#whose having the existential crisis?

[shimohyo]

Halara with Sphinx cat!

[sincerely-sofie]

How would Sen react if she found/met someone that was a human, that had been turned into one of the artificially made constructs like her?

She’d be jealous of them for having an excuse to be broken.

[eveninglottie]

.

[kattricia]

meeting my practicum mentor on monday. if she asks me why i want to be a teacher i am legally obligated to lie because ‘i love language’ sounds better than ‘i love chaos and i am unfit for office work.

[baeshijima]

— spoils of war

as heir to the throne, you were more than prepared to face the consequences of losing a war. your duty will forever remain for as long as you breathe, and if that meant bearing the weight of countless sacrificed souls and carrying it with you for the rest of your life, or even being forced to watch your land burn before your eyes was the price you had to pay, then so be it.

the last consequence you could have ever expected and were the least prepared for, however, was an offer of marriage from the ruler of the victorious nation.

CONTAINS : gn!reader, 3.5k wc, fluff, slightly suggestive ending, royalty!au, marriage of convenience (kind of), vague mentions of war & blood, mentioned assassination attempt, mentions of having children (very vague and in the "heir to the throne" kind of way), use of "mydeimos" and "mydei", reader is having an existential crisis; mydei is, um, mydei-ing, written pre-3.0

A/N : is this ooc? um... we will find out haha !! (the moment i saw this man i was wondering how i could royal au-ifiy him (outside of him already being a crown prince, that is). i thought of him being a mercenary or personal guard, but @sfznyxio ty for putting the words 'king' and 'mydei' in the same sentence when u showed his drip in the server bc this idea was born and now i am terminally unwell for him 🙏 but also how did this turn into an actual fic when it was literally a 2 para brainrot in discord... where did this plot come from...)

King Mydeimos, present ruler of Kremnos Kingdom, is infamous across the lands. He is a rumoured tyrant thought to have killed his bloodline in order to obtain this position, whose name alone strikes fear into many, and the very same being who just won the war against your own kingdom.

When marching through the capital to reach the steps of the palace after seizing victory and bathed in the lights of glory, his troops following close behind, you thought he would demand for the materialistic spoils such as the kingdom’s trove, maybe choose to seize control over the defeated land and its troops, or perhaps even wreak further havoc within the castle walls. Given the name he has built for himself, it certainly wouldn't surprise you if he decided to forgo all formality and instead brandish his sword like a blood-bathed barbarian.

And so when he appears in the palace entrance, the setting sun giving his rugged appearance a far more... put together look than expected (you refuse to admit the enemy's ruler to be... handsome, of all things), a recitation of prayers hammered into your head throughout the years of etiquette training spring to mind. If you're destined to fall here, you at least wish to perish with thankful thoughts!

...At least, that was the original plan.

So why is it now you're hearing him ask your father and mother, the king and queen of this now defeated kingdom, for your hand in marriage? Where did this sudden formality come from? No, why is he suddenly bowing to his defeated enemies? And— lord almighty above, did he really have to do this here and now? In front of your nation's high council and his own men, no less!

It is safe to assume every jaw except for Mydeimos' dropped into the nether realm, all eyes gawking at his tall, unperturbed figure bowing in respect towards your parents in the centre.

Having probably sensed the rather awkward air bubbling amidst the dumbfounded troops, your parents turn to you in wait for your decision. Despite the apparent pleas in their eyes for you to not agree to such a ludicrous turn of events, what choice do you really have other than to accept? Who knows what this so-called tyrant could do should you refuse this offer when he is being so lenient!

An audible gulp escapes the base of your throat the moment his scalding gaze locks onto you after your hesitant words of approval, searing a trail of where his eyes trails onto your skin.

Seriously, you haven't been on the receiving end of many — if any — wars, but you're almost positive they don't end this... pleasantly, for a lack of better words.

(Who would've thought you would be a spoils of war, as opposed to the national treasure trove...)

Set to depart when the sun rises, there is little time to gather your bearings and your belongings. Servants are bustling while your parents crowd around you, asking if you're really going to go through with this and, “You can say no! If they don't take your rejection well, we can smite them with our army!”

To that, all you have to say is, “...What army? They're all dead.”

They didn't take that very well, if their concerning increase in flowing tears have anything to say about it.

The send-off is nothing too grandiose, save for the entire palace standing at the gates shouting farewells through tear-streaked wails and blowing handkerchiefs. Your parents are at the forefront of it all. Your mother holds your hands as she tells you to return promptly if it gets too much regardless of the consequences (you appreciate the sentiment, but you don't want to burden your family nor your nation because of a dislike), while your father stands before Mydeimos with an order for him to treat you well and respectfully and, “If you damage even a mere hair on my beloved child's head, I will have your head on display!”

...Perhaps that would have been more threatening if not for the slight tremble of his legs and waver in his voice but, again, you appreciate the sentiment. Mydeimos, if anything, takes it in stride with a calm nod of his head and a promise to take care of you. Really, does anything other than the battlefield phase him...?

Soon you're in the carriage and settled opposite your soon-to-be husband, on your way to your new life with a heavy heart. Is this what all your training to take over the throne has surmounted to? Have all your efforts and dedication spent on being the perfect heir for your kingdom simply come down to being wed to an enemy nation's ruler?

Well, perhaps “enemy” is not the right term anymore; not when both your kingdom's are now in a mutually beneficial alliance, along with the promise for one of your heirs becoming next in line for your kingdom's throne.

Ha! What makes him so sure you will have more than one between you?

...Was what you had asked back when he first made the declaration to your parents, only for him to respond in kind with, “If you'd rather adopt, then we can do so.”

(Bastard. Can't he break composure at least a little?)

As the ride drags on, silence permeates. Whether it is the lingering nerves you hid from your parents or this suffocating intimidation confined within the small carriage space, one question still remains at the forefront of your mind: why did he decide to marry you? Truly, it miffs you. He could have just left you to suffer in the downfall of your nation if he wished to do so, or even let you stay as the heir to the now-allianced kingdom.

Upon questioning his motives for your hand in marriage, his response was merely a slow blink before uttering, "The council wouldn't stop pestering me about getting married."

Oh. Was it really that simple of a reason?

Lips pursed, you press a little more. “Then why did you add benefits, such as an alliance with my kingdom? Even if you, King Mydeimos, were to just—”

“Mydei.”

“—just cut down…” trailing off at the sudden interruption, you blink at his cross-armed figure seated across from you. “Oh, um, what?”

“Mydei,” he repeats once more, attention solely focused on you. “No need to bother with formalities. Just refer to me as such.”

“Oh, well, alright... Mydei?” At your uncertain tone, he nods, as though urging for you to carry on. “Right, well, as I was saying... What was I saying...?”

Without missing a beat, he responds, “You were asking why I offered your kingdom a mutually beneficial alliance when I have the means to cut down the nation with brute force and take what I want through violence.”

“Oh, right…” Huh. Did you say all of that? Well, you certainly were thinking of it, but were you that harsh in your wording? Considering how he recited it all without hesitation, you probably did say all of that, with him being a pretty good listener and you perhaps needing to think over your words before you speak them. “So what is your answer to my curiosity?”

“I simply thought you would be happier if I spared your land and made an offer both of us would benefit from.”

“...I see. Well, thank you for your consideration.”

“Think nothing of it.”

And so the ride continues in silence once more, though this time you find yourself more at ease compared to the prior situation. You, however, still have your doubts about the benefits he gave with the alliance proposal, amongst the absurdity of this entire situation.

...Is the man sitting before you really the feared tyrannical ruler people made him out to be? Surely he is being far too merciful for someone of such reputation. There has been no threats, no coercion (well, if you don’t count the whole marriage fiasco as such, but you did willingly agree to it…), no usage of violence — did people perhaps badmouth the wrong monarch?

Then again, the majority of his prowess and achievements stem from the battlefield. Was all this information just mere hearsay from those jealous of his noteworthy feats, or do their words truly hold some merit in their claim? And really, what do you know about Mydei? From his thoughts, to his motives, to the reasoning behind each action… you know nothing.

Well, considering how he has entertained each of your whims thus far, he has the ability to entertain one more, right?

“Mydei, if I may,” you start, looking to him for approval to continue. When he nods encouragingly, you continue. “You said you made an offer we would both benefit from. While I acknowledge the military and protection we receive from you, what benefit do you reap from us?”

Had you not been eyeing him so intently, perhaps the subtle stiffening of his muscles or twitch of his fingers would have remained unnoticed. 

“Apart from the high quality agricultural and material trade, I have obtained one more thing. Rather than a benefit, however,” he trails off, gaze shifting to the carriage floor. His voice tapers slightly, subtleties of fondness seeping into his tone. When his eyes move to meet your own once more, your mouth runs dry at the undeniable warmth which swirls within his gaze, the rapid pounding of your heart betraying your thoughts. “I consider meeting and having the privilege of marrying you to be the most priceless of rewards I could have obtained.”

(...Who knew a subtle smile could be so beautiful.)

Settling into your new role as the co-ruler of Kremnos was a far easier transition than you’d anticipated. Despite some initial apprehension at your sudden intrusion into the citizen’s lives and you being from another nation, the reactions you were greeted with upon arrival were well-within your expectations.

Apprehension? Sure. Skepticism? Great. Concern over your abilities? Fantastic! Immediate, wholehearted acceptance with preparations already made for your arrival? Um… Come again?

Yes. Compared to the civilian’s very normal, completely expected doubt and uncertainty about you being thrust into the role of their new co-ruler, the same cannot be said about the palace staff. The moment Mydei helped you out of the carriage, a line of servants were at the ready, lined up with the necessary preparations already made to look after you. Your dumbfoundedness must have been quite obvious for Mydei to take note, squeezing your hand with enough pressure and warmth to anchor you down and fill you with comfort before guiding you through the tunnel of awaiting servants ready to receive his orders.

While a little unnerving the palace staff’s ready acceptance and preparation for your arrival may have been, you cannot deny the flicker of warmth which surges when spotting something that reminds you of home.

That particular fruit you enjoy only found in your homeland? An abundance has been procured with the palace gardener equipped with all the necessities used to grow it, alongside a bed of your favourite assortment of flowers already beginning to show signs of blooming.

There was a certain dessert you enjoyed partaking in? Look no further, for the palace patissier has already mastered all the techniques needed to make it the most delicious version you have ever tasted!

Oh, you’re used to having a certain textile in each of your fabrics and certain colours are more to your preference? Don’t worry, the temporary bedroom used until your wedding is made to your liking, and once the wedding is complete your shared bedroom will have all the necessary arrangements!

Truly, the experience of having practically everything needed for your stay to be comfortable already prepared was an… interesting one, to say the least.

It doesn’t escape you, however, the manner in which everyone is rigid in demeanour and stiff with etiquette when in the presence of Mydei. Ducking their heads to avoid eye contact, tensing their bodies as though afraid one subtle movement will trigger his wrath, rushing away as quickly as possible once given their respective orders.

He doesn’t appear bothered; if anything, matters outside of you and battle don’t seem to move him at all. He merely regards everything as a duty to be carried out, an honour to uphold and see through so long as he bears the weight of his title. 

Despite his admitted nonchalance for most matters, you have seen him be expressive on several accounts.

Like that time you were both strolling through the extensive garden holding pleasant conversation about each other’s day, stopping to admire the roses and ready to sing the gardener’s praises, only to catch the smile and unfairly soft expression directed towards you. (Seriously, the difference a smile and relaxed expression can make on his features should be criminal.)

Or the days you choose to visit the training ground and catch the battle-hardened fervour of a warrior which radiate so starkly within his typically stoic demeanour, easily parrying and holding his own against even a large number of his knights rushing to best him, only to hastily avert your eyes when he takes note of your presence and amble his way towards you with a towel in hand. (Well, his torso is practically on full-display all day, but somehow seeing him entirely shirtless after a particularly gruelling training is a little… different.)

Not to mention that one night during your third month in Kremnos wherein an assassin managed to slip through surveillance and sneak into your room, only to be thwarted mere moments before the fatal strike as a sword pierced their torso, their cries of agony quickly silencing and the flecks of warmth clinging to your skin promptly discarded as the deafening hammering of your heart drowned out everything in the vicinity. You weren’t sure how long you were out of it for, but the image of Mydei’s distraught expression and uncharacteristic loss of composure is a sight you’re certain will never leave, much like the rare vulnerability found in his fragile, broken whispers of, “Not again... I thought I’d lost you again. Why must fate be so cruel? Please… Just this once, stay with me until the end.”

(You never really questioned how Mydei caught wind of the attempt or what he meant by his whispered words, too caught up in your near-death experience to properly process anything, but the immeasurable relief upon being embraced within his familiarity was undeniable as you melted into him, allowing him to stay by your side for the night and then the following nights soon after as his attentiveness only grew.)

The time from your first arrival has flown, and now, five months later, the long-awaited wedding is finally being held.

The ceremony itself was nothing too grand. Despite Mydei asking for your thoughts and preferences on how the ceremony should be held, the ideas he’d suggested aligned perfectly with your own preferences: a simple ceremony with the necessary guests in attendance for privacy, a ceremonial carriage ride through the capital to honour the matrimonial bond between you alongside quelling any uncertainties the citizens may have, and to end it all off with a banquet to diminish the doubt brewing from within the nobility of high society.

Thankfully, everything went off without a hitch. Your parents attended the ceremony and greeted you with a tearful embrace upon seeing you in your wedding attire. As it turns out, they will be staying as guests within the palace for about a week, all thanks to Mydei’s preparations. Apparently.

(Upon asking your parents who is taking care of the kingdom’s affairs in their place, you probably should have suspected it to be the trusted, overworked aide who has been by your father’s side since young. Despite his already cushy salary, he should get a raise for having to deal with all this.)

And as you stand here now, chatting idly with some of the knights in attendance who were present in the whole proposal fiasco, you find yourself believing that perhaps your new life here will not be as bad as you feared.

You have to admit, letting loose every now and then is rather rewarding. After all those mental and passive aggressive battles with some of the nobles before eventually gaining their respect and approval (you didn’t have strict heir training just to have nothing to show for it!), you can now relax and let the night pass by. With the knights talking joyfully amongst themselves, you’re sure the night will fly by.

Their topic of conversation shifts constantly, ranging from battle tactics to which is the best amongst savoury, sweet, or spicy to debates about whether that one maid and apprentice chef are secretly dating.

Eventually, the topic of conversation loops back around to your newly sealed marriage; you know, the whole premise for the current celebration. One of the knights, tickled a light pink in the face from the warmth of the venue and the drink half-emptied in hand, turns to you with a jovial grin.

“Y’know, until you came into the picture, I’ve never seen our king so happy and expressive. It’s a nice change.”

Another chimes, “Yeah! I’ve definitely seen him smile a few times when you visit the training grounds! Though he still glares daggers into my soul when we spar…”

“That’s because you suck and His Majesty gets a migraine just from the sight of your sloppy footwork.”

“Wha— hey! You’re the one with a weak swing and can’t even break the training dummy in one strike!”

“I’m telling you the material is tougher on the ones I’m given!”

A breathy laugh escapes you at their back and forth. Sometimes you forget how playful the knights can be outside of their intimidating demeanour, though you suppose their leader is similar in his own right.

Taking a light sip from your drink, the chatter of the knights slowly die down. Just as you’re about to ask if everything is alright, a warmth you have become able to identify looms over your back. It doesn’t take a genius to know why they stopped their bickering.

“What were you all discussing?” Mydei asks, moving to stand beside you with a drink of his own in hand. You weren’t expecting to see him until later, what with how swamped he appeared with greetings and talks of his own.

His knights seemed to have thought the same as you, if their apparent dumbfounded reactions were anything to go by.

“Oh, um, well…”

“We were, uh…”

“We were just chatting like good ole pals, haha…”

Stifling a laugh at their poor attempts, you decide it would be best to give them a helping hand. Mydei’s curious gaze certainly isn’t helping their case.

With an amused sigh you begin, “Nothing much. Just how much they admire and look up to you—”

“We were discussing how your dear spouse thoroughly enjoys the sight of your body at the training grounds!”

A deafening silence.

…You take back every nice thing you said about them. You hope Mydei exchanges all the training dummies except for his own for super-ultra-mega tough ones, just so they can feel the embarrassment you currently do when they are unable to break a mere training dummy.

First off, how did they even know this highly confidential information?! You most certainly were not openly ogling at your now-husband! (At least, you hope you weren’t…)

Second of all, here you were trying to help them save face from all their bickering, and what do you get in return? A loss of your own!

And third of all, that is blatant slander! In front Mydei, their king and commander, and your spouse, no less!

Ha ha. You don't know whether to laugh or cry at this turn of events.

In hopes of salvaging what remains of your thoroughly battered and bruised image, And there it appears, you quickly turn towards Mydei, a myriad of retorts ready to fire on the tip of your tongue. It fizzles out just as quickly as it appears upon what you find yourself gazing at. Though barely noticeable, the lingering remnants of his laughter which spill from that wretched curve of his lips never fails to speed up this traitorous heart of yours. And when his unabashedly amused gaze meets your own mortified one, your mind regains its former desperation.

Before you can think up a retort in a last-ditch effort to save face, he swiftly leans into your ear and whispers, “I would like to hear more about this. Perhaps you can enlighten me when we return to our quarters later.”

…Nevermind. Perhaps it is Mydei who should be getting the super-ultra-mega tough training dummy so he can taste humiliation for the first time in his life.

(However, despite the horrendously dizzying flush you are currently victim to, if it meant seeing his warm gaze and heart-melting smile more often then, perhaps, you wouldn’t mind embarrassing yourself in front of him every now and then.)

(Not too often, of course. That would be too much.)

if you enjoyed this, reblogs and/or comments are greatly appreciated <33

trivia !!

wanted to add this section in case some might be wondering why i went with the timeloop trope yet again (if u did not figure that out from the bits and pieces throughout the fic + mainly the assassination attempt scene then, um, oops. haha.) BUT !! i actually decided to do a spin of his lore for it.

so in his drip market post, it says:

Kremnos, swallowed by mist! City riven between chaos and war! The blood of patricide flows through its royal line, and its god bears the title of calamity.

The undying Mydeimos, the lion apart from the rest. O Chrysos Heir that seeks the Coreflame of Strife, you must suffer a thousand deaths, be bathed in blood on the path home, and bear the madness of fate alone, for one was must slay a god to become one. Iron-hooves pound across the wilderness for the campaign, and must eventually soak in the blood of their homeland.

and mydei is also known by the following aliases "the last prince" and "the undying". now all of this info is more than likely referring to his ability to survive torturous pain, as opposed to dying and and resurrecting a thousand times (or maybe i am right... who knows...), but my first thoughts went to how he had the ability to come back to a certain point in this past after the so-called fate drove him to madness which he alone must bear.

in this context, i wanted for him to be a king who suffered a thousand deaths, but lived through a thousand lives of the same never-ending fate, doomed to watch the fall and bear the madness and watch as you in each and every lifetime suffer at the hands of a fate he cannot save you from. and that is why he marries you because he knows you even if you do not know him and will always choose to lead the same path if it means he has you by his side once more.

...does this make sense? maybe it does, maybe it does not, but what matters is it made sense to me ;w;

oops got a little carried away there with lore and theories um !! haha !! anywho that is enough from me ,,, if u read this trivia then hi !! ty for sitting through and reading my deep dive into the crumbs of lore and how i put my own spin on it :'D

[plutosunshine]

What Is Your Subconscious Trying to Tell You? Planets in the 12th House

Sun in the 12th house

That’s like the universe saying, “You’re powerful, radiant, and deeply gifted… but let’s play hide-and-seek with it for a while.”

The subconscious here is kind of whispering instead of yelling. It’s like, “Hey, you’ve got this inner light, but it works best when you're alone, dreaming, meditating, or doing something wildly imaginative at 3 a.m.” You’re not the “spotlight” type — you’re more like the candle in a quiet temple. Subtle, sacred, and kinda mysterious.

It might also mean your sense of self (the Sun) is on a journey through a foggy forest. You feel things deeply, often without knowing where it’s all coming from. But that’s the 12th house way — it’s not linear, it’s more “vibes and visions.”

Sometimes this placement is like your soul signed up for a retreat in this lifetime: “Let’s develop compassion, spiritual insight, and psychic Wi-Fi.” But occasionally, it forgets it also has to go grocery shopping and file taxes, which is less magical.

Your subconscious wants you to stop trying to be someone else’s idea of “visible” and start honoring the quiet power you already have. It’s telling you: “You're not here to be loud — you’re here to be luminous in silence.”

Basically, you’re the kind of person who might not post selfies every day, but when you do, everyone’s like “Damn, who is this ethereal being?”

The trick? Spend time in solitude, trust your dreams, and don’t be afraid of your own depth. Your Sun’s not lost — it’s just meditating.

Moon in the 12th house

Ah, Moon in the 12th house — aka “Feelings? Yes. Do I understand them? Not always. Do I absorb the emotional state of every plant, cloud, and stranger’s sneeze? Absolutely.”

This is the placement of the secret empath, the cosmic sponge, the person whose emotional radar is so sensitive it picks up on vibes that haven't even happened yet. Your subconscious basically lives in a cozy, candle-lit cave with a ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign, journaling about things your conscious mind hasn’t figured out.

You might cry during shampoo commercials and have no idea why. Spoiler: it’s not about the shampoo — it’s probably unresolved childhood stuff, or your neighbor's breakup energy floating through the walls.

The Moon rules emotions, instincts, and your inner child — and when it’s tucked into the 12th house, it's like your feelings are behind a curtain. Sometimes you don’t even realize how deeply affected you are until your cat looks at you weird and suddenly you're having a 3-hour existential crisis.

Your subconscious here is constantly trying to process and heal old emotional baggage — not just from this life, but possibly from past ones too. (Yup, we’re going full mystical.) It’s like your dreams, gut feelings, and random waves of nostalgia are all part of your soul’s therapy sessions.

And the message? Feel your feels. Even if you don’t understand them. Spend time alone. Journal. Swim. Meditate. Cry at art. Be weird and emotional in a safe, private bubble. That’s where your magic lives.

Also — protect your energy. You’re not crazy. You're just psychic and slightly haunted in a beautiful way.

Mercury in the 12th house

Mercury in the 12th house is like having a genius poet locked in the attic of your mind. They write incredible things, uncover deep truths, have brilliant thoughts... but they don’t always send the memo down to your conscious brain. Or if they do, it gets lost in translation somewhere between “dream logic” and “wait, what was I saying again?”

This is the placement of secret thinkers, inner philosophers, and psychic messengers. You may come across as quiet or daydreamy, but under the surface your brain is a labyrinth of thoughts, insights, and deeply intuitive connections. Mercury here doesn’t shout — it whispers from the shadows like, “Psst, I know something you don’t know…”

It might show up as overthinking in the middle of the night, or having whole conversations in your head that are more interesting than real-life small talk. You may also randomly blurt something super profound, and everyone’s like “Whoa… where did that come from?” and you’re like “I… don’t know??”

Also, let’s be real — your subconscious is a talker. It just prefers dreams, music, symbols, and spiritual downloads instead of bullet points. Mercury in the 12th is more Rumi than PowerPoint.

And your subconscious message? Trust the way your mind works, even if it’s not “normal.” Write things down. Record your dreams. Let your creativity out in weird, wordy, wonderful ways. You don’t have to explain your thoughts to everyone — sometimes they’re meant to be decoded slowly, like secret scrolls.

You’re not forgetful. You’re just tuned to a frequency that plays between the lines.

Venus in the 12th house

Ohhh, this one is pure soft poetry and tragic romance vibes. It’s like your heart lives in a secret garden with a “no entry unless you’re telepathic” sign on the gate.

You love deeply — sometimes even before you consciously realize it. Love sneaks up on you. Crushes feel like dreams. You might be drawn to unavailable people (emotionally, geographically, or dramatically). Why? Because Venus in the 12th doesn’t always want a simple rom-com — it wants a soul story with plot twists.

You might also hide your love. Maybe you don’t want to “bother” someone with your feelings. Maybe you fall in love in silence, or love people in ways they never even realize — like a secret admirer… but spiritual. Your subconscious is like, “Let’s keep this precious thing hidden so no one can hurt it.” (Cute, but exhausting.)

Also, you give love selflessly. Venus here is the friend who will help you move at midnight, bake you cookies when you’re sad, and never mention how much you mean to them. Why? Because they assume you already feel it. (Spoiler: not everyone does. Use your words, magical creature.)

Your subconscious is whispering: “You are worthy of love that doesn’t require self-sacrifice to feel real.” Not all love has to be painful, secret, or karmic. You deserve joy, softness, and being loved out loud. Let people love you back. Let your heart be seen, even if it feels scary.

And one more thing? You’re lowkey magnetic. People pick up on that Venusian glow even if you’re trying to hide behind your coffee cup. So maybe step out of the fog once in a while. Love is looking for you too — it just needs a map.

