#which is 1/3 of the wc in total | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

husbandhoshi · 6 months ago

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title: royally screwed [m]

pairing: joshua x f!reader

wc: 30.8k in total; part 1: 15.4k, part 2: 15.4k summary: between remembering last night’s party and pleasing your unrelenting family, you think being a princess is hard enough. then you’re thrust into an arranged marriage to royal darling joshua hong—straight-laced, infuriatingly obedient, and everything you’re not. pretending to be the perfect couple? impossible. notes: romcom + smut (part 2), modern royalty!au in which yn is the princess of cotria/joshua the prince of acros (both fictional), enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, quarterlife crisis/coming of age, very very slow burn. lots of swearing, lots of alcohol, lots of feelings. very special thanks to @meiozis for all their help with worldbuilding and @wuahae for bearing with me through the endless drafts, scene changes, second guessing, horrible word choices, etc. you are the only reason this got done, and i love you to the moon and back <3 [read part 2 here!]

Here, in the dark, there is just you.

The strobe lights press into your skin with all the brilliance of the sun, there's half a Modelo running down your leg, and you think you kissed the stranger behind you last week, but if you close your eyes, it's just you. No rules, no five second curtseys, no talk about the throne or whoever's ass happens to be keeping it warm at the moment.

Here, you're nobody, and it's perfect.

"I'm getting more champagne," Somi says, her voice careening over the music. "You sure Jihoon doesn't want any?"

You glance back at him. He's flattened up against the back wall, holding your purse, like a raccoon caught going through the trash. This is one of the many trials he's forced to endure for your entertainment, but it's his job–not as your closest friend, but as your legally employed bodyguard.

"No, he's on duty."

"Right," she slurs. "Sometimes I forget you're a literal princess."

If only it were that easy. Five drinks in and you think you can still feel your mother's vice grip on your arm and all the little white crescents of her french manicure.

You love this song–at least, you think you do. You're too drunk to tell, but it doesn't matter. The dance floor is muggy, sardine-packed with one warm body after another, and it's heaven. The crowd moves, and you move with them. Shakira waits for no one.

Somi must have secured another bottle of Cristal already. Soonyoung, your other partner-in-crime, hands you a flute and you take it, the glittery foam already bubbling over the lip.

"Cheers." Out of his too-drunk mouth, it sounds like a new word altogether, but you bring your glass to his anyway.

Tomorrow, you have a meeting with your parents. This, unlike all of your other involvements, is actually important, they said, and their voices had wound around you like a snare.

When it gets late, Jihoon will sling your arm over his shoulders and haul you back to the palace, still tipsy and holding your stilettos to your chest like a shield. Tomorrow will come, and it's then when you'll have to try to be good. It's a useless, stupid affair, but you'll go through the motions anyway.

But tonight, there is you and the music and the wonderful laughter of your friends, and you don't have to be anything at all.

"Cheers," you tell Soonyoung, and you drink.

There are four large topiaries in the palace garden: all lions. They stand tall in their planters, majestic and hairy with French lavender. Today you notice that the rightmost one's nose has been pruned off by accident, and he stands, snoutless, staring at his green brothers and sisters.

You know this because this is the view from the study, and it has never changed. There is only one study in the east wing, and it is small and useless and the perfect room for your parents to sit you down and remind you that you do not, in fact, own a single thing about your own life.

There is nothing new about this ritual. Even as a child, when you were more desperate to please, you could never be the right kind of daughter to your parents or princess to your country. Again and again, you landed yourself here, in trouble once more.

So you stopped trying–you would find these four walls anyway, no matter what you did. Why not enjoy your Fridays instead?

By now, you’ve memorized the carvings on the armrest of the chair you’re in (a knobby column, then underneath, the whorl of a seashell). There are thirty-four terracotta stones on the way to the fountain, all spaced perfectly apart, sanded down to the millimeter.

The scene remains unchanged. Your mother now stares down at you over the bridge of her nose, with that tight-lipped frown you've gotten so used to. Your father paces near the window, either wondering why you can't be softer, more pliable, like your older brother Jeonghan, or, alternatively, why one of the lions is missing a nose. Maybe both.

"Enjoy yourself yesterday?" your mother asks.

"Yes," you reply, out of other answers.

"Wonderful. Then our early morning briefing with PR was good for something. You should be grateful last night's pictures won't make it out of the darkroom."

Her voice, bitter and incisive, makes the hangover bubble up in your stomach. You and the tabloids weren't exactly on good terms, but it wasn't your fault so many people seemed to care about what you were wearing or who you were out with.

"What did you want to meet about?" you ask, hoping to change the subject.

You can't put your finger on it, but there's a cloying, heavy energy hanging on you. You feel as though you're on the precipice of something, although that could just be the consequences of all that Cristal ready to reintroduce themselves to your digestive system.

Your mother clears her throat.

"We have arranged for you to marry someone."

And all at once, it seems as though all the air has been sucked out of the room. There's a sharp pain lodged somewhere between your chest, your stomach, and your unhappy liver. The larks sing emptily in the garden.

"What?" Your voice sounds like it's unraveling somewhere in your throat. Quickly, frantically, you grasp at the faraway possibility that it can't possibly mean what you think it does. Marry? You can’t even remember the last time you thought of going on a second date with someone. Now you might actually throw up.

"Prince Joshua, of the Hong family. The crown prince of–"

"Acros. I know," you interrupt, the words jumping out of you in shock and anger.

Of course you know who Joshua Hong is–Acros is a tiny, unremarkable country nestled into the border of your much bigger one, and Joshua their crown jewel. If you were the nation's problem, he was their darling. A bland thing to coo at when life got boring, the walking embodiment of a media training session. Smile and nod, smile and nod. He might as well be AI generated.

You wouldn't last a day with him. Not with your impatience, your opinions, or that loud mouth your parents always scold you for. Your mind swims with the mental image of the two of you on a gaudy parade float, doing that stupidly slow wave everyone seemed to insist on.

"Wonderful. So you'll pack a bag? The Hong family will be thrilled to meet you tomorrow," says your father.

"Why?" you ask. Your voice wobbles, treading over that childlike waver you never learned to control. "Is this to punish me?"

"My dear, your brother will be ascending to the throne soon," your mother answers, looking you dead in the eyes. "It’s his face that needs to be on the front page, not you in another abomination of a swimsuit. The Hongs will keep enough of an eye on you.”

She's right. She's always been right. Maybe not about the swimsuit, but you haven’t exactly been the PR princess your family needed you to be. If anything, you would think it made Jeonghan look better by comparison, but you know that your parents would prefer you to make appearances in something other than Deuxmoi’s Sunday Spotted. But the royal charade never fit you well either; it clings and sticks and bunches up at the seams like a cheap Halloween costume.

"The Hongs thought their country would benefit from our money. It was an easy decision, really," your mother finishes, as if that makes you feel any less like a silly, bikini-clad pawn in a game of chess you never asked to play.

"Does Jeonghan know?"

"He sees its purpose,” your father says simply, like that was all that mattered. “You will too, in due time.”

He nods solemnly, which is how he closes every conversation–just another turn of the silent knife. As your parents turn to leave, their silken garbs trail behind them like ink in still water. Business as always, especially with you.

"Your brother will be coming home from his press tour this week," your mother says on her way out. "You mustn't ruin this for him. The car leaves for Acros in the morning."

There's a mean, barbed feeling in your heart. You don't know whether to scream or to cry, so you do what your mother taught you to do. You sit, stilled by a feeling of hopelessness, and let yourself be emptied.

When you were thirteen, you learned how to ride a horse.

Not the impractical, side-saddle way drilled into you when you were a little girl, with your skirt billowing over the fender and catching in the stirrups, but how to really ride a horse.

It was on a night much like tonight–indigo and starless. Your brother had climbed up the marble trellis, his teenage, noodle body a perfect fit for scaling the lattice, and threw a stone at your window, just like you had seen in the movies. Jeonghan was still young, then, rebellious and unchanged by the throne.

It was him who laced up your riding boots, hoisted you on your first horse, and pressed the reins into your palms. You remember the unforgiving hold of the leather saddle, not yet broken in. You were so sore the next day, you were bed-bound–truly a punishment worse than death, if not for another reminder that everything you do ends up hurting you a little.

"It's great," Jeonghan had told you, breathless and haloed by the moonlight. "You can just ride. nowhere to go and no one to answer to."

You had spent the summer this way. Every night, you learned the sound of the forest at twilight, chasing Jeonghan's mud-splattered palomino. In the mornings, breakfast consisted of rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and whispering about whatever misadventure you had found yourselves tangled in the night before.

That was before he had come of age. Before your father gave him the Throne Talk, and before he was whisked away into endless meetings and etiquette lessons and parliaments. Your inside jokes became foul, overripe in his newly coached mouth. He even learned to play golf, and he hated golf.

Past August, you don't think you ever got your brother back.

You slide the oaken doors of the stables open, feeling your arms squeeze underneath your riding shirt. Here, it’s always quiet after sundown.

It hasn't changed since the day you first snuck in with Jeonghan. You let the green scent of the hay fill your lungs, the sleep-stir of the horses like music to your ears. Dokyeom has left the tack room open by "accident" once more, likely to avoid catching you picking the lock with a bobby pin like he had a few months ago.

"Hey, you," you whisper, coming to the stall of your own horse. Astrid, a bay thoroughbred, was Jeonghan's gift to you on your 18th birthday, a wistful reminder of a summer now past its prime. "No surprise here, but I had a really, really bad day."

Astrid, oblivious, noses at your palm in search of a nonexistent sugar cube. Somehow, this brings the anxious chatter of your mind to a crescendo—would Astrid come with you to Acros? When would that happen? More importantly, when were you moving? You think of a too-warm summer morning, the ridiculous, oversized brim of one of your mother's sunhats, and a moving truck. That, and a country ready to delete you from its ranks.

It's now, with the bridle in your fists, that you hear the wheedling groan of the stable door as it slides open. Without thinking, you quickly push out the first excuse you have. "I apologize, I was—"

"It's me."

Jihoon.

You would tease him about his fear of ponies—perhaps it's because he is quite literally the same size as them—but you think hearing another person tell you off would officially push you over the edge. You don't want to be dramatic, but you don't even know if Acros even had horses.

That, and somehow he's both the first and the last person you want to see. The guilt feels a bit heavier when you know his life is about to change too, in no small part due to your own failings.

"Jihoon, I…" you start. There’s an apology that’s been sitting on your tongue, one you haven’t quite learned to spit up yet. You don’t know who it’s for—yourself, or everyone else—but Jihoon interrupts you before you can finish your thought.

"You forgot your jacket," Jihoon replies.

For once, you can't read him. You wonder if he's thinking about if he'd get along with the other bodyguards, but, more likely, he's probably pitying you. You're the last person in the world that should be in an arranged marriage, and even someone who kills people for a living could tell.

"I'll be in the foyer."

You don't exchange any more words. Jihoon knows that there is nothing he can say that will erase what's about to happen, and like always, he is right.

After you saddle up, Astrid takes you to the forest like usual. Honestly, you've lost count of the times you've come out here to cry, usually about a boy you don’t even like, or, worse, Jeonghan declining your weekly Facetime session again. But now, you think you both know this time is very different.

"Astrid," you groan. "Joshua looks like a Ken doll from hell. He probably pronounces tomato like tomahto and has a closet dedicated to his tweed collection. I can't marry him."

Astrid is none the wiser. You wish she was human for a moment so you could show her the crater-sized hole that "prince joshua google images" left in your browser history.

"Do you think he only listens to classical music? I think a Kim Petras song would kill him instantaneously."

The mental image of Joshua Hong being struck down by the first ten seconds of Throat Goat makes you laugh, but you still don't feel far away enough from the truth.

You remember your 21st birthday, a balmy spring Friday. Jeonghan had been helping out at the local youth theater, and the opening night of their production was coincidentally the same day. Jeonghan had never been one for theater (last time, he had fallen asleep during Mamma Mia, of all musicals). You knew the press turnout was expected to be huge, but the whole thing felt like one big charade to you.

So you had planned your big birthday bash—you only get one 21st, after all—that day. The paparazzi fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. Unsurprisingly, drunk, hot girls made for a better story than Greek theater.

You remember the raw, stinging look Jeonghan had in his eyes the next morning. He didn't even have to say anything, but you knew. The memory carves out an abyss in your chest. You knew you should have done better for your brother, but he didn’t even feel like your brother anymore.

Still, actions have consequences, and this was a hell of a consequence. Even out here, the inconvenient reality of it seems closer than ever. but you're out of time. The night fades fast, especially ones like these.

So you press your heart to Astrid's mane, the pale moon high over the both of you, and you ride.

Late spring is kind to Acros.

The tulips push their bright heads out of the dirt, winking and blazing in the daylight, and the green fields stretch so far they look like water.

You had spent the car ride with your nose pressed to the window, watching all the sun-bleached buildings zip by. You mustn't ruin this for Jeonghan. It spins around in your head like an old pair of shoes in a washing machine.

Now you stand in the grand foyer, your parents on either side of you. Jihoon hovers behind, holding the overstuffed duffel bag you had rushed to pack this morning.

A hushed arrival such as this was unbecoming of your family, but it was necessary. Your parents had stressed that the arranged part of the deal was not meant to be public knowledge because it was bad for optics. To you, the arrangement was actually the entire deal. That, and you and optics never exactly got along.

Waiting for Joshua and his parents gives you a moment to observe what could be your new home, although you’re still waiting for the miraculous plot twist that will save you from your fate.

That being said: you’ve set foot in plenty of nice places, but if HGTV ran segments for castles, this would certainly be the blueprint. It’s smaller than the palace in Cotria, but you like that—it’s cozier, less cold-seeming.

The filigreed ceilings vault dizzyingly high, and the chandelier above the muraled walls is set afire with the noontime sun. The blushing azaleas cascade from their pots, and they line the hallways with joyous pops of white and pink. Breaking the spell is the distant staccato of several sets of footsteps on marble, and you straighten your back, as if by divine command.

Three figures approach you: Joshua and his parents. Even from a distance, you can see the trained walk of royalty, their shoulders straight enough to hold water. You’ll give credit where credit is due—they look even less thrilled to meet you than you are to meet them.

Unfortunately, up close, Joshua is more handsome than the cameras would betray. He's taller than you had imagined, too. Without trying, it looks like he jumped out of a shitty Disney movie, one where the prince says two words and still gets the girl. More than that, you notice how his face is like glass—unwavering, cruelly still. One wrong move, and you'd break him.

"Your highnesses," you say, lowering your head in a pronounced curtesy.

Joshua bows in response, like clockwork. He reaches for your hand, then brings it to his lips to kiss the back of it.

At once, you feel your hackles jump up, even though many a man has done far nastier to you. You can’t tell what pisses you off more: a, the fact that he smells like a hotel lobby, or b, that he managed to get his mouth on you in less than five seconds.

"I'm elated we have the privilege of welcoming your daughter into our home," Joshua's mother says. Like him, she is staggeringly elegant and even harder to read. "She's beautiful."

Fortunately, she has picked the one compliment that your parents can agree on without lying through their teeth. You watch them laugh and titter amongst themselves, and it's now that you notice Joshua has been looking at you this whole time.

You think look is too kind of a word, though. It's something colder than that, more clinical, and you really don't like it. Your stylist had spent upwards of two hours today in front of your vanity this morning, mostly in a losing battle with a pair of fake lashes, and you wonder if one of them is crooked. That, or Joshua is similarly wondering just how he will endure a life wedded to you.

"Joshua, please," his mother chides, and you watch him almost immediately pivot towards her, like he’s on wheels. "Where are your manners? You should show the princess around. Get to know each other a bit before press tomorrow."

Press. Of course. Your least favorite word. You vaguely remember your parents mentioning it in the car this morning, but it must have gotten lost among all the other terrible things they'd told you.

Your head starts to hurt. Joshua keeps smiling at you, empty, doll-like.

"Yes, I'd love that," you say, feeling like a deflating balloon. You were hoping his company will be better than watching four grown adults fall all over each other, but you're starting to doubt that.

Joshua offers you his arm, and you take it anyway.

"We'll be off then," he chirps before bowing once more. His freakishly shiny shoe nudges yours to remind you to do the same. Begrudgingly, you listen, watching your shellacked, angry expression in the patina of his loafers.

Not a good start, but what did you expect?

You tamp down your irritation and let him lead you into the Great Hall. It's a shiny, golden tunnel, studded with glossy oil paintings of his parents, his grandparents, then the next set of old people before them. Their eyes stare at you, pools of hazy paint in their moon faces. You briefly imagine your painting up there, with Joshua's hand hovering meekly over your waist, unused to being more than two feet away from a woman his age.

"It's nice to finally meet you," Joshua says. "I think I've only seen you in pictures."

He's referencing the one of many “encounters” you've had with the paparazzi, a la yesterday night. They take trashy photos, overexposed and grainy from the camera flash, with your ass most likely in the frame.

You choose to let it slide—you have no choice, really. At least you have an ass.

"The pleasure is mine," you reply. "I believe you were at the cricket championships a few months ago, right?"

"Correct. Do you watch? I don't believe I saw you."

"No, but my brother was there." Your footsteps echo against the marbled walls. "Just trying to think of your last public appearance," you offer unhelpfully, since you and he both know those are few and far between.

"That's right. He mentioned you were busy," Joshua replies. "Glastonbury was that weekend, was it not?"

He's right. It was, but you don't like the insinuation he's making. You weren't at Glastonbury anyway—your parents wouldn't let you attend, and Jihoon was unwilling to come up with a cover story for you. Because you would rather watch paint dry than attend another cricket game, you instead spent it with takeout and reruns of Rupaul's Drag Race.

"Can't recall," you answer. "Doesn't matter. I'm not one for cricket, anyway."

"Didn't know you had a choice."

You watch Joshua halfheartedly gesture to the Great Hall. The seemingly mile-long dinner table is empty now, save for a gratuitously piled fruit bowl.

Your country frequently hosts guests, but the Hongs are notoriously insular. You imagine the four of you, crammed together at one end of the table, making horrendous small talk every morning over wilted danishes and raspberry preserves. Somehow, your mood worsens even more than you thought possible.

"Can I see the library?" you ask in an attempt to pivot.

"Of course. Do you enjoy reading?"

"A normal amount." You pass by another set of windows and take note of the rose garden outside, verdant with the May sunshine. Astrid has a bit of a penchant for eating roses, which would definitely complicate your plan to smuggle her in. No matter—you’ve done worse. "I studied political science at university, so I got a healthy dose of it."

"Didn't we all?" Joshua chuckles.

He pushes the door open to the library, which is just as lavish as the rest of the palace. You wonder how well-worn it is, how many spines have creases in them, how many dedications were speckled with a funny annotation or two. But judging by first impressions, you wouldn't be surprised if all the books still had their dust jacket on.

"I mean, I read an insane amount of Dan Brown," you reply. "Not many of us can say we've solved the Davinci code, you know."

You hoped this would crack a laugh out of him, but his grin is thinner than an eyebrow from the 2000s. Truthfully, you would compare this conversation to a death by a thousand papercuts, but somehow that feels preferable to the guillotine of discussing the terms and conditions of your rapidly impending marriage. You feel as though that would be violating some rule you aren't yet aware of, and you're unwilling to endure the patent leather consequences of another faux pas.

"I've heard of it," says Joshua after much thought. "My parents were shuttling me between meetings and private lessons, so, unlike some, I was quite busy during university."

You're not about to explain that you were equally as busy as him. Something tells you that he'd be too prideful to believe you anyway.

"How difficult. Surely you were able to have some fun," you say, your voice betraying your distaste. "Or were you too good for that?"

Too far.

"I did what my position allowed," is Joshua's terse reply, and you know you've crossed a line. Still, it dazes you that the man standing next to you may have never done anything for himself in his life. Even Jeonghan did, before your parents really tightened the reins.

The air buzzes with a silence sharp enough to make you bleed. You wish literally anyone else was standing next to you, but you realize there are no more horses or emergency cabs or Jihoons to rescue you from this one.

"How about I take you to our room? I hope you'll find it comfortable."

You glance to your right to catch a glimpse of Joshua. He smiles, a dutiful press of the lips, and you watch it ripple.

"Jihoon, it is so much worse than I thought."

You sit on the plush carpeting of your bedroom floor, amongst your small disaster of things. Jihoon examines you, one eyebrow raised, as he leans against the bedroom door.

"He's not around, right?"

Jihoon shakes his head.

"I don't get it," you sigh. "I go out. I get drunk. I have a little fun on the weekends. I don't see how any of this makes me a bad person."

"You know how traditional your families are." Jihoon bends down to pick up a hair bow that jumped ship from the vanity. "It's just how it is."

"He treats me like some high school delinquent. I tried, but he has no sense of humor. No joi de vivre. I think he would actually explode if he knew I went out two days ago."

"Give it time," Jihoon supplies unhelpfully. "I don't know French, but he can't be that bad. You just met him."

“Yeah. Usually that’s a good thing. I’ve fucked people i know less about.”

Jihoon shakes his head and laughs, one of those little cackly ones he reserves for your company.

"Well, you have been with worse," he tuts. "Definitely worse."

"Jihoon, be serious. This is the rest of my life we're talking about."

“I know." He draws his lips into a line, likely searching for the right thing to say. "This sucks. I wouldn't be good at this either."

"You're talking to me. I don't think there's a single royal thing I can do right."

He's out of words, so he bends down to awkwardly pat you on the head, which, in all your years of knowing him, is the most affection he can muster. This is why you prefer horses to Jihoon for therapy, although you appreciate the effort.

"I'd stay, but they want me to go to some meeting," he says, jerking his thumb towards the door. "I'll see you tomorrow."

So he leaves you, desolate and linen-covered. Back to square one.

The room seems to echo with how empty it feels. The bare walls are painted champagne, a rich, indifferent color. They soar to an arched ceiling lined with baroque crown moulding. There's a large window facing the garden, framed by deep green velvet. Atop the vanity cradled to the wall, the ivy of the wrought mirror curls at the edges, as if escaping. The chandelier hangs low, fat and pear-shaped, and its crystals douse the room in gauzy lamplight.

At least the canopy bed looks comfortable. It's the one thing keeping you from calling this place a veritable jail cell, which still seems like an understatement. For once, you miss your own bedroom. Granted, it didn’t look much different on the surface. but despite all the paneling and the heavy velvet, you still like to think it had some personality. You still keep your pillow pet on your bed (a horse named Robert). The back wall is chipped from a Gossip Girl poster your mom made you take down.

Before you’re able to get too sentimental, the unwelcome sight of your future husband steals you from your thoughts.

"Evening," Joshua says, stepping into the room. He's so quiet, it takes you aback. "Still unpacking?"

"Sorry." You gesture around you. "I underestimated my ability to overpack."

"You should have told the staff," he says, surveying the damage. "Do you need help?"

"No," you insist. Somehow the prospect of him getting on the ground to sort out all of your things upsets you, even more than him touching all of your unmentionables. "No. Please. Just ignore me."

"Alright."

Joshua seems to take no issue with that, gratefully. He takes a seat on the chaise at the foot of the bed. He's got a copy of Anna Karenina under his arm, probably to weigh the pros and cons of cheating on you. You don't blame him—in fact, maybe it would make your doomed marriage exciting enough to be tolerable.

"PR event tomorrow," you start, folding up a nightdress. "Bet you're excited for that."

“As excited as one can be before announcing their arranged marriage," he replies dryly. "But surely you have enough experience with the press for the both of us."

So that’s how he wanted to play. Fine. You wouldn’t let him walk all over you a second time.

"Well, I'd hope all those classes you took would be good for something."

"That's rich, coming from the case study on bad media training."

"Oh, please," you snap. "At least I know how to have a good time."

"I was having a great time before I was informed this was happening."

"Forgive me. I had no idea you were so invested in my personal life." You huff as you heave an oversized armful of clothes to the closet. “Think TMZ has any job openings?”

"Very funny," he retorts. Joshua holds up a skimpy black dress that's fallen from your pile, one well acquainted with the midnight grease of one too many nightclubs. "You dropped this, by the way. I don't really think the nightlife here will be quite to your taste, though."

"Oh right, because this is where happiness goes to die, huh?" You snatch it back from him, feeling the knot of anger in your gut flare.

The room seems to pulse with an uncomfortable silence, red-hot with unsaid words. You recognize the all too familiar way Joshua sets his jaw back, and you're transported all the way to the study in the east wing, snoutless lion, terracotta steps, and all. He’s not any different from anyone else, so you’re not sure why you expected anything else.

You do the only thing you can do—bite your tongue.

"Look," you finally say, gathering the wherewithal to call for a truce. "I know that we didn't ask for this."

Joshua laughs. Actually, it's the first time you've heard it since you've met, and it would be an otherwise tolerable, even nice, sound if it wasn't directed right at you.

"Right, because who doesn't want to have to babysit someone for the rest of their life?"

You take a hard swallow. You've both done enough damage for tonight, although you'd love to see his expression when you call him the live-action version of Frollo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Maybe another time.

Instead you think of Jeonghan, stuck in his meetings and sunk into this new, starched form of himself that you find difficult to recognize. Still, he's your brother, and you'd hate to see him suffer for it.

"Stop. I'll be good," you say. "I promise. I know there's a lot at stake for the both of us."

You can hear Joshua's long, drawn exhale. The furrow dug between his brows flattens out, and he seems to be reminded of everything they taught you both in Conflict Resolution 101.

"I apologize. I got out of line," he says. You watch the cogs turn on that unfortunately pretty face of his. You hope he finally reveals that he has a much better, kinder personality that he was waiting to debut, but he doesn't. Instead he picks up yet another fallen item from your stash and hands it to you (this time, a much more presentable blouse).

"I know we don't like each other—" You hold up a hand to interrupt him from lying to you. “—but we can do our best for the cameras. Because that matters. Hate me all you want in private."

"Okay." He gives you a defeated look, which is all you suppose you'll get out of him today. "Deal."

That night, there are no more backhanded compliments, quips, or mean-spirited attempts at sarcasm.

You sink into your side of the bed, a damask-woven vat of quicksand, and watch the spears of light dance on the ceiling. If you had known your last outing was the one a few days ago, maybe you would have drank a little more, stayed out later. Maybe you wouldn't have even gone home.

Joshua has been reading on the other side of the bed, which seems like oceans apart. The metronomic turn of his pages would have put you to sleep if it wasn't for this new fear, a black, trembling one, that's now taken residence in your chest. It feels like you are further from yourself than you've ever been, and you don't know how to get back.

"Is it too bright for you?" Joshua's voice, now tempered by the stillness of the evening, pulls you out of your thoughts. "I can turn the lamp off."

"It's ok," you groan. "Can't really sleep. Don't worry about it."

He doesn't say anything. Instead you hear the oiled pull of the bedside nightstand before he places something on the bed beside you.

It's a book. Specifically, one of those trashy romances that they only sell at the airport because no one would be brave enough to read them anywhere else.

"It's no Dan Brown," he says. "Hopefully still to your liking."

You sit up against the headboard and flip through the pages. The prince of Acros owning a book with the words "juicy", "mewling", and "best friend's brother" in the first fifty pages are enough to tide you over for the night. Probably the next week, to be honest.

"Yes, indeed, your highness. Of the raunchy summer fling."

Joshua smiles, and this time, you think it's a real one.

You hate mornings.

You thought this one would be different, probably due to the fact that you would soon be standing in front of a few too many cameras to announce your tragic fate to the entire world. Unfortunately, it's like all your other mornings—rushed, nauseous, and now with all the added anxiety of a semi-non consensual public appearance.

"Five minutes!" you holler as best you can, a hair pin wiggling in the corner of your mouth. Rule number one of a hard launch: don't be caught looking complacent. Even if the other half of the launch would rather be with anyone other than you.

Joshua's in the attached bathroom doing his hair. Like everything else he does, it is painfully calculated. He might be the only person in the world who takes "pea-sized" seriously as a measurement tool.

But even as he so carefully measures his pomade, pump by pump, you don't miss the way his eyes skim over your figure as you lean over the vanity chair to apply your lipstick. Maybe it's because your ass is practically vacuum sealed into your sundress, or maybe he's just looking for another fight to pick. Either way, there's a small part of you that takes pride in this, even if just a little.

"Ready?" Joshua asks, switching off the bathroom light. You hate to admit it, but he looks good in a sports jacket. You remind yourself that you had to literally rock-paper-scissors this morning to use the vanity mirror because you fogged the bathroom up after your shower. "It's not a pageant."

"Shush. You are so rude. Never interrupt a girl when she's getting ready."

In the mirror, you watch Joshua huff behind you. Then he procures a little black box from his pocket, and a crazy sort of feeling washes over you before you remind yourself to be normal. Ten-year-old you would have cried and threatened arson if she knew this is how you would eventually be proposed to, but you have no choice.

You're sure Joshua feels the same. He was probably hoping for something classic with all the works, and instead he's got a pissed-off Jihoon and you, internationally renowned harlot. Funny how things turn out.

"Any minute now," bitches Jihoon from the other side of the door.

You close your compact and turn around to face Joshua, who's still fumbling with the box.

"I'm sure this is not what you anticipated," he says, finally cracking it open. “But—"

"No speech. Just put it on." You stick your left hand out, still glittery from last week’s manicure. "Not like it means much anyway."

"Yeah."

And just like that, it is done. You feel the shock of Joshua's huge hands over yours, then the unceremonious bite of the cold band. He doesn't linger.

You hold your newly engaged hand in front of you. The ring must have looked better in the box—on you, it seems out of place, gaudy, yet another thing you can't quite fit into. It squeezes your finger a bit, but it'll do.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Let's get this over with."

If romance wasn’t already dead, then it died here, today, in your prison cell bedroom.

You have no time to lament this, as Joshua’s already half out the door. Quickly, he seems to shed his foul, argumentative inside personality and slip into a second-skin, one that is more poised, gracious, and luminous.

Today's objective is supposed to be simple: friendly, premarital pictures to accompany a written statement to the public announcing your engagement. No paparazzi, no journalists. Still, you're starting to see why your parents decided it was a good idea to stick you with this guy.

In the foyer, your families await you. It's as if their gaze can slow time—at least four people approved your outfit, and still, the weight of their eyes on you, ever appraising, is crushing. Immediately, your mother starts rearranging the strands of hair on the top of your head and fiddling with the sleeves of your dress, like you're some sort of doll.

"Come, come," a member of the PR team urges. "Everything is set up. We'll be quick."

There's a frenetic, tense energy over the palace. It's clear that this marriage is a gambit no one is happy with, and today would make it very, very real.

Outside, there is a lone photographer. The sun, morning-ripe, reflects off his camera lens like a third eye. The lawn, freakishly green, sprawls out around you, and the blue spruce frames the scene, perfect by design.

"I just need you to stand next to each other and smile," he says. "That's all, right?" He directs this towards your PR team, about seven too many for a task like this. One of them whispers something in his ear. Your parents watch from the shaded doorstep like wax figures in a museum.

You and Joshua stand shoulder to shoulder, yearbook photo style.

"Bit closer," the photographer calls out, and you smush yourself against his arm, close enough that you can appreciate he's got some muscle on him. "Alright. Hold still."

Click. You've always hated the flash, but you root yourself obediently to the concrete. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Click.

Your mother interrupts her conversation with a staff member—likely haggling over the minutia of the statement—and says, "Look happier," as if you're in some dystopian advertisement for a new car.

"She's talking to you," Joshua says through the grit of his fake, pink smile.

"Right, because you're such a peach."

You just want to go back inside and have breakfast.

You place a tentative hand on Joshua's bicep and turn to him, beaming like you would at a hot bartender when there are five other people waiting for a drink.

There's a glimmer of surprise in his expression before he matches you. You can see why people dote on him so much—his cheeks get round, and his eyes magically gain the sparkles that people pay for on Facetune. God really seems to have wasted a perfect face on him.

"Move your hand up so we can see the ring." You obey, feeling the firm cord of his arm underneath you, and you wonder where the gym is in the palace. Joshua was certainly gatekeeping it from you. "Perfect."

You stand there, living your America's Next Top Model nightmare, before the photographer hits you with, "A kiss for the camera, yeah?"

All the blood drains from your face. You think you actually say Huh? aloud. Joshua opts to turn to his parents to intervene, which would be funny in literally any other scenario except this one.

"You heard him," his father replies. "Act like you're actually engaged."

Honestly, it was a fair request. No one wanted to take any chances. Plausible rumors of an arranged marriage would backfire spectacularly. Jeonghan wouldn't see the front cover of anything ever again, and the entirety of Acros would wonder just how deep in the shitter they were that Joshua was forced to marry you.

Your parents were already so far into the conspiracy, you overheard them talking about using unpublished paparazzi pictures and rebranding them as times you snuck off to see your unfortunate lover. Point taken.

"Okay, okay," you laugh nervously. "Of course."

You face Joshua, steeling yourself, and lean in. The world seems to fall away, but not how you like—it feels as though you've been sucked out of your own body and dropped into a new one that doesn't know what a kiss is or how to do it.

He's just like anyone else, you tell yourself. You're at the club. They're playing Everytime We Touch by Cascada.

Soon all you know is the heat of your cheeks, the shaking flat of your palm over Joshua's shoulder, and the wet pressure of what feels like a pair of lips, soft but also very unwilling.

Click. Click. Then it's over. Everyone huddles around the camera, like animals to a watering hole. Shame, hot and heavy, seems to drape itself over you.

"Can we get one more?" the photographer asks.

Fuck. Your stomach drops. You can't even glare at Joshua.

"Sure thing," Joshua says easily, unaware he was the reason it went so badly in the first place.

You take a deep breath. You imagine a good Kylie Minogue song and a tall stranger with pecs that could fit into a bra, and your eyes flutter shut.

You decide to go for it this time. Unfortunately, you and your inept partner are on entirely opposite pages again, and you almost miss each other by a mile. When you do get it right, it's messy, two teenagers fumbling in a closet with the lights off.

Once everyone sees this massacre, it seems they resign themselves to the same conclusion you had long ago. Someone throws a thumbs up above their head, and everyone clears out so fast, it's like nothing ever happened.

Soon, it's just you, Joshua, and your mother with a red pen and the manuscript. Your heart is still buzzing in your chest, even though you and Joshua are now standing at a distance that makes you believe in the cheese touch again.

"Now that wasn’t so bad," she says, before escorting the two of you back inside. Perhaps lying cushions the blow of a bad decision, but you're already in too deep. The script, the cameras, even your mother's glossy words—your life is starting to feel like a permanent movie set, and you don't know how to clock out.

The first thing you do is take off the ring. It's starting to look more and more like costume jewelry on your untrained, bumbling hand. Even still, you can still feel its ghost on your finger, see the glare of the camera flash in the laser-cut facets.

Worse, you watch Joshua shrug off his sport jacket, likely wondering how exactly that went so wrong, and you can feel that same sensation, still warm, right over your lips.

"Save me, red wine, save me."

Home, sweet home. You're back in Cotria for the rest of the week. This morning's stint was the only thing you had on the schedule, and you told Joshua you had some business to attend to at home.

Said business was a Niçoise salad and half a bottle of wine, but no one had to know that part. Your struggle meals were your own business, and you think you will actually disintegrate on the spot if you have to sit through another conversation about World War II with Joshua's dad. The one you had at dinner last night was plenty.

The restaurant you’re at is a familiar haunt, but not too familiar. The ass-kissers and the groupies have gotten good at keeping their heads on a swivel, and you’re not exactly planning on another encounter with a camera. But here, the crowd is quiet enough, the food good enough, the service fast enough. It’s enough, which you’ve come to prefer.

That's the other thing about Cotria—there’s an overabundance of everything. Department stores, parlors, dog cafes, polished bars with overpriced cocktails. It’s almost a rarity to find a place like this, quiet enough to actually talk.

"You must be in the fucking trenches," Somi says, shaking her head. "When's the press release getting published?"

"Next week," you groan. "The good news is that they want us to go to the derby afterward."

"Okay, miss horse girl," Somi says, clinking her wine glass against yours. "You betting this year?"

"No, I shouldn't." You shovel another forkful of leaves into your mouth. "But I really hope I get to watch it instead of pretending to like a guy the whole time."

"I didn't see you pretending in uni," Somi says, cocking an eyebrow up at you. "And those guys are ugly. This guy isn't."

"Okay, wait," you protest. "Ugly cute. Don't get it twisted. And they don't act like sentient wet paint. This guy sucks."

You're reminded of the moment before you left the palace this morning. Joshua saw that same black dress that he used against you make its way into your bag, and he gave you the dirtiest stink eye you'd ever seen.

I'm not above tattling. They were the first words he'd said to you after The Incident.

Good thing you won't have to, you replied. He didn't even see you out because no one was standing around to clap him on the back for being a good fake fiancé.

"Whatever." Somi picks a tomato off your plate in exchange for some of her fries. "I wouldn't mind it, is what I'm saying."

"You slept with the bouncer to get into Annabel’s."

"Fuck off. He was actually really good. Club entry was just a bonus," she laughs. "That reminds me—you're coming to my birthday, right? Or do you have wifely duties now?"

"Of course I'm coming!" you insist, feeling the word duty hit like an actual bullet to your chest. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Just making sure! You know I gotta have my people around."

You had known Somi since you were in diapers. She's the cousin twice removed of a baron, or a count, or maybe even a viscount–you never were good at keeping track of those kinds of things. Even though you had seen her at countless brunches, coronations, and garden parties, you don't think you actually became friends until you ran into her at a college party in Mykonos. She sidled up to you, smelling like strawberries and the bleachy sting of hair dye, and handed you a cucumber margarita.

The beer here sucks, she had whisper-shouted to you, right over the shell of your ear. Wanna dance? You were inseparable ever since.

"It's going to be huge. There are, like, 200 people on the guest list right now. Soonyoung rented a villa, There's gonna be a champagne tower, and the music won't suck. Guaranteed."

"That sounds perfect," you sigh. "Please tell me there's gonna be a pool. I need to show off my new swimsuit."

"Duh." Somi rolls her eyes, glittery under her extensions. "The perfect opportunity to show the world that their hottest bachelorette is a bachelorette no longer. Also, we invited Pitbull.”

“Shut the fuck up. Wait, is he actually coming?”

”Dunno. Wouldn’t be very Mr. Worldwide of him to flake, though.”

Pitbull or not, you think of the heat of the strobe lights, the electric trill of the too-loud speakers. You're dancing in a dress that looks like a chunk of the moon, with the little neon ties of your bikini top peeking out the sides. There's a peach highball in your hands and no one is telling you what to do, how to do it, or that you're doing it wrong.

Then you think of Joshua. Maybe he'd loosen up after a few drinks. Maybe he'd dance with you, put those hands to use on your hips and kiss you like he should have earlier today. Maybe he'd even be good at it. The thought makes your cheeks sting.

“Should I invite Joshua?” Somi says, wrinkling her nose at how you immediately grimace. “What if he’s actually a blast?”

"No! No. Absolutely not."

“What if he’s—” Then she drops her singsong voice to a whisper. “Hung? Don’t tell me you haven’t seen those pictures of him in the Galapagos.”

Unfortunately, you have. A lurid, glassy image of your soon-to-be-husband in a sleazy pair of swim trunks comes into vision. You push past the smile, the unfair pecs, and remind yourself of that horrible, self-righteous twist of the lips that he always has.

Yes, that’s right. That’s the Joshua you know.

You grab the wine from her and drink it right from the bottle.

–

Of course it had to be the one time you’re not late to an event that you forget you had swapped everything in all your purses around. You double check your bag—empty.

You’re already down by half of your worldly possessions (still at home, your real home), and you probably left the other half on Joshua’s bathroom counter. Yesterday, you got derailed mid-task by Joshua lighting the grossest candle ever. You never thought you’d ever fight over candles of all things, but you couldn’t let him walk away from that conversation thinking wet dirt was a normal, socially acceptable, scent for a bedroom. (—It said moss on the label! —So, dirt. —Moss is not dirt. Maybe you need to go back to school.)

You fling open the bathroom door, still checking the pockets of your handbag, before you collide into a big, sopping wet wall.

“What the—?” You look up. The wall is not a wall. No, in fact, it is your fiancé, bare fucking naked.

Your heart jumps up to your throat. It feels like you walked right into a porno, and you can hear Somi’s self-satisfied, witch cackle right in your ear. His dark hair seems to fall into his eyes just right, a nice change from how he normally gels it up, and you watch the beads of water from the shower, torturously glittery, run down his jaw, the hollow of his neck, right onto his chest.

Men should not be allowed to have bigger boobs than you, at least, not dowdy Joshua Hong, who normally has the sex appeal of an eraser. And God forbid your eyes travel downward and confirm Somi’s sick and twisted hypothesis, past the washboard abs, the v-line, the trail down his—

“Sorry, did you need something?” You blink again and Joshua suddenly has a towel wrapped around his waist. And he’s eyeing you like you ate a million cloves of garlic and then proceeded to spit on him. “Or are you just going to stand here and ogle me?”

“I wasn't—no!” You start snatching things off the counter, anything really, and throwing them into your bag. “I just needed to grab stuff for my… my thing. You’re in the way.”

“Right, because you need four q-tips and my razor to read a children’s book,” Joshua replies, plucking the offending items out of your purse. “It's almost 12:30, by the way.”

“Shit. Fuck,” you stammer. You can’t glare at him anymore because you know where your eyes will end up and it is not on his face. “Stop distracting me. Whatever.”

“Have fun,” is the last thing Joshua tells you before you close the bathroom door, that portal to hell, right back up.

What you can’t do is return the image of what you saw back to where it came from, the wicked, glistening form of Joshua and his B cup tits. He looked so good, it makes you angry.

Later, on the walk to the library, you reach for your lip gloss. Instead, you pull out q-tip number five and get mad all over again.

–

The car ride to the derby feels like your own personal Saw trap, if Jigsaw wore a ridiculous hat and was actually your mother.

Your engagement was announced to the public just a few days ago. It came with no fanfare, no warning. You were sitting on your bed, making your way through the smut Joshua called a novel, when the news app on your phone kindly notified you that you were now a taken woman.

To some degree, the media uproar fascinated you. The idea that people with actual journalism degrees were writing headcanons about your honeymoon when you hadn’t even seen Joshua since The Bathroom Incident was surely entertaining, to say the least. But, like everything, the unsaid pressure of being a perfect princess, now part of an even more perfect couple, hangs heavy over you.

You remind yourself this is supposed to be fun. A real couple would be pawing at each other in the backseat, perhaps pregaming with champagne or fan-casting their pick for Spirit the horse. Instead, you’re stuck rehearsing your pitch to the reporters when they inevitably ask you about how the hell this happened. You wish you could tell them you’re not quite sure either.

Silently, you look at Joshua. Joshua looks out the window. The world rumbles under you.

[10:15 am, race 1]

The air seizes, swirls with clay-colored dust in the morning sun. The clubhouse is already heady with the low buzz of conversation—you watch the freckled sunhats and oily toupees bob up and down in the swell of the crowd, deep in the morning’s small talk. You wonder how many of them are talking about you, given how recently the news hit. You’re used to people ignoring your media appearances, not celebrating them.

Someone, tipping their head down to greet you, hands you a program. Joshua elects to tuck his in his back pocket. People don’t come to the derby to watch the races. Instead, it’s an excuse to gossip, day drink, and gamble, which would ordinarily be a good time for you if you weren’t overly invested in the racing circuit.

All the way from the entrance to your seats, you were met with a tidal wave of camera flashes, all hungry for a glimpse of your first public appearance as a couple. Alongside this, a decidedly worse flurry of congratulations paired with an overly familiar touch to the shoulder or a limp handshake. Joshua is quick to respond with either a smile or some trite platitude. Your least favorite: We couldn’t be happier. Now he’s just lying for sport.

“We should find the reporters doing interviews,” Joshua says the second his ass touches the chair, unfazed by the onslaught of perhaps a million different people. “The Sun probably wants to talk to us.”

You’re not listening—you can’t let on that this whole ordeal is mildly terrifying for you. He has enough reasons to dislike you, and stage fright wouldn’t exactly be a good addition to the list.

The racehorses have lined up at the track, their manes catching the daylight like holy fire. You like the one on the end. He looks like Peanut, Jeonghan’s stubborn palomino.

Joshua says your name insistently, curdled with the annoyance that you’ve now become acquainted with, and you catch a stray camera flash from the stands. You have an audience, and the audience demands a show, even if they’re second-rate journalists like the scum from The Sun.

