of his drink and blissfully unaware of your inner turmoil. Blinking rapidly, you realised that you were already airborne and had made it through take-off without a hitch.

And that was when it hit you: all this talk about the collection and the show had been for your benefit. The model had been distracting you on purpose, somehow picking up on your fear. His presence, one that you had previously considered as bothersome, had been the very thing to calm you down. 

You didn’t know what to say. 

“Now then,” he picked up the bowlful of salted nuts one of the airhostesses had gotten upon his request, eyes twinkling as he popped a handful into his mouth. “Tell me more.”

Day one of Paris Fashion Week was a whirlwind.

You had been invited to watch two shows that day, the first of which was a Marc Jacobs runway show. The second show was for Dubois Designs, after which Gabriette had made sure to personally meet you and insist that you attend the afterparty as well. The new addition to your schedule gave you less than an hour to get ready for the aforementioned party, since right before it, you had a talk and presentation with Anna Wintour. 

Between the glitz and glamour and one too many coffees, it was only the first day, and you had been thrust right back into the chaos you so loved and thrived in. 

Dubois Designs was huge in Paris, being the home city of the brand and the founder. Even with your conditional friendship with Gabriette, you could admit that her show had been incredible. The exaggerated silhouettes had been eye-catching, and the craftsmanship was truly remarkable. 

You descended the stairs and found yourself in a large, crowded basement. The party itself was in full swing, moody red lighting bathing the entire room while simultaneously keeping it dark. It fit the edgier aesthetic that Dubois Designs tended to lean towards, despite being a luxury fashion house. A DJ was tucked into a corner, mixing the electronic music as the backdrop for people to drink and dance to their heart's content. 

Familiar faces stopped and greeted you as you made your way to the bar, knowing you’d definitely need a drink to enjoy all this. The darkness made it a little harder to recognise people, but most of them were well-known faces in the industry, from models to actors and even some well-known influencers. Having to be social at almost midnight was not something you particularly enjoyed, but it was the start of fashion week, and your adrenaline was at an all-time high, making all of this much more tolerable than usual. 

Getting yourself a gin and tonic, you began consuming it at a pace that would ensure you had a pleasant buzz in about twenty minutes. The energy around you was palpable, the ebb and flow of it was surprisingly infectious, forcing you to subconsciously loosen up. 

“Y/n! You made it!”

The French accent gave her away before she even stepped into your line of sight. Gabriette appeared seemingly out of nowhere, throwing her arms around you and giving you air kisses on both cheeks. You returned the gesture, tentatively returning her hug before pulling away.

“Of course I did. How could I ever refuse a personal invite from you?” You smiled the commercial smile you practised for events such as these. “After a show like that, I knew the afterparty would be just as spectacular.”

It was obvious that she was still riding off the high that the success of her show had brought, but you couldn’t blame her. She laughed, the sound a tad bit too shrill, “You are too kind. I have people to meet, but please, enjoy yourself.”

And with another exaggerated air kiss, she left you to your own devices, continuing on her mission of making rounds through the party. Events like these always tended to be impersonal, interactions were short and fleeting, and the more connections you managed to make in one night, the better. The industry was filled with young people looking to connect, and this was the best way to do so.

You finished your drink while chatting with the creative director of Louis Vuitton, who expressed their excitement for your upcoming show. As you engaged in conversation, you observed the scenes going on all around you, a sense of wistfulness taking over you. There was a point in your life when you thought you’d never belong in this world, back then when it felt too out of reach for a young aspirant such as yourself. 

As your eyes swept across the room, they snagged on a familiar pair staring right back at you. 

Rafayel cocked his head to the side when he caught your eye, immediately excusing himself from the conversation he had been having and making his way over. Unsure of what compelled you to do the same, you slipped through the crowd until you met him halfway.

“I did not think you would be here,” you admitted once within earshot. You hadn’t seen him for the past two days, with him being busy with photoshoots and other such events, his manager had added to his itinerary at the last minute (to his dismay). 

Now that he was before you, his gaze dropped, slowly dragging over your figure from bottom to top like he was committing it to memory. The act sent inexplicable shivers up your spine, and you gripped your glass to show yourself from physically reacting, but that was harder said than done. 

He wore a dark red shirt that had shimmery lilies embroidered across it, mostly unbuttoned to expose the smooth skin of his chest and torso. With his hair slightly dishevelled in a way that made him seem effortlessly attractive and the dark lighting casting sharp shadows over his face that brought out the intensity in his typically soft visage, he was truly something to behold. 

Devilishly handsome, temptation incarnate.

“Gabriette invited me.” He waved his hand dismissively as he explained, like he didn’t really care. “Something about nurturing goodwill.”

“She’s all about that, isn’t she?” You muttered dryly. The loud music almost made your quip inaudible, but he caught on anyway, delighted at the hint of the sassy nature you possessed under all that seriousness. 

“I didn’t think this was your scene.” 

You wore a blue drop waist Lumiere mini dress and Isabel Marant fringe boots on your feet. Signature Vivienne Westwood earrings dangled from your ears, glinting through your styled hair whenever the light caught them. The entire outfit was in stark contrast to what he was used to seeing you in, devoid of any formality and primness. 

“It’s not, but you know.” A playful smirk adorned your lips as you swayed to the music, looking so much more relaxed than normal.  “Goodwill and all.”

God, he could get addicted to that. “Shame, you secretly being a party girl would have made you even more interesting.”

“Am I not interesting enough for you?” Your voice teetered on the edge of mockery with the question, shifting your weight from one foot to the other and staring up at him defiantly. 

“Trust me, Y/n, you have no idea just how interesting I think you are.” He said smoothly, plucking your drink out of your hand and placing it off to the side, but before you could reprimand him for doing so, his hand cupped your elbow gently and pulled you along with him. 

“Dance with me.”

It wasn’t a request, but rather a statement he was annoyingly sure you would comply with. You supposed you didn’t have much of a say in the matter with how he was basically dragging you with him, but it had been a while since you found yourself able to be properly irritated with him. 

Even in the dim lighting, you were acutely aware of how people watched the two of you, eyes following your every movement, but you knew who they were actually looking at. You might have been Y/n L/n, the fashion industry's darling, but he was Qi Rafayel. You didn’t live under a rock; you knew of his reputation as the life of the party, but now you could see that play out in real time. A party wasn’t a good one without him. In all honesty, that was probably the reason Gabriette invited him in the first place.

Rafayel was made for the spotlight. Wickedly charming with levels of confidence that some would spend their entire life chasing, he basked in the attention being thrown his way like it was a form of currency. Perhaps it was, in a sense, what they exchanged to be able to admire such an alluring soul in his element.

The entire room watched him, but Rafayel? His eyes were locked on you. 

You felt your mouth go dry, and a hammering began within the confines of your ribcage, slow at first but building up to a crescendo. His hands slipped from your elbows down to your waist, holding you gingerly. Everyone begged for even a speck of his attention, but all of his was on you, and the effect was downright dizzying. 

“You look beautiful.”

“Thank you.” 

How proper of you. Mirth danced about in his expression as he pulled you just a tad closer, knowing fully well he was pushing your limits. “Aren’t you going to pay the compliment back?”

“You’re a world-famous model, Rafayel. I harshly think you need me telling you how good you look.” You looked over his shoulder, unable to hold any eye contact with him. 

“No,” he mused, dipping his head until his mouth was just by your ear. “But you could tell me how hot I am.” 

Every syllable dripped with that delicious, insufferable cockiness you desperately wished you still loathed. You could feel the warmth of his breath tickle the skin of your neck, and you turned your head until you were face to face with each other, so painfully close it felt illegal. 

One thing was becoming quickly apparent to you, and that was that whatever you felt towards Rafayel wasn’t the plain old, run-of-the-mill attraction. That was just one aspect of it, especially in this moment, running through the charged air between the two of you like an electric current. The tension was almost tangible, like a live wire you were tempted to wrap your fingers around and tug.

But there was so much more. His willingness to share his art with you, even though he kept it a secret from the rest of the world. Distracting you on the plane. Challenging you to be better, even when you hated how he went about it. You, turning him into your muse, letting him inspire both you and your work. 

You had disliked him because he was out of your realm of control. He wasn’t someone you could put a leash on and expect to follow every order; no, he did things his way and forced you to see the good in it. Now, however, you realised that you didn’t want to try and control him. You liked the unpredictability.

“I’d never do that.” You whispered, hating how breathless you must have sounded. Still, you made no effort to reclaim your personal space, addicted to the close proximity from the second you had been exposed to it. You finally understood why everyone wanted this. Wanted him. 

A knowing smile stretched across his face, and in spite of your best efforts, you found yourself utterly enraptured by it. 

“Oh, I know.”

Rafayel was tipsy, just about aware of the bass-boosted music, with a lazy smile on his face as he ordered two drinks at the bar. You were somewhere out there waiting for him to return with them, no doubt ready with a scathing remark about how long he was taking. 

He didn’t know what he was doing. He couldn’t recall the last time he felt so bewitched by someone, solely because he never let anyone get close enough. Keeping people at arm's length was something he was well-versed in, but for some reason, he had only pulled you closer.  His attempts at breaking down your walls had resulted in him letting you through his.

You, and your scrutinising gaze and sharp tongue. Beautiful. Unforgiving. 

“Mr. Qi?”

He turned to the source of the voice, finding a man standing there with a determined look on his face. Rafayel raised an eyebrow. “Yes?”

“Lovely to make your acquaintance, sir, I’m Gabriette Dubois’ assistant.” He adjusted his glasses and continued. “Miss Dubois is overjoyed that you made it, and she would be here herself if something hadn’t come up. She wanted me to pass on a message.”

The drinks arrived. Rafayel tugged them closer to where he leaned against the bar, nodding. “Go on.”

“Miss Dubois is interested in working with you once again.” The assistant held out a business card, evidently not picking up on the man's surprise. As far as he remembered, the collaboration between Dubois Designs and him had been a couple of years ago and a roaring success, but there had never been any talk of extending it. He had expected that, since he had been his usual difficult self, Gabriette hadn’t appreciated it very much. Moreover, this was before he had catapulted into being considered one of the world's hottest models, so she had had no reason to keep him on for any longer.

“I see.”

“She awaits good news from your end. Take the time to think about it.” 

And with that, the man left Rafayel alone once more. He toyed with the business card for a couple of moments before slipping it into his pocket. Then, he picked up the drinks and made his way back to you.

“How many times have you been to Paris?”

You stitched your eyebrows together in thought. “Four times, maybe?”

Rafayel looked scandalised, eyes widening and mouth falling open like you had personally offended him. “And this is your first time exploring?”

“I come here very briefly and only for work, Rafayel,” You spooned a heap of thick cream into your hot chocolate. “I should be working right now, but someone insisted I accompany him to the middle of nowhere.”

“I insisted you take a break, since you clearly don’t know how to take one yourself.” 

That much was true. After a gruelling rehearsal (one that ended in you talking sternly to your employees about not ensuring the practice runway was to scale), he had caught up to you and demanded you drop everything and follow him. Maybe all the stress had been getting to you because you let him convince you, but not without complaint. You made your annoyance with the situation quite obvious, even if it wasn’t genuine at all. 

He had suggested taking a walk, which is what this insane outing had started as, but when you admitted to never having actually explored the city, he acted like you had personally offended him. He decided to take matters into his own hands, which was how you ended up in a small boulangerie that was hidden away in one of the Parisian streets. 

The hot chocolate was rich, and the croissant you had ordered was perfectly buttery and flaky. By no means did the bakery look like a place a celebrity would frequent, with its old-timey decor and peeling paint job, but it had a certain charm to it, run by a lovely old lady who immediately began fussing over Rafayel the moment the two of you arrived. Later, he told you that it was a secret gem and one of his favourite places to frequent whenever he was in Paris. 

It turned out that was quite often, so much so that he even had an apartment here. He absolutely loved the city of love, which was why he was so flabbergasted at you not knowing much about it despite having been there several times. 

“Fashion week is a very important time for me. I can rest after it's over.” 

“Workaholic.” He jibed at you, stealing a piece of your croissant. “I’m going to take you around.”

You tried to protest, “That’s unnecessary-”

“Trust me, it’s necessary. Besides, I already asked Thomas to bring my car.”

“Your car?” 

He gave you a too-innocent smile. “Did I not mention I have a car here? Don’t worry, it's very nice. A convertible, too.”

“You’re ridiculous.” You looked off to the side to conceal the grin that was threatening to break out on your face. There were about a million other things you could think of that you should have been doing, and yet here you were, going along with his shenanigans.

Once you were done eating and emerged from the bakery, his sports car was indeed waiting out for both of you with the roof pulled back. He ushered you into the passenger seat, going so far as to open the door for you before taking his place behind the steering wheel and pulling out of park. 

Rafayel had no destination in mind, simply wanting to spend more time with you and keep you away from your precious work. Due to the late hour, they were mostly empty, which made the drive pleasantly smooth. He switched the radio on, the latest and greatest pop music filling the comfortable silence that had settled between the two of you. 

The lamps cast a dim yellow light over the Parisian streets, and you took it all in, watching intently from the car as they passed you by. By no means was this the greatest tour in the world – far from it. He didn’t tell you what you were looking at, too busy humming along to a Taylor Swift song, but it stirred up a feeling deep within you that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. 

The sounds of late-night Paris mixed with his voice, turning into a melody you would have never thought was worth listening to before. It wrapped around your senses, and little by little, you let yourself go. Your posture relaxed, your jaw softened from its perpetually clenched state, and you let out a breath you didn’t even know you had been holding in. 

And for the first time in a long time, you realised that the loneliness you were so used to carrying around was nowhere to be found. 

The only other person who managed to lessen the sense of isolation you harboured was Xavier, and even he couldn’t do it all the time, and yet, the headstrong man driving you around had somehow managed to break down all your walls and let you out of the prison you had built for yourself. While others expected you to break from the pressure that came with your position, he made sure you didn’t, even when you refused his help. 

You sat forward in your seat, shutting your eyes as the cool night air blew against your face. Perhaps it defeated the point of the ride if you weren’t looking around anymore, but you couldn’t help it. It had been so long since you had been able to completely let go around someone else that you wanted to savour every second of the moment. 

Rafayel glanced over and found it almost impossible to look away from you. Eyes fluttering open with shadows cast from your eyelashes and dancing on your face. Wind in your hair, hair that was finally let out of its perfect updo and allowed to freely fall over your shoulders. The way your head was tilted up just slightly as you stared at the starless sky, focused on the crescent moon overhead. 

God, you were a painting he could never do justice to, but desperately wished he was able to. 

Forcing himself to look away, he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and focused his attention back on the roads he cruised down. “I should take you back to your hotel." 

“Yeah,” you mumbled, leaning back against the seat. “I have a lot to do tomorrow.” 

“When do you not?”

“Just drive!” You forced exasperation into your voice as you put in the address of the hotel into his GPS. This moment was one you never wanted to end, but your feet were firmly rooted in reality even when your head was in the clouds. You clamped down on that wish and settled back in the seat, watching the streets pass you by. 

But it festered anyway, latching onto you like wishes so great tended to. You had everything you could have ever wanted: money, fame, and you had achieved all your dreams, but now here you were, with a new dream blooming from the remnants of old ones, a dream you never thought would see the light of day. 

If not for him, would you have let another trip to Paris pass you by with your head stuck in your schedule until it was time to board that flight back to New York? The notion of that had made him go out of his way to remedy it, even when you put up a fuss and tried to talk him out of it. 

Unfortunately for you, you were rather easy to convince when it came to him.

When he pulled up to the hotel, he ignored all your protests and accompanied you to your room door. With every step you took towards the elevator, you did your utmost to keep a safe distance between your body and his, reminding yourself that this wasn’t something you could get used to. You hated the giddy feeling in your chest and the way it seemed to consume you when he was around. The back of his hand brushed against yours as you stood side by side, and even though the contact was minuscule, you could feel it everywhere. 

The doors of the elevator opened, and you walked out with purpose, desperate to put as much space as you could between the two of you. He sauntered behind you, hands casually shoved in his pockets, completely and blissfully unaware of the storm waging in your head. You stopped outside your room and turned to face him. 

“Don’t expect me to invite you in.” You warned, crossing your arms over your chest as you regarded him warily, expecting him to push back once more. “You’ve already taken enough of my time today.”

Your tone was reprimanding, but he could tell it was all just for show. There was a glint in your eyes that told him you more than enjoyed yourself today, even if you’d never admit it. He knew you well enough by now to know that you said one thing but meant something else entirely, and that solidified you as one, if not the most confusing person he had ever met. 

And yet there he was, trying to decode you. “I wouldn’t dare ask for even a second more.”

Taking a step forward, he looked down at the floor for a second before lifting his gaze back to your face, staring at you intently. The silence stretched on for a beat too long, and in that fleeting moment, those mesmerising amethyst eyes of his dropped down to your lips. Briefly, he wondered what it would be like if he just leaned forward and–

He would have dismissed that deranged thought entirely if he hadn’t caught your breath hitching. “Actually, I might need a couple.” 

Rafayel’s eyes flickered back to yours, realising you hadn’t moved away. You swallowed, too proud to be the one who looked away first, and instantly, you knew what this was: weeks of flirtation disguised as tolerance and arguments coming to a head. A silent question hung in the little space between him and you, weighted and with far too many strings attached for you to even consider. He was waiting for permission, you realised, or any sort of answer.

It was a bad, terrible, no good idea. A desire that was nothing more than a moment of weakness, one you would surely regret somewhere down the line. 

But around him, succumbing to moments of weakness was so easy.

“Then you better make it worth it.”

His hands found your waist, tugging you closer and pressing his lips to yours without another word. He stole your breath with his, leaving you to gasp against his mouth as it moved against yours oh-so gently, like you were made of glass he refused to let shatter. You could taste the subtle sweetness the hot chocolate had left, and smell the scent of his expensive cologne, struggling to process all of it as he kissed you. 

And fuck, how he kissed you. The world around you went silent as Rafayel’s lips fit perfectly against yours, like two pieces of a puzzle finally coming together. They were soft and a little chapped from the night air, but intoxicating nonetheless.

When the two of you broke apart, he made no motion to move, keeping his hands on your hips. Your eyes fluttered open, your noses brushing against each other, and the warmth of his breath fanning over your lips. You hadn’t quite returned to reality just yet, still existing in the few seconds prior. 

Rafayel let go after a minute or so and took a step away from you. You could see it now – the way he looked at you like you were the sun and moon and stars, a type of fondness you were wholly unused to. It had been there for the past couple of weeks, but you had mistaken it for mirth. 

“Times up,” he muttered with an impossibly soft smile adorning his face, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Goodnight, Y/n.”

You watched him walk away from you, down the hallway and back to the elevator. As the doors shut, he gave you a cheeky little wave, causing you to stand there flabbergasted and more confused than you had ever been in your life before. You lifted your fingers to your lips that tingled from the ghost of his kiss.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t like it. 

You quickly became addicted to the drug that was Rafayel.

Secret touches. Lingering glances. It had been two days since he first kissed you, and you had made no efforts to get him to stop. In between interviews and rehearsals, he somehow managed to grab hold of you and steal you away from the world, even if it was just for a couple of minutes.

His apartment in Paris was on the fourth floor, in a building with older elevators. You walked out of it and to the numbered apartment that he told you was his, knocking and waiting for him to answer. He had texted you just after you finished filming a video with Vogue, insisting that you absolutely had to come over as soon as possible. 

When he opened the door, looking completely at ease, you suspected your mild concern had been for no reason. 

“There you are,” he hummed, holding a glass of wine precariously in between his fingers, sloshing it around before taking a sip. “I was wondering when you’d show up. Come inside.” 

You stepped over the threshold and into his apartment, following him to his living room. For someone as over-the-top as himself, it was quite the quaint place, with wooden furniture and the original paint job still intact. If you asked him about it, you figured he’d just say something pretentious about preserving the Parisian integrity of the apartment. 

Pulling off your gloves, you tossed them on his coffee table and shrugged off your coat. He leaned against the island that separated the kitchen from his living room, watching your every move like it was a dance sequence he was trying to memorise. Once you were done, you turned to face him with an expectant look.

“From the urgency of your messages, I assumed there was an emergency.”

He smiled coyly, pressing the edge of his glass to his lips. “Is wanting to see you not emergency enough?”

You wanted to scream, to push him out of a window and kiss him senseless at the same damn time. That conflict inside of you bubbled over, leaving a confused bout of need in its wake because no one had ever driven you this crazy before. Narrowing your eyes at him, you walked over until you were standing right in front of him. 

“You know very well that I’m busy.”

“And yet, here you are.” He reached out to you, taking your hand in his and pulling you closer. His hair fell into his eyes, the deep purple ends of it kissing the high of his cheekbones like wisteria hanging down from tree branches. Unable to resist, you cupped his face, brushing your thumb over the mole on his cheek with tenderness that surprised even yourself. 

“I think you’re distracting me on purpose.”

“There she is,’ he murmured fondly, turning his face into your palm and pressing his lips against it in a soft kiss. “The queen of cynicism.”

He gripped your wrist and slowly began peppering kisses from the centre of your palm down to your wrist, his eyes sweeping to yours. Something about the action felt strikingly intimate, sparking a fire inside of you that you hadn’t known could ever exist. Your fingers curled around the back of his neck, drawing him into you for once and meeting his lips with your own. 

You were hooked. Every brush of his mouth against yours was electrifying, precise and addictive in ways that left you wanting more every time. Wine entirely forgotten, his hands lifted to your face and held it, turning you around and pressing you against the edge of the island as he took the lead. 

When Rafayel kissed you again, you blossomed under his touch like a flower exposed to the sun for the first time in days. His fingers entangled in your hair and cradled the back of your head delicately, his nails scratching against your scalp and sending delighted shivers down your spine. He tilted your head back so that you could meet him better, the nature of the kiss dissolving into something much more intense as his tongue swiped over your lower lip, eliciting a soft sound from the back of your throat. 

“Jesus,” he mumbled against you, pained and breathless, pulling away for a singular moment that somehow felt too long despite probably being not more than a second. When he leaned back in, his lips found the side of your mouth, trailing down to your jaw and finding the spot below your ear that made you sigh and tip your head back. He made good use of the access you had so willingly given him, leisurely leaving hot open open-mouthed kisses over the expanse of your neck, knowing exactly what to do to have you fall apart while simultaneously doing barely anything at all. 

Your hands gripped the collar of his shirt at first, then slid down the silky fabric until they met the cool metal of his belt buckle. Emboldened by the situation, you hooked your fingers in his belt loops and tugged him even closer, until his hips were flush against yours. Your eagerness induced a dry chuckle from him, soft and barely there, puffs of his breath tickling against your pulse point. His thigh slotted between your legs before he paused, letting the gravity of what was happening hit either one of you.

It never did.

“Don’t you dare stop.” You almost snapped, but it lacked that authority your voice usually possessed when delegating tasks at work, instead laced with avid desperation for something only he could give you – a thrill only he could provide. Your permission was all he required, gripping your hips and lifting you onto the kitchen island and stepping in between your legs.

“So bossy,” you could feel him grinning against your neck. “You can’t resist ordering people around, can you?”

Before you could even think about refuting, his mouth was back on yours with a renewed sense of want, demanding and dizzying all at once. The beginnings of a retort died on your tongue when his meets yours and his hands slip under the hem of your skirt, sliding up your thighs maddeningly slow. All you could do was whine impatiently, leaning into him and giving in to that magnetic pull of his. He lifted his head, peering down at you with darkened eyes, so close that you could still taste him. 

“Tell me what you want,” he asked, squeezing your thighs in a manner that told you knew knew exactly what you wanted. “You can do that for me, can’t you?”

You glared, though it was weak. “Don’t play dumb.” 

“Fine. When was the last time someone made you come, Y/n?”

You exhaled sharply at his question, one he phrased so innocently, although it was nothing of the sort. “Rafayel.”

“I thought you liked it when people were straightforward with you.” He smirked down at you, running his thumb over your lower lip and applying a little pressure, enough to have your mouth part. His other hand slipped further up your inner thigh, fingers languidly tracing the edge of your panties. He could feel you stiffen, anticipation running rampant through your veins as a wave of arousal crashed over you, rendering you pliant and wanting. 

Dipping his head to your ear, he whispered, “You’re always so wound up, baby. Let me help you relax.”

With that, the spark he had lit inside of you roared to life, the flames burning your blood, making you feel hot all over your body. You were wet, embarrassingly so, soaked through your underwear as a haze of lust enveloped your mind. His knuckles brushed against your clothed core, and the minimal contact made you whimper needily, flattening your palms against the flat of his chest. 

“Please, Rafayel.” Never, in a million years, did he ever think he’d have you begging for anything, but there you were, with your legs spread. “Touch me.”

Rafayel didn’t think he’d ever been this turned on in his life.

Manoeuvring your panties to the side, his fingers dipped in between your folds, a hungry gleam blazing to life in his eyes as he watched you jerk into his touch, drinking in the way your cheeks flushed and eyebrows furrowed. Your slick coated his fingers, and he groaned, the sound low and deep as he brought them up to your clit and circled it, tantalisingly slow. 

“You’re so wet for me.” Shame filtered through you at his words, but it came secondary to the want that coursed through you. It wasn’t like you could deny the claim anyway; you could feel it firsthand. “Gonna make you feel so good.”

“You better,” you breathed out, clutching at the ends of his shirt in a futile attempt to keep your sanity somewhat intact, but he was doing an excellent job of chipping away at it, with how expertly he rubbed your clit, increasing the pressure of the circles he rubbed against the bundle of nerves. 

“Oh, I will.” He flashed you a cocky grin, hooking his finger in the center of your panties and tugging them down your legs. “Don’t you worry your pretty head about it.”

His other hand travelled underneath your top and pushed the material up your body, and you raised your arms, helping him pull it off and leaving you in a simple black bra. Still, he looked at you like you had a matching lingerie set on, humming in appreciation as he pulled your panties down your legs. They caught against one of your heels, which fell to his floor with a soft thud, but neither of you cared enough to even comprehend that. Immediately, he was back on you, middle finger pressing against your entrance as he nipped at your throat, soothing the sting his teeth left behind with licks of his tongue and wet kisses. 

Finally, finally, he pushed one lithe finger into you and provided you with some relief, revelling in the moan you gasped out. His lips made their way down your neck and to your collarbone, kissing the swell of your breasts unhurriedly, as if he had all the time in the world to do with you as he pleased. He set a lazy pace with his finger, introducing a second one to your cunt with ease on account of how wet you were, gushing all over his hand. 

Impatient, you reached behind and unhooked your bra, letting it fall off your shoulders and took in the appreciative look on his face when you tossed it to the side. 

“Fuck,” he looked like you had positively wrecked, like you were a witch that had put him under a spell. “You’re killing me here.” 

Rafayel attacked your chest again, this time with a little less precision. His pretty pink lips dragged across your breasts, tongue flicking out and swirling around one of your your pebbled nipples, taking it into his mouth and sucking. You arched into him with a whimper, your hands finding purchase in his soft hair, holding his head close to your body. His fingers moved in and out of your cunt fast, the palm of his hand rutting against your clit rhythmically, having your toes curl out of pleasure. 

“Raf- oh, fuck.” 

He looked up at you through his eyelashes, biting down on your nipple just hard enough for sparks of pain to shoot through you, mingling with the pleasure until you were left with a heady mix of both swirling inside you. You cried out, your hips bucking up against his fingers on their own accord. 

For someone usually so well put together, it was hypnotic to watch you fall apart for him – and because of him. His mouth slipped from your nipple for a moment in favour of staring at you in wonder. “God, you’re so…”

You never found out what he meant to say, eyes rolling to the back of your head when his fingers curled inside of you, the tips of them stroking against the spot that made it hard for you to hold back your moans and whimpers. The sounds tumbled out of you like a waterfall, combined with the wet ones from your pussy, and filled the silence of his apartment, spurring him on even further as he fingered you so diligently. He went right back to lapping at your breast, his free hand kneading your other one, rolling that nipple under his thumb and pinching it. 

“Oh my god,” you whined as you helplessly ground against his palm, the heel of it digging into your clit and applying delicious pressure on it that had you losing your damn mind. You could tell you were close from the coiling sensation in your gut, and from the way your legs were trembling, he had picked up on it as well. 

“That’s it,” he cooed. “Come for me.”