Mars in the 12th house

Ahhh Mars in the 12th house — the warrior monk of the zodiac. It’s like your inner fighter went on a silent retreat and only throws punches in dreams, poetry, or deep existential crises.

Mars is action, drive, anger, desire. But in the 12th house? It’s doing push-ups in the shadows. You have energy, fire, and passion… but it might come out sideways, secretly, or at completely inconvenient times like “why am I suddenly furious at this paperclip?”

Sometimes you’re not even sure what you’re mad at — you just feel pressure building, like there’s a volcano inside that occasionally sighs dramatically through a vent. Or maybe you hesitate to assert yourself because confrontation feels unsafe or unclear. Mars here often learns early in life: “It’s not safe to show anger.” So you tuck it away… until it punches the inside of your ribcage.

But don’t worry — your subconscious has a plan.

Mars in the 12th is like spiritual kung fu. It wants you to use your strength not just to win arguments, but to fight for your healing, your compassion, your creativity, your dreams. Your drive is sacred, even if it feels slippery.

This placement also gives wild dream energy — you might fight battles, run missions, or fall in lust in your sleep.Honestly, your dream self is probably more assertive than your waking self. (Mars is out there living its best dreamlife.)

Your subconscious is saying: “Stop doubting your power just because it doesn’t look like everyone else’s.” You don’t need to charge into battle — but you do need to claim your space. Take inspired action. Express anger safely. Do physical movement that feels healing. Say no without a 3-page apology.

You’re not passive. You’re just a warrior of the unseen. Mars in the 12th isn’t weak — it’s just training on another level.

Jupiter in the 12th house

Jupiter in the 12th house is like having a guardian angel with a great sense of humor who works undercover. You're walking through life with this invisible cheerleader going, “You don’t know it yet, but I’m totally helping you avoid disasters and manifest blessings behind the scenes.”

This placement is lowkey magical. It gives you luck, protection, and spiritual growth — but in subtle, dreamy, 12th-house ways. It’s not “I won the lottery!” luck. It’s “I missed that train and met the love of my life because of it” luck. Divine timing, secret blessings, the universe whispering “trust me” when everything seems foggy.

You might have this deep, unshakable faith that everything will be okay — even if your logical brain is like, “Girl, how??” That’s Jupiter in the 12th. It’s not loud. It’s not flashy. It’s cosmic reassurance wrapped in a soft blanket of intuition.

Also? You're spiritually wise in ways you might not even realize. You could be the friend who just "knows" what someone needs to hear. Or the person who finds meaning in chaos. Or the one journaling about life purpose at 2 a.m. while others are doomscrolling.

And your subconscious? It’s whispering: “Expand inward.” Grow your inner world. Trust your intuition. Let yourself explore dreams, healing, compassion, art, philosophy — not because they’re “productive,” but because your soul literally needs them.

Also: don’t ignore your gift of helping others — even anonymously. You might be amazing at behind-the-scenes kindness, working in solitude, or just radiating that “safe to cry here” energy. People may not know why they feel better around you — but they do.

So yeah. Jupiter in the 12th? It’s spiritual Wi-Fi with unlimited data. Use it. Share it. Trust it.

Saturn in the 12th house

Saturn in the 12th house is like having a strict, old-school monk living in your subconscious — the kind who wakes you up at 5 a.m. to meditate and reminds you that “suffering builds character.” Thanks, bro.

This placement gives deep inner strength, but not without a bit of existential bootcamp. Saturn here often makes you feel like you're carrying invisible weight. You might not always know why you feel heavy, tired, or a bit lonely — but it’s like your soul remembers every past-life karma, every buried fear, and it’s quietly working through them in the background.

It’s the “I feel guilty for no reason” placement. Or “I don’t even know what I’m afraid of, but I am.” Saturn in the 12th is the cosmic janitor sweeping your inner basement — slowly, methodically, and with a clipboard.

You may also keep your struggles hidden. You might not ask for help, because something inside you says “I have to figure this out alone.” And honestly? You probably do get stronger that way. But also — gentle reminder — you don’t have to do everything the hard way.

Your subconscious is saying: “Face your shadows, but don’t marry them.” You’re here to learn how to carry solitude without it turning into isolation. To build faith and structure in the unseen. To turn fear into discipline. And to realize that your strength isn’t in being hard — it’s in being whole.

Also? You’re probably amazing at long-term healing work, spiritual commitment, and being the quiet rock in chaotic times. You’re not weak — you’re just wired to grow from the inside out, and that takes time.

So be patient with yourself. Your soul’s doing advanced-level homework. You’ll graduate with a PhD in Inner Resilience.

Uranus in the 12th house

Uranus in the 12th house is like having a mad scientist, rebel hacker, and cosmic lightning bolt all living in your subconscious… but they’re working anonymously. Behind the scenes. Wearing a trench coat and sunglasses. At night.

This is the placement of psychic plot twists, intuitive downloads, and freaky deja vu moments. You’ll be chilling and suddenly get a “feeling” not to go somewhere — and then find out later that something chaotic happened there. Or you’ll dream about someone you haven’t seen in five years… and they text you the next day. Classic 12th house Uranus stuff.

There’s a deep inner genius here, but it’s not always available on demand. You don’t always know when inspiration will strike — but when it does, it’s weirdly brilliant. Think: flashes of insight in the shower, sudden “aha!”s at 4 a.m., or radical ideas that come while staring at a wall.

Your subconscious is constantly processing the collective energy. It’s like you’re plugged into the Wi-Fi of the universe — but the signal is unstable and sometimes comes with static and prophetic memes.

You may also crave freedom… in ways you can’t always explain. Like, “I just want to be alone in a cave, reinventing myself every three days, thanks.” You rebel against anything that boxes in your soul, even if no one else sees those boxes. Especially rules that feel outdated or fake.

And your subconscious message? “Liberate yourself from within.” The real revolution is happening behind your eyes — in your dreams, your gut feelings, your untamed thoughts. Trust your intuition, honor your eccentricities, and don’t be afraid to break internal rules you didn’t even know were optional.

You’re not unstable. You’re wired for awakening. Uranus in the 12th doesn’t want you to follow the map — it wants you to channel the lightning.

Neptune in the 12th house

Neptune in the 12th house is like being born with a secret doorway to other realms… but also constantly misplacing the key.

This is peak mystical energy. Your subconscious is basically floating in a foggy, glittery dreamscape where mermaids give life advice and emotions come with a soundtrack. You have intuitive, psychic, or even mediumistic abilities — whether you’ve tapped into them or not. Like, you feel things no one else notices. You soak up moods, signals, and subtle energies like a spiritual sponge wrapped in velvet.

But let’s be honest: sometimes you’re not sure what’s yours and what’s just collective sadness, someone else’s anxiety, or Neptune doing its usual “let’s blur the lines” thing.

You may zone out, daydream, escape into art, fantasy, music, or naps (so many naps). Your subconscious says, “Let me dissolve reality for a bit — it’s too loud out there.”

Neptune here is also like: “Boundaries? Never heard of them.” You might feel compassion for literally everyone — even fictional villains and angry birds at the bus stop. Which is beautiful, but exhausting if you’re not protecting your energy.

And the message from your subconscious? “You are here to connect with the divine — but don’t lose yourself in the fog.” Your superpower is your connection to higher love, imagination, empathy, and art. But you’ve got to anchor it. Ground it. Channel it. Otherwise, it’s like having a gorgeous sailboat with no steering wheel.

You're not “too sensitive.” You’re just tuned into the cosmic frequency that most people ignore. Neptune in the 12th is a portal — and you’re the one who gets to walk through it (just remember to come back for snacks and hydration, okay?).

So dream. Create. Heal. Escape sometimes. But also: have boundaries, routines, and maybe one friend who texts you “hey, are you still on this planet?” every now and then.

Pluto in the 12th house

Pluto in the 12th house? Whew. That’s like having a shadow therapist living in your subconscious, doing deep soul excavation while you’re just trying to make it through Monday.

This placement is intense, transformational, and lowkey kind of psychic. You have emotional X-ray vision — you sense what’s hidden, what’s repressed, what’s not being said. You walk into a room and feel the tension before anyone opens their mouth. You read people without trying. Creepy? Maybe. Accurate? Absolutely.

But here’s the thing: you do the same thing to yourself — digging, unraveling, overanalyzing your own motives, wounds, dreams, fears, past lives, ancestral traumas, karmic loops… all while doing the dishes.

You might carry deep emotional weight that’s not even yours. Pluto in the 12th is often like, “Congrats! You’re the family karma sponge!” (rude, but powerful). Your subconscious is constantly whispering: "There’s more under the surface… keep digging." And you do. Even if it’s uncomfortable. Especially if it’s uncomfortable.

You might also have intense dreams, powerful emotions you can’t always explain, or a strange fascination with all things taboo, mysterious, or dark — psychology, death, sex, power, transformation. Basically, Pluto lives where the sun doesn’t shine, and in the 12th house, it’s got a whole underground palace.

But the beauty? You’re a healer. A transformer. A shadow-walker. You’re here to learn that your darkness isn’t dangerous — it’s sacred. You can help others face their fears because you’ve faced (or are constantly facing) your own. You don’t flinch at other people’s pain. You just get it.

So what’s Pluto in the 12th really trying to tell you?

“Go inward. Let go. Rise from your own ashes. Again. And again. And again.” You’re not broken — you’re evolving. Quietly. Radically. From the soul out.

[neferaskingdom]

♡ It's Not You, It's Your Pants | CL16

NEFERASKINGDOM

Summary: Girl roasts Charles Leclerc’s tragic pants online, then accidentally crashes into him in Monaco. Cue spilled coffee, fashion rants, and an existential crisis about how her life turned into a Wattpad fanfic in under five minutes.

A/N: Just a random crack idea I had after seeing Charles' pants on Pinterest.

CHARLES LECLERC MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

The pants in question:

Monaco was as glamorous as your Instagram feed had led you to believe—blue skies, sparkling yachts, and streets that looked like they’d been personally polished by billionaires. You’d come here for a break from your intense fashion studies, soaking up the vibes (and let’s be honest, hoping for a celebrity sighting). And maybe—just maybe—you’d catch a glimpse of a certain F1 driver whose face had become a staple on your social media, along with some questionable fashion choices.

It was your first time here, a small vacation before diving back into the hectic world of fashion school. Your excuse? Inspiration. But honestly, you just wanted to escape to the Côte d'Azur and sip some coffee.

But you weren’t just an F1 fan. You had your own little corner of fame on Instagram. As a fashion student with a decent following, your niche was breaking down and rating celebrity outfits. Recently, you’d gained serious attention for a video where you roasted none other than Charles Leclerc—the beloved racing prince of Monaco—for wearing, and you quote yourself, “blue baggy pants that looked like they were in a fistfight with a bunch of scissors.”

It wasn’t personal; it was business. And the fact that the pants had star-shaped rips in them? Your comment was basically a public service announcement.

“Look at these pants,” you’d said, holding up a screenshot of Charles sporting his, ahem, questionable fashion statement. “I mean, what are we even doing here? Are these pants or a craft project gone wrong? Who looks at a pair of baggy jeans and thinks, ‘You know what’s missing? Giant star-shaped cutouts for maximum confusion!’”

As you strolled through Monte Carlo, cappuccino in hand, you scrolled through the comments on your viral video.

“Not gonna lie, I kinda miss when Charles used to wear those skinny jeans that made him look like a confused hipster.”

“ARE WE JUST NOT GONNA TALK ABOUT THE STAR CUTOUTS?!?!”

“I think Charles Leclerc has been taking fashion advice from his 8-year-old self. Stars? Really? Babe, it’s not the 2000s anymore.”

“Not the hero we deserve, but the one we need—thank you for saying what we were all thinking about those pants.”

“Leclerc’s stylist should be fired, immediately.”

You chuckled at one of the memes someone had made—a zoomed-in shot of Charles in his infamous star-cutout pants, captioned: “I’m a star, literally.” Honestly, the internet was undefeated.

Mid-laugh, you rounded a corner, not looking where you were going, and—WHAM—collided with someone solid, causing you to spill your coffee, drop your phone, and let out a noise that was somewhere between a gasp and a scream.

“Oh my God! I am so, so sorry!” you babbled, fumbling to grab your phone off the ground.

“No problem, really—”

You froze. That voice.

You didn’t need to look up to recognize that slightly accented, velvety smooth tone. The universe had decided today was the day it turned your life into a Wattpad fanfiction.

Charles Leclerc was standing right in front of you.

And not just standing. He was smiling—that damn heart-stopping smile—and then something in his expression shifted. His eyes narrowed slightly as if he was trying to place where he knew you from. You, meanwhile, were contemplating whether it was possible to will yourself into nonexistence through sheer force of embarrassment.

“You’re…” Charles blinked and then a glint of recognition flashed in his eyes. “Wait, you’re the girl from that Instagram video. The one about my pants.”

If your life was a movie, this would be the part where someone hit pause so you could have a full existential crisis. Unfortunately, reality didn’t work like that, and all you could do was stare at him, jaw slack, as your brain tried to reboot.

“I, uh… well…” you stammered, unsure of how to explain to the very person whose fashion choices you’d roasted in front of millions of people that it wasn’t personal.

Charles tilted his head, his smile widening. “You really didn’t like my pants, huh?”

Oh God. This was happening. This was actually happening.

“I mean, it’s not that I didn’t like them…” you began weakly, still trying to wrap your head around the fact that you were currently being confronted by Charles freaking Leclerc. “It’s just… they were, you know, kind of…” You gestured vaguely toward his legs as if that would somehow help explain your deep-seated hatred for the star-ripped monstrosities.

“Kind of what?” he asked, clearly enjoying watching you squirm.

You took a deep breath, deciding to just go for it. “Okay, look. They were confusing. Like, were they pants? Or was it some weird attempt at turning your legs into a constellation? I couldn’t tell. They had star-shaped rips, Charles. also, why were there so many weird cutouts? Are they… windows? Are your pants ventilated?”

Charles let out a snort, clearly struggling to keep it together. “Ventilated?”

You nodded, gaining momentum now. “Exactly! They look like they’re half-torn on purpose, but not in a cool, grungy way. It’s like someone started cutting them up and then gave up halfway through. And the bagginess? Charles, I don’t even know where to begin. It’s like you bought them two sizes too big, but then tried to fix it by adding rips. And it just… doesn’t work.”

Charles burst out laughing, his hand covering his mouth as he tried to rein in his amusement. “You really think they were that bad?”

You blinked at him, dead serious. “Charles, those pants looked like they got into a fight with a pair of kindergarten scissors and lost.”

He was full-on laughing now, and you felt a small victory in that. At least he wasn’t offended. Although, considering how often people talked about drivers online, he probably had thicker skin than you’d given him credit for.

“I have to admit, I didn’t think anyone would notice the stars,” Charles said between laughs, wiping away a tear from his eye. “But you? You gave them a whole five-minute segment.”

You groaned, pressing a hand to your forehead. “I didn’t mean to turn it into an entire rant! It just… it snowballed.”

Charles grinned at you, his expression softening a bit. “No, it was funny. I saw the video. My brothers couldn’t stop laughing. Arthur sent it to me like five times.”

You blinked. “Your brothers… sent you the video?”

“Yep. They even gave the pants a name. They call them ‘the constellation pants’ now.”

You couldn’t help it. You snorted. “You should burn those pants. Like, immediately.”

He looked down at his legs, pretending to think it over. “They’re not that bad.”

“Charles,” you sighed, suddenly feeling a wave of passion wash over you. “Those pants were an abomination. They weren’t just bad—they were like an insult to pants everywhere. Like, what even were they? Baggy, ill-fitting, with random star-shaped rips? Did they start out as pants or was it some kind of tragic attempt at upcycling? Because I swear to God, it looked like a fabric store exploded on your legs.”

He blinked, clearly not expecting you to dive headfirst into a passionate rant about pants, but there was no stopping you now.

“And don’t get me wrong,” you continued, gesturing wildly. “I’m all for experimental fashion. I love a good risk. But those pants? They looked like you lost a bet to a five-year-old. I’ve seen better craftsmanship at a kids’ summer camp sewing class. They were offensive, Charles. Offensive to pants, offensive to legs, and offensive to anyone with eyes.”

Charles looked back up at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Okay, but what’s so wrong with adding a little personality to my wardrobe? Stars are cool.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, shaking your head. “Not when they’re cut out of your pants, they’re not!”

“Fair enough,” he said, still smiling. “But now you’ve got me curious. If I did burn the pants, what would you suggest I wear?”

Was this a trick question? Was he seriously asking you, the random fashion student who insulted him online, for fashion advice? What was your life?

“Well…” you began, mentally assembling an outfit in your head. “For starters, how about something that doesn’t look like it belongs in a bad 2000s boyband? Maybe some slim-fit jeans that actually fit properly. And—oh!—ditch the weird rips. You’re Charles Leclerc, not a rejected *NSYNC member.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed by your decisiveness. “You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “I’m just saying… you’ve got the face, the career, the whole package. You shouldn’t let the pants drag you down.”

Charles grinned, leaning in slightly. “So, you think I have the whole package?”

Your brain screeched to a halt. Did he just—? Did Charles Leclerc just flirt with you?

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, star boy,” you shot back, smirking despite the fact that your internal monologue was currently having a breakdown. “I’m only here trying to fix your fashion sense.”

Charles chuckled, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary. And that’s when the next bomb dropped.

“Well then, maybe you can help me shop sometime?” He said it so casually, like he wasn’t currently turning your entire existence upside down with one smooth sentence. I THOUGHT CARLOS WAS THE SMOOTH OPERATOR.

“I—wait, what?” You blinked rapidly, wondering if you’d heard him correctly. “Did you just… ask me to go shopping with you?”

He smiled again, that devastatingly charming smile that should probably come with a warning label. “Yeah. I mean, you clearly have strong opinions about what I wear. Might as well put them to good use.”

Okay. Okay. Deep breaths. This was fine. Everything was fine. You were standing in the middle of Monaco, and Charles Leclerc—your internet crush since forever—was asking you to go shopping with him. Totally normal. Just another Tuesday. Nothing to freak out about.

Yet your inner monologue was screaming, “MY LIFE IS A WATTPAD FANFICTION, WHAT IS HAPPENING?!”

“I, uh…” you stammered, trying to process this. “Are you serious?”

“Of course,” Charles replied smoothly, his eyes twinkling. “I’ve got to fix my ‘constellation pants’ problem, right? Who better to help me than the girl who went viral for hating them?”

You were pretty sure your brain had short-circuited at this point. But somehow, you managed to respond, your voice steady despite the fact that your insides were doing cartwheels. “I mean… I guess I could do that. If you really want fashion advice.”

Charles nodded, then casually pulled out his phone. “Great. Let me get your number, and we’ll sort something out.”

You stared at him. Was this real life?

He handed you his phone, and you slowly, robotically, typed in your number, still half-expecting to wake up from this fever dream.

After you handed it back, Charles shot you a grin that could probably melt steel. “So… how about lunch tomorrow? We could discuss your fashion intervention plan.”

Your internal monologue was now full-on screaming. WHAT IS THIS LIFE?

“Lunch? Uh… sure?” you replied, feeling like a character in a rom-com who was two seconds away from tripping over their own feet.

“Perfect,” he said, his smile widening. “I’ll text you.”

And just like that, Charles Leclerc—the man whose fashion sense you had ruthlessly destroyed in front of the entire internet—waved goodbye, leaving you standing there in a daze, wondering if you were hallucinating or not.

Your life? Officially. Unreal.

[yuujispunches]

Of deadlines and desires ~ M.F. (Part 1)

Pairing: Megumi Fushiguro x fem!reader

Summary: Megumi Fushiguro infuriated you like no one else in that college, he knew how to get under your skin. You wanted to strangle him most of the time but a moment of weakness might just change everything.

CW (content warning): college AU (modern setting, no curses), academic rivals, aged-up Megumi and reader (in their 20s), smut, MDNI (+18), fingering, p in v sex, protected sex, some cursing, mentions of alcohol.

AN (author’s note): Hi guys! This is the first part of a small series I’m going to make, it’s the first time I’m really writing something like this but I think I’m really happy with how it turned out. As always a reminder that English isn’t my first language and I’m typing this in my phone so I’m sorry if there are any typos/mistakes. Hope you enjoy Andes me know what you think! :)

Requests are open so feel free to send them! (you can check the list of character I write for on my pinned post)

Masterlist || Part 2 || Part 3 >>

You hate Megumi Fushiguro.

That’s what you tell everyone. That’s what you tell yourself every time he walks into lecture, cool and aloof like he owns the goddamn room. It’s what you mutter under your breath whenever his name pops up at the top of the grade sheet, again, just a fraction of a point above yours. Every time he smirks when Professor Saito praises his thesis framework. Every time he doesn’t even look like he’s trying.

And it’s definitely what you whisper through clenched teeth when he strolls past you on the quad like you’re invisible, only to throw a lazy “Try harder next time.” Over his shoulder without even really looking at you.

Smug bastard.

But tonight? Tonight, you’re not thinking about grades or academic validation or whose literary analysis was more “emotionally resonant.” Tonight, you’re at a party.

Well, you didn’t mean to be. You told yourself you’d just stop by for a drink, show face, say hi to Nobara, make good on your practically empty social life. You’re the kind of person who highlights your planner. Who color codes your notes and sets calendar reminders for assignments you already submitted. So maybe, just maybe, you wanted to feel a little reckless for once.

It’s working. The cheap vodka’s doing something warm and unwise to your veins.

The house is buzzing with bodies and base-heavy music. Someone spilled something sticky across the kitchen floor. There’s a line for the bathroom and someone crying on the porch.

And standing in the middle of the living room like he’s some kind of dark omen is him.

Megumi Fushiguro.

Wearing a black t-shirt stretched a little too tightly across his chest. Holding a red solo cup like he’s seconds away from chucking it at a wall out of boredom.

You freeze. You could turn around. You should. You are about to. But then he sees you.

And he smirks.

“Didn’t think this was your scene.” He says, voice just loud enough to be heard over the music as he closes the space between you.

“Didn’t think you were capable of smiling.” You shoot back.

“It’s not a smile. It’s pity.” He retorts with a cocky grin etched on his face.

You scoff, already reaching for a drink you probably shouldn’t have. “What, you feel bad I’m here while you could be home reorganizing your books by existential crisis level?”

He laughs and that’s annoying too. Because it’s deep and smooth and doesn’t match the tightness in your stomach.

“You’re projecting again.”

You take a sip, even though your drink tastes like floor cleaner. “You wish.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just lifts his cup, eyes scanning you with that irritating coolness he always wears like armor. But there’s something else there too. Something that makes your skin feel hot under your clothes.

“I thought you’d be in the library.” He says. “Grinding your teeth over our last essay.”

“I thought you’d be halfway inside your own ass about how smart you are.”

“Maybe I just wanted to see you off your game.” He scorns.

You blink, taken aback. What the fuck does that even mean? “What?”

He shrugs. “You’re always so... focused. Makes me wonder what you’d be like if you loosened up.”

Your pulse quickens and you hate it.

There’s always been tension between you. A low buzz under every debate, every paper handed back with too few red marks. You’d chalked it up to competition to the way two smart people burn when placed too close for too long. But now?

Now he’s looking at you like you’re not a rival. Like you’re prey. And maybe you’re drunk. Maybe the vodka’s making you reckless. But you don’t walk away.

Instead, you step closer.

“I’m perfectly capable of letting loose.” You say, voice low, defiant.

He tilts his head, clearly amused. “Prove it.”

So you do.

——————————————————————————

It starts with dancing.

If it can be called that. You have never been one to dance. But you press in close enough that you can feel the heat of him behind you. The music’s pulsing, people swaying and grinding around you in a haze of movement and bass. You’re not sure who closes the gap that separated you first, but one second you’re taunting him with your hips, and the next he’s got a hand on your waist.

You turn your head just enough to feel his breath against your jaw.

“You sure you want to play this game?” He asks, voice rough.

“I’m not scared of you.”

“You should be.”

But his grip tightens, grounding you. You roll your hips back and feel the way his breath hitches just slightly, but you notice.

You’re dizzy from it. From him. And when his hand slides lower, fingers brushing the hem of your skirt, you know you’ve crossed some invisible line you can’t uncross.

You spin in his arms, grabbing his collar.

“We shouldn’t- ” You start.

He cuts you off.

“I don’t care.”

And then, before you can protest any further he’s kissing you.

It’s messy. Too much teeth, too much heat. You’ve spent the last two years arguing with this man words like blades, insults flung like grenades. But now it’s all hands and mouths and a feverish kind of need.

You pull him upstairs.

——————————————————————————

The room you manage find is thankfully empty.

