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tacoguacamole · 2 days ago

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ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 3

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark, Kook's a jerk and mean for the earlier chapters]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Chapter Word Count: 7k+]

[Note: A lot of time jumps and flashbacks as said on the warnings. A lot's happening in this part as well since the story needs to progress. Comment below if you want to be tagged for the future parts. Once again, I am so sorry for mean/selfish/jerk Kook. He gets better…I think. Don't fight me 😭 We love the bunny man.]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The morning air feels different today — crisper somehow, even though the sky outside the kitchen window glows the same pale blue as every other morning.

You don’t flinch when the doorbell rings. You knew he’d come.

When you open the door, Jeongguk is standing there, awkward in his usual work button up and slacks, a small bouquet of purple tulips in his hands. He looks like he wants to say a thousand things but can’t settle on a single one. His eyes flicker down to the purple tulips, then up to you.

For a second, neither of you moves. Then, with a quiet sigh, he leans forward and presses a brief kiss to your forehead, his arms coming around you in a hesitant, practiced hug — one that used to mean comfort, but now it’s just obligatory. His grip is gentle, almost too careful, like he’s afraid of breaking something that’s already cracked.

Still, you hold on to him a little longer, hanging on to the bit of happiness your heart feels.

Stepping aside, you let him in. The scent of eggs and toast floats lightly from the kitchen, where your mother busies herself with the stove. Her clattering is pointedly loud, each clang sharper than necessary. She doesn’t greet him. Doesn’t even glance his way. Stays silent. Keeps her promise. Lets you have this.

Sitting across from him at the dining table, a plate of toast is left untouched between you. There's a heavy silence, like you're both waiting for someone to call cut on a campaign shoot you’re both working on. He twirls the tulips nervously in his fingers before you gently reach over and take them from him, burying your nose into the petals.

"You remembered," you say softly, a little laugh escaping.

“I’d get sued if I forgot,” he murmurs, lips curling into a faint ghost of a smile—one you haven’t seen in a long time.

Neither of you speak. It's just the clinking of silverware filling the awkward space between you. There’s no pressure to talk, not yet. The list said conversations are optional, and maybe that’s mercy for both of you this morning.

So you just observe him. He doesn’t look at you at first. Just keeps his eyes on the table or the clock or the edge of his coffee mug. But his hand twitches a little, like he's trying to grasp for something. Finally, he asks,

“Am I…” He pauses, clears his throat. “Am I allowed to ask why you’re doing this?”

You knew this question would come at some point. The revised and signed agreements that Seokjin brings to you by morning after you had them delivered to Jeongguk's lawyer, made you figure out just as much. Your own lawyer was shocked with how fast things were progressing.

Setting the fork down carefully, wiping your fingers with a napkin, you reply, “No. No questions throughout the days. You signed, had the chance to counter, but you didn’t.”

Jeongguk swallows hard but says nothing else. Simply goes back to the breakfast he has a hard time digesting.

You breathe in deeply, searching for something easier to talk about. “Wanna tell me about work? What’s been going on lately?”

That pulls a reluctant smile from him. “Mingyu’s the new face of Calvin Klein. I’ve been working on the campaign with him.”

You grin, genuine this time. “Look at you. Still the golden boy.”

He chuckles under his breath, tapping his fingers against his mug. “Just trying to do my job. You know how it is.”

You nod, sipping your coffee. “Work’s just about to get crazy for me, too. Seora’s landed a spot at Paris Fashion Week again.”

His eyes widen, a spark of pride flickering there. “Seriously? That’s…that’s huge.” The excitement he shares almost feel real. “Two years in row. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Mark’s been working really hard to keep getting us the spot. He’ll head to Paris soon with the team to prep.”

His gaze softens a little at the mention of your business partner. “You’re not going this time?”

You shake your head, casually swirling the coffee in your cup. “Someone’s got to hold down the fort here.” The lie comes out smoothly.

“But… Paris is your favorite,” Jeongguk says, quieter this time. “You used to call me at three a.m. just to show me the Eiffel Tower lights.”

Your heart skips a beat, hearing how he remembers the better times of your lives, the soft smile across your lips you don’t hide. “Things change, Gguk. Priorities, you know?”

He watches you longer than necessary, like he’s trying to see through your carefully placed calm. “And Mark’s okay with you staying back?”

There’s a shift in his expression you don’t quite pin point. Jealousy? Sadness?

You laugh, ignoring the possibilities, shaking your head. “Mark’s job is to travel and secure global opportunities for us. It’s what we pay him to do. He’s always been my business partner. You know that.”

Leaning back in your chair, cheek resting on your knuckles, you study him. There’s a hint of relief on him that you catch.

“Were you hoping I was secretly dating him?” The faintest shade of red on his ears makes you chuckle. “Or…wait, Jeon Jeongguk, are you jealous?” That thought would’ve been a miracle. But for now, it’s just a good joke to share over breakfast.

He chuckles, shaking his head, voice barely above a mumble. “No. Just… curious.”

It breaks some of the remaining tension between you. The rest of the breakfast is filled with easier conversations. Updates about mutual friends, industry rumors, the chaos of wrangling Seventeen’s troublemaker into a shoot.

“Thought photographers were supposed to be calm under pressure,” you tease, tapping your spoon lightly against your cup.

He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, mouth twitching into a reluctant smile. “Try staying calm when your model’s flexing so hard he knocks over the entire backdrop.”

You laugh harder than you should, and for a moment, it feels like you're twenty something again — sitting cross-legged on your old apartment’s rooftop at midnight, talking about dreams and futures you thought were set in stone.

The scent of iris, white musk, and soft leather clings to the air — the signature fragrance of Seora, your second home for so many years.

Your mother walks beside you, silent but steady, her presence a pillar against the invisible weight pressing down on your chest. She’s dressed sharply, as always — an elegant blazer, pearl earrings, her posture straight and proud. But you see the way her hands tighten briefly around the strap of her handbag.

You pretend not to notice.

Employees bow as you pass — some with genuine warmth, others with careful restraint. Still, you return every bow with a polite smile, polished and practiced, a mask you've worn too long to forget.

Mark is already waiting just outside your office – leaning lazily against the wall like he owns the place, as usual.

“There she is. Queen of Seora.” He greets you with wide grin, sweeping into an exaggerated bow. “Her Royal Highness finally graces us with her presence.”

You huff a laugh, and even your mother’s lips twitch with reluctant amusement. She’s long since accepted your dynamic with Mark — chaos and comfort stitched together.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Tuan,” you reply, brushing past him.

He shrugs, falling into step behind you. “Worth a shot.”

Inside, your office is unchanged — glass desk, curated shelves, years of framed achievements, the photo of you and your mother at your first gala.

But something feels off today. The air, maybe. Or the way the room echoes in silence a little too much.

Setting your bag down, you smooth the creases out of your skirt, take a seat after behind your desk. Your mother sits across from you – dignified, composed – her eyes scanning the folders Mark has already placed neatly at the center of the table.

“Preliminary turnover documents.” He explains, voice light, still professional. “Contracts, executive summaries, shareholder agreements. The ones needing your signature are flagged.”

You nod, flipping open the top folder. The pages blur for a moment before your vision clears.

You focus. One step at a time.

Across from you, your mother doesn’t speak. But you feel her eyes — weighted, patient. This was her legacy, once. Then yours. Now returning to her hands again only because it was necessary.

Forgetting the folder, she takes your hand in hers. Gives a hesitant but assuring smile as much as she can. “I’ll take care of it, darling. Don’t worry about a thing.”

You swallow thickly as you try to return a smile.

Mark leans back in his chair, trying to break the heaviness taking over the room. “So,” he says, stretching exaggeratedly, “does this mean I get majority of the shares now that the queen is abdicating?”

You laugh, the sound bubbling up brighter than you expect. “If you’re willing to handle future meetings with Jeongguk. He’s getting a nice chunk once the papers go through, in case you’re forgetting.”

Mark groans, dragging a hand down his face. “So he gets the shares and visitation rights to you?”

“Didn’t realize this was a custody battle.”

Your mother chimes in dryly, eyes still on the new folders spread across your desk. “Funny how he always ends up with the best part of things he barely worked for.”

Mark’s expression tightens, a mix of humor and something sharper. “Always been the lucky one.”

The next hour is all motion. Documents reviewed, initials scrawled, strategies adjusted. You talk vendor relations. You approve final budget notes. When the paperwork is finally stacked neatly in three clean piles — Pending, Signed, Review Again — you lean back in your chair with a sigh.

Your mother rises, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her blazer. “We’ll go over the audit reports tomorrow. For now, let’s go home.”

Her gaze lingers on you for a moment — searching, aching — before she composes herself again.

You stand too, brushing your fingers lightly over the edge of your desk.

Mark doesn’t move. You look at him. The silence stretches too long — too full. “I’ll handle the Paris accounts. Send you photos soon.”

You manage a soft smile, grateful for everything he’s doing without saying it. “Make sure the lighting at our booth doesn’t wash out the models this year.”

“I’m offended you’d even think it.”

You roll your eyes.

But you’re grateful — so grateful — for the way he keeps the edges of this afternoon from cutting too deep.

The evening settled quietly over the house. No peace lingering – more like a tension waiting for the first person to break. The table was already set when Jeongguk arrived. Steam rose from the dishes laid out — galbi, japchae, kimchi jjigae, and a small stack of neatly rolled egg omelettes.

Picking up his chopsticks, he hesitated before speaking. “So…how was work today?”

You chew slowly, buying yourself a little time before answering. “Busy. Meetings here and there. Some finalizing needed for fashion week. A few contract turnovers. You know, the usual things when companies shift hands.” You shrug like it’s nothing, like you didn’t spend the entire afternoon sorting years of hard work.

Jeongguk’s brows furrow slightly. “You’re…handing things over?”

You’re too quick to answer. “No, no—just…just creating a little space to breathe. Was thinking I want some time to myself.” The assuring smile you give Jeongguk was convincing enough for him to move on to lighter things. “Nothing major.”

“Mark still driving you crazy with last-minute changes?”

"Who else do you know works with me, that loves throwing in new ideas when deadlines are hours away?”

Jeongguk’s mouth quirks into a smile, the first genuine one since he sat down. “Mark. Mark Tuan. Yeah, that sounds about right.”

The night falls into a soft stillness, the kind that follows when the laughter fades and the last dishes are cleaned. Soft light spilled from the kitchen, casting a warm glow that barely reached past the doorway, leaving the front hall in shadow.