Seconds later, your orgasm hit you hard, a choked moan of his name leaving you as you clung onto him, overwhelmed at how good it felt. He held you against him, his ministrations never letting up for even a moment as he helped you ride out your high to the fullest. Once he was satisfied, he pulled his fingers away, staring at the mess you left on them in awe. 

And then he looked at you, and he realised that the mess of you was far prettier. Lips swollen and kiss-bitten, hair all messed up just like how he’d imagined far too many times for him to willingly admit to, and eyes blown wide with desire. The sight of you like this – so perfectly wrecked – almost made him moan aloud, but he stopped himself by kissing you once more, messily now, all teeth and tongue and heat.

“Y/n,” Rafayel rasped out your name against your lips, “Fuck, I need you.”

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer until you were flush against his chest, locking your legs around his hips. “Then take me.”

Bossy as ever, it only made him want you more. Gripping the underside of your thighs, he picked you up and carried you to his bedroom, lips locked with yours. He didn’t know how he made it to his room, but once there, he set you on the mattress and climbed over you, taking a moment to admire you in all your glory. 

He was a total goner. 

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” you huffed in between kisses, tugging impatiently at his collar and fumbling with his buttons. Rafayel laughed, finding your indignation so fucking adorable that he almost forgot what the two of you were doing, so consumed with the fact that he had you like this. When you managed to undo most of his buttons, he leaned back and pulled the shirt off, discarding it to some corner of the room and unzipped his pants. 

His cock sprung to life as he kicked off his pants, and you were awestruck at the sight of him. The tempting lines of his abs you had forced yourself to look away from several times, now on display for only your eyes, and the flushed tip of his hard cock claiming all your attention because not only was it pretty, it was big. You bit your lower lip in anticipation, propping yourself up on your elbows to get a better look. 

“Like what you see?” He drawled out the question with a lazy grin as he slipped on a condom, his smugness riling you up even more. Licking your lips, you pushed him away until he landed on his backside, expression morphing into one of confusion.

Aha, so it was possible to wipe that look off his face after all. 

“Sit up against the headboard,” you instructed, getting to your knees and slipping the skirt that you still had on off your body, both of you completely naked now. 

Although surprised, he complied fairly quickly, the smirk returning with full force. “Yes, ma’am.” 

To Rafayel, this made sense. You always had to have a modicum of control over any situation, and this was how you established that here. You threw a leg over him, straddling his lap. His breath hitched when his cock came into contact with your bare cunt, unable to hold back a groan when you began to grind. The sound fired off every synapse in your brain, your body working on its own as you rolled your hips harder against him. 

“God, fuck,” his honeyed voice was strained with the effort it took to not just hold you still and fuck up into you.  “I’m going to lose my mind if I’m not inside you soon, pretty girl.” 

The nickname did something to you, going straight to your head like a strong shot of tequila. You lifted your hips, reaching between your bodies and aligning his cock with your entrance, wetness coating the tip. Circling your hips, you savoured the way he sucked in a breath between his teeth. 

But you were a woman who had virtually no patience. Teasing him, while fun, only succeeded in making you more desperate than you already were. 

So you steadied yourself by placing your hands on his shoulders, slowly sinking onto his length. You hissed in pleasure at the burn of the stretch, nails sinking into the skin of his shoulders and most definitely leaving marks. The near drunken sound that left him when you took all of him was the most gratifying one you had ever heard. He gripped your hips, tipping his head back against the headboard and breathing heavily. 

“You– fuck– you feel so perfect,” Rafayel stuttered in wonder, but you were still adjusting to his size to comprehend the praise properly. He was buried to the hilt, and you felt delirious, clawing at him as you tried and failed to keep yourself together. You needed him so bad it scared you, somehow growing even wetter with him inside of you because of how fucking good it felt.

Lifting your hips once again, you came down on him, mouth falling open at how he filled you up so easily. He groaned, dropping his head to the crook of your neck and ravishing it once more, both of you far too gone to even think about the consequences of leaving marks. 

“Raf,” you whined, rocking your hips into him as you chased your high, in turn pulling his along. “Shit, it feels so good.”

“I know, cutie, I know,” His mouth was on your nipple again, wrapping his lips around it and sucking harshly, sending shocks of pleasure right down to your core. Instinctively, you clenched around him, and his grip on you tightened imperceptibly, a silent warning. Naturally, as you did with most things, you took it as a challenge, this time clenching on purpose.

“You little-” In retaliation, his thumb found your engorged clit and flicked it, causing you to screw your eyes shut and squeal with the extra stimulation.

“I can’t– god, it's too much,” you whimpered, feeling that familiar tug in your core build rapidly. Still sensitive from your first climax, it was no wonder that you were close already. Wanting to come again, you bounced faster, earning you a pleased groan from him. 

“You’re incredible,” he crooned against your skin, hands running up your sides reverently as he stared at you through a half-lidded gaze. The sight of you on top of him, bare, looking so gorgeous, was enough to have him come undone, and he wanted it imprinted in his brain forever. He wanted to paint you like this, to turn you into art for his eyes alone.

You came hard, crying out his name in between the many of sounds that fell from your lips in ecstasy, gasps and moans alike. All you could think of was Rafayel, Rafayel, Rafayel as your high crashed over you like a wave crashing onto the shore. 

Immediately, he took over, flipping your positions so that you were pressed into the mattress, his hips snapping to yours with a renewed sense of urgency. You mewled at the instant overstimulation, pawing at his torso in a weak attempt to get him to slow down, knowing damn well you didn’t want him to. He grabbed at your wrists and pinned them above your head, thrilled at the gasp-moan it elicited.

“You sound so fucking pretty,” Rafayel mumbled, sheathing himself inside of you with one final thrust, unravelling with a low moan. The two of you stayed like that for a couple of seconds, still connected, recovering from your mutual high. 

Carefully, he pulled out, discarding the used condom and climbing right back into bed with you. His arms wrapped around your body, gathering you against his chest with all the tenderness in the world, limbs so entwined with yours that you didn’t know where you started and he ended anymore. 

“Hey.”

You glanced up, finding him staring down at you with a soft, satiated smile, tracing soothing circles on your back. Like this, Rafayel was at his most irresistible to you, with his hair all mussed because of you, cheeks flushed, and every ounce of his attention on you. Try as you did, you couldn’t fight hints of your own smile from showing, so you nuzzled into his neck to hide your face. “Hi.”

“There isn’t a single reason for you to be shy,” he whispered playfully, propping his fingers under your chin and lifting your head so you were looking at him once more. “That was– you were amazing.” 

“I don’t get shy.” Nonetheless, your cheeks flushed at his praise. 

He chuckled quietly. “Of course you don’t.” And he kissed you again, like all the times he had just done so weren’t and would never be enough for him. Cupping your jaw sweetly, it was the most innocent press of his lips to yours, not needing any more from you. You certainly didn’t.

“Rafayel?” You breathed his name, pulling back and looking into those captivated eyes, hues of dark fuchsia and sapphire twinkling back at you. Entranced, you realised that your heart was no longer yours to control, free from the clutches of your mind, belonging to the man who held you.  It was terrifying and freeing all at once, falling without knowing when and if you’d land at all.

“Hmm?”

“I think you might be my favourite muse.”

The words were honest, tinged with a vulnerability that hit home for Rafayel. He knew you didn’t open up like this to anyone, but you were staring at him now with that same look you gave him after asking him to stay on at Lumiere as a brand ambassador. Something in the confines of his ribs constricted as he brushed your hair out of your face.

“What an honour that is.”

It was early morning when Rafayel padded to his living room. The sun hadn’t risen yet. You were still in his bed, curled up under the sheets, looking so peaceful amidst your slumber. When he slipped away, he made sure not to disturb you.

For as long as he remembered, he had thrived on attention. It was something he had been handed even before his breakout into the mainstream as a top model. People constantly told him how he was meant for the limelight, standing proud at the centre of attention.

He settled on his couch, elbows on his knees and palms pressed into his eyes as he tried to think. His mind was racing, running at a mile a minute, and he was struggling to catch up. 

You said he was your muse. 

He had been a muse his entire life. For his aunt, for other designers and brands, he was used to it. The prospect of being a muse had never scared him before, but now he was yours, and he wasn’t sure how to navigate that role anymore. You, who said his art had inspired you to create your clothing, clothing he would soon wear and show off to the world. It should have thrilled him because he rarely resonated with a brand like he did yours, and even less with people. 

Up until you, of course. You were a force of nature, obstinate and stubborn and spectacular too, like a storm that crashed into his town and swept him away. He meant it when he said it was an honour to be your muse. 

But he knew that after a while, people got bored of their muses. Periodically, they moved on and found a new one to devote all their time and effort to. He was used to being wanted, and he often used that to his advantage, but being the one who wanted your attention was not a role he knew how to fill. The script had been flipped on him, and he felt like an actor with zero experience, wading in waters that were much too deep for him.

Walking away had always been easy. He wasn’t the type to be tied down to anything, all about living in the moment and having a good time. Now, he found himself wanting to stay, and that endlessly frightened him. What happened when he finished serving his purpose as your muse and you pushed him to the side? 

He didn’t want to stick around and find out. He couldn’t bear to.

A business card lay on his coffee table. Lifting his head from his hands, he reached out and picked it up, turning the thin cardboard over in his fingers and reading the number on the back. The Dubois Designs logo glared up at him, as if taunting him with what would come to pass if he went through with this.

He picked up his phone. 

You didn’t see Rafayel after that. 

There were many things you could attribute this to. Your swamped schedule, the dinners, afterparties, showcases and fittings that you’d never hear the end of, his own endeavours – it made sense. 

What didn’t make sense was the radio silence. He had gotten very comfortable with messaging you, even though you never entertained his overzealous texting style and only graced him with the driest of responses. Now, your phone was filled with communication from everyone except the man you were admittedly waiting to hear from. 

Nothing. 

Smack dab in the middle of one of the busiest weeks of your year, you didn’t have the time to dwell on it. The Lumiere show drew closer, and you were heavily involved in every aspect of the preparations to make sure everything was exactly how you wanted it to be. 

You called him once, but he hadn’t picked up. It made you frown, but it wasn’t like you had the right to his time. Hadn’t you told him how precious yours was time and time again? Satisfied with that reasoning, you continued, pushing all thoughts of the charming man away for as long as you could. 

“He isn’t here.” 

The observation slipped out of you flatly, a little too loud and emphatic even for your own ears. It was the night before the show, and the final rehearsal was underway, held right in the cathedral that would serve as the set. Typically, these run-throughs were held a couple of hours before the actual show, but that would have disturbed the normal proceedings of the church, and you had no intentions of undermining the sanctity of it. 

You turned to your assistant and models' manager. “Where is Rafayel?”

Simone jumped in quickly, knowing well how you hated being left hanging. “Andrew didn’t see him come in, and I contacted Thomas, but he hasn’t been able to get hold of him either.” 

“What on earth…?” You muttered mostly to yourself as something in the pit of your stomach twisted, tight and unpleasant. His absence lately stung, but up until this moment, you had graciously let it go, figuring that there was a reason for it. Now, however, it was impossible to let it slide because he wasn’t just ignoring you, he was skipping out on rehearsal, and that was a professional commitment. 

“I heard he was difficult to work with,” Andrew commented, rubbing his chin. “But I didn’t think he’d be irresponsible.”

You wouldn’t stand for it. Nodding stiffly, you spoke. “I’m leaving the rest of the rehearsal in both of your hands. I have something to check on.” 

Neither of them questioned you, absorbing your instructions and carrying them out efficiently. You grabbed your coat and left the cathedral, your shoes clicking against the cobbled footpaths as you hailed a cab. Your best bet on where he was would be his apartment, and that was exactly where you’d go to get your answers. 

When you reached, the scene you were met with wasn’t what you expected at all. The door to his apartment swung wide open, loud music reaching your ears from where you stood as the elevator doors opened. Swallowing down your bafflement, you slowly approached the entrance, an uncomfortable feeling settling in the middle of your chest the closer you got. 

Once you were inside, it only got worse. The music made it hard for you to think, your eyes sweeping across the room and taking in the sight: people laughing, mingling and dancing, some of them you even recognised. 

And in the eye of the storm was Rafayel, lounging about at the centre of the chaos around him. 

What the fuck?

He looked so at ease, lounging on his couch with his head tipped back on the back of it, eyes closed like he was unaware of what was going on. His serene expression only stirred up your frustration, and it mixed with your confusion and the crumbs of dread that swirled around your gut. Brushing aside your discomfort, you stormed over, knocking your leg into his to alert him of your presence. 

Rafayel’s eyes fluttered open, dazed and unfocused. At the sight of you, something flickered in them, but it disappeared just as quickly. “Y/n,” he slurred your name, barely audible over the volume of the music. “What are you doing here?”

God, he was drunk. Clenching your jaw at that fact, you narrowed your eyes and set him with a glare, taking in his inebriated state.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” 

Déjà vu was what Rafayel felt at that moment, but instead of it being Thomas coming to scold him, it was you who stood before him, looking so furious and beautiful at the same time. There was nothing gentle about the way you phrased the question, your tone harsh and accusatory, like you had already decided he was in the wrong without giving him the chance to explain. 

Clever woman. 

He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to pull his scattered thoughts together through the haze of his tipsiness. His lack of answer seemed to piss you off even more, and while that might have once amused him, all it did now was make his heart sink. Grabbing his wrist, you pulled him through his apartment and back out into the hallway, not caring if you were making a scene or about who was staring. 

“I’m going to ask this once, and only once. What the hell is all this?” You let go of his wrist, spinning on your heel to face him once it was just the two of you. The music was softer out here, making the clipped tone of your voice all the more apparent. 

“It’s a party, sweetheart. I’m sure you know what that is.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snapped, furious at how cavalier he was being. It felt like you were back at the beginning, when you first met him, with his audacity and you struggling to keep your temper in check, except so much worse. Now, you were personally involved with him, which caused all of your emotions to lash out all at once. “Don’t you know what day it is?”

“You’re asking such odd questions, but if you must know, it's Thursday.” He looked completely uninterested in the conversation you were trying so hard to have. You grit your teeth, taking a step forward. 

“First, you ignore me,” you seethed, your perfect facade crumbling bit by bit in his presence. “Then you don’t show up for the show rehearsal, that is going on right now, mind you, and throw a party instead? What the fuck is wrong with you?” Your disbelief was palpable, and it grew exponentially when he scoffed, like your questioning right then was a major inconvenience.

“Oh, please, you and I both know I’ll be fantastic on the runway whether I’m at the rehearsal or not.” He leaned against the wall to hide how unsteady he felt on his feet right then, the paradox almost making him laugh. Almost. 

“Thats not the point!” You took a step toward him. “You know it's not.”

“Isn’t it?” 

You exhaled shakily. “No. It’s about–” Us, but was there an ‘us’ for you to even refer to? From the way he was looking at you right now, so cold and aloof, you doubted it. “You’ve been avoiding me.” You let the statement hang between him and you, not bother to tack on the question that sat on the tip of your tongue, letting the rhetorical nature of it take over and do the work for you. 

Rafayel was aware of how it looked because he was the one who had made it so. He had kissed you, held you, slept with you and then disappeared. He hated the look on your face right now, the way you were staring at him so pleadingly, waiting for him to explain why, too proud to outright ask for it. He averted his gaze, staring at his shoes. 

“Are you really that surprised?” 

Something in you cracked wide open. “What?”

“Come on, Y/n, you’re smart. I’m sure you’re aware of my reputation.” He knew he was being an asshole, but what was one of instance of that to him? That was what the world perceived him as anyway– a playboy with a penchant for partying and a pretty face – so why not live up to it? If it were going to protect him from getting hurt, then by all means, it would be worth it. 

With how your face swiftly collapsed at his insinuation, it certainly didn’t feel worth it. He wanted to take it back immediately, to take you by the shoulders and tell you the truth and hold you like he had just days ago. 

He couldn’t. Everything about wanting you terrified him because of the intensity of that desire. He had never felt like this before, and the thought of you someday not wanting him back was unbearable. He knew how he was: selfish, self-serving to a fault, difficult and exhausting at times, so very skilled at pushing people away. Eventually, you’d get tired of him and leave.

The idea of you walking away scared him so much that he opted to run away first to save himself from that pain.

“Did–Did everything that happened between us mean nothing to you?” You despised the way you stuttered, the stilted rhythm of your speech that betrayed the emotion behind it, because it made you feel weak. Out of control.

Perhaps if he were a better man, a stronger one, he’d tell you the truth. He’d tell you that it had meant the most to him, and how nothing had ever mattered as much as you did. 

But he wasn’t.

“Was it supposed to?”

You couldn’t conceal the sharp gasp that left you at his cruel words, staggering away from him like you had been shot. The man in front of you was one you didn’t recognise, a mere phantom of the one you thought you knew. He had Rafayel’s eyes and hair and stature, but it wasn’t the same Rafayel that had torn through your walls and coaxed the real you out into the light, the part of you that you kept hidden away from the rest of the world. Instead, it was a man who held those secrets and threw them back in your face like they had meant nothing.

You had let your guard down and let him in, forgetting how easy that made it for you to get hurt. Those walls that once towered so high around had come crashing down, and you didn’t know how to rebuild. Hot tears burned your eyes, heartbreak mingling in with your rage toward him, but you refused to cry. You wouldn’t give him any more of yourself than you already had.

All you had left was your dignity, and you’d be damned if you let that go. 

He was right; he had a reputation for a reason, and you should never have expected anything more. You pulled yourself together, momentarily wondering how you ever let yourself be so stupid.

“You will walk in the show tomorrow.” You forced yourself to sound steady, fingers curled into fists at how enraged you felt. “And then you will never walk for Lumiere again. Do you understand?”

The cold fury in your cadence wasn’t lost on him, and neither was the way you were shutting him out and shutting down. You had gotten used to expressing yourself freely when around him, and even now, it was like all your feelings were plastered across your face for him to see. It was awful to watch you blink away your tears so rapidly, knowing that they were because of him, how your lips twisted downward at the sorrow you felt but refused to give in to.

Rafayel hated that he was the one who had caused you this pain, but he couldn’t backtrack now. He had come this far, he might as well finish the job. Maybe it would be easier if you hated him.

“That won’t be a problem. I’ll be signed with Dubois Designs.” 

You felt the betrayal before you processed it.

It started as a dull ache in the centre of your chest, gradually worsening until it felt like someone was standing on top of it, making it hard for you to breathe. When it– what he had done– finally hit you, you could no longer think straight, unstable on your feet despite being the sober one. You had spent your entire life keeping your cards close to your chest, only for the one person you had let peek at them to burn the whole deck. 

There was a lump in your throat and a knife in your back.

When you spoke again, your voice was dangerously quiet. “After tomorrow, I never want to see you again.” 

With your head held high and heart sinking low, you turned on your heel and left, stepping into the old elevator without sparing him another glance. Part of you wanted nothing more than you shake him and make him feel the way you did right then, but that would require casting your pride aside, and frankly, you didn’t have it in you. You wouldn’t let him take that away from you. 

Rafayel watched you leave, frozen in place. The irony wasn’t lost on him; he had run away from the future possibility of you walking away from him, only to have you do exactly that right now. The party continued in the background, but all he could think of were the tears in your eyes and how fucking hurt you looked because of what he had just done to you. To himself. 

You emerged back into the Parisian streets, the cold air nipping at the exposed skin of your neck. Pulling your coat tighter around yourself, you looked up at the sky and then at your surroundings, those tears you had so valiantly fought against finally trickling down your face.

The city of love had never looked so dull. 

The models were lined up and in place. Every seat was filled, celebrities and critics alike taking the front row. Photographers had their equipment in place, ready to capture the results of your hard work. You stood backstage, and despite having done this so many times, you felt a little nervous. 

Everyone looked fabulous in your clothing, the stylists carefully draping them in the delicate fabrics and complicated pieces. Both the women and men models had little Swarovski crystals embedded in their hair that would shimmer when the light hit them, with the women’s hair being done in beach waves. Last-minute touch-ups to the makeup, some models having to be quite literally stitched into their outfits– it was that unique brand of madness that only existed behind the veiled curtains of a fashion show. 

This was it. The end of a season for Lumiere. Months of fretting over details and extensive planning, hours upon hours of work and stress and obstacles would culminate in the twelve minutes that your models took the stage for. 

“On in ten,” Simone announced, taking her spot beside you. “Ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” you mumbled, both your hands over your stomach in an attempt to calm its churning. The lights came on all of a sudden, signalling that the show was about to begin. The music began playing, and the first model rolled her shoulders, straightened her posture, and lifted her head just slightly, a look of concentration dawning on her face.

And down the runway she went.

She glided down the runway with grace, and a hush fell over the audience at the magnificent sight, fabrics shimmering as the dramatic lighting hit them. Once she reached the end, she twirled gracefully and turned to return as the next model emerged into the spotlight. They passed each other on their respective paths, hums of appreciation arising from the onlookers. Haunting organ music accompanied the models as they walked one by one, dramatic and exquisite. 

Operatic.

It was funny how only one person had ever been able to capture the essence of what you had envisioned so perfectly and put it into words. It was fitting, you supposed, the muse would understand what he inspired. He now stood at the back of the line, waiting his turn to take the runway and blow everyone away with the final piece of the collection. 

Rafayel’s eyes met yours across the backstage area one final time, so brief that you would have missed it if you weren’t already looking at him. For his look, you had instructed the stylists to leave his hair in its natural curly state, and with the crystals in it, he truly looked like a character from a fairytale. When you looked at him now, though, his beauty wasn’t what you were transfixed on.

It was the look in his eyes. Forlorn, longing and….defeated? The combination resulted in something inexplicable, but it chipped away at a suspicion you had been harbouring ever since the night before, one that you had buried deep to save yourself from the pain that would come with trying to understand it. For how well he could read you, it seemed that you could do the same for him, and now, that split second of eye contact told you everything you needed to know.

Everything that had happened between the two of you had meant something to him, and for some reason, he lied to you and said it didn’t. 

You didn’t want to know why.

Rafayel stepped out and onto the runway, his expression morphing into one you had seen in magazines and on your website. The dark red organza silk of his shirt shimmered in the light like light upon ocean waves, hints of blue and purple making a show as he walked. Captivating as ever, he brought your clothing to life with every step he took. 

The perfect closer for a sensational show.

When it was time for you to walk out, you plastered on a smile and waved, placing one foot in front of the other like your life depended on it. Cameras flashed, and thunderous applause was heard throughout the cathedral, especially when you took your place in the middle of your models as they lined up for a final bow. You joined then, a weight rolling off your shoulders as the show came to a spectacular close, undoubtedly a resounding success. 

You had done it. This show was unlike any other you had put on, and no doubt everyone would be talking about it. You had stepped out of your comfort zone when it came to designing and achieved your goal of putting on a spectacle that made the audience feel.

So why did you feel so hollow?

After surviving a swarm of paparazzi shouting questions at you, desperate for even a sliver of your attention and a glance at their lenses and shaking the hands of impressed critics, you found yourself at the Lumiere afterparty. People you called loosely called friends for appearances' sake, celebrities, influencers, and fellow designers were all in attendance, showering you in congratulations and complimenting your work. They said the show would go down in fashion history as iconic and asked how you managed to do it once again. You smiled and drank and tried your best to bask in your well-deserved glory at a party you didn’t want to be at, in a city that was tainted.

And at this party, Qi Rafayel was nowhere to be found.

New York was as unforgiving as ever.

Your life resumed its regular course when you returned; fittings, photoshoots, interviews, and so much paperwork. You threw yourself into your work, filling every spare moment of your day with something to do, fix, or delegate, an arguably pathetic attempt at keeping yourself from thinking of him. 

The cacophony of the city accompanied your every solitary step, and you took comfort in it. The incessant honking while stuck in traffic and the chatter of pedestrians filled your senses, whether you were sitting in the back of a cab or running errands. It served as background music to your loneliness, and while you might have once been satisfied with it, you found it hard to go back to that blissfully ignorant state. 

Because now you had a taste of what it felt like to not be quite so lonely. Rafayel had waltzed into your life like the tempest of allure and insolence he was and drenched your world in colour. He had taken you out of your box and painted you a new perspective, one you had so foolishly assumed he’d view by your side.

Early mornings and late nights – your days began to blur together until you weren’t sure when they started and ended. Your voice lacked the bite it usually had when reprimanding your employees for any stupid mistakes. If your coffee was cold, you drank it anyway, perplexing Simone. You walked through the hallways of the Lumeire building during those long work days and returned to your penthouse in the dead of night, moving under the heavy silence that completely claimed the large space. 

You loathed him for making the life you had so carefully built for yourself feel so miserable. More than anything, you hated how you wished he were still in it. 

Rafayel threw a party.

He didn’t even want to be there anymore. Everything about it felt wrong. His drink wasn’t strong enough, the music was too loud, and there were too many fucking people around. He didn’t even like any of them; it was the usual crowd that showed up whenever he hosted one of these things, and while he could usually get along with them, right now all their presence did was remind him that the one person he truly wanted beside him wanted nothing to do with him. 

A pitiful try at filling a void he had created himself. He didn’t want anything to do with himself either. 

God, he missed you. He missed that rare smile you seldom let show, the ridiculous updo you always had your hair done in, and the passion in your eyes when you spoke about your work. He missed your voice, your crimson painted lips and scrutinising glare that made everyone it was directed at shrink. The way you’d scowl when he teased you, and the softness with which you told him he was your favourite muse.

As he glanced at the doorway of his apartment, he almost willed you to walk through it like you had in Paris, on that fateful night when he ruined everything. He imagined you appearing there, huffing in displeasure at the pandemonium of this stupid party and wanting to see him. Idiotically, he braced himself for exactly that, waiting and watching like it was something that would actually happen. 

But he knew it wouldn’t. Instead of waiting around for it to happen, he realised that for the first time in his life, he’d have to work for what he wanted. 

He would have to go to you. 

Walking into the Lumiere building after two months away was a strange experience. 

It seemed like nothing had changed, not that he expected it to. He had almost become an ambassador for the brand, and now there he was, walking down its hallways as nothing more than an exiled stranger. 

His feet carried him to your office, knowing that was where you’d be, always holed up in there with a thousand things to get done. Passing the conference room where he first met you four months ago, he wondered how things had gotten to this point. Back then, he had been reluctant to get involved with Lumiere. 

Funny. 

When he reached your office, you seemed to be in conversation with someone. One glance at the silvery blond hair on the man, and he recognised him as Xavier Shen, the model he had replaced. Now, the man seemed perfectly healthy, standing on his feet as the two of you conversed. The sight reminded Rafayel that he truly might not be needed by you anymore, in every sense of the word. 

Still, he steeled himself and pushed the glass door open, not bothering to knock. He never did in the past, so why start now?

“Huh. You really do live here.” 

Both Xavier and you turned to him, and the first thing he noticed was how tired you looked. Your shoulders looked like the weight of the world rested upon them, slumped just a little bit, and prominent dark circles under your eyes. It seemed he was right in assuming you were running yourself ragged; he knew your habits well enough. Still, even with all that, to him, you looked positively radiant. 

At the sight of him standing there with his hands in his pockets, your heart stuttered before it twisted in pain. He was the same as ever, his presence commanding the entirety of your office like no one else but you could, still a sight for sore eyes. That ever-present playful tone to his voice, however, was weaker than you remembered, just barely hiding the thick layer of vulnerability just below the surface.

“I thought I said I never wanted to see you again.” 

 Xavier glanced between you and Rafayel before clearing his throat. “I’m gonna take my leave. See you tomorrow.” He gave you a sharp nod and slipped out. Rafayel barely comprehended the other man leaving, so focused on being in the same room as you again. 

“I know.” Those words were fresh in his mind even after all these weeks, eating away at him. They were the reason it took him so long to come here, so afraid you’d turn him away the second he showed his face, but he knew he’d regret it for the rest of his life if he didn’t try. “I know, I just…” He trailed off, not quite sure what to say now that he was face to face with you. 

“What do you want, Rafayel?” You took a seat behind your desk and defensively folded your arms over your chest, keeping your guard up. “To waste more of my time? To remind me how little I meant to you? Take your pick, and do it quickly because I don’t have all day.” 

He looked pained. “I want to talk. Please.”

A bitter laugh escaped you. “And why should I listen to anything you have to say?”

“You shouldn’t,” he admitted, walking to your desk. “But I’m asking you to, anyway.”