He slams the door behind you, but you barely register it, you’re too busy fumbling at his shirt, yanking it over his head with the kind of frustration you’ve been building for semesters.

“You’re such a- ”

“- pretentious asshole?” He finishes for you, grinning as he backs you toward the bed. “Yeah. I know.”

You shove him. He laughs.

Then you’re both falling onto the mattress, a tangle of limbs and tension.

Clothes come off in pieces, your top over your head, his jeans shoved down his thighs. You can feel how hard he is through his boxers when he grinds against you. You gasp, arching up.

“Still hate me?” He murmurs, lips trailing down your neck.

“I might hate you more now.”

“You’re wet for someone you hate.”

“Shut up.”

But you’re gasping when his fingers slip between your thighs, stroking you through your underwear. It’s infuriating how good he is at this. Like he’s studied you the way he studies for exams, precise, unrelenting, deliberate.

He hooks your panties to the side and sinks one finger into you, then another.

“Fuck.” You whisper, nails digging into his back.

He kisses you again, swallowing your moans, slower this time, but no less intense. His fingers move inside you, curling just right, dragging pleasure out of you like he’s coaxing it from your bones.

You grind against his hand, shameless.

“I knew you’d be like this.” He says, mouth brushing your ear. “So fucking stubborn until someone breaks you open.”

“I’m not broken.” He hits that spot again, you gasp.

“No. You’re perfect.”

It’s the sincerity that does you in.

You don’t want him to see you like this raw, open, vulnerable. But he’s already pulling away to shed the rest of his clothes, and you forget how to breathe when you see him.

Leaning back against the pillows, you reach for him, lips parting.

You help him roll on a condom with a hiss between his teeth, pumping him up a few times, slow deliberate strokes and for a moment he swears he is about to loose it right there and then, no better than an hormonal teenager. He regains his composure just barely before it’s too late and then settles between your thighs, kissing you like he means it. Like he’s wanted this. For a long time.

When he pushes in, it’s slow. Deliberate. Like he wants you to feel every inch.

You moan, it’s not graceful. He swallows the sound with his mouth once again.

“Still with me?” He murmurs, forehead resting against yours.

“Harder.” You whisper.

He gives you what you ask for.

Each thrust pushes the breath from your lungs. You wrap your legs around him, you lift your, meeting him stroke for stroke. He holds your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. You kiss him or he kisses you. At this point you can’t tell where you end and he begins.

You’re close. God, you’re so close. His name leaves your lips like a curse, like a prayer.

And when you finally come, it crashes over you like a wave overwhelming and bright and utterly unacademic.

He follows soon after, shuddering against you, jaw clenched.

For a moment, there’s only silence. Heavy breathing. Sweat cooling on skin.

Then you break the silence.

“Well.” you say hoarsely. “That was a mistake.”

He huffs a laugh and rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “Totally.”

You lie there in the dark. His fingers find yours.

You let them.

——————————————————————————

The next morning, you wake up tangled in sheets that aren’t yours, Megumi’s chest rising and falling next to you.

You should feel regret. You should feel awkward.

Instead, you feel... oddly peaceful. Not that you would ever admit it out loud.

That is, until he cracks an eye open and says, “I still got a better grade on that Gojo paper.”

You grab a pillow and smack him with it.

He laughs real and unguarded. And despite yourself, you laugh too.

Maybe you don’t hate him after all.

Maybe you never did.

taglists are open so let me know if you want to be added for future works! :)

[seellove]

Could You Stay a Little Longer // drug dealer!sukuna x reader

Masterlist

Chapter 3 // (6.4k words) // Explicit - 18+

\|/ AO3 - Chapter 3 | << Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 >>

You're pursuing a master degree across the country, but are currently back in your hometown housesitting for your parents. They've told you all about their undesirable new neighbor, but when you start to get to know said neighbor, you realize he isn't all that bad. Your controlling boyfriend won't let up on you and you grapple with enjoying the company of this drug dealing neighbor boy, Sukuna. Nothing about this is going the way you planned, but is it so bad to let yourself be treated well for a change?

The cultural setting for this is technically economically depressed, rural USA where good paying jobs are hard to come by and there's not many opportunities in small towns, but it could really be anywhere that meets this criteria!

Content Tags/Warnings Throughout Work: Reader and Sukuna are mid 20s, mentions of recreational drug use and drug dealing, mentions of abusive/controlling/manipulative relationship (not Sukuna), could possibly be considered cheating depending on your interpretation (not Sukuna), angst, smut, fluff, time skip, prison time, happy ending trust!

Day 5 - Continued

“This is a collect call from an inmate at the Southeastern Regional Jail, press 7 to accept.” 

No.

No no no no!

Your heart plummets as you stare down at your phone. You want to press it and find out it’s someone else, but you also can’t bring yourself to proceed knowing you’ll hear his voice on the other line. 

His voice. The man you gave everything to last night, who you fell in love with in five short days. 

The one whose arms wrapped you up as you fell asleep, envisioning the rest of your life together. 

It can’t be over already.

The message repeats, breaking you from your existential crisis. You have to accept it, it’s time to wake up from the dream and face reality.

“Hello?” you say cautiously after pressing 7.

You hold your breath, heartbeat thundering in your ears as you await his voice because deep down you know it’ll be him. 

Moments later, you hear his voice saying your name, and it all but shatters you. Your heart disintegrates into a thousand pieces and you feel light headed, realizing you stopped breathing when you accepted the call.  

“Hey baby,” his deep voice says again, “you there?”

Fuck.

“Sukuna. I’m here,” your voice is so shaky, trying to keep your composure but your body just doesn’t want to cooperate.

“I’m sorry I didn’t get those donuts. And that you had to wake up alone. To this.”

His voice is so tender and it hurts even more as he continues.

“I don’t have a lot of time, maybe another minute, but obviously you can see I got arrested.”

“What happened?” 

“Long story short, I came up on a wreck in the river, a mom with two kids. You know how these backroads are, so narrow and easy to over correct. Anyways, I stopped to help and I guess when it was all said and done, cops searched my car and found some stuff. Enough to probably put me away for a while. I’ll be arraigned tomorrow morning, already called my lawyer and everything.”

“When can I see you? I need to see you,” you feel the tears starting to drip down your chin like soft dew collecting on leaves in the humid morning air. They slowly fall, a sign of your world, your future as you know it, slipping from your grasp. 

“You’ll be able to get out right? It’s not too bad, just a little slip up right? People go to jail all the time” you stutter, feeling the panic starting to mount. 

“Should be able to see me after the arraignment. Contact the jail now, it needs to be 24 hours in advance. Should let you come in tomorrow afternoon.” 

You put him on speaker and text all that to yourself because you know you are barely absorbing anything right now.

“You’ll get out though right?,” you say again, noticing he didn’t comment. 

He doesn’t respond at first, instead the empty silence seems to last for an eternity as you wait with bated breath.

“I will, but I don’t know how long,” he finally says, his soft tone doing nothing to assuage your worries. 

“I have to go, come tomorrow, we can talk more, and…well, I really wanna see you. Dying to actually,” he says and you swear you hear his voice shake. 

“I will, I’ll be there,” you try to choke out. This time is precious and you can’t waste it crying.

“Hey tomato girl?” 

“Yeah?”

“I’m really sorry.”

The call cuts off without warning, his voice still echoing in your mind. A voice you wish you’d heard more of. You don’t even have a voicemail to replay, relying on your memories alone.

You now regret losing that one precious night together. If you’d have known your time would be cut short like this, you’d have spent every waking second with him up until now. Soaking up his soft kisses, his strong embrace, the endless puns and jokes he annoyed you with. Everything you took for granted. 

It has to be some sick joke the universe is playing on you. You’d only been his girlfriend for what? Twelve hours? You guess you still technically were. No one else knows though, which is odd considering he’s someone you’d actually be happy to introduce to people. You are all alone in carrying this information, there’s no one to talk to, no one knows he exists in your life. 

Your parents know him, but you can only imagine their reaction if you told them he was your boyfriend…oh and by the way he got arrested today.

Burying yourself in the sheets, you can’t hold back the tears anymore. They quickly turn into full blown sobs, your body visibly shaking from their intensity. The stark unknown of it all is paralyzing. After all your talks of dreams and plans to be together, all you see is nothing, no light at the end of the tunnel. 

People go to jail all the time though, surely it wouldn’t be more than a month or two. A year at most. Sukuna does have a record, but it seems like it never really landed him in a cell for that long. He had a lawyer, he said, they’d surely help get him out. 

Also, he said he had been helping someone! He was a Good Samaritan! And got punished for it. Wasn’t there some kind of trade off that could have happened? 

Your mind is a mess and you won’t be able to calm down until you talk to him tomorrow. For now you might as well try to eat something and take care of the house chores. 

Walking into the bathroom you are met by your neck littered with the evidence of last night. He was a menace in bed, and not in a bad way. You’d lose track of how many times he’d made you cum, probably more times than the last year as a whole. His stamina was insane and even when he couldn’t get it up, he resorted to his mouth and fingers, never leaving you hanging. 

It was the most memorable night you’ve ever had.

Maybe the last one for a while depending on how this all shakes out. You can’t imagine wanting someone else. You’d wait for him…right? You had to, you were together, he was worth waiting for. Leaving him behind when things get tough is the weak way out.

You leave to go back home in two days. You hope to God you’ll have some answers by then, but something tells you that you won’t. It’s more likely you’ll go back, no one will know anything about your relationship with Sukuna so you’ll suffer in silence, and you’ll have to rely on sporadic calls from jail. 

Maybe you could become friendly with his lawyer, or his friends and family. The more you consider it, the more insane it sounds. No one in his life knows you exist, you feel you have no right to know any information over those he’s known the longest.

What you have is real though, there’s no doubt in your mind. Everyone else however wouldn’t understand how you both could fall in love in mere days, hell you don’t even understand it, but you believe that this all happened for a reason, and you believe in the love between the two of you. 

Would they label you a gold digger? An opportunist? Someone only after the drug king’s money? If his parents could have heard his plans, they’d see it was so much more than that. He wanted to be better, he was going to be better. 

As you start to doom scroll on your phone to try and pass the time, you come across a post from your cousin. Then you remember he works at the jail! It’s one of the few decent paying jobs with good benefits in the area so he’s been there since graduating high school. 

He should be able to at least give you some information on what to expect. You find his contact and call him.

“Hey cuz,” his warm voice greets you from the other line.

“Hey there, how’s it going?” you ask, relieved to hear a familiar voice right now. You grew up together and have always remained close, even when you moved away.

“Oh the usual, just working to live,” he laughs. “You in town right?”

“Yes, that’s actually kind of why I called. I, um, oh shit, sorry,” you stutter, suddenly scared of divulging what was going on.

“Are you okay?” he asks, concern lacing his voice.

You mute the phone, taking a massive breath to try and compose yourself to keep the panic at bay. For some reason talking about it makes it more real and causes you to fracture all over again.

“I-no, not really. Look, if I tell you some stuff, can you promise to keep it between us?” you finally muster out.

“Umm, yeah. Ha, well depends,” he says with a nervous laugh. “Did you do something illegal?” 

“No! Nothing like that. Personal stuff. You promise?”

“Yes, hit me.”

“Someone I’m close to got arrested this morning. He’s in Southeastern…where you work,” you force out.

“He? Is it someone I know?” 

“Yes, it’s a guy. He’s…my boyfriend…or at least was, not sure how all that works when someone gets locked up,” you chuckle, “I don’t think you’d know him, he’s my parents neighbor.” 

“Oh shit. I’m-wow, I don’t know what to say. I’m really sorry you are going through this. Have you been able to talk to him yet? Normally once you get processed you are able to start making calls.” You can hear the empathy in his voice, and it makes you want to cry all over again at the thought of someone being there for you. 

“He called a little while ago. I don’t really know what happened, he didn’t go into many details.”

“How are you doing with the news? Are you okay?” your cousin asks. 

You start to choke up, unable to stop the emotion from bubbling up again. Fuck it though, he won’t make you feel bad.

“No…no I’m not. I’m devastated. I’m also scared. I have no idea what is going on, no idea what is going to happen, and all the unknown is killing me. Can you tell me what is going to happen?” you say between sobs, struggling to get the words out.

“Oh sweetie, I’m so sorry. I think that’s a normal response to someone close to you getting arrested. Been in this job for years now and I’ve seen all kinds of responses. All humans react differently, so what you are feeling is valid, just know that. 

Now to what happens. Well, he hopefully contacted a lawyer once he got processed. Tomorrow will be the arraignment at the courthouse. That’s where the charges are presented and you reply whether you will plead guilty or not guilty. It’s also where bail would be set. His lawyer will be there with him. You said you don’t know the nature of the crime?” 

“Just know it’s something with drugs. He’s got a record, that probably makes it worse right?”

“Maybe, drug charges are sometimes federally mandated depending on the amount and nature of it.  And if it’s been multiple offenses, it could double the sentence. Once the charges are presented, they’ll know pretty quickly what kind of time he’d be looking at.” 

You have no idea how much he had on him. Why the fuck did he have drugs with him anyways! You wish you could kick Sukuna right now…you might actually kick him tomorrow. What the fuck was he thinking!

“Okay, I don’t love that, but at least I have an idea of how this is going to shake out. What’s it like visiting someone in jail?” 

“It’s pretty simple. You get searched and go through a metal detector, then get brought down to a visitation room where you wait until the inmate is brought in. A guard will be in the room and you basically sit at a table and talk. It’s not all dramatic like in the movies with someone in chains in a sterile room, that’s maximum security type shit.”

Interesting, so you’ll be able to be in the same room as him. 

“Can you have physical contact? Like hugging and kissing?” you ask, a little embarrassed. All you want is to be pulled against his chest and feel his strong arms wrapping around your back. 

“Yeah, it depends on the guard how much they allow. I can find out who’s on duty tomorrow and tell them to take it easy on you.”

You’re starting to feel a little better about everything. Sukuna’s got a lot of money too, maybe he’ll be able to get out on bail! You’re not sure why you keep trying to convince yourself of these things, but it gives you hope until you can talk to him tomorrow.

You shoot the shit with your cousin for a little while longer before hanging up, collapsing on the couch and staring at the ceiling. 

It’s dark out, you didn’t even know you’d been on the phone that long, noticing the pitter patter of rain on the roof. At least it helps to make everything seem less hopeless and empty, providing background noise to focus on.

Even as you lay your head on your pillow that night, the sounds of rain falling through the leaves outside helps quell your racing mind. 

A fitting end to the day, even the sky was grieving now that you had no more tears left to fall. 

Day 6

You settle into the plastic chair the guard directs you too. The room is nothing special. Two other similar chair and table setups sit staggered in the room, the ceiling feels low, a vending machine hums in the corner, and there is very little natural light from the small windows along the wall. 

You chat up the guard for a bit and you find out he’s a good friend of your cousin which you are thankful for. He told you to just behave and not to do anything suspicious and he’d leave you both be for the most part.

The chair is super uncomfortable, but then again you figured comfort wasn’t high on the list of priorities for a jail. Guess you were lucky to have a chair at all.

Anxiety and anticipation are clawing at your insides. You are ecstatic to see Sukuna, but also terrified at learning more about the situation. Since last night you’ve been deluding yourself into this headspace of if you don’t know what’s happening, you won’t feel as bad. 

At least you’ll finally have some idea of the situation going forward, even if it’s bad news.

The door opens and his tattooed face and crimson eyes are the first thing you notice. Then it’s the exhausted look on his face and his hunched over figure in the orange jumpsuit as a guard holds his wrist cuffed behind his back. He lights up when he sees you, shooting you a grin that threatens to melt you into a pool under the table. It’s taking everything in you to not launch yourself across the room to jump into his arms but protocol said to wait until the guard gets him situated.

Also, those face tattoos in his prison attire makes him look even hotter as he moves across the room. Even through the loose clothing you can make out the outline of his chest and arm muscles. Obviously it’s not the scene you want to be witnessing, but you can’t argue that your man looks hot. Maybe a good Halloween costume idea in the future?

The future. 

What does that look like? It’s easy to envision your ideal life together, but every daydream gets derailed by an unknown force that makes everything go blank in your mind. The anxiety won’t allow you to see past this no matter how hard you try.

The guard passes him off to your cousin's friend who waits for the other guard to leave before removing the handcuffs. He whispers something to Sukuna, likely the same spiel that you got about leaving you alone on the condition that he doesn’t try anything stupid.

Sukuna turns, walking towards you. Once he approaches, you stand up and throw yourself against his chest, wrapping your arms around his back, hands barely touching due to his large stature. Burying yourself into the scratchy jumpsuit material, you dig your fingers into his back, squeezing him with everything you have as if making sure it's really him standing in front of you. 

You finally pull back and realize his chest is now damp from tears you didn’t even know came out. All you were focused on was holding him and touching him again while your body had this silent somatic response.

“Fuck you Sukuna! What the fuck were you thinking? What the fuck happened?” you choke out as grief overwhelms you. He just cages you against him, earning a chuckle in response as you sob into his chest. 

“It’s not fucking funny!” you try to slap him but he’s just too strong.

He leans back, staring down at you and hits you with that adorable boyish grin, pulling your chair out for you and gesturing for you to sit before he takes his spot on the other side.

“Don’t cry, we are together now. It should be a happy time,” his voice is soft, wiping away the tears from your face. 

“Well I was not happy to get a call from jail. Now tell me what fucking happened.” 

“Well, I don’t know what to tell you. I guess all the blood got trapped in my dick from the night before, and there wasn’t enough left for my brain,” he laughs, taking your hand in his, planting a kiss on your knuckles. 

“That’s not funny! This is serious!” you try to stifle a giggle, but it’s just impossible not to do that around him. You are glad he’s acting like his normal self, so carefree even in the face of tragedy. 

“Oh okay. Well, the other theory is that I had a bad case of post nut clarity and was like, I have to get away from this girl before she absolutely consumes me. Jail is the only place that would keep me from seeking you out,” he smirks again, leaning back his chair with his hands behind his head. 

The smug look on his face and the way he’s leaning back and spreading his legs across from you is so damn hot. The combination of tattoos and prison attire make him look like a true bad boy.

“You’re absurd,” you roll your eyes and smile back at him, fluttering your lashes. 

“Fuck you’re killing me sweets,” he bites his bottom lip, looking at you through lidded eyes that are darkening the longer he sits there. The intrusive thought of him bending you over and fucking you on this table is infiltrating your mind and you can’t be bothered to shut it down. 

“Hey you are the one riling yourself up over there,” you tease, earning a playful scoff from Sukuna.

“However, I bet you’re thinking the same thing I am right now,” you continue in a low voice, pressing your thighs together as you feel yourself slipping even deeper into the fantasy. This is not what you expected to happen, but there is something about him mentioning last night that is making your thoughts devolve into those moments with his breath hot on your neck, his fingers digging into your hips as his veiny cock dragged along your soft walls.

“If it involves this table and me being balls deep inside of you, you’d be correct,” he murmurs, giving you an almost predatory look as he licks his lips, eyes darting around the room before locking back onto your face.

“Oi guard!” he suddenly whips around, “can I touch my girl in here?” 

You feel yourself heat up in embarrassment at his audacious question. This is the opposite of behaving!

“The clothes stay on and you stay in your seat, inmate,” he responds with an amused look. 

“Oh so I can reach under this table and-“ 

“No. You can kiss, and hold hands above the table. That’s not what kind of visit this is,” he chuckles. 

“Fuck man, that’s brutal,” Sukuna turns back around with a pout, adjusting his pants as best he can. 

“I know, I’m sorry. All I can tell you is to try to get on the list for conjugal if you want to do that,” he says from across the room while Sukuna sulks, chin resting on his arms on the table. 

“What’s that?” you ask.

“A visit where you get an apartment to yourselves for 24 hours on the prison grounds. As you can imagine though, there’s a lot of prisoners and only one unit, and everyone wants to go for the same reason.” 

Oh. You feel odd being so open about sex in here, but fuck it, at this point you don’t really have a lot of options and surely this guard was used to dealing with sexually frustrated inmates. 

“Fucking you all night and then getting locked up immediately after is a special kind of hell,” Sukuna whines and the guard just laughs, walking back to the other side of the room. 

“Tell you what, I’ll give you some time while I take a piss. Ryomen, hands to yourself, stay in your chair, and clothes stay on. Miss, you can move around. You speak of this and I’ll make sure she never comes to visit you again, and I’ll certainly make sure you never get chosen for conjugal.” 

Sukuna’s eyes practically pop out of his head as he processes what the guard says. 

“I won’t say a word,” Sukuna’s voice rises in excitement, bolting straight up, eyes locked onto you as the guard handcuffs his arms behind the chair. 

“Woah, freaky,” he snickers as the guard leaves.

“Your time starts now,” he says as he shuts the door.

“Oh my god, pleaseeeee come touch my dick. Jerk me off, stroke me, rub me, I don’t even care, just fucking touch me. I neeeed it,” Sukuna is whining again, pushing himself back away from the table. 

He sounds like a pathetic teenager begging his girlfriend to feel him up for the first time and it makes you snicker as you move your chair next to him. It’s not hard to find his dick from the tent his erection is making in his pants. 

He hisses and tries to stifle a moan as you grab him through the fabric. He’s so hard, no wonder he’s throwing a fit. You grip him tightly and start pumping your hand along his clothed length. 

“Fuck baby oh my god,” Sukuna mutters as his eyes roll up to the ceiling before squinting shut.

“Can you finish in a minute?” you give him your most sultry tone as you start to move faster. 

“Mmm, gonna fuckin’ try. Feel like a fuckin’ virgin right now. So sensitive,” he groans. 

Sukuna starts bucking his hips up to meet your hand, his breaths getting heavier as he exhales deeply from his throat with each thrust.

You’ll try to help him out as best you can. Leaning against his neck, you give your best attempt at something similar to phone sex.

“Yeah? Thinking of me riding you? My cunt so tight and wet around your cock? Tits in your face bouncing while I take all of you soooo deep, ass clapping against your thighs.”

Sukuna moans again, hips jerking faster as you leave a trail of your hot breath on his neck.

“Fuck Kuna, keep going. Right there! Oh god Kuna, gonna cum all over your cock, grip it so tight and you better cum deep inside me. Won’t waste a drop baby-“

“Fuuuuuuckkkk” Sukuna emits a deep growl from his throat as he starts jerking in his seat and throbbing in your hand, clearly cumming in his pants. His eyes are squeezed so tight and jaw clenched so hard you swear he’s gonna break a tooth. 

He’s gasping for breath as you let go of him, head hanging down against his chest before sitting back up to plant a soft kiss on your cheek. 

“Ohhhh, my god. I fuckin’ love you,” he grins, a flush spreading across his face as you move back to your side of the table. He looks like a kid on Christmas morning. You’ve never seen someone so elated over a handjob through their clothes but hey beggars can’t be choosers right now.

“Alright, times up!” 

The guard comes back. He doesn’t say a word, just uncuffs Sukuna again and moves back to the other side of the room as if nothing ever happened. 

“Sorry you have to sit here now with your boxers all dirty,” you whisper.

“Goddamn don’t apologize, I’ll sit in my cum stained boxers for three days if it means you’ll touch me,” he laughs. 

“Crazy boy. But now I want some answers. What happened when you left the house and what happened at the arraignment earlier?”

Sukuna drags his hands down his face, clearly not excited to talk about this.

“Was trying to avoid this conversation honestly.”

“Sukuna, you were gonna keep me in the dark?”

“No! Not my intention. I just feel like you are gonna be disappointed in me and you aren’t going to like where I take this conversation.” 

You’re a little confused what he means by that, but you settle in to listen, nodding at him to keep talking.

“When I left your place, I had the bright idea to take the product I had in my house and pass it off to one of the subordinates nearby since I was going to the donut shop anyways. I was serious about leaving that world, so might as well jump start the process. 

So, as I’m driving, you know the bridge over the river after that section of sharp curves in the road? Well, I came out on the other side and saw a car in the river. I called the police, told them what was up, and went down to try to help. 

Long story short, it was a mom and two little kids. I pulled mom out first and told her to go to shore, then swam down and pulled the kids out one by one. One window was open thank god, they were just panicking though as the water was filling up. 

I told the kids to hang onto my back and got us back to shore. Everyone seemed okay, just in shock and terrified of what had happened understandably. 

Guess while this was happening, cops showed up and ran my plates, realized I had a suspended license, searched my car, and got arrested on the spot. A wild turn of events honestly.”

You stare in disbelief as he talks. That has got to be some of the worst luck you’ve ever heard. He did such a good thing, he could have kept going and left them to die. You’d probably still be snuggled up in bed together if he had.

The selfish side of you wishes he’d kept driving, which is kinda fucked, but the dark part of your mind can’t help it.

Sukuna is a good man though, and he’s paying the price for this series of unfortunate events. You both know he did the right thing and are glad he did save those innocent people.