Jeongguk stands by the doorway, his hand resting on the frame, fingers lightly touching it like he needs something to hold onto. His eyes drift – over the neatly hung photos on the wall, the soft rug that shows signs of time, the wide staircase that curves the way he remembers.

One photo catches his eye—bigger than the others and set a little apart. Two people in white, laughing like nothing could ever go wrong, with the ocean in the background—Gwangalli, if he’s really looking. You wonder if he missed it this morning. Don’t blame him if he did. The nerves must’ve been burying him six feet under.

“Sorry. I’ll have Eomma take it down,” you clear your throat, breaking the quiet.

“It’s fine,” Jeongguk shifts. Glances at you and then away. “So…the hugs and forehead kisses,” You notice the small smile tugging on the corner of his lips, feeling thankful for the shift from the awkwardness. "That really had to be on the list, huh?"

A soft laugh slips from you, unguarded. “It did.”

“Was it a punishment?” It’s a joke, but you don’t miss the uncertainty flicker in his eyes.

“Is that how you feel?”

Your bluntness catches him off guard. Guilt flashes. The breath he lets out like a quiet surrender.

Slowly, he steps forward, arms coming up in a hesitant, careful hug. His chest brushes yours, his forehead resting lightly against your temple – a touch familiar, but no longer easy.

Your eyes slip closed as you let yourself lean in, not because it feels natural, but because for a moment, it’s enough to remember how it once did.

“Goodnight,” Jeongguk murmurs, his voice low and close.

You smile, the kind that’s felt more than seen. “Goodnight, Gguk.”

He lingers just long enough to press the lightest kiss to your temple — so fleeting it’s almost not there, and yet, when the door clicks shut behind him and the quiet stretches in, it’s the one thing that stays.

You sit on the edge of the bed later, hair still damp from a quick shower, your fingers curled around the corner of the old photo album you'd told yourself not to open tonight.

The room is filled with nothing but the soft hum of the air purifier and the faint ticking of the wall clock. You don’t know what you’re hoping to find in these pages. Something soft, maybe. Something easier than the quiet goodbye at the door.

The pages smell like dust and faint vanilla — the kind your mother used to tuck into the drawers when you were younger. You flip until your fingers still on a picture, one that had always made you laugh.

You’re on a picnic mat, legs stretched out, shoes kicked off beside you. Jeongguk’s in the next one — lying flat on his back with his arms thrown wide, squinting at the sun. There’s a juice box pressed to his cheek like it’s the only thing keeping him alive in the heat. He’s smiling wide, without shame or thought. His hair’s longer, lighter — summer had bleached the tips — and his shirt has ketchup on it.

You can almost hear it again.

"You're the worst picnic planner ever," he groans, dragging the back of his hand over his forehead dramatically.

"You said you wanted hot dogs."

"Not molten lava ones!"

You laugh at the memory. Remembered, he’d still eaten two more after that. Said they were terrible with his mouth full and asked for a third.

You remember how he used to love loudly. How he’d pull you into hugs like he never wanted to let go. The way he’d lean in to kiss your forehead in the middle of a crowd without caring who saw. The time he ran to the other side of the beach where the ice-cream kiosk was, just to bring you a mint chocolate cone he badly wanted you to try, holding it above his head like it was sacred.

"It’s ugly and green."

"You love ugly things."

"That’s why I’m dating you?"

"Exactly," he’d said, grinning, rain dripping from his lashes, "you’ve got great taste."

You close the album slowly.

Tonight, his arms were careful. His kiss, light as a breath. Back then, there was no hesitation. No pause before he touched you, no weight between your names.

You lie back on the bed, pressing your palms over your face, hoping to bury the pain that feels like it has made a home in your chest.

You didn’t think the time would come that you’d have to miss a version of Jeongguk who used to laugh into your shoulder and whisper stupid things to make you snort in public. The version who always held you a little longer, like he could make time stop if he tried hard enough.

You always thought that version of him would stay for a lifetime.

Now, the only way you get to see that side of him is through a list—through something he feels he has to do.

But you’ll take what you can. For now, you’ll accept whatever life hands you.

The sun hasn’t climbed high enough to chase away the gray. The streets are still damp from the night, and your breath clouds faintly as you step outside, coat collar turned up against the early chill. There’s something about mornings like this — quiet, half-lit — that makes everything feel softer around the edges.

You hadn’t slept much. Rest felt like a visitor you forgot to greet last night, slipping past you somewhere between the click of the door and the ache that settled deep in your chest. Still, your steps are steady as you make your way through familiar streets, ones your feet could trace even blindfolded.

The shop appears like a memory made solid — tucked between a florist and a tiny dry cleaner, its awning still a little crooked on one side. The glass is fogged near the bottom, and someone’s taped a doodle of a smiling sun on the door.

Inside, it’s warm. Familiar.

The left wall is still lined with notebooks and sketchpads in soft neutral tones, racks of pastel washi tape, pens arranged by gradient. You let your fingers skim the edge of a purple sketchbook on display — the same brand you used to hoard during finals week. The same ones Jeongguk used to scribble dumb little nothings in just to annoy you.

You claim your usual seat by the window, near the radiator that still hums faintly when it kicks on. The light here is gentle, and the table still has the faint outline of a coffee ring etched into the wood. The café counter sits snug beside the stationery section, and for a second, it’s easy to believe no time has passed at all.

You order for two. Wait. Don’t check your phone. Know Jeongguk’s on his way. Not like you’ve given him a choice.

Your gaze drifts — over the shelves, to the corner where a worn beanbag still sits, slouched as always. Something about the moment folds in on itself, slipping back in time.

You were running late. Again. Hair barely brushed, laces undone, your tote bag unorganized and overflowing with books needed for classes today, jammed under your arm.

The bell above the door had barely finished ringing when you stumbled in and spotted him already there, halfway through a chocolate croissant and bent over your sketchbook – the one you’ve been looking for hours this whole morning, the reason why you were late.

“Seriously?” you’d huffed, dropping into the seat across from him. “Flipped our dorm upside down looking for that and it was with you this whole time?”

“Page 14,” Jeongguk ignored your dramatic flair, eyes not even lifting. “Your mannequin’s missing a head.”

“That’s on purpose,” you muttered, grabbing the sketchbook and flipping it shut. “It’s avant-garde.”

He finally looked up, eyebrows raised in mock seriousness. “Ah. The Headless Collection. Bold.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t stop the smile pulling at your mouth. “You’re annoying.”

“Thank you. I rehearse.”

You’d kicked him lightly under the table. He’d stolen a bite of your sandwich in retaliation. You’d retaliated harder, dropped three sugar cubes into his coffee knowing he only liked it black and snatched the entire croissant off his plate.

“Hey!” he’d gasped, scandalized, mid-chew. “That’s a war crime.”

You shrugged, all innocence as you took a deliberately slow bite, crumbs tumbling down your chin. “Shouldn’t have touched my sandwich.”

His eyes narrowed. “That croissant had layers.”

“So did my patience,” you replied, mouth full.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, lowering his voice like he was delivering a threat. “You realize this means war.”

You grinned. “Then choose your weapon wisely, Jeon.”

“Fine. Sketchbook turned doodle board it is.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

“Oh, but I would.”

And just like that, he was scribbling something on your sketchbook, tongue poking out in concentration while you lunged to grab it back.

The stationery café had always been your reset button — notebooks open, drinks warm, pencils rolling off the table because Jeongguk couldn’t sit still. He always left little doodles on your margins – stick figures with six-packs, dramatic cape swirls, and when he’d feel to be more annoying, he’d scribble a crown your head.

“This one's you,” he said once, pointing to a tiny sketch of a girl shouting at a sewing machine.

“She looks like she hasn’t slept in three days.”

“Art imitates life.”

You snorted into your latte. “I’m replacing you with someone quieter.”

“Impossible,” he grinned. “You’d miss me by lunchtime.”

He was right.

You always did.

And now, it wasn’t just during your chaotic uni lunch breaks that you missed him

The chair across from you slides back gently.

You don’t look up right away — just fumble with your phone before meeting his eyes.

Jeongguk shrugs off his coat with one hand, ruffles his hair like the wind annoyed him, then sits. Tie loose around his collar, shirt wrinkled just enough to tell you he dressed in a hurry. He glances around, then places a single stem of purple tulips on the table, the soft color a little too bright for the morning. “They still sell those overpriced gel pens?”

You nod, sipping your drink. “They’re too smooth to resist.“

His eyes flick toward the shelves. “I used to steal yours.”

“You used to steal everything.”

He smiles faintly — just the corner of his mouth lifting. “You let me.”

“Was being generous.”

The waitress sets down your orders — one pastry each, two drinks. You watch as Jeongguk breaks a corner off his croissant. Eats it with quiet precision. He never used to do that. Used to make a mess.

You don’t comment on it.

“So,” he says after a moment, brushing crumbs from his fingers, “still designing things with no heads?”

You didn’t think he’d remember. A smile slips across your lips. “Wow. Callback.”

“I’m nostalgic.”

Your eyes meet. There’s something light there, flickering — not quite the warmth from before, but you’re glad to see something at least.

You reach into your bag and pull out a thin sketchpad, sliding it across the table. He lifts the cover slowly, eyes scanning your latest work. “You gave her a head this time.”

You lean back, arms crossed loosely. “Growth.”

He chuckles under his breath, fingers smoothing the paper. “She looks like she’s running.”

“She is.”

Jeongguk doesn’t ask from what. Doesn’t say anything at all. Just taps the edge of the page twice, then closes it.

The silence is comfortable. A little cautious. But not cold.

You tear off a small piece of your pastry, drop it on his plate like old habit. Used to do it when you still had some left from his that you’d stolen. Even if you’d stolen his precious croissant, you never actually finished it, always left most of it for him – knowing breakfast was the only time he’d actually eat properly, your favorite meal of the day – before the two of you start your own classes.

You knew he’d run on caffeine and stubbornness alone until evening. Then he’d video call you during one of his lectures looking like a grumpy, overgrown bunny with a camera strap digging into his neck and a frown set between his brows.

He blinks at it, then at you. “What’s that for?”

“For luck,” you simply reason.

He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t believe in luck.”

“Thought maybe I could this time.”

Jeongguk looks at you as if he’s trying to read you. Like there’s something else he wants to say. Ends up not saying anything. Just eats the piece.