You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief as you looked off to the side. He somehow had the gall to walk into your building and ask to talk to you when he had no right to do so. It was just so like him, selfish with total disregard for your feelings, and as much as you wanted to tell him to get out, a small, hopeless part of you wanted to hear what he had to say. 

You supposed that was what you got for falling for someone like him. “Fine. Talk.”

Relief flooded his system. He sat down on one of the cushioned chairs in front of your desk and tried to gather his thoughts. There was so much he wanted to say, but he hadn’t the faintest idea of where to start. “I’m sorry.”

That had seemed like a pretty good place to begin, but with the way your eyes narrowed, he wondered if he had already made a mistake. Lord knows it wouldn’t be his first or last one. “That could have been an email.”

“Would you have read it?”

You clenched your jaw at his rash question, opting to stay silent. Rafayel wanted to slap himself, knowing he was being an asshole even now, the one time he was actively trying to avoid doing so. He didn’t deserve even a second of your time; he should have walked out of your life and stayed away to avoid causing you any more pain.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and forged on. “I fucked up, I know that. I’ve never– I lied and said that none of it mattered, but– fuck, this is coming out all wrong.” He rubbed a hand over his face, frustrated at his inability to say what he wanted in a manner that made even a sliver of sense. “I was scared.” 

All that self-assuredness you were so used to was nowhere to be seen now as he stumbled over his words. It was jarring to see Rafayel admit to being scared when you had only ever associated him with unshakable confidence. 

“Scared of what? Me?”  

There was something fractured in the way you asked that, fragile even. He immediately refuted the claim, feeling awful that you would even consider it a possibility. “No, god no, not you. Never you.” His eyes snapped to yours, full of earnestness that made you instantly believe him. “You called me your muse.” 

You let out a slow breath. “I remember.” 

Rafayel gripped the armrests on either side of him, looking off to the side, his throat bobbing with uncertainty as he contemplated whether this was a good idea anymore. “But muses are temporary. They can’t inspire forever, and god knows I’m not someone who thinks about forever.” A huff of forced laughter. “But with you, I did. I wanted to be the one that inspired you forever and that scared the shit out of me.”

Here they were, answers to questions you had been too proud to ask. He ran his fingers through his straightened hair, pushing it back and out of his face. Regardless of how restless he felt, he continued, knowing that the truth was the least of what you deserved. “For the first, fuck, maybe the only time in my life, I wanted to stay. I was so afraid that you’d wake up one day and realise I’m not worth being your muse and you’d walk away. Pick someone else.” 

“Do you really think so little of me?” You asked quietly, unable to look anywhere but him. 

“I didn’t know what to think,” He said honestly. “I’ve never cared so much, and the thought of you leaving because you didn’t find me inspiring enough for your creations–” He cut himself off and dropped his head, as if suddenly realising how fucking awful his assumption sounded out loud. “I thought the only way to avoid that would be to leave first, and I know that that makes no sense, but I….I’m so sorry.”

You had been called a lot of things in your life: difficult, stubborn, unreasonable, and yet somehow, this stung the worst. He had made the decision for you, leaving you to deal with the repercussions of an outcome you didn’t have a hand in choosing. 

“You thought I saw you as a means to an end.” Your voice was devoid of emotion, hollow, anguished eyes never once finding his. “When I only ever thought of you as a beginning.”

For something that was a concept, it was funny how his regret manifested itself as a physical ache, ripping through his chest and causing his throat to close up on itself. Your words cut through him, reminding him of how he was the one to rush to an end that you hadn’t even considered. 

Maybe this wasn’t salvageable. Maybe all he was destined for was to live with the knowledge that he had finally loved someone other than himself, and ruined it. 

“I know what it feels like to be loved.” It took everything in him to keep looking at you when it seemed like you couldn’t bear to even glance at him. His tongue felt like it was made of lead, heavy and uncooperative as he tried to say what he had known for so long. “Adoration, infatuation, whatever. I know when someone is in love with me, but I’ve never felt the same way. I don’t know how to, but I think whatever I feel for you has to be pretty damn close, and–” 

“Don’t you dare.”

“–I’m in love with you, Y/n.”

A shattered breath left you, your composure faltering completely at the confession. Nothing about this was fair. Your heart was bruised and battered, but it fluttered to life completely against your will when he said it, and you detested it. You wanted to hate him so badly, even when it was so clear that you loved him. Why else would all this hurt so bad? 

They said pride came before fall, but in your case, you fell first, and now it was your pride that stopped you from letting him back in. You knew he didn’t deserve a shred of forgiveness, and you also knew that if you looked at him right now, you’d let go of the anger you were so desperately holding onto. It was the only thing keeping you from being totally vulnerable, so you kept your gaze on your mahogany desk, trying your hardest to stay strong.

“I think you should leave.”

Quiet enough to conceal how choked up you truly felt, you knew you didn’t mean it. You needed the time and space to think about everything that had happened. You couldn’t just forgive him even if you wanted to, so skilled at holding a grudge as you were, the bitter realisation that you were perhaps as scared as he was right then making itself known. 

Rafayel had never been good at doing what he was told, but there was no place for his sense of entitlement here. He had done enough damage, and if you wanted him to leave, then that was exactly what he’d do. Getting to his feet, he stared at you one last time, waiting, wishing and hoping you’d look up.

But you didn’t.

So he left your office, complying with your wishes without argument. It should have pleased you, considering how you hated rebuttals when it came to people following your orders. 

But as you watched him walk through those doors, you had never wanted someone to defy you more than in that moment.

When a storm comes to an end, it does so in parts.

First, the wind stops howling. As it does, the heavy showers relent and turn back into the light drizzle it started as, gentle and harmless. The darkened clouds clear up, giving way to clear blue skies and the warm, golden rays of the sun. 

Resentment worked differently when it came to someone you loved. It turned out that both those feelings– resentment and love– could exist simultaneously, even when it seemed nearly impossible, but when the latter was real, it made it exhausting to hold on to all that anger. Love itself was confusing, contradictory, and so difficult to navigate, especially when it was good.

And when had anything good been easy?

The art gallery was pretty much empty, seeing that it was almost eight p.m., which was when it closed. You swept through the different hallways, procrastinating, approaching the showcase you were truly there for. 

And why the hell were you there?

Because, despite everything, Rafayel was still everything you wanted, and you were so tired of pretending he wasn’t. You had spent night after night going over everything that had happened over the past six months and trying to convince yourself of the opposite, but when it came down to it, one thing was abundantly clear: he made you happy like no one else could. He could accomplish the opposite as well, but one extreme would not exist if the other didn’t. 

He was flawed, but so were you. Your pride made it impossible for you to see that at first, making you punish yourself and stay miserable, even though the one thing you wanted was within reach. You turned it away, thinking that refusal would help you forget him and the way he made you feel, but it didn’t. Maybe it didn’t make any sense, but maybe it wasn’t supposed to. You had spent so much of your life making sure everything went exactly how you wanted, caging yourself within your own expectations. 

Stepping into the back, you were in front of the very wall he had shown you all those months ago when he had dragged you out of your office. Even when you weren’t sure of him, he was the only person in your life who had ever forced you to live. 

Your breath hitched.

The paintings had been rearranged with a new one in the centre. The colours stood out against the others, this one bathed in warm oranges and yellows, a faceless woman leaning out of the roof of a car with the wind in her hair. There was something distinctively wistful about it, like she was being viewed from the lens of another. 

It was you.

You took a hesitant step forward, instinctively looking at the artist plaque despite knowing that it would read ‘anonymous’. Not that it mattered, of course, because you knew exactly who had made it. 

“Y/n?”

You turned, and there Rafayel was. It had been a while since you had seen him, and during that time, he had stayed out of the limelight completely—no articles in tabloids, no rumours, nothing. Your pulse picked up at the sight of him, and you felt like a child being caught doing something they weren’t supposed to. 

“What are you doing here?” The ridiculous question left you before you could stop it. His lips twitched slightly, a hint of amusement bleeding into those all-consuming eyes. 

“Forgot already? I’m a little insulted.” He spoke gently, cocking his head towards his artwork. He studied you for a moment. “Why are you here?”

When it came to him, you always found yourself wanting to do opposite things at the same time. You wanted to run away, but more than anything, you wanted to run right back into his arms. If that made you an idiot, well, wasn’t everyone allowed to be one every once in a while?

“I don’t know.”

A soft smile, so much like the one he gave you that night when he first kissed you. “No, you do. You of all people don’t do things without a reason.”

There he went again, reading you like a book without your permission. You looked back at the painting of you, skillfully evading his question with one of your own. “When did you make that?”

“Recently.” Hesitantly, he made his way to your side, like he wasn’t sure if he had a spot there anymore, but in typical Rafayel fashion, he took it anyway. “I’ve had time on my hands.”

“How?”

“I haven’t been modelling that much lately. Thomas is just about fed up with me.” His attempt at levity wasn’t lost on you. You were quite aware of his absence from the spotlight as of late, but something nagged at the back of your mind, telling you that you had a piece of the puzzle missing. 

Then it hit you as your eyes swept to him, once again succumbing to the gravitational pull he possessed. “But what about Dubois Designs?"

He slipped his hands into his pockets, not meeting your eyes. “They sent over a contract.” He admitted, clearing his throat. “But I may have thrown it out.”

“Why?” It felt like all you were doing was asking questions you already knew the answers to. Rafayel clicked his tongue in a mixture of mild annoyance and something else, something you couldn’t quite pinpoint, giving you a knowing look.

“You know why.”

Fuck. Both of you, stubborn, impossibly prideful people, holding each other back because of each other. It was almost laughable. Swallowing thickly, you shifted closer to him, your gaze darting back to his depiction of you. “It’s a beautiful painting.”

“Yeah, well, you can thank my muse for that.”

You were breathless. “I’m your muse?” Another question lay under this one: Do you still love me?

“If that’s okay with you,” His eyes never strayed from you, watching you like you were the very essence of the sun itself, or the most perfect pearl in the ocean. “I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t want to be. I may have given it a bad rep.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, facing him properly now that you had finally worked up the nerve. “You’ve made me a fool, Qi Rafayel.” 

Fondness sweeter than the ripest of peaches spread over his face. “No one could ever make you a fool, Y/n. Especially not me.” He took a tentative step forward into your personal space, and you never wanted him to leave again. “So I’ll ask you again, why are you here?” 

There were a few things in this shallow, pretentious world you were certain of. Your faith in your abilities as a designer was the first, knowing that no matter what, your skills and talent would always speak for themselves more than your words ever could. The second was your preference for coffee that was piping hot, without sugar, so that the bitterness would shock your system into functioning. 

And the third, in a sick, unfortunately fortunate twist of fate, was Qi Rafayel, the model who had traipsed into your life without so much as a warning and had turned it upside down. 

“Because you’re still my muse.” You whispered. “And as it so happens, I love you too.”

When your lips met, you knew right then and there that you’d never let him go again. Your palm cupped his face as you pulled him closer, reaquainting yourself with the feel of him against you, how the two of you fit together so perfectly as if you were made for each other. One of his hands slipped around your waist, the other coming to rest over your own over his face, keeping it trapped there as he leaned into your touch, whispering I love you’s back. 

“I’m going to fuck up,” Rafayel mumbled against your mouth, resting his forehead against yours like he couldn’t bear to be any further from you. “I’m going to piss you off and I’m never going to be easy.”

You squeezed his forearm. “I know. Those are your most endearing qualities.”

“Will you love me even then?” He held you close, but you could feel the slight tremble in his touch. You saw him for what he was under all that indifference and chutzpah: a man who desperately loved you through his fear. Lucky for him, you were a woman who loved him through his mistakes and all the madness he brought into your life. 

“Rafayel.” With a tender whisper of his name, you pressed your lips to his reassuringly. “I love you because of it.”

Love was messy and imperfect, but so were the two of you. Neither he nor you were easy people, but when had you ever taken the easy way out of something? You wouldn’t mind never getting out of this, content to stay with him for as long as he’d have you.  The colours rushed back into your life, starting with the pinks and blues of his eyes as they crinkled with a smile. He’d break every one of your rules with a smile, and you’d let him.

“God, you’re going to regret that.”

But he was laughing, and so were you, giddy with the thought of a future with him. The sound of his laughter was so enchanting that you wanted to memorise it, and perhaps now you could, with him by your side for what you hoped would be a beginning without an end. 

You were wholly and irrevocably in love with Qi Rafayel, infuriating quirks and all. Everyone in the industry that the two of you ruled might have thought of him as a total nightmare. 

But to you? To you, Rafayel was a dream.

fin.

[siriuslylantsov]

spencer starts trying to tone down his rambling in the workplace in efforts to look more professional

but he can't just not go down a rabbithole when he starts thinking

so he starts sending you voicemails whenever he feels the urge to start chattering

literally 3-5 minutes of a windy did you know ramble

then it's see you tonight :) and he hangs up

“hey, angel.” 

his voice rings out through your phone's speaker. you can almost see him as he speaks–his hand shielding the mic to eliminate any external noise while he frantically explains whatever's on his mind today.

you set your phone up nearby, turning the volume up enough so you can hear it while you go about your menial tasks of brushing your teeth and making the bed.

you opt for his voice instead of your playlist during your commute to work—softer now, a quiet murmur through your headphones. you can hear the hum of the jet, the muffled conversation from his team, followed by a sharp reid that brings his ramblings to a screeching halt, promising to continue in the next one. (he does, picking up exactly where he left off.)

the messages accumulate throughout the day, filling your inbox. you should be more worried about the capacity and the possibility that you might miss messages from other people, but he's the only one who ever leaves you any. who even uses voicemail anymore?

they become your personal podcast, taking up far too much storage on your phone. you’ve saved every single one. they help when he's away and you miss him. you replay them more than you’d like to admit–you’ve nearly got them all memorised.

[glowettee]

✧ the elle woods study method: mindset makeover & foundation building ✧

hey lovelies! 💗

omg, i'm literally bursting with excitement to start this transformative series with you all! we're going to dive deep into actually studying like elle woods, and all her study methods. it's going to change your academic life. (while keeping you fabulous, obviously!)

let's start with the most crucial element - the elle woods mindset. you know how elle went from being underestimated at harvard to graduating with honors? that transformation began in her mind, and that's exactly where we're starting too!

the core principles of the elle woods mindset (get ready to take notes!):

unwavering self-belief: elle's iconic "what, like it's hard?" attitude wasn't just cute - it was crucial

authenticity as your superpower: your unique perspective is your strength

resilience through positivity: turning every "you can't" into "watch me"

strategic determination: working smarter, not just harder

maintaining your essence: success shouldn't mean losing yourself

let me break down how to actually build this mindset (because theory without practice is like a perfect outfit without accessories - incomplete!):

mindset foundation building: • start a daily confidence journal (pink, obviously!) • write three daily affirmations • document your wins, no matter how small • reflect on challenges and how you overcame them

goal setting the elle way: • dream big (harvard law big!) • break down major goals into mini-milestones • create realistic timelines • identify potential obstacles and plan solutions • celebrate every achievement (even the tiny ones!)

your personal success toolkit: • a dedicated study planner (color-coded, elle would approve) • positive affirmation cards • vision board (mix academic and personal goals) • progress tracking system • reward system for reaching milestones

practical assignments for this week:

yes, i'm giving you all homework, because what's a lesson without doing homework? <3

mindset makeover tasks: • create your confidence corner (a designated study space that makes you feel powerful) • write your personal academic manifesto • identify and challenge three limiting beliefs • create a morning power routine

organization prep: • get your study essentials (cute but functional!) • set up your planning system • create a semester overview • design your ideal weekly schedule

community building: • find your study buddies (your personal warner hunting club, but for academics!) • join study groups • set up accountability partnerships • create a support system

elle's journey wasn't about memorizing legal terms - it was about believing she belonged in those hallowed halls while wearing her signature pink. you deserve to feel that same confidence in your academic journey. <3

advanced tips for the overachievers (because why not be extra?):

record yourself giving pep talks for tough days

create a study aesthetic that energizes you

develop personal success rituals

build a playlist that makes you feel powerful

photograph your progress for motivation

coming up in this series:

time management secrets

memory techniques that actually work

note-taking methods that slay

exam preparation strategies

self-care routines for academic success

group study dynamics

presentation skills

stress management

celebration strategies

and more of course <3

remember: elle woods didn't just survive harvard - she thrived while being unapologetically herself. that's our goal too! you're not just going to study better; you're going to build an academic approach that celebrates who you are.

homework time (but make it fun):

create your academic vision board

write your semester goals

design your ideal study schedule

set up your success tracking system

prepare your study space

xoxo, mindy

p.s. don't forget to reblog and follow for the complete series! we're building our own little academic sorority here! <3

[97linelover]

Coming back to you - Jeon Jungkook

summary: you loved him while he was away, you loved him from far away. And now hes finally back.

Being in a secret relationship with Jungkook as his Make up Artist is not that easy, especially when you´re just waiting for his return.

pairing: idol jungkook x reader

genre: love, return from the military, cute, they´re just so in love

author's note: how can the time already be over? I´m so happy. I wrote this, this morning so don´t be to harsh on me :D

The BigHit building buzzed with quiet excitement, a kind of electricity in the air that only came when something huge was about to happen. Tomorrow wasn’t just another day—it was the day.

After what felt like an eternity, Jungkook and Jimin were finally being discharged from the military.

And you? You had the most important job of all.

Not only had you been BTS’s trusted makeup artist for the past few years—working with them through albums, concerts, and chaotic shoots—but you were also Jungkook’s secret.

Your secret relationship with him had started quietly, somewhere between powder brushes and soft eye contact in mirror reflections. Late-night texts turned into long walks. And before you knew it, he was yours, and you were his.

But today, there was no time to be sentimental.

“Y/N, do you have the list?” Namjoon called out from across the practice room, balancing a clipboard in one hand and holding a streamer in the other.

“Yeah, I’ve got it!” you answered, double-checking your notes. “And I picked up the cake this morning from that bakery Jungkook loves. Banana-flavored, right?”

Hoseok grinned, walking past with a handful of balloons. “You’re seriously amazing. He’s going to cry.”

“I hope not,” you laughed. “His contact lenses won’t survive that.”

Taehyung entered the room next, lugging a giant cardboard box full of decorations. “I got the banner! And the photo wall materials. Should we do it next to the window, or—?”

“Let’s set it up where the lighting’s better,” you said, already heading to help him. “You know how picky Jimin is about pictures.”

As the others moved around you, hanging garlands and preparing the playlist, you quietly checked off tasks in your head.

✅ Cake

✅ Drinks

✅ Decorations

✅ Playlist

✅ Gifts

Oh—and Jimin’s bag. You had picked it up for him, along with his uniform accessories. You made sure everything was perfectly folded, tucked into a duffel by the door, ready for tomorrow morning.

You paused, brushing a bit of glitter off your sleeve, glancing toward the small gift you hadn’t dared show the others. A small silver bracelet with Jungkook’s enlistment date engraved on it… and yours, next to his, in smaller print. You’d worn it every day since he left. Tomorrow, you’d finally give it to him.

You exhaled slowly, a soft smile pulling at your lips.

It didn’t feel real yet. But tomorrow, he’d walk through that door. The wait would finally be over.

And no one—not even the fans—knew the truth behind your excitement.

Tomorrow, the world would see BTS’s Golden Maknae return.

But only you would see the man you loved come home.

The HYBE building had never felt like this before.

There was always movement—staff hurrying, stylists adjusting lighting, choreographers shouting counts from practice rooms—but today was different. Today, it felt like a storm was brewing.

The Golden Maknae and the angel-voiced Park Jimin were coming home.

And you? You were right in the eye of the storm.

“Y/N, where are the black ribbons? They were in Box B!” someone shouted behind you.

“Box B is in Studio 3!” you called back, clutching two cups of coffee, a checklist, and a roll of tape in your other hand.

You hadn’t slept much last night. Honestly, you hadn’t really slept well in months.

Because even though Jimin was like a little brother to you, this wasn’t just about BTS returning to full strength.

It was him.

Jungkook.

You hadn’t seen him in person for months. Sure, you exchanged the occasional encrypted text. . A grainy selfie with his buzzed hair and sleepy eyes.

But nothing beat standing in front of him, close enough to hear the way he said your name like it meant more than just three letters.

Only the members knew. RM had found out first—he always did—and eventually, the others caught on. It had been unspoken between you all: protect this secret at all costs. Dating an idol as staff wasn’t just frowned upon. It was forbidden. A one-way ticket out the door.

But the moment Jungkook told you he was willing to wait, you knew you’d do the same.

And now… that wait was finally over.

“Y/N!” Taehyung’s deep voice pulled you back. He was standing at the entrance of the practice room, holding up his phone. “They just arrived. They’re on their way here!”

A chorus of reactions erupted.

“Ten minutes?!”

“Did someone check the microphones?!”

“Where’s Jimin’s jacket?!”

You were already moving—handing over coffees, adjusting decorations, shoving Jungkook’s duffel bag just slightly to the left so it would be the first thing he saw. Your heart was racing in your chest, matching the rhythm of footsteps echoing through the building.

Only minutes now.

You felt Seokjin gently nudge your shoulder as he passed. “You okay?” he asked, voice low, careful.

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “I will be. When I see him.”

Hoseok smiled knowingly. “You’re glowing. He’s going to lose his mind.”

Suddenly, the building’s atmosphere shifted.

The elevator dinged.

Silence fell like a heavy blanket.

And then: footsteps.

You stepped back, breath held, heart hammering, eyes locked on the hallway outside the studio.

The door opened.

Jimin entered first, smiling wide, dressed in his military uniform, looking tired but happy. He opened his arms, greeting everyone like the prince he was.

And then came him.

Jungkook.

Hair slightly longer now, military cap in hand, uniform perfect. His eyes scanned the room—and when they landed on you, the world stopped.

For a split second, the chaos faded. The balloons, the cake, the flash of cameras, the staff whispering—all of it disappeared.

You didn’t speak.

You didn’t have to.

His eyes softened, just a little. The corner of his mouth lifted. That tiny look only you ever saw.

He was home.

His scent hit you before anything else. That warm, clean smell mixed with something distinctly him—even after such a long time.

Jungkook made his way through the room, hugging each staff member, bowing deeply, thanking them one after one. His smile was beaming, but his eyes were tired.

You stood near the back, pretending to adjust a mic cable that absolutely didn’t need adjusting.

Don’t shake. Just breathe. Don’t look like a love-struck idiot.

He was two hugs away.

Then one.

And then—

“Y/N,” he said softly, and you turned just in time to see his arms open.

There was no time to think.

You stepped forward, and he pulled you in for a quick hug—shorter than the others, less obvious—but his hand lingered just a second longer on your lower back. His breath ghosted near your ear as he whispered, too quiet for anyone else to hear:

“I missed you.”

Your heart nearly stopped, but you smiled politely, nodded, and stepped back, eyes lowered. “Welcome back,” you said quietly, your voice way too calm for the storm inside you.

He gave nothing away, not even in his expression. Golden Maknae mode fully activated.

You tried to focus as Jimin waved everyone toward Studio A, where the livestream was set to begin in fifteen minutes.

“Let’s go!” Namjoon called. “We’ll run audio while they change jackets.”

Everyone moved in sync.

You stayed close, like always, clipboard in hand, headset in place, watching them through the control booth window as they sat down, fixing their collars and joking about how weird it felt to be out.

And Jungkook—he kept glancing at the glass. At you.

You stood behind the main camera now, pretending to go over notes with the lighting team.

But you weren’t fooling anyone—especially not yourself.

Your whole body buzzed. You were giddy, jittery, anxious, overwhelmed.

He’s here. He’s actually here.

The way he had looked at you—the softness, the heat, the unspoken history between you—none of it had faded. It was all still there, hiding in his glances, in the calm stillness of how he carried himself.

And god, you wanted to run to him. Just for five minutes. Just to say everything you weren’t allowed to say.

But now?

Now, he was BTS’s Jungkook again. And you were just the staff.

So, you did what you always did: you kept working.

Even if your fingers shook.

Even if your cheeks burned.

Even if your heart was screaming his name.

The studio lights were warm and bright, casting that perfect glow on Jimin and Jungkook as the livestream began.

They looked… different. Grown. Sharper. Stronger.

But their laughter was still the same—soft, contagious, filled with inside jokes and memories you could only imagine from the past 18 months.

Jimin leaned forward, eyes sparkling as he teased Jungkook about almost crying during their farewell ceremony.

“Ya! I didn’t cry,” Jungkook argued, his voice deep, playful. “It was allergies.”

“Sure it was,” Jimin smirked, nudging him. “Military dust, right?”

The staff chuckled behind the cameras. You stood to the side, arms crossed tightly over your chest, pretending to check your phone. But really, you were just watching him.

Every smile.

Every gesture.

Every time his tongue peeked out as he laughed, or when he tucked his hair behind his ear—things you used to see up close, in quiet hotel rooms and stolen moments.

It was torture and comfort all at once.

And you didn’t even notice you were staring until someone cleared their throat beside you.

Namjoon.

He didn’t say anything—just raised his brows with a knowing smirk. His arms were crossed too, and his eyes flicked between you and Jungkook before returning to you.

You blinked, flustered. “What?”

Namjoon leaned a little closer, lowering his voice so no one else would hear. “Your face is giving you away.”

You felt your cheeks heat instantly. “I’m just—monitoring. You know. Makeup, lighting…”

“Mhm,” he hummed. “Very professional.”

You elbowed him gently, half-laughing, half-dying inside. “Shut up.”

Namjoon smiled wider but backed off with a small shrug, as if to say, I won’t tell… this time.

You needed to breathe.

“I’ll be right back,” you mumbled, already stepping away. “Bathroom.”

Namjoon didn’t stop you—he just nodded knowingly as you slipped out of the room, your heart pounding in your ears.

Once in the hallway, you leaned back against the wall, closing your eyes.

You had handled months of separation. You had handled secrets and silence and waiting.

But handling him, in the same building again, so close and yet so untouchable?

That was something else entirely.

The hallway was quiet.

Too quiet compared to the buzz of the studio. Your heart was still racing, your skin still warm from the way Namjoon had looked at you like he knew. Like they all knew. Like he was just waiting for you to break.

You weren’t sure how long you’d been out here. A few minutes? Maybe more. The voices and laughter from the livestream had faded behind closed doors, and your own thoughts had taken over.

He’s here.

He’s safe.

He’s right there.

And yet—you couldn’t touch him.

Not really. Not yet.

You exhaled slowly, about to head back inside when—

Footsteps.

Heavy boots, confident steps. You knew them instantly.

You didn’t have to look to know it was him.

Jungkook.

The moment your eyes met, the air shifted. The hallway suddenly felt too small. Too quiet. Too full.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you like he was making sure you were real. His uniform jacket hung open now, and his hair was slightly tousled from pulling off his mic.

And then—he smiled.

Not the public smile. Not the one from the livestream.

This one was just for you.

“You ran away,” he said softly, voice rough from laughter and emotion.

You smiled back, heart thudding so hard it hurt. “Maybe.”

He took a few steps closer, then stopped—checking the hallway quickly, like old habits kicking in. Still cautious, still hiding.

But when he was sure no one was around, he reached for you.

You didn’t hesitate.

You crossed the last step between you and wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his chest as he held you tight—so tight like he was afraid to let go.

God, he felt solid. Warm. Real. Like every second of waiting had finally led here.

“I missed you so much,” you whispered against his shirt, your voice barely holding steady.

His hand slid up your back, resting gently at the nape of your neck. “I thought about you every damn day,” he said, low and rough. “Every day, Y/N.”

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look up at him. His eyes searched yours, and you knew—he wanted to kiss you.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Not here.

So instead, he pressed his forehead against yours, eyes fluttering closed. “I’m home now,” he breathed. “We made it.”

You nodded, tears pricking behind your eyes. “Yeah. We did.”

And in that quiet, stolen moment—hidden between the walls of the company that wouldn’t approve of any of this—you finally breathed again.

Together.

The livestream had ended with cheers and laughter. Staff clapped, cameras powered down, and the room buzzed with post-shoot energy.

Jungkook and Jimin were surrounded by staff, all offering congratulations, handshakes, pats on the back. They took it all with grace, but their eyes were tired—especially Jungkook’s.

You stood off to the side again, pretending to review the footage on a monitor while your heart pulled in two different directions.

He was right there.

But you couldn’t go with him.