“Why didn’t you just wait for someone to come to your house and get that shit ughhhhh,” you groan, burying your face in your hands. 

“I don’t know. If I could go back I’d have never left your bed,” he says softly, propping his head up on his hand, elbows resting on the table. “You just looked so peaceful and cozy I didn’t want to drag you out of there.”

You just stare at him, eyes glossy as you both hold back the tears. So much regret, everything could be so different if he’d have just stayed put. 

“And the arraignment?” 

He sighs, looking down at the table to collect his thoughts before looking back up, trying to keep himself composed.

“Not good tomato girl, not good at all,” his voice is quivering and it seems like he’s fighting against losing it by forcing a smile across his face. 

“Drug trafficking charges. Five years minimum. No bail. Lawyer said with my record might be more like seven to ten years. 

You swear the earth stops spinning and your vision goes black. Your heart plummets to your stomach, suddenly feeling nauseous and dizzy. 

That’s so long. That’s way too fucking long. 

You feel physically ill and stifle a dry heave which turns into trying to choke back a sob. You can hear nothing, everything muffled as if you were six feet underwater. Sukuna’s lips are moving, but you have no idea what he is saying.

Cold. 

You are freezing, body shivering as you slip into shock. Ears ringing, breath trapped in your throat, unable to replenish the oxygen in your lungs. 

Strong hands shake your shoulders, jolting you from this state as if you’ve been drowning and you’ve been pulled from the water. Everything seems bright, the hum of the lights seems louder, and you gasp for breath.

Sukuna is in your face, hands on your shoulders. He was the one shaking you.

“Just breathe, in….out…. No, look at me, look me in the eyes not past me. Breathe with me.”

His crimson eyes slowly come into focus as you try to concentrate on replicating his breaths. Still trembling, you reach up and grip his arms, attempting to ground yourself and come back to earth. 

Sukuna’s worried look morphs into one of relief as he realizes you are okay. Well, as okay as you can be after learning your boyfriend might be in jail for the next ten years. 

“It’s okay, it’ll be okay,” Sukuna’s soft voice coos, thumbs tracing circles where his hands rest on your collar bones.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s okay, I had the same reaction when I met with my lawyer yesterday.”

You both sit in silence, staring at the floor. You wish you could just wake up from this nightmare; grab his arm and walk out the doors together into the warm sunshine. Instead you feel like you’ve both been capsized at sea, grabbing onto something to keep from totally drowning…except for you wind up in two different currents and slowly drifting away from each other. 

Maybe you’ll end up in the same place depending on the currents, or maybe you’ll end up on opposite sides of the world. Either way, you have no control over the outcome.

“You can continue,” you eventually force out.

“My trial date will be in about a month or two. Lawyer fought to have it expedited to get it over with. That’s where I’ll learn the actual amount of time. I know I can’t fight the charges, but we want to get the sentence reduced as much as we can. He’s hopeful I’ll be eligible for parole. Gonna try to share the story of my plans of going back to school and doing an apprenticeship, how I want to be better, how I don’t deserve to be locked up for that long since I want to turn my life around,” he tries to sound hopeful. 

His arms drop down to cup your hands, large hands swallowing up yours as he squeezes them. A serious look appears on his face and he sits up straighter, staring intently into your eyes. 

“Don’t wait for me.”

“What?” your heartbeat is pounding in your ears again, unsure if you heard him correctly.

“Don’t wait for me. You heard me tomato girl.” 

You don’t even bother trying to hold back the sobs as the floodgates open. 

“N-n-no! Sukuna! What? Why would you say that?” you stutter through the anguish plaguing your entire being as you feel your throat closing up all over again. 

“Shhh, it’s okay. You deserve to live a good life, a normal life. Not with a felon behind bars. I’m not worth putting your life on hold for a third of your life. Cuz that’s what it would be, we’d be in our mid to late 30s when I get out.” 

“Well then we’d still have the other two thirds of life to enjoy together! I-I can’t. I can’t forget you, I could never,” your whole body is shaking and a splitting headache is starting to surface from the constant crying.

“Do you not want to be with me?” you stutter, lip trembling as you try to hold back your emotions to speak.

“Of course I want to be with you! Fuck girl I want nothing more. But you’ll move on from this, it’s only been a few days. It hurts now, but over time it’ll get better. I just want you to be happy and I feel like you will be miserable watching me rot in here for years.”

“Okay but you don’t get to tell me how I’ll feel Sukuna!”

“You should try though. I won’t know any different since I’ll be locked in a cell. I don’t want to be the reason you look back and regret spending these years waiting for my lousy ass.”

“Are you trying to break up with me? Because if that’s what you want, you need to just fucking say it,” you feel anger bubbling up now. It feels like he is stringing you along with this weird pseudo idea of wanting you but also telling you to go live as if you weren’t exclusive.

He swallows hard, trying to maintain his stoic demeanor during this conversation. He knows if he falters, you won’t listen. As it is, you're fighting him. He won’t be mean, he won’t use anger or threats to force you away. You don’t deserve that. He’s already put you through enough. Sukuna just hopes you sit back and think about what he’s saying. 

“I-I can’t. No,” Sukuna mutters. “I guess what I’m saying is that I’m not expecting you to be loyal to me during this time. Just know my heart is yours and if I get out and you are waiting there for me, I’ll be the happiest man alive. But if you aren’t and I see you living a fulfilling life with someone else, I won’t come pester you and blow that up. You won’t even know I exist, I’ll never bother you again.”

Of course he wants you to wait for him. You’re the love of his fucking life. If things were reversed he’d be furious if you tried to suggest something like this. 

His selfish desires want you to come visit him every week, talk on the phone every day, and try to get this conjugal visit the guard spoke of because god knows he’d fucking tear your ass up for 24 hours even though he’d probably be shit in bed after being celibate for months or even years.

But doing all that would fuck with your emotions, keeping you from moving on and living your life. He doesn’t want you to put your life on hold because he had to go and be a piece of shit and blow it all up. 

Guilt is weighing heavy on his heart, all those promises he put in your head just a day ago that he would no longer be able to keep. It feels like he strung you along even though he had no idea he’d hit rock bottom like this. He wants you to cut the line, he doesn’t want to drag you down with him.

“I can’t make you do anything, but I implore you to try to see where I’m coming from. I won’t be upset, I’ll understand,” he continues.

You respect him and sit quietly, running through the scenarios in your head. You know you want kids. Waiting until your late 30s wasn’t what you had in mind. How would you answer people if they ask if you’re single? Tell them no, that you’re waiting ten years for your man to get out of jail? 

Yes. Yes you absolutely would! He has his wishes and requests but you have agency in this too. You can make your own choices and live how you want to. If waiting for him is what you want to do, there’s nothing he can do about it. He’s made it clear though that he’d immediately find you when he’s out. How you spend your time until then is up to you.

“Five minutes.” the guards voice sounds from the corner. 

Fuck! 

The panic is coming over you again. You have to be strong though, you can’t waste these precious seconds. 

“If I write to you will you write back?” you ask. “It doesn’t have to be romantic, just like pen pals. Can you do that for me?” 

“Sure, I’ll do that,” he agrees. To him it’s a decent compromise, probably hearing his voice and seeing his face would just make this harder for you to get over him. 

“Alright, let’s wrap it up you two.” 

You both stand up and you hug him tightly, inhaling his scent one last time, fingers tracing and squeezing every inch of him, trying to memorize the curves and feel of his body, knowing you’ll forget over time. You’ll both age and grow into different people. A lot can happen in 5 to 10 years.

“I love you Sukuna. Forever. Wish you could’ve stayed with me a little longer, but I’m thankful for the time we had. I’ll always remember it.” 

“I love you too. Always will. You’re a strong and amazing woman, I know you’ll be successful wherever life takes you.” 

He gets cuffed once again, but leans down one last time to plant a soft kiss on your lips. A parting gift that you’ll try to remember for as long as you can.

He’s guided away and looks back at you, his crimson gaze locking onto yours one final time. 

One last sentence lingers on both of your lips, the words you both couldn’t bring yourselves to say for your own reasons. 

I’ll see you on the other side. 

<< Chapter 2 | Chapter 4 >>

Masterlist

taglist: @clp-84 @zeunys @aquaberrydolphin @nynxtea @yuujispinkhair @ssc7514 @sukubusss @scorpiosugar @kiixonmm @xlilycoco

[moon-touched-vn]

Its origin in the literary corpus is Welsh, yes, but unfortunately, Welsh tales are often considered window-dressing or an aesthetic at best.

I was vagueposting about a post that had strayed onto my dash. It went something to the effect of, "Arthur doesn't just belong to the Welsh" and proceeded to insist that other versions are equally valid due to cultural diffusion. Then they said it was nothing like indigenous people having their stories stolen and bastardized... because... Reasons, I guess.

We really cannot sidestep the effects of cultural genocide as if they're negligible. Yes, the horse has long since bolted from the stable and tales of Arthur have spread across the world, so in a sense he is a communal figure now; but it's also disingenuous to try and downplay his roots, as well as ignore the fact that the culture that birthed him has been marginalized and oppressed. They have not been allowed a voice, let alone a strong enough voice to even budge the popular conception of his character and narrative.

To give you an example... If I lamented Mordred's incestuous conception and existential crisis, most people are going to know what I'm talking about because there are centuries of a certain literary tradition, enforced by cultural hegemony, to back me up. But if I said, "I wonder how Arthur felt when he killed and buried his son Amr," the likelier response is "Who is that and why should I care?"

And that doesn't really sit right with me. Welsh culture does not have the comparative power to enforce its stories as The Definitive Version of Arthur; there is no danger of the Anglicized and Normanized Arthur going anywhere just because we acknowledge his roots once in a while.

It just strikes me as a bit of a knee-jerk reflex whenever people insist that All Arthurs Are Valid, because what they usually mean, in so many words, is that the dominant culture's view of Arthur is more valid than the Welsh one, and they shouldn't be made to consider the Welsh perspective. Because then they'd have to reconsider the entire framework on which they consider any given telling a quintessentially Arthurian one.

To be clear, nobody's saying you can't have jousting and plate armor and Camelot and chivalry and the Grail. What I'm questioning, ig, is the underlying attachment to these elements that feeds this sort of reaction.

Personally speaking, I always found Welsh!Arthur more compelling and ripe for psychological exploration than other versions. So it's just odd for me to see authors like Lev Grossman lament Arthur's emotional paralysis as if we've reached the limit of the number of ways in which we can explore his character... And as if Arthur's sidelining/passivity isn't wholly a product of Anglicization and Normanization to begin with. It's a problem that becomes a nonissue the instant we look at his Welsh portrayal.

Tbh the way this site speaks about Welsh Arthuriana (outside of Arthurian blogs) tends to bug me in general. I'm just a hobbyist who doesn't really know much myself, so I'm definitely prone to speaking out of my ass, but on the whole I do think pre-Galfridian material and Welsh stories are neat and worth exploring on their own merits. They deserve a lot better than a begrudging handwave.

Re. historicity - I'm like 99% sure Arthur wasn't real lol, although he may have been based on a real personage or several put together. Candidates include Maelgwn of Gwynedd and Urien of Rheged. However, those lines get blurry because even the personages whose historicity we can attest to tend to have more fantastical and fictionalized tales attached to them.

I guess it depends on what angle you approach it from. Nennius calls Arthur a warrior. Folks sometimes conflate this fact with his treatment in Welsh tales and make the odd claim that Welsh literature does not consider him a king, even though he's mentioned as a king several times throughout the Mabinogion and called "Emperor" in Dream of Rhonabwy. It's almost to a point where you're hit over the head with it, lol. So even if he wasn't a king, he might as well be one with the power and reverence he is given. As Chief Lord of the island, you aren't getting much higher than that. Also, his men's protests about how it'd be unseemly for them to watch him "squabbling with a hag" in Culhwch and Olwen, and their subsequent pleas to send his servants in his stead, don't make much sense if he's just a hired gun doing his job.

This is all very interesting to me from a cross-cultural perspective as well, because the lines between Saxon and Briton are not as clear-cut as pop culture depictions make them out to be. We don't really know the exact reasons why Germanic culture became the dominant one during the Migration era. It may have been for a number of complex, interrelated reasons like intermarriage, immigration, political strife, and assimilation. The last one especially.

Some people even speculate that a form of apartheid may have been involved. Due to a paucity of information, however, that theory remains unfalsifiable. And calling it "apartheid" risks diluting the experience of those who have suffered under apartheid.

Whenever people frame the continuity disruption as "the native Britons all just disappeared, replaced by the Saxons," on a purely emotional level, I can't really help but be reminded of the language of replacement that white people use on us. How settlers controlled our narrative and shunted Natives out of public consciousness after they put us on reservations. The consequence of that is that, to this day, the world believes we went extinct. Or how blood quantum laws are inherently designed to cut us up into smaller and smaller pieces until we're forced to consider ourselves white.

Likewise, Welsh people have faced similar pressures to assimilate. Like with us, it's something that has persisted to the present:

Indian children were forcibly abducted by government agents, sent to schools hundreds of miles away, and beaten, starved, or otherwise abused when they spoke their Native languages. The Welsh Not was a token used by teachers at some schools in Wales, mainly in the 19th century, to discourage children from speaking Welsh at school, by marking out those who were heard speaking the language. The process of assimilation of Wales became brutal with Welsh children beaten at school for speaking Welsh during the 1800s. 

Ultimately, I can't help but wonder whose stories we're sidelining when we say all retellings are valid and equal.

Slightly apropos of this, the tribe of the Gewisse are one example of that blurring of boundaries between British and Saxon. Although they're implicated as the progenitors of the West Saxon line in King Alfred's maternal regnal list, something Alfred had ordered done in order to make his lineage and authority seem more legit, they may have been a mixture of British and Saxon heritage. Despite also having an Old English etymology, the name "Cynric," for instance, may come from "cunorix" or "Cynwrig" in Old Welsh.

To put it bluntly: of course it's going to look like all the Welsh people disappeared when they start calling themselves Wēhha instead of Rhodri, just as it's going to look like I'm white when I call myself by my English name rather than my Native name for the sake of convenience.

This isn't something that is verifiable or falsifiable either, ofc, but I do think scholars could benefit from a good dose of "have you considered an indigenous perspective" every once in a while.

[freelancearsonist]

Won't You Suffer for the Angels to Fly?

➔ Joel Miller x fem!Reader - 2k

➔ Joel finds religion in the last place he expected to--a preacher's daughter.

➔ Rated MA for pure blasphemy. a lot of religious imagery and defiling of holy places--please read at your own risk. unprotected p in v sex, creampie, squirting, fingering (f receiving), corruption kink, HEFTY age gap (r is early 20s [unspecified], joel is 56), reader uses feminine pronouns and has female anatomy [please let me know if i missed anything at all :)]

➔ this is for my mid to plus!sized readers :) you're beautiful and valid and i love you. this was written in basically one sitting after i binged mike flanagan's midnight mass in one night. thank you to my lovelies @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin and @shakespeareanwannabe for talking me through this <3 title is from "heaven only knows" by bob moses

The Bible teaches–at least according to what Joel was able to gleam from the Easter service–that everything happens for a reason. That every pelting raindrop in its descent from the sky, even before it lands heavy and dark in his hair or soaks the lush green landscape of Jackson, has a purpose.

He’s struggled a lot with purpose ever since hearing that existential crisis-inspiring sermon that Tommy had dragged him to. 

In the preacher’s defense, it went over well with everyone else. So many people are lost nowadays, adrift in a world that doesn’t seem to have space for them. They need that hope, that reassurance that they’re here for a reason. That they’ve survived hell on earth not out of luck, but out of purpose. He pulled out the big gun that everyone needed to hear on one of the two days a year that everyone in Jackson has their ears open to him. It was tactful, and Joel has to acknowledge that. Your father is clever, if not cunning.

It’s a trait that you’ve learned directly from him, whether purposeful or not. But you sat right in the front row and nodded along to every word, accepting without thought or conflict that purpose is in every action, every reaction, every change of tide and every gust of wind.

And if everything has a purpose, your purpose must be to torture him.

You never have anything but a smile on your face for Joel. Joel, a man older than your own father, a man whose hands have broken every commandment that you hold so dear. A man that should know better than to let you get under his skin and infect his dreams.

He wonders what it would be like to hold someone so perfectly untainted in hands that have killed and destroyed and sinned. Hands that are strong, hands that are experienced, hands that are greedy. He’s certain he could teach you all about greed. He could make you beg, plead, sob for more and more and more until the only thought remaining in your pretty little head is how much you want to take from him. Until you become a glutton at the altar of his generosity.

And oh, how generous he could be once he had you begging. Minding your manners and asking nicely for what you need, of course, but he would never deny you anything you asked of him.

“Can I help you with that, Mr. Miller?” He hadn’t even noticed he was struggling–and he wouldn’t be, really, if he wasn’t so distracted. Putting new legs on a pew isn’t the issue after all; it’s the fact that you’re sitting there on the stairs that lead up to the altar and absentmindedly swinging your legs as if you’re taunting him. As if you understand that his resolve is slipping with every passing second he’s alone in this room with you. 

“Joel.”

“Hmm?” You shift your posture to lean closer, and that skirt that’s already way too short to be worn by the pastor’s daughter, in a house of God of all places, rides just a little further up your deliciously full thighs. 

How is he expected to work, to keep his mind on the job, when all he wants is to know what those thighs might feel like wrapped around his head?

He clears his throat and adjusts “You can call me Joel, sweetheart.”

He sees it, then. It’s so subtle, but it’s not imagined. You squirm at the pet name, at the raspy drawl of his voice, and it changes everything for him.

He sees in his mind the sweet girl, barely out of her teens, who sits in the front pew with a Bible in her lap. He sees the girl who sings so sweetly to the tune of every hymn. He sees the girl who’s so shy that she blushes every time she catches his gaze.

And then he sees everything underneath the act. He sees the girl who’s bold enough to wear a bright red dress to the Easter service. He sees the girl who makes eye contact with him across the dining hall every night to watch the way he reacts to her lips wrapped so tantalizingly smoothly around her spoon. He sees the girl who knew he would be alone in the chapel today–the girl who wore an easily accessible skirt just for the occasion.

You bookmark the page you’re on and set down the book you were reading, eyes fixated on him all the while. “Is there something I can help with, Joel?”

There certainly is, and it’s not the pew he’s supposed to be repairing.

He remembers, vaguely, hearing something about how God spares guilt from sinners when sin is necessary. It must be necessary to teach you a lesson, then–as you stride over and kneel beside him, your eyes heavy with anticipation and lashes fluttering, he doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt.

“Hasn’t your daddy taught you not to dress like this?” He takes the hem of your skirt idly in his hand, rubs the silky fabric between his thumb and forefinger. He’s not touching you, not really, but his hand is so achingly close. An inch or two, and he’d feel your warmth–those plush thighs that God created to rule over Joel Miller’s mind, body, and soul; ‘til death does he finally know peace, amen.

You shake your head and even manage to seem smug as you say, “No. He just teaches everyone else to resist temptation.”

“I’ve never been much good at that,” he murmurs.

He thinks that you know that. He thinks that you’re his crucible, his most important moral trial–that maybe, if he can turn you away now, he’s a good man.

Joel Miller is not a good man. His kiss is crushing. It’s hellfire, it’s brimstone, it’s everything you’ve been taught to fear your entire life. You melt into it so prettily, accepting your damnation with parted lips and eager eyes. A wanton moan gets caught in your throat when his hand slips further up your skirt. 

No panties–in a place of worship, no less. He should bend you over his knee for this transgression, make sure you understand how filthy you are. But there’s hardly time for that now, not when he’s even more desperate than you are. And you are desperate–dripping down his fingers into the palm of his hand as your teeth leave perfect little indents in the plush skin of your bottom lip.

His free hand grips your chin firmly, guiding your eyes to his. He wants to see your depravity, the flickering embers of lust in your eyes as you come on his fingers and cry out for salvation from the all-consuming pleasure.

“Oh my God–”

His hand tightens around your jaw just the slightest bit in warning. “No, baby. You moan my name when I’m touchin’ you.”

And you do–thighs trembling, eyes watering, you cry out his name like a prayer as your cunt pulses and squeezes around his willing fingers.

There’s an unpracticed tremble to your hand as you reach to work open his belt, and it makes his cock throb under the confining material of his jeans.

You want every inch of his skin pressed against yours, so desperate for it that you’re nearly in tears when he pulls your fingers away from the buttons on his shirt. He’s not foolish–no one steps foot into this place during the week, but he knows better than to tempt God’s sense of humor. This has to be quick and contained, and you know it too; you picked your little skirt for exactly that reason.

He catches a glimpse of your glistening need as you settle over his thighs, and once again he battles to resist temptation. He whispers in your ear as you settle your chest against his and grind that fluttering, sensitive cunt along his length–promises himself more than you, really, that he’ll bury his face in your folds and drink from you next time. Next time–the promise makes you clench impossibly hard around nothing.

His eyes have never been quite as heavy as they are when you start to sink that dripping heat down his cock. Head tipped back, throat exposed, completely at your mercy. He has to force himself to look up at you–to worship the goddess enshrined on his altar, all his for the taking.

You bite into your lip nearly hard enough to draw blood as your hips settle against his, completely overwhelmed by the burning stretch of his size. He’s a challenge, certainly, but one that you are determined to overcome. 

“Easy, baby girl,” he grumbles as you start to rock against him before you’re truly accommodated. His hands rest heavy on your hips–not anchoring, but encouraging. As wrong–as depraved–as this may be, he wants you to enjoy it without pain. “That’s right, nice and slow.”

It doesn’t stay that way, though; the desperation mounts to a boiling point until you’re bouncing fervently in his lap. It’s delicious, the way the thick head of him drags against something deep and sensitive within you. He guides you when your thighs start to burn, grip tightening enough to leave forbidden bruises in the soft flesh of your hips. His mouth presses to yours, breathing the oxygen straight from your lungs as he presses his hips up. There’s nothing you can do but take it, pliant in his hold, head rolling back to accommodate the wet drag of his mouth and the tickling scratch of his beard against your throat.

He feels it before you do–a subtle flutter as your cunt tries sucking him in even deeper. And maybe, if he was a good man, he’d lean away from it and have mercy on you. But he’s not a good man–he’s a greedy, wanton, desperate man. He angles his hips and thrusts as hard as he can, shoving you into your release with force.

You overflow with it; gushing over him like a flood, staining his hastily pushed down jeans and the floorboards beneath.

He pushes you onto your back like you’re weightless, adrenaline coursing as he starts to slam into you. It’s not polite or sweet or loving–he fucks into you and empties himself like an animal. He growls deep in his throat as his cock pulses within you, instructing you to “take it, baby girl” as if you’d consider anything less. 

You don’t know where your release ends and his begins. All you know is his weight on top of you, his mouth on your jaw, the collective breathless pants that fill the room as you both come down together.

You’re not sure how long it is before he pulls out of your warmth with an actual whine, breath heavy against your neck where his face is so comfortably nestled.

And you start to laugh, because you wish you’d worn panties after all–you don’t know how you’re going to get home with the mess of cum that’s dripping down the curve of your ass.

He even chuckles with you, until he tears his eyes away from your blissed face and sees the cross hanging heavy on the far wall.

“Th-that…” he gulps. “That can’t happen again.”

“It can,” you assure him, and he supposes you’re right.

You keep your head down and your eyes to yourself on Sunday, even as you spot the barely-noticeable stain on the hardwood floor next to the newly-repaired pew on the right side of the aisle. It’s so faint that no one would notice it unless they were looking for it, but it’s glaringly obvious to you. You should be ashamed; you should be begging for forgiveness. But then you meet Joel’s watchful eyes, and the shame washes away. How can you feel guilty over an act of worship?

THE END

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[medusas-graveyard]

Au where Danny, whose timeline is an alternate version of Dan's timeline. Instead of Vlad, he's taken in by...Bruce Wayne? What the fuck do you mean his uncle is fucking Bruce Wayne???)??????

While Danny is having the existential crisis of his life, Clockwork is giving very specific instructions to Danny's rogues to make sure the boy doesn't sway to the same person Dan was. Of course, he should've known better.

Unsurprisingly, threatening Batman was a bad idea; since now the Justice League is in high alert ever since they found out this entity named 'Phantom' is supposedly the difference between the end of the world and peace.

[fataldrum]

Dorian Gray is queer art, period.

Apparently Netflix has decided to make an adaption of The Picture of Dorian Gray with Dorian and Basil as siblings. Unless they're planning to go the gothic horror incest route, they've completely missed the point of the relationship between these characters.

If you haven't read the book, Basil is a painter who becomes infatuated with a beautiful young man, pouring his feelings into a painting. Dorian becomes jealous of the painting's beauty, realizing that he will never be as young and unspoiled as the version of himself on the canvas. He finds himself wishing that the painting could age instead of him. His wish is granted, allowing him to stay young and beautiful until the end, with his moral and spiritual decline reflected only in the painting.