“Darling,” you reply flatly. “Relax. Let's enjoy the races.”

The horses stretch their long legs, anxious for the thunderclap of the starter’s pistol. Joshua raises a tired eyebrow before the same realization dawns on him.

“Absolutely.” He clears his throat. “Darling.”

You wrap a hand around his arm—somehow he makes hand-holding seem like third base—and watch his shoulders sink with a sigh, like you just popped him.

Likewise, your highness. Likewise.

A shot crackles through the air, and you’re off to the races.

[12:43 pm, race 2.]

"I just have to know—how did you guys meet?"

You know the duchess of Pemarlia to be beautiful and unashamedly nosy, and she has yet to prove you wrong on either account.

The last time you saw her was on the beach at Lake Como last year, where she spent the entirety of your conversation asking if Jeonghan was single (and peeking into your bag to see what brand of lipstick you were wearing). Like everyone, she always seems to have a look of appraisal on her face. What makes her different is that she never really bothers to hide it; instead, she wears it like an en-vogue accessory.

She eyes you with an intensity, sizing up your dress, your tawdry sunhat, your ring. You wonder if she’d agree that marriage didn’t look good on you, but any shorter of a dress, your mother would call you a stripper. And God forbid you leave the house hat-less.

Now she’s no minotaur. This shouldn’t be much of a problem, save for one very small issue: you actually hadn’t planned your answer to this. You had quibbled over it briefly in the car, but you were too focused on your interview pitch to worry about minor gossip.

"Well," Joshua starts. Through his smile, you can hear the warning edge of his voice. “It was quite ordinary.”

"Actually," you cut him off. Not only would his version of this story be boring, it would also be horribly out-of-character for you. You did not come this far for your cover to be blown by Joshua’s lack of imagination. "Josh's parents hosted a—"

"Brunch," Joshua finishes. Whether his teeth are gritted because he's grinning or frustrated is none of your business. “It was Easter brunch, wasn’t it, sweet pea? Four years ago?”

The pet name makes you want to puke. Now he’s just trying to piss you off, but you know this is his attempt to play along. He's annoying, not dumb.

"Yes, we sat across from each other.” You playfully dig your elbow into Joshua’s rock-hard side. “He was giving me the eyes the whole time.”

You watch your hapless victim giggle, her spidery lashes wide with intrigue. Joshua is a little less pleased.

“If you could call it that,” he replies. “I think you had chocolate on your nose.”

“Which you so kindly wiped off for me, dear.” You try to peek around the flaxen billows of the duchess’s blowout to watch the horses behind her, but to no avail. “After a morning of staring, we had to do an Easter egg hunt, planned by Joshie himself. I had no idea he loved silly little games like that.”

“It's because people like the princess get so competitive,” Joshua says, with his laser beam grin boring into your eye sockets. “I believe I found you rummaging through the trash for eggs, like some kind of animal.”

“Oh my goodness,” the duchess laughs. “How...charming.”

You feel your eyebrow twitch. Only you’re allowed to ruin your own reputation, but you suppose that’s just another thing your horrible fake fiance gets to take from you.

“Not as embarrassing as seeing Joshua leer at me from behind the corner,” you retort. “He was so enamored that when I invited him to join me, he got right down on his knees to look through the trash together.”

“Well, did you find anything?”

“Yes—”

“No—”

“Well—”

Fuck. Luckily, the duchess is either stupid or wildly entertained by the clown show playing out before her. Maybe both.

“Cute,” she coos. “You must have been too smitten to notice.”

“Absolutely,” Joshua says, as if there is a gun held to his pretty head. “Among all the garbage and the girl next to me, I suppose nothing else really mattered.”

“If that isn’t love, what is?” she asks blithely.

If only she knew.

[3:45 pm, race 3]

The sun descends on the stadium, swollen and yellow with the afternoon.

Last year, you and your friends had a betting ring set up during the racing circuit. Obviously, you had won—not too hard when your competition included Soonyoung, who only bet on horses named after food (sadly, it was not Tater Tot’s year). Somi was no better, and your brother thought every horse deserved a participation award.

This time around, things aren’t so simple. But you’d hate to say that you spent a whole day at the track and didn’t bet on a single race. Life could afford you at least one win for today.

Again, the horses take their positions at the starting line, wound up like a line of rubber bands. The air heaves with bated breath.

“Joshua,” you say, folding your hands in your lap as you find your target. “I'd like to propose a bet.”

“You must be a glutton for punishment.”

You bite back a laugh as you watch your favorite horse, the palomino, ripple in place. Fans would call her a charity case, but you know better.

“Pick a horse. Mine is number Three, in the blue.”

“And if mine wins? What’s in it for me?” he asks. Still, he leans forward, corded forearms on his thighs. You watch him squint as he surveys the field with renewed interest.

“You pick,” you reply. “Choose wisely. I personally cannot wait to call in a favor from you.”

“The chestnut one. Number Nine.” So he is competitive. “And likewise. Perhaps I'll hold it over your head until the wedding.”

Before you can reply, you hear the starting pistol rip clean into the air. The racehorses surge forward, as if a silken ribbon through air.

“Nine makes sense for you,” you say, eyes fixed before you. “He's flashy, the crowd favorite. Spotless pedigree.”

“I'm picking your punishment already.”

“I didn't say he would win.” You feel the lilt of your voice rocking upward, the tremulous beat of your heart against your ribs. “You see, Three’s had a rough season. There she is, passing Four right now.”

“Nine is still first, though.”

“It’s not about that,” you reply. “She does this, she starts all the way out back and then flies up. No one suspects anything—it’s like she likes proving people wrong. The first couple races of the season, she was just stretching her legs; they were small, small fry. It’s this one that matters.”

The saddles are just blurs on the track now. To the march of the hoofbeats, Three lunges past Five, Six. The crowd roars.

“This will be her first win. I'm counting on it. She’s come really close before.”

Joshua doesn’t reply. Out of the corner of your eye, you see his gaze has shifted. You feel it land somewhere near you, but you’re too engrossed in the race to investigate further. Perhaps he’s admitted defeat preemptively, wisely so.

“You know your stuff,” he murmurs, the clamor of the audience almost burying him.

“How can I not?” Three coasts past One and Ten like she’s flying, until it’s just her and unlucky number Nine. “Oh my god. Go, go, go!”

You and Joshua rise to your feet, as if drawn by a string, now wholly invested in the race.

“Still beating you, you know.”

“Not for long! Come on!”

You watch your darling number Three, against all odds, pull past Joshua’s number Nine, burning a trail past the inevitable finish line.

From somewhere inside you emerges a joy that you hadn’t felt since this whole ordeal started. You turn to Joshua and clasp his hands between yours, somehow less wooden now, and so, so human. The crowd cheers; they come alive.

[4:50 pm, races 4 and 5. mainly, the reporter from the sun.]

The smaller races take place shortly after the headliner, for better or for worse. This forces you to finally face the music—the music being a dull-eyed, greasy journalist ready to sink his teeth into the public’s new favorite topic.

Joshua is a good sport about it, or at least, he’s good at pretending to be one.

“It was great,” is his answer to a question you didn’t hear. You’re busy going over the parts of the script that you remember. Your media team spent the better part of the morning repeating it back to you, which was helpful until it wasn’t. You weren’t sure how to tell them you’ve actually never been good at speaking to the press, since you had spent the better half of your life doing the exact opposite.

“And what did the princess think? It’s not often we catch you for an interview, you know.”

The eye of the camera seems to pierce through you. You can see your shellacked figure, long and distorted, in the reflection.

“I—um,” you swallow hard. God. Pull it together. You can already hear the lecture you’re going to get on the way home today. “Yeah, big day today.”

“She’s had to really rein in her excitement, you know,” Joshua adds, chuckling.

Briefly, you feel his hand brush against yours. Ordinarily, you’d pass it off as a fluke, but you feel the steady, insistent warmth of his palm again, first, to the inside of your wrist, then lower still. Before you’re able to really process what’s happening, he then takes your hand in his all at once, as if to say, I’ve got this. I’ve got you.

You figure he’s cashing in his favor early–he’d much rather leave you out to dry, let you flounder a bit so you learn to read the PR memorandums the night before. I told you so, he’d say. That’s what everyone else would say, anyway.

“The races are sure exciting, but I'm sure you’re even more excited about your upcoming wedding.” The reporter grins at you, as if he smells your fear. His hair looks like it’s glued to the top of his shiny head. “If I'm going to be honest, you were one of the last people we’d expect to tie the knot this year. We are all dying to hear more.”

What? You force yourself to breathe, feel the air fill your lungs, to avoid making an expression you’ll regret.

“Well, yeah, I'm sure it looks like it all happened quickly,” you answer, feeling your tongue trip over the words. Mostly because it did, in fact, happen quickly, but you can’t let them know that. “But Josh and I feel strongly about, uh, this whole thing, and—”

“Please, don’t spare us the details.”

Telepathically, Joshua squeezes your hand. This, you understand. He’s telling you to lean on him, and you trust that.

“Hold your horses,” he cuts in, almost too quickly, which makes the corners of your mouth twitch upward. He was definitely looking for an opening, but you, bizarrely, don’t mind at all. He turns to you and smiles. “What's the fun without a little mystery? It's been a wild ride, but I'm loving every second of it.”

It’s this one, the lamest and most embarrassing dad joke of them all, that gets you.

You laugh: a real one, big, loud, and unafraid. It's here, caught in the glare of the camera flash, where you find yourself hoping, even just a little, that this wasn’t just a favor, that this was a sign you could actually survive this arrangement.

You’re not asking for love—just a little bit of like. and, right now, you think you like Joshua Hong.

—

In the evening, you find yourself in the oaken parlor nestled away in the back halls of the Acrosian palace.

There's a piano there, gathering dust. It's a Steinway, spindly and chestnut, almost identical to the one you have at the palace in Cotria.

You and Jihoon had been unpacking your hodgepodge of things (unsorted, since the act of sorting would have forced you to stomach the fact that you were actually moving), when he had found your old lesson books.

You should break in that piano, he had said. Either that, or wait for your fiance to find you. He seemed ok at the derby today.

I guess.

What Jihoon hadn’t seen was all the photographs you had to take after your interview with The Sun, where Joshua decided to remind you that you were supposed to hate him. By that, you mean that he managed to make every single one unbearable. (A tap of the foot: Stand up straight. A careful brush of the elbow: Let’s link arms. A discerning, tactful glance at your chest: Pull up your dress. That, or he was no better than the average man.)

You and he hadn’t talked much after that. Hopefully, he’s fled to your cold, dark dungeon of a room to read, so he can finally leave you alone.

“Remember when your parents invited all their friends over and asked you to play?” Jihoon says, perched on the loveseat while he sorts through an old jewelry box.

“Yeah, and I literally forgot everything?” you laugh. “Freaking Jeonghan had to check on me because I locked myself in my room for 24 hours straight. And then he had the nerve to laugh at me.”

You thumb through the fattest book of the pile. The binding is soft; the pages now yellow and fuzzed over by time.

On page 5, Chopin's Waltz in A-flat major. three four time or whatever, you had scrawled in defiant red ink. Page 37, a thick black line through Debussy's name on Arabesque No. 1. This is because you would always laugh at it during lessons, and you wanted to save yourself the trouble.

“Do you want to keep this?” Jihoon holds up a choker that resembles a jock strap. “When did you even wear this? It looks like a cat toy.”

You ignore him and start to play. You were never excellent—competent would be a better word. Still, it was enough for you. Soonyoung would ask you to play during drunk karaoke, and you could still keep up with Jeonghan when he played one of his overcomplicated duets.

Your hands remember the velvet thud of the keys, the glide of the pedal. When you turn the page, there’s a scrawled in BITCH! next to a heavily circled allegro. Piano was one of the only things that your parents forced you to do that you actually liked. The kicker was that it didn’t even do you any good. You weren’t as talented as your parents would like you to be, meaning that, to them, you weren’t talented at all.

It’s then that your fingers slip, and you miss a chord. In your defense, you have a fresh manicure. Always blame the nails. Your mom hated when you kept them long, even more than your hardass tutor.

“The prince is helping with the theater production this year, right?” Jihoon holds a single earring up to the light. You think you lost the other one in Ibiza last year. “You gonna help out again?”

“Maybe.” Another wrong note. You’re losing steam trying to read all the ledger lines and your smeared, illegible writing next to them. “I don't know. He probably won’t even want me to. I'm choosing a different piece, by the way. Bored of this one.”

The truth about your 21st birthday was that you did actually intend to spend it at the youth theater. It was your idea before it was Jeonghan’s idea, but, at the time, you both still were a package deal.

You were on piano; Jeonghan was on whatever else he pleased. He'd always been indecisive like that. At the bench, you’d hoist the little ones on your knee and regale them with the classical version of the opening song from Paw Patrol. Jeonghan stole prop masks from the back, mostly to hide behind the curtains and scare people, you included. You’d both stay up late, paint spackled on your palms, trying to Michelangelo a backdrop with the combined artistic talent of a TI-84.

The production became your thing, just you and him, no cameras, no press releases, no parents. But like everything else, neither you, Jeonghan, nor anyone else was able to keep those inevitable truths apart. The set pieces were repainted in Italy, the finger-painted fields turned luminescent with varnish; the pins and needles in the costumes swapped with mother-of-pearl; and, finally, you, replaced by a classically trained pianist from Juilliard. At least he was hot.

Everyone knows the rest of the story—the red carpet, the empty seats, and the puffy pink balloons outside the mansion in Saint Tropez.

“Oh please,” Jihoon wheedles. “You and I both know he wanted you there.”

“Then maybe he should have fought harder.” You flip to a random page, this one marked up in pink gel pen. You remember it bled through all the pages behind it, making it a pain to read but awfully funny during lessons. “It doesn't matter. There’s probably wedding stuff I gotta deal with.”

Jihoon lets you play this next piece uninterrupted. It’s not that it’s a sensitive subject for you—there were plenty of other things that filled the wedge between you and your brother—but it certainly didn’t help.

You let your fingers wander over the stubborn keys. It feels good to play, even if you’re almost unforgivably rusty. You reach for the page, when you hear Jihoon again: “You know, you’re allowed to come in, your highness.”

Immediately, your hands freeze. Like a scolded child, you become aware of how your fingers teeter over the keys, the stumbling, awkward clacking of your nails, the one or two missed quarter notes from the last measure.

You turn to face the door, where Joshua stands, leaning against the frame like a sleazy model from an Abercrombie catalog. He probably came from the gym. Seeing him dressed down is still very weird, mostly because you can’t decide if it’s because he looks good or if it’s because it reminds of seeing your teacher at the grocery store.

“Anyone teach you manners?” you ask, unsure if your hackles should be raised.

“No, I was raised in a barn, just like those horses you like so much,” he laughs. “I didn’t want to interrupt. You’re not bad, you know.”

“Thanks.” You eye him skeptically. “Thought you were gonna comment on the nails.”

“Do you want me to?”

“Preferably not, but it’s not like you‘d listen to me anyway.” You look for Jihoon’s reaction, but he seems to have conveniently disappeared. “Let’s play a duet. I’m cashing in my favor.”

“Sure,” Joshua replies. “I'm no good, though. Might be more of a punishment for you.”

You slide over on the bench, and he sidles up next to you. He smells like Le Labo and sweat, the sting citrusy and bright, close enough to linger.

“No good?” You pick up another fat book from the stack atop the lid: The Joy of Duets. “Me neither.”

“You have no idea,” he chuckles. “And trust me, I tried.”

“I’ll do top?” you announce.

Joshua snickers, and you kick him under the bench (really, just a tap of your foot).

You spend the next two minutes tripping over a Schubert piece. Terribly, this is endearing to you. You make somewhat of a couple—you, with your horrible form, and Joshua, now squinting at the key signature like it’ll make it easier to read.

“Buddy,” you exclaim. “Left hand goes here.” Laughing, you reposition his hand mid-chord to an octave below. You feel it tense beneath you before yielding to proper technique.

“Aw, what?” he whines. “See, I told you I was no good. Give me a second.”

You watch him puzzle over the next few lines, pretty brow furrowed. You conclude that Pajama Joshua is decidedly better than Prince Joshua. He’s funnier, kinder, warmer. Even his hands feel softer.

“Also, about earlier today,” you start. The words are starting to dry up on your tongue, but you figure Pajama Joshua is an easier target than usual. “I didn't know they trained you in stand-up comedy.”

“We laugh in this country too, you know.” When Joshua says this, he grins, bumping into your shoulder like you’d been friends for a long time. For once, it feels easy, natural.

“Well, thanks anyway.”

“I couldn't leave my fiancée out to dry.” The word must sound ridiculous even to him, because he laughs just the same as he did when he unloaded his ridiculous puns onto the unassuming world. “No really. We’re in this together, unfortunately. It’s my duty.”

Duty, both the knife and the wound. You can’t say you’re surprised he’s only nice to you out of obligation. So is everyone else, and you don’t know why you thought it’d be any different, especially coming from him. It’s not like you’re wearing your ring now either; you suppose you’re just as guilty.

“You cross over here,” you tell him, changing the topic. You slide your hand over his, and it bends to you. “Thumb under. Sorry, I couldn't help but notice.”

“It's ok,” Joshua replies. “I only learned piano because I had to. When I stopped going to lessons, I forgot everything. Now I feel like I put this piano to shame.”

“Really? Not to stroke your ego, but you strike me as the type to be good at everything.”

“No,” he chuckles. “Only when I have to be. I actually wanted to learn how to play guitar.”

“No way.”

“Yes way. I wanted to have one of those woven guitar straps, get a little pick collection going, be able to play any song from the Beatles discography. All the cliche stuff.”

“Well, why can’t you?” you ask. “Minus the Beatles thing. Pick better music.”

“Back then, it never occurred to me. We all learn piano.”

“That's silly,” you blurt out. “Who cares?”

“That's a little rich coming from you.”

You frown, feeling all the usual unpleasantries bubble up through your skin.

“That's not really fair.” You absentmindedly play a few keys, all disjointed. “Taking guitar lessons doesn’t make you a problem child.”

“It's not about that, though,” Joshua says. He's avoiding your eyes. “It's everything, together. I couldn't just pick up a guitar and be someone else.”

“Someone else? You mean you? The real you?”

“Yes,” Joshua presses. “That's the point. I can't just do whatever I want. Sometimes the real you is more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Someone’s dramatic. If you do everything the same, nothing will change. Maybe getting into a little trouble isn’t such a bad thing.”

“Forgive me,” he says, mid-chuckle. “You wouldn’t call this trouble?”

He’s got you there. Childishly, all your pride hardens to a lump in your throat, one you’ve never learned to swallow.

“Your family needed our help too, remember?”

“Yeah, and you think I don’t think about that every day? How, maybe, if I had done something different, then we wouldn’t be here?”

You feel stung. You don’t know how to tell him that you’ve been trying to figure out the same thing your whole life. If you were a better daughter, you’d have spared everyone the trouble. Unfortunately, you’d gotten it wrong so many times, you stopped trying.

What's worse is that he doesn’t even sound mad—you watch his fingertips ghost over the keys of a C-scale, rhythmically, methodically. Piano scales, this marriage, everything: just things to do on his never-ending list.

A hesitant knock at the door interrupts any possibility of you coming up with anywhere close to the right thing to say.

“Prince Joshua, the king and queen need to speak to you.” It’s an aide, probably sweating bullets deciding when and how they should intrude on this wonderful conversation of yours.

“Right,” says Joshua, and when he gets up from the bench, he doesn’t look back.

—

“You ready to get stuffed?”

Good fucking morning to you—Somi’s voice, fluorescent through your phone speakers, seems to be enough of an alarm clock for you. Joshua, in the doorway dual wielding a coffee cup and the morning paper, raises a tired eyebrow.

After the events of last night, you’d wondered if he would somehow disappear at nighttime in an effort to avoid his eventual fate (you). Instead, you found him on his usual side of the bed, drinking his usual mug of chamomile tea, in his usual silence.

You've heard that couples shouldn’t go to bed angry, but no one said anything about indifferent. Then again, you and Joshua are hardly a couple.

“Ew,” you laugh. “No. Maybe? Should I be scared?”

“Absolutely. You’re eating your weight in food today because I need your opinion on catering.”

Smushing your phone between your cheek and your shoulder, you watch the mirror as your wavering reflection puts on a layer of mascara.

“For your party?”

“Yeah, although on second thought, maybe it’s a bad idea to bring the girl who’s gonna puke everything up anyway.”

“My IBS is none of your business. Besides, the real food critic is Jihoon,” you reply. “Sometimes I feel like that’s the only reason he still works here.”

“You’re coming in an hour, right?”

You check the clock. No, you are not. You’re only halfway through a full beat and if you don’t get any caffeine inside you within the hour, you will commit a crime.

“Nope.” You pop open your compact. “I have to change, and I desperately need to locate a coffee. I will suck a fucking bean off if i need to.”

“I'm hanging up on you,” Somi whines. “It's too early for you to be gross and late.”

“As if you weren’t talking about getting stuffed.”

“Whatever.” Click.

At this point, you feel like Somi’s party is both the proverbial and literal light at the end of the tunnel. No expectations, no rules, and no semi-arguments between you and your doomed fiance.

Then you notice that Joshua’s disappeared from the room—he probably couldn’t stand listening to your end of the conversation. Briefly, you wonder where he is. Off running an errand for his dear parents, perhaps, or maybe at the gym you still haven’t discovered yet. Even from the hefty distance he keeps you at, you can still appreciate a man who looks like he’s touched a dumbbell.

It's only when you’re halfway out the door, almost an hour later, juggling your purse and your phone and the distinct absence of a caffeinated beverage, that you find him.

“Come to ruin my day?” you ask, maybe three-fourths joking.

“Don’t give me any ideas,” he replies. Under the bluebird sky of late morning, lips upturned and eyes bright, Joshua may be a sight you could get used to. Someday. “Brought you a coffee. I can’t have you sucking off a bean—the reporters would go crazy.”

Jihoon, hovering by the car, chokes on his water.

“Oh!” The surprise knocks the sound out of you. “Thank you. Really.”

“Gladly,” he says, and he sounds like he means it.

He holds all your stuff as you clamber into the car, before handing it back to close the door for you. You’ll admit it’s nice, but as Jihoon starts to drive, you feel a familiar twist in your chest.

“Interesting,” he remarks. “Didn’t know you were on a coffee order basis.”

“We’re not,” you answer. You pop the lid open. It's a cappuccino, made the classic way, milk foam bubbling out the top. Not your favorite, but it’ll do.

More than that, it’s an olive branch. Yesterday did get weird, but you’re getting the impression that it’ll always get weird. Undoubtedly, there is someone out there who’ll get Joshua. His schedules, his straight-backed obligation, the polished photo ops and the cappuccinos made to a perfect one to one to one ratio. You know this because this is the world you came from, one that should be home to you.

Instead, you circle each other in an unsure, clumsy dance. You can’t quite get it right. It's all the same now. The bite of a horse saddle not made for your body, the glow of your heirloom ring, now cheapened by your graceless hand, Joshua’s lonely, reaching palm as he disappears in the rearview mirror.

—

On your arrival home in the evening, you return with two things: a few extra kilos and an absolutely horrendous copy of the Daily Mail, courtesy of Somi, who saw it at the grocery.

"Great showing from the couple of the year," you say, shucking your copy at Joshua. "It looks like we're in Shark Tale."

Even from a distance, the cheap ink-spackled cover shows more than enough. LIP LOCK FLOP!, it reads, although you wouldn’t really call it a lip lock.

It was at the derby—Quick, they’re looking at us, you had said. Then what you would call a nun’s version of a kiss: you, already halfway out the door, and him, lips hesitant and pursed, as if he was asked to smooch his withering, dusty great-grandmother.

"I'm not even going to ask what you mean by that," Joshua answers, voice level. "It's not that bad."

He puts his book down to pick the magazine up, holding it at a distance like the image will jump out of the page and bite him. You see his expression flicker, and that's all you need to confirm your suspicions.

"Ok, it's a little bad." He places it on the nightstand next to him face-down. "It'll be alright. It's not like the wedding will be called off over one bad picture."

"You know that's not the issue." You sit on your side of the bed, about a full meter away from him. You kind of want to look again just to see how bad it is, but you're sure it'll be inescapable by the morning.

"Since when did you care what the press thought of you?"

"Since it mattered." You stare at your lap, eyes fixed on the too-new, wiggly hem of your pajamas instead of him. You can tell he's still looking at you, though–you think those big, watery eyes have some sort of flashlights in them, and you don't like it. "It seems wrong if our mistakes take up space."

You hear him make a small noise of agreement. Joshua still won't admit that you're right, but you suppose you like that a little. At least he'll be stubborn about something, even if it's about clearly not liking you.

"What do you suggest?" he asks, putting his book down. “We didn't choose each other, so I'm not surprised there's no attraction."

"Ouch." He's right, but you'd rather be the one saying it. "I'm a good kisser. You aren't."

"I'm just not good at kissing you," he retorts.

"Evidently." You shimmy towards his side of the bed, where the sheets are cooler under your thighs, the pillows still neatly arranged on the headboard. "What I'm saying is that we should at least try to look more realistic. Like–"

"Are you saying we should practice?" Joshua looks at you over the frames of his glasses, incredulous.

"Yeah," you say, now too far in it to back out. "Like exposure therapy. For unwilling couples."

The room gets quiet, as if it wasn't unbearably so before. You watch Joshua pick up his book again. He puts the bookmark in, two-thirds from the spine of the book so as to not ruin the binding, and places it over the doomed tabloid.

"Okay." To your surprise, he turns to face you. The lamplight catches the lens of his glasses and makes his eyes look warmer than they truly are. "How should we do this?"

The way Joshua's gaze settles on you makes you feel like you're being evaluated. An exam in Kissing 101, except the test would rather not have anything to do with you at all. For the first time in your life, you let your eyes wander to his lips, rosy and full, and you feel the pit of anxiety in your belly grow wider. Somehow he's managed to take all the fun out of one of your favorite activities, but you'll be damned if he walks away from this thinking it's you who's the problem.

"Just...let me lead," you say quietly, now leaning closer to him. You have to ease yourself into it. You let your body respond, feel the skip of your heart, a heady flush wash over your cheeks. He smells like spearmint and clover.

You've kissed a lot of people. None of this should feel new to you. His eyelashes skim against your cheek, and you can hear the breath he takes, quivering, gentle.

Despite all this, the first kiss is no better than any of the other ones. his lips meet yours, hesitant before they start moving. He's shy, and it would almost endear him to you if he wasn't so annoying. But then the charade is over. His nose clocks yours and it startles you both enough to draw away, ever so slightly.

"Not my fault," you murmur. You're so close, you can see your reflection in his pupils, glassy and dark.

"Thought this was practice," responds Joshua, unfazed.

So you lean in again, giving it another go. Two is better—sweet and succinct. a first date type of kiss. You can taste the berry of your lip balm on him.

Then again, except this time it's him who goes in, chases your lips.

The scary thing is that you thought this would be much harder. You had stood in the bathroom, looked yourself in the mirror, and psyched yourself up to do the impossible.

But the moment you meet him, now so close there's no room to breathe, you feel an impenetrable, unshakable desire crawling up your bones. Your palm finds the flat of his chest. Even under the silk of his ridiculous pajama top, you feel the heat of his skin, the restless quick of his heartbeat, and your stomach flips.

Four, five. You're losing count. Joshua's hand trails up your arm to cup your cheek, and you'd be lying if you said you didn't feel your breath catch in your chest.

He's warm, so warm. When your other hand finds the back of his neck, he makes a small sound in his throat and you like it.

It's at this point you realize there is no point in pretending. Maybe you don't want to kiss Joshua at any other moment during any other day, but you do now. You really do.

When your tongue meets the seam of his lips, it feels all too natural. At first, predictably, he buffers a bit. For a split second, you envision him pulling away and saying you've gotten more than a lifetime's worth of practice in.

But he doesn't. Instead, an arm winds around your waist and that's all it takes for your body to stop listening to you altogether. Lips still connected, you lift yourself to straddle his lap, right over the folded up covers, and his hands, devastatingly strong, find your hips to keep you rooted there.

You're starting to think he isn't such a bad kisser after all—maybe he really was holding out on you, but there's something weirdly rewarding about him waiting until he liked you just a little more. Whatever that means.

You learn that his hair is soft, really soft, at the base of his neck. You learn that he likes when you bite his lips and you learn that his spearmint mouthwash does, in fact, taste as good as it smells.

You also learn that you, paradoxically, might not know how to love Joshua Hong, but you sure do know how to kiss him.

--end of part 1--

[part 2 -> ]

#mine #joshua x reader #joshua x you #joshua imagines #joshua scenarios #seventeen x reader #seventeen x you #seventeen imagines #seventeen fanfic #seventeen scenarios #joshua #joshua hong #seventeen smut #joshua smut

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cosmiclily · 2 months ago

Note

hey, sorry if you're tired of seeing me, but what do you think about reader rejecting Vi multiple times cause Vi is like a fuckgirl and reader doesn't know if Vi is only playing or mocking her, and don't wanna get hurt, but Vi it's totally serious and wants to get reader so bad?

btw, hope you're okay, have a great day, love ya! 🫶🏼

all of the girls you loved before

♡ vi x f!reader

wc: 4k

notes: i love seeing your asks 😭😭 don’t worry !! (sorry for taking so long to make this lol i haven’t been writing this much lately) i love this idea and i LOVED how this turned out, i want a girlfriend so bad now 😔

If you asked any gay girl (or bi, or questioning—basically anyone even remotely attracted to women) about Vi Vanderson, you’d get one of three very specific responses:

1. “She’s the love of my life, but I can’t get her to look my way.”

2. “I hate her and I hope she dies a slow, dramatic, painful death.”

3. “She said she’d call me back and I’ve been waiting for a week. Can you tell her to text me?”

Which, honestly, tells you everything you need to know about her.

Violet Vanderson had that reputation—the kind where she’d either broken your heart, your roommate’s heart, or was currently in the process of doing both. She had an effortless charm, a smirk that could melt steel, and a walk that made heads turn in slow motion. Basically, she was a walking red flag... and yet, somehow, irresistible.

So when she’d throw a wink my way, flash that annoyingly perfect grin, and drop the cheesiest pick-up lines known to mankind—“Your eyes are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, princess”—I didn’t exactly swoon. I simply rolled my eyes.

Because we were friends. And if Vi flirted with strangers for fun, she flirted with me for sport.

“You know, princess,” she said on a typical morning, stealing one of my fries with no shame, “you’re the most gorgeous girl in here. When are you finally going to let me take you on a date?”

I didn’t even look up. “Piss off, Violet. Go flirt with Sarah or something—she’s been staring since you walked in.”

Vi glanced over her shoulder, spotted Sarah practically drooling, then turned back to me with a smug little smirk. “She doesn’t have your charm.”

I snorted. “I’m not on the menu.”

“Maybe,” she said, plucking another fry. “But I’m patient.”

And that was the problem with Vi—she knew exactly how to walk the razor-thin line between teasing and tempting, and she was dangerously good at pretending it didn’t mean anything.

The real question was: when did I start wishing she meant it?

I mean, I wasn’t that stupid... right?

No. There was absolutely no way I was falling for my walking-red-flag-of-a-friend. The same friend who flirted with any girl who so much as breathed in her direction. The one who collected hearts like seashells on a beach and didn’t even pretend to keep track of whose they were.

Of course I wouldn’t be that girl.

I wouldn’t be stupid enough to feel a little flutter in my chest every time she called me princess. Or get all flustered when she teased me just to see me blush. Or mad—irrationally mad—when she smirked like she knew exactly what she was doing.

And she did know.

“You’re gonna wait forever, then,” I said flatly, standing up and grabbing my tray, done with being caught in Sarah’s piercing glare. “I’m not interested. At all.”

I didn’t wait for her response, didn’t risk looking back at her face, because if I did, I knew I’d see that stupid half-smile of hers—the one that said, I know you’re lying.

But as I walked away, I heard her voice ring out across the cafeteria, louder than necessary and way too dramatic.

“Don’t do this to my heart! You know you love me!”──────────────────────

The next time Vi tried to convince me we should go out, I was sitting under my favorite tree on campus during lunch, headphones in, enjoying the rare peace, when her shadow suddenly blocked out the sun like a bad omen.

I didn’t even have to look up. “If you’re here to confess your undying love again, I’m gonna need it in writing. Preferably notarized.”

Vi laughed and dropped down beside me like she belonged there. “Can I at least offer a bribe before the proposal?”

I sighed and took one earbud out. “Depends. Is it food?”

She grinned like she’d just scored a goal. “Better. It’s me. I come with jokes, tattoos and limited emotional availability. Total package.”

I blinked at her. “Wow. I can’t imagine why you’re still single.”

“Me neither,” she said, leaning back on her hands, stretching like she was trying to give the sun a show. “Maybe it’s because the girl I actually like keeps rejecting me in increasingly creative ways.”

I scoffed at that, like she actually liked me. I ignored the way my heart did an actual somersault in my chest.

“Maybe,” I muttered, biting into my sandwich like it could distract me from her eyes on me.

She leaned in just a bit, lowering her voice like we were sharing secrets. “Come on. Just one date. If you don’t have the best time of your life, I swear I’ll never flirt with you again.”

I turned to her slowly, looking her dead in the eyes. “You say that like it’s supposed to scare me.”

Her smirk only deepened. “Because you’d miss me.”

“Oh, yes, I’d really miss being aggressively hit on while I try to eat a sandwich with too much mustard. Huge loss.”

“You pretend to hate it,” she said, nudging her knee against mine. “But you haven’t told me to stop.”

I narrowed my eyes, cheeks warming despite my best efforts. “Maybe I like watching you embarrass yourself.”

Vi raised a brow, eyes glinting with something that made my stomach twist. “Then you must love me by now.”

I scoffed. “Love you? Please. I tolerate you the same way I tolerate cramps and coffee withdrawals.”

She clutched her chest like I’d stabbed her. “Brutal.”

“Good,” I said, wrapping my sandwich back up. “Maybe then you’ll finally take the hint and let me rot in peace.”

“Not a chance, princess,” she said, all confidence and charm, her infuriatingly pretty eyes locked on mine. “I’m in this for the long game.”

And to be honest? I was almost—almost—ready to give in. To say yes, just to see what she thought she’d get out of this.

Maybe she liked the challenge. Maybe it thrilled her to know I was the only girl who hadn’t fallen headfirst into her lap. Maybe the chase was more exciting than the prize.

And that’s what scared me the most.

Because if I said yes—if I let her take me out, let her treat me like I was the only girl in the world for a night—what then?

What if she kissed me, touched me like I was something soft and fragile instead of her sarcastic best friend, and took me back to her room? The same room where she’s taken all the others before me. The same room I’ve heard stories about, or walked past, knowing some random girl was probably still tangled in her sheets.

Would I just be another name on that list?

Would she lose interest the second I stopped being a challenge?

Because once I crossed that line, there was no going back. Our friendship wouldn’t survive it—not intact. And neither would I.

Somewhere along the line, Vi stopped being just my flirty, reckless friend with too many one-night stands and a wink that could burn straight through steel. She became someone I couldn’t afford to lose.

And that made everything so much more complicated.

──────────────────────

After that day by the tree, it felt like something shifted. Like Vi sensed that I was slipping. That maybe—just maybe—I was close to giving in. And if she did notice? Oh, she absolutely took it as a challenge.

Maybe she was doing the same thing she always had, or maybe this time it was different. Maybe I was just different—too tired to keep pretending her attention didn’t affect me.

“Good morning, princess. Looking beautiful as always,” she said with that casual confidence, her grin tugging slightly at the little scar on her upper lip.

And of course, my traitor eyes immediately darted to her mouth. Like clockwork.

It was too early for this. Too early to fight the urge to smile back or roll my eyes or reach out and touch her—God, why did she always look so good first thing in the morning?

I tried to muster a response, something snarky, something that would remind her (and myself) that I wasn’t buying it.

“Do you ever wake up and decide not to flirt with someone?” I muttered, brushing past her with my coffee in hand. “Or is this just a full-time job for you?”

“Only when you’re around,” she shot back, grinning like she’d already won something.

I didn’t respond. Couldn’t, really. Because if I did, my voice might crack under the weight of how badly I wanted to believe she meant it this time.

And she didn’t stop. Not that day, not the next, and definitely not the one after that. If anything, she doubled down.

Every morning came with a new compliment, a pet name, a reason for her to stand too close or brush her hand against mine like it was an accident.

“Nice shirt,” she said one afternoon, leaning over the back of the couch where I was writing one of my essays. “Brings out your eyes. Not that I need a shirt to notice those.”

I didn’t even look up. “You say that like you haven’t recycled that line a hundred times.”

“Maybe I have,” she murmured, her breath warm against the shell of my ear. “But it still makes you blush.”

Damn her.

I slammed my laptop shut and stood, brushing past her. “You are unbelievable, you know that?”

She followed, undeterred. “What can I say? I have a soft spot for beautiful girls who act like they hate me.”

“I don’t hate you,” I snapped, stopping short. “I just don’t believe you.”

That made her pause. For the first time in a while, Vi didn’t have a quip ready. She just stood there, lips slightly parted, like she hadn’t expected honesty to sting so much.

“I’m not trying to mess with you, Y/N,” she said after a beat, softer this time. “I know I’ve been… stupid with other people. But you’re not them.”

And that was the most dangerous thing she could’ve said.

Because some part of me wanted to believe her. So badly. But that little voice in the back of my head—the one that remembered every time I saw her kiss someone else at a party, every wink she threw at another girl—it wouldn’t let me forget.

So I laughed. Cold. Dismissive. Defensive.

“Try that line on someone who hasn’t heard your greatest hits, Violet.”

──────────────────────

I tried avoiding Vi for a while. Maybe if I didn’t see her, I’d build up some kind of immunity to her constant flirting. Maybe the distance would help me put my walls back up, stronger than before. Maybe I’d stop slipping.

Desperate times, right? I even went to a party. But of course, the moment I stepped into the frat house, there she was, like fate had planned it just to mess with me.

Drink in hand, hair styled exactly the way I liked it—messy but deliberate—and that stupid black jacket hanging off her shoulders like she owned the night. She was leaning in close to some girl I didn’t recognize, and it took everything in me not to turn around and leave.

She had that look again. The “I’m going to ruin your life, and you’re going to thank me for it” look. Eyes half-lidded, head tilted just enough to seem effortless. I watched as she tucked a strand of hair behind that girl’s ear, smiled like she meant it, and brushed her fingers along her shoulder. Textbook Violet.

And it made my blood boil.

I tried to play it cool. Pretend it didn’t bother me. Pretend I wasn’t two seconds away from marching over there and dragging her out by her smug smirk.

But then she looked at me.

Just one glance—one second—and suddenly it was like her flirty dial cranked up to a thousand. She leaned in even closer to the girl, whispered something, and then—of course—she made her way over to me.

Drink still in hand. Grin still plastered across her face.

I didn’t even wait for her to speak.

“Oh, don’t stop now,” I snapped, arms crossed tight. “She looked like she was really enjoying herself.”

Vi blinked, taken aback. “What?”

I laughed, bitter and sharp. “Don’t play dumb, Vi. She was practically on top of you.”

The smirk twitched back onto her lips, but this time it looked more like a shield than confidence. “Is someone jealous?”

And that did it.

“See?” I snapped, louder than I meant to. “That’s exactly what I mean. You say you want me, that I’m the only girl you’re actually serious about—but the second I’m not around, you’re back to being the stupid version of you. Flirting with anything that breathes. How am I supposed to take you seriously when you act like that?”

Her smile dropped. Just like that. Her jaw clenched, and she stepped closer, something softer flickering behind those impossible blue eyes. “You really think I don’t mean it?”

“I think you don’t know what you mean,” I said, my voice trembling now, though I tried to hold it steady. “And I’m not going to be just another girl you use to pass the time.”

Silence settled between us. The music around us kept playing, but it sounded so far away. For the first time, she didn’t throw back a comeback. She just stood there, those goddamn puppy-dog eyes searching mine, her throat working like she was trying to find the right words.

“I’m not trying to pass the time,” she said quietly, voice low and rough. “I’m trying to get you to believe that I’m in this for you. And yeah, I flirt. That’s how I cope. That’s how I hide. But nothing I’ve ever said to them meant even half as much as what I say to you.”

I wanted to believe her. I really wanted to.

“I want to believe you,” I whispered, looking away. “But your words don’t match your actions, Vi. And I… I don’t want to be just another girl on your bed.”

She took a breath, and for a second, I thought she might say something reckless and heartbreaking. But instead, she just said, “Then tell me what to do to prove it.”

──────────────────────

Then tell me what to do to prove it.

Her voice echoed in my head long after the conversation ended.

And true to her word, Vi didn’t just let it go.

The next day, there was coffee waiting for me at my desk. We had the same 8 a.m. lecture, and as I stepped into the room and made my way to my usual table, I saw it—my exact order, the one I never told anyone because it was way too specific, was waiting for me, my name written in her messy scrawl on the side.

“I’m not flirting,” she said as I eyed the cup suspiciously. “I’m just… paying attention.”

Day two: A sticky note on my computer that said “You looked beautiful yesterday. Just thought someone should tell you”

Day three: the Jane Austen book I’d been dying to read—the one I kept complaining was always checked out from the library—sitting on my living room table. Another sticky note on the cover: “Someone finally returned it! :)”

Every day after that, there was something new. Something soft. Something small. A gesture that felt intentional. Deliberate. Real.

And she wasn’t flirting the way she used to. No more over-the-top pickup lines. No more exaggerated winks. No more “princess” with a grin that dared me to fight her off. Now, when she looked at me, it felt… different. Like she wasn’t trying to seduce me—just see me.

And it was terrifying.

Because on one hand she was being true to her word, she was showing me that she actually—actually!!—wanted me, not just because I was a challenge, but because it was me.

But on the other hand, I couldn’t shake the fear. What if she slipped? What if the next party rolled around and I turned to see her back to whispering in someone else’s ear, smirk in full force, drink in hand?

What if this version of her—soft, steady, real—was only temporary?

Still, with every action, every quiet gesture, it was like she was telling me, “Yes, I’m serious about you.” And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t ignore the growing feeling that giving her a chance was the right thing to do.

Maybe I was going to be the stupid girl who fell for her walking-red-flag-of-a-friend.

──────────────────────

I don’t know what finally broke through my defenses.

Maybe it was the book.

Maybe it was the way she stopped trying to win me over with smirks and pickup lines and started showing up with nothing but sincerity.

Or maybe it was how quiet she’d gone about it all—how she never pointed out the things she did, never asked for credit, never even looked to see if I noticed.

But I did.

God, I noticed.

Every sticky note. Every small gesture. Every look that lingered longer than it should have.

So the next time she handed me a coffee, I didn’t roll my eyes. I didn’t raise a brow or accuse her of flirting.

I just took it.

“Thanks,” I said, soft and a little unsure, brushing my fingers against hers for maybe a second too long. “You remembered the oat milk this time.”

“You’re welcome,” she said slowly, carefully, like she didn’t want to scare me off by saying too much.

I held her gaze a moment longer than I usually would. Then I glanced down at the cup, smiling faintly when I saw our names written side by side in her handwriting, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I swallowed, heart in my throat. “I was thinking…” I said, trying to keep my tone light even though my palms were sweating, “if you’re not busy Friday night, maybe we could… grab dinner or something?”

Vi blinked. Once. Twice.

Then her whole face lit up like I’d just handed her the moon.

“You’re asking me out?” she said, grinning so wide it was nearly blinding. “Is this a trap? Are cameras gonna pop out?”

I laughed, embarrassed, but I didn’t take it back. I couldn’t. “Don’t push it, Violet.”

She leaned in, her voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “I won’t. I swear. Just tell me where to be… and I’ll be there.”

──────────────────────

Friday night came faster than I expected, and the moment I saw her standing outside the restaurant, every ounce of my carefully built composure cracked.

She wasn’t in her usual leather jacket and cocky smile. Instead, she wore a crisp white shirt, tucked into her loose black jeans. Her hair was still slightly messy, and she kept spinning the rings on her fingers like she was nervous. Vi. Nervous. That alone nearly made me trip over my own feet.

“You showed,” she said, looking me up and down slowly.

I walked up to her, trying not to look like I’d been holding my breath the entire ride there.

A soft smile tugged at her lips. “You look… incredible.”

“And you’re still a flirt,” I replied, brushing past her with a smirk, my cheeks flushing. “But thanks.”