“Let’s go eat!” Taehyung called suddenly, grinning and throwing an arm around Jimin. “Gopchang and soju, my treat!”

“Ya, your treat?” Seokjin scoffed. “We’ll be waiting until next payday.”

Jimin laughed, tossing his cap onto a table. “I’m in. I want fried chicken and kimchi stew.”

Namjoon turned to Jungkook. “You coming?”

Jungkook looked up, glancing instinctively in your direction.

He didn’t say anything out loud. He didn’t have to.

The way his eyes softened, the tiniest flicker of disappointment flashing behind his expression—it was enough.

You gave him a small smile, one you hoped said I’m okay. Don’t worry.

Then you turned to the others, keeping your voice light.

“I’ll stay behind and help with cleanup. You guys go ahead.”

Jungkook opened his mouth like he wanted to say something. Maybe to argue. Maybe to ask you to come anyway. But he didn’t.

He just nodded slowly and picked up his jacket.

That moment burned a little. You wanted to go. God, you wanted to sit beside him at the table, hear him laugh, feel his knee brush yours under the table like before. But that wasn’t your place. Not publicly.

Then—

“Wait,” Jimin said, suddenly pausing at the doorway. He turned to Jungkook, then to you, then back to the group. “You all go. Jungkook and I will meet you later.”

Taehyung blinked. “Huh? Why?”

Jimin just shrugged with a sly little smile. “I forgot my bag. And I need to stop by Y/N’s place to grab some stuff.”

He looked at you. “You’re going home, right?”

You caught the look in his eyes. The message behind the casual tone.

He was giving you a way out. A cover.

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’m heading back now.”

“Perfect,” Jimin said, already nudging Jungkook. “We’ll meet at her place first. I’ll bring chicken. And beer.”

There was a moment of pause before Seokjin narrowed his eyes. “You two are suspicious.”

“We’re tired,” Jimin said dramatically, already ushering Jungkook away. “Let us rest first. Then we party.”

Namjoon laughed. “Fine, fine. But don’t take too long. And don’t fall asleep!”

As the others disappeared down the hallway, you and Jungkook fell into step behind Jimin.

Your fingers brushed for just a second.

And for the first time in forever, you didn’t have to pull away

Jimin was true to his word.

He showed up at your apartment 30 minutes later, arms full of takeout bags and a six-pack of cold beer. Jungkook trailed behind him, freshly showered, in a hoodie and sweats—but he may as well have walked in wearing a crown for how your heart reacted.

The apartment filled with warmth and laughter. You ate on the floor around your coffee table, beer cans opening one by one as Jimin told story after story from their time in the military.

Jungkook didn’t say much—he was too busy watching you. Every glance. Every smile. Every time you laughed a little too loud at Jimin’s jokes, his eyes flicked over to you like he was memorizing it.

And you felt it too.

That magnetic pull between you. The silent countdown behind every look. The we’re not alone yet tension curling in your stomach.

Jimin leaned back eventually, yawning loudly. “Alright,” he groaned, stretching. “My social battery’s gone. I’m heading out before I pass out on your floor.”

“You sure?” you asked, even though your heart was racing.

“Oh, I’m sure,” Jimin said with a knowing look. “You two probably need some… catching up time.”

Jungkook threw a pillow at him, laughing. “Hyung!”

Jimin dodged it, grinning as he grabbed his jacket. “Just lock the door behind me. And don’t be loud.” He winked. “Your neighbors probably like their sleep.”

You flushed. Jungkook groaned.

And then the door clicked shut.

Silence.

Just you and him.

The second the lock slid into place, you turned—and Jungkook was already there, closing the distance between you in two long strides. His hands were on your waist, pulling you in, and then—

You kissed him.

Hard. Desperate. Months of distance crashing into one kiss that felt like breathing again after being underwater too long.

He groaned against your mouth, his hands slipping under your shirt, warm and searching. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently, and he pressed you back until your spine hit the wall.

“I thought I’d go insane without you,” he murmured, lips brushing against your jaw, your neck, your collarbone.

“You did,” you whispered back, tugging his hoodie off, breathless. “We both did.”

His mouth was on yours again in a second, hungrier now, like he couldn’t get enough. And you didn’t care. Not about the job. Not about the rules. Not about tomorrow.

Just this.

Just him.

Home.

The moment your back hit the wall, it was like a dam broke.

All those months apart — every aching night, every word unsaid, every kiss only imagined — crashed down in the space between heartbeats. Jungkook kissed you like he was starved, like he couldn’t decide where to touch first because he wanted all of you at once.

His hands were everywhere — your waist, your back, the slope of your neck. You pulled him closer, needing him closer, clinging to him like the last thread of something sacred.

“Bedroom,” you breathed between kisses.

He nodded once, jaw clenched, eyes dark with need.

You barely made it.

Clothes disappeared in a rush — hoodie over his head, your shirt peeled off, jeans undone with fumbling hands and impatient mouths. He paused only once, looking down at you like he was seeing you for the first time again.

“God,” he whispered, fingers brushing over your bare skin like he was afraid you’d vanish. “You’re real. You’re here.”

You nodded, heart pounding so loud you could feel it in your throat. “I waited for you.”

“I know.” His voice cracked, just a little. “I’ll make up for it.”

And he did.

Jungkook took his time — worshipped every inch of you like a man trying to memorize a dream. His mouth left a trail of fire down your neck, your chest, the dip of your waist. He moved like he knew your body — where to touch, where to kiss, how to pull that soft gasp from your lips that drove him crazy.

His skin was warm against yours, hard muscle meeting soft curves, and every second was filled with whispered confessions between tangled sheets:

“I missed this.”

“I missed you.”

“You’re mine.”

“You always have been.”

And when he finally sank into you, it wasn’t just physical — it was everything. A reunion. A release. A promise.

Your bodies moved in sync, slow at first, deep, unhurried. Like time had stopped just for you two. Like the whole world had faded except this one room, this one night, this one love.

“Say my name,” he murmured against your skin, breath hot and ragged.

“Jungkook,” you moaned, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Please—don’t stop.”

“Never,” he growled, moving faster now, lips capturing yours again. “I’m not letting you go again. Not now. Not ever.”

And when you both finally shattered — together, breathless and trembling, your bodies slick with sweat and love and months of longing — he held you.

Tight. Close. Like he still didn’t fully believe it was real.

And in that silence after, the only sound was his heartbeat beneath your ear, fast and steady.

“Mine,” he whispered again, kissing your temple. “All mine.”

You didn’t answer.

You didn’t need to

You woke to warmth.

Not just the kind that came from sunlight pouring through the thin curtains — but the kind that came from him. Skin against skin, tangled limbs beneath your blanket, the slow, steady rhythm of his breath against the back of your neck.

Jungkook.

His arm was wrapped tightly around your waist, bare chest pressed to your back, his leg hooked lazily over yours. You could feel the slight rise and fall of his body, his heart beating softly behind you.

For a moment, you just lay there. Eyes closed, lips parted in a sleepy smile, memorizing the feeling of his body against yours again. It was quiet. Still. Like the world had pressed pause.

And then you felt him shift — just slightly — and his lips brushed the top of your shoulder.

“You’re awake,” he whispered, voice low and raspy from sleep.

“Mmm,” you hummed, turning your face toward him. “Barely.”

He smiled into your skin, nosing gently against your neck. “Good. I didn’t want to wake up alone.”

You rolled over slowly to face him. His hair was a mess, falling into his eyes. His face was soft, eyes still heavy with sleep. And god, he looked so good like this — vulnerable, real, yours.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” you said softly, brushing your fingers along his jaw.

He caught your hand and kissed your knuckles. “I’ve never slept so well in my life.”

You laughed a little, pulling the blanket higher. “Probably because you’re not being yelled at by a sergeant anymore.”

“True,” he said, grinning. “Also helps that I’ve got the best pillow now.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m yours.”

The words hit you straight in the chest.

And then he leaned in and kissed you — slow, sleepy, warm — the kind of kiss that tasted like comfort and home and everything you’d missed. His fingers brushed along your thigh, but there was no urgency now, no rush.

Just closeness.

You pulled back, barely, your noses still touching. “Do we have to get up?”

“Eventually,” he said. “But not yet.”

You nestled back into his chest, eyes fluttering shut again. “Okay. Just a few more minutes.”

He tightened his arms around you, voice barely audible as he kissed your hair. “Take all the time you want, baby. I’m not going anywhere.”

So our babys are nearly 7 again, it´s unreal how fast the time had passed.

[girlfromflor]

SUPERSOLDIERS | MASTERLIST | main masterlist

pairing: supersoldiers!141 x f!reader | spotify playlist

summary: years after machine soldiers where proven incapable of completing certain tasks because of their lack of purpose, human soldiers are reinserted on field. only, now they have to be experimented on in order to improve their performance.

"[...] although, a rumor that certain soldiers were kept somewhere far away from the city's edges – bordering wild life – started being more and more heard by you as you made your way through military life – two years was enough for you to come across all types of stories. they had too many years of training and became an extension of nature itself – faster, stronger and more willing to be protective towards the things they tend for."

warnings: swearing, barely any angst, smut (marked with *), overall just lots of fluff

wc: 24.087

part 1

part 2

part 3

part 4

part 5

part 6 (*)

part 7 (*)

part 8

part 9 (*)

part 10 (end)

[awrkive]

THE LOVE PROGNOSIS, pt. 2 — JJK (m.)

for as long as you can remember, you’ve always been a hopeless romantic.

the girl who’s always dreamt of cheesy encounters with her soulmate, grand love declarations, and a cute little beach wedding to boot. but reality pretty much slaps you hard right on the face, because love, unfortunately, doesn’t come grand — it’s simple and it’s quiet, but it is quite painful, especially when the love that you’ve been seeking for all your adult life has just been right under your nose all this time.

PAIRING jungkook x female reader // mingyu x female reader

GENRE r18+ (angst, fluff, smut) MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!

CHAPTER WORD COUNT 27.5k

CHAPTER WARNINGS/MISC medical!au, roommates!au, surgeon!jk, surgeon!reader (they are both 4th year residents and are co-workers), corporate lawyer!mingyu, oc and jk are bffs since med school but their love language is fighting each other <3, jk and mingyu are bffs during undergrad, hopeless romantic!oc. shirtless jk in almost every scene ijbol he needs to get locked up, jk thigh tattoo 😔 a dash of sexual themes (ie: making out, grinding) and violence, this is pretty much MED SCHOOL LORE GALORE bcs boy, was there so much history mentioned here, 3/4 of this is in jk pov, so ladies.... prepare yourselves 🤔so much fluff, and we counter that with not major but not minor either ANGST, so many conversations and dialogues in this one lol, this hopefully offers every answer youre looking for from part one, when ur done reading the chapter this is how the keyring looks like

NOTES hi!! this chapter was supposed to be longer but i was like.. fuck that 😭 its getting too long. anyway. hope u guys enjoy this one!! this is my most favorite thing ive ever written i think n im weirdly very proud of this one idk. scream into my inbox and the reply section if u have #thoughtss 😄😄 [ important: pls make sure to read the note below ]

[ TLP MOODBOARD ] // [ SPOTIFY PLAYLIST ]

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

You take your sweet time trying to right your wrongs.

After that day, you were the one to initiate a call with Mingyu which he answered thankfully (you were a little skeptical about him calling you that night). You went over to his place after your shift, apologizing to him for lying about your roommate situation. Admittedly, Mingyu still doesn’t seem to be wholly okay with it – but he doesn’t really say anything more about it. He kissed you better that night, his lips making you forget all about the stress that you’ve went through for the day, convincing you to stay over.

The night bled into two when he said he couldn’t let you go. Mingyu was persistent and you were unwilling to go in the first place. Partly because who didn’t want to spend more time with their significant other? But it’s also because of a certain someone that is no other than Jeon Jungkook.

Those two nights are going on four – which means that you’ve been avoiding Jungkook for the past three days now.

It doesn’t seem like a difficult task though because Jungkook seems to be doing the same. That was your hunch. He replies to you with dry-ass “okay”s when you text him about not going home because you’re staying at Mingyu’s. Nothing more, and nothing less.

Which is unusual of him. Sure, in your almost decade-long friendship, you’ve fought a bunch of times. But it usually gets resolved in a day or two. And Jungkook wasn’t ever cold like he is right now.

See, the regular Jungkook would find you anywhere on your floor at the hospital just to annoy you. When your time allows it, you eat together with your friends at lunch.

But now, he seems to always have something to do – which, okay, fair. He’s a surgeon, after all. But he doesn’t even spare you a glance whenever you two meet halfway in the hallways. Yesterday, you coincidentally scrubbed in together for the same surgery but he did not say a word to you other than, “Scalpel”.

The rest of your friends are already asking about it. Doyeon told you he had lunch with Jungkook this afternoon, but when she mentioned that maybe you were free to go with them, Jungkook suddenly had to look over a patient’s chart.

It’s not just a hunch anymore. He really is avoiding you.

And to be honest, you’re tired of the whole pussyfooting around. He’s being childish – and you’ll be the better person to come and talk to him about it. Granted, you’re three days late. But at least you’re doing it.

You texted Mingyu earlier this afternoon that you’re coming home to your apartment tonight. He was bummed about it, you could feel it through his message, nonetheless he replied saying he’ll miss you, which put a smile to your tired face from work.

When you went home from your shift at 9pm, Jungkook wasn’t anywhere in the house. Which was a shame – because you were planning to talk to him.

Well. Maybe you’d wait for him.

But it seemed like you underestimated your exhaustion for the day because as soon you finished showering, dressing yourself with your bed clothes which consists of comfortable flimsy camisole and panty shorts, you went straight to bed and passed out – forgetting about Jungkook.

It’s past 2 am when you feel yourself waking up from your deep slumber, stomach grumbling at the emptiness, and you realize you did not only forget about waiting for Jungkook but also about eating dinner.

Walking out of your room, you head straight to the kitchen where you immediately go to open the refrigerator to see if there’s something in it you can consume. There are boxes of Chinese food take-out which makes your eyes light up. When you open to smell them, it seems that they’re still new.

You deduce it must be Jungkook’s.

That gives you the predicament of whether you should eat it or not. You take you’re not exactly on good terms as of the moment – therefore you can’t eat his food. But you’re really hungry.

Throwing away your inhibitions, you open one of the boxes, not even bothering to heat the food.

“Hey,”

You almost jump upon hearing another voice. Looking to your side, you see Jungkook approaching, with only his boxers on, upper half naked.  

“H-hey,” you say, pursing your lips into a thin line. “Are these yours?” You point to the take-out box in your hand.

Jungkook nods and heads straight to your direction. Taking one of the boxes, he hauls himself to the kitchen island, twisting his body so that he can face you.

“Yep.” he responds, dipping his fingers inside the box and taking out strands of noodles from it.

You wince at the sight. “Look like worms.”

“Just like worms.” Jungkook grins, chewing on them in that obnoxious way because he knows you don’t like noisy eaters.

Frowning, you decide to follow him to the island and haul yourself on top of it as well, sitting beside him. Jungkook scoots to the side to give you more room.

“It’s kind of like eating naengmyeon, I don’t like naengmyeon.” You tell him, opening another box and feeling delighted to see untouched stir-fried rice. “Did you just buy this earlier?”

Jungkook nods. “Left them in the fridge when I realized I wasn’t too hungry.”

“Then you woke up feeling hungry?” You smile at him.

He chuckles. “Yeah. When did you get off work?”

“Nine. You?”

“Twelve am.”

You grimace at that, but nod in understanding.

There’s a beat of silence before Jungkook speaks up again.

“Didn’t expect to see you here tonight.”

“Just wanted to remind you I’m still your housemate…” you joke, brushing your elbow against his arm in a teasing manner.

Jungkook laughs as he shakes his head. He picks up another batch of noodles in his fingers and then offers it to you, prompting you to arch your brow at him. “Try it.”

You shake your head. “I hate cold noodles.”

“Just try,” He insists, placing it closer to your face. You scrunch your nose, skeptical. It makes Jungkook chuckle lowly. “Head back.”

Hesitantly, you tilt your head back and open your mouth as Jungkook puts the noodles inside it. You almost choke on it when Jungkook laughs mid-way, making you laugh as well, but thankfully, you were able to chew all of them just fine.

“What the fuck.” You frown, slapping his arm good-naturedly.

“Wasn’t so bad, huh?”

“It was bad.” You say, going back to eating your fried rice. Jungkook gives you a look that says he’s not convinced. Looking at his face, you roll your eyes, “It’s like eating–” you stop mid-sentence as Jungkook quickly wipes off something on the side of your lips. It’s so quick though that you brush it off just as instantly and continue, “—literal worms.”

“Imagine if worms tasted like noodles. Wouldn’t that be sick as hell?” Jungkook muses, stretching his arm over you to reach for another take-out box on the counter. It’s so sudden that your immediate reflex was to stretch your upper body backwards, feeling a little taken aback when Jungkook’s face gets a little too close to your stomach, with his arm rubbing over your bare thighs.

He seems like it doesn’t move him, though. Just goes back to his position casually and opens another box. As he does, you can’t help but take a quick look at his bulging thighs, the short length of his boxers letting you get a brief view of the tattoo that peeks out of the expanse of his skin. You’ve seen that before many times, but not the entirety – of course not. It looks like it goes up from way above. Anyway, it’s sort of like a flower, but you’re not sure. You never really asked him about it. He never brings it up either.

“Oh, man, the dumplings got cold.” Jungkook picks inside his box as if he’d miraculously find one that’s not cold.

You roll your eyes at his antics. “You stored them in the fridge for like how many hours now?”

Ignoring you, Jungkook takes out one dumpling, trying to eat it, and you watch as he visibly winces. In a moment, he shoots one straight to the trash bin across from you.

“Oh, that’s real mature.” You say dryly.

With that, Jungkook throws another one, giving you a cheeky grin when it lands in the bin successfully for the second time.

Pursing your lips, you sarcastically say, “Wow. Two points to Xavier from Jeon Jungkook.”

That makes Jungkook look at you instantly.

“How the hell do you know that?” He gives you a look of confusion but there’s amusement written all over his face at the same time.

“Well… Mingyu told me you both played for the basketball varsity team back in undergrad, so,”

Jungkook stops. There’s look of something in his eyes that you can’t quite point out, but then suddenly, he nods.

“He told you how good I was?” He says with a teasing tone, a contrast to his sudden and quick drop of mood a few seconds ago.

You throw him a tissue. “Don’t be cocky. He just mentioned it.”

“I was captain. Two-time MOP, 2018 and 2019 NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament.”

You look at him with silent reverence. Well, Mingyu didn’t tell you all that, that’s for sure. It’s a bit surreal to picture Jungkook wearing a basketball uniform, though. You’re so used to seeing him in scrubs and lab gown and his usual casual, occasionally suits when you attend formal conferences. You’ve only ever seen him sweat it out whenever he works out in the living room.

“Impressive.” You say. Jungkook grins proudly. “It’s strange I only know about it now, though.”

“You never asked.” He shrugs. “What ‘bout you? I only know you’re little miss summa cum laude.”

Huffing, you jab at his arm when he mentions it, rolling your eyes at him which only earns you a chuckle. Regardless, you tell him, “2018 NCA College Nationals. We won Coed Division One.”

Jungkook arches a brow. “NCA… National Cheerleading Association?” You nod, eating from your take-out box so as to avoid Jungkook’s look after you do so.

“No fucking way,” He says incredulously. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” You bite your lip to keep yourself from smiling too much. You never really get to share this part about you with a lot of people. To quote Jungkook, they never ask. It’s funny when they do get surprised by it though, like he is now. When Jungkook stares at you – you don’t know if it’s just in disbelief – longer than necessary, you realize he’s staring at your face and that makes you consciously fix a strand of hair behind your ear. “Go big blue, go big blue, show ‘em what wildcats can do.” You sing a in fast tempo, chuckling about how silly it sounds.

Jungkook utters a sound of amusement. “That’s… wow. Right now, I’m just picturing you cheering but it’s a bit hazy and shit.”

“You’re saying you can’t picture me cheering?” You playfully accuse, but you know exactly what he meant. Even you still don’t believe that you actually did cheer in undergrad. When you signed up for it, it was just because you had to choose a club, and you weren’t interested in anything other than that. You thought cheering would be fun and it was fun.

“No, I’m just—” Jungkook cuts himself off and looks at you. “Okay, now I totally deserve a cheer for that two-point shot I made just now.”

You laugh loudly at that. Covering your mouth, you look at him to see if he’s joking but he seems to be serious.

“No.” You say, your eyes widening, body stiffening.

“Come on,” Jungkook chuckles.

You roll your eyes. “You have to do more than a two-point shot to get a cheer.”

“Okay, what do you want me to do?” Jungkook eagerly presents a challange. You stifle a laugh when he gears up for something. “I can shoot dumplings further from here with my left hand.”

“Ten feet away,” You muse, giggling when Jungkook suddenly gets off the counter, carrying the box of dumplings, and positions himself further away from you. Laughing, you shake your head before you say, “You can’t do it.”

“Try me.” He says as he begins to pick out a dumpling and concentrate on the trash can. Before he shoots, he tells you, “This one’s for you.”

You watch as the dumpling misses the bin.

Jungkook beats you to speaking first. “I admit. I’m a bit rusty.”

Sneering, you eat your fried rice, not straying your eyes from him. “You have to shoot, like, three dumplings.”

“That was a trial shot.” he insists, eyeing you playfully, before he gears up for another again. You watch closely when he makes a move to shoot another dumpling.

It goes in. Jungkook smirks at you when you look at him, impressed.

“Not bad.” You cock your head to the side.

“Tss.” He shoots another shot again and it’s successful for the second time. “That’s two.” Jungkook shows you his fingers and you chuckle at his enthusiasm.

“Let’s see if you can get the third.”

Jungkook nods, and you cover a snicker again at the way his stance suddenly turns serious, as if he’s really taking the whole thing seriously.

In a few seconds, he shoots the last dumpling straight to the bin just as successfully as the last time.

“What did I say?” Jungkook brags as he goes over to the island across from you, sitting on the high chairs this time. You turn your body to look at him, containing your smile. “Your turn now.” Jungkook says with a smirk.

Your purse your lips. “I’m a bit rusty.”

“So was I!” Jungkook claims which prompts a chuckle from you.

You look at him for a while, unsure. You close your eyes, bobbing your head side to side, covering your face as you suddenly feel a sense of embarrassment at the thought of dancing in front of him.

“Promise you won’t laugh?” You say after Jungkook tries to remove your hands off your face.

He raises his right hand and fixes his sitting posture upright. “Promise.”

“If you show your teeth I’ll stop and so will this friendship.” You threaten as you bring your legs over the island to his direction.

Jungkook chuckles while saying a series of “Yeah”s, holding your hand to help you hop off the counter safely.

You take a few quick strides to place yourself in the space between your counter and dining area and look at Jungkook who settles himself comfortably in the kitchen island chair, watching you with relaxed position and crossed arms.

Feeling uncharacteristically shy, you stand upright, suddenly aware that you’re only wearing a pair of panty shorts and a fitted camisole. You don’t work out so you’re a bit conscious in front of Jungkook who looks really good in his natural form. You don’t even understand how he finds time to go to the gym or do his little work-out sesh during some nights or weekends, but you shake away the thought and smile at him coyly. He has the better body, sure, but you know well enough he’ll never judge you for yours… besides, it’s just Jungkook. He makes you feel safe and secure, no matter the context of the situation.

Off the top of your head, you do whatever it is you remember from your college routines and begin your yell.

“Wildcats, get up and shout! We’re the team that’s gonna take it out! Give it all you’ve got, let’s hear you roar!” You chuckle mid-way, forgetting a step. “Sorry,” you apologize quickly, but then continue right away, trapping your bottom lip with your teeth to prevent yourself from completely losing it. “We’re the Wildcats, and we’re here to score! Go Big Blue! Go Big Blue—" You make a mistake again and skip a beat with your finger snaps, and when you look at Jungkook, you can’t help but give in to the laughter that’s been bubbling up inside you. “I can’t do it!” You say, cutting your “performance” short.

“What? It was good!” Jungkook says, encouraging you to continue further.

You stifle a laugh as you go back to the top again but then your mind forgets the next step and you’re messing up the choreography again. At that point, you start mindlessly cheering; jumping around and flapping your arms to make it look like somewhat of a cheer but none of the coordination. You know it looks messy, so you run over to Jungkook shamefully, plopping on the chair beside him. Bringing your legs up to the seat and covering your face in your thighs, you can’t help but giggle in embarrassment.

“Woah,” Jungkook says, but you can say there’s a hint of laughter in his tone. You know it’s not out of mockery when he lifts your head up and boop your nose. “That was cute. Best cheer I’ve ever seen.”

“You’re pushing it.” You hiss, kicking his knee slightly.

Jungkook captures your leg, and you squeal when he pinches your thigh. You both laugh at that and you thought Jungkook’s gonna let go of your leg but he keeps it on his lap.

“My stomach hurts from laughing.” You tell him, taking a deep breath, trying to regulate your heart. Everything feels funny. Your cheer was funny. You must’ve looked so stupid.

Jungkook chuckles. “Wildcats, get up and shout—”

“Jungkook!” You cut him off, removing your leg from his lap to kick him again on the thigh this time. That only prompts him to laugh louder.

When the high of the moment fades, Jungkook looks over at you.

“Do you feel sleepy?”

You shake your head. “Not really. At least not yet.”

He hums, and then takes your box of fried rice to eat from it.

There’s the silence again, but it’s quiet and comfortable. No weird tension sitting in the air.

“Jungkook,” You call him after a while.

“Hm.”

You clear your throat. “I meant to talk to you,” Jungkook stops eating and looks at you to acknowledge you. “I’m sorry.”

He stares at you for a moment. Then, he chuckles, shaking his head. “You know what’s funny? I was gonna talk to you yesterday to say I’m sorry but then you didn’t talk to me at all in the OR. I thought you were still mad at me.”

With furrowed brows, you tell him, “I thought you were mad at me. You only said “scalpel” in the OR and then that was it. No hi’s or hello’s in the hallways for the past three days.”

“Me? Mad at you?” He says, as if he can’t believe you would even think that. “I mean, you piss me off sometimes, but I don’t think I was ever mad at you.” You pout. Jungkook smiles. “I can never be mad at you,” His look is gentle and warm that you feel a little flustered for a reason unknown. It just ticks a little something in your brain, tugging something at your heart. Then, Jungkook sighs. “I’m sorry, too. For the way I went about it. The “bringing boys here” comment was out of line.”

There’s a wince on your face when you hear that.

That comment did hurt a little.

But you know it was just a heat-in-the-moment type of thing, and he just wasn’t able to think through his words well enough when he was… well, pissed – and rightfully so. Because you did something offensive to him, and you can’t blame him for feeling the way he felt.

You nod at Jungkook. “Thank you for saying that. I’m saying sorry because I realized what you said. I should’ve informed you I was bringing Mingyu home, and I should’ve told him about you being my roommate. We really could’ve avoided that situation.”

“You can just tell me beforehand if you’re bringing him to our place.” Jungkook shrugs.

You chuckle. “No. That won’t happen again.” And it’s true. It’s awkward and it’s rude when you have a roommate.

Jungkook looks at you. “Okay. I won’t do it as well,” You shake your head, playfully rolling your eyes at him. “I’m guessing you settled it pretty quickly with him?” He gestures at your neck and you realize he’s referring to the necklace you’re wearing – the one Mingyu gave you the very same day you fought.

You want to point out it’s not really new, but you settle with, “Yeah. Fortunately.” as a response.

“I really am sorry for what happened.” Jungkook says and you can feel the sincerity in his voice.

“It’s fine,” Touching his arm, you give him a small smile. “Have you and Mingyu talked?”

Jungkook shakes his head. Nibbling on your bottom lip, you think about how that’s… not good. They were friends before you and have just met each other again after so many years – you do not want to be that kind of person who gets in the way of some other people’s relationship.

And you really can’t have Jungkook not liking your boyfriend or your boyfriend not liking Jungkook, either.

But as much as you want to suggest that they talk it out, you know you can’t. Besides, you trust that they eventually will. They’re grown men.

“So…” you trail off. “Are we okay?”

Jungkook’s lips tilt upwards. “Are we okay?”

“Come on,” you roll your eyes. “Do we hug it out or like – I don’t know – handshake on it?”