I cannot overstate how queer this book is. Dorian is so beautiful that their first meeting inspires a wave of existential terror in Basil. Dorian changes Basil's entire understanding of art and beauty. This book is so queer it was used as evidence at Wilde's sodomy trial.

The existence of the portrait itself is tantamount to a confession of queer desire. Basil tells his friend, Lord Henry, that he can't exhibit the painting because "I have put too much of myself into it.”

Lord Henry (who will later lead Dorian into a life of vice) laughs, but Basil explains:

“[E]very portrait that is painted with feeling is a portrait of the artist, not of the sitter. [...] It is not he who is revealed by the painter; it is rather the painter who, on the coloured canvas, reveals himself. The reason I will not exhibit this picture is that I am afraid that I have shown in it the secret of my own soul.”

This is how he describes meeting Dorian:

When our eyes met, I felt that I was growing pale. A curious sensation of terror came over me. I knew that I had come face to face with some one whose mere personality was so fascinating that, if I allowed it to do so, it would absorb my whole nature, my whole soul, my very art itself. [...] I have always been my own master; had at least always been so, till I met Dorian Gray. Then—but I don’t know how to explain it to you. Something seemed to tell me that I was on the verge of a terrible crisis in my life. I had a strange feeling that fate had in store for me exquisite joys and exquisite sorrows. I grew afraid and turned to quit the room. It was not conscience that made me do so: it was a sort of cowardice. I take no credit to myself for trying to escape.”

Notice that turn of phrase--it was not conscience but cowardice that made him attempt to flee. Why would conscience factor into his decision? Because he felt shame at his reaction to Dorian's perfect, beautiful face.

Lord Henry is shocked to discover Basil cares for something besides his art.

“He is all my art to me now,” said the painter gravely. “I sometimes think, Harry, that there are only two eras of any importance in the world’s history. The first is the appearance of a new medium for art, and the second is the appearance of a new personality for art also. What the invention of oil-painting was to the Venetians, the face of Antinous was to late Greek sculpture, and the face of Dorian Gray will some day be to me.

Basil goes on to confess, "I see everything in him. He is never more present in my work than when no image of him is there."

Lord Henry still doesn't understand why there is too much of Basil in the painting, so Basil explains:

“Because, without intending it, I have put into it some expression of all this curious artistic idolatry, of which, of course, I have never cared to speak to him. He knows nothing about it. He shall never know anything about it. But the world might guess it, and I will not bare my soul to their shallow prying eyes. My heart shall never be put under their microscope. There is too much of myself in the thing, Harry—too much of myself!”

Lord Henry asks how Dorian feels about Basil, and his response is absolutely tragic.

The painter considered for a few moments. “He likes me,” he answered after a pause; “I know he likes me. Of course I flatter him dreadfully. I find a strange pleasure in saying things to him that I know I shall be sorry for having said. As a rule, he is charming to me, and we sit in the studio and talk of a thousand things. Now and then, however, he is horribly thoughtless, and seems to take a real delight in giving me pain. Then I feel, Harry, that I have given away my whole soul to some one who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer’s day.”

Any adaptation that ignores the way Dorian's existence and beauty utterly destroyed Basil is doomed to be shallow and insipid. This is not just a book about a magic painting. It's a monument to queer longing.

[starlightkun]

❧ word count: 17.4k ❧ warnings: cursing ❧ genre: fluff, some mild angst, model jeno, journalist reader, reader is lowkey a bit of a jerk for some of it but for understandable reasons ❧ extra info: this is a reworked version of an old fic of mine that was about a former member. since i still really love the fic, i’ve made some (heavy) edits to re-release it about jeno instead. you can consider this the spiritual successor/an alternate universe to my sleepless cinderella series

You’d finally gone insane, you’d decided. Absolutely bonkers, completely crazy. After all, how else would you explain the fact that you were now kissing Jeno?

You felt absolutely pathetic. You were a journalist at a rather popular magazine, and your editor had finally entrusted you with a centerfold spot. So far, your word document for your article had less than a handful of words: your name. Writer’s block, and with only two months until copies were supposed to hit the shelves.

And so here you were, sitting on the small couch in your boss’ office, trying not to sound like you were whining to her. But you needed some sort of guidance. Ms. Zhang was sat on the other end of the couch from you, legs crossed, and round frames perched on the end of her nose as she thoughtfully listened to your rant.

Her voice was casual as she simply replied with, “Anything new in your life, Y/N?”

Which was a complete non-sequitur from your desperate plea for a subject. She really just wanted to make small talk while you were having an existential crisis?

Stunned, you blinked for a moment before answering, “Uh, not much. My roommate made me go out to this party a while ago.”

“That’s nice. Did you have fun?”

You were still completely unsure of why she wasn’t addressing your issue, but went along with it, nonetheless, “I guess.”

“Meet anyone?”

“Kind of. Seven someones, technically.”

“Oh?”

Realizing how that sounded, you grimaced to yourself before giving your boss an explanation of the actual situation. Your roommate NingNing had dragged you to the grand opening of a new nightclub, which she got an invite to thanks to her huge social media following. She was possibly the only actually down-to-Earth influencer you’d ever met—and you’d met plenty, thanks to her. The two of you had been friends since you were kids, before you entered into completely different lives as adults. You had a 9 to 5 while she was being paid insane amounts of money by luxury brands just to post a single photo of herself with their product.

The nightclub of course had a VIP section at the back, which NingNing was easily given access to, as well as you, her plus-one. It was there that you were introduced to Mark Lee, an up and coming young actor with a practically cult following online; Huang Renjun, an extremely popular video game streamer and YouTuber; Lee Jeno, an actual supermodel whose visage was across some of the biggest billboards in the city; Haechan, a pop star that you didn’t dare address by anything other than his stage name; Na Jaemin, another streamer and YouTuber who had recently been picked up for a modeling contract; Zhong Chenle, heir to the Zhong family fortune, whose family was involved in anything and everything to do with the entertainment industry and owned the nightclub; and Park Jisung, an influencer more in the same vein as NingNing, with millions of Instagram followers. Apparently, you had made a good enough impression that Chenle gave you your own pass to the VIP lounge—NingNing of course had her own, too.

At the end of your story, Ms. Zhang had a worryingly knowing smile across her lips, “You met seven celebrities in one night?”

“Do influencers and streamers really count as celebrities?”

“You met seven very popular men—three or four of whom are certifiable celebrities—in one night, have access to a private lounge they all frequent, and you still don’t have a subject for your article?”

Your jaw may have dropped slightly as you realized this. Immediately, your face turned hot as you refused the idea, “I don’t want to exploit them and make them uncomfortable somewhere that’s supposed to be free from that kind of stuff.”

She frowned as she shook her head, “I’m disappointed in you, Y/N. I thought you understood that journalism isn’t inherently exploitative.”

“I’m sorry, I know it’s not—”

“Are you going to publish horrible rumors and tabloid things with private information they don’t want to be out there? Is that what we do here?”

“No, but they’re all going to think that’s what I’ll do.”

“Show them those assumptions are wrong. It’s all in the way you carry yourself. If you are honest and humble and make them feel comfortable, they should have no reason to doubt what kind of journalist you are.”

At this point, you felt like melting into the pinstriped couch cushions in shame. You shouldn’t have doubted your boss’ vision for her magazine or demeaned your own career. And now you’d made Ms. Zhang disappointed in you. You would’ve preferred her to have yelled at you.

All that was left was to make her proud.

Three days later and you still hadn’t returned to the lounge.

Honestly, you were just being a chicken. And a procrastinator. A procrastinating chicken.

Slumped into your armchair in your living room, you blankly zoned off into the distance as you listened to your playlist through an earbud. NingNing was perched on your kitchen table, feet swinging off the side as she edited some photos on her phone.

As she tapped away, you found your gaze fixating on the visage on the cover of a magazine that had been resting on your coffee table. Squinting your eyes curiously and tilting your head to the side, you asked, “He kind of looks like a dog, right?”

“Who?” Your roommate raised a concerned eyebrow as she peered over her phone screen at you.

“Lee Jeno.” You held up the magazine. “He kind of looks like a dog. Right?”

Your friend squinted at the cover then gave you that same look, “No, he doesn’t. Y/N, I think the sleep deprivation has finally gotten to you. You’re delirious.”

“No, I swear, he looks like a dog,” you insisted, pulling your earbud out to be able to better argue your point. “A very specific kind of dog, God, it’s on the tip of my tongue.”

“He doesn’t.”

You crossed your arms. “I bet the others would agree with me.”

“You want to go ask them?” She challenged. “Jisung texted me saying they were all going to be there again tonight.”

“If that’s what’ll convince you.”

“I have been begging you to go back for weeks, and now you’ve agreed to go back to ask them if they agree that Jeno looks like a dog?” NingNing scoffed incredulously.

“Yeah.”

“Alright, fine, you weirdo. Be ready to leave at midnight.”

When you arrived at the club, you immediately felt out of place again. You clung onto NingNing’s arm tightly as she confidently led the way through the crowd to the VIP lounge. She flashed a smile and her VIP pass to the bouncer outside the room, who nodded and stepped aside. As soon as the two of you entered the small room that consisted of one large rounded booth, you immediately regretted your decision. When NingNing said that everyone would be there, your brain hadn’t pieced together that ‘everyone’ included Lee Jeno, who perked up with interest as the two of you walked in.

Jeno eyed you curiously, an eyebrow raised, “So you came back.”

“Y/N has something really important to ask you guys,” NingNing announced, gesturing to you pointedly.

You felt like a deer in the headlights as all of them turned to look at you. Swallowing thickly, you avoided looking at Jeno as you tried to think of anything else to say.

“Sit down, let’s get you a drink first,” Jaemin kindly saved you, gesturing to the open space at the end of the booth seat.

NingNing sat down next to Mark, who had previously been at the end, and you scooted in after her. The circular table unfortunately made it so that you were looking directly at Jeno, who you couldn’t help but sneak glances at as your brain still stubbornly tried to remember what breed of dog he reminded you of. Another round was brought out for everyone, and you gratefully started sipping on yours.

It was when he smiled up at the waiter as he was handed his drink that it finally hit you. You had to bite down on your lip not to cry out in victory.

Chenle looked at you over his sunglasses—yes he was wearing sunglasses indoors at night, as he had been last time. He asked, “So what is this really important thing you have to ask us?”

You looked at NingNing desperately, but she just gave you a deliberate nod.

“Come on, Y/N, it’ll be fine.”

With a gulp, you gathered your courage to just fucking say it and get it over with. You still wanted to be right. “Okay, think about it really hard before you answer.”

They all nodded in assent, anticipating your question.

Taking a deep breath, you finally asked, “Doesn’t Jeno kind of look like a Samoyed?”

A couple of them seemed concerned for your mental state. The rest pondered your question whole-heartedly, brows furrowed as they studied the model. Jeno had a look of pure bewilderment on his face.

Finally, Haechan gasped, “Oh my God you’re right.”

“Thank you!” You sighed victoriously, looking over at NingNing smugly.

Jisung fervently searched something on his phone, eyes widening in shock, “Now that you’ve said that I can’t unsee it.”

“What? Let me see.” Chenle yanked the phone out of Jisung’s hand, holding a picture of a fluffy white Samoyed up to Jeno’s face.

The model tilted his head to the side in confusion, perfectly mimicking the picture on-screen. Chenle burst into loud, cackling laughter.

“Shit, he-he does!” Renjun declared between his own laughs.

Murmurs of agreement erupted around the table, and you were now fully vindicated. “Thank you! Thank you! NingNing didn’t agree with me so I had to come and—”

“No, I did,” she snickered. “It was just the only way to get you to come back. You’re a whole different person when you think you’re right.”

You tried to glare at her, but you were much too ecstatic at being proven right to really be all that mad.

Jeno looked about to open his mouth as Chenle giggled incessantly and started swiping through more search results of Samoyed pictures. A horrible sense of dread covered you like scalding candle wax. It was hot against your skin, thick, and you felt like you couldn’t move or breathe. You prayed to every deity you could think of that Jeno had a really good sense of humor and wouldn’t take offense to someone he had met twice saying he looked like a dog.

When Jeno’s gaze finally focused on you, you swore you had never wished to turn invisible more in your life than in that moment. Or make time stop. Or wake up and realize it was a dream. Anything to get you out of this situation. But you were absolutely petrified, all excitement from before completely eradicated from your being.

Then suddenly all tension was gone from the air as his eyes crinkled into crescents and his mouth parted wide to let out hearty guffaws.

You looked around in alarm, waiting for the hidden camera to be revealed or something. This couldn’t be real.

He managed to contain his laughter enough to choke out between chuckles, “That’s— that's really, really funny.”

Your wide eyes were focused incredulously on him as he caught his breath. Still with a grin on his face, he continued, “Oh my god, seriously that was fucking funny. I’m a cute Samoyed, right, Y/N?”

Utterly speechless. That’s what you were. And also staring at him, completely dumbfounded.

“I think you broke her, Jeno,” Renjun snickered, reaching a fist out as if he were about to knock on your forehead like a front door.

Instinctually, you smacked his hand away from your head, a scowl overtaking your features, “I’m fine, Renjun.”

“Then why can’t you look him in the eye?”

You pointed to yourself, “Normal person—” then to Jeno, “supermodel. I’m still not used to that.”

But Renjun was right, you couldn’t look Jeno in the eye, and your whole body was practically on fire. Honestly, how were you supposed to react to this situation? With grace and comfort? No way.

“What? Seriously?” Jeno scoffed, standing up from the booth to pointedly sit on your side of it. Directly next to you.

“I’m not that— Y/N, really? You’re actually scooting away from me?”

You hadn’t even realized that you’d shifted the opposite direction from him, pressed into NingNing’s side. Meanwhile, the others were all finding this spectacle absolutely hilarious, sharing annoying snickers and giggles.

Your face was burning, and despite your satisfaction at being vindicated, you were now regretting coming to the club at all.

“Can you guys stop? You don’t have to be so annoying,” Jeno scolded his friends, much to both yours and their surprise.

Haechan had a look of mild offense and disbelief across his face, “Being annoying comes as natural to us as being ridiculously attractive comes to you.”

“Speak for yourself!” Jaemin slapped Haechan’s arm as Chenle was practically howling with laughter.

While they were distracted among themselves, Jeno’s attention was focused back on you. If you could look him in the eye, you’d be able to appreciate the genuine concern held within them. But you couldn’t, so all you could do was hear the genuine concern in his voice as he said quietly, “Sorry about them.”

“You don’t need to apologize for them,” you reassured him, messing with your fingernails.

“Anyway, I can’t stand having you be terrified of me.”

“I’ll get over it,” you cleared the audible squeak out of your throat, “eventually.”

“Eventually...” Jeno didn’t seem satisfied with that qualifier you added at the end. “Are you busy today?”

“Uhm— I don’t know. Why?”

“We should hang out.”

“What?”

“The more you’re around me, the less scary I’m going to be to you. Right?”

“I guess.”

“Then we should start right now.”

Your throat nearly closed up at this suggestion. Especially because you realized that the room was dead silent. The others had ceased their squabbling and side conversations and were awaiting your response to this too.

So you did the thing that came most naturally to you: procrastinated the issue.

“Oh, well, it’s already after midnight—”

“Then tomorrow.”

“I’m going to be super busy for a while, I just got a really big assignment at work—”

“What do you do for work?”

“I’m a journalist. Just got centerfold and it’s going to make or break my whole career so it’s going to take up all of my time for the foreseeable future, so...”

Jeno was unfazed, “What’s the topic?”

“I-uh it’s...” you couldn’t even bullshit an answer at this point, your stupid tongue tripping over itself. “I don’t have one yet.”

NingNing just had to offer up her opinion right then, “Do it on Jeno!”

If you were a lesser person, you'd have strangled NingNing in that moment, because the model’s features lit up. He clearly liked this idea.

“Yeah! I would love to. If it’ll fit your guidelines or whatever, of course.”

You sighed, “It does...”

The socially anxious part of you absolutely hated this idea. But, the journalist part of you knew it was too good of an opportunity to pass up. Gritting your teeth, you managed to look Lee Jeno dead in the eye and say, “I would love to interview you, Jeno. Thank you.”

“Uhm, Jeno?” Jisung speaking up stopped the wide grin that was spreading across his friend’s face. “Aren’t you like, banned from interviews or something?”

“Technically,” Jeno answered dismissively, not breaking eye contact with you.

“Technically?” You echoed in confusion. Were you just being messed with?

“Something… happened with the last in-depth interview I did a while ago,” he admitted sheepishly. “But! I’ll talk to my manager and get it cleared, I promise, Y/N!”

[jeno: manager han gave the okay for the interview! when can we get started?]

Your stomach contorted itself at the message that just popped up on your phone screen. Last night you’d left the lounge with a growing sense of dread and anxiety. And Jeno’s phone number.

[jeno: i have a fitting this afternoon but i'll be done in time to get dinner]

[jeno: if that works for you, of course]

[jeno: we can always start it another day, whatever is good for you!]

[jeno: do you want me to send you my schedule for the next few weeks to make it easier for us to get together?]

Your phone’s continuous buzzing with enthusiastic and sincerely kind messages from him caught the attention of NingNing, whose feet were currently resting on your lap as you shared your couch together.

“When did you get so popular?” She questioned teasingly, peering at you over her own phone screen.

“It's just one person,” you informed her.

“Who texts you that much in a row other than me?”

“Lee Jeno, apparently.”

“Y/N, you seem very unenthusiastic about this,” she declared with a thoughtful frown, completely abandoning her phone. “Isn’t this a really big break for you?”

“I’m still a little shocked,” you admitted. “And scared.”

She shoved you with her foot. “Well at least text him back.”

“Right.”

Not a great idea to leave him on read.

[you: a copy of your schedule would be great]

[you: and yes, i can do dinner tonight]

It was less than a minute later that he replied.

[jeno: here’s my schedule]

[jeno: attached image]

[jeno: and could you give me your address so i can drive you to dinner tonight? the place i have in mind is kind of hard to find if you haven’t been before]

A lot was happening right now. Too much for you to process. Good thing there was another brain in this room to help you process it.

“Hey, NingNIng?” You got her attention before thrusting your phone screen towards her so she could read the texts.

“Uh, three options here.” She pointed to a new finger for each one as she listed them off: “He’s ridiculously excited about this interview; he likes you; or he’s going to kill you.”

“So far the last one seems most likely.”

With a shake of your head, you sent him your address.

Your fingers anxiously tapped along your bouncing knee as you waited on your couch for the text from Jeno that he was here. He told you that the restaurant was just casual, but you weren’t sure that a model’s idea of casual wear was the same as yours.

Jeez, what were you doing? Getting dinner with and interviewing one of the most well-known models in the country? You were so out of your depth here.

A buzz came from your other hand that was tightly gripping your phone. An incoming call from Jeno. Maybe he was calling to cancel, and you could just keep rescheduling until you both gave up on the whole idea and you never showed your face in that VIP lounge again.

Answering it, your voice squeaked as you attempted to give him a casual, “Hello.”

“Hey, Y/N!” The bright voice of Lee Jeno came through your speakers. “I’m just parking now, I’ll be up in a couple minutes.”

“You don’t have to come up!” You told him a little too forcefully and quickly. Having Lee Jeno in your apartment would just be too much.

“I don’t mind—”

You leapt up from your couch and rushed towards your door, “Too late, I’m already on my way down.”

With a sharp hit of your thumb, you hung up. Pressing the down button on the elevator impatiently, you prayed that Jeno would just give up and wait in his car.

He didn’t.

The elevator doors opened to the lobby, with Jeno right outside them. In fact, you nearly slammed right into his chest, but thankfully he took a step back before you could actually collide.

His ‘woah!’ was muffled slightly by the dark face mask over his mouth, accompanying dark baseball somewhat successfully obscuring his identity. As long as you didn’t look too closely, he could be any other guy.

“I told you I’d just come down on my own.” You shook your head at him, eyes trained on your shoes.

“And I told you that I’d come up and get you,” he shot back smugly. “Seems like neither of us listen very well.”

With no response coming from you, Jeno took your silence as the cue to lead the way out to his car. It was nice, nicer than most cars you’d seen around, but surprisingly not that ostentatious. It looked like something a moderately successful businessman would drive, not an A-list model.

Inside was a comfortable leather interior, and you took quick, short notes on the small notepad you kept with you as you looked around. After all, this was an interview, and you had an article to write. You could get over your own social awkwardness and feelings of inferiority for the sake of your future career.

Hopefully.

The restaurant Jeno had chosen was definitely out-of-the way.

It was down one back alley into another, through the back of an electronics shop, up a flight of stairs, then through a room of old ladies sat at sewing machines. They all gave a friendly chorus of hellos to the two of you, seeming to know Jeno pretty well as they all told him that he’d grown since the last time he’d come by. He bowed to them bashfully as he led you through. Past the curtains on the far wall, you finally ended up at the restaurant.

Okay, out-of-the-way was an understatement.

But despite the hard-to-stumble-upon location of the restaurant, it seemed busy. The small room was tightly packed with tables that you could barely see through the mass of people seated around them and plates of food resting atop them. A loud buzz of various conversations mixed in with the bumping of plates and clattering of utensils.

Just past the entrance was a small host’s stand where a young boy stood. He looked to not be out of high school yet, presumably a young relative of the owners: their son, nephew, or grandson.

He also knew Jeno, bowing to him, “Ah, Mr. Lee. We have your reservation for you. Come.”

Jeno bowed back and looked to make sure that you were still following the two of them through the nearly claustrophobic environment.

You were, eyes drinking in every detail as your hand furiously scribbled them down on your notepad, muscle memory functioning at full speed to write every letter without looking away from the scene around you. There was one more curtain for you to go through, and it was much quieter on the other side. This was most likely a VIP section of sorts, with just a couple tables separated by a divider.

The host gestured to one of the two tables, and you gratefully sat down across from Jeno. He then took his hat and mask off, fingers working through his hair for a moment to rid it of the hat’s aftereffects.

“Thank you, Yeonwoo,” he thanked the host, which you repeated as well.

The boy, who you now knew to be named Yeonwoo, bowed politely to the both of you before scurrying off.

“You must come here often,” you commented, hand poised to write his response.

“My family and I came here a lot when I was younger. Since I started my career it’s been difficult to eat here as often as I did before. Especially because their food isn’t technically allowed in my diet,” he had a mischievous glint in his eye as then he added, “But you won’t tell on me, right?”

“Of course not, unless writing an article about you that will be published in a magazine counts as tattling,” you snorted, much to his delight.

He laughed, “Right, right. That’s pretty much the ultimate form of tattling, huh?”

“If it gets published, yeah. If not, then the only people who will know will be you, me, and my editor. And I suppose Yeonwoo and our server, as well.”

“Speaking of our server, there she is!” Jeno announced, making the young girl who was approaching your table blush behind her notepad. She was probably around Yeonwoo’s age, maybe a little older.

“Good evening,” she greeted the two of you politely. “My name is Jieun, I’ll be your server tonight. Are you ready to order?”

You were a bit confused by her question, you hadn’t been given any menus yet. But Jeno seemed completely unfazed.

“Two orders of my regular, please,” he requested sweetly, which she quickly scribbled down on her pad.

“Of course, it’ll be out soon,” she informed you before hurrying away.

He turned back to you, “Jieun is Yeonwoo’s older cousin, their grandparents own the restaurant.”

You added this to your notes as well. It could be nice to add in to set the scene and show how down-to-Earth Jeno was, knowing this family as well as his own and not forgetting his roots even as a big model. Or something like that, you’d figure it out eventually.

“So, interview questions?” He prompted you, bringing you out of your contemplative planning ahead. You’d write that up later.

“Earlier you had mentioned your family, tell me a bit about them. Brothers, sisters?”

Could you have looked that information up online and found it? Definitely, but you wanted it from the source, to see if he would provide you with anything that wasn’t already out there. And you wanted to get a feel of your subject.

“Well there’s my parents, my older sister, and me. They’re not famous or anything. My parents own a grocery store nearby, and my sister’s a teacher.”

“You took my next question right out of my mouth,” you clicked your tongue in teasing disappointment, continuing on with a different one. “You said you used to come here often with your family, what are some other things you miss from your childhood that you don’t do as often?”

Jeno’s face easily betrayed his delighted surprise, “Oh, I wasn’t expecting that one.”

“Hm?”

“That’s a good question. Normally I get asked about celebrity crushes or my ideal type.”

You tilted your head to the side curiously, “If you thought that I was just going to ask you the same questions you usually get asked, why did you offer for me to interview you?”