She chuckled and held the door open for me, just a little shy this time—like she was still half-expecting me to change my mind.

Dinner started awkwardly. We both fumbled over the menu, over small talk, over who was going to order the wine. It felt like trying on new clothes—familiar pieces in an unfamiliar context.

But somewhere between the second glass of wine and a story she told about her and Jinx sneaking onto a rooftop to watch fireworks, things started to ease. I was laughing—really laughing. And Vi… she just looked at me like I’d hung the stars.

“You know,” I said, taking another sip of wine, “I thought I had you all figured out.”

“Yeah?” She raised an eyebrow. “What did you think?”

“That you were just in it for the challenge. Trying to get into my pants because I didn’t immediately fall at your feet. And that once you got what you wanted, you wouldn’t even look my way again.”

She huffed a short laugh. “And now?”

“Now… I feel like you’re being genuine. I don’t know. You keep surprising me.” I paused. “And I like it.”

She reached across the table, slow and careful, her fingers brushing mine.

“And I hope I keep surprising you,” she whispered. “As long as you let me.”

I let my hand turn, let our fingers tangle—just a little.

Maybe I was still scared. Maybe I still didn’t have all the answers.

But in that moment—with her looking at me like I was something rare—I wasn’t turning away.

We ended up walking after dinner, neither of us ready to call it a night. The city buzzed softly around us—the way it always did after 10 p.m.—still alive, but quieter. Calmer. Like it was winding down, holding its breath along with us. We wandered toward the park, the air cool and just a little crisp, carrying that quiet kind of magic only late nights could.

“Okay,” Vi said, nudging me gently with her elbow. “Be honest. Dinner wasn’t a complete disaster, right?”

I smirked. “I mean, you didn’t make me mad, and you didn’t flirt with the waitress—huge progress.”

She laughed, the sound echoing lightly in the open air. “So I get points for not being a menace?”

“You get points for trying,” I replied, casting a glance at her from the corner of my eye. “And maybe for making me laugh.”

Her smile softened at that. We walked in silence for a bit, but it wasn’t awkward—just… easy. Comfortable. Somewhere along the path, we passed a little ice cream stand still open, and Vi tugged me gently to a stop.

“Ice cream?” she asked, her eyes practically sparkling. “My treat.”

I raised an eyebrow. “If this is your secret strategy to win me over, it’s dangerously effective.”

“Not a strategy,” she said with a grin, already pulling out her wallet. “Just craving something sweet.”

The old woman behind the counter gave Vi a knowing smile after handing us our cones. As Vi turned back toward me, I caught the faint pink on her cheeks.

We found a bench near the edge of the lake and sat, ice cream in hand—mine was mint chocolate chip, hers something absurdly fruity. The streetlights cast everything in a soft golden glow, and a breeze rustled the trees overhead. In the distance, someone strummed a guitar lazily. It felt like a scene from a movie I hadn’t realized I was starring in.

“You’ve got a little…” Vi gestured vaguely toward my face.

I blinked. “What?”

“Here,” she said, and before I could react, she leaned in. Her fingers brushed my cheek, her thumb warm as it wiped a smudge of green ice cream from the corner of my mouth.

It was such a small touch. But it stopped everything.

She didn’t pull away right away. Her eyes flicked to my lips—slowly, carefully—and then met mine. The air between us shifted, suddenly charged. My breath caught in my throat. Everything about her—her nearness, the way her hand lingered just a second too long, the way she looked at me like I was the only thing that mattered—made the world go still.

I could’ve pulled back.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I leaned in, just slightly, testing the waters. Vi mirrored the movement instantly—like we’d both been waiting for this and didn’t want to move too fast and break it.

Her lips brushed against mine—soft, unsure, hesitant. When I didn’t move away, she kissed me deeper. Gentler. Like she wanted to memorize it, savor every second.

And I kissed her back.

It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed. It was slow and careful, like she was trying to say everything she hadn’t been able to in words.

When we finally pulled apart, both of us breathless, her forehead rested lightly against mine. Her hand still hovered near my cheek.

“Still not flirting,” she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut.

I laughed quietly. “Liar.”

But I didn’t let go.

And neither did she.

──────────────────────

masterlist

#vi x reader #vi arcane #vi x y/n #vi x you #arcane #arcane x female reader #arcane x y/n #arcane x reader #arcane x you #lily writes #request ♡#mootie ✰

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dearwhs · 4 months ago

Text

10 steps to NOT fall in love (100% works?) ✭ hts . . . 한동민

✪ genre: fluff, humor wc: 2k warnings: nothing!

♪ notes: I ENJOYED THIS ONE. WHAT DO WE THINKK? step 5 has gotta be my fav ><

✪ now playing: OUR

♪ part 2 >>>> the ultimate 10 steps to confessing (jaehyun's idea)

ᝰ.ᐟ

taesan doesn't like you... is what he would always say. after all, you're just his neighbor. so what if you accidentally spill drink on your shirt and he just happens to be considerate? not like he cares or anything. he's just trying his best to stop you from whining at your own mess—like how you just wore your favorite shirt and now it's completely ruined so he borrows you one of his shirts instead. that meant nothing, obviously.

ᝰ.ᐟ

"just admit it. you're literally so obvious, dude." jaehyun snickers, watching taesan who's too busy pretending to mind his own business. jaehyun lets out a dramatic sigh as he flops down on the sofa behind taesan. he obviously wouldn't be stopping his blabbing anytime soon.

this was an everyday routine for taesan. he just ignores jaehyun as if he didn't exist—simply nothing more than just a puppy who acts like an annoying fly, buzzing in his ears.

jaehyun's words were nothing but harmless bullets for him because he knows to himself that he's not into you, he's sure of it.

it's not like his world revolves around you—he's literally your neighbor. it's not his fault he knows the exact face you make when you thought you've lost your key, the way your eyesbrows suddenly glue together, your eyes glaring at your very own bag, rummaging inside in frustration (which by the way, entertains taesan every single time it happens). or the way you'd come out at 7pm everyday with tons of cat foods just to feed the stray cats waiting outside your door.

none of it meant anything, really.

dings. it's you, again—asking taesan to fix your broken sink for the 4th time this week. and of course, there goes myung jaehyun again, rambling how taesan instantly closed the book he was holding, which he was barely reading in the first place—he just used it to be a somewhat distraction to shoo away jaehyun's voice.

jaehyun couldn't hold himself as a soft chuckle escapes his mouth, he finds taesan amusing because his words does NOT match his actions at all. "dude, do you even realize how niché your behavior is right now? YOU DON'T EVEN FIX MY TOILET WHEN I CLOG IT!" taesan couldn't help but to roll his eyes at jaehyun, followed by a small tsk. "a sink is different from a toilet, jaehyun. it's different." he said as he ran off as fast as he could to escape jaehyun's rambling again.

ᝰ.ᐟ

taesan comes back to jaehyun creepily smiling at him, what's up with this guy...?

"sooo, how's your sink date with y/n?" he's already bothering him. he didn't even give taesan a second— no, a millisecond to put down his bag.

jaehyun walks towards him, his arms leaning on an invisible block, even his hands placed on his chin out in the air. he's here to sip some tea. "so, why did you drop on her place? :3" taesan wanted to argue, but jaehyun's right... right..? no. taesan hesitates. he did drop by your place because he feared you'd flood your entire apartment and stay on his instead– totally!

and just like that, jaehyun was sold—that you like her. a grin stuck on his face, obviously enjoying taesan's reaction, his pride hated it. that's when his mouth fought for him... "fine, i'll prove it." ...jaehyun just snorted at him, "prove what??"

"that i don't like yn." — and just like that, taesan's 10 steps to NOT be in love was birthed and was ready to be put on action. oh he cannot wait to rub it on jaehyun's face once he proves himself right. oh, just you wait, myung jaehyun. just you wait.

ᝰ.ᐟ

TAESAN'S 10 STEPS TO NOT BE IN LOVE

STEP 1: avoid you

– avoiding you? that's easy work. he always do that to people in uni. how hard can it be to avoid you?

– except you literally live right next door. right as you two meet outside the apartment, you simply wave at him, and before he could even process it, his arms automatically wave back. just a guy waving with the most blankest expression ever—his face wasn't prepared but his hands were. (STEP 1: FAILED)

ᝰ.ᐟ

STEP 2: continue being the mean guy he is

– okay, easy—again, that's in his nature. sure it's impossible to avoid you, but being mean to you? that's doable.

– both of you are waiting at the bus stop, you tapped him—showcasing the keychain you made... "so, what do you think? i made it by myself!" he... he couldn't release his inner mean-ness for some reason, "yeah, it's nice." (STEP 2: ANOTHER FAIL)

ᝰ.ᐟ

STEP 3: ignore your texts (easy!)

– how easy can it be for taesan to ignore your texts? easy... again... right? right...! he can just turn off his phone and go on with his day.

– his phone dings, he clears his throat, excusing himself, "oh, maybe jaehyun messaged me, that guy... definitely.." nope, it was from you. he swipes up on the notification, barely reading your message—not until his eyes catches on the words "taesan, can you help me–" nope, he won't fail step 3 that easily. well, not until he looked outside the window to see you struggling. next thing you know, he's right beside you as he helps you carry your groceries inside. (STEP 3: passed? i mean he didn't reply to you... nope. FAILED! - according to jaehyun)

ᝰ.ᐟ

STEP 4: no more favors (sorry yn)

– you can manage... jaehyun said so. as for taesan? he's not so sure. you're literally the fairy godmother for yn. will this be possible?

– jaehyun, taesan, and riwoo's playing games—someone knocks on the door, and you guessed it. it's yn. "can you fix my sink...? i swear–" controller down, tools up. the two guys stared at him... weren't we playing games... and just like that, taesan poofed again. "step 4 is another fail." jaehyun muttered to himself. "what the heck do you mean–" you don't have to know riwoo, you don't have to know. (STEP 4: F)

ᝰ.ᐟ

STEP 5: encourage you to date! (jaehyun's idea)

– now this one is easy, just throw her men she can date. that totally proves he doesn't like you, right?

– okay, taesan's in the living room along with jaehyun, listing off guys you could possibly date. sungho - nah, he's a cleaning monster. yn's the complete opposite of him. he'd probably scare her. riwoo ‐ he's perfect! (in jaehyun's opinion!) nope, no. riwoo's too... funny. we don't wanna kill yn from laughing too much, right? right. leehan - an immediate no for taesan. he's too perfect for her, yup. woonhak - he's a baby. we don't wanna turn yn into a single mom juggling her uni duties while babysitting woonhak. (STEP 5: big fail. jaehyun died laughing at taesan)

ᝰ.ᐟ

STEP 6: stop remembering things about her, even the tiniest bits (jaehyun's idea again. taesan disagrees)

– let's keep it simple. he just needs to refrain himself of constantly reminding you things that you always forget. except...

– you're in the campus sitting at the bench, reading your notes. taesan's coincidentally at the area minding his own business listening to music—he definitely doesn't see you right at the corner of his eyes using his peripheral vision. but he could tell you were stressed, maybe reviewing for another hell of a quiz your prof threw at you this week. and just like that, as you look at your watch, you're about to be late, which forced you to run off. yeah, except you forgot your phone. he knew you'd forget something, and there he was—outside your class handing out the phone you left. (STEP 6: sadly a fail)

ᝰ.ᐟ

STEP 7: SOCIAL DISTANCING!

– how about we go old school? this should be easy, he had done this multiple times during the pandemic. it wouldn't be hard to keep his distance from you. he hoped.

– no matter how much gap he tries to put on you two, you always manage to close it. you see him walking? you'd call out his name and put on the brightest smile as you wave to him—of course, he'd nonchalantly wave back. you'd bump to him in the convenience store? seconds later—you two are walking home together. (STEP 7: embarassingly a fail)

ᝰ.ᐟ

STEP 8: not your diary

– you're happy? you tell taesan. you're sad? you tell taesan. you're mad? you tell taesan. you tell taesan everything. he told you multiple times he's your neighbor, not your unicorn diary or whatever. he swore he wouldn't listen to your rants.

– had a stressful day? you sent a voice message to taesan—he didn't even listen to it. not until a few seconds later. now he's at your door, holding snacks to ease you up, mumbling "here, i hope it makes you feel better, i guess." (what step are we on.. oh! STEP 8: fail...)

ᝰ.ᐟ

STEP 9: stop thinking about you

– ever since this plan started, you were all over his head more than ever. jaehyun suggested this step as a "cleansing method," a way to get you out of taesan's head.

– okay, this should be easy. he just needs to focus on his class, video games, jaehyun– jaehyun!? get out his head, please—literally anything but you (and jaehyun).

– except everything is suddenly all about you. the empty sit on the bus? that's the sit he saved for you. the plush he saw on the store? it's the same one you had. the music he's listening to right now? that's your favorite song—he groans, bumping his head on the table, this is hard. his phone lights up, of course, it's you. "taesan, have you eaten yet?" okay, maybe one reply wouldn't hurt. (STEP 9: it's pretty obvious)

ᝰ.ᐟ

STEP 10: he's not in love with you

– at this point, this was the ultimate test. he just had to wake up and feel... nothing. he knew this step would be the easiest. he wins, jaehyun loses.

– "you lose." jaehyun snickers at him, annoying the heck out of taesan by doing his silly victory dance. taesan just sits there, arms crossed. he... lost? pfft, no way. jaehyun on the other hand was dripping in amusement, "10 steps? it seemed like 10 steps to prove you like yn." he says, bursting out laughing.

– he didn't even mean to look outside his window but he saw you—why were you wearing a beautiful pink sundress? it's literally so cold right now. your face couldn't even hide how cold your body was, the way you were shivering, it worried taesan. and in a matter of seconds, taesan's already outside along with his jacket wrapped around his arms, right in front of you. "here, just take it." with a surprisingly soft voice, he couldn't help but to wrap the jacket on you, his face inches away from yours—that did something to taesan's stomach. his heart started beating fast, badum badum why was it doing that??

– as for you, the moment felt different with taesan. usually, these type of things meant nothing, but for some reason, seeing his face up close, you could see the details on his expression, the way his face eyebrows furrowed—his face genuinely concerned for you. it made you wonder, was han taesan always like this?

– the moment freezed for the both of you, eyes locked onto each other—only to be stopped by jaehyun creeping up behind taesan, taking him away. you just laughed at the situation, but is it weird to say you were disappointed you didn't get to spend much time with him at the moment?

– as for taesan, jaehyun's clinging on his shoulders obviously he's got something to say, "you like yn, huh?" and for the first time, that made taesan smile crazy, though he did push jaehyun away right after for ruining his moment with you. (STEP 10: failed. but who cares?) "what about 10 steps of confessing to yn now?" mhm, taesan locked jaehyun outside.

ᝰ.ᐟ

if you liked this, a like, reblog, or comment is highly appreciated, thank you! ><

#bnd imagines #bnd au #bnd taesan #taesan au #taesan fluff #boynextdoor #bnd x reader #bnd #taesan x reader #taesan #dearwhs

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foreverromanticising · 3 months ago

Text

renegade | ln4

(1) a sultry summer night pulls lando towards you, leaving your plans turned on your head but at least he ended up with you in his bed (smut, fluff, the lot!)

lando norris x fem!reader | wc - 3.3k | many parts to follow to perfectly prepare us for a lando summer aka the best sort of summer

masterlist<3

As much as Lando loved racing, there was no denying his true love that was summer break. He was given weeks on end with no responsibilties other than trying to figure out how he could develop his sun tan any further than it already was. Weeks on end filled with nothing but the sun, the sea, and of course, sex. Summer was sticky and sultry for Lando.

And who could blame him, summer break was the perfect time for this. He needed an outlet to relax after months of racing, this was the perfect escape, and what better way to do it than when he was tanned? So, every year, Lando and his friends would traipse out to some beach town with a night life he wouldn’t dream of leaving - whether it be a Greek island or the likes of Ibiza, which he could never grow tired of - and they’d drink away their summers.

Their days were spent on yachts out at sea or lounging by pools, their evenings were spent with extravagant dinners in lavish restauarants, and their nights were all spent rather differently. Sure, they would all head to the same nightclub, drinks swirling with every hour that passed but everyone would end the night in a different way. Lando’s best friend, Max, was always sure to have a few drinks before starting the campaign to head home - his girlfriend was back in London so he had no reason to be staying out later than two in the morning, he had no desire to try and pick up any girls on a night out. Entirely unlike his best friend as Lando’s aim was usually trying to see who he could get in his bed that night.

“On the lookout are you?” Max grabbed Lando’s shoulder to make him aware of his appearance, another drink in both of his hands for the two of them - not that they needed it.

“Don’t say it like that,” Lando scoffed but still accepted the drink nonetheless. “Don’t say it like I’ve got an agenda.”

“Well, you do, don’t you?” Max knew Lando could lie to their other friends, but he couldn’t lie to his face like that, like they didn’t know each other like the back of their hands. “Chat up a pretty girl for the night, take her back to your bed, hope she slips out by the morning - and do it all over again tomorrow with someone new.”

“I’m not that bad,” Truly, he had never paid that much attention to his habits. Lando just assumed the time to have fun and sleep around was now, there was no point in not partaking if he wasn’t anywhere near settling down. “Am I?”

“I mean, you still treat girls with respect so you’re not the bottom of the barrel,” A teasing lilt took over Max’s voice; he knew that when Lando was with a girl he was nothing but a gentleman, the issues would arise as soon as he was done with said girl. “Just keep it down once your back, I’d actually like a decent sleep this year.”

“Mate, it’s the first night-”

“Yeah, but you’re not exactly looking to be the most successful right now, are-” Max’s words were cut off as a body knocked into his own, subsequently then falling into Lando. Maybe standing in the direct path of traffic from the bar to the dancefloor wasn’t their smartest idea.

“Oh, my God, I am so so sorry!”

“Don’t be, totally my fault.” In that moment, Lando was eternally grateful for his racecar driver reflexes, his hands shooting out to catch your stumbling body as your drink sloshed out of your cup and down his linen shirt - instead of a fresh white, it was now sporting a purple blotch.

“That wasn’t your fault at all, no! I need to watch where I’m walking, I’m so sorry,” The words spilled out of your mouth quicker than Lando could pick up on them. “And your shirt! I’m so sorry, I’m gonna need a cap for these cups.”

“It’s okay, stop apologising,” Lando dropped his hands from your waist, tugging on the end of his shirt to inspect the damage, though he would argue to you there was hardly a stain. It wasn’t as though a white linen was hard to come by. “We probably shouldn’t be standing here anyway - I’m Lando, by the way, and this is Max.” He extended out his hand to you, shaking it to try and calm your thoughts, and your hand that shook with anxiety. You gave him your name in return, dropping his hand and trying to take a deep breath as you started to come down from the brief moments of adrenilane - you still felt horrendous about falling into him but he was quick to assure you that he was all right.

“I should probably go, it was-” You didn’t want to linger, wanting out of this awfully embarassing moment as soon as possible. However, just as you try to excuse yourself, Lando interrupts you.

“Can I buy you a drink? As an apology, of course.” He points towards the bar over his shoulder, as Max watches the entire situation unfold and knows exactly where it’ll end - in Lando’s bed. Thus, he excuses himself, muttering a quick goodbye to Lando as he slips past both of you.

“You have nothing to apologise for, I should be buying you a drink.”

“I can’t have pretty girls buying me drinks, doesn’t work like that.” His hand slips back around your waist as he leads you towards the bar.

The conversation flows as easily as the drinks do and you soon learn that there’s more to Lando than his name and his easily forgiving nature; he’s from England, though he’s curretnly staying in Monaco, he’s in Greece with his closest friends as he claims summer doesn’t begin until they head to the Greek islands, and his favourite colour is orange, although he does specifiy the shade you’ve had one too many drinks to remember what he had said.

Your legs were intertwined beneath the bar, knees pushed together, as you both tried to sit as close to each other - Lando claimed he could hardly hear you, but you would argue he just wanted to keep you close, as you did with him.

Soon enough, you begin to gather that the bartender was simply sick of the sight of both yourself and Lando, the constant glares and passive sighing don’t ease you of this ebbing feeling. Thankfully, Lando wastes no time in taking your hand in his, fingers laced between your own, and leads both of you out of the bar.

“Beginning to think you’re leading me to my death.” You try to play your worries off as a joke, a fake laugh masking your words, but there was no hiding the sudden change in the speed of your breathing as Lando walks both of you down towards the seafront. It probably wasn’t your brightest idea to blindly follow a man you had just met but his hair curled perfectly above his eyes and all you could think about was running your fingertips through the mop atop of his head so you had to admit you were feeling a little distracted.

“‘Could never murder you, babe,” He flashed you that god awful smile that had your knees almost buckling beneath your weight, reminding you exactly why you so stupidly grabbed his hand and followed the path he led. “Just wanted to hear you, ’s too loud in there.”

His speech was slurred ever so slightly, one too many drinks and a pretty girl in front of him - how could he possibly be expected to maintain his composure around you?

“So, Greece? What are you doing here?” He had perked up in the few hours you had known him, not that he wasn’t in a great mood prior to when you had bumped into him however alcohol significantly loosened the weight that was bearing upon Lando’s shoulders. He felt like he could float away, simply at peace as he swung your hands back and forth between your bodies - like walking along a beach at three in the morning with you was an entirely normal thing to do for him, like he had been doing this his whole life.

“I don’t really know,” You let out a laugh and shrugged your shoulders, as though the question was totally absurd. “I wanted to travel, I guess, so here I am.”

“Massively boring answer, c’mon, I wanna know you.” Perhaps Lando was more forward than he would’ve been with five less drinks in him, on a normal day and at a normal time, but that wouldn’t have been true to Lando.

“I mean it, I really don’t know - I’m just here.” You weren’t sure how much of an answer Lando was expecting but you were certain you couldn’t give him what he was searching for.

“Mmm’kay well, who’re you here with?”

“No one, just me.”

“You’ve got to be joking,” It was almost comical the way Lando’s eyes almost bugged out of his head, jaw dropping - he felt as though you were simply giving him these blunt answers in a pure attempt to wind him up, but his drunken mind trusted you enough to believe you. “You’re in Greece, on your own, and you don’t know why? Makes sense.”

“I wanted to travel and experience the world, and the people and the cultures it could offer me,” You didn’t have a particularly expansive answer for Lando but you figured you could tell him the truth - despite all of the friends you had promised back home that you wouldn’t tell anyone that you were solo travelling. “No one wanted to come with me and I didn’t want to waste anymore time sitting around so I packed a bag and here I am, following a strange man on the beach.”

“Strange man? This strange man bought you drinks all night.” Lando scoffed, a look of faux offence mascarading his face.

“Most strange men buy girls they want to sleep with drinks on a night out, Lando.” Though you could maybe guess what Lando’s intentions were for that night, you wouldn’t have fit him into the ‘strange men’ category your friends were so worried about. You felt incredibly comfortable around him as you continued following him.

“Who said I wanted to sleep with you?” He stumbled over his words as they fell out of his mouth, thankful for the dark sky and the lack of street lamps as he could feel the heat rise to his cheeks.

“I’m a good guesser?” You shrugged your shoulders, a teasing smirk pulling at your lips as you watched how flustered he became.

“Don’t change the subject,” Lando shook his head, trying to regroup his train of thought back to his original questions. “Travelling, you said? Where are you going? I don’t think you can count party islands as real travelling.”

“Well, this is one of my last stops,” You rattled off the lists of cities and islands you had trekked to over the last few weeks as Lando watched you with pure curiosity. “Then, in the morning, I’m meant to head to Albania but I don’t have anything booked yet.”

“That’s not very bright, why would you not book something so you know what you’re doing?” Lando couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t extremely organised in most aspects of his life, the thought of not knowing your next step stressed him out and he was only on day one of his own trip.

“I dunno, wanted to see where tonight would take me.” Before leaving the hostel you were staying in, you had packed all of your belongings into your backpack just in case you decided you were ready to leave the next morning. You liked to have the choice of where your travelling would take you, making sporadic last minute decisions was exactly why none of your friends had wanted to travel with you.

“And where did tonight take you?”

“Back to your place, I’m hoping.”

Those few words were enough to have Lando pulling your arm, immediately picking up the pace he was walking at until both of you were almost running back to his villa. You weren’t usually this bold when it came to boys but you knew you had no chances of seeing Lando after this so you let any worries roll straight off your back.

Any space between you and Lando had absolutely vanished back at the bar yet he kept trying to pull you impossibly closer once you made it back to his villa. He led you back to his bedroom, shushing you between kisses in fears of waking up any of his friends whilst you exclaimed over the grandure of his villa. “You gotta stay quiet, baby.” His lips travelled down your neck as he pushed you inside his bedroom, murmuring against your skin.

His hands dipped lower down your body, rough and calloused fingertips dragging the hem of your dress to your hips. Though, before he lets himself go any further with you whilst standing in his doorway, he soon redirects your bodies to his bed - not daring to break from your lips as he laid you down atop of his mattress. Soon, he hikes up your dress properly and lays the skirt across your stomach, leaving your white lace on show for him.

“Pretty girl.” He hummed against your hip bone, placing a gentle kiss on this lace that sits on your skin. Daringly, he darts his tongue just below your belly, teasing eyes looking back up at you. “Can I get rid of these, y’gonna be alright with that?” His breath is strikingly hot against your skin as he watches you nod your head above him.

The arch of your back combined with your nodding is enough for Lando before he begins pulling your panties down your legs, discarding them to the floor of the room. “Y’gonna let me make you feel good, darling?” This elicited a whine from your lips and you weren’t above begging Lando to touch you, to do anything. Again, this was enough for Lando as he ducked his head down and began pressing kisses from your inner thighs all the way to your clit - slow and steady kisses, as though he was scared you were going to disappear if this was over too fast.

His lips continued their assault on you, Lando acting like he was a man starved as his hands gripped onto your thighs. He wouldn’t dare break away from you for a second, not even for a breath of air. He closed his mouth around you, the pressure was almost too much for you to handle as a high whine left your jaw ajar and you wanted so desperately to close your eyes, to bask in the feeling, but you couldn’t dare take your eyes off of Lando. His sun kissed skin, the tip of his ever so slightly burnt nose kept nudging your clit and left you nearly squealing.

Though, before he could let you finish your hands were frantically grabbing at the collar of his linen shirt, pulling him up over your body as his arms caged you in below him. He was breathing just as heavily as you were but you didn’t waste a second in allowing him to grab a breath before you captured his lips with your own. Your fingertips tugged on the ends of his curls, involuntarily causing him to bite down on your bottom lip.

“Didn’t think you’d be into that.” You laughed against his lips whilst your hands made their way down his body, trying to unbutton whatever buttons were still done on his shirt so you could pull it over his head.

“I’m into whatever you’re into.” Lando truly wasn’t kidding; he knew he had only met you a few hours ago but he was certain he would lay down the world for you. Or maybe he was just drunk, but he loved the feeling of being in love without any strings attached. It was a bad habit of his.

Lando hadn’t even taken your dress off properly before you were begging for more than just his mouth; his trousers shucked off and thrown into the corner of his room with your panties. Whilst your dress wasn’t totally gone, it didn’t stop Lando from slipping his hands beneath the fabric to feel every inch of your skin with every thrust.

Something broke with every push Lando gave you; everything about this touch was just right, calculated like he had done this a million times before, but you couldn’t complain as you lay entirely blissed out below him. He fell apart moments after you, holding you close as he finally lay down on the white sheets beneath both you. His lips trailed from your temple to your collarbone, not one part of him caring that you were sweaty and sticky from the night you had both just had from the bar to his bedroom - he was sure he was in a much worse state.

You didn’t bask in his affection for long before you were sitting up, fixing your mussed hair and pulling your dress back down to an appropriate length. Your sudden movements left Lando confused, a perplexed look taking over his face as he watched you.

“Are you not staying?” Usually, he was quick to haul girls out of his bedroom so he could return back to his normalcy but he assumed you would stay. You two had actually clicked beyond the sex, Lando didn’t want to give this up straight away.

“Albania, Lan, I leave in a few hours.” Your time with Lando had gone from the late night into the early hours of the morning, and whilst you had had great fun, you were determined to make your travels for the next day.

“What? C’mon babe, just stay,” Lando leaned towards the end of his bed, hand outstretched as he grabbed yours, pulling you back to his bed. He was quick to noticed that you didn’t put up much of a fight against his movements. “You said it yourself, nothing’s booked.”

“I dunno, this was fun and all but-”

“But, we could do it all over again tomorrow,” He hovered his lips over your own, forehead pressed against yours with his voice low and tempting. “You don’t have to go, you should stay.”

“Do you always get your way with girls?” You rolled your eyes as you were certain this man had never been told ‘no’ once before in his life but you could understand why - you weren’t sure you wanted to be the first person to tell him ‘no’ when he looked at you with those shining eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve ever asked a girl to stay before,” He confessed to you, lips finally connecting with yours. “Albania will always be there, even just stay for the night - we can sort everything out tomorrow. But, please, just come to bed with me.”

“I’ll have to be up early to grab my stuff from the hostel, I can’t leave it there all-” You couldn’t help the bubble of worries that were slowly taking over you at the change of your plans, but you couldn’t deny the subtle excitment you felt with how desperately Lando was clinging to you, begging you to stay.

“Shh, I’ll set an alarm and we’ll be up,” He pulled you to lay down with him, his hands grabbing your thigh to tug your leg in between his. He felt a sense of contentment when your head rested on his shoulder, the white sheets pulled up to your shoulder. “Jus’ wanna hold you tonight.”

#formula one #formula 1 #lando norris #lando norris x reader #f1 #lando norris blurb #lando norris fanfic #lando norris imagine #lando norris summer #f1 fanfic #f1 blurb #lando norris fluff #lando norris smut #lando norris angst

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4linos · 1 month ago

Text

between the lines 2

lee minho x f!reader

synopsis: after a quiet and amicable separation, you and minho learn to navigate the subtle emotional terrain of co-parenting, discovering that the bonds between you aren’t entirely severed. when a new relationship enters the picture, old emotions come into play, forcing you to reassess what it means to truly move on.

warnings: angst, slow burn, emotional tension, jealousy, unresolved feelings, mild alcohol use.

wc: 10,056

[between the lines part 1, part 3]

Minho was stressed, more than he cared to admit, even to himself. It was the kind of stress that lingered in your bones, in the tight clench of your jaw and the ever-present weight pressing against your temples. He sat at his desk, eyes trained on the screen in front of him, but not really seeing anything. The same sentence of his report had been rewritten four times now. It wasn’t the numbers or the deadlines that had his mind in a chokehold.

It was you.

You, smiling down at your phone these days, blushing when you picked Hana up from him, trying to hide it but not quite succeeding. You, brushing him off gently when he tried to ask about what or who was making you light up like that. It didn’t take a genius to figure it out. You were seeing someone. Dating.

He wasn’t stupid.

Still, it looped in his head like static he couldn’t tune out.

What was he like?

Had he met Hana already?

Would you let him meet her before you let Minho even try to be part of your life again?

The idea made Minho feel sick to his stomach. He wasn’t entitled to you anymore, he knew that, but the thought of someone stepping in, stepping closer to your world and his daughter, his daughter, lit something sharp in his chest.

He was pulled from his spiraling thoughts by the familiar, grating voice of Jisung. The guy had a talent for saying too much with too much volume and not enough awareness. He stood a few feet away from Minho’s desk, leaning casually against the low partition wall, talking to Chan and Changbin, both of whom were laughing, albeit less enthusiastically than usual.

Minho barely spared them a glance at first. He rarely did. He hadn’t spoken more than five full sentences to Jisung since he started working there two months ago. There was no real reason for it, aside from the one minor disagreement they'd had early on, something about meeting deadlines or overlapping responsibilities that didn’t really matter anymore. But from that moment on, Minho kept his distance.

Jisung was... loud. Overly friendly. Always talking about things Minho had no interest in, especially when it came to his love life, which he brought up constantly. Minho didn’t like him, but he didn’t exactly dislike him either. Jisung was just there. Annoying.

"She’s gorgeous, man," Jisung was saying, arms crossed over his chest as he grinned. “A total MILF. Super sweet, down to earth. Has a daughter, cutest little kid, name’s Hana, I think?”

Minho froze.

He didn’t even blink.

His blood turned ice cold in his veins. He looked up slowly, the sound around him warping like it had been sucked into a vacuum. He stared at Jisung, expression unreadable, but his grip on the edge of the desk tightened.

He heard it. Hana.

Chan and Changbin did, too.

He could see it, how their heads turned slightly toward him at the same time, quiet recognition dawning behind their eyes. They’d met you before, briefly, back when things with you and Minho were still intact. They knew your name. They knew Hana. They knew, and now they were looking between Jisung and Minho like they were connecting the wires.

Minho didn’t wait for the pieces to fall completely.

He stood up.

“Stop,” Chan said lowly to Jisung, trying to steer the conversation away.

But it was too late.

Jisung just laughed. “What?”

Minho took a step forward, and Jisung’s gaze shifted to him, curious and oblivious.

“Who’s the mom?” Minho asked, voice calm but sharp, cutting through the air like a blade.

Jisung raised a brow. “Why? You interested too?” he said with a smirk, not understanding yet.

Chan and Changbin looked increasingly uncomfortable, but neither of them interrupted. They knew what was about to happen.

Minho’s tone was like ice. “What’s her name?”

Jisung, cocky as ever, shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Y/N. Met her a few weeks ago.”

Minho’s jaw ticked. “That’s my daughter.”

Jisung blinked, caught off guard, the smirk faltering for just a second before it twisted back into place.

“Wait, what?”

“That’s my ex,” Minho clarified, eyes narrowing. “You’ve been bragging about your hot single mom date all morning without realizing you're talking about my family.”

A beat of silence passed. Chan muttered something under his breath, while Changbin shifted in place, clearly wanting to be anywhere else. But Jisung, he didn’t back down.

“Okay,” Jisung said slowly, then folded his arms. “But how was I supposed to know that? You don’t talk to anyone. Especially not me.”

Minho stepped closer, his voice still low but unmistakably tense. “I don’t talk about my personal life at work. And especially not to you.”

“Oh, well, excuse me for not reading your mind,” Jisung said, raising his hands in mock defense. “Look, Minho, I didn’t know. It’s not like you warned me. And anyway, you guys are separated, aren’t you? Why do you care if she’s moving on?”

That did it.

Minho’s fists clenched at his sides, but he didn’t lash out. He just stared at Jisung, the weight of a thousand things he wanted to say pressing against his chest.

He didn’t answer at first, because the truth was too complicated. Why did he care? Why didn’t he say anything?

Because he still loved you. Because he hadn’t let go, not really. Because every time he handed Hana back to you, it felt like another reminder of the life that slipped through his fingers. Because he didn’t want anyone else stepping in, not before he figured out how to fix what he broke.

Minho exhaled slowly. “Just watch what you say,” he said tightly. “And stay away from my daughter.”

Jisung didn’t reply. For once, he was quiet.

And Minho left it at that, turning on his heel and walking out of the room before he said something he couldn’t take back.

But inside, he was burning.

You weren’t just moving on.

You were moving on with him.

And now Minho couldn’t unsee it. Couldn’t unfeel it.

And something deep in his chest told him, this wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Minho didn’t tell you what happened.

He told himself it was better that way, that it would only complicate things if he did. Maybe you’d think he was overstepping. Maybe you’d accuse him of still trying to control something that wasn’t his anymore. And honestly, maybe you’d be right.

You were separated. You had every right to see whoever you wanted. He knew that. He reminded himself of it every day.

But that didn’t stop him from confronting Jisung.

And it sure as hell didn’t stop the sick twist in his gut every time he thought about you with him, laughing, smiling, your eyes soft the way they used to be with him.

So he kept it to himself.

He didn’t mention the moment in the office, or how his blood had gone cold when Jisung had said your name so casually, so publicly, like it was just another notch on his belt. He didn’t tell you that he stood toe-to-toe with him, tense and seconds from saying too much. He didn’t tell you that the only reason he hadn’t said more was because he was afraid of what you’d think.

Because at the end of the day, you weren’t his. Not anymore.

He had no right to tell you who to see.

Still, he couldn’t help the cold front that built up around him as the weekend approached. The one he tried, tried, not to bring to your doorstep.

But he failed.

When he showed up at your place that Friday afternoon, the air was already heavy with something he couldn’t name. He knocked softly and waited, adjusting Hana’s backpack over his shoulder. He heard the shuffle of your footsteps, the door creaking open slowly.

You looked… beautiful.

You always did, but this was different. Your hair was softly curled, makeup light but radiant. You wore something casual but intentional, like you wanted to feel comfortable and confident.

Like you were going somewhere.

Minho’s jaw tensed, just slightly. He forced his expression to stay neutral, pretending he didn’t feel that sting in his chest.

“Hey,” you said with a small smile, holding the door open.

“Hey,” he replied, curt but not unkind. His eyes flicked over you once, a flash of recognition passing through them before he looked away.

“She’s just grabbing her stuffed bunny,” you explained, stepping aside to let him in.

He nodded, still not quite looking at you.

There was a beat of awkward silence before you added, “You okay?”

“Fine,” he said quickly, a little too quickly. His voice had an edge to it, sharp, but quiet. Like he didn’t mean to sound irritated, but it slipped through anyway.

You blinked, caught off guard. “Okay…”

He shifted his weight, folding his arms. His eyes went to the hallway where Hana’s room was, then back to you.

“Got plans tonight?” he asked, and even though the question was simple, it was loaded.

You hesitated. “Uh, yeah… a dinner.”

“With him?”

You furrowed your brows, confused. “What?”

“Nothing,” Minho said quickly, shaking his head. “Forget it.”

But the tension was already there, heavy and tangible. The way he looked at you wasn’t angry, but it wasn’t warm either. He wasn’t his usual composed self, he was guarded, clipped.

You tilted your head. “Minho, what’s going on?”

“Nothing’s going on,” he said, but his voice was low, and he wasn’t meeting your eyes.

You stared at him for a long moment, the silence stretching.

He knew you were trying to read him. You always could. It was part of what made being around you so hard now because you saw too much, even when he didn’t want you to.

Before you could press again, Hana came bounding into the room, bunny in hand, her little backpack bouncing behind her.

“I got it!” she said proudly.

Minho softened at the sight of her and crouched down, opening his arms as she ran into them.

“Hey, bug,” he said quietly, kissing the side of her head.

Whatever you were about to say faded into the background as he picked her up. You followed him to the door, your arms crossed lightly, brows still drawn together.

He paused before stepping outside, glancing at you once more. His eyes flickered to your lips, then away again, guilt laced in the corners of his expression.

“Have fun,” you said softly, but he caught the hesitation in your voice.

“Yeah,” he murmured, adjusting Hana’s weight in his arms. “You too.”

And then he left.

You closed the door behind him, standing in the quiet for a moment, staring at the handle.

You didn’t know what was going on with Minho, but something had changed. You could feel it.

And he… he was already kicking himself before he even got to the car. For letting it show. For acting cold. For caring too much.

But mostly, for not telling you the truth.

Because deep down, he knew this was only going to get harder.

The phone rang just as you were pulling a warm pile of laundry from the dryer, the scent of fabric softener filling the air. You tucked the phone between your shoulder and cheek, balancing a fitted sheet in your arms as you swiped to answer.

“Hello?”

“You’re not ghosting me already, are you?”

Jisung’s voice came through light and teasing, and despite yourself, you smiled, one of those small, involuntary smiles that tugged at your mouth before your brain caught up.

You laughed, adjusting the phone. “What? No! I was just… buried under a mountain of laundry.”

“Laundry. Mmm. Classic ghosting excuse.”

You let out a breathy laugh. “I swear I’m not.”

“I’m just messing with you,” he said, voice warm and reassuring. “But, for the record, you do owe me a date.”

You sat down on the edge of the couch, letting the warm laundry spill across your lap. “You’re right. I do.”

There was a small pause, not awkward, just easy. Like a breath taken between lines in a good conversation.

“I’ve got some time tonight,” you offered, hesitant but hopeful. “Hana’s with her dad for the weekend.”

Jisung didn’t hesitate. “Perfect. I’ll text you the details?”

“Okay,” you said softly, suddenly aware of the way your stomach fluttered. “I’ll see you later.”

“Can’t wait.”

When the call ended, you stared at your phone for a second, a small grin curling at your lips. Your pulse had picked up without warning, that familiar giddy feeling you hadn’t let yourself feel in a long time taking root just beneath your skin.

You dropped the phone on the couch and stood abruptly, brushing off the leftover warmth of laundry as if it were slowing you down. You had things to do. Like everything. You still had to finish folding, pick up Hana from preschool, and somehow figure out what to wear. The last one felt the most daunting.

You moved faster now, folding with a renewed sense of purpose, your mind already wandering through the different pieces in your closet. Too casual? Too much? Something that said you cared but not that you’d tried too hard?

By the time the sun had begun its slow descent toward the horizon, you were in front of your mirror with a few carefully selected options draped across your bed. Hana was sitting on the floor behind you, cross-legged and content, holding her stuffed bunny and occasionally twirling her fingers through its ears.

You turned to her, holding up a dress in one hand and a blouse-and-jeans combo in the other. “Okay, little critic. What do you think? This one,”—you shook the dress gently—“or this one?”

She blinked, considering seriously, the way only a child could. “The blue one,” she said after a moment. “You look like a princess.”

You smiled down at her. “You think so?”

She nodded, then leaned forward to whisper something to her bunny, probably some secret only the two of them understood.

You looked at yourself in the mirror again, holding the dress up against your frame. Your reflection met your gaze, and for a second, you barely recognized yourself. Not because you looked different, necessarily. But because you felt different.

It had been a long time since you’d felt this kind of anticipation. The good kind. Not dread, not worry, not guilt. Just hope, sharp and tentative and thrilling.

You glanced down at Hana, your chest swelling with something tender. This wasn’t just about getting ready for a date. It was about letting yourself believe in the possibility of something new. Of maybe even if only just maybe, something good again.

And that night, for the first time in a long time, you let yourself lean into it.

You were still smiling when you closed the door behind Minho and Hana. Hana had given you one last sleepy hug before waving from the backseat of her dad’s car, her little hand smudged against the window as they drove away. It was always a little bittersweet when she left quiet, still, but tonight, the quiet buzzed differently. There was anticipation in the air, and your stomach flipped when your phone lit up with a text from

Jisung: On my way. Hope you're ready to be impressed.

And suddenly, that’s when the nerves kicked in.

Not when you picked your outfit. Not while brushing your hair. Not even while applying mascara with a trembling hand.

It was in that fleeting moment, between Hana’s goodbye and Jisung pulling up, when the full weight of it hit you. This was your first real date in a long time. Since before the weight of motherhood, since before your life changed completely, since before love started to feel like a puzzle you couldn’t quite solve.

Your heart fluttered as headlights cut across the street. You peeked out the window and saw him, leaning casually against the side of his car, hands in his pockets, that same easy smile on his face. You opened the door, stepped out, and tried to still your heart.

“You clean up nice,” he said, eyes scanning you in a way that felt admiring but never invasive. “Should I be nervous?”

You gave a half-laugh, shaking your head. “No. I should be.”

“Well, don’t be. I brought emergency gummy bears. For stress relief.”

You laughed more earnestly at that, already loosening up as you got into the car.

The drive was easy. Jisung filled the silence with a playful commentary about the playlist he’d curated just for the ride, mostly early 2000s pop hits and lo-fi beats, complete with a dramatic reenactment of a Backstreet Boys bridge. It was impossible not to relax around him. He had a way of making you feel like you'd known him for years.

Dinner was warm, low-lit, cozy, one of those local places that wasn’t quite fancy but knew exactly what it was doing. The kind of place where the bread was fresh and the waiter seemed to know Jisung by name.

Conversation flowed like water. He told you about his new job, how he was still figuring things out, but liked the pace, liked the team, even if he rolled his eyes at “some of the guys.”

You found yourself laughing more than you expected, your face warming as he leaned in every time you spoke, his eyes attentive, focused. When you talked about Hana, his interest didn’t waver, not once. He asked questions. Real questions. What she liked. What she was afraid of. How motherhood changed you. You could see that he was trying to understand your world, not just admire it from the outside.

You told him about your work, your side hobbies, the podcasts you listen to when cleaning the kitchen. He joked about starting a podcast of his own and had you snorting into your drink by the time dessert came. You felt seen. Not just noticed, seen.

And then, somewhere between the last bite of shared cake and the server clearing your table, the conversation slowed. Not in a bad way, but in that natural shift that happens when the lighthearted curiosity gives way to something deeper.