“Let’s hug it out like we’re twelve.” Jungkook grins and in a moment, he scoots closer to you and wraps his arms around your waist, resting his head on your chest.

The angle is a bit awkward with Jungkook crouching too much you don’t doubt his position is anything but comfortable, but it works, and it gives you the opportunity to pat his head as you say, “I missed hanging out with you, buddy.”

“Can’t say the same thing.”

That earns him a slight pinch to the ear easily accessible to you.

“Ow!” Jungkook says and then add, “I hate to ruin the moment but… you’re not wearing a bra.”

You quickly grab both sides of his head to get him off your chest. He comes back sitting upright on his chair, laughing.

“Fuck off—” you flip him off and then look over your box of fried rice, but then you remember he was also eating it earlier. “You ate all of it!”

“Finders keepers.”

“I hate you.”

“Hm.”

You shake your head, standing up and starting to grab all the boxes to take them to the trash bin.

“By the way, I just got my approval from HR for our trip the next two weeks. Have you?” You ask him across the room. You can see Jungkook’s face light up at the mention.

“Yeah, of course. Got approved yesterday.” Jungkook grins. You watch as he stares at you a bit longer, his face showing a hint of confusion.

You arch a brow. “Why does your face look like that?” Jungkook shakes his head, obviously ready to dismiss it. But you’re persistent. “What is it?” You say, walking towards his direction and stopping in front of him.

“Nothing…” he trails off. Then he rubs the back of his head. “I just really thought that you…” You squint your eyes at him. Then he chuckles lightly and swipes his fingers through his hair. “I just thought the trip would be cancelled.”

Your eyebrows furrow. Frowning, you nudge at him. “What? Of course, not! We planned that trip like six months ago. I’m not backing out.”

Jungkook gives you a shy smile.

“Okay.”

You can’t help it. You bring your hands to his cheeks and pinch them.

“He’s so excited for his birthday trip!” You say, intentionally talking like you would to a toddler.

Jungkook predictably forces your hands out of his skin and holds your wrist a bit tight as he rolls his eyes at you.

“Knock it off.” He glares at you. But you’re not done with your fun, so you poke your finger to his waist, knowing that’s his weak spot, and tease him some more. “Seriously.” Jungkook huffs out and your laughter becomes louder because he looks like a grumpy child right now.

“Sorry.” you say, still giggling. He furrows his brows, and you can’t help it, you poke at his waist again. When you do it, though, Jungkook captures your wrist, effectively stopping another one of your juvenile assaults. Suddenly, you start noting the mirth in his eyes.

You’ve seen that look before and it always ends up with you almost dying from too much laughter because he always—

“You’re gonna regret that.”

You let out a squeal as Jungkook takes ahold of your waist, and before you can even voice out a protest, he easily hoists you up against his body, bouncing you up until you're hanging around his shoulder like a sack bag.

“What the hell, put me down, you prick!” You complain, slapping the rugged muscles on his back. But Jungkook just responds with a series of clicks of his tongue, carrying you across the living room.

You know he’s about to put you on the couch to tickle you to death, so you do what you could and bite down on the skin of his back.

“Ouch!” Jungkook immediately reacts, stumbling a little in his stride. You snort at that, but you immediately frown when you feel a slap to your ass.

“You asshole!”

“You just lowered your chances of being spared,” Was his last words before you feel yourself getting put down on the surface of the sofa. Soon after, Jungkook’s poking his fingers to your waist and stomach, prompting you to erupt in fits of giggles and laughter, thrashing beneath him like a caged animal.

“Pl—stop—oh my god!” You say, weakly reaching for his arms. When Jungkook doesn’t relent, you continue wriggling under him, laughing and choking, saying a variety of, “Stop! I’m —” giggle, “gonna—” then another snort, “—die!”

Jungkook chuckles. He torments you some more before finally stopping his fingers in their ministrations.

“You deserve that.” Jungkook says when you both came down from the high, laughing at the messy state of your hair and the way you try to catch your breath like you just ran a triathlon.

You breathe in and out deeply, clutching your stomach that still hurts from laughing.

“Fuck you.” You hiss, giving him the finger.

Jungkook bursts into laughter, and from his position in between your legs, he lets himself fall on top of you.

“Jungkook, no!” Pushing him off you, you try to get away from him but the goof just forces himself beside you instead, sticking his much bigger build in between you and the back of the couch. It makes you scoot near the edge as a result, and you hold onto his arm so that you don’t fall off, tangling your leg against his own for added support. Pinching his waist in which he lets out an ingenuine “Owe!” to, you face him as you say, “You are so annoying.”

Jungkook just gives you a shit-eating grin. “Who started it?”

“You almost killed me.” You say dryly.

“Don’t be dramatic.” He rolls his eyes.

Suddenly, you realize the position you are both in.

Your bare legs are intermingled against each other, Jungkook has one arm wrapped around your waist, and from the lack of clothes on both sides, you can feel pretty much everything.

There’s a weird feeling in the pit of your stomach upon the epiphany.

Jungkook’s looking at you with a playful grin, but as he notices you staring at him, he stills. From such close proximity, you can almost trace out the lines of his features. The scar on his cheek, the mole under his lip, and the pimple scar that was probably from a week ago. At that thought, you think about: if you can see him so close like this, he can also probably see you, and that’s when you break away from the contact.

“Shit.” You hiss as you let yourself fall off the floor by rolling around, away from his hold and touch and him in general.

Jungkook immediately scoots to the edge of the sofa to look down at you with confused eyes. “The hell?”

“Don’t worry,” you wave your hand at him.

He snorts. “Did you just fall?”

You roll your eyes. Of course, he’d think that. But you let him, standing up from the floor.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.”

You hear Jungkook’s boisterous laughter as you walk towards the kitchen again, stopping in front of the fridge to get some water.

“You’re going to bed now?” Asks Jungkook, following you to the fridge and mirroring your activity.

Nodding at his question, you peer from the rim of the glass as you answer, “Yeah, I don’t want to be sleeping at the hospital later.”

“Fair.”

Soon after, you both decided to clean up a bit in the kitchen and when you finished, you two headed towards the direction of your bedrooms. It’s located just near the kitchen, with the doors located beside each other.

When you turn the knob open to your own door, Jungkook calls you, catching your attention.

You arch a brow at him, waiting.

“Good night,” Jungkook says. You drop your kitted brows and smile. You’re about to greet him the same but then he adds, “Also– that was a really great cheer.”

“Ugh, Jungkook!”

You look across the bed to see Mingyu still on his laptop on his worktable, working on something. An hour and thirty minutes have passed since you arrived at his place, but you’re still not getting the least bit of attention from him.

You get it, it’s work, but he asked you to come over… isn’t it only fair to expect a little bit of something?

Getting up from the bed, you trudge over to his direction.

“Hi,” you say, ducking down to wrap your arms around his neck from the back of his swivel chair and kissing the spot below his ear.

“Hi,” Mingyu meets the kiss you give him on the lips. He reaches for your hands resting on top of chest and holds it there, looking at you. You delight at the hint of attention. “I’ll just be in a few minutes. You’re staying, right?”

You grin. “Of course.”

“Good.”

Rolling your eyes, you take your hands off him and stand upright once again. Mingyu rotates his chair so he can look at you with his undivided attention, voicing out a low whistle when he takes in your outfit – or lack of it thereof.

You arch a brow, knowing well he’s ogling you only in your bra and panties, squinting your eyes at him. Slowly, you glide your leg over his waist and plop yourself down on his lap, waiting for any protest from him. It doesn’t come, and so you give him a grin before planting your lips against his.

The kiss turns heated in a matter of seconds, with Mingyu squeezing over your bra and taking in your soft moans against his mouth, feeling the delicious roll of your hips against his crotch where you feel a semi growing already.  

“Sweetheart,” Mingyu grunts. When you don’t answer that, he cups your jaw, making you look at him. “__.”

“What?” You say, more like a whine, looking at him with hooded eyes. You’re starting to feel sticky in your underwear and you need him to do something about it.

“Not now, sweetheart. I told you, I’m working.”

You frown. There’s a beat of silence before you let out a sigh. “Okay.” You say, getting off his lap.

“I’ll take care of you when I’m done.” He promises, taking ahold of your wrist, looking up at you.

Pursing your lips, you look away. “It’s fine.” When Mingyu lets go, you look at the direction of the bathroom. “I’m gonna take a shower,” you tell him. “You’re free to join me if you want or whatever.”

You know he can’t and that he won’t.

“Alright.” Was the last thing you heard before you walked towards the bathroom door.

You’ve been over at his place too many times to count now, and you’re slowly building your shower essentials in his own bathroom. Your body wash, your face cream, your shampoo, your conditioner – even your moisturizer and your eye mask are already placed inside his bathroom cabinet.

As you step out of the shower box, all clean and fresh, you go over to the lavatory to brush your teeth. At the sight of both your cups sitting beside each other, you smile.

You look in the mirror – noting the way your lips can’t stop from curling up at the thoughts running inside your head.

Shaking them off, you grab Mingyu’s robe and put it over yourself, turning the knob around to step out of the bathroom.

You see Mingyu on his bed this time around, but his laptop’s still perched on his lap.

He looks up when he sees you. “Ready to sleep?”

You nod, feeling at home the way you automatically go towards his closet to pick out a shirt and some panties you left over the time.

As you’re in the process of dressing yourself, a phone’s ding rings in the room.

Looking at Mingyu, you watch as he checks his phone, assuming it came from him. When he puts it down, he looks at your plugged phone on the bedside table.

“What is it?” You ask, now properly dressed, walking to the bed.

You note the way Mingyu’s gaze changes as he hands you your phone.

“It’s Jungkook.” He says with a weirdly clipped tone. Then another ding comes. A beat, and then your phone rings.

Your brow shoots up, taking the device from him and checking it yourself.

Jungkook’s face is plastered over your screen – a picture of him wasted in his room two years ago, taken from your Thailand trip with the rest of your friends. He’s sleeping with his mouth open, shirtless in the middle of the hut, only covered up with his trunks. You remember setting it as his contact photo because it was funny back then. Jungkook hates the photo, and your friends always made fun of him for it.

Right now, though, it doesn’t feel the least bit funny. Not when Mingyu’s certainly saw it. Not when he looks a little put off as soon as he sees a glimpse of it when he was passing your phone to you.

“I’ll just answer this.” You say, standing from the bed again.

You don’t expect Mingyu to suddenly shoot you a question, “You can’t answer here?”

Brows knitting together, you give him an uncertain look. “It’s just Jungkook.”

“Yeah… so, why not here?”

You relent, seeing the point he’s trying to make. Plopping yourself on the bed again, you answer Jungkook’s call and put the phone over your ear.

“Jungkook,”

“__,” he sighs out your name, sounding relieved. “Thank fuck.”

“What’s wrong?” You ask, growing a bit concerned at his tone.

You can hear some shuffling from the other line as Jungkook tells you, “Did you see me with my pager in the locker room earlier?”

“Oh, uh… let me think…” you trail off, trying to remember the events earlier. As you do that, you notice Mingyu’s fingers trailing his hands to your bare legs, but you ignore it as you answer Jungkook, “I think I didn’t, yeah. I didn’t.” Jungkook hisses. “Did you check your car?” you ask, trying to help out.

“Already did. It’s not in there, either. I really think I accidentally threw it out in the bin along with some trash in my pockets.” He says, sounding a little distressed now.

“Well… you can always just go to the operator, you know? Get a new pager?” you offer. There’s a drop of kiss on your shoulder that makes you shudder, and you look at Mingyu with furrowed brows. He doesn’t say anything, though, just let his fingers trail upwards, his hand sliding under your shirt, gripping your thigh. Your boyfriend just gives you a sly smile, and you squint your eyes at him, confused at what he’s playing at. 

“I know. But, ugh, you know I lost two pagers already this year. Sungkyun hates me at this point—”

Jungkook’s answer suddenly drowns out when Mingyu grazes his thumb on your clothed clit.

“Oh.”

“—what?” Jungkook halts, asking about your abrupt reaction.

You bite your lip in an effort to shut yourself up, and when Mingyu’s hand makes another move again, your free hand shoots up to stop him.

“Hold on a second, Jungkook,” you say, quickly pressing mute.

Mingyu looks at you with a smirk, playful smile painting his face. “You know you can continue, right?”

At that, your brows furrow even further.

“What are you doing?” You didn’t mean to sound curt but with the way Mingyu’s expression changes, it may have sounded that way.

You… couldn’t help it.

“I wanted to touch you,” Mingyu tells you after a beat of awkward silence. Then, his hand retreats to himself. “Do you not want to?”

There’s guilt that springs up inside you when you see the look on his face as he says those words.

“No, I’m sorry— it’s just… I want to. I just… not with somebody on the phone?” You put it out like a question, unsure of yourself.

The room is quiet for awhile and suddenly there’s a thick tension that hangs in the air.

You reach out for Mingyu but then drop your hand to your sides when he moves to sit on the edge of the bed.

He turns his head to you with an unreadable expression on his face. “Is it because it’s Jungkook?”

You frown at his tone.

It sounded accusatory.

“Excuse me?” You say, taking immediate offense. When Mingyu shrugs, you feel a bit of annoyance bubble up inside you. “I would’ve still stopped you if it was anybody else on the phone, Mingyu.” you say, tone firm and leveled.

“I’m sorry, then.”

But he definitely doesn’t sound like it. His sarcasm makes you snap. “What’s up with you?”

Mingyu opens his mouth to say something but then he closes it again. You watch him with confused eyes, completely at loss of context where he’s at. The night was going fine as usual and suddenly, there’s this.

After a few seconds, Mingyu sighs. “What are you even talking about right now?” He glances at your phone.

“It’s—” you take a glance at it too. “It’s just his pager.”

“Pager?”

“Yes.”

“He asks you about his pager in the middle of the night, knowing full well you’re with me?”

“I—” you stop yourself, words suddenly getting lost in your tongue. Not because you don’t know the answer to his question, but because you hate the way he phrased it – and honestly, you’re starting to feel icky about how he’s going with it. What was he trying to do? Pin you down with accusatory notions?

You don’t fucking get it. Jungkook’s his friend. It’s so bizarre to even think about how Mingyu is seemingly acting jealous over his supposed friend.

“You know what?” You say instead, not wanting to discuss it further with him anymore. It’s just gonna lead to an unnecessary fight – and frankly, you don’t want to deal with his jealousy. It seems so… futile. “Can we just sleep this whole thing off?”

Mingyu looks at you and for the first time, his eyes don’t look gentle. He looks at you with a bit of a frown, and you get it. You do. You’re not exactly happy, either. Not right now, with the way he’s acting.

“Do you want me to go?” You ask, ready to step out of bed.

“I didn’t tell you to.” Mingyu says, voice equally strained.

You sigh. “What do you want me to do, Mingyu? Are you jealous, is that it?” You meant it to be completely rhetorical, not at all expecting him to say anything.

But he answers instantly. “What if I say I am?”

Your lips part. You’re surprised at the confirmation, but you shake your thoughts off it.

“Then it’s completely unnecessary,” you tell him, as genuine as you can sound. When Mingyu doesn’t move in his position on the edge of the bed, you crawl towards him. Testing the waters, you touch his arm to see if he would avoid your touch, but when you do rest your hand on his shoulder, he doesn’t stray. “I like you, Gyu.”

Cocking your head to the side, you watch as his face still sports a cold expression. But he says, “I like you too, you know that,”

“But…?” you try to get out the words from him, because you knew there’s more.

“I don’t want you to think I’m being irrational about this whole thing,” he starts, and you nod your head, trying to show him that you get it. Mingyu licks his lips before he continues, “I just… I guess I just want you to put boundaries around your friendship with Jeon.”

That makes you stop. Nevermind the strange way he called Jungkook by his surname.

“How do you mean by that?” You ask with furrowed brows.

“You’re just really close with him. And you live in one apartment together.” He points out.

“Mingyu…” you say, suddenly feeling tired all over again. “I thought we already talked about that.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m a hundred percent comfortable with it, you know?”

It feels like you got electrocuted by his words the way you quickly retreat your hands. “That’s…” you trail off, not really knowing what to say.

Thankfully, though, Mingyu interjects before you can slip into a dilemma.

“I know, I know about why you’re living with him and all that stuff. We talked about it. It’s just…” he reaches for your hand. Entangling your fingers together, Mingyu brings your knuckles to his lips and presses a kiss there. “I want you all the time. And I guess I really am just jealous – even though it’s juvenile. I’m jealous that he’s known you far longer than me.”

“But— I’m here thrice a week. I make time for the both of us. And it doesn’t really matter how long you’ve known me for, Gyu,” you respond truthfully.

He nods.

“I’m sorry.”

You shake your head. “No, I’m sorry. I guess I just— I got in way over my head that I also forgot to take your feelings into account,”

Mingyu smiles, and there goes his soft gentle expression again.

“I know. It’s fine. You don’t have anything to be sorry about. It’s me who’s being unreasonable.”

“No, it’s not unreasonable,” you tell him. “I get it. Boundaries, Mingyu. I know what you’re talking about.”

Mingyu scooches closer and presses a sweet kiss to your lips. You gladly bask in it, smiling against his lips, keeping your gentle gaze towards him as he breaks away.

“I’m sorry for being a bummer.”

You kiss him again and the way he inserts his tongue in your mouth distracts you a bit but you manage to break the contact. Soon, he’s lying down beside you and when you check your phone, your call with Jungkook has already ended, but there are two messages from him on your notifications.

[12:35am] jaykay🤠: are you still alive [12:38am] jaykay🤠: ok nevermind i’ll hang the call i actually found my pager just now 😭 [12:38am] jaykay🤠: it was in the kitchen counter LOL [12:45am] jaykay🤠: ok bye. night

You were going to reply but decide against it for some reason.

Putting your phone down to the bedside table, you follow Mingyu under the sheets and as usual, you face against his direction just like he does.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t really like cuddling that much. He’d share his space to a certain extent, just like how you got into his bed in the first place, but not the lengths of cuddling together in bed. Mingyu didn’t tell you why – and you don’t want to come off as clingy, so you don’t bother asking.

It’s strange, though. Now that he told you a while ago that he, apparently, “wants you all the time”. Shouldn’t he like to cuddle you in bed, then? But you don’t want to dwell in it too much, afraid that you may be digging yourself a hole if you were to keep it up.

As you lay your cheek on your folded hands, you play back the events of the night and think about how you’ve seen this film before.

When you were in med school, Eunwoo always had something to say about your friendship with Jungkook. He wasn’t direct with it, but with the way he never bothered to make friends with Jungkook or always had a grimace on his face when you mentioned him in passing, it was enough for you to conclude that Eunwoo was always… wary of Jungkook – and definitely in a jealous type of way.

He said almost the exact same thing as Mingyu – that boundaries should be built; that Jungkook and you are too close, why is he calling you in the middle of the night to ask about mundane things, why does he know too much about your mother’s preferences, and why is he buddy-buddy with your dad who otherwise always had an uninterested expression on his face?

It wasn’t even just Mingyu. Your past flings for the past four years you’ve been single always got put off when they heard that you’re rooming with a guy – even more so when you mention that he’s your bestfriend.

You’re not stupid to not see how it looks like from the outside perspective – and you’re not dense to not ever consider the possibility of something romantic brewing within the friendship. You have thought about it before – had an instant crush on him the first time you met at the law library back in post grad school. But it was fleeting at best, especially when Eunwoo came into your life a few weeks later.

Nayeon, Doyeon, and Taehyung have also hinted at it. Sometimes – most of the time, really, teasing you two, especially Taehyung. Even the most mature one among your friends – Yoongi – once told you both to get married at forty. He was joking, though he looked way too serious for someone who was just supposed to be joking.

And there was that one dreadful time in third year of med school when Jungkook almost kissed you.

You buried that memory in the very depths of your mind – not ever wanting to revisit it again. It was a bad time, and it was just not a good thing to look back at. Jungkook acted irresponsible, and you stupidly let yourself be complicit in it, even though you knew better.

Nothing even happened – but that memory was just that. A mere memory. You doubt Jungkook even remembers that himself.

Here’s the thing: you’ve just never seen Jungkook past the person you consider as a friend. You’ve never been weird about the women he dated – or if he dated, at all. He’s also always been supportive of your relationships… as far as you’re concerned. Regardless of what everybody says, you both seem to agree that you’re just better off as friends. You work better that way.

Jungkook’s a good guy, though. He does have tons of flings – but he’s just conventionally attractive and works hard for a body that is to die for. Women like that. Additionally, he has a stable job and even though he annoys you about splitting the delivery fee when you do take-out, he’s actually quite rich – or, his family is – he’d always insist.

You get it though. As a co-resident, you both don’t really make that much (for the work that you do) – at least not yet.

But he was indeed born in generational wealth, coming from a family of doctors, which is why it’s quite impressive that he knows how to handle his life by his own hard work. His intelligence and perseverance are some of the things you admire about him, his drive to make a name for himself and never leeching off his family’s name. Jungkook doesn’t ever brag about how his neurosurgeon dad is one of the best in the country and how his mom is a legend in cardiac surgery – even though sometimes, he could use it a little. He’s playful yet charming; quiet when you’re just knowing him, but he’ll eventually talk a lot when you get close.

As a friend, he’s quite the best you’ve ever had.

And even though you don’t really see him past that, you know in your heart that whoever ends up with him romantically will be a very lucky person.

“You’re a pussy.”

“Doyeon.”

Doyeon huffs, rolling her eyes so hard at Taehyung’s reprimand and then goes back to glaring at Jungkook again who just looks at her with a pathetic expression.

“What? I’m right. He’s a pussy and you’re an even bigger pussy for defending him being a pussy.” She says, furrowing her eyebrows angrily.

“Why are we talking about pussies?”

Nayeon suddenly enters the on-call room and Jungkook nearly has a heart attack.

“What the hell, you should at least knock. Jesus.” Jungkook says, clutching his chest, looking at Nayeon with an almost offended expression who closes the door behind her.

“Were you scared it was __? See!” Doyeon sighs out in frustration. “Such a fucking pussy.”

“Such a fucking pussy,” Jungkook mocks, using a higher pitch to imitate Doyeon poorly.

“And a child too.” She rolls her eyes and throws him a pillow. It misses Jungkook and hits Taehyung instead.

“Seriously, what are you so mad about today? You have that mood. Did you and your secret boyfriend fight?” Taehyung spits out.

Everybody stills in the room when Doyeon gives him a sharp glare. That pretty much makes everyone shut up, especially Taehyung who makes a show of physically zipping his mouth.

Nayeon fakes a cough and trudges towards Jungkook sitting on one of the beds. She throws her heavy hands on his shoulders, more like slaps, and then looks at Doyeon as she asks, “What are we calling this man a pussy for?”

“Oh, ask him. Or his dumber best friend.” Doyeon rolls his eyes and looks at Taehyung, crossing her arms and leaning her back on the chair she’s sitting on from across the room.

“You’re starting to hurt my feelings and I hate you.” Taehyung says from the other bed.

“Why?” Nayeon ignores their banter and furrows her brows at Jungkook curiously.

Jungkook hisses under his breath. “It’s nothing. She calls me a pussy for literally everything.”

Doyeon butts in. “Yeah, are you gonna cry?”

“If __ was here, she’s gonna be on my side, you know that?” Jungkook rebuts.

“If __ was here, you’d be panicking because she’ll know about your little secret.”

“Oof.” Taehyung comments.

“Oh, Jungkookie…” Nayeon looks down at him with worried eyes. When he looks up with a sad look, she starts rubbing his shoulders as some sort of comfort, already knowing about what this might be about. “This is about… the thing?”

He nods weakly. “Yes. And no. Uh, well, this is… you know about the birthday trip in the next five days, right? So, she asked me if she could bring, uh, Mingyu along.”

“Oh.” Nayeon utters, looking at Doyeon for confirmation.

Doyeon nods, and then nags, “Ask him what he said.”

Nayeon looks at him. “What did you say?”

“I said yes.”

“Oh.”

Jungkook looks down in slight shame at Nayeon’s reaction. She completely stops her hands’ ministrations on his shoulder, indicating that even she could not believe what he just did.

This makes Jungkook even feel worse.

Leaning his elbow on his thighs, he runs his fingers through his hair as he says, “I mean, how could I have said no? I would’ve looked like an asshole. Besides, Mingyu and I are college friends. There’s no reason for me to prohibit him from this trip. Like, at all.”

“Yeah, you and Mingyu are college friends but, ultimately, it’s our trip, right? __ would’ve understood if you said no.” Doyeon says, still not over her justification from a while ago.

“I know, I know. But still… I didn’t want to say no to her.” Jungkook tells Doyeon, not having a lot to say more than that.

It’s the plain truth, anyway. He truly, simply does not want to say no to you. Not ever.

“But Jungkook…” Nayeon interrupts. “Would it be okay for you? We know how you feel about the whole – er – Mingyu thing. Can you really take them being close together? Especially on a trip for your birthday?”

Though Nayeon’s voice is soft and her gaze gentle, her words hit him like a ton of bricks.

Truthfully, he doesn’t know what to feel about the whole thing. You dating Mingyu is one thing, but you bringing him along on your trips is another. It means that he’s it.

That you’re getting serious.

He hates himself for hating the idea. Jungkook’s always wanted to be nothing but supportive of you. He’d done it perfectly well with Eunwoo before, and your flings in the past four years have never upgraded past to being solely flings so he never worried about them, but now with Mingyu… it’s hard to pretend like it’s not killing him when you talk about how much you like him.

You have that lovestruck look on your face when Mingyu comes up in a conversation. For the first time in a while, you look genuinely happy. Jungkook always thought that your feelings for Eunwoo still lingered over the past few years – and how could it not, when you were literally engaged to him for a year? You told him one time that he may have been your greatest love… and he fears that it might be the same with Mingyu.

Where does that exactly leave him?

“What I think doesn’t really matter. And it’s just for week.” he murmurs, but the others hear it anyway.

“An excruciating week, you mean.” Doyeon says. She stands up from her chair. “You know what, I’m over this whole thing. I’ve witnessed you pine over her for whole eight years – and I’m just – I’m moving on from this. And I have a surgery. I’m going out.”

Jungkook grimaces when Doyeon heads towards the door.

“Doyeon, don’t be mean to Jungkook. He’s trying his best, you know? The timing is just not right and—”

“What timing?”

As soon as Doyeon twisted the doorknob, pulling the door open to completely head out, you came barging in, cutting off Nayeon’s words.

Her eyes widen a little at your sudden arrival. And Jungkook scrambles to think of an effort to swerve the subject, but Taehyung beats him to it.

“__, heyyy,” he prolongs the word quite unnaturally, chuckling at the end of it for no reason. Jungkook internally notes to tell him later never dare try to save anything ever again.

That makes you furrow your brows in confusion. Directing your look to Doyeon who stopped on her tracks, you ask her instead, “What’s going on? What about Jungkook trying his best?”

Doyeon looks at Jungkook and then you. You wait, but then she just rolls her eyes – just completely done about the whole thing. Like she said earlier.

“He’s trying his best not to be a pussy – well, allegedly.” At that, she goes out of the room, ignoring your calls to pull her back in.

“Uh… I think I have a surgery in twenty. See you guys around. Gotta scrub in.” Taehyung jumps from the other bed and Jungkook makes sure to extend his leg forward so that the older guy trips on it as he walks. “What the fuck, man.” Taehyung looks at him, offense written all over his face.

Jungkook gives him a glare. Taehyung chooses to ignore it rather than prolong it and walks past you at the door.

“Bye, fuckers.”

“Don’t call me a fucker!” Nayeon chimes in but Taehyung’s already out of the room.

“Hey, seriously! What was that?” You head towards the bed where Jungkook and Nayeon are, situating yourself on the far end of the bed to lean on the frame. You take off your sneakers in one swift move and lay your feet on Jungkook’s lap.

“It’s nothing. You know how Doyeon always bullies me…” Jungkook says, ignoring the tingling sensation that starts to creep up his spine at the way you casually initiate physical contact.

He needs to get a grip. You most probably don’t really mean anything by it.

“She does not bully you.” Nayeon rolls her eyes beside him.

“You probably deserve it.” you say, pulling out and eating some strawberry yogurt.

Nayeon laughs at your remark, but then it’s cut short when a pager suddenly beeps. Instantly, all of you take out your own and check if it was yours.

“Alright, that’s my call.”