Your drink’s gone lukewarm, still you sip away hoping to drown in the energy it’s supposed to give with the day that’s waiting ahead of you. Jeongguk’s gaze lingers out the window for a moment, watching a cyclist roll by, the soft clatter of gears audible through the glass.

“You still come here often?” he asks, voice casual.

“Every now and then,” you say softly. “Some places just… stick.”

Jeongguk doesn’t press. You’re thankful he doesn’t.

“I used to think the owner hated me,” he says instead. “Always caught me doodling on the napkins.”

“She didn’t hate you,” you reply. “She thought you were wasting perfectly good napkins.”

A small chuckle rumbles in his chest. “I was creating modern art.”

You roll your eyes. “You drew a chicken with sunglasses.”

“Exactly. Groundbreaking stuff. I’m the direct descendant of Van Gogh.”

The laugh that escapes you is softer this time — real, but quieter than it might’ve been years ago. You catch him watching you then. Not intensely. Not curiously. Just… there. Present. It slips away quickly when he looks down, wiping off his side of the table in random circles.

You glance over your shoulder at the display shelf by the counter — a glass case where people leave notes, scraps of things from past visits. It used to be empty. Now it’s cluttered and full of lives layered on top of one another.

Jeongguk follows your gaze. “We never left anything in there.”

“No,” you murmur. “We never needed to.”

He nods slowly, and you wonder if the weight in your words settled somewhere in him too.

You reach into your coat pocket and pull out a pen. Those smooth gel types you always fell for even when you promised yourself you wouldn’t spend another won on stationery. You slide it across the table toward him.

He looks at it, then at you. “For me?”

“Figured you’d want to deface another napkin.”

Jeongguk tears off the corner of one of the paper placemats and scribbles something. You reach over and take the pen back before he can set it down, slipping it into your pocket like it was nothing. He folds the scrap once and tucks it into his jacket.

“You’re not putting it in the case?” You ask, confused why he’d even want to keep something like that – something you’re sure doesn’t matter to him anymore.

“Maybe next time.”

You finish the last sip of your drink as the hour pulls closer to what’s next — work, the rest of the day, the return to whatever this routine is becoming between the two of you.

You stand, slipping your bag over your shoulder, grabbing on to the purple tulip after.

Jeongguk rises too, fingers brushing the edge of the table like he’s grounding himself again – a new habit you started noticing from him.

“Thanks for showing up,” you say lightly, adjusting your scarf.

I had to. He doesn’t say it, but you can see the words hovering in the hesitation behind his eyes — quiet, but impossible to miss.

The sky’s a little brighter when you both step out. The cold still clings to your skin, but the café warmth lingers at your back.

As you turn to go, Jeongguk calls out, “Hey.”

You glance back.

“I liked the new sketch,” he says. “She looked like she knew where she was going.”

“She doesn’t.”

He smiles faintly. “Neither did we.”

You don’t say anything. Just tuck your hands into your pockets, gave one last nod, before walking away.

As you pass the glass, you catch a glimpse of something slightly out of step, tucked into the reflection. You, a little lighter, and the boy beside you who used to draw chickens with sunglasses and mumble dumb jokes just to see you pretend not to laugh.

And for a moment, it’s easy to pretend this is just another morning in the middle of an old life that never cracked at the seams.

The office is a mess. Papers piled up like threats, some teetering close to the edge of his desk. The inbox blinks like a warning light. Jeongguk sits in the middle of it all, elbows pressing into the surface, fingers rubbing at his eyes. The screen blurs. Photoshoots. Edits. Meetings he’s already missed. His coffee’s gone cold. The tremble in his hand says it’s his third cup — or fourth. He’s lost count.

And on top of it all, a notification from Taehyung flashes across his phone.

K. Taehyung: Lunch date with Jiwoo.

Jeongguk swears under his breath, chair scraping against the floor as he stands. He grabs his coat on the way out, not bothering to fix his hair in the hallway mirror. As he shrugs it on, something light slips from his pocket and lands near the leg of the desk—a torn bit of paper, edges smudged faintly with purple petals drawn from a gel pen. He doesn’t notice. Leaves the office without checking if he’s forgotten anything else.

The drive to the café blurs by. Taehyung’s voice crackles through the speaker, rambling about a rookie group, a broken light, a late shoot — but Jeongguk only half-listens, mind drifting far away.

Muted light through tall windows. The smell of ground coffee, old novels, and notebooks. The gentle scrape of a cup across a wooden table. A sketchbook lying open.

His hands tighten slightly on the steering wheel.

The café he pulls up to now is different. Newer, glass and steel, designed for aesthetics more than comfort. Inside, everything gleams. Clean lines. Polished floors. The hum of conversation blends with quiet jazz in the background, curated to feel effortless.

Jiwoo’s already at the table when he enters. She stands when she sees him, her smile brief, eyes scanning his face like she’s trying to gauge the weather. She leans in for a hug, light and cautious.

A waitress appears, takes their orders — sandwiches, two coffees. Then the silence settles between them, brittle and careful.

“You texted me,” Jiwoo speaks first. “Didn’t say much.”

Jeongguk exhales, straightens the napkin on his lap. “It wasn’t something I could explain over the phone.”

She nods slowly. “I figured.”

He runs a thumb along the rim of his water glass. “She found the divorce papers.”

There’s a pause. Jiwoo’s gaze drops for a moment, something unreadable settling in her expression before she nods again. “I thought that might happen. You waited too long, Gguk.”

“I know.”

“How did she take it?”

Jeongguk stares at the edge of the table. “She didn’t cry. Didn’t yell. Just… agreed. Agreed to sign on her terms.”

Jiwoo raises an eyebrow. “What kind of terms?”

“Meals together. Flowers. Staying close. Old habits. Forehead kisses,” he finishes, voice lower now. “Just… things we used to do.”

The words sounded simple when laid out like that, but they weren’t. They were heavy, drenched in old love and broken memories.

She looks down at her drink, stirring it even though it doesn’t need stirring. “And you agreed?”

Jeongguk nods. “I owe her at least that much.”

The noise in the café comes like a blessing. Somewhere behind them, a coffee grinder whirs to life. A baby laughs. Jeongguk’s eyes flick toward the window, to the glint of sun on glass, anywhere else except on Jiwoo, too scared of what he might find — anger, jealousy, resentment.

But he finds none of it when he finally turns to her. Only sadness. And love. And guilt.

“I hate that we hurt her,” Jiwoo says after a moment, her voice thick with guilt. “I never meant for it to turn out like this. I hope I can tell her that.”

Jeongguk’s gaze drops to her hands, still, folded tightly together. There’s a quiet ache in the way they sit, almost like they’re waiting for something. He doesn’t pause to think—just moves, his hand gently covering hers. It’s not an answer. Not an apology. Simply a comfort he hopes she feels is enough from his touch.

“I know,” he murmurs. “Neither of us did.”

The words hang in the space between them, soft but solid. Like stones dropped into still water, rippling outward. They don’t shatter anything. Not yet. But they make everything shift.

Jiwoo lets out a breath she’s been holding. Her eyes glisten, but she doesn’t cry. “Sometimes I think maybe I deserve to lose everything.”

“You didn’t make me love her less,” Jeongguk says. “That’s on me. And you’re not losing anything. I’m here. I’m still here.”

His words are calm, certain—like if he says it gently enough, it’ll stop the noise in his head.

The hard office couch pressing into your back wakes you up with a sharp breath and neck sore from where you’d curled up with your throw blanket. The room is dim and quiet, the evening air is calm and something warm and tasty drifts through the air.

Your eyes flutter open, confusion tightening in your chest.

Jeongguk.

He’s there, kneeling by the coffee table, unpacking takeout containers with quick, careful movements. The soft crinkle of paper bags and the light tap of chopsticks on plastic fill the still of the room. His hair falls over his forehead, his sleeves pushed up, jaw tight and sharp in the fading light.

“Jeongguk… what—” you rasp, voice rough from sleep, “what are you doing here?”

He stills for half a second, fingers pausing on the lid of a box.

When he looks up, his eyes flick across you quickly — too quickly. “You’re kidding, right?” His laugh is soft, faintly bitter. “You called me here. Dinner. List.” He lifts a takeout box slightly, then lets it fall back with a soft thud. “Just following orders.”

There’s a heaviness in the way he holds himself, something tense in his shoulders, in the tired set of his mouth. But you can’t name it. Only know it’s been this way for the past few days.

Silence was acceptable, clearly you stated that on the list, but meals lately went on without your slight playful banter. Just when you thought your conversations could last more than five sentences now.

Jeongguk was never the type to waste food – something about a silly belief that the Gods would take away his perfect sculpture if he even dared – but you’ve been cleaning up for him lately, giving away his leftovers to the homeless you’d find after your dinners.

He drags a hand through his hair, exhales sharply. “Shit,” he mutters under his breath, voice rougher now. “Forget it.”

Jeongguk doesn’t look at you. Just pushes a pair of chopsticks toward your side of the table, carelessly, like he doesn’t want to talk. Then you catch it – subtle, but present.

A scent that doesn’t belong here. Sweet, citrus, expensive – far from the lavender one that sticks to your blazers for weeks – one that you’d sense clinging onto his shirts when he came home too late. The same scent hovering in the car when you borrowed his since yours was in the shop one time. The scent that told you something had shifted before the universe decided to slap you with the truth.

You shift your legs beneath the blanket, voice gentle. “You were with her today, weren’t you?”

Jeongguk stops mid-movement. Doesn’t turn. Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.

Still, you smile—small, sad, and real. “It’s okay. I just… noticed.”

He exhales, short and stiff. “You always do.”

“You’re acting like you got caught doing something wrong.” It’s meant to tease, to warm the cold edge creeping in – a light touch to remind him that he doesn’t have to walk on egg shells around you anymore.

He finally turns to face you, expression tired. “Didn’t I?”

“No,” you say, quiet. “Not really.”

Jeongguk stares at you, like he doesn’t know what to do with the kindness you’ve been showing. Eyes flicking away for a second like he’s searching for a reason to deserve it. But there’s nothing—just you, sitting there, still choosing to stay soft when it would’ve been easier not to.

You pat the spot on the couch beside you. “Sit down. Eat something. Then talk to me.”

“Kind of hard to do when our wedding rings are right here and well –“

A small laugh echoes from you, unsure if it’s meant to ease the tension or just fill the silence.