He looked at you a little more seriously. “Can I ask something personal?”

You met his gaze, something in your chest tightening, but you nodded.

He hesitated. “Why did you and… Hana’s dad… separate?”

The air between you quieted, but not awkwardly. Just… carefully.

You took a breath, folding your hands on the table. “It’s a long story,” you began slowly. “But the short version is… we stopped growing together. Somewhere along the way, we started growing apart.”

You didn’t want to bad-mouth Minho. That wasn’t who you were, and it wasn’t what Hana deserved. But you also wanted to be honest. You explained how things shifted after Hana was born, how the weight of new responsibilities created distance that never fully closed. How resentment slowly replaced understanding. How love, no matter how deep it once was, sometimes isn’t enough when two people stop seeing each other clearly.

Jisung didn’t interrupt. He didn’t try to fix it or offer cliché advice. He just listened, gently nodding, thumb brushing his glass absentmindedly.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, “that must’ve been hard.”

You smiled faintly, appreciative. “It was. But… it also gave me the strongest part of my life. So, I can’t regret it.”

Jisung leaned forward slightly, a half-smile on his lips. “You know… you’re kind of incredible.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I mean it. You’re raising a whole human, showing up for her every day, and you still have time to be this cool? Most people burn out just trying to keep their plants alive.”

You laughed again, this time with a blush creeping up your neck. The compliment felt good. Earnest. He didn’t look at you like a project. He looked at you like a person he wanted to know, not someone he needed to fix.

By the time he drove you home, you weren’t nervous anymore. You were grounded. Calm. Hopeful in a way that wasn’t naive.

He walked you to your door. And though there was no kiss, not yet there was something in the way he smiled as you said goodnight. Something that said this wasn’t the end of a nice evening.

It was the beginning of something that, maybe, just maybe, could matter.

You had just finished patting your skin dry after wiping off the last traces of makeup. Your face felt lighter, the way it always did after a night out, but your chest was still full, still warm from the laughter, the softness, and the unexpected comfort of the evening you’d just shared with Jisung. You hadn’t realized how much you missed feeling… wanted. Seen.

You were still riding that quiet high when your phone buzzed on the bathroom counter.

Minho.

Your heart dropped. He never called. Not unless it was important. Not unless something was wrong. And now, at 11:30 at night, your mind went straight to Hana.

You snatched the phone up without hesitation.

“Minho?” Your voice was already taut with worry. “What’s wrong? Is Hana okay?”

There was a pause, one beat too long, and then, when he spoke, it wasn’t his usual composed tone. His words dragged, his voice low and slurred.

“What’re you… doin’ right now?”

You blinked, stunned. “What?”

There was another heavy pause. You could hear the faint, uneven sound of his breathing on the other end.

“You okay?” you asked, this time with a little more edge. “Is Hana okay?”

“She’s asleep,” he mumbled.

The knot in your stomach tightened. “Minho… are you drunk?”

He was silent for a moment, and then you heard a soft scoff. “Just had… a few drinks.”

You sat down on the edge of your bed, your pulse hammering. “Where is Hana right now?”

“I said—she’s sleeping,” he repeated, slurring slightly again. “She’s fine. I’m not a shitty dad.”

“I didn’t say you were,” you replied, carefully but firmly. “But if you’ve been drinking, I need to know where she is. Is she in bed? Safe?”

“Yes,” he snapped, more annoyed now, like you were being irrational. “She’s fine. She’s out like a light. I would never drink like that if she was awake. I’m not… stupid.”

You let out a breath, half-relieved, half still panicked. “Okay. Okay, good.” But your voice remained tight. “Then why are you calling me, Minho?”

There was silence again before he muttered, “Did your date go well?”

You froze. Your mouth opened, but no words came out at first.

“What?”

“Your date,” he said, bitterly. “With… whoever he is. Your new boyfriend.”

You stood up, pacing now, your hand gripping the phone tighter. “Minho, it’s late. You’re drunk. You need to get some water and go to bed.”

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“I don’t need to.”

“Why?” he asked, his tone wobbling between mocking and hurt. “You don’t tell me anything anymore. You used to. Now it’s all… secrets. You don’t even care that I still—”

“Minho,” you interrupted, your voice suddenly sharp. “Where is this coming from?”

“Why’d you stop loving me?”

The words hit like a slap. You were stunned into silence.

“Was it really that easy?” he went on, voice cracking just barely, like he was trying to hide it under the slurring. “To just… move on? Meet someone new and pretend like it didn’t mean anything?”

“Minho,” you breathed, jaw tightening. “You can’t do this. Not like this. You don’t get to call me in the middle of the night, drunk, and ask me why I moved on—especially when you’re the one who gave up first.”

He scoffed again, and it sounded bitter. Childish. “I didn’t give up.”

You swallowed down the heat rising in your throat. “Don’t rewrite the past just because it hurts now.”

There was a long, empty silence. Neither of you spoke.

Then you asked, slowly, carefully, “Do I need to come pick up Hana?”

“No,” he snapped, but there was something broken in it. “I’m not some fuck-up. She’s safe. I just…”

He trailed off. The silence stretched between you again. Heavy.

You softened just a little, despite everything. “Minho… this isn’t fair. To you, to me, to her. We separated for a reason.”

“I know,” he said quietly, almost a whisper. “I know we did.”

And then he added, even softer, “I just didn’t know it would feel like this.”

You closed your eyes, your heart aching in a way that surprised you. Because despite the resentment, the frustration, the endless late-night fights and miscommunication that had worn you both thin, there was still history. Still grief.

Still something.

But that didn’t mean it could be what it was. And it didn’t mean it should.

“You need to get some sleep,” you said gently. “We can talk later. When you’re sober.”

He didn’t answer, but he didn’t argue either. You heard the soft click of the line disconnecting.

And when you set your phone down, you stared at it for a long time, your reflection blurred in the dark screen, wondering how something so far gone could still pull at your heart in the quiet.

The silence that followed Minho’s call lingered long after the line went dead.

You sat on the edge of your bed, staring blankly at your phone, unable to move. You couldn’t tell if you were angry, worried, or just sad, maybe all three. The echoes of his slurred voice still buzzed in your ears: Why did you stop loving me? Was it really that easy?

It wasn’t. And he knew that. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he’d spent so long pretending it didn’t hurt that he finally couldn’t anymore.

You stood up and paced, debating whether you should text him to make sure he actually went to bed. Or whether you should let him sit in the feelings he’d tried to drown in whiskey.

Instead, you walked to Hana’s room, her room at your place and sat on the edge of her empty bed. You looked at her stuffed bunny, her favorite blanket folded neatly at the end of the mattress, the faint pink glow of her nightlight still on even though she wasn’t there tonight. You hated that even her absence was so loud.

It wasn’t until almost an hour later, just past midnight, that your phone buzzed again, this time, a message from Jisung.

“Hey, I had a really great time tonight. You looked beautiful, by the way. Hope you got home safe. Sweet dreams :)”

Your heart clenched in a completely different way. Warmth spread through your chest, soft and careful.

You stared at his message, thumb hovering over your keyboard for a few seconds before replying.

“I did. Thank you, Jisung. I really enjoyed tonight too.”

You hesitated, then added:

“Sorry if I seemed a little off after I got home. Something personal came up. I’ll tell you about it soon, I promise.”

He replied almost instantly.

“No pressure. I’m just happy I got to spend time with you.”

That simple sentence wrapped itself around your heart. Reassuring. Understanding. No expectations. And yet, it made you realize how much you’d been bracing for disappointment, how unfamiliar it felt to be seen and respected.

You let the phone rest on your nightstand and finally crawled into bed, pulling the covers up, staring at the ceiling in the dark.

Two men, two completely different versions of your past and future, had crossed lines tonight in ways you hadn’t expected.

Minho had said things you’d never thought he’d say. He cracked open something that had long been closed between you.

And Jisung… Jisung gave you something you hadn’t had in a long time, hope.

You didn't sleep easily that night.

Too much was shifting. And something told you this wasn’t the end of the unraveling.

It was only the beginning.

The morning came far too quickly.

The kind of restless, fragmented sleep that left your bones feeling heavier than when you laid down. You’d turned over Minho’s call in your head all night his voice, thick with liquor and something lonelier than you’d heard in months. The things he said, the questions he asked, the grief you both thought you’d buried, it all sat with you like fog behind your ribs.

You shuffled into the kitchen in your slippers, hoodie hanging loose off one shoulder, eyes still half-closed. Your hand had just reached for your favorite mug, chipped on one side, the one you always used on rough mornings, when your phone lit up on the counter, vibrating with a call.

Jisung.

You blinked, surprised. You hadn’t expected to hear from him this early, not after last night. Part of you worried he might sense something was off, might retreat.

But instead, when you picked up and croaked out a soft, “Hello?”—he sounded like sunshine.

“Hey,” he said, his voice warm, maybe a little sleepy himself. “Sorry if I woke you. Did you sleep okay?”

You paused, considering how to answer. “Not really,” you admitted softly. You weren’t ready to talk about it yet, not when you were still sorting through the mess in your own mind.

Jisung seemed to hear it in your voice. He didn’t press. “That’s okay,” he said gently. “We don’t have to talk about it. But, uh… that’s not why I called.”

You raised your eyebrows, curious now.

“I was just thinking,” he continued, “I could really use some pancakes. Or waffles. Or anything with way too much syrup. And I figured, what better way to get through a groggy morning than with company? So… wanna get breakfast with me?”

Your lips curved into a tired smile, despite everything. “You trying to bribe me with food?”

“Absolutely,” he said without hesitation. “You need caffeine. I need sugar. It’s fate.”

You laughed, the sound surprising even yourself with how good it felt to laugh again after a heavy night. “Okay. Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Perfect,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. “But don’t get all dressed up on me. I’m literally still in my sweats. You show up looking like a magazine cover and I’ll have to fake a twisted ankle to save face.”

You snorted. “You mean I can’t wear the gown and heels I had picked out?”

“Only if it’s a breakfast gala.”

You shook your head, grin lingering as you leaned against the counter. “Sweats it is.”

“Good,” he said. “I’ll be there in twenty.”

After you hung up, you stood there for a moment, the quiet humming around you. There was still a knot in your chest from last night, Minho’s words, his tone, but there was also a thread of something lighter now. Something new.

You didn’t know what it was going to become with Jisung. But you knew, for now, this moment, his voice, the offer of pancakes and a little normalcy was exactly what you needed.

You slipped into your softest hoodie and leggings, quickly brushed your hair back into a messy bun, and for the first time in a while, didn’t bother with makeup.

You didn’t need to. Not with Jisung.

True to his word, Jisung pulled up in front of your place not even twenty minutes later, hoodie sleeves pushed up his forearms, hair still a little tousled, and that same bright grin painted across his face. When you climbed into the passenger seat, you were immediately greeted by the faint sound of music playing low from the speakers, some upbeat indie-pop song that matched his energy all too well.

“You look cozy,” he commented, giving you a once-over with a dramatic nod of approval. “I appreciate the commitment to the comfy clothes pact.”

You laughed as you buckled your seatbelt. “I take breakfast attire very seriously.”

The ride was short, filled with light conversation and lazy jokes that softened the jagged edges of the night before. You felt it, the calm, the ease that Jisung naturally brought with him like it lived in his skin. It wasn’t just that he was funny or sweet, it was that you didn’t feel like you had to be anyone else when you were around him.

He took you to a small, tucked-away café just outside your usual routes, somewhere you never would’ve stumbled on alone. It had worn brick walls and hanging plants in every corner, the smell of syrup and espresso greeting you the second you stepped inside.

“This place is everything,” Jisung said proudly, holding the door open for you. “Like, I would die for the banana pancakes here. They’re life-changing. So I’m just gonna go ahead and order for you unless you stop me.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Bold move.”

“I stand by it. You won’t regret it.”

You didn’t.

The pancakes came stacked high, drizzled with caramelized bananas and whipped cream, and he even insisted you try it “the Jisung way” with a little bit of everything on the fork, “precision pancake architecture,” as he called it. You couldn’t stop laughing at how seriously he took his breakfast techniques, and even more at how right he was. It was insanely good.

Over coffee and second helpings, conversation spilled out easily, about your favorite comfort movies, the worst jobs you’d ever had, music that got you through heartbreak. He talked more about his transition into his new job, how the office still felt a little sterile but he was trying to find his place in it. At some point, his gaze softened, and he leaned his elbow against the table.

“So,” he said, casually enough but with intention, “you wanna do something tomorrow too? Maybe a proper dinner or—if you’re free, obviously.”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to. The answer was yes, so easily, so much, but…

“I have Hana back tomorrow,” you said gently, offering him an apologetic smile. “So I can’t. Not yet.”

Jisung nodded without missing a beat. “Got it. I just—yeah. I like seeing you. No pressure.”

And that was the thing. He didn’t sulk or guilt you or make you feel like you had to explain more than that. He just understood. And you couldn’t help but admire that, how naturally he fit into this new chapter you were barely stepping into.

As you both finished your coffee, lingering in the lazy haze of a good morning and better company, you found yourself hoping that somehow, this wouldn’t get complicated.

But deep down, you already knew it might.

When Minho pulled up to your place the next evening to drop Hana off, the tension between you was quiet but undeniable. You could feel it the second he stepped onto your porch, the way his eyes didn’t meet yours right away, the stiffness in his posture, how his hand lingered just a little longer than necessary on Hana’s backpack strap before letting it go. He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept well like maybe the regret of last night had gnawed at him the same way it had lingered in the back of your mind.

Still, he greeted you softly, almost cautiously. “She had a good time,” he said, clearing his throat. “We went to the park yesterday. She talked about you the whole time.”

You smiled, crouching to Hana’s level to greet her with open arms. “Did you have fun with Daddy?” you asked, brushing back a piece of hair from her cheek as she nodded, immediately launching into a small, excited ramble about slides and juice boxes and how Daddy let her stay up a little past bedtime to watch a movie.

Minho stood back during the exchange, watching silently. When your eyes flicked up toward him, you tried to keep your tone neutral gentle, even as you asked, “She ate okay? Got enough sleep?”

He nodded. “Yeah. She was good. Always is.”

You gave a soft, “Thanks,” and you meant it, even though there was still an awkwardness between you both, an invisible thread that felt frayed and pulled thin. He hadn’t brought up the late-night call. Neither did you. It felt too raw, too fresh, and you weren’t even sure what there was to say about it that wouldn’t open a door neither of you were ready to walk through.

But just as he turned to go, calling over his shoulder, “Alright, I’ll see you next week—” you stopped him.

“Wait, Hana—come say goodbye to Daddy,” you said, nudging her gently.

She ran after him, her tiny arms wrapping around his legs, her voice muffled in his coat as she said, “Bye, Daddy.”

Minho bent down, holding her tightly, resting his chin on her shoulder. You stood at the door, watching the quiet moment between them. It was only when he started to pull back that you heard him whisper something to her, something you didn’t quite catch.

Hana turned to you, her little brows scrunched in confusion as she relayed the message.

“Daddy says… can we all go do something together? Like a family?”

Your breath hitched a little in your chest. You looked from her to Minho, whose gaze finally met yours for the first time that evening. He didn’t say anything, just stood there, waiting, searching your expression for any clue of how you might respond.

And for a second, time held its breath.

It wasn’t the question that startled you, not really. It was the timing of it. After everything, after the emotional hangover of his drunken confession, after the soft start you were building with Jisung, after the months you’d spent learning to untangle yourself from the life you thought you’d have with Minho, now he wanted to act like a family?

You couldn’t read his face clearly. Was this guilt? Regret? Hope?

You didn’t know how to answer, not yet. So instead, you smiled down at Hana and said gently, “Maybe. We’ll talk about it, okay?”

Minho’s jaw tensed slightly. He gave a short nod and murmured, “Okay. Night.”

And then he was gone.

The door closed, but the words hung in the air, lingering like smoke from a fire you thought you’d put out.

Minho arrived at work the next morning wearing exhaustion like a second skin. He hadn’t slept well, again. The night before had been too full of unspoken words, too full of the image of Hana’s tiny voice asking that question on his behalf: Can we all go do something together? Like a family.

He hated that he’d put it on her to ask.

He hated even more that he had to ask at all.

Minho didn’t regret calling you the other night, not exactly, but the way he had done it? The slurred words, the pathetic desperation leaking through every syllable, the fact that he let his emotions get the best of him while Hana slept just a room away? That sat like a rock in his gut.

And now, walking into the breakroom with his head low, coffee mug in hand, all he wanted was a quiet morning. Maybe a distraction. Maybe to survive the day without thinking about you with someone else.

But fate had other plans.

Jisung’s voice was already carrying from down the hall. Loud. Carefree. Typical. And Minho had almost learned to tune him out entirely over the past couple months, his annoying jokes, his cocky little laughs, the way he talked like he owned the room when he’d barely been in the company for two months.

Minho was halfway to the coffee machine when he caught your name.

He froze.

He didn’t mean to listen, but he did.

“—and I’m telling you, she’s so fine. I don’t know what kind of idiot let that one go, but damn—bless his mistake, right?” Jisung said with a laugh, leaning against the counter, arms crossed like he was recounting a win to a scoreboard.

Chan gave a short laugh nervous, unsure. “Y/N, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jisung said, clearly proud of himself. “Single mom, absolute knockout. We went out again yesterday morning, best time I’ve had in months. She’s, like, real, you know? Mature. Cool as hell. It’s kinda hot, actually—how she talks about her kid. Most girls I’ve dated? Not like that.”

Changbin shifted uncomfortably where he stood by the fridge.

Minho stayed hidden, just around the corner. His fists clenched slowly.

Jisung confirmed casually, oblivious. “Total sweetheart. Bit shy at first but—God, when she laughs? Man, I might mess around and catch real feelings.”

Minho could feel the blood drain from his face.

He didn’t need to hear more. But Jisung kept talking.

“She even asked her daughter what outfit to wear for our first date,” he added, chuckling. “That’s so cute, right? Like—ugh, I don’t know. That little family vibe? I could get used to that.”

Minho didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until his lungs started to ache.

Family. That word. That fantasy. His fantasy.

Not Jisung’s.

It felt like a line had been crossed. Not just because Jisung was dating his ex, but because he knew who she was now. And he was still talking about her like that, in front of everyone. Like Minho wasn’t three doors away, listening to every word like someone twisting a knife deeper into his side.

And he could’ve walked in there. He could’ve said something, told Jisung to shut up, to show some respect, to keep your name out of his damn mouth. He could’ve laid out the timeline, the history, the fact that Jisung barely knew you and had no idea what he was talking about.

But he didn’t.

Because the memory of the first confrontation, the way he’d already broken the boundary once, was still fresh in his mind. He was already terrified that if you found out about that, you’d be angry. That he’d come off bitter. Possessive. Jealous.

Which, he was.

But not in the way people thought. He didn’t want to control you. He didn’t even blame you for moving on. He just hated that he wasn’t the one you were smiling for anymore. That someone else, that guy, was getting pieces of your life he used to hold in his hands every single day.

He couldn’t stomach it.

So he did the only thing he could do without starting a war.

He stormed out.

His coffee forgotten, his chest tight, his jaw clenched so hard it ached. He needed air. Space. Anything that wasn’t the echo of Jisung’s laugh or the sound of your name being passed around like a story that didn’t belong to him anymore.

And for the rest of the day, Minho didn’t say a word to anyone.

Because he knew if he opened his mouth, even once, he might not be able to stop.

Minho didn’t go back into the breakroom that day.

Instead, he holed himself up in his office space, pretending to go over spreadsheets he’d already finished. Every now and then, he’d hear laughter from the hallway, Jisung’s laugh and it would set his jaw again, make his pen twitch in his hand like he needed to break something.

He hated how easily Jisung talked about you. Hated that he didn’t even know you well enough to deserve those stories. Hated how casually he tossed around Hana’s name like it was part of some cute personality trait of yours.

That wasn’t just some “single mom” he was bragging about.

That was you.

The woman Minho still woke up thinking about.

The mother of his daughter.

The only person who had ever really known him, flaws and all and still, at one point, loved him.

And yeah, maybe he lost that love. Maybe he broke things. Maybe there were parts of your story you’d never be able to forgive him for. But no matter how much time passed, he hadn’t stopped caring. He hadn’t stopped wanting even if he no longer had a right to.

By the end of the day, his phone buzzed with a message from you.

“Hana said she wants to show you the drawing she made. She’s been carrying it around all day. You’ll see it tomorrow.”

It was simple, light. But it made his chest ache.

He stared at the message for a long time, thumb hovering over the keyboard, typing out a dozen replies and deleting them each time. He didn’t want to come off too emotional, didn’t want to seem like he was still reeling from hearing your name in someone else’s mouth all day. He also didn’t want to let on that he'd been thinking about you nonstop since the second Jisung spoke.

Instead, he replied:

“Can’t wait to see it. Tell her I miss her.”

But what he really meant was:

I miss you.

That night, he went home to an empty apartment that felt colder than usual. He walked past Hana’s room, the one she only stayed in every other weekend and sat on the edge of the bed like he always did when he felt lost.

He wondered if you’d smiled with Jisung the way you used to with him.

He wondered if you laughed. If you leaned across the table in that way you always did when you were listening intently. If you told Jisung about the little things that made you happy, late night snacks, old cartoons, the playlist you made for long drives with Hana.

And worst of all, he wondered if Jisung made you feel seen in a way Minho used to but hadn’t for a long time.

The questions haunted him, spinning through his head as he stared at the ceiling, the apartment too quiet, the silence echoing with everything he couldn’t say.

He knew he couldn’t ask you about it.

He knew he had no right to.

But still, when his phone lit up again later that night with a photo of Hana proudly holding up her drawing, smiling from ear to ear, Minho stared at your name on the message thread and typed without thinking:

“Thanks for sending that. She looks happy.”

And after a long pause, another message followed.

“You do too.”

He didn’t hit send.

He just let it sit there. A confession in limbo. A truth he wasn’t brave enough to say out loud.

Not yet.

You hadn’t stopped thinking about it. Not since the moment Hana turned to you with that soft little voice, repeating Minho’s words—“Daddy said maybe we can go somewhere all together. Like a family.”

It echoed in your head in the quietest moments: when you were folding her laundry and came across her favorite shirt, when you tucked her in and she asked if Daddy could come read too, when you stared at the empty space on the couch after she’d gone to bed. The truth was, your mind wouldn’t let it go. You couldn’t tell if it was nostalgia or guilt or just the ache of something that once was and maybe never healed right.

You started to wonder how much Hana understood. She was only four, bright, sweet, and deeply observant in ways only children could be. But she was also still small. Small enough that the memories of the three of you doing things together, really together were probably starting to fade. Back when her little legs barely reached the edge of the stroller and her words came out in half-sentences. Back when family meant holding both your hands at once, one in each tiny palm.

Now things were different. The rhythm of your lives moved around drop-offs, pickups, brief handoffs at the front door, short conversations about snacks or bedtimes or fevers. She knew Daddy came on the weekends, that she packed her little bag and stayed with him, and then came back. She knew you kissed her goodnight every other Sunday. But together? That didn’t exist anymore. Not in the way it used to.

You thought about it every time she asked why you couldn’t come to the movies with Daddy. Why Daddy couldn’t come with you to the aquarium trip she got as a class reward. You had explanations. Simple ones. Polite ones. But you weren’t sure if she understood. And it hit you: maybe you didn’t either, not fully. Not without that ache still sitting in your chest.

So one night, after you’d tucked her in and turned off her lamp, you came back. Quietly, you sat beside her bed, brushing her hair gently off her forehead. She blinked up at you sleepily.

“Hana,” you whispered, voice soft, “can I ask you something?”

She nodded, yawning.

“Do you remember when Mommy and Daddy used to go places with you? Together?” You waited, uncertain. “Like the zoo? Or the beach? Or the park with the big swing set?”

She blinked slowly, then nodded again. “Mmhm. You holded my hand. Daddy too.”

That made your chest squeeze. “Would you… would you like to do that again? All of us? Just sometimes.”

Her little smile was sleepy but sure. “Yeah. I like it.”

You kissed her forehead and tried not to let it show on your face. Because you liked it too. Or at least, part of you missed it so deeply it hurt.

But another part of you, another very real, very present part was also thinking of Jisung. About how easy it felt with him. About how he looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. About how he actually asked about your day and listened. You liked him. You liked how you felt with him. And you were just beginning to open yourself up to the idea of something real again, something new.

So now, you were caught between a memory and a possibility. Between a little girl’s innocent wish and your own heart trying to mend in two directions. And in the silence of that night, after Hana had fallen back asleep and the house was still, you sat on the couch and asked yourself the question you didn’t want to answer:

What if being a family again wasn’t what you really needed, but just what you missed?

And even harder:

What if you could never have both?

After quietly slipping out of Hana’s room, you closed the door behind you with a soft click, careful not to wake her again. The hallway was dim and still, the only sound the faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall and the tick of the old clock in the kitchen. You stood there for a moment, hand still resting on the doorknob, exhaling a deep, quiet sigh that seemed to carry all the confusion, guilt, and ache you’d been holding in all evening.

Your feet moved before your mind did, carrying you down the hallway and into your bedroom. The light from your bedside lamp cast a soft golden hue across the room, warm and calm, but it didn’t match the storm of emotions turning over inside you. You sat on the edge of your bed, fingers tangled in the hem of your shirt as your thoughts circled around themselves.

Everything felt tangled, Minho’s words, Hana’s sleepy nod, your own longing, your fear, your past, and the soft, budding possibility of something new with Jisung.

You reached for your phone, if only to distract yourself for a moment. But before you could open anything, the screen lit up.

Jisung: Hey. I hope your day was good. I was thinking about you.

Your heart gave a little jump.

Jisung: Would love to see you again soon. Maybe something low-key? Doesn’t have to be anything fancy. Just you and me.

You stared at the message for a long time. As if somehow he knew. As if he could feel that little part of you that was pulling away, not out of lack of interest, but out of pure emotional uncertainty. As if he was reaching out to gently pull you back toward him.

It was such a simple message, and yet… it made your chest tighten. He wasn’t demanding. He wasn’t expecting anything from you. He was just there. Steady, warm, willing. Offering something simple in the face of all your complicated.

You typed, paused, deleted, then typed again.

You: I’d really like that. I’ve just been in my head a lot lately. But I’d love to see you.

His response was nearly instant.

Jisung: That’s okay. I don’t need you to be anything but you. I’ll be here when you’re ready. Even if it’s just for a walk or a coffee.

That, that was what made you blink fast to keep the tears from rising. Because you weren’t used to someone being patient. You weren’t used to someone who didn’t push or question or pressure. And in that moment, it didn’t make your confusion worse, it softened it.

You looked at your screen again, at his words, at the gentle kindness wrapped in them.

Then you leaned back on your bed, phone resting on your chest, and whispered aloud to the quiet room:

“I wish this was easier.”

Because you weren’t just choosing between two people. You were choosing between the past and the future. Between a dream that once was, and something real that might still be. And no one had taught you how to let go without hurting. Or how to hold on without looking back.

Minho knew it was risky. He could already hear the words in his head, you're delusional, why would you think I'd want to talk about that? He knew how it might go, how you'd probably brush him off, tell him that anniversaries were no longer anything to get worked up about. After all, it had been years since you two had celebrated like you used to.

But today felt different. Today, for some reason, the weight of the date was heavier. It had been seven years, seven years. He’d woken up that morning thinking about how it used to be. How, on your anniversary, he'd sneak into the kitchen while you were still asleep, making your favorite breakfast and writing you a small note, leaving it next to your coffee mug with a kiss to remind you that today was about you. And then, there was the way he would kiss you awake, messy and full of love, just to remind you that you mattered, more than anything else in the world.

He could still see it so clearly in his mind, the moment four years ago when you told him you were pregnant with Hana. The way you laughed and cried at the same time, your eyes wide with excitement and fear, and how Minho had sworn that moment felt like his heart had just doubled in size. That was the moment he promised himself he’d always put you first. And even now, as much as things had changed, as complicated as everything had become, a part of him couldn't let go of that promise.

So, against his better judgment, he grabbed a bouquet of flowers. Big, colorful roses, just like the ones you used to love. And a single smaller rose for Hana, because he knew that the little girl, even at her age, was his connection to the only family he’d ever wanted. Today wasn’t about trying to win you back, he told himself. It was just about remembering. About showing you that, despite everything, he still remembered.

He dressed a little nicer than usual, nothing too formal, but just enough to show he was trying. He didn’t need an excuse to stop by; he wasn’t dropping off Hana or picking her up. It was just... he needed to see you. He wanted to see you.

Minho stood in front of your door, his heart pounding in his chest, staring at the wooden surface as if it held all the answers. His hand tightened around the bouquet and the single rose as he raised his fist, about to knock.

Before he could do anything, though, the door swung open.

And there you were, standing in the doorway. But you weren’t alone. Jisung was there too, just a few steps behind you, leaning casually against the frame with a cocky smirk on his face. Minho’s heart dropped into his stomach. He hadn’t been expecting this. He should’ve known, but a part of him hoped that maybe today, just maybe you would’ve been on your own.

For a moment, Minho froze, his breath catching in his throat. Jisung, as if sensing the tension, smirked wider, and before Minho could process anything, Jisung gave a lazy wave, his voice light and casual as he said, “I’ll catch you later, Babe.” And just like that, he turned and walked away, his steps echoing down the hall.

Minho couldn’t help but watch him go, his grip on the flowers tightening until the stems almost cracked. He hadn’t meant to feel the sting of jealousy, he knew you had every right to move on, but it didn’t change how much it hurt. It stung more than it should’ve. The image of Jisung leaving your apartment, of him laughing, casually walking away with the confidence that only comes with knowing he was the one you were spending time with, it cut deeper than Minho had expected.

He turned back to you, trying to mask the frustration that was rising in his chest. His voice came out hoarse, tighter than he intended. “What’s going on? What’s he doing here?”

You looked taken aback by his sudden confrontation, your eyes flashing with a mix of surprise and something else he couldn’t quite read. You glanced at the flowers in his hands and then back at him before finally speaking. “Minho... what are you doing here?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but the words caught in his throat, as if he was uncertain of what exactly he wanted to say. Instead, his hand tightened around the bouquet, his fingers trembling slightly. He could feel the weight of the moment press down on him. The words he was about to ask felt both necessary and foolish, but they spilled out anyway.

“Where’s Hana?” His voice was quiet, too quiet. His eyes flickered to the space behind you, searching for any sign of her, any sign that this wasn’t some weird coincidence. That maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t interrupted something important. Something new.

You sighed, almost looking apologetic as you replied, “She’s at school, Minho.”

The tension didn’t ease, though. Instead, it hung there, thick and heavy in the air. He still couldn’t shake the picture of Jisung leaving. Of him being so comfortable around you. Minho didn’t know what he’d expected when he came here, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Minho muttered, still holding the flowers in front of him like some kind of shield. He couldn’t tell if it was because he wanted to protect himself from the situation, or if it was just an excuse to avoid looking directly at you. To avoid seeing your reaction.

You stood there, watching him, waiting for him to say something more, something that made sense, but Minho only shifted uncomfortably on the doorstep. The small moment stretched between you two like an ocean.

“I just… I thought it might be nice, you know? To see you. To give you these. It’s… it’s our anniversary.” His words sounded hollow in the space between you, like he had somehow forgotten how to speak.

When he said that last part, your eyes softened, just a little. He could see that flicker of recognition pass across your face. But it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared.

You didn’t say anything at first, the silence lingering uncomfortably in the air. And then, finally, you spoke, though your voice was quieter than before. “Minho, I—”

Before you could finish, the words of what you really wanted to say caught in your throat. You didn’t know how to deal with this tension, with him standing there like this, holding onto the past that neither of you could go back to.

Minho didn’t know how to let go of it either.

masterlist.

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clubdionysus · 9 months ago

Text

[BAD DECISION #61] Jinxing It

warnings: (1) mention of toe socks, chess talk, showers, a lil bit of titty luvin, lots of kisses, oral (f&m), fingering, ass play (m), whimpery koo <3, a lil cum swapping, the starluvrs are v cute!!! lots of lil clues and hints about upcoming chapters!!

a/n: there's an authors note over on a03 so I'll you spare you my nonsense! but hi, welcome back!! sorry for the wait on this one <33 if you're only just discovering bd, hello---this is part of an on-going story and includes an established relationship, to be read in context with the rest of the story, it's not a oneshot ^^. for kofi subs, there'll be a BD 62 teaser in a few hours!

wc: 13.7K

bd total wc: 560k (ongoing)

AO3 | MASTERLIST | MINORS DNI

Life dissolves with Jeongguk. Days merge into one.

Like a tablet in water, or stardust into the atmosphere, time melts.

So does Jeongguk, though. He sinks into the bliss with you. Crumbles. Collapses. You’d go as far to say he turns into a supernova, like stars often do when they collapse.

He lets himself merge into a shared identity that he’s certain isn’t normal of such a fledgling relationship.

Two weeks from the auction, and days have rolled on by without much fuss. Deals have been finalised on winning bids, and Jeongguk’s had meetings with realtors, Yoongi by his side every step of the way. Everything has happened without much thought. Life has just been accepted; new plans and opportunities integrated into the trajectory you’re on. No meteors to throw you off course nor cosmic calamities to falter your future.

Your name is on the interview list for Shinwon’s position, and Jeongguk’s due to be accepting the keys for the building tomorrow. Everything is as it should be.

It’s terrifying, in a way.

You spent so long fearing the rug being swept from beneath your feet, but with Jeongguk’s help, carpets have been laid. They’re not budging.

And nor is he as he sits across from you, legs crossed, his chessboard keeping you apart. It’s a rarity to be on his bed not wrapped up in one another—but he’s almost as serious about chess as he is about you. Almost .

“You know what to do,” he grins, adamant that his crash course in the game was easy to follow. In reality, he’d moved a few pieces, said a few words, and promised with a smile that you’d be able to beat him.

His belief in you is sweet, but entirely misplaced. You’ve not made a single move without his gentle encouragement, most times resulting in you giving the match up on a silver platter.

The correct terminology evades you, and so do the rules. An app sits on your phone unused, a subscription running up a small fortune from a membership never used. It was set up back in the early days of knowing Jeongguk. You swore one day you’d be able to beat him—but life got busy, and quite frankly, chess is not your chosen way to unwind.

But spending time with Jeongguk is, and so you’ll take him in any capacity you can have him.

“Which one should I move?” You pout, utterly transfixed on the chess pieces. There’s a bewildered panic to your expression, brows furrowed over your glittery eyes, hand hovering to and fro over your side of the board.

You single in on the bishop. Look his way with hopeful, wide eyes. He shakes his head.

“Diagonals only,” he reminds you of how bishops move, at which point you realise it’s blocked in by pawns. Your hand moves to one of them, and he shrugs. “I mean… you can .”

“But should I?”

“You wanna capture the king,” he says, reaching across to dictate your movements. He secures your grip on the pawn, and gently pushes it up a single square to free the bishop’s pathway. “Shift this one up, just one space. Clear the diagonal if you want to move the bishop.”

You do as he says, putting the pawn back in its original position so that you can be the one to place it. Slowly, you repeat his instructions, pushing the pawn up the board while Jeongguk nods.

And then he grins in such a way that you just know you're about to curse him out.

He lifts his strategically placed knight. Knocks your freshly moved pawn. Claims the tile as his own.

“Rule number one,” He smirks, lip ring flipping in the corner of his pretty little mouth. “Never trust your opponent.”

“Dude, what the fuck,” you whine, looking at him with a faux sense of hurt and a very believable pout. “You’re my boyfriend . You’re supposed to help .”

“No moaning,” he dismisses your stropping, knowing he’s lost brownie points for his deception. He also knows he’ll earn your favour back soon enough, so whatever. “Now, what's your next move, baby? Go on.”

You study the board, and assess how different the opposing sides look.

This time, he’s going easy on you. Kind of. You’ve almost exclusively been guided by him for the last half an hour, over a string of short games, all of which have ended with your very quick and immediate defeat.

Jeongguk is too competitive for his own good. Jimin never wants to play against him, ‘cause he knows he’ll lose, too.

This is an indulgence for Jeongguk. He ought not to waste the opportunity—or worse yet, convince you never to play against him again.

He likes the idea of chess being an heirloom; the kind of skill he’ll teach his kids in the future. It’s integral to the very depths of his brain—how he works, and how his logical mind can jump and switch sometimes at the flick of a button—yet he rarely shares it with anyone else.

It’s only apt that you’d get an all-access pass.

Hovering over your now-free bishop, you narrow your eyes as you glance towards him.

He nods.

And so you move a pawn instead.

“I don’t trust you,” you tell him, because he told you not to. In a way, you are trusting him—just trusting that he’s a bullshitter.

What you don’t realise is that you’ve just moved the very pawn that’s been protecting your King, and preventing Jeongguk from getting an easy win.

“B,” he sighs, looking helplessly at the move you just made.

He couldn’t love you any more if he tried, but— fuck —he’ll never understand your brain.

“What?!”

He picks up his queen. Places it diagonally across from your exposed King. There’s nowhere for your King to go, other than in the direct line of his queen. He’s gone and fuckin’ done it again.

Check.

Mate .

Groaning, you realise what's happening and flop down onto your back. Your brain is fried. There's no way Jeongguk actually enjoys this.

"Not again," you whine, pretending to sob a little as you look up at Jeongguk's ceiling. It's without birds these days, but there are a few rogue strips of tape that remind you of your history within these four walls.

"B," Jeongguk laughs, clambering around the board to flop down with you. His arm rests over your tummy as his face aligns with yours. Might not have any birds above you, but the way you melt into his touch is just as deadly as it was the first time. You'll scorch a hole through his sheets with even the most innocent of encounters. His lips are a little pouty, smirk prevailing as he teases, "What did I tell you, huh? Protect your king."

"I tried!" You insist, your over-dramatic, distressed expression far too cute for him to care about playing anymore. He enjoys chess, but he enjoys you more.

"You left him wide open for me to take!"

"You could have gone easy on me!"

"I was!" He defends with a laugh, adamant that he could have taken you out in, like, two moves if he really wanted. "I swear you didn't listen to a single thing I told you—"

"I did! Listening to you is how you got that stupid pawn in the first place," you huff, putting your hand against the bottom of his throat to stop him from getting any closer. He doesn't deserve niceties in times like this.

He'd argue that the feeling of your sharp nails against his throat is incredibly nice.

He ignores your moaning. "I'll make you a deal."

"Go on."

"Strip chess."

"Pervert."

"For every move you make, I'll take an item of clothing off," he suggests with a glint in those starry eyes of his, ignoring your remark.

You assess the situation. Mentally make a checklist of his clothes. Sweats, a shirt, a (toe)sock on either foot, and underwear — that's only five moves, but then again, Jeongguk normally has your king trapped by that point.

"I think you're just trying to get me naked."

"I'm always trying to get you naked, B," he shrugs into his sheets, before tearing himself away and getting back into position on the opposite side of the board. "So are you gonna make it a challenge or not?"

"What happens if I take out one of your pieces?"

"If you do that," he hums, as if he's contemplating it. "I'll let you do that goddamn paper plane you wanna try out so bad."

Instantly, you sit up, like a puppy with a treat being teased in front of its snout. Your eyes are wide, smile incredulous.

It's been a while since Jeongguk made those paper planes in your bedroom. Only one has ever been done, and quite frankly, you think it might have been the catalyst to your friendship's demise, because how you could ever go back to 'just friends' afterwards was beyond you.

It's not like you didn't try to remain totally neutral about cock warming with him, but the way your heart swells whenever you do it now just goes to show how your bodies were made for one another. Like a turning of tides, or the cyclical rising and falling of the sun to make way for the moon, it's just as nature intended. He was made for you, and you him.

With a glint in your eye, you lean over to the chess board and swipe up one of his pawns at random. With a gasp, and a smile twitching at your lips, you exclaim, "Oh look! I won!"

"B," he laughs, but your expression remains entirely serious despite the light nature of it all.

"Lemme fuck your ass," You grin now, pleading ever so softly. "A deal is a deal."

"You didn't win."

"Says who?"

"Anyone who has ever played chess?"

"I've played, and I think I won. C'mon," you grin, positioning yourself on his lap. The chess piece is still in your hands as you lean down to nudge your nose up against his. "Face down, ass up for me, baby."

"You're in my way," he says.

"You could throw me across the room if you wanted to. I'm not stopping you."

"And I'm not throwing you across the room."

"Please," you pathetically beg.

"You really it want it, don't you?" He grins against your lips. "Huh?"

"Just wanna make you feel good."

"You always make me feel good," Jeongguk whispers, quietly deflecting the real reason why he hasn't let you do it yet.

Truth be told, Jeongguk is a little scared.

While yes, he's always been curious about pegging, he's never taken it that far before. Has never had the tools, shall we say, to explore by himself, and none of his exes or flings ever seemed too interested in it.

He wants it. Wants it with you. Just doesn't know how he'll react. Doesn't know what his body will do. Worries that things will take a turn for the worse and that you'll be so repulsed by him that you'll never want to have sex with him again, or that maybe he'll like it too much and that it'll be all he ever wants and it'd ruin just how good things are at the moment.

His thoughts distract him as your lips press feathery kisses against the thick column of his neck. Something about you, and how delicate you can be, just makes him melt into your touch. His hands come to clutch your hair, a pretty little smile forming on his lips.

"You don't have to do this," he quietly says, nails lightly scratching at your scalp. Your lips graze against his skin, before he gently pulls you back by the root of your hair. The sensation makes you want him even more than you already do. There's a love-drunk look of lust to your darling eyes, all glittery like they so often are as you look at him.

Reaching to cup his jaw, you marvel at how a man who looks like him can be as tender as he is. The world would give him permission to break hearts, if he wanted it, but he doesn't. All he seems to want is to adore, and be adored in return—and how lucky you are to be on the receiving end of it.

A slight guilt settles in your stomach. You know he'd give you the world if you asked for it, but he isn't giving you this.

"I'm only teasing," you tell him, which isn't strictly true. You do wanna do it, but your incessant begging is what you're joking about. It's not like you'll die if you can't fuck his ass (maybe). "I'll respectfully stay out of your ass unless requested otherwise."

He shakes his head. Laughs. Kisses you, 'cause he just can't help himself, then pulls you down into the sheets with him. "I give it a day until you're asking again."

Secretly, he wants you to ask again. It doesn't feel like pressure. Feels like validation; as if you want this even more than he does.

The thing is, you can't say no to a challenge. "Wanna bet?"

No.

But he can't resist either. "You're on."

Yoongi stands with his shoulders pressed to glass front door, keys looped on his fingers. The streets in this area are always quiet until the evening, minor hustle and bustle from delivery drivers dropping off stock to businesses down the alley disturbing the peace.

A small hotteok stall sits lopsided, supported by the building's exterior wall, red tarpaulin covering it from the weather and any inquisitive eyes. An elderly man runs it during the weekends, but for the rest of the week, it sits derelict. It's an eyesore, to say the least. Not the kind of thing that screams 'hot new restaurant' to anyone walking by.

It's as Yoongi's contemplating how to solve this problem, figuring the stallhand probably had an agreement with the previous owners, when Jeongguk comes into his line of vision. He tweaks a brow in Jeongguk's direction, almost as if to ask: what time do you call this?

Jeongguk's right on time. It's not a minute past twelve, which is exactly the time Yoongi told him to arrive.

Sale finalised, paperwork complete, Yoongi got given the keys this morning. It's a done deal. The building is his, and in turn, the restaurant is Jeongguk’s.

Despite his nonchalance, when Yoongi sees Jeongguk grin, he can't help but smile too.

"Shut up," Yoongi tells him. "We're serious businessmen. Don't get giggly with me."

"I'm not!" Jeongguk laughs, hands up in defence, until Yoongi puts his own hand out for Jeongguk to shake. Naturally, Jeongguk uses Yoongi's hand to pull him in for a hug instead. Patting his back, Jeongguk is almost fighting the urge to cry. He's waited so long for this. Worked so hard. Doesn't think any of it would be possible without Yoongi, but Yoongi would disagree.

"You better make the best fuckin' samgyeopsal this city has ever seen," Yoongi threatens with all the love in the world, breaking from the hug. Passing over the keys, he nods towards the doors. "Do us the honours."

Yoongi is fatherly in the way he never takes the glory for himself. Will be the kind of dad to build a lego castle and let his kid put the flag in place at the end of his labour.