“Never mind, never mind, sorry.” He coughed awkwardly, then quickly went to get off that topic, “Uh, it might sound kind of weird, but I used to help out at my parents’ store a lot as a kid. It was my first job I ever had. As soon as I could reach the register on a high stool, they put me to work. It’s actually how I got scouted, for modeling. My manager now just happened to come through my line while I was on the register and gave me his card. I thought it was a scam, honestly. But Jaemin made me give him a call, and he turned out to be legit. Even if I had the time to help at the store now, I’d just be too much of a distraction if I tried. And trust me, I tried. Once. So yeah, I miss helping out there.”

The desire for an answer to your other question was still there, but it was a path that you didn’t want to go down right now. Right now was time for the interview. So you simply scratched down his statement about his parents’ shop, then shorthanded off to the side ‘why me?’ as you readied your next question.

“You knew Jaemin before you guys were famous?”

“Yeah, we’ve been friends forever.” A fond smile crossed Jeno’s face. “Seatmates since primary school. He blew up with streaming first before I got my break as a model, actually. Most people usually assume it’s the other way around.”

“And what about the others?”

As Jeno eagerly answered your questions and you filled up page after page on your notepad, there was still that one lingering in the back of your mind.

Why you?

Over the course of a couple weeks, you’d spent a considerable amount of time with Jeno. According to his schedule that he had sent you, every free moment he got was taken up by your interview. Sometimes it would be more formal, like your first dinner meeting, and sometimes it was more casual, get-togethers in the lounge with the other VIP members or a riverside walk that felt more like two friends talking than a professional interview. And it all went in your notes, it would all go in your article. This was going to be a great article. The real Lee Jeno when he’s relaxed, what he’s like off the runway.

Today was very special, however, as you’d been invited to tag along to one of his photoshoots. You were just outside the building housed at the address you’d been given when you were met by a young man whose stern gaze never left you. It seemed as if he had been waiting for you.

“Are you the journalist?” He asked with a raised eyebrow, completely skipping any greetings.

“Ah yes, Y/L/N Y/N,” you confirmed, nodding your head respectfully to him as you held out your VIP lounge card as proof. Jeno told you that would be your pass to get in.

The man only scrutinized the card for a moment before he pivoted on his heel, “Follow me.”

You kept his hurried pace easily, ready to ask him questions as well, “So what’s your job here?”

He took a moment to push open a door that then nearly closed on you before answering, “I’m Lee Jeno’s PA.”

“Oh, Song Eunseok!” The name easily came to your mind.

The PA’s eyes widened in surprise, “Jeno’s brought me up?”

“Of course he has! You’re with him pretty much all the time, how could he not mention you?” You flipped through your notebook to where you’d taken previous notes about him, “Here, I asked him to walk me through his typical day, and he mentioned ‘Seokkie’ like seven times.”

Eunseok physically grimaced at this, “I’ve requested that he not call me that.”

“Why? I think it’s a cute nickname.”

“Really?” His eyes were now trained on his shoes as opposed to his previous laser focus on the end of the hallway. Your eyes could’ve been playing tricks on you, but you swore the tips of his ears were tinged pink, too.

There was another door, and this time you definitely couldn’t miss the fact that he held it open for you this time.

“Really,” you echoed.

The door had led to what you could really only imagine to be the set. Huge lightboxes, a couple cameras, and a multitude of people all set up with a single black sheet as the focal point. A white loveseat contrasted it starkly, but that wasn’t where your eyes were drawn. They were drawn to the man seated elegantly atop it, dressed head-to-toe like the playboy prince of a small but filthy rich country. Lee Jeno.

“You can wait for him over here with me,” Eunseok tapped your elbow with a feather-light touch, snapping you from your near-trance.

“Thanks.” You walked with him towards a table lined with various food and drink.

Your focus was still on the PA as he got a bottle of water, opened it, took a lemon slice from a small bowl and squeezed it into the drink before plopping a blue straw in as well. Then didn’t drink it. Instead, he turned back to you and held it in his hand patiently.

“The straw disturbs the makeup as little as possible,” Eunseok explained to you, and it was then that you realized it wasn’t for him, it was for Jeno. “Makes the makeup artists’ lives a little bit easier.”

“That’s very considerate. I wouldn’t have even thought of that,” you commented, taking note of that process as your focus returned back to Jeno and the photoshoot.

Knowing that your next question might be considered disrespectful, you leaned closer to Eunseok to whisper, “So who’s the photographer?”

He understood your delicacy, replying back equally quiet, “Chen Man, she’s brilliant. Jeno’s worked with her in the past, but this is his first solo shoot with her. It’s for the new YSL campaign that he was chosen to be the face of.”

And you were rocketed back to the fact that Lee Jeno was a famous model. Obviously, you hadn’t really forgotten it, but in your casual meetings and interviewing outside of his work, the magnitude of it was lessened. But a PA, giant photoshoot, famous photographer, and being selected as the new face of a campaign for a huge designer really hammered in the famous model part.

“Wow.”

It was just then that Chen Man called for a short break, and the silent studio was immediately filled with chatter. Jeno made a beeline for you and Eunseok, his normal contagious grin across his face, “Hey, Y/N! I’m glad you made it here okay.”

Up close, you could appreciate the detail and regality of his outfit. It was made of crushed velvet of a deep cerulean color; various intricate medals flashing on his chest; dark epaulettes making his already broad shoulders even more imposing; large black boots; and silver jewelry and chains glinting on his fingers and neck.

Eunseok offered the water out to Jeno then, and he accepted it gratefully, “Thanks, Eunseok.”

You continued from the model’s earlier statement, “Yeah, Eunseok made sure I got to the right place.”

“Good, I sent him out there to get you.” He turned on his PA, “You didn’t give Y/N a hard time, did you?”

“My job is to make sure none of your insane fans somehow get in here,” the other man scoffed.

“So you did give her a hard time.”

Eunseok rolled his eyes at Jeno’s teasing words. Despite knowing that they were employer-employee, it felt much more like two friends to you. You added that to your notes.

Jeno took a couple big sips of his water, and you took this time to ask him a couple of questions.

“So Eunseok was saying that this shoot is for the new YSL campaign that you’re the face of. Have you ever done something like this before?”

He blinked at you a couple times before actually replying, “Yeah, it’s really an honor and a big opportunity to be chosen for this. I’ve done solo shoots before, but not ones of this magnitude.”

Another figure approached your small group, a makeup artist. Jeno handed his water back to Eunseok before leading the way a little further away to sit in a chair. As the makeup artist attended to his makeup, you continued with the interview.

“How familiar are you with the photographer on this shoot?”

“I’ve worked with Chen Man a few times before—” he paused to let the makeup artist apply his lip color again. After she was done, he continued, “Her ideas are incredible and she’s honestly so wonderful to work with. However, all those other times I was with other models, so doing a solo photoshoot with her is a bit nerve-wracking. She’s the kind of person that you really want to make proud, you know?”

Thinking of Ms. Zhang and her disappointment in you earlier, you nodded, “Yeah, I know.”

There was a call for everyone to start getting back into their places, and you took this as your cue to leave Jeno alone. He had work to do.

The makeup artist did one touch up on his face before letting him up out of the chair, another person coming to his side to fix his hair up just the way they wanted it, walking alongside him awkwardly to do so.

“Take a bunch of notes on your little notepad, Y/N!” Jeno quipped as he walked back in front of the camera.

“Will do!” You affirmed, holding your notebook above your head and shaking it slightly so he could see it.

Returning to your previous spot off to the side with Eunseok, you had a fond smile on your lips from your short interaction with Jeno. Eunseok had a little smirk of his own as he gazed at you.

“And what’s that smile for?” You questioned, head tilted.

“Nothing.”

You elbowed him with a short giggle, “Come on, tell me.”

“No,” he shook his head, that same smile on his lips.

Even as you rolled your eyes, your focus never faltered from Eunseok. You changed tactics, a slight pout on your face as you asked again, “Please, Seokkie?”

Finally, he relented, “You’re pretty special, Y/N.”

“What?” You questioned in pleasant surprise.

“For Manager Han to have approved this interview after what happened last time, Jeno probably begged.”

“I can't imagine what would be so special about me.”

Eunseok had a brightness to his features that you hadn’t seen yet as he replied, “I can.”

You raised an eyebrow, “And what is it?”

Shouts from the set took both your attentions away from each other. Chen Man had been calling directions out during the whole shoot, but never with such aggression as then.

“Jeno! Lee Jeno!”

You scanned the scene in front of you as you tried to figure out what exactly was happening. Jeno’s arms were crossed across his chest, a startlingly stern but calm gaze focused on… you?

“Jeno can you—ugh, fifteen-minute break, everybody!” She yelled out in exasperation, the rest of the crew breaking the silence, scattering from the set.

Chen Man continued addressing her model, “Jeno, your expressions… they’re off.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll work on them.”

Despite acknowledging her words, you were doubtful of if he had actually registered them, stalking off the set with seemingly one destination in mind.

“Y/N,” Jeno stopped right by you and Eunseok. “Can I speak with you for a second?”

“Of course,” you nodded, well aware of how the crew was only pretending to be busy, instead actually focused on the three of you.

Your subject took off again, and you guessed that he anticipated that you’d follow him. Which you did. Eunseok stayed behind.

His longer legs made it a little hard to keep up with him as he took twists and turns down hallways of the building.

“Jeno,” you breathed out, seeming to finally snap him out of whatever mood he had been in.

Immediately, he slowed down to your pace, a faint smile coming to his lips, “Sorry, long legs.”

“Where are we going?”

He abruptly stopped, “Here is fine.”

It was the middle of some random hallway. He apparently didn’t have an actual destination in mind, more-so a distance.

“So what do you need to talk to me about?” You questioned, pencil and notepad at the ready. It had to be something for the interview, it couldn’t possibly be anything else.

“Y/N…” Jeno reached his hands out to cover yours, gently lowering the pencil and notepad for you. His hands were big and warm on yours, and you felt nerves flare up at his clear insinuation that this wasn’t for the interview.

“Jeno…” you said back with a nervous half-giggle. He was still holding your hands.

“This isn’t part of the interview. I’m not interviewee Jeno, and you’re not interviewer Y/N right now.”

“Okay…”

As soon as you had accepted these terms, he released his feather-light hold on your hands and took his own back to wring them nervously. What could Lee Jeno possibly be nervous about?

“Hm, I’ve never done this before,” he chuckled, pressing a palm to the center of his chest.

“Done what?”

“Okay, I’m just going to be upfront. Uh, I think you’re super great, and pretty, and awesome and I’d really like to be able to take you out on a date some time.”

This had to be a fucking joke. No way that someone who looks like him, an actual model, someone who gets paid for being ridiculously attractive, could actually be asking you out. This had to be a sick, terrible, horrible joke he was playing on you.

And yet as his big brown eyes gazed at you, wide and hopeful, looking a lot like a puppy waiting to be adopted from some animal shelter, you knew that he was being genuine.

And you panicked.

Stuttering for a moment, you finally choked out the most formal and emotionally removed response you could’ve come up with, “I’m sorry, I—that wouldn’t be appropriate, since I’m interviewing you right now. A bias or conflict of interest would damage the integrity of my piece as well as my career.”

Surprisingly, his features didn’t seem as crestfallen as you anticipated, his expressions were always so easy to read. He, in fact, seemed very happy with your reply.

“I get it,” he beamed at you, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze for a moment before letting it go. “After the article, then.”

That wasn’t what you meant. At all. But between your own burning cheeks and internal state of panic, you couldn’t express this to him. Or even really process your own thoughts right then.

“We should head back, Eunseok will come looking for us soon,” Jeno nodded with his head back in the general direction that you two had come from.

He kept a polite distance from you, allowing some of the panic alarms blaring in your mind to quiet just a bit. You tried to brainstorm ways you could possibly keep this interview going forever. Ways to give you as much time as possible. To do what, exactly? Maybe come up with an actual way of rejecting him. Or maybe give him enough time to change his romantic focus to someone else, so that he would never end up revisiting this subject after the interview.

You could dream.

“Oh my god!” NingNing exclaimed. “Are you shitting me?!”

You’d just recalled your day to your roommate, finally ending at the part where Jeno had asked you on a date. She had literally done a spit-take back into her soda as she smacked your leg in excitement.

Despite still being in disbelief yourself, Jeno had been extremely up-front and clear about it. No room for misinterpretation. Unlike your response to him.

“Well when’s the date?” NingNing squealed, pressing for more information.

“I said no,” you deadpanned.

“What?”

“Well, kind of.”

At the clear grimace on your face, your friend sighed, “Y/N, what did you tell him? Verbatim.”

“I told him that it would be inappropriate right now because a bias or conflict of interest would ruin the integrity of my piece and any career opportunity that came out of it,” you repeated your statement from earlier almost word-for-word, sure that it would be burned into your memory for the rest of your life.

“You do know that he now definitely thinks that you were telling him to just wait until after the article is over, right?”

“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of,” you groaned, dropping your head into your hands and rubbing your face in exasperation.

“You don’t want to go on a date with Jeno?”

“I don’t want to date Lee Jeno,” you confirmed, nodding the head that you were still holding.

“Let me just review the situation here: you’ve got a very sweet, very funny, very hot guy that’s into you. What’s the problem?”

“He’s hot.”

Finally, you’d found it. The real reason you’d said no, the real reason you had a deep pit of dread in your stomach as soon as the words had left Jeno’s mouth hours earlier.

She snorted, “That’s a problem?”

“His entire career is based off being hot, he’s a model,” you explained rather desperately, relieved to finally be able to put your tumultuous thoughts into proper words. “I can’t deal with all that shit that comes with it. I just can’t.”

“So you’ll never want to date him? You’re not going to change your mind?”

“No, never. I couldn’t.”

“Never say never,” NingNing taunted with a sing-song voice, but at your eye-roll, became more serious. “Okay, let’s just say you’ll never date Jeno in your life—despite the fact that nothing is ever definite—you shouldn’t lead him on. Intentional or otherwise. Don’t let him spend the next few weeks thinking that you two are going to date after the article’s over.”

The anxiety was still there, however. “What if he doesn’t actually think that and I just misunderstood him? What if he just naturally gets over me in the next few weeks and doesn’t need me to confront him about this and straight-up reject him? He’s probably never been rejected in his life, what if he doesn’t take it well? What—”

She cut your endless strings of ‘what if’s short, “Y/N, didn’t he say that he’d never done this before?”

Realization hit you straight to the gut. “What if me rejecting him makes him never want to ask anybody else out again for the rest of his life and I scar him permanently?”

Your roommate had a clear look of ‘yikes’ on her face, and pure mortification ran through every inch of you.

“Never mind, there’s no way I could ever have such an impact on Lee Jeno’s life, that’s fucking ridiculous. I’m just some normal person, some journalist, and he’s literally a supermodel. No way this would actually matter to someone like that.”

“Y/N, don’t say stuff like that,” NingNing frowned, pulling some hair away from your face gently. “You matter to me, remember? You’re my best friend.”

Completely ignoring her, you continued, “I just have to be upfront with him, tell him I don’t want to go on a date with him, and be done with it. He’ll probably never think about it again for the rest of his life.”

She let out a sigh as if she were going to say something but thought better of it. You didn’t press her; your mind had been made up.

You couldn’t do it.

The next time you saw Jeno, you had every intention of being upfront. But you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You were an absolute coward. Some part of you didn’t want to tell him, for whatever reason.

Maybe because the way his face absolutely lit up when he saw you was something you’d never seen anybody do for you before. Maybe because he asked you how your day was and didn’t look disinterested in your answer. Maybe because no matter how hard you tried to tell yourself that this was a professional interview, he made you feel so at ease that you somehow talked more about yourself than him.

Maybe because you did kind of want to date him.

Your notebook had been completely abandoned about fifteen minutes into your ‘lunch meeting,’ a fact that went mostly unnoticed by you. Until the waiter came with the bill and you had to move it out of the way for him to set it on the tabletop. You’d written just a couple short notes, nothing substantial. That wasn’t an interview, you couldn’t even try to bullshit it to yourself. That was a date-but-not-a-date. And you enjoyed yourself.

As you contemplated over your mostly-blank page, Jeno had already tucked his own card into the pouch and waved the waiter back over. Before you could argue him paying for you, the waiter was halfway across the restaurant.

“Jeno, I can pay for my own food,” you reminded him gently, feeling very much like you were scolding an over-excited puppy that had accidentally knocked over a potted plant in its haste to greet you.

“And I can pay for both of ours,” he countered.

You held his gaze firmly, waiting for him to— there it was.

His mouth split into a sheepish grin as he held up his hands in surrender, “Alright, I get it, I get it. Interview time right now. We’ll split the check for now.”

For now.

Maybe you liked the idea of that.

“Except this one, since they already ran my card,” Jeno added, a victorious smirk on his face, one that had you shaking your head fondly.

“Can I at least tip?”

“Already added that on the receipt.”

“How dare you be so thoughtful and respectful.”

He seemed about ready to quip something back when a distant chorus of squeals cut him off. You took a cursory glance around, eyes landing on a group of teenage girls standing just outside the window that you were seated by. They weren’t uncomfortably close, but it was clear what had made them so excited.

Jeno ducked his head shyly as he raised a hand to acknowledge them, only setting their nervous titters off again. Maybe he should have left his mask and hat on, or not chosen a table by the window.

And your heart dropped as you were once again reminded of who exactly the man in front of you was. Not just some cute guy named Lee Jeno, but a model who was known internationally, with fans who would recognize him out and about, with a career and life that was under the public gaze constantly.

You couldn’t do that. You couldn’t subject yourself to that. It would be too much for you.

With the girls still watching the two of you, you collected your notepad and stood up, stiffly bowing to him. “Thank you for allowing me to interview you, Mr. Lee.”

Thankfully, he took your lead, standing and returning your bow, “Of course, thank you as well, Ms. Y/L/N.”

Hopefully the girls got the message that this was business and nothing else. A dating rumor with Lee Jeno was absolutely the one thing you did not need in your life. Lee Jeno was absolutely the one thing you did not need in your life.

The light hum that had been in Ms. Zhang’s throat through most of her reading of your article suddenly changed tone as she came to the ending. Her brow furrowed thoughtfully, and your mind was running wild with nerves as you waited for her to speak.

“It’s good, Y/N,” she started.

You sensed a ‘but’ coming next.

“But… in the very first paragraph you introduce him as model by day, and explorer by night, or something to that effect.”

“Yes, that’s how he and his friends introduced him.”

“But you never bring up his ‘exploring’ again. This is about his life as a model and what he’s like outside of modelling here. You hooked me on the exploring part, but left me ultimately unsatisfied with that point.”

She was right. She was absolutely right. In your own personal whirlwind of confusion about your emotions and wants, you’d left a loose end in your article.

Ms. Zhang continued, her tone rising, “But…”

Oh, another ‘but.’

“This might just be perfect for a sequel. We publish this and advertise it as a two-part look into him, the first part his model by day, and the second part all about him as an explorer.”

You were caught off-guard, “You want to publish it?”

You had honestly expected her to throw it in the trash and fire you. You’d been so all over the place the entire time you’d been working on the article, you didn’t think it was anywhere close to your best work.

“Of course, this is the most hard-hitting and real piece that’s ever been done about the man! Most of it is tabloid nonsense. Not to mention that this is the first interview he’s done in over a year, it’s fresh content. It’s perfect, Y/N.”

Ms. Zhang just called your article perfect. You were on Cloud Nine, barely listening as she continued.

“Do you think you’ll be able to get a second interview with him? Maybe even tag along on one of his exploring trips or something, like how you went to one of his photoshoots in this one?”

That snapped you back into reality. Going on a trip with Jeno? That sounded dicey. But… also a chance to extend the interview, prolong the inevitable: his expectation that you’ll start dating after the interview. Your worst fear.

Avoiding an uncomfortable scenario and making your career out of it? It was an opportunity you couldn’t pass up.

“Of course, Ms. Zhang.”

Right as you walked into the VIP lounge, you were met with the expectant face of Jeno. You’d agreed to meet him there on your lunch break, right after your morning meeting with Ms. Zhang, to let him know if she was going to move forward with publishing your article or not. It felt a bit weird being at a nightclub in the middle of the day in your work clothes, but it was one of the more private places to meet with him.

“So?” He asked hopefully. “How’d it go?”

“She’s going to publish it,” you breathed out, still in shock yourself.

Two strong arms were suddenly around you, pulling you into a warm chest that was practically vibrating with excitement.

“Oh my god!” Jeno hugged you tightly. “Congrats, Y/N! I’m so proud of you!”

You hugged him back for a moment, enjoying it more than you should have considering you swore up and down that you weren’t going to let yourself date him. Then you remembered the other half of the conversation, your arms going limp.

“And she wants a second part.”

“That’s great!” He exclaimed, then after another moment, it seemed to have dawned on him. “Oh wait.”

And he let go of you, a particular chill coming to your body as he took a step back from you, declaring, “Professionalism. No bias or conflict of interest.”

You felt bad. You felt so bad. And yet you nodded, “Yeah, it’s still going to have to be like that.”

Maybe forever, if you could swing it just right.

“So… a second part about what, exactly? The article was super great, but I’m not sure how I could be interesting enough for a sequel.”

“Your ‘exploring,’” you explained. “I had mentioned it, but never returned to the topic or expanded on it, so she wants this whole second part to be about your trips and you know… all that stuff. Whatever you get up to when you’re not a model, and when you’re not a regular dude here.”

A rather cheeky grin spread across his face at this, and you didn’t want to know why he was so excited about you not dating, because you had a feeling it would be something awful close to it.

“Well then, what better way to get to know Explorer Jeno than coming with me on my trip to a tropical island next week?”

You were taken aback by both the invite but also by the event itself. After all, Jeno had given you his entire schedule for the past two months, which included next week. And you didn’t remember a trip being anywhere on there.

“Since when have you been going to a tropical island next week?” You asked incredulously.

“Since now.”

You sighed, rubbing your face. “Jeno, you can’t drop everything in your life just to do this. I can wait until whenever your next actual scheduled break is for whatever trip you make then.”

“Yeah, but I can’t wait,” he insisted, a near pout across his features. He pulled his phone out of his back pocket, half-mumbling to himself, “I’m calling my manager right now. He owes me vacation days anyway, I’ll just take them early. Make my three-week backpacking trip in Europe next year fifteen days instead. I can’t wait.”

That went straight to your heart, and you felt your chest hurt from the implications of that. He couldn’t wait until he could date you. With every passing moment you felt like a more and more terrible human being. Which you were, you absolutely were just a horrible human being for doing this to him. After all, like you’d said, you were never going to date Lee Jeno.

Right?

One week later and you were in your third airport of the trip, your second layover as you waited for your connecting flight. You’d been in interviewer mode since Jeno had picked you up to head to the first airport that morning. Asking questions, writing answers, asking more questions. There was no room for anything but business on this trip. This article would be the follow-up to your first piece that your boss thought was perfect. So this had to be more perfect than perfect. You wanted to make her proud.

Jeno, surprisingly, was being rather professional too. Other than the slight touch here, an odd phrase there that couldn’t exactly be classified as professional. A brush of your hands as he tried to get your attention, off-handed comment about how cute you were when you were focused taking notes. You’d only remind him that this was a professional article, hoping that he couldn’t see the bashful smile on your lips.

Or even now, he returned from what was supposed to be a quick bathroom break with waters and snacks for the both of you.

“How much do I owe you?” You asked as you accepted the food and drink.

“Nothing.”

You frowned.

“Come on, Y/N,” he sighed in exasperation, cracking open his own water bottle. “I know we’re serious professional interviewing here, but two people doing business together can still be friendly and do nice gestures for each other.”

He was right. He was absolutely right. You were being a jerk for no reason. Well, not for no reason. There was a small voice in your head that hoped that maybe if you pushed him away enough now he would change his mind about wanting to date you, that he’d think you were actually a jerk. And that little voice was apparently wrong. And also a piece of shit. Jeno didn’t deserve that.

“Right, sorry,” you shook your grumpy face off, offering him a smile instead. “Thanks, Jeno.”

He pulled down his face mask to be able to drink the water, and that combined with his inconspicuous baseball cap brought back the idea that he was a famous celebrity who had to cover up his appearance when he went out to avoid being detected. Even in some random foreign country you didn’t know the name of on a layover. If you did actually start dating him, would he have to wear those on your dates? Any time you wanted to spend time together in public? Would you have to start wearing them?

Those were ridiculous thoughts, especially because you were never going to date Lee Jeno.

Right?

On the plane, you halted the interview to allow the two of you to both take naps, already feeling the toll of the heavy travelling you’d done today. And you’d be doing even more soon, as this flight wouldn’t even take you to the island directly, you had to take a ferry from a different island’s airport out to the actual island that was your destination. Then a car ride of some sort from the harbor to wherever you were staying. And based off the clothes Jeno had requested you bring, you’d be getting very in touch with nature on this trip, another exhausting idea.

All for an interview. All for a way to avoid the inevitable.