“Think about you and me, back in Uni, two dumb teenagers whose biggest crisis was whether to stock up on strawberry or banana milk for finals week."

There’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, a glimmer of the old Jeongguk you remember. “Banana Milk wins, by the way.”

“Nuh-uh. Strawberry milk.” You chuckle, slowly drifting back to your point. “You’ve got to let out whatever you’re holding in there, Gguk. Sulking through the remaining twenty-two days will make you feel like there’s twenty-two years left. I can’t have you hating me for that long."

It’s a soft joke, still, it curls in your chest like smoke.

“I don’t hate you.” he says, like it never even crossed his mind.

Eyes focused on the blanket, you nod, holding onto the words quietly—they’re not much, but they’re more than you thought you’d get.

“If it helps, I’ll turn around and you can talk,” Shifting slight, folding your legs beneath, you face the other way. “You won’t get to see me, won’t get to worry about how I’ll react. Maybe I’ll nod, just to let you know I’m listening, and promise, I will.”

The air is filled with stillness. You think Jeongguk might’ve left you in the office but you hear his soft breaths as he lowers himself beside you, slowly but heavy with the weight he’s been carrying for the past few days.

“I was with her today.” He starts, quickly stops, unsure if he should continue but does anyway, the weight burning in his chest. “We talked earlier this week. About you. About…everything.”

You wait. Because if there’s one thing you still know how to do, it’s wait for him to speak when he doesn’t want to.

“She feels guilty,” he goes on. “Wants you to know that she never meant for it to happen this way. That we hurt you.”

You nod slowly, not because it helps, but because you’re too tired to hold it against her, against them. Most importantly, if it eases something in Jeongguk, then that’s more than enough.

Your heart stumbles but you let him continue, keeping that promise to listen.

“Told her about the list you set up before we…”

“Divorce. You can say it.” There’s a quiet laugh that escapes you.

“Right. That. Uhm…so I told her that and she’s scared.” Jeongguk says, voice cracking in between. “Thinks she’s going to lose me.”

“Will she?” You question a little sharp. Didn’t mean to. Just blurted it out in the spur of the moment.

“No.” he answers too quickly. Your heart silently cracks too quickly. “I mean…fuck, I don’t mean to sound –” You begin to hear sniffs and the slight tremble of his hands that are too close to your back now, as if he’s trying to reach out to you, trying to apologize to you.

“Hey, Gguk, breathe. It’s okay. It’s just me. Eighteen-year-old me, strawberry milk. Focus. I know you’ve got this.” You smile even though he can’t see it. Hoped he hears it in your voice the comfort you want to give him.

And you think it might’ve worked when you catch that soft, boyish laugh, just like the one he had at eighteen.

“It’s why I’ve been seeing her more often these days. Wanted to make her feel that I’m not going anywhere.”

“That’s good you’re trying for her,” you manage to say. “But you sound more exhausted than relieved that you’re trying.”

He lets out a breath, ragged. “Because I am exhausted. Feels like I’m not trying enough. Feels like I broke something." He pauses. "No, I know I did. Her. You. Me. And now I feel stuck pretending like I know how to fix it.”

“You don’t have to fix anything, Gguk.” You say softly. “Not for me.”

The quiet in the room makes you hear him clearly swallow the lump in his throat. “What do I do?”

“Focus on you and her, if that’s what you want. Save what you can. Fight for what you can. Don’t carry all of the weight.” You pause, staring ahead, on the shelves behind your desk. “You may be the golden boy, but you’re not God.” The words sit between you for a second. “Can’t save everybody. Simple as that.”

A small silence settles, like peace finding its way.

Behind you, the shift is clear when you hear Jeongguk move closer; leans in just enough to press a soft kiss to the side of your head. His arms wrap around you, gentle, like old times. You’d like to think it is and not because of some stupid terms you listed on paper.

“You always knew how to keep me off the ledge.” His grip around your waist tightens for a second. Your heart tightens too. “Why did you let me talk to you like this?”

You let out an unintended shaky breath. “Because you’re trying.”

“Trying what?”

“To be good.” You don’t move, just sit there with him holding on, blanket in between, your hands curled into the fabric to keep them from shaking.

You wanted this—for him to feel lighter, even just a little. And you meant every word. You really did.

But each word that slipped out left a mark, small and invisible, like paper cuts. You blink, slow, but a tear still slips free, soaking into your lap before you can stop it.

Jeongguk doesn’t see. You don’t let him.

The deal was for him to open up to you. No one said anything about you needing to open up in return.

And some things are better left quiet.

#jungkook fanfiction #jungkook ff #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook x yn #bts fanfction #fanfic #bts jeon jungkook #jungkook angst #jungkook smut #bts jungkook #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #park jimin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook

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emeraldthelynx · 10 hours ago

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Ready for a long post about this stuff?

-Sonic 06

The potential is there, it's just buried beneath the game attempting to soft-reboot the Sonic franchise. There's nothing fundamentally wrong with Shadow's and Silver's stories, but Sonic's is a mess! I've hummed and hawed about ways to fix it, but I've never gotten anything concrete. The things I have figured out are that Elise needs to be kidnapped a total of once. She's okay going to Eggman to keep him from blowing up her kingdom, at the end, but only one kidnapping asides from that. I'm okay with Elise being human, give her a Sonic Unleashed human treatment and she'd fit right in. I do thing the affection between Sonic and Elise should be one-sided, with only Elise having feelings. I also misunderstood the thing about Elise's tears before I played the game and thought that only if they were tears of despair that they would release Iblis. So that solves the tears problem. I guess what it boils down to is making Elise more interesting and seeing what Sonic does because it's never really Sonic's story. It's what Sonic inspires other people to do.

-Sonic Forces

Approaching this with a little more approach to gameplay. Longer and more levels would do wonders, and also making three campaigns, one for Sonic, which is the first one you unlock, but he becomes a locked character after getting captured by Eggman, leaving you with the Rookie. There needs to be more Rookie levels before you encounter Sonic again, and you only get to control Classic Sonic after encountering him with either Sonic or the rookie, like how in Sonic Adventure you can unlock characters once you've interacted with them with a different one. I can't really think of anything wrong with the story, I made a post about Infinite a while back that explains why I think he's an interesting villain. I just think Forces needed 'more' and 'longer.'

-Digimon Frontier

This is such a small thing, but the animation. I want to watch it, but the animation makes it really, really hard to enjoy it.

-The Yu-gi-oh! DM filler arcs

I'm talking specifically about the Noa arc and the DOMA arc. Asides from the animation, what do you expect from Yugioh, the Noa arc needed to be put anywhere except the middle of Battle City, and maybe made a bit shorter. I also wished there was a little more playing around with the concept of them being in a Virtual World. There was so much wasted potential here. We even got a glimpse of what could have been with the Legendary Heroes arc, which set this whole thing up. More consequences, more interesting virtual world stuff, faster pacing, less Kaiba bros angst, I have thoughts. I also think that the cast of characters could have been cut down just a little. There's something there, and I haven't played around with it enough to really get what yet.

As for the DOMA arc, again, it needs to be shorter. I also think there should have been a more obvious effect of the Orichalcos card and stone, like, sensing evil, seeing the evil, a real visual effect. Something like the Dark Chips in the Megaman Battle Network series. I think Yami Yugi really should have had to wrestle with a dark influence, even before Yugi got taken. Yugi should have to deal with it too, but the darkness grips onto Yami more than him. The ending, the flashbacks, even the VS Yugi duel, it feels a bit lacklustre. We should have had cards with the characters trapped in them, like how Weevil said that one infamous card was Yugi. It would be a chase for the cards, and the cards could be used against them. The ending, what was with Yami Yugi just casually sealing the Leviathan into his body what was up with that- Ahem. Leviathan's beat, Dartz's beat. With Dartz' beat, the Leviathan does not have the power it did. There should be a speech, again, like something from the Megaman Battle Network series about darkness and how it rests in peoples' hearts and cannot be erased. Much better than whatever was going on originally.

-Sonic Prime

The wasted potential! Know what we could of had? We could of had game Sonic, the real one, travelling to Sonic X, Archie Sonic, Sonic Boom ect. Even if there were copyright issues with that, they could have done so much better than just to make 'edgy world,' 'jungle world,' and 'pirate world.' Sonic's self-loathing and air-headedness throughout the series makes it hard to watch for me. Sonic, just isn't like that. If he made a mistake, he would try to fix it. He moves on from the past and into the future. He doesn't care out of neglect, he doesn't care because he's at peace with how he can't change what's been. As for Shadow having beef with him, easy. Sonic broke the world Shadow promised Maria to save. Also, yeah. Mention. Maria. The series also moved too quickly. It felt like watching a four-hour long movie, and that didn't make it fun to watch. More self-contained episodes and even a 'filler' episode or two to have character development would have made it nicer.

-CrossFusion in the Rockman.EXE anime

CrossFusion just seemed to push the Internet aspect of the series into the background, along with the NetNavis. I think a balance could have been found, but the Internet having an effect on the real world is such an important part of the concept of the series. CrossFusion and Dimensional Areas taking that into the real world defeated the purpose of that. CrossFusion is really cool, and it can be done correctly. The Beast+ series of the anime was really good at balancing the CrossFusion and the Internet stuff. There's a couple of other things that can make it better and make the Navis more prominent. Bickering. Having Rockman and Netto (Lan) talk during the battles, make comments about how the other's feeling, and even take over for each other when they need to. Synchronization too! I just wish it was more 'Netto and Rockman are sharing a body' and less 'Netto is wearing Rockman's armour.'

-The Rockman.EXE anime in general not talking about Hub

Hub (Saito) is so important to the bond between Lan and Megaman. There's a reason they can do things that other Navi/Operator duos can't, they're literately brothers! It's hinted at very strongly in the manga, but the anime doesn't even make a hint! And there were so. Many. Opportunities! A little extra Hikari twins would have done the series good.

-World of Light in Smash Bros Ultimate

When World of Light was announced, me and my siblings were ecstatic. We were hoping it would be like Subspace Emissary in Brawl. So, much to our disappointment, there was no real plot. Just give the story/adventure mode a plot in the next Smash Bros game, that's all I ask.