Jeongguk doesn't mention it, but he's noticed the way Seoyeon has been the designated driver for the past few weeks; how she didn't drink at auction, and how Yoongi's been even more attentive than he usually is.

Could be nothing at all. Could just be a change in the weather.

But it could mean everything, and Jeongguk knows better than to intrude before being welcomed in on the news.

Pushing the key into the lock, Jeongguk is quietly enamoured with the fact the premises has a lock and key instead of the typical keypad locks that are usually in place. The metal grates against itself as he twists the lock open, and pushes the door open.

There's a separate side entrance for access to the upper floors.

The floors Jeongguk intends to be the restaurant already have a connecting staircase towards the back of the room, which will make it infinitely easier for staying out of Yoongi's hair whenever he's in the workshop.

In the light of day, the furniture from the previous owners now removed, it's so much easier for Jeongguk to envisage how everything will look; where the signage will hang, where the bar will go, and, most importantly, where the disco balls will hang.

"It's really happening," he exhales, as if he hadn't realised it at any earlier stage in the process.

Yoongi doesn't berate him. Instead, he takes a deep breath, too. Nods. "It's really happening."

Though he smiles, Jeongguk wishes he had a hand to hold as tightly as his lips press together. Wishes you were here. Knows you're busy with work, making up hours to account for the fact you'll have some time off at the end of the week for your interview at the Ryu.

Why you need an interview is beyond him. He thinks they're being ridiculous. Thinks that even entertaining the idea of hiring someone else is an insult. Got so wound up about it, ranting to Jimin while he was making dinner, that he burned his sauce a couple of nights ago. Is now on a talking while cooking ban. Jimin says Jeongguk can't be trusted to multitask. Jeongguk says Jimin is a little prick.

The day is lost to making plans; sketches drawn up on Jeongguk's ipad, discussions with Yoongi about how to go about getting liscences for the premises, and back and forth over what should be done with the top two floors.

The idea of Taehyung using the fourth floor as a studio is considered, but both of them know how much he adores his current place.

"Think he'd live there, if he could," Yoongi muses picking up a slice of napjak mandu with his chopsticks, dipping it into the tteokbokki sauce. They'd ordered from the place near his current workshop, and it makes him lament the idea of leaving it behind.

Perhaps he can keep them both. Use the smaller space as his own little sanctuary, and the third floor here as his public-facing premises. Might be a bit of a waste, but if he can afford the rent, then why not?

"Tell you what," Yoongi hums as he swallows down his food. "If you don't add something like this to the menu, I'm kicking you out."

"I'll put it on the secret menu," Jeongguk offers, knowing that it definitely won't be what he offers to punters. He makes a mean tteokbokki, but it doesn't fit the vision of what he wants for this place. "Well, what about Jimin? He could start up his own interior place, if he wants. He's got the money for it, and I know the office he's in at the moment has been stifling him. Lost out on, like, three big commissions in the last quarter because the boss went with some other prick's ideas. Jimin's wasted there."

Yoongi hums in agreement as he swallows down his food. "We could always get him to help out with the design of this place. I reckon he knows all the tricks for good energy."

Nodding, Jeongguk laughs. Picks up another rice cake and chows down on it as he adds, "Should have seen him when we moved into our current place. Man had a compass out to align a sofa with the right energy."

"Sounds about right," Yoongi grins, resting his chopsticks back down against the edge of the bowl. "Well, what about your missus, then? Would she want gallery space? Somewhere for curation?"

Jeongguk chokes on his rice cake, and it's not because of the spice.

"She's not my missus—" he corrects, but then decides he doesn't want to "—at least, not yet. And she's got a big interview with The Ryu this week. I'm not sure opening her own gallery is on her agenda, but I can put the feelers out—and like… I don't know. Wouldn't it be a bit much? We spend so much time together, already. She'd get sick of me if I was working two floors below."

"Would you get sick of her?"

"Don't be stupid. No."

"Exactly," Yoongi says as if it's obvious—which, in all fairness, he thinks it is. "The pair of you are in a perpetual honeymoon phase."

Jeongguk shakes his head, as if he isn't beaming. "Shut up. Just got a good thing going—and hey, you're hardly one to talk. How's Seoyeon?"

"Good, yeah," Yoongi nods, but doesn't divulge any further. As much as Jeongguk is dying to ask, he holds back. "She wants you all round for dinner soon, so expect an invite in the group chat."

"For any reason?" Jeongguk baits Yoongi, cause he just can't help himself.

Unlucky for him, Yoongi is as stoic as can be. "You know Seo. She loves any excuse for a dinner party. Has started making her own pasta and I think she wants tasters."

"B makes a mean pasta," Jeongguk says, because his thoughts so often wind back to you, and he just can't help himself. "I'm sure she'll be buzzing to try Seoyeons."

A sense of pride washes over Yoongi's features. "Gah, when did you grow up, Jeongguk? Practically married, aren't you?"

Dismissive in how he shakes his head, Jeongguk can't help but let a bashful smile grow on his face. The soft lights overhead glimmer down him, putting those stars Jeongguk adores so much right back in his eyes. He'll never get rid of you. Will eternally carry the evidence of how utterly smitten he is.

Should you ever leave him, Jeongguk thinks he'd simply die of a broken heart. Wouldn't know how to walk if it weren't in the direction of you. Would stumble and fall until he inevitably wound up back at your door like a wounded puppy.

So perahps Yoongi is right. Maybe it would make sense to offer you the space—but you've got your own agenda. Your own dreams. Jeongguk can't just entrap you in his.

The thing is, once your shift is up, and you're heading to the restaurant premises to see Jeongguk, you can't help but feel like this is a dream come true for you.

His ambition and drive have rubbed off on you; encouraged you up a career path you once thought was overgrown with thorns and rubble. Has shown you that all you need is a little bit of elbow grease and a pair of secateurs to go after what you want.

It's dark by the time you arrive. Lights from the other establishments flood the streets, but the blinds are closed on the restaurant for a little privacy. A handwritten 'under new management' sign is taped to the front door in Jeongguk's signature penstroke. A little smiley face accents it; a show of how he feels, you presume.

Pulling your phone from your back pocket, you dial through to him, 'cause you've no idea how to get in, nor if he's even actually there. The building is just on the way home from the art cafe, and you'd left Jeongguk's place that morning to a very smiley boyfriend instead of his usual 'don't go' pout, so you figure he's spent all day busy with exciting plans.

"Sorry, not interested," Jeongguk's voice purrs through the speaker, as if you're some kind of cold-calling saleswoman with nothing half-decent to offer him.

"What if I told you I'm outside the restaurant and that I'm naked under my clothes?"

"Aren't we all naked under our clothes?"

"Just open the door," you grin down the phone as he comes into view through the glass doors.

He's got the kind of look on his face that you'd expect: pouty lips with heavy-lidded eyes. Softening ever so slightly when he notices the bunch of wildflowers poking out from the tote bag you've got hooked over your shoulder, his eyes are incapable of ever hiding his true feelings.

Mild confusion ( did someone get you flowers?) dismissed with easy understanding—they're from the stall he always buys you flowers from, so he knows you got them yourself.

It's very conflicting to adore you and to also want to fuck you into next Tuesday, but it garners you a gaze nobody else is ever lucky enough to receive from him. You cherish it. Think about it near-constantly whenever he's not by your side.

"You're a terrible saleswoman," he scolds so softly it feels like praise.

"And yet here you are, answering the door for me," you shrug with a knowing smile, sure that'd he take whatever you sold him. Would buy sand, water, air from you. Would let you swindle him.

"And yet here I am."

Hanging up, you mouth 'open it' through the door, and he does as he's told—kind of.

Blocking the now half-open door, he childishly asks, "What's the password?"

"I love you?"

"Ew. Gross. Get a room. No."

"Fuck you.”

"Not the password either, but I'm more than willing."

"Ew. Gross," you imitate him, gagging a little for an extra immaturity. "Hmm… Byeol is the best?"

"Ddaeng."

"Jimin sucks?"

"Ddaeng… but I approve. Good guess."

"Gimme a hint."

"It's the name of the restaurant."

The confidence that comes with the restaurant being his now is nothing short of a miracle. He's so certain of everything these days, in a way he never was before—but why shouldn't he? He got the girl. Got the dream. There's nothing he can't do. Statistically, he's two for two. A winner by all counts. A gold medalist in his very own Olympics.

"You've never told me what you want to name it!" You protest with a whine, thinking he's being entirely unfair.

It's not like you haven't asked a million times over. He's just been keeping it underwraps. Was scared that speaking it into existence would jinx it. Would refuse with a coy grin, and assurance that he'd reveal it soon enough.

Truth be told, Jeongguk's gone back and forth over names. It's probably changed ten times since he's known you, but then you said something at the fundraising auction, and everything sort of clicked into place.

A name was coined and it wouldn't stop embossing itself into Jeongguk's dreams; the branding, the signage, everything. A new vision of what he wanted spawned like lava onto a mountainside. You sparked a volcano he didn't even realise existed, and it's solidified into molten rock.

"I'll cut you a deal," you offer, knowing that you'll never get it and he'll never ease. Shrugging your shoulder to gesture towards the bag, you begin your enticement. "I've got cold beer and hot burgers from that place you like down the road. They're all yours in you let me in—if not, I'm going home and Danbi will—"

"Say no more," Jeongguk pushes the door open and grabs your hand, pulling you into the vacant restaurant with him. The door clicks close behind you, and Jeongguk spins you around so that you're stood infront of him, facing the large room. Arms wrapping around your waist, Jeongguk rests his chin on your shoulder, gently pressing a kiss to your neck. "Welcome in."

It's a lot to take in all at once. The room stands empty, save for the camping chairs and table Yoongi and Jeongguk had coversed around earlier, Jeongguk's ipad resting on the table with a low battery warning on the dimly lit screen. There's paperwork scattered on the surface—old utilities letters that they were using to sort out the new bills—and a bag of trash tied up on the floor from their lunch.

"I don't smell burgers," Jeongguk mumbles against your neck.

"I was lying."

"You've no shame."

Turning your head, you let him raise his nose to yours, a feathery kiss greeting your lips.

Whenever your doe-eyed boy greets you like this, you always feel a bit like snow white; as if a dozen tiny creatures will flock to you and bestow their love upon you.

It'd be fruitless, mind you, for none of them could even come close to how deeply Jeongguk adores you. He'd sit in the corner, jealous and bratty as they fawned over you. Would hate not being the object of your affection. Would strop until your focus was back on him.

"I'll order some," you promise, but Jeongguk shakes his head.

"Won't be here much longer. We can pick some up on the way home."

"Sure?"

"Yeah, baby," he tenderly whispers, punctuating himself with a slightly firmer kiss, before pulling away from you. Walking into the middle of the room, he holds out his arms. Grins. "Welcome."

"It's a pleasure," you grin, freely stepping into the space now, looking around with awestruck eyes knowing that this is his . "Holy shit, Gguk."

"Yeah," he agrees with your sentiment. "Mad, innit?"

"Just a little."

When you think back to the Jeongguk you first met—the one who spent hours upon hours studying for his exams, all the while working at the bar of an admittedly shitty club—you can't help but feel overwhelmed with pride. He worked himself to the bone for his dreams.

The space is large enough for Jeongguk to go wild with it. There's no end to his possibilities. He's got an arsenal of weapons in his back pocket in the form of his friends—Yoongi can fit the place out, Jimin can help with the design work, Taehyung can make a central art piece, and Namjoon can get it featured in the paper. Of course, he won't take advantage of his access to them, but knowing how willing his friends always are to help out, it's kind of like a no-brainer. He's got all the tools needed for success.

"And right here," he points up, standing in the middle of a square marked out with tape on the floor. It's large and in the centre of the room—the intended space for a central bar and banchan preparation spot, flipping the conventions of traditional barbecue places on their heads. Wants the food to quite literally be at the heart of the restaurant. "Is where the disco balls will be."

For a second, you think you miss-hear him, but the way his smiles grows when confronted with your confusion only proves you heard perfectly fine.

Sitting on one of the camping chairs Yoongi and Jeongguk had set up earlier, you've been watching him talk you through his vision for the place. It sounds incredible—just like him, but in restaurant version.

"Is that not a health and safety hazard?" You giggle, desperate to get up and stand with him, but feeling the need to maintain distance. He's having his moment. He doesn't need a shared stage—and yet here he is, announcing that the very embodiment of you will be centre stage for the foreseeable.

Jeongguk shrugs. "Haven't thought that far ahead. There's gonna be disco balls here whether they like it or not, though."

Realistically, if the health and safety inspectors tell him no disco balls, there'll be no disco balls—but he won't be happy about it. Will be pouty. You both know he's just being facetious, and that he'll comply with whatever is asked of him.

"It's my restaurant, baby," he reminds you, holding out his hands, cause he wants you closer. Naturally, you do ass requested, and join him in his square. His arm slips around your waist, a kiss firmly being pressed to your forehead before your chin leans on his chest. Looking up at him, it's a wonder that you're able to have conversations that last more than a single back and forth. A miracle, even. "I can do what I want."

There's something so incredibly sexy about this cocksure arrogance. He's not the same guy you met back in the confines of Dionysus, and while you adored him back then, you adore him even more now.

"You're sexy when you talk business," you hum, as his hand dip a little further south to squeeze your ass. "Home?"

He nods, a pretty smile hanging off his lips. "Mine or yours?"

"Yours is closer," you tell him, pulling away, linking your fingers with his as you do so, dragging him with you. Hooking your bag up over your shoulder, you're reminded of the flowers. "Oh—these are for you, by the way."

Passing them over, you're not surprised by his confusion.

"For me?"

The bunch of wildflowers looked pretty big in your hands, but remarkably small in his. You have to make a considered effort to not groan.

"Mhmm," you nod with a sweet smile. "A congratulations."

Jeongguk's head pushes back a little into his neck, shoulders broadening as his smile forms. He quickly tilts his head to the side and then back again in the way he often does whenever his brain is processing something new.

"Never had flowers before."

"Nice, isn't it?" You grin, knowing that nothing beats fresh flowers when it comes to small pockets of expressed admiration.

With a bashful nod, Jeongguk feels like he should feel emasculated, but can't quite work out the way he actually does feel. All he knows is that he likes it. And that he wants to get home. And that he wants you in his bed. Naked, preferably.

His thoughts dart back and forth to the last time you were in his room. Gets him hot. Blushing.

Thankfully, you don't seem to notice—or if you do, you don't mention it. Why would you? It's cute.

"What time is your interview tomorrow?" Jeongguk asks as he makes sure the door is locked behind you both.

"One in the afternoon," you reply with a certain nonchalance, as if you're unphased, which Jeongguk knows is absolute bullshit. "Hobes said he'll work my shift if I buy him a month's supply of Sprite, so I've got, like, 48 cans arriving tomorrow."

He would have done it for free, but he's a tough bargainer and you're just an easy sell when it comes to making the people you care about happy.

"His blood will turn into sprite," Jeongguk laughs, linking his hand with yours once more as you head down the road to the nearest subway entrance. "How are you feeling about it? We can practise interview questions later, if you like."

Shaking your head, you smile. "It'll just make me nervous, and at the moment, I'm pretty calm about things. Thank you, though."

"Well, if you change your mind," Jeongguk reinforces the offer, before you redirect the conversation and get him babbling about the restaurant—projected timelines, contractors, suppliers. There's so much to do, and yet it doesn't feel overwhelming in the slightest. Not yet, at least.

With a pit stop at the burger place as promised, the journey home is effortless. Intrinsic by this point.

Shoes off by the door, Jimin is out for a company dinner, so it's just the pair of you.

"Has he spoken with you about Nabi, yet?" You ask as you grab some condiments from the kitchen, while Jeongguk fills a vase with water.

"God, no," Jeongguk laughs. "He used to tease me all the time about you, but now he can't even look me in the eyes 'cause he's worried I'll ask about it. Idiot."

"He used to tease you? About me?" You hum, a little smug at this little snippet of information.

"You know what he's like," Jeongguk reminds you, 'cause it's not like you've ever been spared from Jimin's teasing. "Doesn't know how to not be irritating. Character flaw. Think he was born that way."

Despite his annoying tendencies, Jimin is adored by pretty much everyone he meets. Jeongguk doesn't say such things to be mean, but rather because he views him like a sibling.

"If anyone knows how to handle him, it's Nabi," you muse, thinking back to Pohang. "He'd have driven me insane organising the Jilympics."

"Don't call it that," Jeongguk smiles at how ridiculous his best friend is. Delicately arranging the flowers, Jeongguk's sense of perfectionism comes out once more. "He's a little narcissist. He'll sense his ego being inflated from miles away, and then his head won't be able to fit through doors." Tweaking a yellow flower to move it more centrally, Jeongguk shakes his head. "And to think the first time you were in this apartment—"

"Shut up," you groan, not wanting to be reminded of it. "Everybody makes mistakes."

"Alright, Hannah Montana," Jeongguk teases you. "It's just kinda wild, isn't it? How everything has just worked itself out?"

"Don't," you say with a glint in your eye. "You'll jinx it."

Perhaps it's foolish—naive, even—but he doesn't think it's possible. Thinks that this is all set in stone. That your names have been etched on a cliffside somewhere, and that's where you'll remain forever more.

He forgets that cliffs erode. That the weather is unpredictable, and life even more so.

He's always been cautious. Reluctant of counting eggs.

But he’s hungry. Ravenous. The first at the dinner table, and the last to leave. Bites off more than he can chew. Chokes and splutters in the wake of it all, every single damn time.

It’s a flaw he’ll admit to having, but why can’t vices be virtues? Why can’t he be optimistic? Why shouldn’t he hope for the best? He spent so long living in a perpetual state of fear, and it never did him any good. Wasn’t until he started opening himself to the idea of things working out okay that they actually started heading in that direction.

“I’ll do no such thing,” he assures you, reaching for a pan to start with his second course. Again, he’s hungry in all aspects of the word. Hasn’t even had his burgers yet, but he’s a growing boy, or so he’d have you believe. Better to just get it cooked first, and save him the hassle of getting up again later. “You want some?”

He nods towards the empty saucepan, but doesn’t need to explain what he’s making. You know it’ll be instant bibimyeon.

“A little,” you nod, knowing that this relationship is gonna be terrible for your waistline. Opening up his fridge, you pull a can of soda from the fridge. Jeongguk doesn’t really ever buy soda, unlike you and your minor peach soda addiction, but take-out places always chuck a complimentary can of something in with your orders, so he’s got quite a stockpile now.

“You want a beer or something instead?” He asks, as he begins to prepare the instant noodles in the most embellished way he possibly can. Spices, sauces, you name it, he’s always adding something—and it’s always delicious.

Cracking the can open, you set it down and swipe the camera of your phone up to snap a picture of him; to document him in his element. “Nah, it’s okay. Want a clear head for tomorrow.”

Jeongguk smiles, hearing the synthetic shutter of your phone clicking. “Obsessed.”

“So?” You grin, immediately swiping across to open up Instagram and preserve the moment on your story. “You love it.”

Though he doesn’t reply, he does look in your direction with a smile that would only confirm your words.

Together, you fall into a casual rhythm, you perched up on a barstool while he cooks. Conversation darts from A to B, Y to Z. There’s no topic of conversation too obscure nor taboo for you to realm into the depths of, but there’s also something comforting about how you can just natter about the weather, how he should get his hair cut, what’s on at the cinema.

By the time he’s eaten and cleaned up the kitchen, you’re already in the shower. It’ll be an early night. You’ve both been working today, and both have important things to get done the next day.

There’s no objection from you as he taps on the door and asks to come in. You hadn’t locked it deliberately. Jimin’s out, and even if he’d have come home, he’d have heard the shower going—or Jeongguk would have told him. There’s no real worry there.

“Been looking forward to this all day,” Jeongguk admits as he grabs his shirt by the nape of his neck, pulling it over his head in that boyish way he so often does. Neither of you really care about being naked—it’s a daily occurrence at this point—but seeing him get undressed makes your heart feel all jelly-like and void of structure. The chambers melt, and so do you.

It’s not just attraction, but affection. Acknowledgement that he doesn’t mind being vulnerable with you. That the things humans do to renew themselves — eat, shower, sleep — are things he wants to do with you. He doesn’t want to be full if you’re hungry, sleep while you’re starved of rest, nor wash away the traces of you. Renewal without you just doesn’t make sense to him.

“Me too,” you quietly say as he joins you. The water pitter-patters down on you both, his hair wetting before laying flat against his forehead. When his deft hands push it away, it always falls back.

Instinctively, your arms wrap around his waist, his around your shoulders, the embrace akin to coming home.

“We should both just quit our jobs and do this forever,” Jeongguk muses, almost sleepy in how he mumbles his words against the top of your head.

“Someone’s gotta pay the water bill,” you smile against his bare chest.

“That’s why I live with Jimin,” Jeongguk replies, tone cheeky and warm.

The smile on your face sweetly settles into something a little more neutral as you outwardly consider your own living situation. “Lease is up soon, yanno. Mine and Dans.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod, wet hair tangling over itself against his skin. He holds you just as tightly. “Haven’t started looking for new places, yet.”

“I’ve still got a few months left on mine,” Jeongguk says, pulling back to reposition the shower head. Just wants to hear you a little more clearly. “My bed is basically yours anyways.”

It doesn’t take a genius to work out what he’s insinuating—but it also doesn’t take a genius to know that it wouldn’t be the right thing for you both, yet.

Your eyes are soft as you shake your head. “I’ve a whole apartment's worth of stuff, Gguk. I can’t just move into your room. Need my own space.”

He frowns, reaching for the shampoo. “You can. And I’ll even move my statues.”

“You mean your action figures?”

“Oh my god,” he groans, and then you’re giggling, and any negative thoughts Jeongguk could have about you saying ‘no’ dissolve into nothingness, like water running down the drain. He passes you over the shampoo once he’s gotten himself some, and adds, “People pay good money for a collection like mine.”

“You mean you spent a fuck ton of money on them?”

“We’ve all got our weaknesses,” he protests. “You’ve got so many clothes. I don’t think I’ve ever been into your room when there hasn’t been an avalanche of clothes on the chair, wardrobe and dressers bursting at seams—”

“Exactly,” You laugh. “Now imagine all of that in your room.”

He takes a second. Visualises it as he lathers up the foamy shampoo in his hair and almost hisses. “Yeah. You’re right. I take it back. Get your own place.”

Rolling your eyes, you flick a little water in his direction, as if it makes a difference.

He grins, teeth on show, lip ring doing the thing that just makes you melt.

“See,” you grin right back. “I’m always right.”

The rest of your shower is littered with dumb conversations and stolen kisses between shampoo rinses. In fact, it’s how the rest of the evening continues. Some dumb action film plays on the tv, and then Jeongguk finds a dumb youtube quiz, and you giggle into the early hours over some other dumb shit. Dumb, dumb, dumb and oh so totally in love.

The apartment issue lingers in the back of Jeongguk’s mind, though, and questions dance on the tip of his tongue. He tries to brush them away, but the mint of his toothpaste isn’t enough to erase them. They taste sour, and he knows the only way to rid the sensation is to speak them into existence.

Gone midnight, the city is still alive. His curtains are open, because you’ve started to get used to the way he likes to sleep, and find it far easier to wake up early when the sun is giving you a warm welcome to the day. Funny, how things change. How willing he was to change his habits for you, and how seamlessly yours have changed to fit him. You’re better for knowing one another, or so it feels.

The light pollution gives his bedroom a soft glow, and with every change of advertisement on the billboards across the street, the hue changes. Like his own personal mood lamp, it’s become a staple of his home. It’s blue, now, and so is he when he considers the fact that you haven’t yet reached the stage of sharing a home.

Your arm is looped over his waist, ‘cause he’d decided that the role of the little spoon would be going to him. Fingers interlocked with yours, he has no interest in ever letting go.

“B?”

“Mhmm?”

“Is Dan definitely moving in with Tae?”

“Think so.”

Jeongguk doesn’t immediately reply, but you leave space open for him. A question like that didn’t come out of the blue. It’s something he’s been ruminating on, no doubt.

When he finally does speak, the weight of his soft, if not somewhat pouty, words crush down on your chest in a way that you can’t quite explain. Hell, in a way you don’t want to explain, because it would mean admitting that a man has such power over you (even if said man is Jeon Jeongguk).

“They’ve always been one step ahead of us,” he laments.

And then he leaves silence for you. Knows that you always have a response of some kind that will settle his woes. Feels guilty that you’re always cleaning up the messes of his loose lips, but would be a liar if he said he didn’t crave the sweet nothings you soothe him with.

“They’re on an entirely different path, baby,” you gently press a kiss into his shoulder. He’s so warm and powder-fresh from his shower that you can’t help but want to cling to him like a koala bear. Most importantly, though, you don’t want him to move away. Space to talk is fine, but physical space? God, no. “There's no use comparing.”

But Jeongguk is a glutton for punishment. Will continue making himself feel small for the sake of his perceived flaws.

“Loved you before Taehyung even knew who Danbi was,” Jeongguk pouts, ‘cause he’s in his head again, going round in circles when he really needn’t be. You know he does this, though. It doesn’t surprise nor concern you. If anything, it reassures you, because his willingness to share these thoughts just signposts how far you’ve both come. He used to stew and sour over things like this. Now, he shares his burdens “But they’re doing all these big milestones first. They were a couple, went on vacation, and now moving in together. All before us.”

“It’s not a competition,” you sweetly laugh. “Their relationship couldn’t be more different to ours. Plus I hardly consider a weekend in Jeju a big vacation—we can literally do that this weekend, if you want.”

You’re not sure why you’ve never been away together. Busan is always lovely, but it’s a short drive, and is somewhere Jeongguk still considers to be home. It’s not a holiday. Perhaps you should rectify that. It's better spoken about during the daylight hours, but always a little nicer to dream at night. Make silly, fantastical plans that you could always turn into reality, if you really wanted.

“Gguk,” you softly continue. “As much as I love them both, we’re literally so different from them. Our relationship was never gonna be like theirs.”

“You think?”

“Mhmm,” you nod, lips brushing against the bare skin of his shoulder. “Well, I mean, he lets her peg him for starters—”

Jeongguk turns so quickly it’s a miracle he doesn’t fall out of bed. Even in the darkness of his room at night, the open curtains mean his shock is easy to make out. “Does he actually?!”

Giggling, you roll onto your back, thoroughly enjoying his reaction. Truth is, you’ve no idea. Just said it to be a dick.

“Probably,” you say, admitting that you don’t know. You just knew it would cause a reaction. Ease the tension, somewhat. “He’s like, obsessed with her. Would let her do anything she wants.”

Sinking back down into the sheets with you, Jeongguk wraps his arm over your body now. Pulls you close. Presses a kiss to your neck, and says, “You lost the bet, y’know? Can’t even go 24 hours without thinking about fucking my ass, can you?”

It sounds like a complaint, but the way his lips seem unable to stop pressing wet kisses against your throat would prove otherwise. Your hand tangles in his hair, scratching his scalp in approval.

“Cute that you think I haven’t been thinking about it all day,” you tease, biting back the small murmur of a moan that’s just begging to escape from his touch.

You often have thoughts about him throughout the day, both pure and impure. It’s not like you mean to—it’s just that there’s something about Jeongguk that is impossible to forget. Like a class-A drug, you linger from high to high, using thoughts about him to sustain your comedown until you can see him again.

He is your boyfriend, though. Would be weirder if you weren’t a little obsessed.

“Liar,” he scolds. “I picked your clothes up after our shower. Your underwear were dry.”

“You were inspecting my underwear? Freak,” you tease, because quite honestly the idea of him studying your underwear in the hopes of finding arousal is kinda hot, even if a little perverted. “And maybe it’s because you don’t get me excited.”

Rolling his eyes, Jeongguk ignores your insult. Instead, his hand creeps down the mound of your pussy, pausing before he sinks his fingers between your thighs. “So you’ll be dry right now, then?”

“I’ll be just like the Gobi,” you assure him with that tone of defiance he's grown to adore. “Try me.”

You don’t know why you’re offering yourself up like this, ‘cause you know it’s only gonna end up one way.

“You’re such a fuckin’ liar,” he smirks—and then is proven correct as his fingers slide between your slick folds with ease. A gasp escapes from your lips as he casually brushes past your clit, paying it no attention whatsoever. “And even if you weren’t, there’s like, five bigger deserts than the Gobi. Sounds like it’s a pretty easy drought to rectify—but fuckin’ hell, B. My pretty girl and her filthy mouth. Full of lies, isn’t it? You’re fuckin’ soaked.”

“No,” you purr, hips languidly rolling to intensify the sensation he’s facilitating. After all, he’s right. There’s nothing dry about the situation between your legs. “Never told a lie in my life.”

His teeth nip at your neck as his body presses up against your side, the thick ridge of his cock letting you know that you most certainly get him excited.

“You’re so full of shit, B,” he quietly says, lips from a pretty little kiss against the edge of your jaw. “Told so many lies, haven’t you, hm? Like when you used to tell people we were just friends?”

The desperate sigh that escapes your mouth only fuels him on even more.

“You remember the first time I touched you like this, huh?” He husks against your ear. “Those pretty eyes of yours watching us in the mirror. You can see us now, can’t you?”

Nudging his head against yours, he encourages you to look in the direction of his mirror. You always sleep on the side of the bed closest to it, but you rarely pay it any attention these days. The pair of you are obscured—bed sheets and shadows hiding what he’s doing to you—but the eroticism is just as potent as it always was.

“Gguk,” you rasp, back arching when he strokes against your clit just right.

Restraint is something that you wish you had been gifted with, but alas—you are just a girl, and he is just the sexiest man you’ve ever had the pleasure of sharing a bed with. Of course you melt with every little thing he does.

“What is it, baby?” His index finger pushes into the seeping entrance of your cunt, just once, twice, to really get you moaning. “You like it when your boyfriend touches you?”

Something about Jeongguk referring to himself like that always gets you hot, but it’s partially because of the way he almost growls when he does it. You know it’s a turn-on for him. Know that his cock is throbbing. Know he loves calling himself yours.

Tugging on his arm, you encourage him to move on top of you. It’s late, and you should both be getting a good night's rest, but whatever. In half an hour, you’ll both be away with the fairies. If anything, this will help you fall asleep quicker.

“Thought you wanted an early night?” he husks against your lips, finishing his question with a kiss that lasts far longer than any words spoken. His firm lips part yours as your legs wrap around his hips as they grind up against yours.

“And I thought you said whoever speaks about fucking your ass next loses?” You smile against his lips, knowing that he definitely must have a twisted idea of what punishment is. “How is this losing?”

“We never set out terms,” he reminds you, unable to stop himself from kissing you between sentences. “But maybe it's not about losing. Maybe it’s about winning.”

“Okay?” You entertain his flirt, giggling between those kisses he just can’t seem to stop giving you. “So what are you winning?”

He pretends to give it thoughtful consideration. Squints his eyes and looks away as if contemplating one of life's great questions. Why are we here? What is the point of life? How do I want my girlfriend to make me cum tonight?

Jeongguk presses a kiss to your neck, nose nudging against your skin. He’s feline-like. Purry. Pathetic. Just how you like him.

“You haven’t sucked me off in a while,” he whispers, teeth nipping at your earlobe. Your hand laces in his hair, a soft moan humming from your lips. There’s a softness to the slow movements of your bodies. A comfort. A desperation. Unadulterated devotion. “So maybe that?”

You laugh at his shamelessness. Press a kiss to his temple, still scratching at his scalp. “I gave you a blowjob, like, two days ago, baby.”

“I know,” he whines like a wounded puppy, all docile and dejected. “It’s been so long I might die.”

“Hmm?” You hum in response, pushing on his waist ever so slightly until he gets the message to roll onto his back. He does as he's told, because he really is just a puppy dog beneath it all. Well-trained and desperate for a treat.

Following the movements of his body, you naturally ease into position on top of him. Legs straddled either side of his waist, you raise yourself up into a seated position, earning you a grunt of approval from Jeongguk.

The way his hands immediately reach up to play with your chest is curious, considering he still plays himself off as an ass guy. Strong with his movements, he grips the softness of your tits, his hips gently pulsing up against you.

“These might help prolong my life expectancy,” he says. “Best stress balls known to man.”

He seems quite content like this. Eyes closed, a smile hangs off his lips like he’s in a serene state of bliss. You cock your brow, unable to fight a smile, too.

“Did you just call my tits… balls?”

One of his eyes cracks open. “No?”

“You definitely did.”

“Didn’t.”

“Did—”

“Byeol,” he reprimands your diversion of the topic. “C’mon. Business, baby.”

“Is that all I am to you, huh?” You say, reaching for his wrist so that you can pull your hairband from it. He lets you do so and looks on with salacious curiosity as you begin to tie your hair up in a ponytail. “Just a transaction?”

“Mhmm,” he nods, his own hair tangling against his pillow as he does so. “A bird for a bird, remember?”

“Are we not past the point of the birds?”

“Well, yeah,” he says as if it’s totally obvious. “Thought we were gonna do a plane?”

Jeongguk’s reference back to the paper planes that he crafted in your bedroom makes your heart seize. You know what he means by that. Knows that it’s permission, in a way. That he wants what you want, even if he doesn’t outwardly say it.

“Are we?”

“Well we’re not gonna do anything if you keep up with the small talk,” he fondly teases you, pulling you back down so your chest is against his. One of his hands wraps itself in your ponytail and tugs ever so gently. A soft moan escapes your lips, much to his enjoyment. “I like your hair like this.”

In all honesty, he just likes being able to pull on it. Loves your hair no matter how it’s done.

“You’ll like it even more in a few minutes.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, pressing a kiss to the corner of his jaw before you embark on your journey south.

It’s intrinsic, how you work his body. A routine so well learned it’s not even given a second thought anymore. You know how to make him tick. The way he groans when you press pretty kisses down his collarbones and the way his hips roll when you drag the pink of your tongue over his pebbled nipples.

His hand clutches in your hair, keeping you in that position, encouraging you to pay a little extra attention to his nipples for a change. It’s not often that he wants too much focus on his chest, but he’s so turned on that even the slightest touch is making him go feral.

“Shit,” he hisses when your teeth gently press down around his nipple before you suck it ever so gently. “You’re so fuckin’ good at that.”

He’s never cared for it before. In all honestly, he actively didn’t like it when previous partners did it. There’s something about you that subverts all his desires. You’ve changed him. Altered his understanding of his body. Opened him up to so much more than he’d ever considered before.

Still, you’ve got an agenda, and unfortunately for him, it doesn’t involve his chest. He lets you move down, one hand lazily hanging by your head, the other resting over his chest. His thumb strokes over his pebbled nipple, still wet from your tongue, the pleasure of your touch sending him into a state of ecstasy.

Your body shuffles down, and you both reposition yourselves. No longer are you straddling, but rather you’re between his legs. His thighs are dappled in kisses from you, before your palms rest flat to his inner thighs, spreading him just right.

Alternating between slow kisses and languid drags of your tongue, you teeter ever so close to his thick, solid cock, but never quite touch it. Every time you get close, he whines, cock twitching.

There’s a satisfaction to be found in the way his body responds to your touch. His desperation is painful. Visceral. All he wants is you.

And because you can’t bear to see him in pain (whether or not because he’s so turned on he might just die), you concede. Give him what he wants.

Hands on his thighs, you let a little spit pool on your tongue before slowly dragging the tip of your tongue up his shaft.

“Fucking hell,” he curses, writhing from the contact.

You smile, and the lightness of your breath against the wet streak of your tongue makes him shiver.

The tip of his cock is already leaky with precum, his eagerness to be inside you so pathetically obvious. You avoid it, instead opting to repeat your previous moves. Slowly, you lick up his fat length, tongue flat as can be. You want him to feel as much of you as he can. Want him whining— begging —for your pussy.

If the precum seeping from his tip is a sign of desperation, then heaven only knows what the fuckin’ mess between your legs is. Every stroke of your tongue against him only serves to make you want him just as badly as he wants you.

Your hand reaches to wrap around his shaft, gently stroking his foreskin. Your tongue flicks against the base of his tip, right where you know he’s the most sensitive.

It’s no surprise when his grip on your ponytail tightens.

But it is a surprise when he lets go.

“Hm?” You chirp, looking up, just to make sure he’s all good.

He is—he just isn’t looking at you to confirm it. Instead, his upper body twists ever so slightly as he reaches for his bedside drawer.

You know it’s got a host of indecent artifacts—his sex toys, condoms, polaroids of you that are for his eyes only—but don’t give it much thought. Figure maybe he’s after a condom to make himself last longer, until you feel him tapping at your shoulder with the side of a small plastic bottle.

He doesn’t say anything.

Not immediately, at least.

What he wants is something he can’t really bring himself to ask for. Hopes that you’ll work it out for yourself.

As you take the bottle from him, a small chirp echoes from your throat, as if you’re asking for clarification. Again, Jeongguk hopes you’ll work it out. That he won’t have to shamelessly tell you what he desperately wants, cock twitching and leaking precum on his stomach.

The way you pause as you study the bottle, trying to read the text in the dim light of Jeongguk’s room, only adds to his apprehension—until he hears a soft smile exhaling from your lips when you realise exactly what it is: lube .

Never usually required, thanks to the fact Jeongguk makes you resemble a waterfall from just a look in your direction, you know the lube isn’t for you. It’s for him.

And given the state of conversations around sex over the past week or so, you know what he’s asking for.

After all, he’s the one who wrote that damn airplane in the first place. Told you straight up that he liked ass play way back in the days of the sticky notes (some of which remain on his wall, yet to be conquered).

His drawer only really has his things in it, though. You’ve not got any of your toys at his place. This is a preliminary. A follow-up, almost, to the night spent in the Min’s garden, doing things that probably scared a few dozen nocturnal animals.

“Yeah?” You encourage, lips pressing to his upper thigh. His body adjusts ever so slightly, as if he’s shy. Your hand wraps around his shaft, slowly rolling his foreskin up and down his length in just the right way to get his hands gripping his sheets.

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” he rasps through the pleasure of having you touch him. “Just want you to do it.”

“Talk about what?” You tease, ‘cause there’s no way he’ll actually enjoy what he’s asking for if he keeps being this uptight about it all. Relaxation is key.

“B,” he groans, this time out of frustration—and so you know you need to be the one to take the lead.

It just doesn’t feel right to take the lead, knowing he’s a little bit tense. You’ve always been so clear and consistent with each other when it comes to consent, and while you know what he wants, you wanna hear him say it first.

So you leave the bottle of lube next to his thigh and clamber up his body. Legs straddling his waist, you’re pleased that his hands come to stroke your thighs without a second thought. Conversely, your hands softly hold his cheeks, bringing him in for half a dozen pretty little kisses.

“Words are important. I’m not gonna be crude about it,” you tell him, ‘cause it makes a change to the way you joke around with one another. “I just love you, and I want to make you feel good.”

Jeongguks nose nudges back up against yours, as if to plead for more kisses (of which you give him, willingly).

“I love you more,” he argues into your lips, earning a giggle from you that somehow melts all of his worries away.

“Chess is always an option,” you remind him, but he shakes his head.

“Just… Fucking hell,” he groans as if it’s some sort of laborious task he really can’t be bothered to see through, which couldn’t be further from the truth. He’s just embarrassed. It’s all rather cute. Or at least it is until he continues. “Just finger my ass.”

He bashfully half whimpers, half laughs, and then adds a pouty, “Please.”

A smile sinks into your lips, and the way he seems almost shy makes your tummy feel all funny. He’s disastrously cute like this.

“I’ll make you feel so good,” you promise, lips brushing against his ear.

He nods. Knows you will. Lets his hands stroke up and down your back, bringing them around to cup your boobs. Squeezes. Smiles. Can’t resist himself when he questions, “Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” You nod, pulling back to sit upright just for his viewing pleasure. His hands are still holding your tits, gently caressing. He’ll never not love the sight of this. Of you. Of the way you respond to his touch.

“C’mere,” he grunts, pulling you back down, ‘cause he can’t let you go just yet. Your hands grip onto his bedframe as his lips eagerly latch onto one of your nipples. One of your hands drops to tangle in his smooth hair, a pretty little moan escaping your lips.

He takes it as a sign he’s doing something right. Switches up his sucking motion to flick his tongue against your hardened bud. Get you moaning all over again, the position of your legs spread over his waist, letting him know just how pleased you are to have him like this.

And while Jeongguk might have been asking you for favours, all he can think about is returning them.

Tapping on your ass, he’s a little breathless as he lets go of his latch on your nipple, and husks, “Up, baby. On my face. You before me.”

“Hm?” you languidly hum—not because you don’t know what he means, but because it goes against what he was asking for just minutes earlier.

Still, Jeongguk doesn’t care to explain his thought process (mainly because he doesn’t have one (he just likes having you in his mouth in any and all capacities)). Instead, he just continues tapping your ass until you get the message.

“You’re so impatient,” you lightly scold him while you do as he requests, but barely have time to position yourself before his arms are hooking over your legs, pulling your pussy to his mouth. “Oh fuck.”

He wastes no time suctioning his lips around your clit. He doesn’t care to be quiet about it. Eats you like it’s his last fuckin’ supper. Laps up against you.

It’s not just his tongue, though. It’s like he wants his whole fuckin’ face in your cunt. His nose rubs up against your clit, while his tongue greedily licks your entrance. There’s no such thing as perfect, but the way he’s proportioned is as close as it gets, you think. Your hips grind, a hand tangled in his hair, the way you both move entirely primal.

Hands squeezing at your ass, he encourages your movements. Wants you all over his face. Loves nothing more than being coated in you.

His tongue begins to focus now, though. He positions himself just right. Flicks against your clit at such a speed it’s hard to comprehend—and then he’s moaning. Vibrating against you. Delivering a sensation that could never be replicated.

“I’m close,” you rasp. Whine. Moan. “Don’t wanna cum. Not yet.”

And while he wants you to, Jeongguk knows why. Knows you wanna fuck him. Knows you wanna cum around his cock instead of on his face. Multiple orgasms have never been an issue, but it is late. You do need a somewhat early night.

He nods, easing up his tongue, slowly sucking on your clit. The movements of his head as he sucks only serve to make you feel like you might cum regardless, so you shakily (and regretfully) pull away.

When you reposition yourself, he pulls you against his lips for the messiest, most obscene kiss possible. It’s all tongue, and little else. The taste of your cunt. The sweetness of his whines. The filth of how much he loves sinning with you.

There's nobody else he could be like this with. Only you. Only ever you.

Straddled over his hips, you grind gently, his thick cock perfectly snug between your lips. Wet and swollen, they feel like silk against him. Jeongguk knows, given the chance, that he’d be able to cum like this. Easy.

That’s not what he wants, though, so you retrace your steps. Sink back down. Don’t fuck around this time. Instead, you take him in your mouth without hesitation. Return the favour he’s just bestowed upon you.

Head bobbing up and down his fat length, your hand wraps around the base of his cock. Pulling back, you spit against him, using your hand to spread it, gaining momentum. Loose with your grip, you focus on the tip of his sensitive cock, jerking him until he’s whining. Whimpering.

And then, you let your tongue stroke against his balls.

“Oh, fuck,” he whines, his hips pulsing beneath you.

It’s all the approval you need for your hand to get a little tighter, and for your lips to take one of his balls in your mouth. It’s a sensation Jeongguk fuckin’ loves, if done right—and of course, you know how to do it perfectly for him.

You take his ecstasy as a chance to move things along. Know he’s feeling good. Know he wants more.

Pulling back, you sit on your heels. Neither of you speak, but Jeongguk does slowly nod when he sees you reaching for the bottle of lube next to his body. Trepidation hangs in the air. This territory is uncharted, and it’s been a little while since you last ventured so far south—but you’ve got a roadmap. Know the way. Even if you didn’t, you like to think intuition would guide you, regardless.

Warming it a little bit in your hands, you’re slow. Cautious. Careful, knowing that he’s probably feeling a little more vulnerable than usual.

Hands slick with the gel, you wrap a palm around his shaft. Ease him into the feeling. It’s not like it’s a new sensation, but the pair of you rarely ever use lube. You’re always wet enough. He nods. Lets his eyes close as your other hand gently massages against his balls.

A little further south, you venture. He’s not a stranger to your tongue against his taint, but your fingers are less frequent. He's not as well acquainted with the sensation, but he likes it. Legs spreading a little further, Jeongguk makes himself available for you.

Smiling at just how cute he looks, you’re a curious mix of enamoured and outrageously turned on. Just like nobody could ever make him feel the way you do, nobody could ever make you feel the way he does.