As you snoozed, not quite asleep yet, you felt Jeno slowly shift in his sleep, his head lolling to the side until it finally found a resting place on your shoulder. Even in his sleep this man completely disregarded professionalism.

But you were too tired to complain, soon falling asleep yourself, with your own head rolling until it finally found a resting place on his.

“So what exactly happened at your last interview that was so bad you were banned from them?”

Your questions continued as soon as you’d left the airport on the island, only halting when you were caught off-guard by Jeno’s choice of transportation: a cream yellow moped. Which you were now on the back of, clinging onto your bag for dear life. Thank God you had packed light like he suggested.

“It’s kind of a long story,” he replied loudly over the wind. “I’ll tell you when we get to the hotel, okay?”

“Fine.”

“We’ve got some tighter turns coming up, you might want to hold on to something actually attached to the moped.”

He didn’t say it, but you knew what he meant. Wrapping your arms around his torso, you then held onto him for dear life as he whipped around the turns. How he could possibly make a moped feel dangerous was truly incredible to you.

“Yeah, that—” he stumbled over a voice crack. “That’s good. Much more secure.”

“This question shouldn’t be a long story: Have you ever driven one of these things before?”

The hotel was small and homey, with so few rooms that the two of you would be sharing one. Jeno had already informed you of that beforehand, having asked for the okay from you, that sharing the room wouldn’t be too unprofessional. While it definitely was, there were no other rooms available, so you were stuck between a rock and a hard place. When he informed you that there were two beds, you finally agreed.

Except it wasn’t two beds, as you found out when you walked in. It was a bed and a pull-out couch. And he’d already claimed the pull-out couch for himself.

“Jeno,” you sighed again as you watched him set his stuff down on the less comfortable option. “This isn’t two beds.”

He shrugged, “We have separate places to sleep, that’s what you were worried about, right?”

Your patience was wearing thin. It was almost annoying how sweet he was. Well, it wasn’t really him being sweet that annoyed you. It was the sneaky ways he liked to do it.

“Jeno…” you repeated his name, trailing off as you waited for him acknowledge you.

He was still messing around with setting up the pull-out couch.

“Jeno, look at me.”

At your request, he immediately did so, the attentiveness catching you off-guard for a moment. But you were determined.

“I don’t like being lied to or tricked. Even if it’s something nice, you know? It’s sweet, but I like to make my own decisions about things. Even things that may seem little to you, like splitting the bill at restaurants, or whether you’re coming up to get me or I’m going down to meet you, or you dropping all your plans to go on some spur-of-the-moment trip, or who’s taking the couch and who’s taking the bed. I’d like a say in the matter, okay?”

He gulped, seeming to really be taking his time to mull over what you were saying. And you did, too. It was another reason that you could never date him. He was a celebrity, he was used to being able to do whatever, to not having to worry about the kinds of things normal people like you had to worry about. The implications of that terrified you. You couldn’t do it.

Finally, he said, “Okay, yeah. I understand. I never really saw it like that, I’m sorry. I should’ve been more thoughtful of how it was making you feel. I’m really sorry, Y/N.”

Shit, this dude was way too fucking sweet.

You nodded, mumbling some kind of response to the genuine apology he’d given you.

Clearly as eager to change the topic as you, Jeno spoke up, “So, what was it that you’d asked me on the moped earlier?”

And you were more than happy to revisit that, snatching up your notebook from your bag and sitting on the bed, “What happened at your last interview that caused you to be banned from them?”

“Oh, right,” he physically grimaced at this, rubbing his face with his hands for a moment. “It’s a long story, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I’ve got plenty of paper.”

Jeno let out a sigh, sitting on the pull-out couch. “No, Y/N. I can tell you, but you can’t write it down, you can’t publish it. I’m sorry to have to ask you this, because I know how dedicated you are to the integrity of your work but… if you’re going to publish it, I can’t tell you. I’m sorry. The others don’t even know the whole story. Jaemin doesn’t know.”

His words struck you differently, hearing the genuine defeat and distress in his voice. With a twinging heart, you tucked your notepad and pencil back into your bag. For someone who had been preaching about professionalism and keeping the integrity of your article, you were really so ready to throw it out for him as soon as he asked, weren’t you?

“I won’t write it down, I won’t tell a soul,” you reassured him, wanting nothing more than to sit down next to him and hold his hand and tell him that everything was okay. But you still clung onto some little semblance of professionalism here. For some fucking reason, when it was getting clearer by the minute that all your resistance would be futile.

Just a glimmer of a smile was across his lips for a moment at your actions before it was taken over by the same pensive face as before, and he started the story.

“It was… oh probably over a year ago now. I was still kind of new to the modelling industry, but it felt like everyone’s eyes were on me. My company toted me around as their rising star and every second I wasn’t at a gig, I was being interviewed by someone. It was a lot, but it was freaking awesome.”

The brightness in his features that had been there as he recalled the earlier days of his career suddenly turned dark at his next words. “Until this one interview. It was for a smaller magazine, and my manager didn’t even know why I wanted to do the interview. But it was a magazine that my mom liked to read, and I wanted her to be able to see her son in it. So I sat down with the interviewer, and it felt like it was going like all my other interviews had gone. And maybe because I wanted to really make a good impression on her, so the article my mom read would be as positive as possible, I accidentally led her on or something like that.”

You tilted your head curiously at this last statement. If it had come from any other hot guy, you might have doubted his actual intentions, but it was Jeno. You knew that he wasn’t only physically attractive but had such a way of being naturally charming and making people feel at ease that it was impossible not to be drawn in by his attractive personality. He didn’t do it on purpose, he was just a genuinely nice guy.

“But afterwards, she asked for my number. I said no. I let her down as easy as I could, and she took it with grace. Or I had thought so until Manager Han and the CEO of my company—who I had never met until this—sat me down in his office and showed me a naked picture of some guy and asked if it was me. You couldn’t see his face, and his build was similar to mine, so I could see how they were doubtful. It wasn’t me, but that didn’t matter. The interviewer had sent those pictures to my company saying that if they didn’t pay her a bunch of money, she would post them online saying they were of me.”

Your eyes widened almost comically at this. You couldn’t believe that someone could actually think of doing something like that, especially to Jeno.

“Now, the company doesn’t take very well to people trying to extort them or threaten their people, so she was taken care of.” After a pause, his eyes shot open comically wide as he shook his head fervently, “Legally, in the legal system, it’s not like my company like killed her or anything, I phrased that very badly.”

A quiet laugh came from your mouth at his backpedaling.

“Anyway, they decided that after that, it would be best for me to not do interviews for a while. I don’t really know what happened to her after the court case, but to my knowledge, she hasn’t bothered us. And I haven’t had an interview since. Until you.”

“Until me,” you echoed, mind reeling from this story.

This interview really meant more to Jeno than you had realized before. You’d incorrectly and selfishly assumed that he was so invested in it just because he liked you. But it was more than that. His last interview had been a disaster, the interviewer threatened to humiliate him publicly, and betrayed him. He had taken a chance on you to be different than that, taken a chance to make you his first interview back after the shit the last one had put him through. You were sure that he was feeling the pressure from his company to make it the best possible return to them ever. And he had entrusted it all with you.

You weren’t sure of how long you’d been sitting in silence for, but it started suffocating you, so you finally choked out, “I’m sorry she did that to you. She’s… a bitch.”

Jeno chuckled, “I guess. I kind of just feel bad for her.”

“I don’t,” you snorted, feeling your blood starting to boil as you thought about it even more. “She tried to ruin your career and reputation because she got rejected. It’s not your fault, Jeno. You didn’t do anything to deserve that. She’s just a bitch.”

While he didn’t outright agree with you, the faint smile on his features was still apparent as he went to stand up, forcing some pep into his tone. “Okay, time for some island exploring. After all, you’re here for Explorer Jeno, right?”

“Right!”

Right?

Being on the island was refreshing. Not only because you’d never been on a trip to a place quite like it before, but just everything felt absolutely perfect. It was the perfect temperature outside, the warm sun being balanced out by a cool breeze that blew through your hair, the water surrounding you was the perfect clear blue, the flora the perfect rich green, and the man with you was… perfect.

You’d given up on trying to keep your fond thoughts of Jeno at bay. He was wonderful, that was undeniable. And as you went around the island together, his baseball cap and face mask left behind in the hotel room, the notion of his fame slipped from your mind. Sure, you were still writing down your observations, small adventures, and pertinent questions you asked him. But you weren’t interviewing Famous Supermodel Jeno right now, you were interviewing Explorer Jeno. And he was someone you could let yourself fall for, even for just a few days on this little island.

After your third day on the island as you signed onto the hotel wifi to transcribe your notes from your notebook to your word document on your laptop, a few email notifications popped up, catching your attention. Reception wasn’t the best, and you had so many other things occupying your focus and time—mainly Jeno—that you rarely checked your phone. Not to mention that before you’d left, you were unsure of if you’d even have cell phone service on the island, so you’d told your friends to email you if they needed anything.

One was an email from NingNing, the short preview of her message that you could see making you shake your head. You were not on a romantic getaway with Jeno.

The next was some flyer from a store advertising their latest sale, which you quickly discarded in favor of opening the one from Ms. Zhang. The person who was literally paying for you to be there right then.

The gist of her email was basically just asking for a status update, a routine check-in to see how your research and interview was coming along. You filled her in on what kind of direction and outline you were thinking of for the article, telling her some of the things you’d done together around the island, framing it as professionally as you could. However, it was very hard to make it business-like, you realized in slight defeat as you reread the email draft to yourself. Maybe you could make it casual-business-friendly-sounding instead. After editing a couple phrases here and there, you read it one more time. Satisfied that you’d made it sound the least like a ‘romantic getaway’ as possible, you hit send.

You had just sent it when Jeno emerged from the bathroom, fully clothed and toweling off his wet hair.

When the two of you had gotten back from wandering the streets and seeing the nightlife of the town, you’d given him first shower of the night, wanting to sort out your notes as soon as possible. You had a lot to move over just from that night alone, especially the moment when Jeno was ordering something from an older street vendor and had suddenly busted out some local dialect he’d picked up from God knows where. And the man knew what he was saying too. Jeno never ceased to amaze you.

“Jeno,” you called his name out from where you sat cross-legged on the bed, laptop with the email still up in front of you.

“Hm?” He hummed in acknowledgement, abandoning his towel in order to run his fingers through his damp hair.

“The way the guys had described your exploring, and the stuff you’d told me to bring made me think it’d be more… rugged than this.”

A handsome, crooked grin split his lips, seeming very delighted at your observation, “And what did the guys tell you?”

“Jaemin and Renjun seemed fearful for my life and told me to be safe; Haechan and Chenle were rather ecstatic and told me to have fun in a tone that made me not want to know their implications; Mark told me to bring plenty of water and a first aid kit; and Jisung… well he didn’t actually say anything but his face said it all.”

“You talked to all the guys about the trip?”

“Not by choice, NingNing brought me to an influencer party with Jisung, Jaemin, and Renjun the other day, and I was summoned to the lounge by Chenle and subsequently ambushed by him, Haechan, and Mark about it.”

“They’re all menaces,” Jeno shook his head fondly. “But don’t worry, I’ve got some plans for us tomorrow.”

“That sounds ominous.”

He giggled.

“So we’re hiking to the top of this volcano?” You summarized what Jeno had just told you, in much fewer words.

“Yep!”

“Then camping near the top, which we may or may not be allowed to do.”

“Yep!”

“Without a guide.”

“I’m your guide, Y/N! I do this kind of stuff all the time, and there’s a trail to follow anyway.”

“Now I know why Jaemin and Renjun feared for my life.”

“They were being dramatic, it’ll be fine.”

“Oh I’m not protesting going, I’ll just make sure to type up my will in the notes app in my phone first.”

“Now you’re being dramatic.”

You laughed, putting your hands up in surrender, “Alright, alright. I won’t write my final will and testament right now.”

“Let’s go!”

Thankfully, you’d taken heed of Mark’s advice to bring extra water. With the amount you were sweating, you would’ve been dehydrated less than an hour in if you weren’t constantly replenishing the lost fluids. It wasn’t an incredibly strenuous or difficult hike. Not a casual stroll, but you were managing. It was just that it was so hot and humid now that you were in the more confined landscape of the trees, you couldn’t tell if more of the moisture was your own sweat or the water hanging in the air and clinging to your skin as you continued through it.

Jeno kept you plenty entertained with stories of his previous (mis)adventures, almost all of which were solo. There were a couple times that he brought along others, but they didn’t go great. One unfortunate happenstance was when he’d dragged Eunseok out white water rafting with him and the poor guy fell out of the raft into freezing cold water. According to Jeno, his PA almost quit right on the spot. Another time, the other VIP lounge members had joined him as a celebration trip after Renjun hit 10 million subscribers. They ran out of water on the second day, Chenle ended up spraining his ankle, and they were ready to commit mutiny before the 48-hour mark, so the trip was concluded early.

“Jeno, it sounds like the people who go exploring with you don’t have a great track record of enjoying themselves,” you pointed out, taking another swig of water.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Y/N?” He countered.

Looking around, you could just make out a peek of blue ocean through the trees, and looking ahead of you, the two of you were more than halfway to the top.

“Yeah, I am. So far. There’s still time for me to sprain my ankle or fall into a freezing river.”

He shook his head affectionately at your teasing, “Careful, you’re going to jinx yourself.”

“Old hiking superstition? If you talk about spraining your ankle you will?”

“No, but still. My own little superstition, I guess.”

“Got it. Then I’ll un-jinx myself: I will not sprain my ankle or fall into a freezing river on this trip,” you announced loudly to the surrounding forest, earning another fond smile from Jeno accompanied by a soft chuckle.

“There you go.”

“Another five minutes or so and we’ll be at the peak!” Jeno yelled back over his shoulder to you excitedly.

You were a few steps behind him, your legs had been complaining for the greater part of the last thirty minutes. But with this information, you felt reinvigorated, having the end so close bringing a new spark of energy to your tired limbs. You caught up to him, sharing the trail at the wider parts and staying just behind him at the narrower parts.

Finally, you were at the top. And you knew because the trees opened up to a clearing, the leaves and branches giving way to the most incredible sights you could’ve imagined.

“Wow,” you breathed out, turning to get the full view.

From here you could see the whole little town below you, other nearby islands, the forest you had just hiked through, and the vast, glistening blue sea surrounding you. The sun bounced off of the water at the perfect angle to make it look like it was made of diamonds. It was breathtaking. Not to mention that now that you were out of the humid forest, you could once again feel the cool breeze across your heated skin.

A pod of dolphins surfaced briefly, their fins dipping up and down between the calm waves.

“Jeno, dolphins!” You pointed them out to him eagerly, instinctually clutching his arm in excitement. “Did you know that dolphins in the Amazon River are pink because of repeated skin abrasion, and that the males are pinker because they have a lot more interspecies aggression?”

“I think my guide told me something like that, but I was too focused on getting my paddle back from one to really listen to him.”

You turned to him with wide eyes. “You’ve seen them?”

“Yeah, I went to the Amazon last summer. I had to wrestle my paddle back from a rather playful one,” he shrugged, as if it was just a casual little day trip or something. “So you really like dolphins?”

“I did a report for school when I was like 11, some of the info just stuck.”

As you kept watching the dolphins, a smaller one popped up in the middle of the pod. “Oh! A baby! It’s so cute!”

“Yeah, she is,” he agreed with you.

You furrowed your brows in confusion. “You can’t tell it’s a girl from here!”

Then you looked over at him, realizing that his focus wasn’t on the dolphins, but on you. Mumbling something about professionalism, you let go of his arm, clasping your hands in front of you as you awkwardly looked back out to the sea.

With a victorious smirk on his face—probably enjoying the fact that he was able to fluster you—Jeno took a few steps away from you, yanking his knapsack off his back and grabbing a blanket from it, “Time for a late lunch.”

He laid the blanket out on a flatter part of the terrain, then brought out a small assortment of foods. You sat down with him, eager to dig into the food. With how much your legs hurt from hiking up here, you hadn’t realized that you were starving until he mentioned lunch. Your stomach growled angrily, and you just hoped it wasn’t loud enough for him to hear.

Jeno had packed a very nice lunch for you to share. For the most part, you two were quiet, mouths full of food and eyes still drinking in the stunning view of where you were. You turned your phone on to snap a few pictures before shutting it off again. With no charging ports out here, you had to conserve the battery until you were back in the hotel.

“Do you know which island that is?” You asked Jeno, pointing to the one that seemed the closest to you.

“Nope.”

“That one?” You pointed to a different one.

“Nope.”

“This one?” You teasingly pointed at the ground you were sitting on.

Jeno raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”

Right as you had opened your mouth to say something smartassy back, you pursed your lips in defeat. “Uh, nope.”

He chuckled, capping his water and starting to put the trash and leftover food back into his bag. You followed his lead, standing when he did so he could pack the blanket back up too. Stretching, a few satisfying cracks came from your back, letting go of the tension that had built up from your sitting position that probably wasn’t great for your spine.

“We should head down to the campsite soon,” Jeno informed you quietly as you had gone back to watching the ocean.

He’d told you while you were still at the base that you wouldn’t be camping at the peak, but at another area a little further down the mountain that was a lot safer for sleeping on. You wished you could’ve stayed up here for the rest of your life.

“Can’t we stay and watch the sunset?” Your voice was nearly a soft whine as you resisted leaving so soon. “It’s got to be incredible from up here.”

“I’m sure it is,” he sounded very reluctant to be telling you this. “But we have to set up camp before it gets too dark.”

“A couple more minutes?”

“Yeah, of course.”

After being rather useless in helping Jeno set up your campsite—not for any chivalrous reasons on his part, you were truly just inept at things and did more harm than good when you tried to help—you sat outside the tent with him. The two of you were going to be sharing a tent, which he had asked earlier if that would be okay. You told him it was fine with you.

The blanket previously used for lunch earlier was under the two of you as you sat just outside the tent. The site Jeno had chosen as your campsite was in a rare area where the foliage wasn’t too thick, and you could just make out some of the ocean as the sun set. It wasn’t the picture-perfect sunset you imagined could be seen from the peak, but it was still pretty.

You continued with your interview questions as you looked out towards the water, scrawling down his answers in the fading light. You couldn’t quite see what you were writing, hoping you didn’t just make a bunch of illegible scribbles instead of notes. He spoke again of his trip to the Amazon, saying how he’d like to go back again sometime, and maybe have a better look at the pink river dolphins. The way he said it fostered some implications, a thought in your mid that maybe you could go with him if he did go back. That was a nice thought. And impractical one, but it gave you warm fuzzies nonetheless.

“So, why do you think you like exploring so much?” You asked him after hearing so many stories of all the destinations he’d gone to.

“Who doesn’t like to travel?”

“What you do… it’s not just travelling, it’s not just a vacation. You’re not booked up in five stars hotels in city centers or doing every tacky tourist thing out there. You get at the heart of where you are, you explore it, you don’t just visit it. Why is that?”

“That’s a rather deep question,” he let out a light chuckle, shifting to face you as he closed his eyes, taking a moment to think. “I guess… like you said, I try to get at the heart of the place, not the surface-level stuff everyone else sees. I’ve always had a sort of wanderlust in me. When I was about twelve, I damn near gave my mom a heart attack because I got on a train and wanted to see where it went and ended up fifty miles from home. And now, I don’t know, I guess the stuff everybody else does doesn’t really interest me… the picture that’s painted to tourists of a place isn’t what it actually is, and I want to find out what is. If that makes sense. Did that make sense?”

You swallowed hard, nodding fervently. “Yeah, it did. I completely understand, yeah.”

That’s how he saw the world, and it was beautiful. And maybe you could see it like him; maybe you could look past the picture that’s painted and what everyone else sees to get at the heart.

Up this high, cold started setting in some time long after the sun had finished setting and darkness was all around you, save for the soft glow of the lantern Jeno had going. The temperature wouldn’t drop terribly, but it was cooler than it was during the day, encouraging you to tuck your chilly fingers into the inside of your knees for some warmth.

“I’m sorry,” Jeno frowned, standing up and stepping over to the tent. “I forgot to tell you to bring a jacket, didn’t I?”

“I’m alright, Jeno,” you assured him, but his arm popped back out of the tent holding a couple pieces of clothing.

It was two sweaters, one he offered out to you, the other presumably for himself. You didn’t refuse, which maybe you really should have for professionalism’s sake. Slipping the hoodie over your head then sticking your arms in, you were immediately swallowed up by it. Sure, Jeno was pretty buff, but you were sure this would be oversized even on him.

You didn’t even have to try to pull the sleeves over your hands, sweater paws already there as soon as you’d put it on. Which wasn’t ideal if you wanted to keep writing stuff down for the article.

“I would’ve told you that I’m a human space heater, but I figured this was a little more professional,” he said, heavy implications there.

Butterflies fluttered around in your stomach as you took it upon yourself to scoot closer to him until your legs and sides were touching, “This is still professional, just two professionals huddling together for warmth.”

“Yeah.”

You were trying to convince yourself more than you were him, knowing that you couldn’t really fool yourself on this one. But damn, you could pretend you did.

It was pretty soon after he’d gotten sweaters for the two of you that Jeno interjected into your conversation, “So when is the article technically over? When you’re done writing it? When your boss okays it? When it’s compiled with the other articles in that issue of the journal? When the copies hit the shelves and its uploaded to the website?”

You let out a shallow breath, knowing what he was really asking. When can the two of you date?

The part of you that was saying ‘never!’ was getting smaller and smaller, and the part of you who just wanted it to be right now was growing bigger and bigger. And yet, for some reason, you were still listening to the little one.

“I don’t know, probably when it’s officially published. You know, when ‘the copies hit the shelves and it’s uploaded to the website.’”

“When do you think that will be?”

“The first one is being published in this month’s issue. So, depending on how fast I get this one written up and proofed, at the earliest next month.”

“And the latest?”

“A couple months. I’m not sure how long Ms. Zhang will want between the two, if she wants to leave the audience in suspense for longer or give them the next part as soon as possible. Probably the first one, if I’m being honest.”

“Oh,” Jeno’s pout that you could see illuminated from the lantern was suddenly split into a wide yawn. “We should go to sleep, we’ve got the climb back down tomorrow.”

You were glad that he had brought it up first. After all, you were pretty tired, but you weren’t about to be the one to end the nice time you were having. Nodding, you stood, taking the lantern in your hand as Jeno folded the blanket back up.

Ducking into the tent, you immediately plopped down onto your sleeping bag, giving Jeno as much room as possible to maneuver his limbs around as he zipped the tent up behind him and set his stuff down in the corner. You put the lantern down at your feet, keeping the area illuminated as you climbed into your sleeping bag and started settling in for the night.

With the covers pulled up to your shoulders and Jeno’s hoodie bunching around your face in a comfortably warm way, you were pretty content to fall asleep then and there. But the light was still on.

Groaning, you looked down towards your feet, glaring at the lantern you knew you’d have to get un-comfy to turn off. Jeno had a small smile on his face as he sat up, “I’ll get it. You ready to turn it off?”

You nodded, your ‘yes’ muffled by the hoodie.

The last thing you saw before complete darkness was Jeno’s soft grin. That was a rather nice image to have in your mind as you drifted off to sleep.

Eyes fluttering awake, the first thing you were aware of was that you were warm. Very warm. Way too warm. One might say that you were currently in a pool of your own sweat. You’d have to wash this hoodie before giving it back to Jeno, it was definitely disgusting.

Speaking of Jeno, he wasn’t in the tent with you, which you noticed as you peeled the somewhat damp sweater off yourself. You took the opportunity to apply some more deodorant and change your short sleeve shirt before shoving your feet back into your shoes. You headed out of the tent, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes as you did so.

The very last traces of the sunrise were still in the sky from the little that you could see, but it was definitely morning. Looking around, you spotted Jeno standing a little further away from the tent, holding his hand out towards a lower-hanging branch. You wouldn’t have quite been able to reach it yourself, but he could. Perched atop the branch was a bright blue bird, eating right out of his hand. Your eyes widened just a little at this, though you were too tired to be terribly surprised.

Watching him feed the bird for a little longer, you felt your chest swell. His hair was messy, not having fixed his bedhead yet; a peaceful hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth; his big, round, eyes watched the bird eat with a certain simple happiness that for some reason had tears threatening to well up in your own.

You opened your mouth to call out to him, but instead a hoarse croak came out, one that made the bird take off in a flurry of blue feathers and fear. Jeno’s head whipped around to look at the source of the noise, you, and a bright grin came to his features.

“Morning, Y/N,” his voice was even deeper from sleep as he greeted you. He didn’t even seem mad that you’d scared off the bird.

As he approached you, the swell in your chest continued to the point where it hurt, and your vision started going blurry from the tears building up. Jeno’s expression changed to one of concern as he seemed to notice your moist eyes the closer that he got.