-The Digimon sequel films (Tri, 02: The Beginning)

These films felt, angsty. I haven't watched Kizuna, so I can't judge that right now, but I have watched most of Tri and 02 The Beginning. I have separate complaints about them both. Tri. felt like they were squeezing in more angst and worry than there should be. The Digimon should have been in the human world to start with, like the 02 epilogue. Dark Gennai was weird, I didn't understand the plot really, I didn't feel like there was a real antagonist because there were just so many things going on at once, and also? The girls were not really treated right. Ordinimon was straight-up naked. And Mei just felt like a self-insert.

That's also my complaint with 02: The Beginning. It's like the whole plot revolved around this one OC with new information that changed canon and had a fan Digimon that had power that would bring the 02 kids into everything. I can literately summarize it as 'The 02 kids meet a new Digidestined, Lui Ohwada. Turns out he was the first-ever Digidestined! Watch as the gang teams up with Lui to save the day!' Yeah, if this was a fanfiction, I get the feeling some people would get turned off from this description. There's also far too many flashbacks. To address the self-insert thing, I have seen it done well! Amazingly well! The only thing is that the self-insert/OC needs to adapt to the world, not the world adapt to them.

-IDW Sonic

I, don't like it. Without the Freedom Fighters, I don't think the writers know how to make the story. Amy, and multiple other female characters, feel like they've been shoehorned into Sally's role, and that goes for a lot of other characters. New characters are being made to fill the old characters' shoes, and I just really, really want some new, hero, male characters. There's too many girl characters. And Surge just feels like Ian Flynn really wanted a Bass-coded rival for Sonic so that makes Kit her Treble. I don't know how much is 'Sonic' and how much is 'new people in Sonic's world.' It just feels like everybody's trying to fill space that existed in the Archie comics, but didn't need to exist in the IDW ones.

-WandaVision

This one is kinda out of left field, but I did enjoy the show. (Probably because it was mostly episodic and not 'four hour long movie.') I think the ending should have been better. And also, the premise of 'Wanda is grieving and this is her therapy' and where did that one which lady come from? The concept was there, and I loved the early episodes a lot, but the later ones just feel into the modern Marvel trap.

-Pokemon Horizons

'I want to learn about Pokemon' and a lot of really cool family backstory and connections is not enough for me to like Liko. There's nothing to really make her interesting. And Roy is just 'I want to catch the shiny Rayquaza!' I also don't know how I feel about all the Pokemon staying out of their Pokeballs all the time. By doing that, the individual Pokemon's personalities become smothered in what I like to call 'character overload.' The show suffers from this a lot actually. There's just too much and too many. The latest season is shaping up to be a bit more interesting, a bit more like the older Pokemon, but there's something about Pokemon Horizons that just feels a bit empty. It's like they're wringing out the very last drops of what once was. The Pokemon company has had success in other shows like Twilight Wings and PokeToons. I just kinda want side stories and slice of life from the series now that Ash has retired. Again, the show just feels hollow.

-Sonic Frontiers

I've talked about this before! Here and here, Frontiers has the opposite problem as Forces. There's too little going into too much. Despite having the most open world of a Sonic game, Frontiers feels the most empty. Everything is kinda 'samey' and everything feels dead. From what I've heard about the original plot, (Sonic's friends loosing their memories and Sonic looses his own when he restores them) that makes it seem much more interesting. I also wish that the DLC didn't feel shoehorned into the end of the game. Let me put it this way; Forces made me get back into the Sonic series with such a passion that I wrote a whole AU that I'm saving and hoping someday to get it picked up by SEGA. (I know that's a big dream, but still.) And Frontiers... I didn't even care when my brother said he was selling his copy, the one I had played on.

To summarize a lot of this post, Sonic always seems to have a lot of lost potential, especially when the potential is right there.

#lynx's rambles

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mydearzero · 13 hours ago

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The Babysitter | Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x fem!Reader

Summary: You didn’t have any superpowers, nor were you even qualified for the position, yet somehow a mishap between Alexei and Yelena ends up in getting you a new job. Bob-sitter.

Contents: No Y/N, fem!reader, college student!reader, no warnings apply for this chapter.

A/N: Wow chapter 2 only one day later? Crazy! I already promise that's not a rate I'll keep up, lmao.

Read it on AO3 Chapter 1

Chapter 2 - Keep Him Happy

1.5K words

So, Bob was not, in fact, a child. He was a grown man who seemed perfectly capable of taking care of himself. His face was somewhat youthful, so you weren’t sure exactly how old he was, but you’d wager it was older than you.

“Why is it exactly that you need a babysitter?” You asked directly. No use beating around the bush. You ignored the whole flashback memory thing, guessing you’d be enlightened with the details when the rest of the team came back. It wasn’t exactly a fond experience.

“Well, I wouldn’t say babysitter… It’s just, uh… best to not leave me to my own devices, I guess,” he shrugged. You nodded awkwardly, not sure what to make of the situation. The promised pay was good, you wouldn’t actually have to take care of him, just keep him company. It didn’t seem like a bad deal.

But even then, he was obviously unstable. Maybe what he needed was a mental health professional, not a ‘babysitter.’ You were probably just a temporary solution.

You sat in an awkward silence for a while, sipping your drink every now and then trying to think of a lighthearted topic to entertain him with. “So… Tell me about yourself, Bob.”

“Well, I’m… Bob. Short for, uh, Robert, as you might’ve guessed,” Bob nodded. You sighed inwardly, this was going to be tougher than you expected. Children were usually a lot easier, willing to tell you all of their and their parent’s business. Cats were even better, no need for talking. Bob was going to take some work.

“How’d you end up here, with these people, I mean?” You wondered. He seemed normal enough, but obviously the ‘New Avengers’ cared about him enough to try and keep him out of harm's way and around their building.

“It’s kind of a funny story, really. One second I’m in Malaysia in some lab for a medical study, the next I wake up in this bunker with these guys trying to kill each other…”

You squint your eyes in question. “That is… Funny?”

“Yeah now that I’m putting it like that it doesn’t sound very funny, does it?” Bob chuckled. It seemingly broke some of the tension. He asked you a few questions about yourself and your contact with Alexei.

“He seems very sweet,” you concluded. Bob agreed, letting you know the man definitely had his heart in the right place, though sometimes a bit overenthusiastic.

He told you about the rest of the team, and you noticed he was inconspicuously perceptive. He went one by one, wasting time by talking about the people surrounding him most days.

“Yelena looks really tough, and she is! But she’s really a big softie,” Bob spoke of her very fondly, a twinkle of adoration in his eyes.

“Ava’s a bit of a tough nut to crack, but she has a really good sense of humour. She’s a bit more reserved, but really has your back when you need her. She’ll deny it, though.”

You poured yourself another glass of soda, offering Bob one as well. He declined but thanked you for the offer to a degree which dazed you. You took a mental note of the skittish demeanour.

“John’s an asshole. Can’t really put it anyway else. He’s here, he’ll show up for the others, but… I can’t really say I’ve come to like him like the others. I’d put it as toloration. I mean he has a history… But who doesn’t? Doesn’t give him the right to be a douche, you know?” He obviously had a strong sense of righteousness, and John did not fit into that picture.

“And lastly there’s Bucky, but I’m sure you know about him. Congressman and such. He’s not around here much. He tries to be, but I feel like he’s still a bit wary of the team. Part of me thinks he just doesn’t want to get attached, which I can understand, given his past…” Bob looked out the window, seemingly lost in a deep thought. His eyes glazed over and an overwhelming sadness overtook his face. It’d gotten dark in the time you’d been here, the city skyline lit up with artificial lighting.

“Whatever you do, try to keep him happy, distracted and away from danger.” Yelena’s words echoed in your head. There was likely a good reason for the particular instructions.

“Well, Bob, thank you for opening up and telling me about them. I feel like we’re likely gonna be spending some more time together, so I really appreciate that you feel safe enough to share,” you smiled, distracting him from his spiralling thoughts.

Bob smiled before looking a little confused at his own actions. You felt like he might’ve maybe shared a little more than he’d intended.

You were racking your brain for another topic to talk about when the elevator doors opened once again. Bob deflated, hunching in on himself and making himself visibly smaller. You hadn’t even noticed how his posture had opened up during your conversation.

It was Yelena and Alexei, joking with each other in, was that Russian? They walked in as if they hadn’t just fought off whatever it was that had ransacked the subway and blasted itself into the building. You looked at them expectantly, waiting to finally get an explanation.

“Ah, right, babysitter. It’s quite late, maybe you should head home?” Yelena suggested, cracking her neck while unloading a few weapons on a side table like she was dropping off her keys after coming home from the office.

“Was this just a one time thing, or will I be coming back?” You wondered. You could use the money.

“That depends… Bob? Do you like her?”

Bob spluttered and gaped at Yelena, unsure of how to answer. “I– I mean, yeah, she’s– She’s nice. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“We can find different babysitter if you want. Many more on the app,” Alexei chimed in as he huffed and puffed, trying to get his suit off in the middle of the living room. It looked more like he was doing a form of experimental yoga.

“No, no. This one’s fine,” Bob winced. You’d really have to come up with a different title than ‘babysitter’ if this was going to become a lasting thing.

“Good, then she stays. Ava and John are debriefing Bucky. It was just some lowlife with some experimental tech, but man, whatever he was shooting with stung like a b–”

“Lena, language, we have guest,” Alexei shushed her. Yelena rolled her eyes in response.

She nodded her head at you, motioning for you to come with her. You shot Bob a quick glance, who gave you a tight lipped smile but seemingly encouraged you to go with her.

Yelena took you to a smaller separate sitting room and offered you a glass of whiskey, which you refused. “No drinking on the job,” you laughed.

“So, you’re probably wondering, why does a grown man need a babysitter? Well, I’m gonna explain. But first, what did Bob tell you?” she started, sitting down next to you and leaning on the back of the couch, resting her head in her hand. You mimicked her relaxed posture, putting a leg up on the couch.

“Not much, really. He told me a bit about you guys and how you met. He mentioned something about a medical study in Malaysia, but other than that nothing too memorable.”

“Did you happen to shake his hand?” Ah, there it was. Yelena could tell by your expression the answer was yes.

“Yeah, it happened to us, too. You see, Bob… He’s very strong. Stronger than all of us combined. But he’s not stable. He’s a bit of a grey area in the team. We keep him around because he’s nice, of course, but also because we can’t risk anybody else trying to get on his good side and abusing his trust.” She took a sip of the whiskey, relishing its taste before continuing.