“You’re so hot,” you tell him, gently wanking his cock as two of your fingers stroke up and down his taint. You apply a little more pressure. Replace his bashful smile with a wanting gasp.

Slick with lube, you let your middle finger go lower. Slowly, you press against his rim. Watch him closely as his brows furrow. There’s that look of desperation once more, and the assurance that yes, he wants this. Wants you.

You count in your head. 1, 2, 3… make sure he doesn’t stop moving his hips. If anything, he’s edging himself down. Encouraging you to apply more pressure.

And so you do. Slowly, eyes trained on his pretty, pathetic face, you push your middle finger against his tight hole, until the muscle eases.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, the penetration of a single finger overwhelmingly pleasurable for him. His eyes flicker open, landing on yours as your finger begins to curl ever so gently. Just a little. Just enough.

Chest heaving, Jeongguk looks beautiful in a way that’s hard to put into words—and when you slowly pull out, he looks ruined in a way that’s also hard to comprehend.

His lips hang slack, chest heaving as his eyes burn into you like the heat of a thousand stars. Face dewy with sweat, hair sticks to his forehead, the storminess of his gaze quickly triggers a whirlpool within your stomach. There’s a neediness to him as he swallows back a breath, lips coming together so that he can lick them, before his pout forms that pretty little o-shape once more.

Breathless as he speaks, Jeongguk rasps, “Again.”

The corner of your lips twitch into a smirk. “Yeah, babe?”

“Yeah,” he pathetically nods, fucked out but somehow still painfully desperate for more. Of course he is, though. It’s you. No one gets him like this. No one ever will. His brows furrow together, his tongue flicking against the silver hoops in the corner of his mouth, as his eyes drop to his pathetically weeping cock. He’s so hard. So keen. So needy—and what he needs right now is you. “Please, B. More.”

You tease against his entrance, applying just enough pressure to make him gasp. It’s like a reward, to hear him like this. As if you’ve done something truly remarkable.

Your other hand wraps around the base of his cock, adding to the electricity surging through him. He reaches down. Wraps his hand around yours. Encourages you. Wants more. Needs more. And so you give him more.

Finger pushing into his tight entrance, you’re slow. Painfully so, though you aren’t causing any actual pain. Jeongguk just wants you to hit that spot.

“Yeah?” You check in.

Breathless, nodding his head even though his eyes are closed, he says, “Yeah.”

Your finger curls. Strokes. Searches. Finds.

And Jeongguk moans in a way you don’t think you’ve ever heard before. It’s a whimper, almost. A plea. Or rather, a confession, maybe.

Your hands work in tandem, your finger stroking right against the spot that makes him whine, while your other hand strokes him in tempo. He’s stimulated in a way he isn’t used to. In a way he never really thought was possible.

There’s a vulnerability that comes with penetration. Far easier to fuck someone than it is to get fucked.

When he looks down towards you, it's like looking through a telescope; galaxies in his big brown eyes. Wide and wanting, he'll give you all the stars in his eyes, no questions asked, no fee charged.

It’s when your head dips to press wet kisses against his taint that his whines really begin to get desperate. Has always loved your mouth. Loves it when it does things it shouldn’t.

A girl like you shouldn’t have your nose pressed to a ballsack or her tongue mere millimetres away from an asshole, but the way you focus on delivering him pleasure would suggest otherwise. You’re made for this. Made for him.

It’s when you whine, though, obsessed with his body's response to you, that he really begins to get twitchy. His hips pulse ever so gently, encouraging the movements of both hands.

“Yeah?” you breathlessly whisper, smirking at how a man so strong is just absolute putty in your hands. “You fucking yourself with my hands, huh?”

Jeongguk is beyond the point of pride. Has no need for dignity. Just wants to feel good.

“Yeah,” he admits between desperate breaths. “Gonna make me cum so fuckin’ hard.”

Everything is moving in the same chaotic rhythm: his chest, his beating heart, his pulsing hips. Jeongguk’s cock is twitching, the sensation of you massaging his prostate taking him closer and closer to the point of release. He isn’t gonna last, and you don't want him to.

Your hand grips even tighter around the base of his cock, the stimulation impossible to fight against. There’s only so much he can take.

“B,” he whines. “Oh, fuck.”

“Cum for me,” you tell him, not even caring for your lost orgasm from earlier. He can make it up to you later. You keep the pace of your finger consistent, but wank him off faster. He whimpers and he writhes, but he doesn’t ease up. “C’mon, baby. Show me how good I make you feel, yeah?”

If there’s one thing that drives him wild, it’s when you call him sweet little names.

“Please, baby,” you beg, because you know just the right buttons to press. His hands grip his bed sheets, eyes struggling to stay open. He’s seconds away from death, or so it feels. A little death, at least. His legs begin to twitch. The onslaught of what is about to happen is unmistakable. “That’s it, baby,” you coo. “Show me how good it feels.”

“B,” he tries to speak, but can’t. All he can do it succumb to the pleasure. Whine. Mewl. Moan.

And then it’s happening; the evidence of how fucking good you are for him painting his abdomen. His cock is pathetic as it spurts ropes of thick, hot cum onto his belly. White and wet, it’s never-ending. He cums and he cums; gasps and gasps.

It’s not until he begins to twitch, chest heaving, cock spent, that you withdraw from him. Immediately, you gently begin to trail your tongue across his hard abs, cleaning up the evidence of how much he likes having you in his ass. You're keeping his secrets. Promising you'll never tell a soul.

“Shit,” he curses, all breathless and fucked out, one arm over his chest, while his other hand reaches down to stroke the side of your head. “Fuck.”

Giggling now, you clamber up to join him, and Jeongguk cares not for the fact your cum is still on your tongue. In fact, he deliberately stokes his against yours, swapping the evidence of his pleasure between you both. Moaning into your lips, he’s spent in a way he never has been before.

“God, I love you,” he whines into your mouth. Gets needy all over again. “You know that, huh? You know how much I love you?”

With a bashful nod, you find yourself giggling. “You know I know.”

“Good,” he nods, pulling away to face the ceiling, eyes closed, trying to get a little breath back. You snuggle into him, all rather sweetly considering what you’ve just done. “‘Cause I do. And I mean it. You’re literally, like, the love of my life.”

“Who knew all it would take was a little ass play to get your saying such soppy shit,” you tease him, pressing a kiss against his chest. “Should have done this months ago.”

He laughs now, too. “Just cause I didn’t say it back then doesn’t mean I didn’t think it.”

The pair of you descend into a comfortable warmth, giggling and joking, until you get up to wash yourself up a little. Jeongguk protests. Says he needs to return the favour—but ultimately agrees to wait until the morning.

“Need to sleep at some point, babe,” you tell him as you both meander to the bathroom. Jeongguk makes a mental note to get a place with an en-suite when he moves out. In a pair of boxers, he watches you fondly as you wash your hands in the bathroom sink, all love drunk and bleary-eyed.

You’re in one of his shirts, and it drapes over your body in a way that it would never drape over him. He likes it better on you. In fact, he likes most things in his life better with the addition of you. Thinks life would be impossible, if he were ever to lose you.

“I think I’d die, yanno,” he mindlessly says, watching you plait your hair to stop it from tangling in the night. “If we ever broke up or weren’t together, I’d think I’d just die.”

You laugh, because it’s absurd. Both the concept of dying of a broken heart, and the idea that you would ever break up.

“Don’t speak it into existence, then,” you tease. “It’s a full moon, Gguk. Can’t be manifesting things like that on a night like this.”

“I’m not,” he assures you, because if anything, he’s trying to do the opposite. Not once does he think to tell you that the full moon has nothing to do with it, or some other belittling remark about believing in the stars, like you know most guys would. Why would he though? A star is the closest thing he knows to religion, and he’s looking at it right now.

“Well, good,” you hum, turning to face him, hair now secure. “Let's just agree to not break up, and that way you won’t die.”

“Sounds good,” he sleepily smiles, tugging on your hand, guiding you back to his bedroom.

It’s a ridiculous conversation for a ridiculous concept.

Or at least, in the warmth of lust-drunk night, it is.

In the cold light of day, stark and sterile, everything has the potential to change.

After all, bad decisions are your forte, are they not?

#byholly #jungkook fanfic #jungkook fanfiction #jungkook smut #jungkook ff #jk ff #jungkook x reader #jungkook imagine #bangtan fic #jungkook fluff #non idol au #bts fanfic #bangtan ff #jungkook fic #jeon jungkook x reader #bad decisions #dappleddaisies

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onlyswan · 1 year ago

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dreamboat | jjk (1)

summary: aboard the dreamboat, jungkook finds himself drawn to a beautiful stranger who appears to be drowning in melancholy. weeks later, he sees her face on the other side of the aquarium at his apartment building’s lobby. he soon learns that it’s not fate’s grand romantic plans that brought you back to his life. / (alt.) / a shipwreck and a dreamboat form an unusual bond in an aquarium.

non!idoljk x f!reader (jk is a business major who works at the amusement park ; oc works at the call center) / strangers to lovers / fluff, angst, suggestive / chapter wc: 14.9k / total fic wc: 30.8k

warnings/content (for full fic): is it an onlyswan fic if nobody cries? ; smoking ; making out ; mention of nude art ; mention of flashing ; panic attack ; a ghost cameo lol ; s*x scandal ; abuse of authority ; harrassment ; jk throws a punch once ; oc drives a motorbike without a helmet once ; vminjin + yeontan cameos :3 ; tae and jk are the same age tho

-> part two (wc: 15.9k) | spotify playlist (open to song recs <3)

note: my not so little summer project <3 i thought i wouldn’t have the opportunity to dedicate this much time to writing again in the near future so here we are! finishing this story alone felt fulfilling but even more so that i get to share it with you. pls treat it with gentle care 🫂 reblogs and feedback r very much appreciated i love talking to you guys🥺 special thanks to my lovely rio for proofreading and being the sweetest friend :") ilyily

࿐ for those who yearn <3

—

“wait! wait for me! don’t close it yet!”

jungkook’s whole life has led up to this moment.

from running away from his neighbor’s large snobby dogs during childhood— to participating in run for charity marathons mostly, only mostly, to appease his ex-girlfriend by being interested in her interests.

he successfully escaped from his uneventful class today by faking dizziness. half an hour later, he is racing towards one of the few places in this city where he feels something.

his best friend’s face is still blurry given the distance, but jungkook doesn’t need to clearly see taehyung’s face to know that he is looking at him unimpressed.

“why are you here? do you even have a ticket?!” taehyung interrogates him once he reaches the gate.

“do i have a ticket? really?” jungkook smirks, tossing his backpack to the ground.

he crosses over to the other side, and with ease, sneaks his hand in between the bars to push the lock into place.

“what do you think i work here for?”

taehyung sighs and mumbles to himself. “fine, my bad. thought we worked to pay for our bills.”

he picks up the backpack and swings it over his shoulder, heading to the control booth. on the other hand, jungkook climbs on the ship the amusement park owner lovingly named the dreamboat. he places his grip on one of the many vines curiously large butterflies are attached to, fully ignoring the existence of the steps. he hoists himself up onto the wooden floor with ease.

unhappy faces with blank stares.

he smiles at them cheerfully.

“i apologize for the hold-up. i’m your captain!”

“jungkook! sit!”

“wouldn’t he be the captain?” a high school boy at the very front quips, eyes pointing downwards at taehyung.

“eh, more like the wind behind our sails.” he ruffles the boy’s head in passing as he trudges over to his desired seat.

“what?”

his spot, a more suitable better term. the farthest row which most first timers do not dare to sit at; the part of the ship closest to the sky when it swings back and forth, higher and higher, until it feels like he’s going to fall off— but he doesn’t. for short bursts of moments, he’s flying.

the passengers are erupting in ear-splitting screams, curses, and laughter. the wide smile plastered on his face could probably be described as sadistic as he observes their reactions. most would find this ride as a nauseating, life-threatening ordeal and its name ridiculously ironic. however, to jungkook, this is what it means to be alive.

he imagined he would be alone here again today.

but as he is brought higher into the air, he discovers one person strapped to the last row of the other side of the ship.

the earth begins to move in slow motion.

they have their face buried in their palms, body shaking with what he can only guess is intense sobbing.

gone is the smile on his face.

jungkook has witnessed a few criers, sure, but not to this degree. a wave of sadness washes over him. he feels guilty and he doesn’t know why. why the hell would he be? he doesn’t even know who you are.

are you that scared? if you’re scared, why would you volunteer to go here alone? if not, then why is your heart breaking?

for a few seconds, the noises cease and his focus on you becomes amplified.

and why is his breaking too?

your sobs and gasps for air are once more drowned out by the fear and adrenaline of the majority. nevertheless, the ache they caused in his chest stays.

what could it be? the reason you’re crying like this at an amusement park? wouldn’t it be because you got stood up by your date?

lost in thought, he’s been unblinking. the wind blows as the speed of the boat picks up and he groans when dirt gets into his eye. he harshly rubs and rubs and he stops to check if it’s gone… he knows it’s gone because now he can see clearly— one of the most beautiful people he has laid his eyes upon.

the wind blows into your hair and it finally grants him a good view of your face. red, swollen eyes and mascara running. you wipe your tears away, distant eyes falling on your lap, and you take a sharp inhale. you’re a tragedy and so gorgeous still that the aching of his heart doubles due to its intensified pounding.

there’s no way… he debunks his theory. there’s no way a man could ever waste the opportunity of going on a date with you. only a fool.

slow motion comes to a full stop.

shit, shit, shit.

why can’t he look away?

you’ve made eye-contact and you’re not breaking it.

he nervously swallows the lump in his throat.

“huh?”

the ringing of the bell snaps him out of… whatever that experience was. he looks around and it is revealed to him that the ship has returned to its neutral position. passengers are already hopping off, including you.

wait, including you…

when did you get a cap?!

“fuck!” he curses, kicking his feet in annoyance.

he then proceeds to break the promise he swore to himself: never run after a girl again.

“yah, jungkook! where are you going?! you need to clock in!”

taehyung releases yet another sigh as he loses his best friend among the crowd. nearly at the same time, he hears a thud that originates from the control booth. he blankly stares at the backpack that mysteriously fell off the chair.

“does he have snacks in here at least?”

—

blue tube top and black baseball cap worn backwards. blue top and black cap. blue top and black cap. jungkook chants in his head like a maniac as he navigates the grounds, trying his best not to lose sight of your back. sweat has started to form as beads on his forehead. he squeezes one eye shut, wary of the sting, before wiping them away with the back of his hand.

he ran with all his might, but now that you’re almost within reach, he’s suddenly nervous.

“miss- miss! you dropped this!”

you turn around abruptly so his fingers end up only grazing your arm. the first thing he notices is your knitted eyebrows. he doesn’t know whether it mostly indicates annoyance or confusion.

you merely glance at the handkerchief on his open palm. “it’s not mine.”

you walk away from him and you are a magnet he is curiously drawn to.

he stands in front of you, sweaty and stuttering like a student introducing himself to a class for the very first time.

“but are you okay? i-i couldn’t help but to notice that you were cry- uh, uhm… you-you seem to have troubles.”

he clears his throat, turning his cheek for a second as to avoid melting under your intense gaze. he marvels at your beauty but he can’t pull himself together to admire it from a close distance.

“sorry, i don’t mean to pry. i’m just concerned.”

seconds pass and he doesn’t receive any sort of answer. no affirmative nod; not even a roll of the eyes. you stare at his face blankly as your feet become rooted into the ground. strands of your hair dance with gusts of the wind. it could be a haunting sight. your glossy eyes are reminiscent of deep, turbulent waters. there was a twinge of doubt on the accuracy of his words before, however, it now seems to ring true.

could it really be because of a boy?

a bicycle enters his line of vision.

a little too close not to cause an accident.

“move!” he yells out the warning, but he still takes matters into his own hands by pushing you over to the side and using his own body as a shield.

the bicycle speeds past and the rider screams something unintelligible.

jungkook’s nostrils flare. “kid, that’s not allowed in here! where did you come from?!”

the security guard running after the rule-breaker moves past him, but not before hitting his back with the baton.

“jungkook! why didn’t you stop him?!”

“yah! what was that for?!”

he scoffs, glaring towards the direction of the intruder and his co-staff, who has an entirely different job from him. why didn’t he stop him?!

while he was distracted by the commotion, he was also unaware that you managed to swipe the handkerchief loosely hanging from his grip around your arm.

his angry expression softens.

you wipe away your tears that are freely flowing against your will. earlier, you were sobbing. right now, your face is devoid of any expression. he can’t decide which is more heartbreaking.

“are you okay?” he carries on to ask again despite the both of you knowing the answer, but he just doesn’t know what else to do.

“i’m okay,” you say. “thanks for finding my handkerchief… and for saving me from the- the, yeah…”

you’re about to walk out of his life until his mouth blurts out- “wait! take this!”

he wishes the ground would swallow him whole. you blink at the small packet of sour gummies on his open palm and he wishes the ground would swallow him whole.

even he thinks this is ridiculous. he had a handkerchief in the left pocket of his jacket and now it’s yours. he had gummy worms in the right and for some reason he also wants you to have it.

“why?”

he has the same question.

“just because…”

no, that won’t do it.

“maybe it could make you feel better.”

oh my god.

“if you decide to ride the spinning top… it helps when you’re nauseated.”

still with the unreadable expression, you probe no further and accept his edible remedy.

“thank you.” you politely bow before taking your leave.

he doesn’t run after you this time. after all, his pockets are empty.

meeting you— this is probably the first and last time.

he exhales through his mouth. disappointed. he turns around and tries to look for you again.

blue top and black cap…

there you are.

leaving-

wait.

the spark of hope quickly fizzles out. you pull your hand out of your pocket, tossing something into one of the trash bins. he’s too far away to identify the item, but it couldn’t be… right?

he huffs in sheer disbelief.

“huh, she’s pretty and rude.”

—

if he’s being honest, jungkook doesn’t like this job much. graphic design is there, and it’s been a pretty sweet gig especially when he’s desperate for extra cash. anyway, taehyung got this job first, which took away time from their regular hangouts, so he would often visit his best friend during his free periods at the university. long story short, one of the managers scolded them both for playing around throughout taehyung’s shift, and as a punishment, she employed jungkook.

she is the reason why he is spending his sunday morning putting on strangers’ seatbelts and lap bars so they won’t fall off the rollercoaster and die. he was trained to double-check everything, but he is a bit more paranoid about lawsuits than the management, so despite the extra waiting time some passengers aren’t happy about, he makes that triple.

as fast as he can, while maintaining meticulousness, he does his final round of checking. so far, everyone is safely strapped to their seats. until he reaches the last row and finds the only person there with their lap bar unlocked. how did he miss that?

“ma’am, your lap bar isn’t secured. do you mind if i-”

the woman shakes her head without a word. as he gets to work, his eyes can’t help but to stray. most of her face is hidden by a face mask and sunglasses. it’s kind of funny because it’s actually been a gloomy day.

“ah, there you go. safe and sound!”

“thanks,”

he flashes her a bright smile. the last and apparently most important employee rule.

“you’re welcome!”

—

“why aren’t you eating?” taehyung asks with a mouthful of corndog.

jungkook lifts his head up from the table, sends him a glare, then drops it again. he didn’t get much sleep last night studying for their upcoming tests. he’d much rather spend his whole lunch break with his eyes closed. he’d go as far as saying that moving his jaw to chew food sounds like exerting too much energy and he couldn’t be bothered.

“change shifts with me. i fucking hate sundays.”

“depends…” taehyung pretends to be in deep thought. “will you buy me a meal everyday until our shifts rotate again?”

“do you want to die?”

“no, but it looks like you will before me.”

jungkook yawns, sleepy tears flowing down his temple. “you might be right…”

“were you up all night thinking of that girl?”

“huh? no.”

“you’re lying.”

“shut up,” he groans, adjusting himself into a more comfortable position.

so a beautiful stranger has been plaguing his mind. big deal! happens to the best of us.

taehyung cackles at his demise, thoroughly amused. “why? didn’t she throw away your gift?”

“it wasn’t a gift.” he argues. “and i know, she’s exactly my type.”

“bro, you’re fucking hopeless.”

“i know that too,” he calmly replies. “i kind of miss her.”

“at least it’s not your ex anymore, i guess.” taehyung mutters before obnoxiously sipping on his strawberry lemonade. “want to sneak into the security camera room? i’m curious. i want to see her.”

“can’t you just let me sleep?!”

“wow, you’re so grumpy today.”

took him long enough to deduce.

“then should we go after your nap?”

“i need to work!” jungkook snaps. he straightens his back, rubbing his face in frustration. “go- go do whatever you want!”

taehyung’s chewing slows down, appearing almost scared at his best friend’s outburst, but everything is a game with the two of them. “but i don’t know what she looks like.”

jungkook sighs, squeezing his eyes shut.

“okay, fine!”

in a state of exaggerated panic, taehyung gathers his things in one clean sweep, cradling them in his arms.

“i’m leaving!” he dashes out of the break room as if he’s running for his life.

jungkook huffs out a laugh at the comedic scene. as soon as his smile drops, so does his head.

—

it’s past midnight, which means it’s already friday. jungkook has been glued to the computer for the past three hours, working on a brochure he was commissioned to make. this task would go along smoothly if only his client didn’t have such a long list of demands, but alas, he is desperate for a good review after his past client’s four paragraph-long criticism. a boomer’s opinions hardly matter to him, but he knows how a single bad review alone can negatively affect reputation.

one thing’s for sure, everyone’s making it hard for him to fucking quit energy drinks.

he tosses the empty can into the trash bin beside his desk. away with his anti-radiation glasses, too. it lands in an awkward position over his keyboard. he couldn’t care less. everything hurts.

he keeps his eyes closed as he stretches his fingers, neck, and back with strained moans and grunts. the sweet relief causes him to slump lazily on his chair. at that moment, an internal battle starts. should he do the responsible thing and continue working? or should he just say fuck it and go to bed?

“no but seriously! why would she throw them away?!”

completely unrelated.

a thousand miles away from the topic at hand.

“jungkook!” taehyung growls from the bed, furiously pressing at the buttons of the controller. “it’s been two weeks! when are you going to move on?”

jungkook spins the chair to face him with a deadpan expression. the ps5 hogger is too focused on the television screen to even notice.

“you wouldn’t expect it but those aren’t cheap.”

“then maybe you shouldn’t have given it away to a stranger.” taehyung shrugs. “but that’s just me.”

“that was out of my control.” jungkook defends. “you should’ve seen her.”

“well, you wouldn’t let me.” taehyung mumbles, but he obviously wanted him to hear. “no thanks. crying at the amusement park? she’s got to have some real issues.”

“so what? we all got issues.”

“not me,” he sends jungkook a smirk. “if i don’t acknowledge them, they’re not there.”

“and that, my friend…” jungkook has decided to retire from his work area tonight. he pats taehyung’s shoulder as a display of faux sympathy. “is your biggest issue.”

wearing a childish grin, he grabs the other controller from the floor.

“now, shall we rank up?”

—

it’s been a few days since summer vacation started. he normally comes home to busan during the school breaks for a temporary taste of childhood bliss. he spends the entire day watching television, eating home-cooked meals, and not thinking about requirements at all.

too bad his vacation is suspended due to his adult responsibilities.

at least that’s the excuse he used.

his family has been staying with relatives for the past month because their home is currently under renovation. and well, jungkook’s dorm is suffocating enough on his own. staying under one roof with nine other people? hard. pass.

he may or may not be regretting that decision now, however. all of a sudden, coming home from work with a bag full of ramyeon and beer feels too depressing. even more so that he has no one to share them with. all of his friends have gone home. taehyung, too. he found someone who could temporarily fill in his place and did not think twice about leaving jungkook behind. he can’t blame him.

jungkook enters the apartment building. as always, quiet and dim. he gets that the owner is trying to save money, but isn’t it a bit too early to start turning off the lights? he rolls his eyes despite the lack of a witness.

they are very lucky that he has grown somewhat fond of this place.

jungkook allows himself to be roped in by the only source of warm light in the lobby. he finds himself incredibly silly for being entertained by goldfishes swimming around in an aquarium, but after a hectic day, this is where his brain cools down.

“hello everyone,” he coos at them.

do fishes even react to baby talk? he wouldn’t know. the only pet that lasted him years and is still alive is their family dog, gureum.

“how was your day? i hope it was better than mine.”

—

on the other side of the aquarium stands you, watching a boy talk to the fishes while he is blissfully unaware of your presence. an endeared smile graces your face unbeknownst to you.

eventually, there arrives a moment when most of the fishes favor a certain side and they clear out before his eyes.

that is when he finally notices you.

your heart begins to race, but he appears to be more shocked than you are. you stand up straight nearly at the same time.

despite the dark, they’re impossible to miss. his breathtaking eyes— which were filled with pure wonder and adoration only seconds ago— growing in size as soon as they saw yours.

“i know you…”

a bucket of ice cold water is dumped over your head.

“the girl who cried at the dreamboat!”

and while you do not appreciate the rather ungentlemanly pointing of finger, you’re glad to be able to breathe out a sigh of relief.

well, and there’s also the crippling shame.

you didn’t want your first impression on anyone to be the most pitiful version of yourself.

it’s been over a month for fuck’s sake. how does he remember your face so well?

“wow,” he gapes. “you changed your hair.”

you touch your hair, feeling a little conscious.

is that a good thing or a bad thing?

it’s your first time changing your hair color; plus, the last time you had bangs was in middle school. it’s been weeks since you had the big transformation, but you’re not quite sure how you feel about it yet.

“yeah, light pink…”

“it suits you well.”

“thanks,” is all you manage to respond with.

a gust of awkward silence passes by. there’s the instinct to run away— knocking at your brain, pulling at your limbs. but you can’t think of an excuse. your feet won’t move… eventually you stop minding that. the goldfishes are too beautiful to look away from. they work as the perfect distraction from the other soul standing across.

“so, um- i’ve never seen you around here.”

“i moved in today.”

“oh, i see… that makes sense.”

you hum to fill the quietness that follows, thinking of what else you could say, but he beats you to it.

“i live at the 13th floor.“

what did he say? do you live on the same floor? that’s impossible.

“how about you?”

“hm, 10!”

you blurt out the first number that pops into your mind. you quickly pretend like you’re not freaking out inside by shifting the topic.

“do they-” you gesture to the aquarium. “do they have names?”

“names?”

the random question seems to catch him off guard.

“none that i’m aware of.” he shakes his head. “i don’t think so- no.”

“oh…” your shoulders sag in disappointment. “that’s sad.”

but then again, you should’ve lowered your expectations and reminded yourself where you are. they were not bought as pets. they were bought for display.

—

the last time jungkook saw you was over a month ago. maybe your face is a tad different because you’re not crying. the new color of your hair compliments you in a way unlike before’s yet just as beautiful. the bangs make much of the difference too. he doesn’t know how old you are, but you look younger somehow. from his point-of-view, he could say that much has changed. but not the melancholia.

he watches you gaze into the aquarium in fascination; the lights reflect on your eyes as little twinkling stars. you’re not crying, but why can he still feel your sadness?

he once told taehyung that if you meet again, he’d give you hell for throwing his sour gummies away.

funny enough, that plan went out the window the second he laid his eyes on you again.

“do you want to feed them?” he offers.

“i already did.”

“you did?”

“i did,” you look up at him innocently, nodding. “i asked the guard.”

“aish, he didn’t tell me.” he throws his arms up with a groan. “i almost overfed them.”

you perk up with interest. “do you always feed them?”

“when i come home from work.”

“that’s nice…”

the soft smile you give him makes his heart skip a beat, but he doesn’t know it yet.

“sorry, um-” you begin smoothing out your clothes, also tucking your hair behind your ears. “i need to get to work. it was nice meeting you.”

“work?” he exclaims. “at this time?”

“graveyard shift,” you simply answer.

pictures of the dark alleyways immediately flash in his mind.

“but it’s dangerous to be roaming around here at this time.”

his radar doesn’t detect crimes being reported around the neighborhood, but with the majority of the building’s occupants being young adults, the streets are often littered with drunkards who have many things to be angry about.

“oh, i don’t walk. i’ve got a bike.”

he hasn’t known you long, but this is the most enthusiastic he has seen you. your face lit up as soon as you mentioned your mode of transportation.

however, he is a tiny bit confused.

it shows on his face, apparently.

“the motor kind,” you clarify.

“ah, the motor kind-” he claps once as soon as the realization dawns on him. he chuckles to himself. “of course!”

it was important for you to clarify, jungkook concludes from your tone. the fact that you own a bike is sexy, but you look adorable right now and it is so amusing to him.

“anyway, i need to go. it was nice to meet you!”

your heels click against the floor as you head towards the same door he walked in from.

“see you around!” he yells, still wearing a wide grin.

he remains standing there even though you’re already gone from sight.

hit with a useless yet concerning epiphany, he blinks.

“she rides the motorbike wearing heels?”

—

jungkook’s misery has been pushed to the back of his mind, replaced by an overwhelming giddiness that causes him to drop everything on the floor and jump on his bed. he buries his head into the pillow, but it does nothing to erase the happy grin that’s threatening to make his cheeks sore.

what a small world, huh?

what is this if not fate?

he flips over and stares at the ceiling as if it’s the starry night sky.

this might just become the best summer of his life.

—

jungkook comes out fresh from the shower clad only in a pair of black boxer shorts. he hangs the towel he was drying his hair with over his nape, heading to the kitchen to prepare his dinner. he rips the lid of the cup ramyeon halfway, and as he pours hot water into it from the electric kettle, your face appears on his mind again.

wait, there’s something wrong…

he tilts his head to the side, eyebrows knitting together as he tries to figure out what it is he forgot.

“ah, i’m so stupid!”

he totally forgot to ask your name!

“shit!” he shouts in higher volume when he realizes that the water has overflowed and is now dripping to the floor.

he puts the kettle down, taking a few steps back from the mess he made. praise heavens the water wasn’t hot enough for his toes to suffer anything more than a first-degree burn.

he starts to look around for anything he can wipe the floor with, his tongue poking his inner cheek.

“still having a bad day.”

—

but a bad day isn’t enough to break down jungkook’s spirit. he knows there will always come a tomorrow, so he seizes that tomorrow and comes home from work as fast as he can. there’s a big chance that you leave for work around the same time, right?

so he sits down on the sofa facing the aquarium, and he waits.

his head turns to the elevator each time it dings.

he taps his foot on the floor.

he checks tomorrow’s weather forecast on the app. clear skies. no chance of rain. high humidity levels.

he goes through the magazines laid out on the coffee table. he learns five ways to get over heartbreak. according to the quiz, he has a sweet and passionate personality based on the flavor of his lip balm. he thinks it’s pretty accurate. strawberry, he strokes his non-existent beard. could never go wrong with it.

next thing he knows, the clock strikes twelve.

he can no longer control his excessive yawning but his stomach is just screaming for the pack of jjajangmyeon in his cupboard.

he presses the elevator button with a tight-lipped smile. he’s disappointed that he didn’t see you at all today, but he was raised to have a positive outlook in life. you live in the same building. you have to run into each other again one of these days.

—

what does jungkook hate more than normal sundays? sundays when he didn’t get enough sleep.

for some reason, he’s still tragically stuck with working on the worst day of the week despite his repeated objections. the only upside to this particular sunday is that he is assigned to the ferris wheel. in exchange for thrice the amount of his daily wage in discreet tips, what happens in some of those cabins are none of his business.

if he ends up getting reassigned, he would be pretty fucking pissed off.

he’s restless as the elevator descends to the ground floor. he’s munching on a protein bar, jogging in place as to warm up his body for a race to the bus stop.

he can’t be the one manning the bump cars. bump cars are the worst. those kids hit you on purpose, he swears.

the elevator dings and he runs.

until an eye-catching color forces him to pull the brakes. his sneakers squeak against the tiled floor.

your back may be facing him, but he can recognize you from that cotton candy hair even from a mile away. you’re right where he was hoping you’d be last night, conversing with one of the janitors. this really isn’t the best time for your paths to cross again, given the reasons he was just grouching about, but his feet refuse to move.

you go on your tiptoes to sprinkle fish feed into the aquarium. you’re so adorable in your pajamas; you’re almost drowning in the black and white checkered cloth. are those yours in the first place?

“everything you need to know is written here… how much- how often you should feed them depending on the seasons, depending on how big they’ve gotten… jungkook worked really hard in researching. impressive, don’t you think?”

“i see…” he is finally granted his wish to hear your soft voice. “but why don’t they have names?”

the janitor scratches his head at your question. “they look too alike to have names.”

“hello! i heard my name!” jungkook pops in without a warning, causing mister park to flinch and slap a hand over his chest in shock.

“jungkook! i’m 71 years old! you could’ve killed me!”

“oh, that’s right-” he gasps. “grandpa, i’m sorry!”

jungkook attacks him with a bear hug, playfully rocking their bodies back and forth hoping that would calm down his vulnerable heart. for a brief moment, he feels like a child again.

“this is jungkook.”

the introduction was already made for him. that’s one less thing he has to overthink.

“____ here wants to feed the fishes every morning from now on. i told her it’s perfectly alright with me.” the janitor laughs. “with my age, you know how forgetful i’ve become.”

“really?” he breaks away, surprised by what he just learned. “that’s so nice!”

“it’s nothing. i’m happy to do it.” you smile and make eye-contact with him, but you soon break it, opting to glance at the aquarium.

you must like fishes a lot. he only felt bad for them because the janitor on night shift doesn’t give a single fuck about them; that’s why he did all that research hoping it would help with committing to the responsibility, which jungkook ended up shouldering in the end anyway. but you… you’ve been here for what? two? three days?

“tell you what…” he brings out the pen he keeps in the side pocket of his backpack. “this- this is my phone number. if you need anything, or incase you need someone else to feed them, contact me!”

he scribbles down his phone number on the notepad grandpa was showing you before his rude interruption.

“by the way, my unit is 1311. you can also just-” he knocks on the thin air, clicking his tongue to mimic the sound. “knock on my door.”

jungkook’s watch beeps twice everyday, once at 8:50am and then at 11pm sharp. the sun is burning bright and his shift starts at 9am. yes, he is nervous infront of a girl who is drop-dead gorgeous, but he should also be very much nervous about the (unfair) deduction from his measly salary.

“okay, i need to run to work! goodbye!”

—

so, his name is jungkook…

you crane your head to watch him rush out of the building. the uncomfortable sound of his sneakers squeaking against the floor makes you grimace.

the page he wrote his number on is ripped off from the notepad and handed to you.

“he’s a good kid.”

you force yourself to smile, and it slowly fades as you tilt down your chin and stare at the string of numbers in blue ink.

long after the janitor has left to fulfill his long list of tasks, you remain standing by the aquarium.

“you do have someone taking good care of you.” you whisper to the clueless fishes, caressing the glass. a genuine smile appears when two of them swim towards you, beady eyes trying to make sense of the stranger loitering around their homey cage. “you can breathe well and you’re warm in the winter. that’s a relief.”

after feeding them, next on the agenda is to cook your own breakfast. you head for the elevator, tossing the crumpled up paper into the trash bin before pressing the arrow pointing towards north.

—

“hyung…”

“why?”

jungkook sighs. “can you text me?”

“text you what?” seokjin’s forehead creases in confusion.

“anything. i just need to make sure my phone still works.”

thursday has been a slow day at the amusement park despite the school vacation and no one has tried to win a teddy bear since the place opened. seokjin is more than happy to spend his free time playing games on his phone in his own little corner at the amusement park.

well, that was before jungkook got bored at the ping pong toss booth and decided to hang out at the other side of the wall.

he shrugs and texts his younger friend the word ‘anything’ just to get him off his back. he goes back to playing his game, not curious enough to interrogate him with additional questions.

jungkook’s text tone rings at max volume.

“it does work!” he yells in exasperation, flopping down at his seat. “why hasn’t she texted me?”

“you were whining about the same thing the other day.” seokjin muses as his car crosses the finish line. second place. “you fool, just text her first.”

“i don’t have her number.”

“what do you mean you don’t have her number?”

“i gave her mine.” jungkook says quietly. “we live in the same building and i told her to contact me if she needs anything.”

“then i guess it’s safe to say that she doesn’t need anything from you.”

“seriously, why can’t i have friends that are nice to me?!”

seokjin bursts out laughing, definitely not a stranger to jungkook and taehyung’s bickering at the break room.

“you did this one to yourself! jungkook, flirt better!”

“easier said than done,” jungkook pouts.

you make him nervous. his brain goes blank when you’re around. in addition to that, he doesn’t know what you’re going through and he’s scared that you’d end up pushing him away if he oversteps.

“i gave her candy when we first met and she threw them away.”

“oh, that’s right,” seokjin loads a new game, snorting. “taehyung told me about that.”

jungkook’s jaw drops. “is he backstabbing me?”

—

jungkook enters the break room with yet another item from the lost-and-found. it’s been over two weeks since he found this orange beanie on the ground. must’ve fallen from the rollercoaster, that’s his best guess.

since no one has claimed it— “finders keepers,” he grins as he stuffs it into his backpack.

“thief,” seokjin jokingly accuses him from the other side of the table. “that’s how you were raised?”

“says the one who took the sony headphones yesterday.”

“i won it fair and square!”

he’d argue with the older man again, but his phone vibrating has stolen his full attention. he is hit with disappointment at the same moment that he snatches it from the table. it’s his mom, again, asking him when he’s coming home.

“you need to stop doing that. it’s getting sad.”

he sighs, hugging his backpack to hide his pitiful face. “i am sad.”

—

his walks home from the bus stop have always been a period for reflection and pondering. the streets of seoul are scattered with his indecision, worries, and anger. since his mother has been asking him for months, should he just go home and endure their living situation? maybe it’s better to be annoyed with the presence of people instead of being blue with a lack thereof.

so much for being independent. he spent most of high school anticipating the day he gets to move out, now he wants nothing but to go home. he can’t help but to think that life is but a vicious cycle of wanting and losing.

too lost in thought, he fails to realize right away that he has entered his apartment building’s vicinity. it’s the smell of cigarette smoke that brings him back to reality. the alley is dark, but he can make out the silhouette of a figure crouched down on the ground. assuming that it’s one of the guards hiding to smoke, he soundlessly enters the confined space with mischief up his sleeve.

when he gets close enough, the first thing he sees is the tip of the cigarette still burning red as the smoker takes a puff.

a car with blinding headlights zooms past.

it becomes unmistakable then— the identity of the person ten feet away from him.

there’s no one around here with same hair color.

none that he knows of anyway.

he is motionless; clueless as to what he should do. he should probably turn his back and leave. pretend this never happened. he never saw anything.

he can’t even be hung up on the fact that you smoke. if he thinks back on his past experiences with dating, this would’ve been a turn-off, but he loses the ability to care. the smoke in his lungs is negligible when your wounded sobs are breaking his heart. it’s ridiculous that the urge to also cry is spreading fast in his system, but he had a long day and he feels really fucking shitty.

you were going to notice his presence eventually.

he doesn’t know what he was expecting.

you lift your head, and eye-contact is made. none of you chooses to speak a word.

you’re as beautiful as the day he first met you.

you stand on your feet and you step on the cigarette, on the emotional connection he swore you had, crushing it under the weight of your boot.

he blinks away the tears threatening to escape his eyes. he should say something; offer an apology for intruding on a vulnerable moment, but you walk past him before he could form the words, shoulder harshly bumping against him.

could have it been on purpose?

“____!” he says your name for the first time, for what sounds like a plea. he follows you home like a lost puppy. “i’m sorry, i-i wasn’t… i thought you were another person… are you okay?”

“what do you think?” you spit out. the delicate voice he knows isn’t there, gone harsh and hoarse.

“is there anything i can do?”

no response.

he tries again. “anything at all?”

“oh my god, can’t you take a hint? leave me alone!”

your sudden outburst sends him stumbling backwards, the sensation of your hands on his chest still lingering despite the distance that was forcefully created between the two of you.

“i don’t know you! stay away from me!”

your infuriated voice echoes throughout the lobby. he is shocked. dumbfounded. his eyes, out of focus, seek your face, and he finds you heaving with tearful eyes.

he makes an attempt to speak, something to defend himself with, but in the end, he still says, “i’m sorry.”

a woman walks out of the elevator, and you immediately enter without looking back. jungkook remains standing where he is, with strangers’ eyes on him as if he has committed a grave crime.

—

you slam the door shut, hand still covering your mouth shut despite no one being around to hear your cries. you don’t bother turning on the lights. your shoulder bag falls somewhere on the floor and you collapse on the bed, still in your jeans and your heels hanging off your feet.

nothing matters anymore.

you’re suffering the punishment of somebody else’s crime. you’ve been casted out, stripped away of your dreams and your dignity. your life is over and you’ve accepted that, but maybe you haven’t. all is unfair. you’re so fucking angry but you’re too tired to feel it. and you’re alone. so alone. no one is on your side and it’s not fair.

you try to scream out, anything to release your pent-up rage, but it doesn’t happen. apparently, that’s what happens when enough people tell you to bite your tongue raw.

they say we curl up into the fetal position as a natural response to stress and anxiety because it mimics the sense of security we had when we were in our mother’s womb. the way you see it, your body will always be yours and it is the only one that you need.

so you curl up and you put your arms around yourself. you pat your own back until your wrist falls limp from exhaustion, and you keep your eyes closed until you fall into a deep sleep.

you pray to god that you never wake up.

—

you fail to achieve peace even in your dreams. in what is supposedly an imaginary land, you were being chased by faceless agitators with torches and pitchforks. you were crying and screaming, running on bare and bloody feet, tripping on branches and the stones they were throwing.

you open your eyes to darkness.

just as you predicted; nobody listens.

you feel nothing anymore and you hope it stays that way. if you can’t escape it, then perhaps, you can be desensitized to its horrors.

you force yourself to sit up on the bed, spending an unknown length of time staring into the void.

the first coherent thought formed in your head… no, not a thought… a person.

your bare feet brave the cold floor. the switch of the desk lamp is flicked as you sit at your desk. you grab a pen to write something on the free space of your opened journal pages.

under those numbers, you note down the name of the owner in cursive.

—

after the shitshow that transpired earlier, sleep became impossible for jungkook.

he doesn’t quite understand how he feels about you. however, it’s currently clear that there’s a part of him that’s pissed off. you made yourself very clear. he should maintain distance from now on. that’s the sensible, respectable thing to do. at this point, attempts at initiating any form of relationship with you appear to be futile. you’re a stranger to him, as you emphasized. this shouldn’t be as complicated as it is in his head… but fuck, the memories of your tear-stained face is corrupting his ability to rationalize.

it’s 2:33am. he’s been playing the guitar infront of the camera for an hour and a half already. the comment section is flooded by sleep-deprived people like him, sending song requests and questions about his personal life.

yes, he’s about to be in third year college.

no, he doesn’t have a girlfriend.

no, he can’t mention where he lives… but sure, he can sing ‘beautiful’ by crush.

“what do you mean? i just finished playing it ten seconds ago!” he squints as he scrolls through the new wave of comments. “sorry, art commissions are still closed. i’m behind on my workload… no, i’m not sleepy! don’t send me to bed yet… knees by iu? i love that song. should i play that next?”

his phone vibrates with a new text message, nearly causing it to fall from the stack of books he set it up on.

“oh- what was tha- what do i do? wait, everyone. i need to check on something!”

the live is temporarily put on pause.

“who is this?”

his eyebrows knit in confusion when he is greeted by an unregistered phone number.

2:45am

hi, jungkook. this is ____. i wanted to apologize for my behavior at the lobby earlier. i understand you were only concerned. i’m so sorry. i’d love to buy you coffee some time to make it up to you, if that’s ok.

this is real, right? he’s awake. he’s not hallucinating. the text message indicates your name and it says that you’d love to buy him coffee some time.

a gasp leaves his mouth, his hand flying up to seal his lips.

you texted him. you finally texted him.

he was starting to get convinced that you also threw away his number, but you didn’t!

he weakly sets down the phone, brain still processing the message you sent. does this make sense?

“i shouldn’t reply right away… maybe in the morning…” he nods to affirm myself. “that’s right.”

he begins chuckling out of nowhere. soon enough, those chuckles become chortles. he must be going insane. he picks up the phone and reads the message again.

“she sounds pretty even in chat. how is that possible?” he spins on his chair, so carefree. “but honestly, is one coffee enough for what she did?”

he shakes his head with a click his tongue.