“Bye. Good luck.” You say, offering your cup to Nayeon, but she only shakes her head. Meanwhile, Jungkook gives her a pair of thumbs up.

When Nayeon leaves the room, you nudge Jungkook with your foot.

“Hey,”

Jungkook looks at you with a brow raised.

“Can you rub my foot? Please rub my foot.” You say, making the best rendition of puppy face, extending your sock-cladded foot in his direction.

He scoffs. “Do you think I’m a pushover?”

You gasp dramatically. “I do not! I think you’re a cool person who’d totally give me foot rubs.”

“Unfortunately, I’m not a cool person who would give you foot rubs.”

You groan. “I gave you a massage weeks ago.”

“That was, like, two months ago.” Jungkook says drily.

“It counts because you didn’t do anything to repay me for my kindness.”

“Oh, you need your kindness paid back?” Jungkook teases, wiggling his eyebrows at you.

You pout at him and then whine. “Please, just three minutes, I swear. I’ll even put up a timer.”

Indeed, Jungkook is a pushover. Pushover to your cute pout and every request. Again, he could just not find it in himself to say no to you. Not even in his wildest dreams.

But it’s never not fun to tease you before he relents. “Fine. Two minutes.” He says, pretending to begrudge the thought of giving you a foot massage, even though inside, he’s quite thrilled to be doing so.

It would be a lie to say that it isn’t one of his favorite past times in the quiet evenings of your apartment. Jungkook loves the weight of your leg on his lap, loves the way you thank him in between groans, and loves that he just gets to be close to you in almost such an intimate way.

“Your feet stink.” Jungkook decides to tease, scrunching his nose, feigning disgust.

“Don’t lie. Also, your feet stink even more, don’t try me.”

“My feet do not stink.”

“Let’s just agree to disagree,” You grin. “I’m starting a timer.” You say, grabbing your phone, pressing some stuff on it before you put it on the mattress.

“Let me see, for all I know, you set it to five instead of three.”

You look at him with widen eyes, stiffening.

“It’s three minutes.”

“Your nostrils are flaring, you’re lying.”

You groan. “Please. Dinner is on me later.”

That obviously catches Jungkook’s attention.

“You’re staying at home for the night?”

You look at him weird. “Yeah, of course. What’s with that face?”

Jungkook shakes his head, hides a small smile as he looks down to your feet on his lap and takes a hold of one. He takes off your sock for you and begins massaging the tendons of your foot, noting the way you immediately lean back and relax.

“Nothing. I just thought you’d be staying at Mingyu’s again.”

“Ah,” you nod your head. When Mingyu's name is mentioned, you visibly frown. It’s the kind of face that you make when you’re deep in thought. “I was supposed to. But I don’t know… we fought this morning.”

Jungkook raises a brow. “You wanna talk about it?”

You shrug. “Not really. It’s a weird argument. I don’t know.”

He wants so badly to poke around and find out… but somehow, there’s something in him that tells him not to bother.

Anyway, you’re going home tonight so that’s all that matters. Jungkook begins to think about what to eat for dinner… he’d love to cook something, nevermind that he’s tired from his overnight shift yesterday. He also only got around four total hours of sleep in the past 48 hours, and that was not even consecutive hours – just the sum. That is why he was in the on-call rooms, until Taehyung suddenly barged in, followed by Doyeon, Nayeon, and then you.

“Oh– there, that’s so good, Jungkook,” you say after a particularly hard press against the ball of your heel.

Jungkook knows better than to let his mind wander upon hearing that from you. He’s massaging you, of course that was gonna be the natural reaction.

It’s also quite pathetic to be even thinking about it in the first place – considering that your mind might most likely be weighed by yours and Mingyu’s argument – your boyfriend.

“Hey, about what I said a few days ago,” you started to speak again, breaking the momentary silence. Jungkook hums to acknowledge you. “I know you said yes to me bringing Mingyu along, but, uh, I’m not sure if he still plans to.”

“Ah,” Jungkook nods. Was the argument that bad? “Okay.”

“Yeah. He has to fly over to Arizona for something that week. Told me he may be able to arrive and join us on the second day, which is the exact date of your birthday, but honestly, I’m not sure. His sched changes a lot.”

Deep down, Jungkook wishes Mingyu just opts out of joining in altogether.

But he doesn’t have to tell you that.

“That’s a shame.” he comments, not really meaning it. He massages your other foot with ginger hands, which has you letting out soft sighs again. Jungkook buries them in the back of his head, lest his mind goes to territories that are absolutely humiliating.

“I know…” you trail off. You look like you have more to say as well, but then the door to the room opens. Again.

“Forgot my pager.” Doyeon announces, crossing the room with quick steps to reach for the forgotten thing she left on the table.

When Doyeon’s gaze falls back to the both of you, she raises a brow, and then her eyes direct their way towards Jungkook’s hands on your foot.

You’re about to say something when Doyeon rolls his eyes at Jungkook. Then, without giving you the opportunity to speak, she heads out of the room quickly, leaving Jungkook to look in another direction in quiet shame.

“What was that?” You comment, confused at what just happened.

“Eh, she’s in a sour mood today. It’s regular Doyeon.” Shrugs Jungkook, trying to swerve the subject.

You pout. “Are you two fighting again for real?”

Jungkook chuckles. “No, it’s not serious. You know how Doyeon and I get.”

You squint your eyes, but say nothing nonetheless.

Meanwhile, Jungkook hisses internally.

Jungkook gets Doyeon. You all have been friends since freshman year of med school – the founder of your study group – and she was also the first one to find out about Jungkook’s little crush. He didn’t even have to say it explicitly, she just knew. Eventually, Jungkook told Taehyung. He has quite a big mouth, unfortunately, so when you started your internship at the hospital – he lets it slip in a conversation with Nayeon who was just becoming your friend that time – leading the situation to where it is right now.

Out of all of them, though, Doyeon got it pretty hard. She’s witnessed the early stages of Jungkook’s infatuation towards you in the first semester of med school, had to keep quiet during study sessions. She was even supportive that time, telling Jungkook to just go for it – but then Eunwoo happened, and the confession never saw the light of day.

When they broke up, Doyeon became hopeful again, just as Jungkook was. But you were showing no signs of moving on and Jungkook had no choice but to step back for a bit.

The past two years, though, Doyeon became more insistent, telling him you’re single and it’s the fattest chance Jungkook can ever get.

But she’s right, after all. Jungkook’s a pussy. He hides his feelings well – a pro at the sport, really, at this point.

When Mingyu happened a few months ago, Doyeon’s just over it. She told Jungkook one time in a drinking session that the ship has sunk and he’s going to be in his sixties regretting not ever confessing to you. Sometimes, he wakes up at night in sweat from a nightmare that involved Doyeon murdering him because of his emotional constipation.

Jungkook knows she just wants the best for him – even though she’s more on showing him tough love instead of a gentle one. Doyeon’s always been like that, but she’s a good friend. When things went haywire, she was there to genuinely sympathize with him and console him – together with Taehyung and some of his other friends.

But in Jungkook’s defense, Doyeon just also doesn’t get it.

It’s so easy to just say fuck it and make a confession already, so easy to think about how things could turn positively – but she’s not – they’re not – in Jungkook’s shoes. They will never be.

So many things could go wrong if he ever were to listen to his heart. Sure, he’s had the chance over the past four years – most would say that. But it’s not a chance when you’ve spent half of it moving on from Eunwoo. It’s not a chance when you spent the other half trying to go on dates and fail – each one making you more miserable about your love life, as you told him so many nights ago in those rare special moments in the balcony of your apartment.

Those four years you were single was never a chance – not when you never showed any bit of interest.

It’s the reality that his friends always somehow miss when encouraging him to confess his feelings.

You’re friends for almost a decade now – eight years to be exact – but not once did you ever hint at wanting to be in a relationship with him. Your reaction to that always involved a disgusted expression and a variation of “No way!”. Might be a joke just to tease him – but also might be rooted in something genuine deep down.

Jungkook likes to think that physically, he doesn’t look so bad. He’s nice when he wants to be, especially towards people he cares about. He’s a resident surgeon who makes enough. Could be funny, charming… whatever.

Most of all, he likes to think he could deserve you one of these days. That he could be the man that you’re searching for.

But it’s been eight years and you’ve never once looked at him like how he surely does at you.

God knows how many times Jungkook has tried to move on – how many sleepless nights he has trying to erase the feeling of so much longing for you. Sometimes, it works, when he’s on his casual dates and hook-up with all those women that thankfully fancied him enough. He momentarily forgets about your laugh and your hair and the crinkles on the sides of your eyes when you smile and your soft hands and your gentle voice – but it cracks when the sex is done and he’s staring at the blank ceiling of his date’s apartment, hating himself for yet again seeing your picture in his memory when he’s buried in somebody else, wishing it was you instead.

It hurts so badly. Especially when you seem to look at everybody else except him. You wanted to weed out someone for you – meanwhile, he’s just right under your nose, and yet you don’t see him. It’s at this point, when you have Mingyu as your boyfriend now, that Jungkook is starting to realize that you don’t see him not because you can’t, but because you choose not to.

Regardless, he knows you love him. Knows you care about him on a deeper level. Would probably sacrifice a bit of your time to tend to him if he needs it. But it’s the kind of love that’s not comparable to the one he has for you. Jungkook’s feelings encompass every single kind of love a human could have for another being – but you only have one kind for him. The platonic kind.

And even though it’s painful to face the reality of that very idea, Jungkook thinks that maybe… just maybe… Mingyu’s actually it.

Mingyu wasn’t exactly a saint the last time Jungkook saw him, but people change and the way you seem so genuinely happy these days tells Jungkook that maybe Mingyu’s another version of himself now – the better one who will never hurt you or make you cry.

Maybe this is what love’s all about. You’re content with seeing them happy, even if it’s not with you.

Jungkook thinks that as he steals a glance at you looking at your phone – most probably playing that landlord game on your phone you’ve been obsessed with the past few weeks – and you’re so beautiful like this. Even when you’re probably running on limited hours of sleep just like him.

Your hair is put up in that tulip hairclip you have a lot of, stray hairs framing some parts of your face. But he sees your features just fine – notes the way they are structured so perfectly it truly awes him that men and women didn’t beg for your attention whenever you went out in public.

Because he would. He did. He does. He always teases you for the purpose of your reaction… because Jungkook likes it when you pay attention to him. So much that it kills him to think that maybe, that attention will die soon as you and Mingyu get closer as another week passes by.

The timer that goes off on your phone snaps Jungkook out of his thoughts, and you look at him with widened eyes.

“Don’t st–”

“It’s my turn now,” Jungkook cuts you off and gently places your legs on the mattress, bringing his own on the soft surface as well.

You jut your bottom lip out – and Jungkook feels himself wanting to give in.

“Five minutes is so quick.” You say, but nonetheless takes his shin to your lap.

Jungkook tries hard to sway the butterflies in his stomach at your touch.

“Favor for a favor, remember?” He teases, lifting one of his foot to your direction.

You pretend to gag. “I hate you.”

Jungkook laughs, quite boisterously. Because he knows you don’t mean it. I hate you basically just means I love you but you’re annoying me right now in your own little dictionary – and he always gets giddy whenever you tell him that – as weird as it may sound.

But Jungkook likes this, though.

Sure, it would be so fucking great if he could just confess and lay out his cards all at once, but the chances of you not taking it well is too big – and even though Jungkook’s usually a risk taker, he couldn’t ever risk you all over his dead body.

He can keep his hurt to himself over you feeling anything but romantic towards him – because if he confesses and you don’t feel the same way, he knows damn well that he’ll lose you completely.

And the thought makes him shudder.

That probably catches your sight, so you ask him about it.

Jungkook tells you it’s the AC.

[ DAY 1 | August 31st, 11:04am ]

The beating sun feels uncomfortable on Jungkook’s skin, but there’s no way he’s wasting a day like this holed up in the villa he and his friends chipped in to rent. It costed you all a shit ton of money – might as well enjoy every waking day he gets to spend here.

It’s why he decides to goad Taehyung and Nayeon into coming with him along the shore where sun loungers are lined up to accommodate the few visitors who were also at the resort. He tried to convince Doyeon, but she goes straight to sleep as soon as the rooms were assigned.

He gets it – you all did travel by plane instead of car (because that would've taken you twelve hours) and Doyeon gets airsick whenever she rides in a plane. Jungkook also tried to talk you into it, but you said you were just going to lounge about by the pool at the villa and follow after a while.

Your “after awhile” takes about thirty minutes, and Jungkook thinks you’re missing all the fun, especially when Nayeon and Taehyung are starting to strip off their clothes to submerge themselves in the ocean.

With his loaded watergun, he goes straight back to the villa, and it doesn’t take much time to spot you by the terrace, lying down on a sun lounger with your big hat and sunglasses on, a book opened in your hands.

Unsuspecting, you let out a sudden squeal when Jungkook presses the trigger of the toy in his grip, a spring of water meeting your bare legs. Jungkook obviously tries hard to ignore that you’re wearing a flimsy pair of white bikinis. He saw you pack it two days ago… and he remembers taking too long to move on from the image he’s conjured up in his head upon seeing it.

“Jungkook!”

He chuckles at your reaction, poorly hiding the watergun behind him. “What?”

“I’ll kill you.” You seethe, your body coming forward to sit upright, hastily taking your sunnies off so he can see the cute glare on your face.

“What are you going to do? I have this,” He points to his weapon. “Are you challenging me into a hand-to-hand combat?” Jungkook teases, wiggling his eyebrow.

You groan. Then, you lay back on the lounger again, opening your book, deciding to ignore him.

Jungkook can’t have that, of course. So, he walks closer to your direction, stopping beside you, effectively blocking the sun and in turn, dimming the light source of your book.

“You’re blocking my sun.” You say, looking up at him.

“You’ll get all the sun you want if you haul your ass off to the shore. Come on, we’re all swimming in there,” he tries to convince you, nudging your thigh with his knee.

You give him a pout. You sound whiny when you say, “But it’s too hot.”

“That’s why we’ll get in the water.”

“Don’t be sassy.” You roll your eyes. “I meant the water would be way too hot.”

“It’s not, Nayeon said so.”

You glance at the pool across from you. “Why can’t we all just swim in here?”

Jungkook deadpans. “Because this is a five-foot pool and absolutely no one will enjoy it.”

You frown at him, quietly telling Jungkook he’s right.

“Ugh,” you groan. “But I’ll have to reapply SPF first…” You grab the bottle of lotion that’s just placed on the small table on the side of the lounger. Then you look at him with squinted eyes, “Did you wear sunscreen?”

Jungkook rolls his eyes but nonetheless says yes, knowing how you always nag him about it whenever you guys are at the beach. It’s not even just him. It’s also with your other friends.

He watches as you rub lotion over your body, but when you get to the back, you look up at him and extend the bottle towards his way.

“Can you help me with this, please?” You say.

Jungkook automatically takes the bottle but it takes him a full five seconds to understand what you’re getting at.

You’re asking him to put sunscreen on your back. You’re very naked back that sports nothing but the tiny strings of your bikini holding your chest.

Of course, you don’t notice his dilemma. Twisting in your seat so that your back faces him, you gather your hair to the side, obviously waiting for him to do your request.

But Jungkook’s distracted behind your back. He’s distracted at how smooth it looks under the scorching sun and how easy it would be to paint it with something other than the natural color of your skin.

It’s not even the first time he’ll do this – you’ve been to trips before and putting on sunscreen over your friend is about as natural as it gets like how he would do it as well to Taehyung or even Doyeon or Nayeon if they ask to.

But it doesn’t mean it doesn’t affect him one bit when it comes to you.

Needless to say, his mind is pre-occupied as he sits down behind you where you left some space for him to sit, squirting the lotion into the palms of his hands, gingerly spreading it over your back once he got it.

“Be sure to cover everything,” you say, obviously not aware about Jungkook’s mental crisis behind your back.

He thinks it’s worth the crisis over though, as you’re so soft under his touch. Jungkook kneads the span of your back, squeezes your waist lightly to even out the cream, and makes sure to put it over your shoulders as well. When his hands fall, he hesitates.

“Should I – uh—”

“Yeah, just go under the strings.” You tell him before he can even finish.

There’s a lump in his throat that he swallows before he goes under the strings of your bikini top, his heart doing funny somersaults against his ribcage as he spreads the lotion over your skin. It guilts him to no end that his mind thinks about how he’s just inches away from your breasts.

He retreats his hand right away. “Done.”

You turn back to him. “Thanks. You want me to do yours?”

“Sure.”

Jungkook sits on the edge of the lounger and lets his back turn to you. He hears the cap of the lotion bottle being opened again and soon your hands are lathering the cream over the expanse of his back.

It’s embarrassing the way he lets himself savor the seconds of your every touch. Embarrassing the way his mind zeroes in on the way your soft hands caress the tendons of his back muscles. He thinks about the weight, how good this feels; your hands on him. Suddenly, there’s a zap of electricity that goes through his spine, and then he feels it.

The twitch in his dick and the blood that he feels rushing to it.

“Okay, you’re done.” You say, tapping his back twice so he can turn to you.

It snaps him out of his thoughts, but his dick is thinking about something else and as he subtly looks down, there’s already a growing semi on the crotch of his trunk shorts.

Jungkook curses himself internally, shutting his eyes close in slight frustration.

Fucking uncooperative dick.

He stands up from the chair when you nudge his back with your foot, thinking that he’d see you coming along in a few seconds. But you don’t, and as he turns his heel to look at you, you’re back in your cozy lying position on the lounger, with your book opened, just like how he saw you when he came in a while ago.

Jungkook parts his lips in disbelief, but also finding the whole thing funny.

“You minx.” He muses, playfully squinting his eyes at you upon realizing the trick you just pulled.

“Enjoy the beach, Jungkook. Send my regards to Taehyung and Nayeon.” You say, giving him a taunting flying kiss. “And thank you for reapplying my sunscreen.”

Jungkook chuckles at your remark, and just like that, he forgets about his stubborn dick, and goes over back to you, blocking your sun once again.

“You’re blocking my sun again— Jungkook!”

It’s predictable the way you hurl a series of creative curses at him as Jungkook forcefully picks you up from the chair, knocking your hat and your book on the ground as he hoists you against his shoulder, carrying you upside down like a sack of potatoes.

“Jungkook, I swear to god!” You squeal, repeatedly slapping his back as he walks to the direction of the shore, but Jungkook’s nothing but a solid muscle, firm over his hold on the back of your legs.

“Be quiet.” He says, chuckling at your sounds of opposition.

“I hate you, you’re such a prick, ugh!”

He picks up his walking pace and you scream again when you see the ocean water from your view.

Jungkook chuckles as you continue to plant your fists on his back, and when the water reaches his knees, he throws you in it.

“Fuck. You!” You say, glaring at Jungkook in the middle of his uncontrollable laughter.

“Come on, Taehyung and Nayeon are over there,” he points to the deeper part of the ocean a few feet from where you are, and when you turn your head, you see Taehyung and Nayeon with their floaties.

“Ugh…” Jungkook hears you groan before you follow behind him. When Jungkook looks back, he sees you paddling around the water like some puppy, and he snickers to himself. That earns him a splash on his way, with you rolling your eyes at him.

“Jungkook! __!” Yells Nayeon over their direction, waving her hand around. Taehyung and her are perched on the big floatie they fought over with at the villa earlier.

“Jungkook,” calls you behind him.

You’re starting to cross the deeper part of the ocean and it’s within Jungkook’s chest now. Meanwhile, your friends are still about a few feet away, so the level would definitely be on his neck by the time. You’re considerably tall, but Jungkook’s still half a head taller than you, so when he looks back at you, the water’s already reached your shoulders.

“This is way too deep!” You complain.

“Don’t be a pussy, __!” Comments Taehyung from afar.

“Fuck off,” you murmur and then beckons Jungkook to you. “Help me a bit here.”

Jungkook shakes his head, chuckling as he moves a few steps back to get to your direction.

“You big baby, you never learned how to swim, have you?” He teases, playfully clicking his tongue.

“What for?” You say when he gets near.

Jungkook feels pleased with himself about you asking for his help to cross the deeper part of the ocean, but he’s met with surprise when you heavily plant your palms on his shoulders, causing him to be out of balance and tripping over his feet under the water.

It causes a misstep and he nearly chokes as he comes back up for air again only to see you laughing your ass off. Nayeon and Taehyung are also laughing along, even from afar, and Jungkook wipes the back of his hand over his eyes to see clearly.

“That’s for throwing me in the water earlier,” you say in between your snickers and Jungkook’s just about to say something back when you suddenly wrap your hands around his neck from the back, your legs locking around his waist. “Carry me to the floatie, pretty please,” you say against his cheek in a sing-song voice.

With that, Jungkook feels your whole entire body against his back, your breasts pressing against his skin. He ignores the way the physical contact makes his body tingle, and he hopes you don’t notice his blush when he raises his arms to hold the back of your legs.

“Only because you’re annoying.” He pretends to sound annoyed, but the laugh that comes out of you at the remark makes him smile anyway.

[ DAY 1 | August 31st, 11:35pm ]

Your daytime activities at the beach included jetskiing – one that knocked Taehyung off the water way too many times that he just gave up halfway through it. When Doyeon woke up a little later in the afternoon, all of you decided to get food from the dining hall and ate your hearts out at the buffet.

The day ended with all of you back in your assigned rooms again. Since you rented a two-bedroom villa, Jungkook’s rooming with Taehyung in the secondary bedroom while Nayeon, Doyeon, and you are all inside the primary one since it’s bigger.

It’s past thirty minutes to eleven in the night when somebody knocks on Jungkook’s shared bedroom with Taehyung. When Jungkook looks at him from across the room, he’s knocked out on the sofa, soft snores coming out from his mouth. Him and Jungkook decided to take turns with the bed itself throughout the whole vacation. There’s an extra cushion Taehyung could’ve laid on the floor, but he was way too tired to set it up and to even care – looks like he doesn’t really need it, though, since he looks so peaceful in his position.

Grumbling, Jungkook gets out from the sheets, scratching his bare chest and rubbing the back of his head as he walks over to the door to open it.

When he does, he’s welcomed by the sight of you in your big grey hoodie and some shorts.

“Wear something.” You say as soon as you take in his appearance.

Jungkook’s habit of going to sleep with only his boxers knows no bounds. Even when it’s below 20 degrees Celsius outside, he always opts out of his pajamas, choosing to go bare in his sheets instead. In his defense for now, the duvet is thick and it provided him with enough protection against the cold of the AC and the summer night.

“What are you doing here?” He says as he trudges back inside the room to wear a pair of sweatpants hanging from the chair.

“Rude.” You comment, following him in the room. You look at Taehyung’s passed out state in the couch. “He’s going to wake up in the evening tomorrow and miss your birthday.”

That makes Jungkook smirk, remembering Taehyung’s high energy in the morning.

“No consequences. It’s vacation week.” Jungkook raises his eyebrows. “Seriously, what brought you here? It’s almost midnight.”

You sit on the edge of the bed. That’s when Jungkook notices the black plastic you’re carrying in your hand. “It’s not that late. Let’s head out for a bit.”

He raises a brow, confused. “Where to?”

“You’re going to find out. Wear a jacket, it’s a bit cold outside.” You say as you stand up from the bed again, heading for the door.

Jungkook’s confusion just grows with passing seconds. Nonetheless, he can’t say he’s not intrigued.

Unsure, he goes for his small luggage and takes out the only hoodie he packed. It’s grey as well, matching the one you have on. Jungkook tries to shake that thought off his head as you both quietly head out of the room.

It’s late into the night and when you head out of the villa, there’s not many people hanging along the shore anymore.

“Follow me,” you tell him, and Jungkook does.

It may have been his drowsiness that kept him quiet throughout the whole walk – just quietly following along with you, your rented villa no longer in his line of sight. Jungkook couldn’t exactly pinpoint where you currently are, but this side of the beach is a bit rocky, and much, much colder. He feels it even through the thick material of his hoodie.

“We’re here.” You announce, a proud lilt to your voice. Jungkook bumps with your back when you suddenly stop on your tracks. It prompts a chuckle from you, turning back to him so Jungkook sees the crinkles on the sides of your eyes as you do so.

It makes his lips curl. “What’s this?” He curiously asks, looking around.

Your grin grows wider. “We’re gonna take those stairs and it’s gonna lead us to some pretty view.” Jungkook looks to the direction you pointed at, seeing the stairs you just referred to. Still unsure, he glances back at you. You laugh. “You remember when Doyeon and I went out for a walk earlier for a bit? We found this place.”

Jungkook nods. “I see. Thought for a second there you found a place to dispose my body at.”

You snort as you take Jungkook’s wrist to hold on to as you climb to the stairs.

“I won’t do it as such a public place.”

“So, you really are thinking about it in the first place.” Jungkook nods his head, guiding your back up the jagged stairs. You manage to get to the smoother surface and Jungkook’s quick to follow you towards the straight path of the narrow walkway.

“It’s my favorite past time, really.” You look back at him cheekily, a playful grin painting your lips. Jungkook scoffs.

The hallway is colonnaded with some flags, and there’s an edge where the concrete stops, the ocean water splashing against the big rocks beneath the broken bridge.

You set aside the black plastic you’ve been carrying around and Jungkook realizes they’re Smirnoffs. Sitting on the concrete, you let your feet hang on the edge.

“Hey, be careful,” Jungkook comments as he sees you do that. This part of the ocean isn’t necessarily far – where you were earlier when you were swimming was far deeper, but still, it could be dangerous if you make a mistake. Jungkook wonders what the designers of the beach thought about when they made this plan.

“Come on, don’t be fussy. Sit here with me.” You say, patting the space beside you.

Jungkook follows, of course, and you scoot to the side a little to give him more room.

“It’s nice, right,” You look at him, cocking your head to the side.

Jungkook feels the breeze of cool wind passing, and it’s a bit strong that it moves his fringes and yours as well. You put your hair up as usual in that big metal clip you always wear, but some strands of your hair escape and they frame your face.

With your big hoodie on and smile, Jungkook thinks you look extra cozy. He may have been hot and bothered by your bikini ensemble earlier, but now he’s bothered for another reason. He can’t stop thinking about cuddling you under the night sky full of stars at the very moment.

“Feels good.” Jungkook comments. He plants his palms on the hard surface of the concrete behind him, leaning back as he looks to your side. “You wanted to drink here?”

“Oh, yeah,” You say, twisting your body a little to pick up the plastic cellophane. You take out two bottles of Smirnoffs and offer one to him which he gladly takes. Taking a bottle opener out, you’re about to open your drinks when Jungkook offers to do it for the both of you. You don’t protest, just let him do his thing, smiling when he hands you your Smirnoff.

“This is really nice.” Jungkook sighs after he takes the first sip, looking straight ahead to the mountainous view in front of you.

You hum, seemingly enjoying the moment as well. Jungkook takes a quick glance at your side profile and then quickly looks back ahead when he feels you do the same.

“Why’d you bring me here?” He asks.

“Nothing. I couldn’t sleep, and I thought I could bring you here. So.” You shrug.

Jungkook nods.

“I’m turning thirty-one tomorrow. Or, in an hour, actually.” He says, automatically looking at his wrist but then realizing he took off his watch and left it at the bedside table. He didn’t take his phone with him either.

“I know. You’re so old now.” You tell him with a teasing tone in your words.

“Fuck off,” he snorts. “I’m only a year older than you.”

“Hmm… still old. Imagine, you turn fifty, I would still be forty-nine.”

Jungkook laughs at that.

“Whatever makes you sleep at night, babe.” He lets the pet name slip, and he did not mean to. It just rolled off his tongue for some reason. Quite easily, too.

You don’t seem to care – or even notice – as you chuckle.

There’s a comfortable silence that hangs in the air again when Jungkook decides to break it.

“Hey, I really appreciate you for coming along. You and the gang, really. This is a really good trip so far.”

You give him a smile as you look at him. It’s one of those pretty ones that are a bit small but there’s a certain shine to your eyes and Jungkook just really loves looking at you with a smile on your face. You’re so pretty, he thinks he’s so lucky to even get the chance to look at you.

“You know we all need this trip, right? I think it’s all our first time vacationing in two years.”

He nods, chuckling to himself. It’s true. The last time was the Thailand trip and it felt like eons ago. Being a resident surgeon means less free time for leisure – and so you always make sure to spend your days off wisely. Even this trip took a lot of pre-planning to be possible just so all of your schedules would match.