“We’re still not really sure what his powers are, and it’s also not up to me to disclose all of the information besides the basics. All I can tell you is that we can’t risk taking him into the field, but we also can’t risk leaving him alone for too long. His abilities are closely tied to his mental wellbeing. It sounds a little degrading to describe it this way,” Yelena winced. She evidently had very conflicting feelings on the topic. You understood it must be difficult, wanting to keep him out of harm’s way without babying him.

“But it’s really a matter of keeping him happy and distracted when it’s necessary. He needs help, a lot of it, but we just haven’t had the time to figure out how to go about it. So for now, this is it. I’m sorry for all the confusion, but with a ‘job’ as unpredictable as ours, this is the reality. Can you handle that?” Her gaze was piercing, as if she was trying to read every single thought crossing your mind.

“You care about him deeply,” you observed.

She gave a fond smile. “I do.”

“Then I think I can handle it. As long as I don’t have to lie to him or beat around the bush, I can do my best to keep him company and help wherever I can. I can’t promise I’ll be perfect, but I’ll try.”

“That’s all we ask.”

It was settled, then. You were hired.

TAGLIST: @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @hopes-peak-akademy @rattheraddestrat @i-shall-abide @puer-aurea @kennywantskfc69 @spectacled-studies @hiddlebatchedloki

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jaydenism · 3 days ago

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hi again ^^ wanted to add a couple things abt this since i saw some stuff brought up in the reblogs

first, for her middle school outfit, i basically just drew her old uniform but without the blazer and with short sleeves, showing this is towards the end of that school year, being in summer uniform. i think she would've started to grow her hair out during that school year, but probably didn't bother to go through a whole uniform change while she's in the last year of attending a school that she hates. i imagine her just waiting till she gets to high school to be able to start off fresh.

another thing i wanted to bring up was the tie swap theory, which i think is a cute idea! however i didn't draw it cus i think realistically that may have not occurred. reason being, mizuki seemed to have the kamiyama girls uniform, so I don't see why she wouldn't get a bow with it.

some people say maybe she made the skirt herself or something. from my understanding though, most japanese high schools would not typically let a student wear the opposite gender's uniform, and i imagine that mizuki and her parents likely had a meeting with someone at the school to explain her situation in order for her to be able to wear the right uniform. she'd likely get in trouble if she hadn't gotten permission for wearing that uniform. however, from what i could find, there are some schools that have started to relax those rules a bit, allowing more open expression for lgbtq+ students, so it's possible kamiyama could be that way. But either way, she would've had permission from the school to wear that uniform, meaning she would have been able to obtain the girls uniform, as well as the bow that comes with it. so ANYWAYS thats why i didn't draw the tie swap, sorry tie swap believers </3

ok those r the notes i had bye :P

edit: OH ALSO i used the same dialogue from mizuki's "a detour with you" card story, showing a flashback of when An first introduced herself and made mizuki feel less alone :,)

hihi!! providing u with some early transition mizukis :)))

her hair had to take a while to grow out! her in-game model shows her w the same hair as the present when she starts at kamiyama, but her hair was ofc much shorter in the previous school year, so i like to imagine she had a cute mid-length style in between, and it was probably too short to put up into a side ponytail, so anyways tadaaaa :3

#idk do i keep the tags on this?? sure ig #real mizuki fans fw An fr fr #project sekai #proseka #prsk #pjsk #pjsk fanart #prsk fa #25 ji nightcord de #nightcord at 25:00 #niigo #n25 #akiyama mizuki #mizuki akiyama #an shiraishi

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cargnivore · 2 days ago

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OH, MR. PRESIDENT !

· subject. president!nanami kento & chief usher!reader

· field notes. amateur journalists, nobara kugisaki & yuuji itadori, snag a meeting with the retired chief usher of the white house, allowing them to revisit old memories ── particularly anything involving u.s. president, nanami kento.

further documentation. fem-bodied!reader (they/she), political!au, political inaccuracies, forbidden romance, workplace romance, constant banter, nanami thee yearning god, age gap, unprotected sex, pleasure dom!nanami, breast play, fingering, clit stimulation, multiple orgasms, mating press, flashbacks are italicized, etc.

──── a repost from my old account because i love this fic xP

“Remember,” Kugisaki Nobara says, sitting alongside her partner, Itadori Yuuji, inside the work car, a white BMW. It's outdated, a 2013 328i model, but it gets the job done and it's still fast. “Don't be a dumbass and say something stupid. This is the chief usher, the person that knew the president the best and finally giving us more details about their relationship. We can't mess this up.”

“Allegedly,” Yuuji points out, still siding with the minority that believed the ex-president didn't sleep with them. He huffs, reaching for his half-empty sprite in the cup container. “Why're you so concerned with me? What about you? Remember our last gig together— you nearly got us fired for the stunt you pulled asking for that autograph.”

“I didn't think that Sukuna was serious about that,” Nobara crosses her arms, avoiding Yuuji's gaze. “It was after the interview as well. That man was and still is a jackass!”

“Whatever,” Yuuji downs the rest of his drink before belching out loudly to Nobaras's dismay. She gasps and reaches for the door handle as she mumbles to herself, disgusting. “Let's just get this one out the way without either of us messing anything up.”

“I won't mess anything up—” Yuuji starts tuning out the auburn-headed girl, rolling his eyes as he steps up to the door. With a deep inhale, he presses his finger to your doorbell, hearing the chime as Nobara's footsteps follow shortly after. Three rings before it returns to the silence of the outdoors. In the distance, Yuuji can still hear the sound of cars speeding down the lanes and occasional honking. It provides a good distraction from his nerves. Still significantly new to journalism, especially with an interview such as this one, he went the mile to make a good first impression. A baby blue, long-sleeved button down and gray slacks, the sleeves were cuffed and he was fidgeting with them as he waited. However, he can also tell that Nobara’s nervous as well, pulling at the stray threat on the edge of her skirt and fiddling with her fingernails about to bite them off when they finally hear a voice. “Yuuji and Nobara, correct?”

The two coworkers can’t tell where the voice is coming from, but they immediately respond with stammered yeses, their anxiousness evident. Again, the voice speaks through the camera watching them from above, “Please pull out your ID and point to the camera.”

Shuffling around, Yuuji pulls out his wallet from his pockets while Nobara snags hers from her purse, slipping out their IDs before struggling to find the camera. The monotone voice doesn’t indicate whether or not they’re irritated by this sign of unprofessionalism, “Point it to the left, please.”

Finally do the two of them notice the red light pointed directly at them. If this is you that’s watching them, their beet red faces will only get redder from embarrassment as they do as instructed. The amateur journalists stop when they hear a satisfied hum and a, “Great! Mrs. (Y/L/N) and I will be down to greet you shortly. Thank you for your patience.”

Nobara groans when she hears a click and slumps her shoulders. “We’re so bad at this! She must already think we’re unprofessional.”

“Don’t be so negative already,” Yuuji says in a low voice. “Maybe they understand that they caught us off guard.”

“I highly doubt that,” Nobara pouts. “I think—”

Before Nobara could say anything more, there’s the click of the door knob, forcing her to straighten up her posture and to hold in her breath. Yuuji follows suit as they fix their posture as though they’re in the military. Their minds go blank as their hearts begin pattering faster against their chests. When their boss had told them that you specifically requested for them to conduct the interview, Nobara and Yuuji both freaked out. Countless journalists from years prior tried churning out that story from both you and the former president before, but they all failed to get a word from either of you. Everyone knew the truth, speculated it after news articles came from inside sources revealing the relationship that President Nanami had with the chief usher of the white house, but with both parties neither confirming or denying such allegations, it was just one giant rumor that became something the nation loved to gossip about.

One year later, before the president’s second term could truly end, he decided to step down as president, and Vice President Gojo Satoru stepped into the position. You stayed as chief usher until the next election before finally stepping down, and the people of the country concluded that you retired from the job to finally sleep alongside Nanami in peace.

Nobara sides with the majority, finding that the original article that exposed all of this information couldn’t have been a lie. Who would fabricate such a detailed story just for it to be a lie? President Nanami was one of the greatest the nation had ever had, truly there for the people and both political parties favored the man, except for the few outliers, of course. However, Yuuji always thought that it was Nobara’s hopeless romantic heart that led her to believe such things so quickly. He was the type of journalist who needed plenty of resources to rely and support such claims. Who cared if someone on the inside reported such intimate details of the president? Why didn’t many more people come forward then, if it was so obvious that the person who was running the country was infatuated with the chief usher? There had to be more to it.

When the door swings open, Nobara and Yuuji are greeted by two older women. On the left, it must have been the lady who spoke to them on the camera. Pale skin, black hair and brown eyes, but the most notable feature about her is the scar that runs alongside her face. It takes Yuuji and Nobara strength not to ogle the women with mere curiosity. She smiles sweetly, already aware of what they were looking at before she speaks. “Hello, we spoke over the camera,” she confirms what they detected. “I’m Utahime Iori, and this is—”

She gestures to her left, but you interject before Utahime could finish. “I can introduce myself, thank you very much.”

The way you say it isn’t to be rude or snide, no. You chuckle towards the end of it as you throw Yuuji and Nobara a wink. “She thinks I’m some senile old person, but I can still talk. I’d’nt be having this interview if I couldn’t!”

Your laugh is contagious, Utahime holding her hand in front of her face to cover her growing smile as Yuuji and Nobara chuckle. You hold out your hand for the two young journalists, eyes sparkling as you introduce yourself, “I’m (Y/N). Come on in.”

─────

You’re kind, serving out food and drinks for Nobara and Yuuji before talking about the interview. They tried asking questions during brunch, but you’d often cut them off, asking for them to enjoy the meal before heading right for business. “I told myself I’d never give the press answers, but here I am doing just that! We’re doing things on my terms.”

Yuuji and Nobara obliged, because who knows if there’ll ever be a time where they’re being fed like this again. You seemed to be a kind woman with a personality that easily had them captivated. You had both Nobara and Yuuji’s attention for the entirety of the brunch, keeping them engaged in conversation as you asked about their personal lives and what they did in their spare time. The two journalists should have found the questions invasive, but you had their eyes sparkling as you hummed and acknowledged their stories. You were such a warmth, unaware when Utahime slipped by them and reached for their empty plates and washed them all up.

“I think it’s time we start doing this interview, right?” you say, scooting off the chair effortlessly and walking into the direction of your living area. Despite the home looking so small from the outside, it was quite a spacious area. Yuuji’s eyebrows furrowed as his puppy dog, brown eyes sparkled in confusion, completely forgetting the reason he was even here. “Hm?”