“i don’t think so…”

hold on…

it feels like he’s forgetting something…

“ah, the live!” he jumps on his seat in panic.

he swipes out of the text message to go back to the app where he abandoned his thousand viewers.

“sorry, i made money.” he mumbles to himself. “i should end it now.”

—

his mood has done a 180. his routine consists of feeding the fishes dinner, and then himself, but he decided to skip the second part earlier for reasons that he has forgotten by now.

his stomach growls at his selfish decision.

given the time, he considered food delivery, but the fee made him exit the app immediately. he hasn’t gone to the grocery store as of recent either. the fridge has been wasting electricity, but his pride won’t let him turn it off.

how did people live without convenience stores before? that is what jungkook marvels about as he crosses the long hallway to reach the elevator.

a door ahead opens, and he would ignore it if not for one of the two people who comes out from the other side of it.

there is a man in his late 20’s, and then there is… you.

you are the deer and jungkook is the blinding headlights.

—

the coffee you originally offered jungkook has turned into a full meal. when you arrived at the convenience store, he knew what he wanted right away. he grabbed the biggest cup of ramyeon and tteokbokki, an egg, sausage, and cheese. he refused to let you pay for them at first, but there was nothing left to do after you handed the cashier the money.

the action was done out of obligation rather than will, but seeing how much he’s enjoying the food, you’re a little less displeased with the circumstances.

“is that all you’re eating? we can share mine.”

“it’s okay. i’m not that hungry.”

with the money you had left, you were able to afford a roll of gimbap. maybe it’s not enough to make you full, but it’s enough to satiate your hunger. you slowly chew the food in your mouth, an effort to hide your smile as you discretely observe jungkook devour his rabokki.

“the man from earlier, is he your brother?”

your chewing is put on pause. “how did you know?”

“how? it’s easy!”

he cheekily points at his nose using his chopsticks.

“you have the exact same nose.”

“ugh,” you grimace. “i’m tired of hearing that.”

your list of similarities ends there. he’s the golden child and you’re the black sheep. if your parents find out that he comes to visit you and he sends you money, they’d only see you in worse light.

“i know,” jungkook scrunches his nose. “i have an older brother too.”

cute.

“so… why did you lie?”

he’s seriously asking you like this? so casually?

you awkwardly set down your food on the table and you take your time sipping at your coffee to buy yourself some time.

—

“i was embarrassed with what happened before… me crying at the boat and everything…”

you’re having a hard time looking at jungkook in the eye. sensing your discomfort, he wants to punch himself for being so careless with his tone. until moments before, he felt too offended to consider the fact that you never owed him an explanation.

“you don’t have to be. it’s okay.” he reassures you. “we all have bad days.”

it doesn’t work the way that he thought it would. when you start laughing, he is lost.

“did i say something funny?” he chuckles along nervously.

“that quote, ‘it’s just a bad day, not a bad life.’”

“yeah?”

“it’s the opposite for me. it’s not just a bad day; it’s a bad life.”

you speak with such endearing humor and it works like a charm in making the atmosphere lighter. he’d pass it off as a self-deprecating joke, but based on your few yet impactful encounters so far, he doesn’t think you’re stretching the truth far. if he’s being honest, if your first meeting happened differently, he’d assume that you’re living a perfectly comfortable life based on your appearance alone.

“even now, i’m too embarrassed to show my face to you. but we’re neighbors, so i’ll try to get over it.”

“tell you what, let’s start with a clean slate.” he eagerly makes a proposal. “you can erase all the embarrassing memories of you from my brain.”

“h-how do i do that?”

“flick my forehead!”

you blink, eyes darting around as you try to make sense of what he said. “i was expecting some sort of stupid hypnosis.”

“or that,” he switches up, slapping the table as if you just came up with something revolutionary.

why did he say flick his forehead anyway? he knows you gotta have an overwhelming amount of pent-up emotions. you could go deku on him and blow his head off.

“let’s do that!”

“no, i like it.” you almost interrupt him. “i’ll flick your forehead.”

but he did suggest it… and you act so gentle and sophisticated. he doubts that you would make it hurt.

“here i go!”

he gets his bangs out of the way. “okay!”

he squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself for impact. “please have mercy.”

son of a bitch. that hurt.

“ow!” he rubs the affected area, face twisting in pain. his eyes flicker to you in disbelief. “you didn’t hold back, huh?!”

you smile at him sweetly. “did it work?”

—

“you fed them, right?”

“of course i did. you?”

“yes, this morning.”

“okay, that’s good.”

you and jungkook sit in silence after that, eyes twinkling with wonder as they follow the stunning movements of the goldfishes.

deep inside, he’s feeling restless. you make him nervous, and he’s also nervous about you noticing that he’s nervous. it’s been a tireless cycle.

he sneaks a glance at you.

perhaps he’s overthinking again. it seems like you don’t even care that he’s less than an arm’s length from you.

he doesn’t know whether to be relieved or annoyed.

he sighs without a sound, comfortably leaning all of his weight on the couch.

“it’s called the dreamboat.”

“what is?”

the boat you cried in— can’t say that. you might flick his forehead again.

“at the amusement park.”

“oh…”

it falls silent.

jungkook is thankful when you have a follow-up question because he hasn’t thought of a new topic yet.

“i wonder why they called it that.”

“oh, because the owner’s daughter loves boats!” he shares one of the few fun facts he learned over the past year. “that’s why it was designed like it came from a fairy tale too.”

a mirthful smile forms on your face “my guess was too far off.”

“what was it?”

“mhmm,” you hum, folding your arms over your chest. “dreamboat is a word used to describe a handsome man, right?”

jungkook nods his head like he knew that all along. no, he didn’t.

“so i imagined the owner met their handsome partner on a boat- no, or a ship,” the epiphany hits you in the middle of your sentence. “they have to be rich since they built an amusement park.”

a romantic. you imagined a love story based on a word alone. jungkook’s teeth dig into his lower lip as he tries to tame his wide grin.

“that does sound like a good theory.” he casually bends over, resting his elbows over his spread thighs. “i think i like it better than the truth.”

“how did you know that though? the truth?”

he shrugs. “i work there.”

“you work there?” your voice goes up a pitch. “i didn’t know…”

“you? do you study or work?”

“call center,” you answer to get it over with. to his surprise, your body language shifts and you’re now facing him. “what’s it like working there? is it fun?”

apparently, a job at the amusement park is now joining his very short list of your interests: after motorbikes, smoking, and fishes.

“it has good days and bad days…” he trails off. he hasn’t truly given this much thought, so he’s also learning about himself. “but i didn’t expect it to be as fun as it is. sometimes it’s boring, but when it’s fun, it’s really fun.”

you scoot closer. “do you get to ride for free?”

ah, yes, the deciding factor when he was offered the job.

“there’s an employee discount, actually! but i do it for free anyway…” he shyly scratches his head. “don’t tell anyone i said that.”

“i don’t have anyone to tell.”

his heart skips a beat when he hears your laugh genuinely for the first time. quiet and delicate and airy— you grace this blue summer night like a spring breeze that takes away with it everything that burdens your mind and heart.

once again, the aquarium becomes the most interesting collection of atoms in the building. as for him, he is still unable to keep his eyes off you.

“did you have a pet fish growing up? you really like them a lot.”

“no,” you reply. “i didn’t care about them until now.”

“really?” his eyes grow wide. “wow, i seriously thought you were a marine life enthusiast, or something like that.”

you give him a look. “i thought you were a marine life enthusiast.”

“we were both wrong.” he shrugs. “but what made you care about them so much now?”

“i don’t know. i just thought of something when i was looking at them.”

he feels your hesitance to continue. your eyes connect briefly and he communicates that he’s listening with an open mind.

“they’re different from other pets, you know, like cats and dogs. they can’t make a sound when they’re in pain.”

in the dark room, he sees the melancholy seeping from the cracked edges of you. although you act relaxed, your spoken thoughts paint the picture of a person whose sensitivity and sympathy touch upon everything.

“there should at least be somebody who cares enough to check up on them and make sure that they’re alive and well.”

“…and you wanted to be that somebody for them.” he concludes with a hushed voice, more to himself than you.

“but it turns out they have you already.”

“it’s not just me now.”

he mirrors your soft smile. it’s nice to see your frown turned upside down for a change. what was weighing down on him has become lighter, and he hopes it’s the same for you.

“the sun is about to rise.” you announce after a peek at the grandfather clock. “we should go home.”

jungkook isn’t a big fan of comfortable silence, but he can get used to it. he maintains a respectable distance from you in the elevator, engaging himself with the ascending number of floors on the screen. when the door opens, you’re the first to step out and he follows suit.

your destination isn’t far. you pause in front of unit 1303.

“uhm, this is me.”

yup, the same door he saw you come out of.

“i’m not far, just at the end of the hall. 1311, if you ever need anything.”

your eyes trace the direction of where he’s pointing before you nod in understanding. with a hand gripping the door handle, you offer him one final smile.

“goodnight, jungkook.”

—

if others cheese over good morning texts first thing after opening their eyes, then jungkook’s case is one of a kind.

he rolls over to his side, puffy eyes from sleep forming thinner crescent moons as he zooms in on your reflection on the glass.

10:08am

[attached image]

they’re happy and fed :)

10:10am

[attached image]

babies are getting bigger

this is how his mornings have been going for the past two weeks. he wakes up and he checks his phone for fish breakfast updates from you. in return, he sends fish dinner updates to you at night. he was the first one to send you a picture following the night you awkwardly bumped into each other. he didn’t want to wait around anymore.

were his palms sweaty? did he throw his phone on the bed after?

no longer relevant.

he now knows that your favorite color is blue and you have wednesdays and fridays off for the next month. that’s pretty cool.

another thing he’s taken notice of is that you don’t use emojis or emoticons aside from the smiley face.

although, there was once a miracle.

he scrolls up until he reaches your conversation from four days ago.

11:59pm

LOL i’m actually allergic to seafood ㅜㅜ

😭😭😭

“ah, i’m annoyed!” he kicks his feet; half of the blanket falls to the floor. “she’s so cute!”

things are indeed going great, greater than he imagined, but if he has to complain, he wishes he could see you in person more. he’s at work when you’re home and vice versa, so you don’t cross paths despite living on the same apartment floor. that 3am encounter was a rare phenomenon, it turns out. he chanced upon you a few times while running to work and you were feeding the fishes breakfast, but those conversations were barely conversations.

‘i just thought of something when i was looking at them… they can’t make a sound when they’re in pain.’

he hasn’t stopped thinking about that.

—

“when are you asking her out on a date?”

taehyung is on a mission to tease him for life even from daegu. he’s only thankful that his best friend isn’t video calling him from the toilet again because he’s currently having his lunch.

“i don’t know.” he grouches. “it doesn’t feel like the right time. i don’t want to scare her off.”

“when’s that ‘right time’?”

“i’ll figure it out…” he sighs, setting down the half-eaten sandwich on the table. “how do i say it…? i feel like- hm, she’s no- she’s not in the best emotional state right now.”

“so you admit it,” taehyung raises an eyebrow, smirking. “she has issues.”

that didn’t sit right with jungkook at all. he feels obligated to defend your honor.

“hey, stop being rude. you haven’t even met her yet.”

“come on, bro! i’m only looking out for you.”

the atmosphere shifts into a more serious tone.

“i don’t want you to get hurt trying to fix another person again. it was hard to watch.”

he moved on and learned his lesson— he wants to spit out as a rebuttal, but his best friend gave him much to think about. would it make sense to say that he’s moved on but he hasn’t healed?

“i know,” is what he ends up saying absentmindedly, distracted by thoughts that he isn’t keen on sharing.

and as if he’s been slapped back into reality, he fixes his posture and picks up his sandwich. “so, what’s up? have you even slept yet?”

“no,” taehyung responds nonchalantly. between the two of them, he absolutely has the more fucked up sleeping schedule. “i’ve been awake since 12am.”

“didn’t you say you’d spend the entire vacation sleeping?”

“this vacation was a trap.”

the camera darts to the abandoned mop on the floor.

“my mom makes me do all the chores everyday. this is worse than my actual job!”

a devilish grin is drawn on jungkook’s face. ah, the grass is always greener on the other side.

—

“mondays stay to be a pain in the ass.”

does it look like he’s exhausted and dirty from chasing around children all day? jungkook is stressed as he checks himself out on his front camera. he’s walking home from the bus stop after clocking out of work.

the street is mostly quiet, until a roaring engine approaches and he cringes at the raucous sound assaulting his eardrums. he’s already at the sidewalk for his safety and in accordance with the law, but he feels compelled to stay further back and wait for the vehicle to pass by.

seconds later, a black harley races past.

jungkook is dumbfounded as he tries to piece the puzzle together.

the lights are bright, and your pink hair blowing with the wind is even brighter.

“w-was that…?”

—

he was going to bring it up over text last night, but he decided to reserve it for physical conversation because he wants to see your face light up again.

you’re so fucking cool.

he’s both amazed and envious.

also, he’s pretty damn sure that you’re rich. he doesn’t understand why you’re living in this place and enduring the graveyard shift at the call center.

a foolish smile is permanently plastered on his face as he sketches a commissioned digital portrait. he really should focus, or else he might end up drawing you instead of his client.

he spins on his chair, pushing the wheels towards the bed, where he comfortably extends his feet over. almost missed it. the power has been out for an hour and he doesn’t expect it to come back until dawn. he was pissed about this being a normal occurrence during the first year of his stay here, but he’s gotten quite used to it. invested in a powerbank that almost looks like it can charge a car’s battery and he’s all set.

the aggressive pounding at the door drowns out the pop ballad he’s listening to.

“what? who could it be at this hour?”

he pauses the song, turning up the brightness of his ipad to use it as a makeshift flashlight.

the last person he expected to appear at his door says the last thing he expected them to say.

“jungkook, i think there’s a ghost in my apartment.”

—

jungkook sets down a hot cup of tea infront of you. in his mind, he thanks himself for keeping everything his mom sends him, even the things he do not like.

“thanks,” you mumble, picking it up by the handle.

he patiently sits on the other side of the table for two, giving you the time to calm yourself down from the horror that you witnessed. he has his emergency light propped up on the kitchen counter. he was saving it for when he finds himself in a grave situation, like a total blackout or an apocalypse. he didn’t imagine he’d end up using it for an unusual night like this.

“are you feeling better?” he asks worriedly.

you nod. “yeah, i just don’t want to be alone right now.”

“i’m here. you can stay until whenever you want.”

“thank you.”

you sigh with your eyes closed. you look like life has been drained out of you.

“i’m really scared, jungkook.”

“are you sure about what you saw? i mean, it’s dark. your mind could’ve been playing tricks on you.”

“i saw him. i really him saw him!” you frantically defend yourself. “i was washing my hands then i turned around and i saw him, sitting at the edge of my bed! he looked at me!”

his heart drops to his stomach when your chin begins to wobble and he sees your eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“and his skin was burnt off, jungkook.” you enunciate the words to emphasize the severity of what you experienced. “it’s so horrifying, i had to run.”

“hey hey hey- it’s okay. i believe you.” he squeezes your cold, trembling hands. “you’re safe now. it’s only us here. no spirits- i promise.”

he’s losing his mind a little bit. he’s holding the hands of the girl he likes and her pinky is wrapped around his. you’ve been putting him through a rollercoaster that, for once, he is terrified of. he wants to bask in this moment… but the specific detail you revealed is bothering him.

“and you said… he was burnt?”

“yeah, why?”

he presses his lips in a thin line, shaking his head. “no, it’s nothing.”

“there’s something.” you stop crying. “i see it on your face.”

“i swear, it's nothing!”

“you’re lying!” you accuse him. “what is it?”

“forget it, ____.”

“jungkook,” you say his name sternly. “tell me.”

shit, he’s done for. you can’t do this to him when he’s trying to protect you.

he swallows nervously. “but i don’t want to scare you.”

“i saw a ghost. what else can scare me?”

“the truth is…” he pauses, still weighed down by hesitance. but he realizes he has reached the point of no return. also, you’re squeezing his hands a little too tight. “this building had to be restored. it burned down a decade ago. people suspect there was foul play, but the firemen said it was faulty wiring.”

he’s the one telling the story, but he also feels chills run down his spine.

“oh… so you’re saying…”

“i… believe so?” he winces with a mix of guilt and fear. “but it’s the first time i’m hearing of a ghost story here. i haven’t had any encounter either.”

“i need to move.” you declare, not an ounce of humor in your voice.

“don’t!” he protests.

perhaps a little too passionately. could he be any more obvious?

“what do you mean? you need to leave too!”

“i can’t,” he fakes a pained expression. “who’s going to take care of the fishes?”

that works like a charm.

you untangle your hands and lean against the chair, transforming into a pensive state.

if he wasn’t going to convince you to stay, the fishes would.

“fuck,” you curse in a low whisper, sipping on your tea.

—

“i’m not the spoiled brat you think i am.” you frown, dangling your feet from the bed. “i sleep on the floor too.”

“i’d be rude if i let you do that.” jungkook insists as he fluffs his pillow. “i’m comfortable right here. i’m used to it.”

he was relieved that you weren’t stubborn enough to go back to your place and force yourself to sleep there. after seeing how terrified you were, it would’ve been impossible for him to close his eyes and shut down his brain from worrying. he hasn’t seen a ghost, but they have to be real. he likes to believe that we do not cease to exist and we have some place to go when we die. however, that does co-exist with being alarmed by a ghost of a burnt body sitting on your bed. he isn’t going to let you go back in there tonight. no way.

“you should get some rest. just tell me if you need anything, okay?”

“thank you, jungkook.”

“it’s no problem!”

his name sounds so sweet when it comes from your lips. he can’t help but to feel giddy every time he hears it.

you lie down on the bed, facing the portable fan strategically set up on jungkook’s gaming chair. on the other hand, the emergency light is at the nightstand, acting as a night lamp.

he checks the time on his ipad: 1:48am. his battery percentage: 55%. he’s not yet sleepy, so he decides to continue working until he gets the low battery warning for 20%.

sitting down without back support becomes too uncomfortable after a while, especially when drawing. he doesn’t realize it when he changes positions, too focused on drawing the intricate floral patterns on the client’s blouse.

“is that your girlfriend?”

jungkook turns his head towards the voice and your face is only inches away from his. the word stops for a moment.

“is she okay with me sleeping here?”

he scoots a little further away to grant his racing heart some mercy. “u-uhmm, no.”

“no…?” you repeat slowly, sounding concerned.

“no, as in she’s not my girlfriend!” he further elaborates in distress. “i don’t have a girlfriend.”

“okay, cool. you scared me.” you huff out a chuckle. “i don’t like being the girl who causes problems.”

“no, you’re safe.” he manages to also laugh. “no one’s coming to pull your hair.”

“then who is she?” you point at the screen with your pouted lips, particularly the reference photo that’s been burnt to his memory.

“a client. people pay me to draw them.”

“oh, so she’s one of your french girls?” you crack a humorous remark.

the reference catches him off guard, even though he should’ve totally seen it coming.

he squints. “mhmmm, i guess? kind of like that… except they’re not, you know, naked.”

“i see,” you hum in interest. “you don’t like doing nude drawings?”

“honestly? i don’t know. i’ve never done it before.”

“no one’s asked you?”

he shakes his head. “no one,”

“would you do mine if i ask you to?”

he secretly pinches his thigh to prove that he’s not dreaming.

what the fuck?

did he hear you right?

it sounded like such a genuine and casual question in the name of art, but the worst thing he could do while his crush is sleeping over is to imagine her naked. he feels the warmth spread across his cheeks, possibly reaching his ears.

“hey, breathe!” you giggle with a push of his shoulder. “you don’t have to answer that. sorry if it made you uncomfortable.”

“sorry, i was just surprised.”

he forces himself to laugh and act like the question isn’t putting him through a crisis in so many levels.

“i’ll let you finish your work.” you smile at him, pulling up the blanket.

please do and stop shaking up my heart.

“goodnight.”

“goodnight, ____.”

—

jungkook is still flustered by the conversation. since you opened up the topic, he did give it some serious thought. he thinks he wouldn’t mind if someone asked him to do it. he makes all of his negotiations and transactions online so everyone so far have been a stranger. as for the people he personally know, unless it’s his significant other, wouldn’t it be awkward?

anyway, the chances of it happening are low. stressing over it is pointless.

he needs to finish this commission and move on to the next, or else he’d be encumbered by the pile of deadlines. he’s making the most out of this vacation so he can save more money and work won’t have to interfere so often with his studies.

sometimes he doesn’t understand why he works so hard either. his family isn’t struggling financially. in fact, he’s studying to take over their businesses. his parents have been nothing but kind and supportive, but he is never compelled to ask them for money. he feels this strong and all-consuming need to prove himself as capable and independent. nothing compares to the gratification of buying his wants and needs with the money he sacrificed his blood, sweat, and tears for. he can’t stop himself.

“i can’t sleep…” a quiet murmur reaches his ears. “may i watch you draw?”

oh, he thought you’ve fallen asleep twenty minutes ago.

“of course,”

he is more than happy to move closer to give you a good view of his progress.

if there’s one thing he isn’t ashamed to boast about— it’s this.

it’s silent except for your breathing and the taps of his pen on the screen. he’s a tad self-conscious with the presence of engrossed eyes, but he would describe the atmosphere as peaceful.

“you’re such a great artist.” you whisper in awe.

jungkook can’t recall the last time he felt this simple yet profound type of joy.

—

true to your words, you did move as morning came.

jungkook wakes up to an empty bed and a commotion outside.

“____?”

he knocks on the bathroom door, not expecting it to swing open from the action. he takes his chances and peeks inside with another call of your name, but you’re still nowhere to be seen.

did you really leave without saying goodbye?

he sighs in disappointment. he was planning on buying you breakfast, too. he knew it. he should’ve made the invitation last night.

a series of loud thumps prompts him to scratch his head in irritation. he’s tired and sleep-deprived and he didn’t see his crush’s face first thing in the morning. the day has barely started and it’s already a bad one.

he opens the door with a considerable force, mouth running before his eyes could perceive his surroundings.

“could you guys turn it down? people are still slee-”

“jungkook! you’re awake.”

you jog over to him with a more cheery expression than last night’s. there’s no windows but the sun is shining over his face.

“sorry about the noise. i’m moving to a new unit.”

he can see that, but his brain remains in a muddled state. how did you make the arrangements overnight? he gapes at the men hauling your things to your new apartment.

“1309?” he exclaims.

“yeah,” you shyly reply. “it’s the only vacant one left.”

almost but not quite. does he have the right to complain? you’d be one door away.

he’s fucking ecstatic.

if he just sets aside the fact that it took a ghastly ghost encounter for the stars to align.

the wrinkles on his forehead disappear and become crinkles by his eyes, accompanied by an excited beam.

“should we feed them together then grab breakfast after?”

—

time passes by too fast for jungkook’s liking. summer vacation ended a month ago and he’s back to busting his ass off at the university. he misses the days and nights when the only thing he was going insane about is you.

what’s taking you so long to reply? did he say something stupid? does he look nice? smell nice? are you crying again? that ghost isn’t bothering you again, is he?

now that he needs to focus on something less interesting, say studying taxation and business law for subsequent long quizzes tomorrow, he’s back to crushing cans of energy drinks.

fuck, he misses you.

your purple hair tie is still wrapped around the knob of his bathroom sink faucet and he keeps forgetting to give it back to you. you make him nervous but he forgets he ever felt that way after five minutes with you. he craves to be connected with you on a more intimate level. he wants to be more than just a neighbor you make small talk with, over text. he wants to be more than a friend you sometimes eat with, on your days off. but he likes you so much that he can be content with the way things are, so long as it means you won’t go further away.

he’s absolutely pumped to hear his friends berate him for being stupid enough to enjoy the bare minimum from a woman.

an email notification interrupts his intense cramming session with his ipad and his illegally downloaded ebooks.

No Name

Subject: IMPORTANT! READ ME!

snack break at the aquarium?

he already has a strong inkling on who the sender could be; he clicks the email address and unsurprisingly, it says that it’s you.

did you seriously go out of your way to email him because he told you that he was going to keep his phone turned off while studying?

ridiculous.

so cute and ridiculous.

—

“i brought your favorite.” you meekly present your gift to jungkook. “uh, actually i’m not sure if it’s your favorite. but it’s become mine since you gave it to me.”

jungkook gapes at the bag of his favorite gummies sitting on his lap. just for comparison, the packet he gave you that day you first met came from his pocket. this one is almost as wide as his thighs slightly spread apart.

but most importantly, what did you just say?

“y-you didn’t throw it away?”

“what are you saying?” you pout, a little hurt by the question. “why would i throw it away?”

“you should’ve. you can’t just accept food from strangers!”

he was being pretty before. he humbly admits that. he just wanted an excuse to bring you up so he whined about it for weeks, but he was never genuinely upset. not specifically about that, anyway.

“why are you so upset?” you match the rise of his voice. “i’m fine and we ended up being friends. now say ‘thank you’ and open it!”

“ah, sure-” he panics, fumbling with the zigzag edges of the packaging. you were kind of hot for that. “thank you! this was seriously so thoughtful of you.”

you nod in satisfaction, stealing a gummy worm the second that the plastic is torn open. “you’re welcome!”

—

“i should stop eating.” jungkook mumbles to himself, chewing the other half of his nth gummy worm of the night.

“yeah,” you agree, pulling your hand away from the bag with an impressive show of restraint. “we should.”

the two of you probably look bizarre in the eyes of strangers, particularly those who have seen you one too many nights admire the golden creatures like you’re being hypnotized and nothing else in the world matters. jungkook never knows what’s running in your head, but to him, these moments are all about being beside you. the loud beating of his heart could be attributed to the caffeine, or the bare skin of your knees touching and no one daring to move.

“the tank feels…” there is a delay as you search for the appropriate word. “dull. can’t there be more variety of plants?”

“i tried,” he laughs at the funny memory you evoked. “when i came back the next day, two of them already ate everything.”

you gasp. “everything? is that normal?”

he opens his mouth to speak, but you unknowingly interrupt him with a raise of your hand.

“okay, i’m searching on naver.”

jungkook behaves for the fifteen minutes that follow, sneaking a peek at your phone screen every now and then with squinted eyes. you read fast, and your knees shake when you have to think hard. they’re small things. they don’t matter that much. but they’re still parts of your entirety which he is to be well-aquainted with.

“according to this person, we can try giving them marimo moss balls to play with… and hmmm-” you hum, lips puckering into a pout. “then for plants, anubias and java ferns?”

“i still know the address of the place i bought the plants from before. we can go when you’re free.” he offers, jumping on the opportunity to spend time with you outside of this building.

“you free sunday?”

“is the afternoon alright? i have to go to uni in the morning.”

please say yes.

“sure, that works.”

he breaks into a triumphant smile.

yes!

—

jungkook has been looking forward to this day all week. he breezed through work and college, motivated to finish all his tasks so he could enjoy his time with you without any worries. he knows it’s not a date, but anyone can be excited to meet up with a friend.

“you look pretty.” he smiles, breaking the silence in the elevator.

“you can barely see my face.”

“i see it!”

your nonchalance slowly fades, seemingly replaced by unease, which confuses jungkook. you put on a white face mask from the pocket of your hoodie before facing him.

“now you don’t!” you banter with him playfully.

“too late,” he sticks his tongue out. “i can draw it from memory.”

this is your usual day outfit, a basic classic. a hoodie paired with shorts and sneakers. the face mask is part of it too. in a crowd, you could be anyone, even him, if only your hair doesn’t stand out among the neutrals. he likes it. he likes how you match outfits without trying to. you get more dressed up at night, which makes sense since you go to work.

“so you can draw me even if i flash you just once?”

scandalized, he almost chokes on his own spit. “____!”

“i’m joking!” you giggle.

“no, please do it.” he encourages you in jest.

that earns him a slap on the face. he touches the affected area. it didn’t hurt at all, you did it with a light hand, but he gapes at you dumbstruck.

“you can joke about it but i can’t?!”

you only laugh at his reaction. he also imagines that he looks funny. not long after, the elevator opens and you drag him out by his hand.

—

the cashier pushes back your extended hand. “sorry, we don’t accept card payments.”

while you pout sadly at the rejection, jungkook rushes to grab the wallet that you made him hide because this was your ‘idea.’

“here,” he puts down the paper bills on the counter.

“i’ll pay you back.”

“no, it’s fine. my treat for the fishes since they’d probably eat them anyway.” he jokes to comfort you.

“yeah, okay,” you respond listlessly. “then i’ll buy our dinner. samgyupsal?”

“call!”

jungkook guesses you have come to know him well too.

“okay, let’s go.”

he invites you to leave after the cashier gives him the paper bag. as you walk out together, your shoulders brush, and for a brief moment, he assumes that you would cling to him. he doesn’t know why he keeps doing that. you never do. he continues walking and he doesn’t even notice that he has left you behind.

the door is half-open and he’s stood in place, eyes scanning the store like he just lost a child at the mall.

of course, he finds you hunched over infront of an aquarium inhabited by a betta fish.

“do you want to get it?” he whispers, mindful of scaring away the little creature. “i don’t think i’ve seen a purple fish before.”

not even in art or television. it’s strange.

he feels your eyes glued to him. persuaded by curiosity, he turns his cheek.

his breathing stops when he sees your face so close.

he doesn’t know you removed your mask. you’re staring at him so intensely with those beautiful eyes, sparkling with the reflections of light. you’re dazzling, and intimidating, and it’s doing dangerous things to his heart.

a little nudge and he’d give you an eskimo kiss.

if there’s a perfect romantic moment to kiss your lips, he’d say it’s right now.

“it’s not the fish i want.”

he doesn’t hear you.

do you see how entranced he is by your lips?

“the shipwreck, it’s beautiful.”

his eyes chase the sight of them when you return your gaze to the aquarium.

“like you,” the words slip out without thought.

—

a soft smile tugs at the corner of your lips. you blink away the tears and you stomach the heavy in your chest. you know jungkook is still staring at you with those bedroom eyes and there was no deep thought behind his compliment. will he still find you beautiful when he sees who you are beyond the surface?

“like me…”

—

after dinner, you and jungkook planted the plants and installed the shipwreck you wanted. it was not cheap, but it was worth it, if it meant seeing your priceless joy. he carries around more cash than necessary when he goes out with you. he’s praying that you didn’t see his sigh of relief when the waiter said the restaurant accepts card. he doesn’t know much about your circumstances, why you stopped going to school and why you opted to work instead, but he knows you lead a lifestyle different from his. he’s not ignorant. he estimates your bag is five times more expensive than his ipad. but with how you’re soundly sleeping on his shoulder, he can say that it’s justified.

he learns that you’ve been working straight for fifteen days, with 10-20 hours of overtime per week. you practically live there. he can feel the weight of your shoulders on him, which is why he doesn’t have the heart to wake you up despite his bladder’s need of the bathroom. this is probably the closest he will ever be to you. he can’t be the one to walk away in this memory.

the humming noise of the aquarium’s filter fills the silence.

it always feels like he’s dreaming when he’s with you.

“after all that money we spent, we should really name them now.”

you release the yawn you were holding back while speaking, head dropping on his shoulder. jungkook stiffens at the suddenness of the physical contact, but then relaxes thanks to the tranquilizing scent of your shampoo— it has to be coconut, with some sort of flowers that perfectly compliment it.

“have any ideas?”

“yes,” he hears the smile in your voice. “you know those two who have similar hues?”

he hums, body vibrating underneath your soft cheek.

“tangerine, and then clementine for the smaller one.”

“those are cute names.”

“you like them?”

“yes, they really sound like siblings!”

“okay, i won.” you shrug your shoulders as far as they can go, as if you’re so pleased you could burst. “that’s settled. your turn!”

“hmmm…”

he unconsciously bounces his knee as he racks his brain, which you swat with a disapproving noise, mumbling “making me dizzy!”

“sorry,” he winces.

your giggles are infectious, bringing tickles somewhere deep inside of him, butterflies in his stomach coming alive like spring only arrived.

“shouldn’t we at least have one named after a flower?” he suggests. “hold on, i’ll search for good ones.”

“let’s give the flower name to the yellow one. she stands out, like a flower.”

you blink wearily, a soft smile amidst the haze, sent to the yellow fish who swam closer as if it heard itself being called.

he reads the list of yellow flower names out loud.

“sunflower, daisy, azalea… for-forthysia? lily, cosmos, dahlia-”

“dahlia-” you quietly repeat the name in awe, clinging to his arm to steal his attention.

“dahlia it is!”

“i wish dahlia would live forever.” you sigh, haunted by the inevitable.

“dahlia will outlive us.” he chuckles.

“i’ll protect her from the afterlife.”

he squeezes your hand tenderly. “i’ll be right there with you.”

and with unspoken mutual understanding, your fingers intertwine. neither one of you wants to let go, he feels it strongly and he is sure of it. his cheeks may very well begin to ache with how elated he is.

“that’s three… you know, i saw someone on youtube who named their fish coral. i thought it was a very pretty name. how about that?”

“i like it,” you chirp. “i kind of wish it was my name.”

“should i just give it to you?”

you lift your head a little, sleepy eyes connecting with his. “do you know someone who has the same name as me?”

“no,” he slowly shakes his head. “you’re the only one.”

“let’s give it to the one with the longest tail.”

your head drops on his shoulder, as if it’s where it belongs.

“i like being the only one.”

you fell asleep seconds after that.

he found entertainment in watching as much as the goldfishes playing around with the shipwreck. it’s a wooden ship split in two, with cracks and holes big enough for them to swim in and out of. even the sails have holes. the drawings on them are unrecognizable beyond his imagination.

it’s quite charming, but he doesn’t understand what’s special about it the way you do.

a teardrop drips from the tip of your nose and crashes on his arm, but he doesn’t feel it.

eventually, it dries, and is erased from history.

#jungkook au #jungkook one shot #jungkook fic #jungkook fanfic #jungkook drabble #jungkook scenario #jungkook imagine #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #bts fluff #bts reaction

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yua0ra · 2 months ago

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𝐎𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐮𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐝 (𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐥𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭)™

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4

WARNINGS: downbad!mattheo x slytherin!fem!reader, SFW, english is not my first language. not proofread | fluff ☏

SUMMARY: Mattheo is now emotionally unwell and possibly hiding in a broom cupboard. You, meanwhile, are thriving.

WC: 1.8K AN: Just a silly little draft of the weekly report. I'm trying my best here, this format took me so fucking longggg. Enjoy!

𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:

𝑶𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏: 𝑴𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒚 𝑭𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒔 𝑰𝒏 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆: A Case Study in Emotional Chaos

You were walking toward the library when Theo caught your arm with all the subtlety of a Howler in the Great Hall.

“Hey,” he whispered with a conspiratorial grin, glancing around like he was about to pass you a top-secret Ministry file. “Just… be cool. Okay? Something’s coming.”

You blinked. “What?”

He patted your shoulder. “Good luck,” he said solemnly, and then disappeared down a corridor like a man who had done something irreversible and didn’t want to be around for the aftermath.

Which is exactly when Mattheo appeared.

He was walking toward you with the energy of someone who’d been dared to do this under threat of public humiliation. He looked like he might be sweating. A little.

“Hi,” he said, trying very hard to sound normal and failing spectacularly. “Uh. I—this is for you.”

He handed you a folded note like it was cursed. His hand hovered for a second too long, and then he shoved both into his pockets and took three full steps back, like you might explode.

You eyed him. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he said too fast. “I mean, not nothing. It’s… words. It has… words.”

You opened it. He looked away like he couldn’t bear to witness what he had just done.

You began to read, smiling as your eyes scanned the first few lines. And then—

“Mattheo is totally into you. In case you didn’t notice. Or, y'know, maybe you did, because he looks like a deer caught in the headlights every time you talk to him.”

Mattheo’s head snapped around so fast you thought he might sprain something.

“WAIT—are you reading it out loud?!”

You kept going, undeterred.

“FROM THEO (aka Chief Strategist & CEO of Operation Matty Falls in Love™): I have tried everything short of slipping Veritaserum in his tea—”

“Oh my god,” Mattheo muttered, burying his face in his hands. “I’m going to crawl into a hole and stay there until I’m thirty.”

“He’s a walking, brooding poem of longing. It’s exhausting.”

He let out a strangled sound. “That’s not even accurate! I don’t—brood—okay, I do, but not like a poem—”

You were laughing now, full-on laughing.

“Hi, beautiful,” you read in Blaise’s voice, with a smirk. “Quick check-in: have you noticed the way he stares at you like you're the only thing keeping his soul tethered to this mortal plane?”

Mattheo made a noise like a dying animal.

“He told me I looked ‘warm’ the other day—”

“OKAY,” he blurted, snatching the letter from your hands in a panic, eyes wide and red-eared. “I’m officially confiscating this. You weren’t meant to read it like that—they told me it was subtle! Like a nudge!”

You were still grinning. “You practice saying hi in the mirror?”

He turned around, mid-flee, and groaned into the air. “I hate all of them.”

“And you faint when I smile?”

“I black out at best.”

You giggled again, stepping forward. “Hey, Mattheo?”

He turned, suspicious, still flushed and mortified. “…Yeah?”

You smiled softly. “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

He groaned, crouched to the floor, and dropped his forehead into his hands. “I will never recover from this.”

From around the corner, a muffled “YES!” echoed, followed by Theo yelling, “PHASE SIX COMPLETE!”

Draco’s voice: “That wasn’t Phase Six. Phase Six was ‘he confesses in a normal, non-pathetic way.’”

Blaise: “Let him have this. He didn't die.”

Mattheo just looked up at you again, blinking.

“…Wanna go to Hogsmeade with me?” he said weakly.

You smiled. “Yeah, Matty. I do.”

He looked like someone had just handed him the last biscuit in the tin and told him it was all his. And somehow, even through the horror, he grinned.

#⋆. 𐙚 ˚ yua0ra’s works #slytherin #slytherin boys #hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry #wizarding world #harry potter #hp fanfic #theo nott #enzo #mattheo riddle #mattheo riddle fluff #mattheo riddle imagine #mattheo riddle x you #mattheo x y/n #mattheoxreader #mattheo x you #draco malfoy #diy

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readerihardlyknowher · 2 months ago

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In Every Universe | Pt. 7

Fanfic-ception?

Spencer Agnew x Reader Warnings: None WC: 2,116 Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3, Pt. 4, Pt. 5, Pt. 6, Pt. 7, Pt. 8

“Oh, hello all and welcome back to Smosh Pit Theater!” Angela announces as the narrator this time, “Now, we’re gonna be doing another one of our favorites – and your guys’ too – fanfictions, and let me tell you guys before we start, I heard the crew snickering while reading some of them over, so this should be good.”

She takes out the first script and holds it up to read. You try to glance over her shoulder to see who’s in the fic, but her hands are too shaky to see properly.

“Okay, first story! It’s called ‘Five Nights at Smosh’ by Smoshbadussy. I think I’ll have Chanse playing Tommy–”

“–Wow, Angela, making me play the only other gay one here.”

“Shut up! Courtney will play me, Shayne will play Amanda, and Y/n will play… Freddy Fazbear. Spencer, you and I can watch and narrate. Okay! Now let the scene begin!”

You take your script from Angela, briefly glancing over the first line to see who’s in the scene starting off, seeing that you (or well, Arasha) aren’t in the scene yet, so you step beside the curtain, not taking center stage and adjusting your black turtleneck which you haven’t worn since the last Smosh Pit Theater episode. It is late summer in LA after all, and you were thanking god for AC at this moment. As the scene begins, however, you watch as Chanse and Courtney stand next to each other, acting out the scene which you read.

“Man,” Courtney begins, “that was a great crying session! Glad we’ve got the crying bathroom here.”

“Totally!” Chanse’s voice replies. “I don’t even know how long we were in there for!”

Angela narrates the scene as Shayne (as Amanda) steps into the scene and gasps.

“There you two are!” Shayne does a terrible Amanda impression as he speaks. “I had to stay behind to try and find you! Everyone else left! We’re locked in!”

You and the rest of the cast do dramatic gasps. Deciding to read ahead, you see that Freddy doesn’t show up for a while, just doing sounds in the background for most of the beginning. You try to keep your eyes on the three of your castmates, but your eyes wander as they always do, and where do they land again? Spencer fucking Agnew. You don’t even notice that you’re staring until his eyes meet yours. Neither of you move, not looking away, not until he shoots you a cute wink and looking back at the performing cast. This causes you to look away as well, trying to remember that you’re on camera. Though, as the crew is very nice, they’ll likely just edit it so that you’re out of frame for that, which you already mostly are.

The time comes for you to enter in the scene, so you do as the script reads, sneaking up behind the three of them all huddled together. After about a beat, you jump up and “attack” Courtney before you get pushed off and stand to the side. You look down to see your line, only to stutter out a laugh as you read it.

“Roh roh roh roh roh.” The rest of the cast found the line just as amusing as you did, and you all take a moment for a confused laugh, before Shayne speaks as Amanda.

“Uh, guys, I think that’s Freddy Fuzzbear.”

“It’s not Fuzzbear, Amanda!” Chanse yells. All three pretend to run, and you pretend to chase, before you get to center stage and continue the stupidly dramatic scene. Eventually, it ends with you as Freddy killing Angela while the other two escape, which makes the real Angela upset, of course. The scene ends finally and you head back to the chairs you were at before, turning your head to smile over at Spencer.

“Did I do good?” Your still giggly voice asks. His lips part into that iconic smile of his.

“Absolutely perfect,” he replies. Your eyes are drawn to Shayne, who has now taken the next set of scripts and will be doing the casting. You watch from behind and to the side as his face lights up with shock.

“Okay. This one is called ‘April 2nd’ and it’s by Y/s/n-luvr.” You and Spencer shoot each other a familiar, yet not unpleasant expression. “Let’s have Y/n playing herself, and Spencer playing himself, Chanse will play Damien, Courtney as Amanda, and then Angela will play the priest in this story.”

You and Spencer now look confused. A priest? April 2nd? What could that mean? Your eyes narrow as you walk on stage, all of you standing in a half-circle, facing towards the camera. The scene is that you’re on Smosh Games playing together. Looking down at your script you read your line.

“Damn it, Spence, you’re wiping the floor with us! At least give me a chance to win!”

“Yeah,” Chanse says, making his voice deeper to mimic Damien. “Who knew you’d be this good at the game of life?” It’s silent as we wait for Shayne to read his next line.

“Spencer’s eyes darted around, purposefully avoiding Y/n’s.”

Spencer does as the script says, playing up the nervousness a little, before looking down at his script and reading.

“Guys, I told you I’m a gamer. Anyways, Y/n, it’s your turn.”

“Y/n’s hand reaches the spinner on the table, flicking it, moving her car forward, before pulling the card on top of the pile. Once she sees what it says, her face shrivels up in confusion.”

You perform the actions with a perfect amount of stage exaggeration, pretending to pull the card before reading your script.

“‘Will you marry me?’ I didn’t know that was a card in here.”

“Spencer steps out from behind the table, before kneeling down in front of it on one knee.”

“It isn’t, babe. I uh… I wanted to propose to you doing something we both love, playing games together.”

Your face heats up in embarrassment. Someone wrote a whole fanfic about Spencer proposing to you. And now he’s in front of you, acting it out, with all of your friends/coworkers watching with glee.

“So,” his voice cuts through your thoughts. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes, Spence! I never thought you’d ask!”

“Y/n jumps into Spencer’s arms in a warm and firm embrace, Damien and Amanda cheering, especially Amanda.”

You look over at Spencer, wondering how you should approach the hug. You’re certainly not going to be jumping into his arms as the script says, even if his cutely red face makes you want to do so. So instead you go for the classic side hug, perfect for on-camera romance. You figure the scene must be over now, so become confused once Shayne calls for everyone to get in place for the next positions. Shayne’s booming voice announces that today’s the day of the wedding, and you two are holding it with the Smosh cast and crew.

You gulp down the excitement/anxiety in your throat and wait to the side as the script indicates that you’re not in the scene yet again. You watch from the side as Spencer stands, waiting for you, and Shayne reads out how he’s patiently watching as you begin to walk down the aisle. Rolling your eyes, you do as the script says, rolling yours up to pretend it’s a bouquet. You try to avoid Spencer’s eyes, but fail as you see him wiping a fake teat, which makes you let out a chuckle.

As you finish your walk down the “aisle”, you stand in front of Spencer, holding your hands out as he takes them in his warm, soft ones. You say, “this feels familiar” off-script, which gets a few laughs. A soft smile is present on his face, he waits for a moment, seeming to forget about the whole idea that you’re acting out a scene, before he scrambles to pull out his script.