“It’s crazy, though…” you say suddenly.

Jungkook cocks a brow at you. “What’s crazy?”

“That we’ve known each other for like – what? Eight years?”

Eight years and four months to be exact. Jungkook’s not keeping count – he just will never forget the exact moment he met you for the very first time.

It’s truly one of his core memories – knowing you. He remembers having to pass by the law library to meet Jimin – one of his closest friends who was studying law at the same grad school as him at the time. They were planning to eat out for lunch, but then he saw a woman at the individual study areas with a reading material that’s familiar with his. Netter’s Atlas of Human Anatomy. You wore that maroon hairclip you loved so much during first year (Jungkook remembers you losing it in the second semester and how he bought you another one in your birthday), and when you looked up from your book for awhile, taking a break from taking notes on your iPad, that was when Jungkook saw your face and he nearly falls over back then.

It’s common knowledge among your mutual friends and acquaintances that you’re pretty. It’s the first thing that Jungkook noticed about you, the reason why he harbored an instant crush. That pretty much turned into… well – something deeper as the years passed by and he got to know you more than just your beautiful physical appearance.

He found it strange at the time to find somebody who was obviously a med student studying at the law library, but he soon found out it was because you didn’t like studying at the med lib, said you felt too much pressure being among your fellow med students. Jungkook understood that in a spiritual level, and so when you became friends, you studied a lot at the law lib, until you met Doyeon and she formed a study group. It wasn’t long before Taehyung joined the equation.

Looking back at it, Jungkook thinks it’s surreal. How knowing you led to him knowing more people that would soon be important in his life up until the age of thirty-one.

“Almost a decade.” He says, can’t help but smile at the thought.

“Right? It feels so surreal sometimes that we all knew each other at, like, twenty-three and twenty two. And now we’re in our thirties.”

“When you put it like that…” Jungkook trails off, laughing at how young you actually were eight years ago.

“Yeah, I know!” You giggle. You look ahead, then you laugh again to yourself. Jungkook looks at you in confusion, giving you a questioning look at your sudden burst of laughter. Looking at him, you shake your head, “This is a bit of a TMI, but I was twenty-two when I entered med school, so I just lost my virginity three years ago. You know what’s funny? I’ve always thought I would lose my virginity, at like, thirty. Or twenty-seven. But that was even way too early for me.”

Jungkook almost splutters at the way you casually bring it up. He takes the bottle of Smirnoff away from him and looks at you with a chuckle. “Losing your virginity at nineteen is common.”

“Well, did you? Lose yours at nineteen?” You arch a brow.

“Nope.” Jungkook shakes his head, tipping his head back to drink again.

“Younger?” You ask again.

Jungkook chuckles at your curiosity. Much to your surprise, he shakes his head again. “Nah. Junior year. I just turned twenty-one. Lost it with my first girlfriend.”

Your lips part and Jungkook meets your shocked stare, brow cocked upwards.

“You’re fucking with me.”

“What? No, I’m not.” He laughs. He gets your surprise, though. Taehyung couldn’t believe it either when it came up in a random conversation.

You still look incredulous as you say, “You mean, like you never dated until junior year of undergrad?”

Jungkook shakes his head once again. “Yes, and no…? I mean, I had a… sort of girlfriend? Back in highschool, yeah, but it was more of like a mutual crush thing rather than an official relationship. But yeah, never dated and never had sex ‘til I found my first girlfriend in third year.”

You look at him suspiciously still, and Jungkook can’t help but laugh even more at your reaction.

“I really don’t believe you.”

“What’s so surprising about that?” Jungkook knows the answer, though. He sleeps around, and you know that. It’s probably why you can’t believe he’s only started having sex until third year of college.

You’re quiet for a bit.

“So… you and that girlfriend broke up, and then…” you trail off, letting him finish the pieces.

Jungkook chuckles, recalling some memories that he thought were already hidden well at the back of his head.

Jiyeon. Her name was Park Jiyeon, his first girlfriend. He was the one who ended things – and not because he didn’t have feelings for her. It was the other way around.

“Yeah,” Jungkook fills in. “Didn’t date seriously after that.”

“Uh… was it a bad break-up?” You say, and there’s hesitance in your voice. When Jungkook looks at you, you open your mouth to take your question back, probably, but Jungkook just gives you a warm smile.

“Yeah. It was bad. But I don’t really think about it now.”

You nod. “I see.” You say, looking ahead at the ocean again. “You dated… quite seriously again in our last year of med school, though.”

“Sora?”

“Yeah.”

Jungkook nods, remembering the only one-year relationship he had. Min Sora was a fashion magazine director at the time. Jungkook liked her as she did, but they had too many differences that lead to too many arguments. Sora ended things before the relationship dragged out. Jungkook was grateful for it. They’re casual as of now… good friends, maybe?

“I always wondered why she broke up with you.” You say quietly.

Jungkook doesn’t expect that. “You wondered about that?”

“Yeah. I mean, you seemed like you were both really into each other, so I just thought… you know,” you shrug.

“Ah. That,” Jungkook looks afar, recalling the day when she ended things with him. It had been because of the stress that the last year of med school brought – he likes to think that. But it was also during the time when Eunwoo proposed to you and what he thought was feelings forgotten for you came back resurfacing and Sora just… figured him out. She told him he loved you, and she’s got no spare time to compete with that. Denying it at the time was futile – Sora was smart. A wise, independent woman. She ended the relationship herself before she got deeply hurt. Jungkook has always felt sorry about how things turned out. No, he doesn’t regret the break-up – just regrets the way he hurt her – unintentionally – even though she didn’t show it.  “Just didn’t work out, I guess.”

You nod again.

Silence sits in the air.

It feels a little strange to talk about these things now. It’s not that you both never share these aspects about your lives to each other, but it’s the first time you ask him about Sora. He never really bothered to share, though, for the record.

From his periphery, he sees you taking your phone out from your pocket, then gasping.

Jungkook immediately looks at you to see what’s wrong. You show him your phone and he notes nothing of significance first before you say, “It’s 12:01 am. It’s September first!”

“Oh.”

“Happy birthday, Kook.” You say, smiling at him, and it’s an underestimation for Jungkook to say he nearly gets blinded by it. You look so gorgeous in your happy smile, so genuine, so warm, so cozy in your big grey hoodie.

Jungkook wants so bad to plant his lips on yours right then and there, but he reminds himself that he can’t do that. He reminds himself that you’re taken. That you like somebody else. The somebody else arriving tomorrow, as per your words earlier this day when he asked about Mingyu.

Still, it doesn’t stop Jungkook from mirroring your smile.

“Thank you.”

“And, before I forget,” you stuff your hands in the pocket of your hoodie and Jungkook watches as you take out a small rectangular box. As he pays you a glance, you’re a little bit shy, not looking straight into his eyes as you say, “Uh. I saw this somewhere, and I thought you’d like it.”

You extend your hand to him and Jungkook lets go of his beer to take the velvety green box from you.

He feels jittery as he takes it in, caresses the ribbon first before opening it altogether.

What’s inside surprises him.

“It didn’t cost much so don’t throw it away,” you say, uncharacteristically defensive. Jungkook can’t see your expression, but he bets your thoughts are going haywire as it takes him awhile to say anything about your gift. You always get nervous when it comes to gifts. “... and anyway, it’s not even my real gift. My real gift is a hairdryer, so I’m sure you’re gonna like that better. But it’s cute, right? You can hang it in your keyholder or something—”

“__,” Jungkook cuts you off, his eyes still on the keyring laying on the box. “You’re giving this to me?”

“Y-yeah. It’s… uh… cute, right? I thought it was cute.” You say, and when Jungkook looks at you, he sees the adorable way your brows furrow.

He chuckles, looking at the keyring again. It’s a silver Claddagh.

“Do you know what this means?” Jungkook asks.

“The what?”

Jungkook points to the Claddagh. “This symbol.”

You look away as you say, “No, not really. I just thought it’s a cool keychain. You told me you like keychains, but I don’t ever see you with a keychain. So.”

With your nostrils flaring a little, he knows you’re lying. You definitely know what the Claddagh symbol means.

But instead of goading you about it, Jungkook takes the keyring out of the box and hangs it over his finger, admiring the item.

“Thank you. This is really cute, and I love it.” Jungkook tells you, giving you a soft smile.

You stare at him and then cave into a smile of your own. “I’m glad you do.”

Jungkook looks at the Claddagh again and smiles heartily.

His heart aches with so much yearning and longing when you go back to the villa that night, spending about three minutes staring at the Claddagh you gifted him that he immediately hangs in his key holder. Jungkook thinks he’s going to transfer it to his work bag or the back of his rearview mirror, but his keyholder would do for now.

You love him alright, certainly not the way he does, but it’s enough for him.

[ DAY 2 | September 1st, 11:55pm ]

It was not a secret among Nayeon, Doyeon, and Taehyung that Jungkook’s mood considerably plummeted down as soon as Mingyu called you early in the morning that he’d be landing in the afternoon.

Afternoon came, and he tried to suck it up like a grown man – and because as far as you know, they’re both friends. And Mingyu’s your boyfriend. He should be nothing but supportive.

But it was especially hard when you gushed about being excited that he was finally here. It’s been four months since you started seeing each other, two months since you officially dated, but somehow, Jungkook still could not process it.

He knows he’s being unfair. To you and to himself. But he couldn’t help it. He couldn’t help the feeling of ugly bitterness that sat in his heart as you told him about how Mingyu rented another villa so you both could room together, effectively taking you away from the rest of your friends.

Of course, you all spent his birthday together – doing tons of water activities in the ocean, eating at the dining hall, and roaming around for some more leisure time, but Jungkook could not help but think that ever since Mingyu’s arrived, you’ve been sticking with him, even taking the time away from the gang to show your boyfriend around the resort.

Even at the villa’s porch where all of you took out your foldable chairs to drink outside, you were with Mingyu, perched on his lap, laughing at the jokes getting thrown around in the circle.

He tried not to look too much at how Mingyu comfortably wrapped one arm around your waist while the other held a drink, how you leaned into his touch, and how easily he blended with the group with his charm.

“Where’d you get the ice cream?” Doyeon asked as Taehyung sat down on his chair with a small bowl of the sweet treat.

“Fridge. Nayeon and I bought it earlier.”

“There’s ice cream?” Mingyu asked, in which Taehyung nodded to. He turned to you. “Do you want it?”

Jungkook’s brows furrowed in confusion. “__’s lactose intolerant.” He noticed everybody suddenly looking at him. Feeling cornered, he drank from his beer to avoid their gazes.

Mingyu, obviously surprised by the declaration, glanced back at you. “Baby, you didn’t tell me that?”

You winced. “It’s not really a big deal.” you waved him off and when you laugh.

“Yeah, she’s stubborn about it. She can inhale five cones in one sitting.” Taehyung said which made everybody laugh. Jungkook knew it was to lighten the mood. So, he laughed as well, even though from his periphery, he could see you giving him daggers through your eyes.

Jungkook doesn’t know why you had to pretend it wasn’t a big deal. Sure, Taehyung’s right about you not taking your lactose intolerance seriously sometimes, but you’ve also gotten into a lot of trouble because of it, hence why you’ve been making conscious efforts to not eat dairy.

The whole day leaves a sour impression on him with Mingyu around. Quite a shame, really, since he started his birthday so well with you taking him to the far-end of the beach to drink and give him a Claddagh.

When the night becomes much darker, Jungkook sits on the terrace near the pool all by himself. Everybody’s fast asleep at this point. He doesn’t know about you, though, ‘cause you’ve probably transferred all your stuff to the other villa Mingyu rented around.

“Hey,”

Jungkook looks at the embodied voice that suddenly calls. He sees it’s Doyeon.

“Hey,” Jungkook smiles, taking the other bottle of beer on the coffee table and offering it to her.

She waves his hand. “Nah, I’ve had enough for the whole day.” Doyeon situates herself on the folding chair next to Jungkook.

Jungkook nods, looking straight ahead to the pool. They sit in comfortable silence for a while until Doyeon speaks.

“Hey, I’m sorry for the last week,”

Jungkook glances at her with a small smile. “What for?”

“For calling you a pussy. And just… being harsh. Had a tough week and your emotional constipation just pissed me off more. You’re still a pussy, but I shouldn’t have rubbed it off your face.” She says.

Jungkook stares at her with parted lips.

“Wow. I don’t know if that’s an actual apology.”

“It’s an apology with a hundred percent realness, you know I don’t baby anybody.”

“Hah,” Jungkook scoffs, amused. “Yeah. Well, you’re right, though. Today’s been…”

Doyeon sighs. “It’s hard on you, right?”

Jungkook can only give her a meaningful smile.

“But you don’t exactly have the right to get jealous… she’s not your girlfriend and you two are not anything,” Doyeon says, and it tugs at Jungkook’s heartstrings. Meanwhile, she looks ahead and continues to speak. “It’s hard when you have all these feelings for someone, but you have to hide it. You just want to show everybody they mean so much to you, but you can’t. It sucks.”

Jungkook thinks she’s still talking about his situation with you but then as he glances at her, she seems to be deep in thought. As if she’s actually speaking from her own experience.

He’s intrigued by that, of course.

“Woah, are you still talking about me?”

That seems to get Doyeon out of her trance.

She rolls his eyes. “Who else would I be talking about?”

Jungkook opens his mouth to say something. You guys have always had the theory that Doyeon has a secret boyfriend. It’s silly at best but sometimes, he thinks it’s true. Doyeon has never been the type to wear her heart on her sleeve, though. She’s tough and she’s frank a lot of times. But she’s the kind of friend who’d call you a bitch in your face but then would go to all the lengths to defend you from everybody.

“Okay.” Jungkook nods, dropping the subject.

“Has she told you yet?” Doyeon asks suddenly.

“What?” He mirrors back, knowing exactly who the she Doyeon’s referring to.

“She’s planning to move in with him some of these days.”

“I…” Jungkook stops, his mouth opening and closing like a fish in water. To say that he’s stunned is an understatement. Obviously, you haven’t told him anything.

“You don’t know.” Doyeon says upon realization.

Jungkook shakes his head. “She didn’t tell me.”

Doyeon lets out a loud sigh. “It’s not really set in stone, though, that’s what she said. But they’re discussing it.”

“Ah.” Jungkook nods and looks ahead at the pool. Another beat of silence, a sip of beer, and then he scoffs. “I really should’ve confessed even way back then, huh?” He laughs but there’s no humor in it.

Doyeon stares at him. “I didn’t tell you about that so you can regret not telling your feelings for her earlier.”

“I didn’t—”

“I told you that so you can move on, Jungkook.”

Jungkook closes his mouth shut.

She looks away. “You remember the time I liked you in med school?”

“Doyeon…” Jungkook’s lips part, not at all expecting for her to bring that up. It’s been so long ago and ever since… Doyeon’s confession, they never really talked about it again.

“Oh my god, look at your face,” She laughs. “God, do you think I still like you? I moved on the day after you rejected me.”

“I didn’t reject you.” Jungkook defensively says.

She rolls her eyes. “I asked you if you were interested and you didn’t say anything. You just looked at me like this,” Doyeon stiffens her body and widens her eyes in a comical rendition of Jungkook’s famous OJO face.

Jungkook can’t help but scoff. “That was the strangest confession that happened to me, though. You told me you liked me in the straightest face ever, I still think it was a cruel prank of some sort.”

Doyeon bursts into laughter, and Jungkook follows along, recalling that time.

“Yeah… that was funny. But… it was real, not a prank at all. I don’t remember why I liked you, though.”

Jungkook looks at her incredulously. “Okay, but that’s actually the most hurtful thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Don’t take it personally,” Doyeon rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile on her lips still. “Anyway, I brought it up because that was the same day when I realized you like __. I mean, I had my suspicions, but I confirmed it around the time.”

Jungkook shakes his head. “Was really surprised when you told me that. I thought I hid it pretty well.”

“Yeah, but not to me. You know, I don’t even know how __ didn’t figure it out herself. You’d always follow her around and in our study sessions, you always stayed up late with her and was overly attentive. Whenever Taehyung asked you too much, you sort of like reached a point where you just told him to suck it up. But if it was __, you were so patient,” Doyeon giggles. “She had a really hard time with Biochem. I remember you tutoring her all the time.”

“That was…” Jungkook bows his head down, a bit embarrassed at being read like that. “She cried a lot during first year.”

Doyeon purses her lips. “Yeah…”

Both stare ahead again, with nothing to say for a few more seconds. Jungkook continues to sip his bear while Doyeon quietly sits.

“I have this biased notion about Mingyu,” Doyeon speaks up. Jungkook looks at her she continues, “I keep on telling myself, he’s probably gonna fuck up anytime soon – and that’s because deep inside, I still want you and __ together. You know I’ve always wanted you both to be together. It’s hard to see __ struggling with her love life. She almost failed the internship when Eunwoo broke up with her, and I don’t want her to go through that again as her friend. It’s hard, because I can’t do anything about it. I think of you, and how much you love her, and I think you’re good for her… but at the same time, I feel bad for thinking that. Because I can see that Mingyu makes her happy. It’s different with the other guys she dated before him. She’s truly happy with him, and I find it hard to think that Mingyu’s gonna break her heart. He seems… nice… and that he’d be good for her, you know what I mean?”

Jungkook’s quiet, processing her words.

Doyeon sighs before she speaks again. “But that hurts you in the process, doesn’t it? Seeing her happy but not with you. You’re both my friends and I’m in the position where it’s hard for me to situate myself in a certain place. Because I want __ to be happy, but I also want you to be happy – but your happiness is interconnected and it’s… tricky. It’s a tricky situation.”

Jungkook doesn’t realize that he’s gripping the neck of the bottle quite tightly at Doyeon’s words, but he listens.

“I don’t normally say things like this, Jungkook, but I’m your friend so I’m just gonna let this go,” Doyeon finally looks at him, and he meets her gaze. “It hurts me to see you hurting like this. It hurts Taehyung and Nayeon as well, but they won’t say it. Just… just be… just be okay, please?”

Jungkook exhales a sharp, shaky breath.

He knows what Doyeon meant by that. She’s asking him to… find happiness on his own. Happiness that doesn’t lie on __’s reciprocity because with the way things are going, that’s impossible. She’s planning to move in with Mingyu, and most of all, she seems genuinely happy.

“I… I know. Thank you.” Jungkook says, not really knowing what to say.

Doyeon chuckles. “Do you want a hug?”

He looks at her with a smile. “I could use one right now, yeah.”

Doyeon laughs before standing up and going over to where Jungkook sits on his own sun chair. When she steps in front of him, Jungkook wraps his arms around her waist and lets himself rest the side of his head on her stomach, closing his eyes when Doyeon pats the crown of his head.

“Belated happy birthday, Jungkook.”

Jungkook chuckles. “Thanks. You’re unusually mushy today.”

Doyeon pinches his ear slightly which earns her a groan.

The two stay like that for a few more seconds when suddenly, Jungkook hears a familiar voice.

“Oh, h-hey guys,”

Jungkook immediately looks ahead to see you standing from the other side of the terrace, looking at him and Doyeon. At that, Doyeon lets go of him, twisting her body to look in your direction. Jungkook retreats his arms back to his side and smiles to acknowledge you.

“I thought you were sleeping already.” He says.

“Yeah, what brought you here?” Doyeon asks.

You approach them with unusually slow steps, as if reluctant. “Left my wallet here. Just realized it a while ago,” you say. After that, you stop on your tracks. Your gaze falls between them with an unsure smile on your face. “You two drinking?”

“Nah, Jungkook is.” Doyeon says, pointing to the bottle of Smirnoffs on the small table beside Jungkook’s chair. Then, she looks under her own. “Where’d you leave your wallet?”

“Over my chair earlier.” You give her a smile again. But somehow, it looks a bit awkward. A little forced. Jungkook knows you well enough to identify your smiles.

And as he looks at you longer, he realizes you have a certain color on your face, but it’s one of those expressions he can’t read.

“Well,” you blurt out after a beat of silence. Looking around, you go over to where you were sitting earlier then duck. “I think I left it here…” you trail off. Jungkook’s just about to stand up to help as well when you suddenly pull up a brown leather, grinning at both of them. “Yay.”

Jungkook chuckles. “That would’ve been the third wallet you’ll lose this year.”

You mirror his laughter, and Doyeon joins in.

There’s another pause and then hesitantly, you ask, “Did I… uh… disturb something? Or…”

“What?” Doyeon asks with furrowed brows. “No,”

“Ah, okay,” you smile at her and then insert your wallet in your shorts. “Anyway, I’m heading back to Mingyu. The villa he rented is just at the back of ours, so… feel free to visit anytime or whatever.”

“Sure.” Jungkook says. He didn’t mean it to sound clipped and short but he must have unintentionally let the tone slip, as you and Doyeon immediately give him a look. He clears his throat. “I mean, of course. Tomorrow?”

You nod.

You look at him. And then, you point between him and Nayeon. “Are you two staying up here late?”

“Nah, I’m heading to bed actually.” Doyeon says, picking up her phone from the sun lounger.

“Yeah, me too.” Jungkook puts the beer to the coffee table and stands up.

You nod. “Okay, then. Well, good night to you two.”

“Alright, good night. I’ll head out first.” Doyeon says before disappearing into the sliding door that leads straight to the villa’s living room.

You soon turn your heels back to head out as well, but Jungkook calls after you. Turning around, you hum, acknowledging him. “Hm?”

“Good night, stinky.”

You deadpan. “Night, fucker.”

Jungkook laughs, watching your retreating back as you leave.

[ DAY 4 | September 3rd , 3:05 am ]

Jungkook likes to work out when he has a lot in his mind. But sometimes, he opts for jogging or walking around to clear his head.

With the turn of events since Mingyu’s arrival and Doyeon informing him about your plans on furthering your relationship with Mingyu, he finds himself along by the shore at three am with high hopes to clear his mind. It doesn’t give the solution, but it temporarily does the job.

Inserting his hands in the pockets of his hoodie, he looks ahead at the view of the ocean, trying so hard to shut his head down with overbearing thoughts of you. It’s no use, though, it’s always filled with thoughts of you and you alone.

Jungkook thinks about the time in med school when he thought he was completely over you. It had been after you made it official with Eunwoo two months into seeing him. He thought it would be a “bigger person” thing to do, moving on, that is, after you announced that you got a boyfriend – but then later on, when he slept with other women or had his casual dates, you suddenly popped up in his head randomly, and his heart suddenly ached when Eunwoo would drop by the university to fetch you. He felt ugly bitterness when you smiled too much whenever Eunwoo was brought up in the conversation. He found himself wishing it was him instead – the guy you thought of buying shirts for, the guy you randomly thought of when you saw something at the mall or the park, or the guy you called when you needed anything.

It was that spring break in second year when he realized that he loved you, after trying hard to brush his feelings off for you as a mere infatuation because you were gorgeous and smart.

He finds himself thinking about the time when he almost let out his heart when you had a fall-out with Eunwoo during your third year. Thinks about how pathetic he was for thinking that he finally had the chance. It had been when you called him at midnight, crying onto the phone as you asked him if he wasn’t busy. Jungkook had been studying for a Clinical Skill Assessment at that time, but he’d have been a fool to make you feel lonely when you already seemed like you were not fine. So, he had set aside his studying that night and went right over to your place. You told him about how Eunwoo was going cold, how Eunwoo was getting too close to the senior architect at his firm which you’d been having huge arguments about during those days – Jungkook remembered feeling broken at the sight of you crying, could feel himself building up hatred for the guy who was fucking up his chance with the woman he did not deserve. He thought about how he would never do that to you, thought about how he could be better for you – the envy bubbling inside his heart too big to ignore.

Jungkook remembered thinking how he would never fuck up any chances with you, and how Eunwoo was a fucking idiot for even making you feel that way.

That night, he almost kissed you. And the day after that, you avoided him like the plague.

Doyeon told him he was just as much of a big fucking idiot as Eunwoo for doing that. And Jungkook remembered regretting that night, and swearing off to never, ever make a move on you ever again because your avoidance of him made him feel like the biggest fucking piece of shit to ever exist on Earth.

He remembers you didn’t talk to him for about a month. And he remembers fearing that that was finally it.  

Of course, you made up – you’re still in his life. You let him still be in your life even though he betrayed your trust. The trust that lies on the fact that he was your best friend. Someone who was not supposed to take advantage of your vulnerability, someone who did not suddenly try to kiss you when you were at your worst.

It was a memory you two weren’t fond of. Heck, you’ve never ever brought it up not even once since it happened. When you finally talked to him again after that, you did not let him apologize for what he did – just shut him down by saying that you two should just forget about it and never mention it again. You made it clear that you did not want to talk about it – not at all, not in a million years.

Again, Jungkook has had a million attempts to move on. Especially when you got back together with Eunwoo. He did temporarily, when Sora came into the picture. He genuinely did like her, even more than his first girlfriend in college, and he thought he could eventually love her the same way he does you, but Eunwoo suddenly proposed… and his defense came crumbling down. The fear of losing you once again was too overwhelming that he ruined the relationship with Sora because admittedly, he had always been pathetic like that.

Even now that you’re with Mingyu, he’s still pathetic. He still thinks that one day, you can finally look at him. Like, really look at him and feel anything but friendly towards him. It’s extremely pathetic that he keeps on telling himself that your friendship will be enough, but then deep down, it’s not.

Jungkook shuts his eyes close when he feels the cool breeze of the wind hitting his skin under the hoodie. He lets himself stand there for a while, just trying to bask in the surroundings, ignoring the heavy feeling that sits in his heart.

But then he smells a sudden waft of smoke, and he knits his brows as he opens his eyes back again, turning to the direction of the smell.

When he turns back, he sees a familiar figure of a man.

“Mingyu?”

Mingyu glances back at him with the same surprised look on his face, but it disappears just as quickly. Pinching the cigarette between his fingers, he blows smoke in the air and inserts one hand in his shorts.

“Jeon.”

“Still Jeon to you, huh?” Jungkook sneers, walking over to where Mingyu is. “Why are you here?”

Mingyu arches a brow. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Woke up a few minutes ago and couldn’t get back to sleep.”

Taking a hit of his cigarette again, Mingyu shakes his head. “That’s tough.”

“Same with you?” Jungkook asks.

“Nah. Had a discussion with my girlfriend. Just wanted to clear my head.”

Jungkook nods, not saying anything to that. It’s weird that you’ve been fighting a lot lately. He wonders if you’re okay.

Pulling out a pack of Marlboro and a lighter, Mingyu extends them to Jungkook.

He looks down at it and thinks about how this exact thing happened in college. Mingyu always had the pack of cigarettes and the link to the best weed man in college. He used to think they would be fond memories.

But Jungkook shakes his head, looking ahead.

“I quit years ago.” He says. And it is true. He wasn’t much of a smoker and only did it occasionally when he was extremely stressed, but it took him awhile to stop the habit completely, only dropping the cigarettes during second year of med school. Jungkook would say it was due to his own concern about his health – but there was an incident in the same year where you caught him smoking at the uni’s park after a particularly taxing exam, and how you did not hesitate to tell him that you hated – absolutely abhorred – smokers. You said you didn’t care if he smoked, but as a med student he should’ve known better.

He never touched that shit again.

“Changing your ways now?” Mingyu says with a teasing – more like mocking – tone, inserting the pack and lighter back in his pants.

Jungkook shrugs at that, which earns him a scoff from Mingyu.

“Do you smoke around her?” Jungkook suddenly asks.

“Who?”

“__.”

A beat of silence. And then Mingyu laughs.

“No. She doesn’t know I smoke. She doesn’t have to.”

Good. Jungkook thinks. Good that he doesn’t smoke around her. But what did he mean by saying she doesn’t need to know?

“She doesn’t like smokers, you know.” Jungkook tells him.

From his periphery, Jungkook sees Mingyu glancing at him. It takes a while for him to say something.

“You’d know that, huh?”

The dip in his tone makes Jungkook meet his gaze. Suddenly, the smirk on Mingyu’s face is gone, and there’s something behind his eyes that he can’t quite put a finger on.

Jungkook tries to ignore that. “I’ve known her for a long time. The others can also tell you that.” He says, referring to the rest of your friends on the trip.

“You think I don’t know?”

With furrowed brows and growing confusion, Jungkook stares at Mingyu.

“What?”