“Wh—”

You’d finally gone insane, you’d decided. Absolutely bonkers, completely crazy. After all, how else would you explain the fact that you were now kissing Jeno?

With your hands gripping at his shirt to bring his mouth down to yours, you kissed him like you’d been sick for your whole life and his lips were the cure. All the voices in your head finally shut up, your chest decompressed, and a single tear ran down your face.

He immediately kissed you back, but his hands seemed unsure of what to do, gingerly resting on your arms, featherlight as they hovered there. As if he was afraid that he’d break you, despite the force with which you had crashed your mouth to his.

When you let yourself come back down—and also breathe—you loosened your grip on Jeno’s shirt, releasing him from the slightly hunched position he had been in. Slowly, you brought one of your hands down to wipe away the lone tear.

Jeno was looking at you with a tilted head. “Well, that wasn’t very professional.”

A strangled chuckle escaped your mouth as you fiddled with the hem of your shirt, “Yeah, sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize,” he said softly, a gentle hand coming to cup your cheek, urging you to look back up at him. And when you did, he lightly brushed his lips against yours. A tender ghost of a kiss, one that didn’t last long as Jeno ended it almost as soon as he’d started it.

Opening your eyes, you saw a nearly silly grin spread across his face, precious giggles bubbling up. His smile was contagious, one gracing your mouth as well.

“Is this going to ruin the integrity of your article?” He asked, still smiling down at you. “If you want this to be a thing, of course.”

“I do, I do,” you nodded fervently, a great weight lifted off your soul now that you let yourself admit that. “I’ll tell Ms. Zhang and see what she wants to do about the articles. Until then, we’ve got to lay low.”

“Movie nights,” he immediately surmised.

Quite liking the idea, you agreed, “Yeah, movie nights.”

The doors opened to the VIP lounge, where you had agreed to meet Jeno after your meeting with your boss. It was almost two weeks after you’d returned from what NingNing was now definitely referring to as your ‘romantic getaway,’ which you couldn’t argue. Most of those two weeks was spent by you finalizing your second article, not wanting to tell Ms. Zhang about how that trip had really gone until after you had work to show for it.

Jeno was waiting for you, already standing up and pacing the small room nervously. He seemed more worried about this than you were, despite it really being your career on the line and not his.

You made a beeline to wrap your arms around his torso, burying your face in his chest, and he immediately reciprocated it, holding you closely and pecking the crown of your head.

“Hey, how’d it go?” His gentle tone of voice betrayed his assumptions that it was bad.

Bringing your face out of his chest in order to look up at him, you squealed, “She’s still going to publish them!”

“Ah!” He cried out, tightening his grip on you until it was practically bone-crushing. “I knew it! I knew you were just so good she would have to publish your articles.”

You elaborated, practically buzzing with excitement, “Because I kept out the uh, more private details of the trip and focused on you and the trip itself, she says that it ties up the loose end from the first one nicely. Although, she did recommend not going public until after the second article was out.”

“But you won’t get fired if we don’t abide by that recommendation, right?”

“No, I won’t,” you reassured him, happiness fluttering in your chest as he pecked your forehead.

“I’m so proud of you, Y/N.”

“Mhm,” you hummed, letting him peck your lips too before you spoke up. “I do think she’s right, though, we should wait a while to go out in public as a couple.”

Jeno clearly didn’t like that idea, sighing in reply, “Why?”

“It’s been less than a month, what if you decide you don’t like me?”

It was meant to be a joke, but he took it seriously, kissing your forehead, then your nose, then finally your mouth, “Impossible.”

After a moment, he relented, “Alright. I waited two months, another one or so shouldn’t be that bad.”

“Actually, she’s publishing the second article in a special edition that’ll come out two weeks after the first, not a month.”

“I can wait three weeks.”

And wait three weeks he did. Three weeks exactly. Twenty-one days after your conversation in the VIP lounge, two days after your second article hit the shelves, Jeno picked you up for your first public date. This time, you let him come up and get you—your roommate wasn’t home to bother you—and he left his hat and face mask at home.

“Hi Jeno,” you greeted him as you opened the door.

“Hi, baby,” he replied, wasting no time in lacing your fingers together as you walked to the elevator.

As soon as you stepped foot out of your apartment building, whatever resolve he had broke down, and he smooched your cheek loudly. You giggled at the gesture, squeezing his hand to let him know that you were okay with it. After all, you’d made the poor guy wait longer than he should have, some PDA was in order.

The date was at a small café a few blocks over, within walking distance. Which you were sure Jeno appreciated, having a longer time to be out in public with you, never once letting go of your hand or without physical contact with you. He had to let everybody know that you were dating, and you didn’t mind. You liked that he was so ecstatic to be dating you.

At the café, you ordered up at a front counter, and the cashier asked, “Together or separate?”

“Together!” Jeno replied brightly, wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

You leaned over to murmur to him, “She means, are we paying together or separate?”

“Together!” He repeated.

Squinting up at him for a moment, you didn’t argue it, letting him take the check for both of you. Although you did take a few crumpled bills out of your wallet to drop into the tip jar. After getting your food, you eagerly dug in, a light and amicable conversation had between bites.

“So you really waited exactly three weeks, huh?” You teased him.

“The second article came out two days ago, I think that’s plenty of time for everyone to read it,” he defended himself.

“It took you five days to read it.”

He seemed about ready to quip something back when a muffled chorus of squeals cut him off. You took a brief glance around, eyes landing on a group of teenage girls standing just outside the window that you were seated by. They weren’t uncomfortably close, but it was clear what had made them so excited.

Jeno ducked his head shyly as he raised a hand to acknowledge them, only setting their nervous titters off again. This situation was eerily familiar, déjà vu washing over you.

But this time, you were kind of glad that he had left his mask and hat at home, and that he’d chosen a table by the window.

Because your heart soared as you were once again reminded of who exactly the man in front of you was. Not just a model who was known internationally, with fans who would recognize him out and about, with a career and life that was under the public gaze constantly, but also a cute, sweet, funny guy named Lee Jeno.

You could do that. You could subject yourself to that. It would be fine as long as you had Jeno with you.

With the girls still watching the two of you, you reached a hand out across the table towards him. Thankfully, he took your lead, picking it up before pressing a few tender kisses to your fingers. Hopefully the girls got the message that this was romantic and private, and nothing else.

A dating rumor with Lee Jeno was absolutely the one thing you needed in your life. Lee Jeno was absolutely the one thing you needed in your life.

“Jeno?” You called for his attention, ignoring the gaggle of fans outside the window.

“Yes?” He focused on you, squeezing your hand.

“I have a question…”

“I thought the interview was over,” he pouted teasingly.

“It is, I swear.” You lifted your linked hands pointedly. “I just… There’s something that’s kind of been nagging at me, about the interview.”

“Ask away.”

“Why me? Like, I remember at our first interview session, you thought I was just going to ask you all the normal stuff about celebrity crushes and stuff.”

“You remember what I said, about my parents’ shop? How I used to help out there?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“When NingNing brought you to the lounge, and you said that thing about you being a normal person, and me being a supermodel, and how you weren’t comfortable around me because of that, it really hit me. I-I really hated that.”

“Jeno, I’m sorry—”

“No, it’s not your fault,” he insisted. “It’s nobody’s fault, that’s just how it is, how our culture is, or whatever. But I hated that you felt like that around me. Because I didn’t use to be like that. I used to be a normal person, too. And I just thought that if you and I had met a few years ago, when I was working in my parents’ shop or something, I could’ve talked to you like a normal guy, and I would’ve been able to put you at ease and flirt with you like a normal person. Instead of having to do it in the most roundabout way like I did this time.”

You grinned. “Oh, I don’t know, you would’ve still been a stupidly attractive register boy, Jeno. I might’ve been a bit tongue-tied if we had met back then, too.”

“I guess we’ll never know, will we?”

“I guess not,” you clicked your tongue. “Though that would’ve been an even better meet-cute than me saying you looked like a dog.”

“Oh, so we’re not telling that story to our kids?”

“Kids?!” You sputtered out. “When did kids enter the equation here, Lee Jeno?”

“What? Who said that?” He blinked at you innocently.

“At least say the L-word first, jeez.”

“I love you.”

“Christ, I was joking!”

“I wasn’t!”

You shook your head, unable to fight off the smitten grin on your lips. “I love you too, Jeno. You crazy son of a bitch.”

⤷ blog masterlist

[ducksido]

Hai! May it be permit-table if I request Idia x male? reader where reader is a like gym bro from savannaclaw (not furry, I fear furry (sorry ruggie)) and reader just finished working out on the floor of his very cluttered boyfriends room, no biggie, EXCPECT FOR THE FACT THAT THEYRE SHIRTLESS AND LIKE JACKED and Idia is just panicking cause omg so scandalous and pretty and handsome wowza tits while reader is just like “I’m gonna take a shower” and Idia is like “can I come🥺🥺🥺” so basically they’re now in the bathtub together (THEY HAVE BATHING SUITS ON, NO FREAKINESS WE STAYING CHASTE WITH THIS ONE) and like Idia is all “wow ur so hot and muscular I wish I was hot and muscular why are u even dating me when u could pull anyone” and reader (being the nonchalant lover boy they/he? are) is all like “nah ur hot enough for me I like my men when they look like they haven’t seen the sun in ten years and have numerous nutritional deficients” and yah basically comfort for Idia about his insecurities gagayayayyyyayayayaya but they’re like cuddling because I got my 𝓕𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 reputation to uphold

(Also I showed ur fics to my mom since she’s chill like that and she said u write like an intellectual or whatever so yay mom complement u should be proud of thine self😝😝) (also guess who i am (mission impossible))😈

(I can write any gender dw, also tell your mom i said thank you 😊) (and i think you may be.....hmmmmm....this is so hard....THE idia anon...hmmm so hard)

Idia was in shambles.

Not in the usual “I ran out of my favorite energy drink” way or the “I have to go outside for a group project” kind of way. No, this was worse. Way worse.

His very buff, very shirtless, very sweaty boyfriend was currently sprawled out on the floor of his room, casually stretching after a workout.

In his room.

Where there was no ventilation.

Where there was barely any floor space because of the sheer amount of figurines, consoles, and various limited-edition collector’s items scattered around.

Idia was sitting in his gaming chair, frozen like a man whose entire system had just blue-screened. His hair flickered between orange and pink, glowing brighter with every second he spent trying not to combust.

Muscles.

So many muscles.

Why did his boyfriend have to be built like a final boss? No, worse—like a secret unlockable character that only the most dedicated players could access. And yet, here he was, dating him. Him, of all people!

“Hey, babe, I’m gonna take a shower,” his boyfriend announced casually, standing up with a stretch that made every muscle flex in tandem, sending Idia into yet another crisis.

Idia opened his mouth. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say, but what came out was: “C-can I come?”

His boyfriend raised an eyebrow. “...Sure?”

Wait. Wait, no. That was a joke. He hadn’t expected an actual yes. Abort mission. Eject. Escape button spam.

And yet, ten minutes later, here they were.

In the bathtub.

Together.

Wearing swim trunks because, despite his own insanity, Idia was a man of dignity (and fear). His boyfriend, meanwhile, lounged against the back of the tub with all the grace of someone who had no idea he was causing an existential meltdown in his beloved.

“You know,” Idia muttered, arms wrapped around his knees as he peeked over them. “You could, like, date literally anyone, right?”

His boyfriend cracked an eye open. “What?”

“I mean, look at you. You’re hot. And muscular. And hot. And you look like you could tear someone in half for looking at you funny.” Idia sighed dramatically, sinking a little lower into the water. “Meanwhile, I look like I haven’t seen the sun in ten years and probably have, like, a million vitamin deficiencies.”

“Yeah, and?”

Idia blinked. “And???”

His boyfriend leaned forward, sliding an arm around Idia’s waist and effortlessly pulling him against his broad chest. “I like that about you,” he said, nuzzling into the crook of Idia’s neck with a satisfied sigh. “My type is guys who look like they were raised in a server room and subsist entirely off instant ramen and spite.”

Idia let out a sound somewhere between a squeak and a strangled laugh. “That’s so weird.”

“Good thing I’m weird then,” his boyfriend murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to Idia’s temple. “Besides, you are hot. Just in a different way.”

Idia scoffed. “Yeah? How?”

His boyfriend smirked, tightening his hold around Idia and pulling him fully into his lap. “You’ve got that ‘mysterious shut-in’ charm, y’know? It’s cute. Plus, you’re crazy smart. And funny. And you’ve got these pretty eyes that glow in the dark—”

“Okay, okay, stop, I get it—” Idia whined, burying his burning face in his boyfriend’s shoulder.

His boyfriend just chuckled, pressing another kiss to his cheek. “Nope. Not stopping. You’re hot, deal with it.”

Idia grumbled incoherently, but he didn’t pull away. If anything, he melted further into the embrace, letting the warmth of the water—and his boyfriend—soothe his overworked nerves.

Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all.

[urspiritualnurse]

•Pick a card. (left to right).

What roof over your head is blocking the sky?

Pile 1.

The term "I" begins to flourish and build a meaning when a child is given the space to do so.

In this pile, I see a budding you, very new to the world and your own reflection, being taught by someone whether consciously or unconsciously that their heart is your heart, their mind is your mind, their stomach is your stomach.

And since the teaching taught you that someone else is your identity and very being, I see you giving your all to that person in innocent hopes that by doing so, you are fulfilling your own needs.

Your stomach would rumble and naively you would run and feed the other person, believing their intake is what fills your belly.

When a being merges identities with another, catastrophe is bound to occur.

Doesn't matter if it's the very person who birthed you, bathed you, fed you, educated you.

You will forever remain yours.

And they will remain theirs.

And this pattern of your distorted sense of self who perceives another's anatomy, emotional need, mental pursuits, existential crisis with it all of its burden as yours.

Comes from a place of unaware hurt.

The sensation of belonging feels soothing doesn't it?

And all the crowd suggests one must belong to their own selves but what happens when you have no self that you know of?

You cling to the people you believe have a self.

You are hungry, yet the unawareness and disconnection to your own stomach leaves you in a state of repeating distress, for you can sense only your hunger but not your belly. And you repeat the sad cycle where you work hard, cook meals and varieties, run towards a person who you believe is you, or has a self that you do not, and feed them.......hoping....pleading to a power so high that the food....miraculously rests on your lost stomach instead of the ones whose mouth that you just fed.

You are thirsty, you are hungry, you are unsatisfied, you are sad, you are in need of help and support, you are in distress.......yet....all you witness is yourself repeat the miserable cycle where all that you need you find yourself giving to another......

For where is the location of your mind? For you to ever deliver a suggestion of relief.

For where is the direction of your mood, heart, spirit, and soul? For you to ever lend a hand to your own aimless self.

To feed, one must first know where the mouth lies.

You know what and where everyone else's entirety lives.

But not yours.

Until you discover your own, and connect with it.

Your hands will forever feed the mouth of another, every time the sensation of hunger rumbles in your lost stomach.

You are kind, not everyone in your place would have been so willing to give.

But your nature that was born a giver has become even more grand, so much so your aware hands cannot guide it well.

And any waters no matter how kind and quenching, if has no deep land guiding it to a direction of clarity, the waters are bound to drown what wishes to live.

Your kind heart doesn't need a dam, just a little awareness and willingness to swiftly change and alter the pace and the direction of flow.

When people say, "the world doesn't revolve around you. Or not everything is about you."

Mind you, it is.

It always has been.

It always will.

So take care of the first person you see, touch, hear, feel, connect to.

This person is the one who is bound to you by fate, tied to your flesh and bones, and is made to accompany you from birth to your death.

So yes, it is all about you.

My dear reader, everything is indeed about you.

Pile 2.

The innate creativity we all are born with, needs an environment that makes creating something fun.

But in this pile I see someone who came before you, buying a land, building a house, choosing every colors on the wall and even hand picking art to hang on those walls.

And they hold in their hands some nails, they appear rusted and unreliable and there I see you, being called by them and asked to hammer those rusty nails.

And obediently you do so, but such domineering hands and will the person holds, they stop you midway, not trusting the placement you chose, and picked apart a spot and even decided the nails placement, and then struck in the first strike by themselves.

As they urge you to continue after what they have left for you to work with.

But the nails are rusty and placed in such ways that it is bound to twist in directions that are hard for a frame to hang.

I see you doing what you've been asked to do, with diligence and intention simply to contribute and help.

But as the inevitable failure occurs, by their own misplacement and choices.

I see them blaming all of it on you, on your craftsman ship, your hands and your strength, deeming it being too much or too less, too out of control and in need of taming.

There, in you I see a withering spirit, a flower of creativity losing its colors.

As your eyes grow dull from exhaustion, and your hands tremble with anger and fear.

Your mouth itches to speak what your intelligence could gather, but....you do not.

For reasons dear to you.

And I see you never again, trying to dive in your creativity.

Sometimes creation doesn't always mean art and crafts.

It also means relationship, creating something in between two detached individuals, that brings them together.

But you do not.

The sheer idea of building something terrifies you, exhausts you.

"What is the point?" You say,

For in each released creation, there will be millions who will point out the flaws in your choices and placements.

And ones choices are a part of them.

Nobody likes hearing another reject the choices they have made.

There are million things of us that are out in the open, that we cannot hide or unrelease, such as our face, limbs, height and body structures, voice, hair, etc.

And even that we work so hard to trim and keep in check.

Because that is something already out in the open, that you cannot inhale back in, within your discreet existential pockets.

But choices and creativity, ideas, thoughts, feelings are.

They are unreleased, hidden and needs your definite yes or no, for it to ever be seen or heard by another.

So you hide.

"Being picked apart and criticized for what is seen of me is enough.

I don't want any more of me to be known."

And thus,

You live in confinement, alone even amidst a crowd.

Silent even amidst a lively parade.

But you see,

All that is in you needs a place of release.

All alone you are, and there is loneliness even worse than being someone with nobody.

The loneliness that pushes away not just the world, family, friends, lovers, but also your ownself is far worse.

For you, truly will not have anyone.

To stand infront of the mirror and find none of you reflecting back is scary isn't it?

The fear of criticism has reasonably scarred you so.

It is understandable why the thought of opening up and creating feels so jarring.

I could say to you, "leave all of those people behind who have nothing but criticism to spare." But I know it isn't that easy, for sometimes those people with poisoned tongue are often the most dearest to our heart and soul.

The thought of forsaking them or being forsaken by them, is terrifying indeed.

In such case, what else can you do?

If not, start with cleansing your own way of self speech.

I know for sure, you talk to you more than any of them ever will.

And as it is said, children pick up language, dialect and even tones from their surroundings.

And you have picked all of those, with it also their venomous way of speaking.

Clean your speech, first.

That is where you shall start.

Show and let yourself hear, what a speech delivered by kindness feels like.

Because nobody's hearing ears are a disposable empty bucket for another's vile talk to fall in.

Be generous with compliments and appreciative endearments to yourself.

You deserve it.

Pile 3.

If your world was burning, in fire ferocious and mean.

In such heated tragedy, from the smoke filled air, if emerged out a glowing hope of brush.

In sync, if the sky echoed to you,

"Whatever you shall paint, will be the fate's verdict."

What will you paint?

Anything and everything with blue I suppose, a tide, a blizzard, enormous town engulfing sea, hungry floods, rivers, ponds, rains, hailstorm.......

But I see you, dipping the brush in the color red, painting embers, erupting and angry volcano, forest fire, destructive flames......

Again and again......

As though you were once said to believe that you are a specific species, a flower so rare and in the verge of extinction, and can only survive in a weather or a land, burning with destruction.

And you live, as all should, trying to survive....and not die....not meet an early end.

So you do everything in your power, to create all of your previous environment because someone or something said, you can survive only on those conditions.

I picture a little round penguin, realizing the necessity of the cold for its kind and living from then, simply eradicating any warmth out of these lands.

Working hard to ensure, he survives wherever he goes.

Bringing in frost, in all the world's.

Regardless of the weather and breeze the specific land holds, forcing into it soul freezing blizzards so it could live, thrive, survive.....anywhere........not just live in one place and die in one.

Realizing that it wants to travel, move, see and explore, yet realizing it's own survival limitations.....

But you are not such species.

Neither are you such endangered flower.

You are a child of man, born with adaptable flesh and spirit.

No storm, no weather, no lands control you and your living.

You can thrive and survive anywhere.

But you believe you can only live in environments where you once started from.

Fire, burning world, heated violence, agitation and discomfort, struggles and teary eyes.

All of it, you think you belong there.

And you make it time and again your current reality.

For we all are indeed gifted with that said brush, whether we believe it or not.

The skies might not have declared a prophecy to us about what the brush and our hands could create and do.

But we have them in us.

So it is up to you, what do you wish to create?

You do not have to continuously live on fire.

Let the weather change, let the circumstances change, doesn't matter if for better or for worse.

Someone turning 7 if was proclaimed to bring forth disaster, should we simply stop the child from growing and changing?

Such disasters that threaten you into stopping a free spirited change are illusions meant to bring stagnancy.

No change is bad enough to be ever, locked up and avoided.

It's alright.

To try for once the color blue, paint waters that shimmers like crystals.

You are meant for more, more than what you had, more than what you have gotten used to, and more only comes when you move around, explore, for no matter how many coals you collect, 10 or thousands, if it's not something new.... a brand new discovered rock, colored pebbles, or gems even, you cannot consider the addition of the same old coal as something more.

For that is simply a cycle of repetitions.

Pile 4.

A child of man is the most moldable form of universal clay there is.

You can make anything of him.

Leave a child in the coops. He will walk out a chicken.

Whatever he is surrounded by or is told he is, he becomes.

Even if for the visible intelligence, it seems absurd to even believe.

But he indeed becomes what he is told.

Adaptability becomes curse to mankind when the one who is given the right to mold, are unreliable and distorted source themselves.

God lands a soft clay on the doors of a newfound home.

And watches from above as the owner of the place, molds the given piece into what he must, or into what believes he must.

Projecting all of who he is, the molder himself carves an image untrue to the clay.

I see in this pile, a child of man, molded as a worm with no limbs.

And he lives crawling, wiggling on the ground.

When all of his fellow kin, moves with pride, making use of their limbs and mobility.

He simply watches with yearning as the one who lives as the man they are.

Accumulates abundance, satisfaction, sovereignty, fulfilments and secure riches.

But he who thinks is a limbless worm, grows sullen with tireless, sad, envy.

What do you do when although inspiration strucks your reigning horses, but nomatter how much motivation rushes through the breed, it's worn out, immobilized legs cannot endure a mile.

Such is the case,

We think when inspiration hits we can do anything.

But for a man to write, he must have his hands in place, if not so, all the running inspiration are bound to grow tired.

Something needs to be there, a way through, like the tip of a pen, or a open end of a water pipe.

For anything to release itself, one must have a way through.

For inspiration comes to no use if you have no means for it to release itself into the open air.

And I see this pile, believing they are somehow different, taking pride in it yet at the same time grimly despising it.

Such are the sides, you believe you either are capable or incapable.

You believe you are either superior or inferior.

Sometimes we dance between both, like a fickle wind blowing left from right.

I cannot guarantee the worthlessness of standards, hierarchies.

For God, mortal, demons, spirits, also have hierarchies of their own, even planets itself loom over another with pride and the ones behind rotate with a sense of loss.

In this world, noone has to agree to what you think of yourself or what place you belong or are capable of reaching.

It is alright.

To be angry at the world for looking at you and measuring your height and reach and declaring your worth, is exhausting.

It is pointless to fight a battle you cannot win.

For your feet that walked to the place where your mind knows is a space where all gets evaluated and labeled, must be the one that is stopped and checked.

You cannot burn in rage and despair, that is the good part about being born in this labeled society, everywhere there is a written statement of what that place is.

So, when you walk towards such places that declares your worth, when it is clearly stated that very place, evaluates an individuals worth.

Who can you get mad at?

When you walk into a room where a major is inspecting potential platoons, and he says to you, "you are not suitable for war." You cannot get angry at the man who is simply declaring the specific needs that place holds.

You simply walk out such spaces.

You decide what your worth is.

And from there, don't you ever look back, or around, or up, or down.

Do not seek a direction where you can meet the gaze of someone who disagrees to what you have decided.

This fight is not worth fighting.

And dear reader, when you are inspecting your ownself, and evaluating your worth, all the anger, sadness, disappointment you have towards the world's standards and hostility towards those who can not meet it, let it guide you to become what you wished they were.

Be generous, be empathetic, be fair and have the core bones in you that stands on the belief that "all men are created equal, that such question about one's worth is in itself meaningless, that need not be asked."

Go get that bag! Go get that dream!

You child of man pretending and deluding themselves to be anything less than that.

You can and you will!

You too can hold and acquire what you see another receive and get.

For you too are a child of man.

Capable of giving and receiving.