“Y/n, ever since I first saw you in your interview here at Smosh, I knew you were the one for me. Your laugh brightens my day, your eyes light up every room you’re in. I couldn’t have asked for a better wife. I’m so happy to officially get to call you that. I can’t wait to play videogames and watch movies with you for the rest of my life.”

You place your hand on your heart as he reads, genuinely touched by 1. The fact that someone wrote something so sweet, and 2. The fact that Spencer’s reading it out loud to you so sweetly. The look he gives you shows that while those aren’t his original words, he does mean all the kind things he’s saying, and it only adds to the tightness you’ve been feeling in your chest. Pulling in a deep breath, you look at your part of the script.

“Spencer, you’re my best friend, the love of my life, and now my actual husband–” you see the next line so you turn to look at the camera with a serious expression on your face. “Guys, don’t clip this.” Turning back to the script, you take a deep breath, before pushing the words out far too seriously than you’ve ever said the words before. “And I love you.”

“Woo!”

You shoot a glare to Chanse, before resuming your line.

“And I’ll be happy to listen to you yap about old Nintendo games until the day I die.”

“Now,” Angela’s voice softens the blow after what you said, making you feel a little less awkward having read all that out loud. “Charles Spencer Agnew, do you take Y/n (M/n) L/n to be your lawfully wedded wife?” The silly, relaxed smile spreads even wider across his face, the sight making your own body relax.

“I do.”

“And Y/n (M/n) L/n, do you take Charles Spencer Agnew to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Your own smile broadens as you don’t even need to glance down at your script.

“I do.”

“Then I hereby pronounce you as man and wife. You may now kiss.”

Shoot, you had forgotten about this, but one look at Spencer’s mischievous smile says all that you need. As the cast and crew around you clap at the scene, you both ever so slowly lean into one another, eyes closing, and just when you know people will wonder if you’ll actually do it, you pull back, pointing to the camera with a smile plastered on your face.

“Got your asses! No more ship material for you! You've had enough!”

Both Chanse and Courtney groan at the psych-out, before you all come back to the chairs and sit together for the recap of everyone’s thoughts. Shayne turns to Spencer to speak first.

“So Spencer, would you ever propose to someone on Smosh games?”

Spencer shakes his head, somehow looking all too calm at this moment. You’re certain the comments later will be noticing how you look a little too nervous from all that.

“I wouldn’t do half of the things in this story, especially not a public proposal. Keep that shit private.” Everyone, including him, chuckles at this statement, before he speaks again. “Also, I definitely wouldn’t invite you guys to our wedding.”

Our wedding.

No one seems to notice the phrasing as they all laugh, and you join in as well as to not stand out on camera. You decide to chime in a little so as to not seem too quiet.

“Also, we didn’t meet during my interview, we met officially like two weeks later. We were both a little nervous to talk to new people at first since it was such a new job and we didn’t want to screw it up.” Spencer nods and puts his finger up to make a point while looking over at you.

“While that is true, that doesn’t mean that I didn’t see you before that and fall absolutely head over heels at first glance, which is something I'd clearly do.”

You roll your eyes at his statement. You know he’s just trying to stir the pot some more and banter with you, but at this moment, you’re still a little overwhelmed with the whole getting married in character as just the two of you. But you’re glad to know that the next fanfiction is getting pulled up and neither you, nor you as a character, are in it, so you’re happy to just sit back and watch, seeing your friends do a silly little scene that someone wrote about you guys. Even if yours and Spencer’s eyes meet a few times throughout in a way which makes you strangely nervous, you feel happy, and even happier when the video finally ends.

Tag list: @lisiliely, aliceblxck, burrowedinnature77, 65percentleg

#smosh fanfiction #smosh fic #spencer agnew #spencer agnew x reader

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kkoga · 2 months ago

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Hey, can i request a daniela avanzini x fem!reader where your the popular couple in school nd you get in a fight with someone who was flirting with daniela and after she takes care of you

(A/N : Sorry if it sucks a little, its very rushed and its currently 9 am and i finished hikijg about two hours ago and i wrote this at 1 am even tho i had to be up by like 3 or 4 to go hiking...)

FIGHTS AND THE AFTERMATH daniela avanzini x fem!reader

Warning ! Foul words, physical violence

Disclaimer ! Everything written here is pure fiction. Every person is not a real portayal of themselves.

Now playing ! ALL MINE by Brent Faiyaz

WC — 1.03K

Synopsis ! After your long-time rival, Mark, decides to ignore your inital warnings about hitting on your girlfriend, you finally decide you've had enough.

You clicked your tongue at the sight of Mark approaching Daniela. Sophia—your friend—confused by the sudden change in mood, followed your gaze. After seeing Mark slowly make his way to your girl, the Filipina sighed in defeat. She knew you weren't gonna let this one slide.

You and Mark have been rivals for the past four years— you two were competitive with everything you both shared.

You and him were the captain of your basketball teams— him being the captain of the boys team and you being the captain of the girls team.

Although you initially didn't hold anything against the boy, he always seemed to have it out for you, which resulted in the dynamic you both had now.

Everything was a competition. The amount of medals under your teams, the total shots you both made the entire season, popularity— everything.

You were fine with it—it was just fun little banter to you—until he started hitting on your girl.

Daniela Avanzini, the captain of the cheerleading team, a member of the school's modern dance team, the golden girl.

She was every boy and girl's dream girlfriend. She was everything anyone could possibly want.

Or at least she was everything you could possibly want.

It all started four months ago, when you and Daniela had gone public. The two of you had been dating for the past year, and finally had the courage to reveal your relationship.

At first, people were skeptical. Just because you were both popular doesn't mean homophobia just disappears. But eventually, it does. And once the homophobic nonsense settled down, you two became the golden couple of GEFFEN high.

Every student knew you two—that you were together—and you loved it.

Someone, however, hated it just as much as you loved it.

Mark, who thought he was finally winning in the “little game” you two were playing, got trampled because you had managed to score Daniela.

The boy took the game more personally than you thought he did, which was why you were shocked to one day find him leaning over your girlfriend's locker, talking to her with a huge smug smile on his face. Daniela, however, had an uninterested look in her eyes.

The first few times it happened, you were only annoyed. After all, you trusted and knew Daniela would never cheat on you. So, you let it go.

But today was the last time you were going to take this disrespect. You already warned him last time— that if he ever tried again, he'd wish he was being sent to the nurse instead of the hospital.

Before Mark even got a word in, you rushed towards him and pushed him away from Daniela.

“Listen man, I told you to stay the fuck away from my girl. What did you not understand?” Mark scoffs, and counters—or at least tries to.

“Oh please, it's not like she actually wants you. Just wait and see. She'll fall for me the moment she just gives me a chanc—” His rambling was stopped by a punch to the jaw. The sheer force of your punch knocked the boy backwards—and before Mark could even hold his jaw to feel it out—another one made its way to his cheek, causing him to fall on his butt.

You crouched down, grabbed his collar, and threw another punch—to the nose this time—and the boy responds by grabbing your collar and throwing you off of him.

You take a second to process the damage he did, but even that was enough for Mark to land a punch. The boy hit you in the cheek, narrowly missing your nose since you managed to dodge it— even by just a little.

The entire fight lasted ten seconds before Daniela pulled you away from him, another student holding Mark back.

A teacher then rushes to the scene, and tells everyone to back off, before sending you to the nurse and sending Mark to the hospital because you apparently had “Broken his nose”.

Daniela sighs before caressing your hand as the nurse grabs an ice pack.

“Alright, I've already gotten you both your passes, you won't be attending the next class.”

“Wait, me too?” Daniela looks at the nurse in confusion, and the nurse lets out a dry laugh.

“Yes, you too young lady. You were involved in the drama after all— you'll be needed at the principal's office after I deem Miss Basketball captain here ready.” Daniela nods as the nurse hands her the ice pack.

“Apply it for as long as you can. I'll be right back.”

The door clicks, indicating the nurse has already left the room. Silence fills the room until you muster up the courage to speak.

“Listen Dani, I'm so sorry to have involved you in—”

“No no cariño, it's okay. Don't sweat it. I understand why you did it okay?” You wince as Daniela presses the ice pack onto your cheek.

“Really?”

“Really. I just…” Daniela says as she tucks a strand of hair behind your hair.

“I just wish you handled it in a better way.”

You leaned forward and kissed Daniela on the forehead.

“I'm sorry. I… I didn't really mean to you know, hurt him. But with how he was treating you like some leverage to win our little banter? I just couldn’t stand it. You know I'm not the jealous type.” Daniela looks at you in disbelief before speaking.

“What? I could not give less of a fuck about that guy. I'm talking about you getting hurt Mi Vida. I don't ever want to see you in this state again, you hear me?”

You nod, which has Daniela smiling in satisfaction before leaning in and placing a kiss on your forehead.

You raise your right hand as you say the words, “Okay. I, Yn Ln, solemnly swear to never get in a fight in front of you ever again.

Daniela giggles as your tactics, and lowers the ice pack. Your girlfriend leans in—cupping your face—and kisses you on the lips.

You both pull away after a few seconds—out of breath—and say the words you would never get tired of saying.

“I love you, Dani.”

“Love you too babe. Always will.”

#kkoga #katseye #katseye x reader #katseye x female reader #ask #daniela avanzini #daniela katseye #daniela x reader #daniela avanzini x reader #daniela #daniela x femreader #wlw love #wlw post #wlw #gxg #gxg imagine #hybe #katseye x fem reader #katseye imagines

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ellieslittleslutt · 6 months ago

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Late Nights

cw: fluff?? vi calls reader cupcake and princess once but that expected. some vague mentions of insomnia i guess.

a/n: uhm so first vi fic that’s wild, defo going to write more roommate vi bc im yearning and i need her so bad it’s not even funny.

wc- 0.5k

🐛°‧🍂⋆.ೃ࿔*:･───────────────

you had problems with sleeping sometimes. wether it was going to bed at a reasonable time or even just getting a deep sleep it was always a problem with you.

tonight was no exception. you were lounging on the couch of your guys’ apartment, doom scrolling on tiktok mindlessly liking whatever you found the slightest bit relatable. it’s was around 1 am which wasn’t too bad but still not ideal. on the coffee table sat a your favorite mug full of sleepytime tea in hopes that it would coax you back to sleep, but like every other time it never worked and didn’t even taste that good.

you were huddled up in the blankets when you saw your pink haired roommate coming out of her room, hair messed up wearing sleep shorts and a sports bra. she didn’t notice you at first in the dark, but then she accidentally sat down on you causing you to yelp smacking her arm “vi get off of me” you groaned.

“shit sorry princess” she mumbled half asleep scooting over. that god damn nickname always got you. you huffed going back to your phone “why’re you up?” you mumbled glancing at her. “i could ask you the same thing hm?” she hums sipping your tea “eugh fuck, this taste like dirty cardboard water” her face in a tight frown putting the mug down. “why do you think it’s half full idiot”

she leaned back against the couch sighing “so wait why’re you up?” she asked glancing over at you. “couldn’t sleep” you hummed resting your head against your elbow looking at her “and you?”“fucking jayce kept calling me” she mumbled with a yawn “asking about how to get bitches.” you chuckled softly shaking your head “viktor?” you asked “you know it.”

you hummed looking over at her kind of star struck by how she looked. you swear you had cartoon heart eyes beating out of your eye sockets. she looked at you with a soft smile patting your shin “wanna watch a movie?” she asks snapping you out of your trance and you just nodded clearing your throat “oh yeah” you said awkwardly pushing yourself up reaching for the remote.

you two both agreed on mean girls because why the fuck not. you sat closer to her your head slowly lolling itself onto her shoulder, vi looked down at you wrapping an arm around you so that you don’t slump down “you’re gonna hurt your neck if you fall asleep like that” she whispered rubbing your arm.

you hummed sleepily in response your lashes resting against your cheeks. vi made the connection that you weren’t going to get back to bed on your own so she paused the movie, and got up slowly lifting you into her arms to carry you back to your room lying you back down onto your blankets tucking you into how you liked.

you don’t know why but just for some reason you felt comfortable around vi, more relaxed and like your self. this is one of the few nights you fell asleep before 3 am and without a melatonin.

vi walked to the door turning off the lamp “night cupcake” she said softly before shutting the door walking off to her room.

from that night on vi would meet you in the couch just so you could yes fall asleep in her arms, totally platonic though… right?

🐛°‧🍂⋆.ೃ࿔*:･───────────────

@autisticintr0vert wifey: @bugbit3ss

#arcane vi #vi arcane #violet arcane #vi #arcane season 2 #arcane #roommates!vi #tlou2 #ellie williams #the last of us #ellie tlou #tlou ellie #ellie williams x reader #ellie williams fluff #loser!ellie #abby anderson #tlou abby

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verysanebsdfan · 3 months ago

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𝟽 ʏᴇᴀʀs ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ - sᴇɴᴋᴜ ɪsʜɪɢᴀᴍɪ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

just something I wrote cuz I was bored...

masterlist

cw: MANGA SPOILERS, you get shot, not a graphic description or smth tho, not proofread

wc: 629

It was all going as planned, the North American team succeeded in turning on the petrification device, and now it was just a matter of minutes until it reached us again. You planned it with Gen, to confess to the love of your life right before you get petrified, so you can drown in shame and embarrassment until you get revived again, you totally forgot to account for the unfortunate situation you are in.

Senku got shot down, most of you did, really, including you. You were lying on the ground, barely breathing by now, and not far away from your side was Senku, who also found himself in an almost identical predicament.

“Senku…” You choke out, your teary eyes trying to grasp as many details of him. But he probably didn’t hear you, for he was too busy talking with Dr. Xeno.

“...The truth is, my people and I are just full of desire.” You heard Senku say before the light could touch you. The stone spread around your body, leaving you in an empty darkness, only you and your thoughts.

1…

2…

3…

4…

2498…

90 568…

“I cannot take it anymore…” You thought. It’s barely been 25 hours yet this is getting too boring. Before, you could stay awake for a whole 3720 years, until Senku revived you, but now, after a day, you want to give up?

“Remember, what did I think about?”

“Oh.”

“I thought about him.”

Yet it aches so much.

When you first met Senku, you were just a first grader, too smart for your good. Hearing your classmate say that he wanted to get to space as soon as possible was funny. What a cute dream, really. But he didn’t just say what he wanted, he worked for it. Hours after hours spent in the library, researching things. Hours spent at home or outside doing experiments.

It did not take long for your curiosity to take over and approach him, which is how you ended up befriending him.

There were many more interesting memories you often found yourself reminiscing about. There was one that stood out though.

Last year in middle school, your whole class decided to have a get-together in a park, basically a picnic, it was late afternoon and the guys decided to play truth or dare. A guy

asked Senku who out of the girls in the class would he like to date the most. Of course, the radish-head said no one, since relationships are trouble-prone. One thing however stuck. Taiju snickered and said your name. You immediately waited for Senku to deny it, however, he didn’t, his cheeks might have flushed a little, too.

So why? Why can’t you just confess? He will either reject you, or he won’t.

You will either be able to move on. Or you will get a romantic partner. It’s either a win or a win. So why.

Either way. Back to counting.

589 642…

…

237 492 150…

Something over seven years? And then crack.

You were awake now. Standing in front of you were Senku and Suika. Everyone else was close by, still petrified.

“Senku?” You let out a soft whisper, and he nods.

“Sorry for not responding to you back then.” He said, and you immediately recalled how you called out to him, but he didn’t hear you.

“You heard?”

“Of course. I also wanted to talk to you back then, but the situation called.” He said and you let out a sob.

“Idiot, that’s why I love you.” You say and wonder if you should regret it.

“I know, same, now let’s got wake up the others.” He said as if it was not a big thing. Of course, he sucks when it comes to emotions but c’mon!!

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iamsebastiansstan · 5 months ago

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got some nerve to play hard - NAC x fem!reader

summary - "Can she… can she take all of you?”

Nicholas’ eyes widen at her boldness before they glance down, looking at his own crotch. She follows his gaze, stupidly, but his pants are too loose, giving nothing away.

“She tries, but no. Nobody could before.”

“I bet I could,” she husks before she can stop herself, bites the inside of her cheek at her stupid mistake. Talking about someone else is one thing, but putting herself in that position could ruin their little fantasy, the little game they’re playing.

wc - 6k - MINORS DNI !

warnings - strangers to lovers, lots and lots of dirty talk, talking about Nicholas being with another woman, masturbation (m and f), coming on pussy 👀

A/N - I'm sorry, this isn't proofread, I sat down and didn't get up til it was finished. I've used this introduction in two other fandoms already but I can't help it, it's my fave lmaooo might write more parts but we'll see. come and shout at me in my DMs or messages, and let me know what you think <3 enjoy!

PART 1 - SERIES MASTERLIST !

Cooper’s parties are always fun, always a blast; people dancing and drinking, enjoying themselves and letting go of their stressful day to day routines, celebrating their lives for one reckless evening.

She loves it, whenever she gets an invite, but lately she’s been stressed out more than usual, her college workload overwhelming her and the fact that she’s here now, in Calabasas instead of at her apartment in New York, makes guilt creep up her neck, makes her think of the points on her to-do lists she could be ticking off if she pulled an all-nighter at home instead of partying her time away. Though, she’s missed Cooper a lot, and she’s glad he’s letting her stay in his guest bedroom so they can spend some time together.

That is where she’s heading to right now, needing a breather from the crowd and the noise. Sneaking up the stairs without getting interrupted is easy, and she sighs as she opens the door, locks it for good measure. Her bag is in the corner by the closet, and she crouches down, opens it, takes out her perfume and spritzes some onto her neck to refresh her favorite scent. Letting herself plop down onto the bed, she starts massaging her right shoulder that’s been smarting a little since she got off the plane at LAX when suddenly the door of the en-suite opens, making her head snap up.

Waltzing out comes none other than Nicholas Chavez, Cooper’s close friend and Monsters co-star, making her heart stutter in her chest. Cooper mentioned having invited him, but she hadn’t seen him downstairs yet, which she had been glad about if she’s being honest with herself. She has a tiny celebrity crush on him, but not enough for a genuine freakout.

He stops in his tracks, then, looks at her wide-eyed. She takes in his messy hair, his rosy cheeks, a few droplets of water on his face, and smiles.

“Hello.”

“Um, hi?” he greets, eyes darting to the door and back again. “I- I’m sorry, are you staying here? I didn’t know that- if-“

“All good,” she interrupts, sitting up straighter, smile not faltering. “Cooper has graciously let me claim this room for the weekend, and I came here to… take a breather, I guess.”

Nicholas leans against the door, then, arms crossing over his chest.

“I’m sorry for invading your space, then.”

“You’re totally fine, I’m happy to share if you’d like.”

“How very nice of you,” he says, gives her a tiny smile before stepping forward and stretching out his arm. “I’m Nicholas.”

She takes his hand in hers, shakes it, hoping he doesn’t notice how clammy her palm is.

“(Y/N),” she grins, “nice to meet ya.”

They stay there for a beat too long, him standing above her and her sitting, shaking hands sluggishly, before she decides to break the silence.

“Were you okay in there?” she says and lets go of his hand, motions to the bathroom.

He drives a hand through his hair, nodding slowly.

“Yeah… yeah, well. I had to splash some cold water on my face and just… be in silence for a bit, but I’m okay. You?”

She scooches up the bed, leans back against the headboard and stretches her legs out in front of herself. Her back hurts a little and she was looking forward to stretching out properly for a bit, but there’s no way she’s going to sprawl across these sheets in front of him.

“’m okay, thank you. Just overwhelmed. I can leave again, though, if you’d like. You were here first.”

“Technically,” he starts, sauntering over to the other side of the bed, pointing at it and sitting down when she gives him a nod, “you were here first, and I can totally leave if you need me to.”

She chuckles, rolls her eyes a little, feels the three tequila shots she took before coming up here in her system.

“Sharing is caring, Nicholas, and besides, do I seem like I’d want you to leave?”

He shrugs, gives her a slow smile. “Guess not. Thanks.”

He asks her how she knows Cooper and she tells him the story of how they met at a party and instantly hit it off, she asks him what it’s like to be working with Cooper in a professional setting, and their conversation moves from the topic of their mutual friend to various others: Nick’s career, her studies, their hobbies and so on and so forth. At one point he sneaks downstairs and comes back with four bottles clutched in his large hands: two water and two Smirnoff ice.

“Do I look like a 17-year-old to you?” she laughs when he holds them towards her in triumph, tongue in cheek.

“C’mon, (Y/N), live a little.”

Comfortable silence settles over them when they’ve emptied their drinks and she can’t believe just how easy he is to talk to, how much time has passed while they were having fun.

“So…” she asks, heart hammering in her chest but she swallows down her sudden nervousness, “Wanna talk about it?”

She nods towards the bathroom and he inhales sharply once he’s understood her question.

“Not sure what you mean.”

“I mean, you clearly weren’t doing so well,” she says, smiles at him, shrugs, “I’m just saying, if you wanna talk about it, I’m here to listen. This is a judgment-free zone.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he frowns but the smile he’s trying to fight of betrays him, “I judged you pretty hard for your snack preferences to be honest.”

“Pickles and peanut butter are a delicious combination!” she laughs, exasperated, “Don’t knock it ‘til you’ve tried it!”

They stay giggling like that before he shrugs, fiddling with a loose thread of the comforter they’re sitting on.

“I just… it’s… I think I messed up,” he sighs, leaning his head back against the headboard, exposing the column of his throat that she is decidedly not looking at.

“How so?”

“With my… ex. Well, ex I think.”

She nods slowly, not quite following. Of course, she knows who his ex is, her name, what she looks like, the projects she’s involved in. She seems like the sweetest girl, but not much is public about her, so her curiosity is piqued.

“Go on…”

He exhales then, grabs his water and downs the rest of it in one go, wiping his mouth before crossing his arms across his chest. He’s frustrated, she can tell, but he looks so damn good that she feels a tad guilty for being on the verge of distraction.

“We broke up during a fight last week. It was so bad, and… I mean, it’s been bad, right? My schedule, the distance, she grew more and more tired of it and I- I get it, y’know? It’s not easy, being with me.”

“I see,” she nods, turns towards him more. “I can imagine that your lifestyle can get tricky for everyone involved.”

“Yeah, I can’t expect everyone to wanna keep up, y’know? And the worst part is, when she did it- because she did it, right- I felt relieved. Like somehow, she was being set free, and I didn’t have to be the asshole to do it.”

Her eyes narrow, not quite agreeing with his statement. She saw how hard Hollywood can be on anyone, especially someone with a “normal” partner who’s got a “normal” job, but it’s not like anyone is being forced to hold on to their unhappiness. She tells him as much.

“Well, yeah, I’m being a bit dramatic. But at the end of the day, I know it’s better for us if we are separated. I still love her so much, but… I can’t. So much has happened, and I… can’t.” He gets quiet then, stares out the window into the night, before chuckling humorlessly, “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. ‘m sorry for being such a downer.”

“Hey, no worries at all,” she smiles warmly, reaches out to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, squeezes once. “I offered, and I really am here to listen. Thank you for your trust.”

He scoffs, not unkindly. “Yeah, you’re really easy to talk to. Thanks for that.”

One more squeeze to his shoulder before she lets go, leans back.

“So, you feel like you fucked up by, what, letting her break it off, or…?”

Nicholas snaps out of his momentary thoughts, shakes his head.

“Oh, that wasn’t the fuck-up, no. I feel shitty because… well, because of what happened yesterday. I drove to hers to give her some stuff back,” he explains, and her stomach drops. They broke up, he drove to hers, he messed up.

There’s only one thing that can mean, and she listens closely, waits for him to say it, but the words never come.

Throwing caution in the wind, she dares to finish the train of thought for him.

“And you two had sex.”

Nick’s wide eyes snap to hers, a blush coloring his smooth cheeks, and she chuckles.

“C’mon, it’s okay, we’re all grown here!”

“It was so stupid!” he exclaims, throwing his head back while she has to hold back her laughter. “Don’t make fun!”

“I’m sorry, I’m not!” she giggles, reaches out to him to get his attention. “Nicholas, that’s normal! Is it really a breakup if you don’t have breakup sex?”

“Yes!” he laughs at her, a little manic this time, driving a hand through his tousled hair. “Fuck you mean, is it really a breakup? Having sex after is the dumbest move you could make!”

Hiding her face in her hands, she allows herself a loud belly laugh, endlessly amused by his distress. She calms herself down, has a sip of her water.

“I disagree, sometimes it’s needed for closure.”

“Yeah, fuck that, because earlier she texted me if I could come see her again soon and that there’s things we still need to talk about. I feel like I’m back at square one.”

“You think you’ll give in to her if she asks to give your relationship a second chance?”

It takes a beat for him to mull it over.

“I don’t know, maybe?”

It’s been an interesting night so far and the alcohol is still shimmying its way through her system, she’s here with her celebrity crush and having a great time, so she makes a conscious decision to be bold and see where it lands her.

She scoots closer, turns so she’s right next to him and sits criss cross applesauce so she can lean forward and take his hands in hers. He’s looking at her questioningly but goes with her motion.

“Nicholas, I know we don’t know each other, but I want you to tell me if you need me to be honest with you or if you want me to hype you up on getting back on your bullshit? Just say the word and I’ll do it.”

His unsure gaze darts to the side before settling on hers again, nodding dumbly.

“Tell me what you think,” he requests, and she smirks as she obliges.

“You’re being a big fucking baby and you need to get over it and tell her, once and for all, that it’s better this way. If you go there, have the conversation and then get back with her despite your gut telling you not to? That would be a fuck-up. Sex with your ex is nothing compared to what a mistake that would be.”

The silence that settles over the room is thick, turning more uncomfortable by the second, and suddenly she feels herself sober up quickly, the realization of what she just said to this stranger, how grandiosely she stepped out of line, hitting her hard.

Apology ready on her lips, she’s just about to backtrack, when he squeezes her hands, closes his mouth in a resolute expression.

“Damn, that was… Thank you. Yeah, you’re right,” he’s muttering, and she can feel her heart in her throat, relief washing over her. “Wow, I don’t think anyone in my life would be as honest with me as you just were.”

She smiles sheepishly, heat crawling up her neck.

“I’ll never be the friend who tells you what you want to hear, Nicholas, but I’ll always be the friend who tells you what you need to hear.”

He lets go of her, then, leans back with a calculating gaze, eyeing her up and down.

“So we friends now, you and I?”

She shrugs. “Whaddya think?”

He hums. “You called me a big fucking baby. Only friends get to do that.”

He holds out his large hand and she takes it, shaking it with a smile.

“Deal.”

She goes back to her place against the headboard and they sit in silence for a moment before she turns her head, smirks teasingly as she says, “I will say, though, you don’t look too happy for someone who’s freshly fucked.”

His guffaw is sudden, unexpected, but it makes her laugh along, refusing to be embarrassed by her rude remark.

“What even are you?” he asks her incredulously and she throws her head back, belly hurting from how funny he is.

“I’m just saying! No matter who it’s with, people usually glow after, and you looked like a kicked puppy when I found you.”

He scoffs, “Found me, yeah right,” he says, but locks eyes with her and winks.

“Yeah, well,” she muses.

“Sorry that a damper got put on my after-sex-glow and you couldn’t enjoy it, little missy!”

“Oh, so there was a glow?” she asks, teasing him but curious, her stomach tightening. She makes sure to keep her tone light and playful but there’s nothing she wants to know more than the details of how he fucks.

She’s an open girl, sexual and talkative, and despite people in the past trying to make her feel less than for it, she lives out her personality shamelessly, unapologetically.

His confirmation comes slow, thought-out.

“I’d say so, yeah. There always is when it’s good, isn’t there?”

She hums.

“So it was good, despite everything?”

The way he turns towards her is unhurried, deliberate, and she feels her pulse quicken, feels like she’s about to be scolded for her forwardness.

“What are you asking me there, missy?”

Gulping down her nervousness, she answers, “Look, even though I was hoping for it, I don’t think I’ll be finding anyone to share my bed with tonight, so the least I could do is… talk about it.”

He grins. “Someone had plans, huh?

She shrugs nonchalantly. “I like sex.”

“Talking about it, as well?”

Her inhale is deep as she thinks about how to word her thoughts.

“I like knowing what others like, how they view that act of intimacy. It’s one of my favorite topics.”

“You’re not a sellout, are you?” he questions, but the crinkles by his eyes show her he’s being humorous.

She rolls her eyes, delivering a swat to his arm.

“You’re not dumb enough to fall for shit like that, Nicholas.”

A beat passes before she hears his voice again, “Yeah, it was good. Always is with her, to be honest.”

“The familiarity of a long-term partner is unbeatable, isn’t it?”

He agrees.

“How’d you have her?”

“Fuckin’ hell, you just speak your mind, huh?”

She’s playing with a strand of her hair, picking at the split ends, she needs a haircut. She doesn’t want to come across as eager, so she shrugs yet again, glances at him.

“If you’re uncomfortable, you don’t have to answer.”

“Nah,” he says, clicks his tongue before replying, “You can ask. I think I’m curious to see how your mind works, (Y/N).”

Her eyebrows raise in slight surprise, but she presses on.

“Good. So?”

The sheets rustle as he shifts, settles in so he’d be more comfortable, sprawling on the bed like it’s his own, like he owns the place. Their thighs are this close to touching and she wills herself not to focus on that too much, rather listening to what he says next.

“I never take her one way only,” he confesses, then, causes heat to lick up her spine. “We started kissing against the back of the couch, but I lost my patience quickly, I… I just had to fuck her.”

“So you took her from behind? Against the couch?”

“Nah, that came later,” he narrows his eyes as if he has to remember it, “I picked her up, that’s how we started.”

“With her legs around you?” He nods. “Just straight into it, no foreplay?”

He smirks, turns to her. “I tend to let my hands travel during make-out sessions, if you know what I mean.”

She exhales sharply. “Let’s say I don’t know, Nick.”

One thick brow of his rises teasingly, eyeing her.

“I had some fingers in her while we were kissing, (Y/N).”

“Damn, okay. How many is some?”

“You’re real fuckin’ curious, aren’t you?”

“Fuck off, I’m only human.”

She’s not even ashamed of her thirst for information, his words causing a movie to form in her head and she refuses to let a cliffhanger disappoint her.

“Two this time, I was impatient. Plus, I like her tight.”

She looks away, then, turns her head away from his so she could school her expression. His face is unreadable, charming smile in place, but his eyes give nothing away. It does little to settle the fire inside of her.

“Did you eat her out?”

“Later on, I did.”

What a mental image.

“Did she… go down on you?”

“Not this time.”

“Can she… can she take all of you?”

Nicholas’ eyes widen at her boldness before they glance down, looking at his own crotch. She follows his gaze, stupidly, but his pants are too loose, giving nothing away.

“She tries, but no. Nobody could before.”

It feels like her heart is going to jump out of her chest when suddenly Nicholas reaches up, wraps one hand around the front of her throat, eyeing it as if he’s inspecting it closely. He drives one finger over her hammering pulse point and chuckles before pulling away entirely.

“Yeah, maybe you could. You’d choke on it, though.”

“Cocky bastard, don’t fucking act like you don’t love that.”

He considers it for a moment.

“I don’t mind it. A hand in your hair, drilling into your throat, makes for some neat little sounds, I’m sure.”

“Fuck,” she breathes, gathering herself before pressing. “Then what? You fucked her standing up and then?”

“I carried her into her bedroom, took her missionary. I love that position, it’s so underrated.”

“It really is,” she agrees, a dreamy hush sneaking into her words. “The passion of it, the romance. Fucking eye-to-eye is not for the faint hearted.”

A laugh escapes him at that, and he looks at her, awe written all over his face.

“Yeah, exactly. Many variations of that, as well. My personal favorite is having her legs over my shoulders, I can get real deep that way.”

“Oh wow, that one’s good. Plus, it allows for room. I… I find it easiest to play with myself that way.”

The admission is very personal, she knows, but she deems it unfair to let him spill his guts while she gets to keep her secrets.

“Play with your clit, you mean?” She nods, bashful. “Do you always need to?”

“I don’t come without it,” she says, watches his brows furrow. “What?”

“Nobody’s ever made you come on his cock only?”

The way he says it, the word, the whole sentence, as if offended on her behalf, makes her pussy clench where it’s steadily leaking.

“I don’t know if I can,” she frowns, “not every woman can.”

“Every woman I fucked could, though,” he smirks, and she hides her flaming face behind her hands.

“You’re unbelievable, fuck,” she tells him, allows him his smug smirk, though. “Did she come untouched as well?”

“Yeah, she did.”

“Did she ask permission?”

He squints his eyes. “Permission…?”

Her mind is going into overdrive, hoping to God that she isn’t scaring him off but needing to share her deepest desire with him, needing to know his in turn.

“When I get fucked,” she starts, ignores the surprise in his face, “my orgasms aren’t mine, they’re his. Right? So, I always ask permission.”

“What if he says no?”

“Then I hold it.”

“Fuck,” he breathes and she watches, throat dry, as he reaches down to adjust himself in his pants unabashedly. “You’re a dirty girl, aren’t you?”

“Only with men I trust.”

She tears her eyes away from his crotch to look at him.

“Is there anyone like that in your life right now?” She shakes her head no. “Good.”

It takes all of the restraint she can muster up not to beg him for something, anything, right then and there, but she focuses on the story he owes her.

“How many times did you make her come?”

He thinks about it, shrugs. “Stopped counting at three.”

“Goddamn. How did you come?”

“Inside her, while she was riding me,” he smirks, paints the picture in her head so clearly, only that it isn’t a head full of brown hair that’s thrown back in ecstasy but-

“You asked if I ate her out?”

She’s scared to speak.

“…yes?”

“That’s when I did it, after. Cleaned her up nicely.”

She brings a hand up to her mouth and covers it, mind and heart racing.

“Did you- Nick, did you swallow your own load?”

Nicholas clicks his tongue, trails his eyes over her rapidly moving chest, locks his eyes on hers as he delivers one devastating blow, “Aw baby, don’t tell me you’re unfamiliar with getting a mouthful of come spat onto that pretty tongue.”

Delirium grips at her then, grabs her by the throat and doesn’t let go, takes control of her limbs and makes her straddle him quickly as he sits up to welcome her, grabs her and pushes her hips down into where he’s bucking his up. Nicholas’ tongue on her neck makes her moan, hot all over.

“I will ask you something and I want you to be honest with me,” he rasps, bites at her earlobe, “a truth for a truth, deal?”

“Yes, please-“

“When did you start thinking about you being the one taking my cock?”

“Fuck!” she exclaims with her hands tangled in his head, pulling a little, frustrated at being found out but relieved that he’s embracing it so openly. “When you talked about throwing her legs over your shoulders.”

“Good girl,” he says, nips at her collarbone as he holds her tight, “wanna know something? I stopped talking about what I did to her when you asked about her going down on me.”

“You lied?” she shrieks, outrage as fake as her restraint.

“I won’t disrespect her by divulging too much information, plus I just wanted to see how you’d react.”

Clever fingers reach under her shirt to unclasp her bra, helping her out of her clothes so her upper body is bare.

“And, did you like it?”

“Fuckin’ loved it.”

He buries his face between her tits, squeezing them periodically, and she’s just about to beg for his cock when he looks up at her, apology written all over his face.

“I can’t fuck you, I’m sorry,” he says, “I shouldn’t even be touching you right now. Not until I know, for sure, where I’m at in life.”

The telltale burning behind her nose makes her want to scream, the sexual frustration overtaking her, but she reels herself in, albeit barely. Of course it hurts, being rejected like this, but she isn’t about to make things more complicated for him than they need to be. She’ll take what she can get from him, this could be her only chance.

“Fuck, that’s okay, Nick. I understand.”

“’m sorry, (Y/N).”

“Fuck,” she breathes before she pushes him back, eyes on him as he puts his hands behind his head, observes her as she tries to wiggle out of her jeans. “You don’t have to touch me, we can play some other way, no?”

Nicholas closes his eyes as if in pain, exhales deeply before they open again, jet-black gaze meeting hers. He nods.

“Get back here, baby,” he groans, and soon enough she’s perched on his lap again, fully naked while he’s still dressed, rubbing her center against the material of his pants.

“I’m dying to taste you,” she confesses, so close to tears it’s embarrassing, but with him she feels no shame.

The hands he’s got on her hips tighten as he looks up at her through his full eyelashes, something dark in his eyes.

“So am I, you’re fucking dripping for me.”

“And you’re hard for me,” she states, needs that equilibrium.

“All for you, (Y/N),” he breathes, bucks his hips up once more. “Dying to touch myself.”

“When was the last time you did?”

“This morning.”

She believes him, knows he’s done with games, and she can’t help but picture it: his broad wet back, droplets of water falling from his soaked hair, one strong arm flexing as his hand is moving up and down his cock, mouth agape but eyes shut in ecstasy. She wishes so badly to see it, to feel it.

“You’re picturing it, aren’t you?”

She barks out a laugh, hips still rotating.

“Aren’t I always?”

“Imaginative little girl,” he smirks and it sounds like praise. “Wanna see how I do it? Wanna watch me fuck myself?”

The wanton moan that escapes her can’t be helped and she’s nodding her head vigorously, not trusting her voice.

“You too, though, yeah? You show me how you work that sweet little cunt, okay?”

“Yes, yes, whatever you want… Take your cock out, please, Nick,” she whines, unable to stop her hands from shaking, from driving across her body, touching herself wherever she can reach.

He does as he’s told and soon enough his pants are down to his knees, cock hard and proud in his hand, the sight making her eyes water. It’s so thick that she knows exactly what it’d feel like deep within her.

“Touch yourself slowly, give yourself two,” he instructs, and she immediately obeys, nerves shot as she shoves two fingers into her dripping pussy.

“Jerk your dick with both hands, baby, but keep it tight. Pretend like it’s my mouth on you.”

“Spit on it, first,” he barks and she looks at him, wide eyed, sees how serious he’s being, before collecting a glob of spit on the tip of her tongue and letting it fall onto his cockhead. The way it slowly trails down before he drives his hand over it, slicks himself up so he can obey her better, makes her gut churn.

“’m so tight, so wet for you,” she cries out, riding her own fingers painstakingly slowly, wanting to do exactly as he tells her to. “And your dick is so fucking big, oh shit.”

“Glide your clit against two fingers, but keep it loose, don’t touch with the intent to come,” he tells her while his eyes are darting between her face and what she’s doing to her pussy, not wanting to miss a thing.

“You really are adamant about me coming from my spot only, huh?” she chuckles but does as he directs her.

“One day, I’ll train you to only come from that spot, fuck,” he spits, hand speeding up as she whines at his promise.

“Shit, my clit is so swollen, if I keep going like this, I’ll cum.”

“You can,” he says, grabs her ass cheek with one hand as he keeps working his dick with the other, “Come as many times as you’d like, as long as you can keep coming until I’m satisfied.”

She can’t look away from how he’s touching himself, confident in his body, jerking it tightly and switching between fast and slow strokes, his full balls following the motion. The need to have her mouth on them, lap at his full sac while he makes himself feel good, knocks the wind out of her.

“Play with your balls,” she whines, always whining desperately, “I need to see what that looks like.”

“Oh, yeah?” his hand leaves her skin as he grabs his balls, rolls them in his palm, moans at how hungrily she’s eyeing the scene before her. “They need to be drained so bad, (Y/N).”

“We’ll take care of that together, won’t we, baby?”

“Fuck yeah,” he growls, looking between her legs again. “Give yourself one more, I want you stretched.”

She does exactly that and moans around how full she feels, knowing that if it were him inside of her, it’d be even more overwhelming. Wishing he was shirtless, completely naked, she fucks herself hard, wanting to take her other hand and drive it along his torso but not daring to stop what he ordered her to do.

“May I come for you, please?” she gasps, hips bucking wildly. She’s not above begging, not for a man like him.

“Come for me, (Y/N),” he growls, taking his hands off himself to hold her up as she convulses with how hard her orgasm hits her, it’s been a few days since she last came. “Good fuckin’ girl, that was gorgeous, fuck.”

Nicholas’ praise gets to her, makes her flush down to her stomach and he notices, laughs wickedly as he pushes her up so she’d sit straight, takes her hand and motions for her to keep going.

“Not done with you yet, keep playing.”

“Fuck,” she winces as she touches her sensitive clit, swollen and hard and just on the right side of painful, but his wish is her command so she can’t help but do it. “Keep touching your cock, Nicholas. I wanna come to the sight of you close to my cunt.”

“God, you make me crazy,” he growls as he does just that, his tip this short of touching her pussy as he really goes for it, hand a blur with how fast he’s moving.

She’s got three fingers back inside of her but apart from the stretch it isn’t doing much for her, she knows he’d make it feel earth-shattering, though, would show her a completely new side of herself, and with that in mind she feels herself close to the edge again, panting.

“I’m fucking close again, oh my God-“

“You’re incredible, keep going, I’m right there.”

It puts a new kind of vigor inside of her and she moves and grinds and moans just how she thinks he’ll like it, puts on a show for him and when he starts whimpering, she knows she’s got him right where she wants him.

Or so she thinks.

She lets go first, wailing as it hits her, having wanted to share that moment with him but being unable to think as the coil inside of her snaps. Falling back onto the bed she pulls her knees to her chest, drives her fingers deep and comes hard.

“Spread your legs, let me mark you, huh?” comes his voice, snapping her out of her high, and without thinking twice she spreads her legs wide and gives him a clear view of her sloppy pussy, takes her hands away so he can shuffle between them, and it only takes him a few more pumps before he’s groaning, shooting string after string of his hot semen right onto her clit, making her shout.

It overstimulates her completely: the feeling of it, the sight of it, the way he claimed her without ever having been inside her.

Nicholas wouldn’t be Nicholas, she has learned, if he didn’t push her completely over the edge, and so through his hard breathing, with his impossibly deep voice, he demands, “Make yourself come one more time for me, baby. Fuck your clit with my come all over it, lemme see it.”

She does just that, but she feels like she passes out, because next thing she knows she’s got tears streaming down her face, his head hidden in her neck and shushing her, soothing her. The throbbing between her legs is barely noticeable through the ringing in her ears, and when he tells her to match her breathing to his, it takes her a while to comprehend.

“You back with me?” he smiles gently, tucks a strand of her hair behind her ear, and she nods shakily, not trusting her voice.

“That was… oh my God, Nicholas.”

He laughs, a soft sound, pursing his lips.

“I don’t know what came over me. Was all of that okay?”

“More than,” she says, needing to reassure him, grabs the hand that’s on her cheek and kisses each fingertip. “I… have never felt like that. Wow. So out of my body.”

“Me neither, I didn’t even know I could, well, do all of that.”

They take a moment of silence to just grin at each other stupidly, gathering themselves, and she feels a ping of hurt in her stomach at the prospect of letting him leave.

“Wanna… stay with me for the night? We’ll be good, I promise, but I just can’t be alone after all of that, Nicholas. I can’t.”

The kiss he presses to her shoulder is long, contemplative.

“I can’t leave right now, I’ll be honest. I feel like you’d fall apart if I did,” he smirks, dodges the swat she so badly aims in his direction. “Nah, and I wouldn’t be well, either. That was intense.”

“So… shower and cuddles?”

“And food, I’ll have to raid Cooper’s pantry.”

The party comes to mind again, she’s already forgotten about it. The people must have already left, it’s way too quiet in comparison to what it was when she came up here.

“Sounds great. But you’ll need to help me, I think my legs are jello.”

“Sorry not sorry,” cheeky bastard he is, but he helps her up and walks with her to the bathroom, starts the shower so it’d be hot when she gets in.

The mirror isn’t very kind to her, showing messy hair and ruined makeup, streaks of mascara running down to her neck where her tears were, but she’s got an unmistakable glow on her face, radiating satisfaction. Nicholas walks up next to her, hooks his head over her shoulder and grins.

“Now you look happily fucked out,” she comments, laughs when he slaps her ass once, not too hard.

“Thank you for that,” he whispers, kisses her shoulder. “I needed it.”

“So did I.”

Her honesty would scare her under normal circumstances, but this isn’t a normal circumstance. She steps into the shower and starts washing herself, wishing she could stay in his fluids for a little longer, rub them into her skin so she’d still know tomorrow that this night was real, but she settles for having him clean and comfortable next to her in bed. He watches her for a while before he exits the room, possibly in search of food, as he’s promised earlier.

She’ll have time for a spiral tomorrow. For now, she just looks forward to letting his breathing lull her into a deep sleep.

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