“That you like my girlfriend.” Mingyu spits the words out like venom in his mouth, but it’s in a way that tells him it’s been sitting with him for far too long. Jungkook’s surprised at the declaration, feels himself being taken aback by the blunt way he said it as if he’s so sure.

But Jungkook doubles down, to Mingyu’s surprise.

“So?”

That obviously wasn’t the answer the other man wanted to hear. So, what? He can dish it, but he can’t take it?

“You’re goddamn pathetic, then.” Mingyu says after awhile, taking a hit on his cigarette again.

It itches the bubbling anger Jungkook has had for him for the past ten years.

“I like __, and I’m not gonna deny that to you,” Jungkook faces him. “But you don’t have to worry about that, because unlike you, I have enough self-respect to not sleep with my friend’s girlfriend.”

It’s another response that Mingyu does not expect. Jungkook also did not mean to let that out. But his tongue glided with the words and he couldn’t help it. Suddenly, memories of junior year in undergrad comes back flashing to him; Jiyeon and Mingyu, fucking in his goddamn bed, his girlfriend cheating on him with his best friend.

Jungkook’s already moved on from that. Jiyeon was not a loss, even though she was his first girlfriend – heck, first love even, but she cheated on him. And not just with anybody but his best friend at the time. The worst thing was that Mingyu was completely in on it, and Jungkook doesn’t think he ever felt remorse about what happened back then. Mingyu gave him a half-assed apology the day he walked in on them, even had the gall to “explain” Jiyeon’s side, that apparently, she just wasn’t “feeling it” with Jungkook anymore, and that Mingyu and her had been hitting it off. Jungkook realized it was why Mingyu suddenly came over way too often over at his apartment.

It’s exactly why he never bothered to meet with Mingyu after graduation. Why he was not enthusiastic meeting him at the engagement party.

But that happened so many years ago that he thought Mingyu’s changed. He didn’t want to burst your bubble and tell you what happened between them back then because he’d be the one to ruin the happiness you’ve wished for all these years.

“I see you’re still hung up on that.” Mingyu says after a while. He throws the cigarette away and steps on it with his heel.

Jungkook’s jaw ticks in what he feels is growing rage. “I’ve moved on. I’m just letting you know that even though I like __, I’m never doing what you did back then.”

“You’re such good guy, then?”

“If not cheating makes me a good guy, then maybe I am.” Jungkook shrugs.

“Jiyeon was a bitch. She was never gonna be good for you.” Mingyu suddenly says.

It makes Jungkook seethe. “And so you fucked her?”

“She liked me better than you. Women always liked me more, that’s why I was going through them while your goody-two shoes virgin prude ass was daydreaming about dating to marry.  You remember that, right?” Mingyu looks at him with a mocking stare. “And Jiyeon was smoking hot. She offered, I just delivered. Said you couldn’t make her cum properly. We could have shared her, you know?”

“Fuck you.” Jungkook spits out. He feels enraged and pissed and disgusted all at the same time.

“Are you getting mad?” Mingyu levels him with an infuriating smirk. “You always got a stick up in your ass, Jeon. Kyungmi told me you’re just a regular playboy these days, said it was the effect of your first girlfriend cheating on you. Right now, though, is that just a front to hide your feelings from my girlfriend? A pathetic boy best friend just wanting to be noticed by his hot girl best friend? You play that role so well. Telling me she’s lactose intolerant, she doesn’t like smokers… you want to fuck her so bad it’s laughable because you know you can’t.”

“Don’t… fucking talk about her like that.” Jungkook growls, and he feels blood rushing through his veins.

Mingyu shakes his head. “You know what I thought when I first met her? I was completely interested right away, but when you showed up…” He chuckles in the way that makes Jungkook’s skin prickle. “It just made me want her more.”

“You’re fucked in the head.”

“This fucked in the head guy got the girl you want wanting to commit to him. I don’t know if she told you, but we’re moving in together.”

Jungkook pokes his tongue to his cheek. “You think I won’t tell her about this?”

“You think she’s gonna believe you?” Mingyu fires back. Jungkook closes his mouth, doesn’t really know if he’s confident enough to say yes. That earns him an arrogant smirk from Mingyu. “That’s right, she won’t. I have no doubt she’s gonna choose me over you. Jiyeon has had before. And if you’re gonna fight the same battle again this time, you’ll lose.”

Jungkook regulates his breathing hearing his words. He’s starting to not see clearly, his fist clenching on his side and he knows better than to resort to violence, but Mingyu’s testing his patience.

He’s completely wrong for thinking that he isn’t the same asshole he was back in college. He’s completely wrong for not telling you about him sooner. He’s completely wrong about everything.

Glancing at his hand, Mingyu looks him in the eyes, leaning forward. “You wanna hit me just like how you did back then? You almost fucking killed me when you gave me that head injury that kicked me out of the fucking team.”

The head injury. That fucking head injury. Jungkook was so mad when he found out that he just saw pure red. It wasn’t his best moment – he knows. He lost control and just… went for it. He still regrets doing it – not punching Mingyu – but for losing it when he could’ve shown him that he’d always be the bigger person between them both.

He’s quiet and Mingyu takes that as a win. Scoffing, Mingyu says, “I could’ve reported you to the admin and you could’ve been expelled, and if that happened, you couldn’t have gone to med. You are where you are right now because of me, so don’t fucking show that animosity towards me because you fucking owe me one.”

Jungkook can’t help but laugh. But he does so humorlessly. “You really think that?” He stares at the other guy. “You’re just as delusional as you were back then, Gyu. You think everybody liked you – but that was just because you were a touch-deprived loser who would fuck anything that breathed near him, and I wasn’t. I only entertained women I liked. You thought you were smarter, but I was always the one who got the better and higher grades, even though you studied way harder. Is that why you went with law? So you won’t have to compete with me in the med field? I also know you were pissed as fuck when the captain title was passed on to me instead of you,” Jungkook leans closer as well. “You’ve always thought of yourself so highly, but deep down, you were just an insecure little boy trying to compete with another guy that didn’t even see you as competition because you were that irrelevant.”

Mingyu, in his own fir of rage, grabs Jungkook’s collar, but Jungkook stays in his place, face stoic as Mingyu snarls, “You keep running your mouth while you cry yourself to sleep because those don’t mean anything when I’m the one fucking the love of your life,” Jungkook visibly recoils to that, and when Mingyu notices, he smirks, adding, “Yeah, yeah, you wanna know how __ is in bed? Because you’ll never see her sopping wet when you give her cock. That angelic face of hers… you’ll never know she’s a slut the way that filthy mouth asks me to fuck her harder because I am that goo—”

He wasn’t able to finish his sentence when Jungkook’s heavy fist suddenly lands on his cheek.

That effectively gets Mingyu to let go of Jungkook’s collar as he loses his balance and steps backwards limply, thumbing the side of his mouth only to see blood.

Whisking away his fist, Jungkook looks at Mingyu with fire in his eyes and venom in his voice when he says, “Don’t you ever fucking dare talk about her like that, you fucking piece of shit.”

The moon hangs low in the sky, casting a silvery white glow over the beach, but the comforting sound of waves and the calm of the surrounding is a contrast to the rising tension between Jungkook and Mingyu.

When Mingyu doesn’t say anything, Jungkook turns on his heel, ready to leave, but suddenly, he feels the back of his shirt getting pulled and being met with a fist right on his cheek, close to his nose. He barely dodges the hit, taken aback by the unexpected attack.

“Fuck you.” Mingyu grits, eyes blazing.

With that, the fight intensifies, with Jungkook throwing a quick jab back. Mingyu retaliates with as much fury, the two of them grappling, their bodies colliding with violent force. Soon, the sound of their grunts and the occasional crash of a punch against flesh is drowned out by the crashing waves.

And then a familiar voice calls their names.

“Jungkook! Mingyu!”

“Oh my god!”

Jungkook’s suddenly being taken away by somebody by his arms, and he realizes it’s Taehyung when he speaks up again once he and Mingyu are off each other.

“What the fuck are you two doing?” Taehyung asks incredulously, rightfully shocked at what he’s seen. Jungkook forces his way out of Taehyung’s hold in frustration, wiping the side of his mouth. Mingyu’s on the other side a few inches away being hesitantly held down by Nayeon, who looks at all of them with deep worry in her eyes. Turning to her, Taehyung says, “Call Doyeon and __. They’re sleeping in the same room together at the villa.”

“You don’t need to do that,” Jungkook says, glaring at Taehyung.

He looks at him angrily. “You’re fistfighting with somebody at fuck o’clock in the morning. We’re going to get run off by the police, be thankful we saw you.”

“I-I’ll call Doyeon and __.” Nayeon stutters, reluctantly pulling away from Mingyu and going to the direction of the villas.

When she leaves, Taehyung looks between the two beaten up men, not believing their busted faces. Rubbing his own with his hands in frustration, he looks back at them again, saying, “What the fuck happened to you guys? Why were you fighting?”

“It’s none of your business.” Mingyu says.

Taehyung glances at him with irritation. “None of my business? Fuck off, Kim Mingyu. You joined in on this trip. Everything that happens here is quite literally each other’s business.”

“Tae.”

“I can’t believe you guys,” Taehyung shakes his head, ignoring Jungkook. “Fighting like goddamn immature teenagers… are you not embarrassed?”

Looking away, Jungkook decides to sit on the sand and let Taehyung’s words go from one ear to another. His energy is waning and the rage he had a while ago is just simmering down to… nothing. He feels absolutely empty.

“Jungkook?” He doesn’t realize the steps that were coming towards them were you and Doyeon. It’s obvious that you’ve both been sleeping, still in your pajamas as you rush towards their direction. He looks at you when you call his name, but then suddenly, you turn to Mingyu. “Ming— what happened?”

Jungkook feels his heart break when you come towards Mingyu’s direction first. He knows why you did. He’s your boyfriend, of course you are going to tend to him first.

Suddenly, he remembers what Mingyu said. About you choosing him over Jungkook.

Jungkook didn’t doubt that, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt a little to see it fully realized.

“Jungkook– Jesus Christ,” Doyeon comes over to him and quickly checks his head. With knitted brows, she casts him a look.

“I’m fine.”

She’s about to say something, but then she closes her mouth and then glances at you.

Sighing, she turns to everyone and announces, “Look, let’s just get them back to the villa. Treat their wounds before they get infected.”

“Right.” Taehyung says and then comes over to Jungkook to help Doyeon guide him in walking. He relents first because he doesn’t need their assistance, but Taehyung looks at him and he knows he’s pissed. So, he lets them.

As he tries to subtly look over to where you were, you have your arm around Mingyu’s waist while Nayeon helps guide him as well.

It takes a tedious few minutes to get back to the villa where Doyeon and Taehyung decide to take care of him in his room while Nayeon and you tend to Mingyu back in your room.

Doyeon nor Taehyung doesn’t say anything the whole time. Just let the silence fall in the room as they clean his wounds and put bandages around the cuts on his face and treat his busted lip.

He knows they’ll talk to him in the next few hours. It’s inevitable. But at least they’re sparing him for tonight – or today, since it’s almost four am.

Jungkook regrets not seeing the sunrise.

[ READ BELOW ]

this chapter is not over yet! tumblr has a 1k paragraph/block limit in a single post and so i can't put the whole thing in this. please look thru the reblogs to read the last scene and the continuation of this chapter or click on this [ link ]

[cheetabites]

☆彡 cinnamon pt 2 ˳༄꠶

character: kang dae-ho (player 388)

˳༄꠶ summary: five sfw and nsfw general headcannons for dae-ho

sfw headcannons

★ he’s a man that knows how to dress himself well. in korea, the importance on appearance is a reinforced by society so lots of people dress good, but i’m telling you that he knows how to keep up appearances - even if his clothes remain casual, all his outfits look good on him; he mainly wears black high waisted dress pants w/ wide pant legs paired with a loose fitting shirt & a cardigan or an oversized hoodie w/ cargo pants

★ he has a sad playlist that he jams out to regularly; even if nothing bad happened. he could be doing the most mundane task - like walking down the streets of korea - and one of the most heartbreaking songs would be blasting out of his earphones

★ he hates needles, and i mean he hates them. sure, he got a tattoo, but if he has to do anything like getting his blood drawn he’ll bolt it out of there - unless you’re there and you hold his hand

★ he’s one of those people that keeps all their app tabs open on their phone. and probably barely has any storage space because of the amount of pictures he has of you and other things; he doesn’t want to delete them because he thinks he’ll forget the moment

★ he’s big on physical touch. there isn’t a moment where he can go on without holding your hand or wrapping his arms around your shoulders from behind. it’s also normal for him to place tiny kisses on your face whenever the opportunity arises

nsfw headcannons

★ loves to tell you how beautiful you are when you please each other. your hair could be messy and sticking to your face, or you’re sweating profusely, but it doesn’t matter. he never wants to think your any less than beautiful

★ he really likes when you ride him; especially when he’s just laying flat - no hands on you or anything - on the bed and you lay your palms flat on his shoulders for support

★ the idea of you just using him for pleasure really gets him off - like if you were stressed and needed to blow of steam so you decide to pin him down and be a little bit mean and condescending while you please him; he usually cries when you guys fuck like that, but it’s always out of pleasure

★ he wouldn’t want to have sex anywhere besides the bedroom. i feel like both of you tried it once in a more public place - like maybe one of your guys’ cars or in a hotel room - but it turned him off so bad that you both agreed to not try that again

★ he’s all for waking you up by eating you out (consensual somnophilia); hearing you gasp as you awake and having you card your fingers through his hair to tug on it, it’s one of the best sights he’d ever witnessed. he usually does this on the days he has to work cause he loves riling you up, but he always makes sure to clean you up before he leaves

the end! i hope you enjoyed <3!

© cheetabites. don’t translate, claim or repost my works on any platform. jan 3 2025.

[foxxypaws]

Agere journal prompts ⭐

(contains links to more prompts / ideas at the end ^^) (divider credits)

First of all... what's an agere journal?

Great question! it's a few things really (or whatever you want it to be)

It can be a journal you can use when you regress, just so you can draw and do fun activities! mostly for artistic littles who like to make and draw :3 Or it can be a journal full of information on regression, specify your regression. listing stuff like what you do when little, your favoruite things, your boundaries. these are usually made for littles to give to their caregivers. or it can be both!

prompts!

🖍 an introduction / all about me page 🖍 Pictures (drawn or not) of your favourite plushies and friends ^ 🖍 Character profiles for stuffies 🖍 finger painting 🖍 plan out events like picnics and playdates 🖍 Design and draw your dream little room 🖍 gear wishlist 🖍 print out some task sheets (and/or design your own) 🖍 Headcanons of your fictional littles/caregivers 🖍 positive message 🖍 doodles 🖍 list your favourite activities! 🖍 a collage 🖍 What makes you feel the happiest / safest 🖍 Your favourite movies and TV shows 🖍 Big you vs. little you (chart, drawing, list, etc) 🖍 Draw yourself as an animal! 🖍 signs that you are regressed 🖍 Write down any chores for the day as a to-do list or sticker check-off list 🖍 Design a small outfit 🖍 Make a playlist for when little 🖍 A pretend menu for when playing restaurants ^ 🖍 Anything you might need for pretend play (doctor notes, grocery list, tressure maps) 🖍 regression triggers 🖍 draw yourself as a superhero! 🖍 plan your ideal trip 🖍 Family photos of you and your plushies 🖍 make a page dedicated to a colour (any colour) and describe how it makes you feel (for example i like yellow because it reminds me of sunflowers) (another (and better) example) 🖍 A page dedicated to your favourite characters 🖍 share a funny memory that makes you laugh 🖍 make a word search when big (or even get your caregiver/friend to do it!), and then when you find it when little you can do it!

links!

fun scenarios (this post also contains links!), things to doodle, designing your dream regression room, pokemon related prompts, 50 things to put into your agere journal, 75 agere journal prompts.

[hatsbuckets]

Sunday Softies: The 141 and Spoiling

I think the fandom generally agrees on how this would go, I just wanted to write it with my little brain ideas. :) Inspired by friend, u know who u r <3 U deserve to be spoiled.

Price: He takes care of things before you even realize they needed taking care of. Paperwork done. Groceries stocked. Car serviced. That task you didn’t want to do? Already finished. He spoils with reliability, steady devotion. He’s a gift giver, but not flashy, practical things that show he’s been paying attention. A good knife with a grip that fits your hand perfectly. A coat that’s just your color. A book he thinks you’ll love, already book marked on his favorite page. And no, you cannot say no, or don't do that. It's already happening, love. He doesn’t say “I love you” often, but he shows it in every little thing.

He’ll brush a hand over your back in passing, make your favorite tea without asking, pay a bill you didn’t mention was due. And if you try to thank him, he’ll just huff a soft, “Don’t need thanks, love. Just want you alright.”

Simon: Quiet spoiling, always thoughtful. He doesn’t make a show of it, doesn’t always say what he’s doing, just does it. You’re cold? There’s already a blanket around your shoulders. You’re quiet? He’s pulling you into his chest, pressing a kiss into your hair, no words needed. He notices the things others miss: the way your shoulders tense when you're overwhelmed, the little sighs when you're tired. And he acts.

He’s the one who starts your bath before you even say you’re sore. Who loads your playlist before a flight. Who stocks your favorite snack in his go-bag, not for him, for you. He’s not flashy. He’s constant. A pillar you don’t have to lean on, but he’ll always be there if you do.

Johnny: He’s all heart, all noise, all joy. He spoils with laughter and food and physical affection that never runs out. He shows up with your favorite takeout, grinning like he just did something brilliant. He’ll pull you into his lap, kiss your forehead, tease you about how “needy” you are. while holding you like you’re made of glass. He’s a giver in every sense: touch, time, warmth, comfort. He wants you to take it. All of it. And expects absolutely nothing back. (Okay maybe just a kiss.)

He’ll cook for you, even if it’s absolute chaos in the kitchen, just to see you smile when he says, “Aye, try it. If you hate it, I’ll order pizza.” He’ll kiss you between bites, laugh when you spill something, clean it up like it doesn’t matter. He’s a lover, through and through.

Kyle: Softest form of spoiling, quiet doting with precision. He’ll make your appointments, massage, nails, therapy, whatever you need, and pay for them without blinking. He’ll pick out pajamas that feel right, fluff your pillow, draw your curtains, and light your favorite candle before you even come home. He spoils with a gentle consistency, with warmth that feels like safety.

He’ll run a bath, make sure the water’s perfect, and leave a clean towel folded by the tub. And he won’t say a word, just kiss your cheek and say, “Go relax. I’ve got dinner handled.” And he does. Always.

[so-many-ocs]

practical writing advice part 2

part 1

get used to carrying a notebook around with you. or get used to writing on your phone. you will not always have access to your computer, but it’s much easier to take something compact with you to quickly jot down ideas. also i have chronic illness and sometimes my bones feel like lead and going upstairs to get my laptop is a herculean task, BUT i can write on my phone lying down instead of just scrolling through my camera roll and being miserable. which brings me to my next point:

if you have to choose between writing unconventionally or even unproductively and not writing at all, choose the writing. i’ve said before not to create a habit of writing in bed, but if it comes down to writing in bed or not writing whatsoever, i’ll write in bed. i just try to stretch before and after (which you should also do!!!).

you’re not wasting time or being silly by making playlists or moodboards or memes of your characters and environments. having fun with your stories outside of writing them is a good way to stay motivated.

i like to stop my writing sessions in a place where i know exactly what i want to write next, so when i pick back up i won’t be left hemming and hawing over where to begin. HOWEVER, if you’re absolutely locked in, don’t interrupt that flow state. it’ll be harder to find it again later—instead, wait until you find a natural place to stop where you haven’t run out of ideas.

“why do i have a headache 3 hours into my writing session?” because the last time you had a sip of water was 4 hours ago, you dingus! keep your drinks near your workspace while you write. and i do mean, like, a full bottle of water at least. if you’re like me, things stop existing when they leave your line of sight, so keep these beverages where you can see them and refill during bathroom breaks.

uhhh try not to think negatively about your writing while you’re doing it because when i do that i just get bummed out. “this scene is terrible�� -> “oh yeah fuck it up oh yeah fuck it up” (positive reframing)

ok thanks bye

[marvelouslymarly]

Dating Bob includes (Part 3/?)

Masterlist Part 1 Part 2 Part 4

[A/n: just with the other parts, mild spoiler warning for thunderbolts* as this is set after but I'm not going into too much detail on what happened in the film]

CW: just pure fluff

You loved the thrill of sneaking around in the tower in between sparring sessions and daily tasks, looking for hidden corners or spaces in the tower that could become your guys' little getaway for a kiss or two. Most times, you'd sent Bob a cryptic text featuring the bare minimum of information to get him to find you in case he was with some of the other team members when the message popped up on his phone and then you'd wait, peeking around the corner every few seconds, your heart hammering inside your chest with anticipation. The smile on your lips would grow when you realised he was finally making his way to you - you'd grown atuned the sound of his step, assertive and quick, but still with a certain softness in the way his foot would land on the floor - and you'd play with your fingers or the hem of your shirt, barely able to contain the joy of a thousand love drunk teenagers bottled up inside you, knowing you'd get to be with him even if it was just for a short moment. Then, when he was just walking past your hiding spot, you'd grab his arm and pull him towards you quickly. It didn't matter how long you two had been dating, his eyes lighting up the second he saw you and the smile lines deepening on his face as he looked down on you, his hands coming up to your hips and pulling you closer. Most times, you'd share a few kisses, giggling in between and feeling like you were fifteen again, other times you'd just hold each other in your arms, his head buried in the crook of your neck and inhaling your signature scent. Whenever you heard footsteps coming down the corridor or approaching the broom closet you were hiding in, you pulled away from each other and started talking about literally anything or showing each other stuff on your phones, faking laughs and trying to convince whoever walked past that you definitely had not been kissing each other just seconds before. Only when you'd made sure that you were alone again would the tension break and you'd fall into each other, trying to keep from laughing for real this time.

Bob would be the first to say 'I love you'. Though he didn't so much say it as it slipped out one time after kissing you, more of a sigh than a true utterance - and then his eyes went wide as realisation hit him. He gulped, his cheeks burning and his fingers interlocking with each other, nervousness starting to bubble over. Meanwhile, butterflies came awake in your tummy, and a warm feeling spread through your body. He'd grown to be quite calm and collected around you after a while of dating, but in this instance, it wasn't hard to see that he was trying to stay suave and failing miserably - not to say that the look of him in that instant wasn't incredibly cute and heartwarming. He'd try to come up with something else to say, but his mouth would only open and close, the desperation growing with every second he couldn't find the right words. After torturing him for another moment or two, the cogs of his mind turning in an attempt to figure out if he should fight, flee or freeze, you cupped his cheek and placed a quick kiss on his lips before telling him you loved him, too. You could feel every fibre of his being relax, as his arms wrapped around your body, pulling you closer once more.

Whenever the rest of the team was out on a mission, the two of you would cook together, blasting music over the speakers in the open living room and singing along loudly. You'd made a shared playlist with him of your favourite songs and titles that reminded you of each other and would love to introduce the other person to new music while dancing in between cutting up the ingredients and stirring the pot on the stove. In moments like these, the two of you would forget that you were superheroes trying to save the world and just enjoy each other's company, the weight on your shoulders a little easier to bear. Until one time, while you were swaying in each other's arms, lost in the music and the joy of the moment, you almost didn't hear the faint 'ding' of the elevator announcing the arrival of the other Thunderbolts. Bob was just leaning in to kiss you, his eyes already shut, when you put your finger to his lips and stopped him just before anyone could walk into the kitchen and catch you. You had just enough time to tell him you'd continue where you left off later in his bedroom and put some distance between you, before someone turned off the music and Walker pushed past the two of you obliviously, heading straight for the pot on the stove and using the wooden spoon to taste the curry you had been cooking that evening, complaining about how hungry he was.

[tulippanes]

𝐍𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐘 𝐃𝐎𝐆

hajime i. x f!reader

▼• ᴥ •▼ 𝗦𝗬𝗡𝗢𝗣𝗦𝗜𝗦

. . ↷ He's an athletic trainer and she works at a doggie daycare. By coincidence, an escaped dog ran up and jumped on him while he was leaving his gym. Maybe it was fate, but he just so happened to have taken interest in her at first glance. While she's getting over a rough breakup, he wants to be the one to mend her heart. His mind is always wandering whenever he's around her though, and it's certainly not helping with anything.

╭ ܀ ✧ WARNINGS

language, suggestive content, kms/kys jokes, FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF, humor hopefully, mentions of emotional manipulation and cheating, a drop of angst, MAYBE 2nd hand embarrassment, horrible flirting, lots of cuteness tho, HAJIME IWAIZUMI.

╭ ܀ ✧ DYNAMICS

Blended SMAU, Strangers to friends to lovers, Hurt/Comfort but make it more comfort, Healing, Romance, Love at First Sight, Slight Slow Burn

status ➺ ongoing

taglist ➺ open

✼ PROFILES

dog whisperers | the 3 musketeers + gym rat

✼ NOTES

(🦴) means there's a written portion!

✼ PLAYLIST

here!

𝐌𝐄𝐄𝐓 𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐃𝐎𝐆𝐒!

𝗖𝗢𝗥𝗚𝗜 — The Runaway

i. catch that dog! (🦴)

ii. it was just a coincidence. nothing more.

iii. hey. again. I guess? (🦴)

iv. thoughts of a stranger

v. catch that dog.. again! (🦴)

vi. introductions, finally (🦴)

vii. planning

viii. operation: get her number

ix. oh he's wimping out

x. operation maybe failed

xi. operation failed (🦴)

xii. plan b?

xiii. you can do it, hajime!

xiv. task failed successfully (🦴)

xv. the first message of a blooming friendship (or love)

𝗣𝗢𝗢𝗗𝗟𝗘 — The Know-It-All

xvi. suspicion

xvii. thoughts of the well-known (🦴)

TBA...

𝗚𝗢𝗟𝗗𝗘𝗡 𝗥𝗘𝗧𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗥 – The Affectionate

TBA...

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

Can a dog say "I love you"?

a/n ok i'm js flowing w ideas mbmb LMFAOO this one was itching my brain I had to get it out plus I think it's a cute concept but I rlly need to stop tho b4 I over exert myself w all the series I have

[nottswitch]

congrats on 1k!!

for the wheel of aesthetics can you do 5 for theo nott with either smut or fluff 💗

hi and thank you so much, love!! thanks for sending a request <3 i chose smut for this, so i hope you’ll like it. your aesthetic is…

— spacecore

(centered around astronomy, stars and planets)

» navigation ; masterlist ; theo m.list ; how to request ; 1k celebration

18+ smut

it was supposed to be just another night of suffering through an astronomy assignment with your classmate aka biggest academic rival theodore nott. how did you end up pressed against the railing of the astronomy tower with your ass up in the air, you didn’t know. you also didn’t want to know, because then you’d have to think, and thinking with theo’s tongue stuffed inside your pussy wasn’t the easiest task.

"nott, fuck-"

"shut up."

theo pulled away from your pussy just to say that and give your asscheek a smack, ringing through the whole platform at the top of the tower. you bit your bottom lip and squeezed your eyes shut when he delved back into your dripping folds, lapping up your arousal from your inner thighs in the process.

your grip on the railing tightened when his index and middle fingers slipped inside, immediately curling and pressing on that spot that made you moan faintly into the air.

"i said shut" smack. "up" another smack.

"nott, fuck you-u-u…" you trailed off into another moan when he added a third finger, stretching you out to an impossible degree and making your hand fly up to your mouth.

"good girl," theo murmured against your skin before wrapping his lips around your clit. you gasped and tried to bite down on your palm, which didn’t really work and you had to assault your bottom lip again.

theo felt his cock throb inside his pants and had to use his other hand to palm himself through the fabric. the pace of his fingers got quicker and your eyes suddenly had a mind of their own, rolling to the back of your head.

"nott, i- fuck, i’m gonna-"

"shit!"

you didn’t have time to register what had just happened because theo’s fingers reached a certain spot inside of you that made you completely crumble. panting for air, your legs shaking from the intensity of your orgasm, you lazily turned your head over your shoulder, just to see a sight that made your eyebrows reach your hairline in a second.

"nott, did you just cum in your fucking pants?"

"not a word, or i swear to god-"

playlist

❥ tout l’univers by gjon’s tears

❥ the prophecy by taylor swift

❥ across the universe by the beatles

❥ i feel it coming by the weeknd

❥ all for us by labrinth & zendaya