Nobara nudges the boy, slipping out of her chair and pushing it in with the screech of the legs. In a low voice, she hurried her partner with a “C’mon!”

Your living room was cozy and as expected of a lot of older people, cluttered in the same breath. Vintage brown leather couches with mediterranean print blankets thrown over. The intricate print on the rug tied well into everything surprisingly as the deep brown coffee table was decorated with fine china and personal trinkets to the woman. Yuuji and Nobara didn’t realize it before, proving just how bad they were at their jobs, but there were pictures around, answering the question that the nation had for years and confirming what everyone already knew— you and Nanami had been together for all those years. Digging his elbow into Nobara’s hip, he points to the picture sitting to his left. Look, he mouths.

Obviously, a picture of the two of you when you were younger and the former president was still alive. The two of you on the beach, you in a bikini and Nanami in swimming trunks. He was a fit man, holding onto you with such security and love. You were looking right at the camera, but he was looking right at you. As though you were the sunset standing right behind the two of you. Such adoration in his eyes, it was evident how much he loved you.

You saw how the two of them stared at the picture, your eyes lightening up, but it was all within due time. “How much is your company paying you for this article?”

“Mmm,” Yuuji shrugs, his attention diverted right back to you. He didn’t think twice about the curiosity of his and Nobara’s salary, open to offer you the details. “The company usually gets paid based on the views that it receives. If this does exceptionally well, we might get—” Yuuji tries to do the math in his head, but quick calculations was never his strong suit, making Nobara step in to finish for him. “Two-hundred dollars, at most.”

“That’s it?” You tilt your head with a scoff.

“Yeah,” Nobara nods. “It’s not that much, all things considered. But, because we’re still new in the game, we won’t be earning as much as the more experienced journalists have yet. Usually they branch off to do their own thing, if their readers are dedicated enough.”

“No, no, no,” you shake your head, unsatisfied with their nonchalance. “That just won’t do. I’ll have to pay you guys out of pocket for all the time you’re going to be putting in listening to me talk.”

“Oh no, you don’t have to do that. We’re sure that this article will set things off—” Nobara pinches Yuuji. “Ow!”

“Be smart like your friend right here,” you say with a smirk. “Don’t argue, just accept your blessings.”

You call Utahime, asking for her to make you a cup of tea as you pull your feet up on the couch. “Anyway, I don’t want to keep you guys here too long, so are we ready for the whole story? As you can see—” You gesture to the picture frames cascading the walls. “—The media was right, former pres— Kento and I were in a relationship all along.”

“Oh, yes!” Nobara chirps, reaching into her purse for her miniature notepad. She glances at Yuuji, “You’ve got your notepad ready?”

“Yeah,” Yuuji says in a low voice, reaching for his back pocket to pull out his and the pen alongside it. “Yeah, if you don’t mind, can you explain what exactly a chief usher does in the white house? I was never too sure.”

“What?” you snort, raising your eyebrow. “You two didn’t do your research before coming to speak with me?”

Nobara’s heartbeat immediately picks up, thinking that Yuuji completely ruined it for them. You had been so accepting so far, but this sign of unpreparedness ruined it. “Y–yes, but…” She stammers before you let out a hearty giggle.

“I’m just messing y’all, dear,” you smile. “Don’t worry. Google makes things sound more difficult than they are.”

Fixing your posture in the couch, you purse your lips out in attempts to find an easy explanation for the chief usher of the White House. “I want to start out by saying that I had no political role in the White House. I don’t get involved in any decision making. I was more like— Oh! Think of me as the manager of a hotel, or any business, as a matter of fact.

“There’s a portion of the White House where the president rests his head at night, eats his meals, and partakes in all recreational activity. Considering that Nanami didn’t have any family with him, we only looked after one man. There were chefs, a cleaning department, and all that stuff that specifically catered to the presidents and their living arrangements. I supervised all of that and made sure things run smoothly.”

In synchronization, Nobara and Yuuji’s mouth fall open as they drag out an “Ohhh!” in clarity. You chuckle, nodding your head. “Yes, I overran all of it. It was such an exhausting position, but all the while, so fulfilling.”

The way your eyes beamed when you described your job. As you reminisced about your position, the corner of your lips curved upwards in a smile of longing. They could see that you really loved being a chief usher. However, it only made them have more questions to ask you. This was their approach to journalism, letting the interviewee guide where their mind led to. It worked for them on a multitude of occasions and they were hoping this would be similar.

Sitting up in the seat, Yuuji’s already got the front of his page filled up. “And if I can ask—”

“I feel like I’ve both misled you when I contacted your company to speak to the both of you,” you say, eyes glancing towards Yuuji. “Sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt you. Yuuji and Nobara, right?—” They nod. “— I’m not here to answer all sorts of questions you had for me. Everyone knew that Kento was lying about being in a relationship with me. There’s no point in me giving answers to questions that everyone could look up in a quick Google search. If that was the point, you could just go back and read the article that started the entire controversy.

“I just want to tell you more…” You pause, trying to find the right word, “intimate details of what happened; to give you a more accurate replay of what happened. That’ll hopefully answer all the questions you could possibly have for me. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” Nobara and Yuuji answer with a sturdy nod.

“Great,” you sigh. “Now, where do I even start? I guess a good story starts with some background, right?”

“Start wherever you feel comfortable with,” Nobara says, gnawing on her bottom lip as she holds her notepad ready to write the moment you start speaking. You nod, finally finding a starting ground. “I started working as the assistant usher when I was 23.

“My father trained me to take his position until I was 29 and he was ready to retire. I thought it was too soon and that I still needed more time, but he was ready to hit the hay and finally get some rest. By the time Nanami became president and had moved into the White House, l was still trying to find out who I was as a chief usher. I had only experienced two presidents before him, but I had already known that I didn’t like him.”

That comes to a surprise to the journalists, remembering how the initial article on the two of you spoke about how you and the president were immediately smitten. Yuuji stammers on his words, garbling out his question, “Wa–Wait— Wait… You didn’t like Nanami at first?”

“Nope,” you confirm.

“Why not?” Nobara furrows her eyebrows. “He seems so… nice?”

“He was too easy going,” you scoff, leaning back into the couch. “It made my job harder because he was too simple. The presidents before him knew exactly what they wanted and how they wanted it. They were assholes, sure, but because of that, I knew how to take care of them and how to give them exactly what they wanted. It annoyed the living hell out of me how humble he was.”

You chuckle, recalling a specific event that was the catalyst towards you and Nanami’s relationship. “My father always told me that I could be a little hot headed, and I never took him seriously until I yelled at the president.”

“You yelled at President Nanami?” Yuuji gasps, voice getting higher in disbelief. You snort, “I sure did! And he deserved it, too, for making my job harder than it needed to be!”

“(Y/N), you need to go talk to the President,” the head chef, Shoko Ieiri, trudges into your office as you’re overseeing important documents before they need to be turned in for later today. You had a migraine building up, reading the fine print underneath the desk lamp. Shoko wasn’t helping your current status when she came storming in, miserable as always. Looking up, you sigh, “What is it now?”

“President Nanami has done the same thing as he did last week,” she starts to complain. “Refusing to complete his weekly meal plan, saying that we can choose for him.”

Typically, you could tolerate Shoko and her bleak personality. She was nice to you, so you were, in turn, nice to her. However, with such an over grueling day, you couldn’t take such small issues at the moment. And frankly, you couldn’t take the indecisive president either, at the moment. “Just send someone up again— and not Takuma again, either. That’s why we’re in this situation again.”

“What’d you think I did this time?” Shoko huffs. “Sent Riko up there—”

“Riko’s no better than Takuma, too!” You raise your voice. “Look, I don’t have the time for this, right now. Come back in an hour and we can sort this out—”

“No,” Shoko stands her ground, crossing her arms as she stares at you challengingly. “I don’t have another hour because we need to start prepping for the incoming week right now.”

Arching an eyebrow in her direction, you tilt your head.

Now, the two of you march in strides towards the Yellow Oval room. Neither of you’re saying anything, but you can feel how triumphant Shoko feels for getting in her way. She had a talent for using your impatience to the advantage and you wanted to nip that in the bud in the near future.

“Wait outside for me,” you speak calmly.

“No,” Shoko scoffs. “I need to know—”

“Wait,” you speak more sternly, “outside for me.”

With the bass in your voice, Shoko begrudgingly stays back while you open the door. Pushing open the door rougher than you intended, you call for the president’s attention immediately. You hold a blank meal plan and a meal in your hand, and when you look over at the blonde, you can only feel your chest rising in frustration. You had so many more important matters to deal with, and truthfully, if Shoko really wanted this to be resolved, she should’ve done this herself.

You don’t know why you gave in so easily, but now that you’re here… You throw the menu and meal plan in his direction, catching Nanami completely off guard. In the moment, you had no care for the consequences, only fueled by your frustration. “Fill out the meal plan.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you feign apologeticness. “Can you please fill out the meal plan, Mr. President, sir?”

He scoffs, ignoring your mocking tone as he looks back at the paperwork in front of him, those same round spectacles right at the brim of his nose. “I have more frivolous things to worry about than a meal plan, right now?”

“And, what?” you challenge him. “You don’t think I want to be here right now badgering you about it, myself?”

“Miss (Y/L/N), I’d be reluctant about the tone you’re setting with me right now,” Nanami warns you, but you couldn’t give a damn.

“And I ask you to not make my job anymore difficult than it needs to be,” you retort. “There should be no reason I’m here asking you to choose seven meals for the rest of the week, when there are other people who’ve been hired to do this. There should be no reason why the head chef should have to come to me complaining because you can’t make a decision for yourself.”

“I’m not a picky man,” Nanami sighs. “Choose whatever you want and I’ll be fine with it.”

“You say that, but I’ve experienced plenty of assholes before you to know when that’s a lie.”

“You called the president an asshole?” Yuuji gasped. You nod, “It wasn’t one of my best moments, but gosh, I just needed Shoko off my back. It’s not easy being a chief usher, y’know?”

“I don’t understand how you didn’t get fired,” Nobara exhales.

“Me neither,” you chuckle. “I’m glad he didn’t. My father would’ve had my head.”

“D–Did you just call me an asshole?” He sounded more baffled than angry. It quickly made you realize your mistake, each and everyone of them that you made the moment you opened that door. Maybe you should’ve lied, but that wasn’t really in your nature. If you were going to be fired, you might as well be truthful.

“Y-Yes,” you breathe, hearing your heartbeat pang heavily against your chest.

And then it was silent. Nanami just looks at you, giving you a steady once over before reaching for the menu and meal plan. With his pen, he clicks it and carefully completes. Neither of you say a word until he’s done. Standing up, he approaches you. He doesn’t hand you the meal plan, keeping it close to himself. Brown eyes staring down at you, giving you the opportunity to see the exhaustion embedded in them, he lets out a sigh. “I apologize for making things more difficult for you,” he apologizes. Your eyes widen, the first time you’ve ever experienced a president apologize for their wrongdoings. “But, if you ever disrespect me again, it’ll be your last day here.”

“Is that how you guys got together?” Nobara tilts her head. This was so informal. This felt too personal for two journalists to be sitting down alongside the former chief usher of the White House. However, neither of them would question a thing.

“No,” you shake your head. “Despite what that article claims, we didn’t get together until his third year as president.”

“That long?” Yuuji inhales. “Why?”

“Because I was a professional,” you beam with pride, holding a hand to your chest as you straighten up your back. “And I knew the repercussions if I acted on my feelings. He had confessed to me before, towards the end of his first year, in fact. But, I had to shut down things quickly. I don’t even think I reciprocated feelings for him at the time!”

“Miss (Y/L/N),” Haibara Yu, Nanami’s best friend and bodyguard, knocks on your office door, peeking his head inside. He gives you a warm smile. “Nana— President Nanami wants to speak to you in the Yellow Oval room.”

Ever since your incident with the president in said room prior, you had cleaned up your act. Got control of your temper and told Shoko if this event were to repeat itself, you’re not going to be the one stepping in anymore. Your job was to ensure everything was running smoothly within the residential area of the White House, not doing everyone else’s job because they couldn’t be bothered.

The president realized that his easy going approach wasn’t going to do. No longer giving staff the leniency that he thought they’d like, he showed people exactly how he wanted things done, and it put the majority of the residential staff at ease. However, not you. No, ever since your confrontation, it was like the president needed to keep an eye on you yourself, asking for you more than any other president had.

“I haven’t even seen past presidents call on your father the way President Nanami calls for you,” one of the cleaning staff had told you one day. Well within her years at the White House, she had seen and experienced it all. “You must’ve done something bad.”

You can’t help but be reminded of that moment as Haibara walks alongside you towards Nanami’s direction. Once walking at the same speed, you start to slow down, really taking it into consideration that maybe he was keeping you on a leash after your lash out. You had apologized for that, assuring it wouldn’t happen again. It had been months, surely you had proven yourself.

Seeing you slow in pace, Haibara stops to turn around. “Everything alright, Miss (Y/L/N)?”

Haibara was nice and kind. Brown eyes and a smile that spoke trustworthy. Surely he could enlighten you on why Nanami was calling you this time. You crack your knuckles, a habit you had developed when you were younger. “Had I done something wrong?”

Haibara hums, trying to recall Nanami’s direct request. “No. He just asked me to bring you to his office.”

“Are you sure?” At that, Haibara chuckles, that boyish smile lightening the mood. “Did you do anything wrong recently for you to think so?”

Recently, no. “No.”

“Then, I’m sure you’ll be just fine.” He dismisses the matter, calling you to follow him once more as he starts walking. Leading you to the Yellow Oval Room, Nanami sits there waiting for you. Again with a thing of paper before him as his glasses rest on the edge of his nose. He hears the both of you come in, but he doesn’t say a thing. Not yet.

While you work on your temper, you still have yet to practice more patience as you rock on your heelYou clear your throat, but the older man’s attention still stays glued to the papers. “Excuse me, sir. You wanted to see me.”

“I did,” he hums. “Just give me a moment.”

You nod, letting out a sigh as you try to occupy yourself. Eyes diverting to the window and looking out at the perfectly manicured grass and the trees. The sky is a nice shade of blue and it looks comforting. Getting so lost in it, Nanami’s voice brings you back to reality when he instructs Haibara and the next bodyguard to leave the room.

“I’m sorry, but we can’t do that,” the next one says.

“You will today,” Nanami simply states sternly. “It will just be for a quick minute.”

Haibara lets out a breath, directing his partner to follow him alongside as they close the door. However, you can still see the shadow of their feet waiting out front. Standing uncomfortable in your position, you grimace. “Are you sure it’s safe for you to send your bodyguards out like that?”

“Do you plan on killing me, Miss (Y/L/N)?”

“What?” You hadn’t realized he had taken a step until he took the next one.

“I said,” he arches an eyebrow, staring into your eyes. “Do you plan on killing me, Miss (Y/L/N)?”

“No,” you scoff.

“Then, I believe the both of us shall be fine.”

“Why’ve been calling me down so much?” you ask. “I’m pretty sure I’ve been on a very clean streak lately. I haven’t called you an asshole again.”

You cringe, watching how Nanami’s expression hardens. With a finger, he points at you, tsking. His eyes brighten up, making the atmosphere lighter. “You’re a character, for sure.”

“I’m sorry,” you say in a low voice, looking down at the ground.

“Don’t,” he says, stepping away from you. “I quite enjoy the informalities. Makes this old place more refreshing.”

At that, your shoulders relax, that tinge of fear dissipating.

“What are your favorite flowers?”

“Hm?” You scrunch your nose in confusion. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing, I’m just asking you a question.”

“Tulips.”

“And your favorite dish?”

“Is there a true purpose to why you wanted to see me today?”

“I asked you what’s your favorite dish.”

“Do you think that just because you’re the president that I should just answer all your questions without any for myself?”

“If I say yes, will you keep responding to me with your snide remarks?” There was a glint in your eyes to tell you that this entire conversation had a meaning to it, making your eyes widen at the possibilities your mind is insinuating. You take a step back from him, realizing how close in proximity the two of you are.

“Can you just stop frustrating me and tell me why you called me here?” you sigh. “I have more… frivolous things to worry about right now?”

Nanami chuckles. But his posture stammers. Dropping his shoulders and fixing the buttons on his shirt, he clears his throat. “I’m trying to ask you out on a date. I thought I was being obvious.”

“I had a feeling,” you admit. “But I want to know, why?”

“Why, what?”

“Why are you asking me out on a date?”

He scoffs. “I think I like you better when you aren’t acting this dense.”

“Excuse me?” You gasp. “I’m not dense!”

“Everything else is telling me that you are,” Nanami clears his throat, reaching for his glass of water on the coffee table. “C’mon. It’s a simple yes or no. I won’t break if you tell me no.”

“Everything else is telling me that you would,” you cross your arms.

“Is that all you can do?” Nanami scoffs incredulously at your behavior. “Be stubborn and throw back what I’ve said in my face?”

“We went back and forth for a little while longer before I eventually told him no,” you sigh, a smile beaming on your face as you recall the trail of events. “I was a stubborn thing back then, still am! I think that’s why he liked me so much.”

“What made you break?” You could see the sparkle in Nobara’s eyes, seeing how she, herself, yearns for a love story like your own. “What made you finally give into temptation?”

You reminisce to that exact moment in time when you could feel your body caving into the temptation that was Nanami Kento. With a deep and heavy exhale, your shoulders relax. “Him,” you smile. “That evil bastard had the gift of pining. Even when I said no, he wouldn’t stop coming after me. It’s because he knew I wanted him, too—” You point at Nobara, eyes narrowing with a sternness that makes her believe she’s in trouble. “—Never let a man know that you reciprocate their feelings. They’ll only keep tormenting you.”

Nobara chuckles at that, but keeps that snippet of advice dear to her heart. “When I finally said yes, he organized a date for the both of us not too long after. Of course, we couldn’t let anyone know and with him always being watched over, it was hard, but we managed to do it.”

You felt like an idiot agreeing to this, letting Nanami finally convince you to dip your toes in the water. If anything went wrong tonight, the two of you would come to an agreement to call everything off. You were still in your work clothes, the majority of the staff already clocked out and in their beds. The remaining walked by you without a second thought or question, putting you slightly at ease as you walked down the corridors towards the president’s bedroom.

Nanami had a power to invoke fright into his immediate bodyguards, or maybe Haibara was too giving to his best friend, taking a moment to leave while you could slip in without being noticed. It had proven easier than you initially thought, your racing heart struggling to calm down the moment you inside his sleeping champers and Nanami sat on the edge of his bed waiting for you. He chuckles slowly, seeing how wide your eyes are in the dim lighting provided by the moon. Completely dark, he wants everyone to think he’s asleep. However, in the far right of his room, there’s a small table with two plates of food waiting to be eaten as a desk lamp rests in the center.

“If I’m being honest,” Nanami starts. “I thought you were going to flake on me.”

You gasp, clutching your necklace in fake surprise. “You think that I’d flake on a date with the president? Do you really think so lowly of me?”

“After three years of waiting?” Nanami sighs. “Yes.”

You nudge him in his sides, forgetting who exactly you’re talking to at that moment.

“He made me feel like we were in an actual restaurant,” you paused. “Sure, there weren’t any waiters and chattering around, but you get what I mean. He had such a strong presence that he was able to captivate my attention for the whole night. When it came to the end of it, I didn’t want to leave.”

When it was time to call it a night, Nanami directed you towards the secret passageway. You had known almost every nook and cranny of the White House, but miraculously, not this. Nanami had to teach you where to go that night.

“You’re going to make a left and two rights before you’ll be at your wing of the residence,” he instructs, his chest pressed against your back as he shines his phone flashlight in the tunnel. “Since there’s no shift changes for the next hour or so, you should be alright.”

“Should?” you challenge playfully. He smirks.

“You’ll be alright,” he corrects. And in an even lower voice, he whispers, “Good night.”

You just stood there, hesitant to leave while he was waiting for you to. You told yourself the moment he had asked you out, that you wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize the both of you. However, you had eventually caved in, and now that you did, you didn’t want to do anything to stop this. Knowing a little more about the president and knowing what he liked and did outside of politics, it shined a different light on him now.

You don’t know what overtook you.

“Is everything alright?” he asked, voice laced with concern when you spun on your heel. Your heart was racing, and every rational thought was still relaying the repercussions that this had on your career, but your feet moved involuntarily and so did your hands. Invading the president’s personal space, you grabbed onto his shirt and pulled him to your height.

The dark surroundings solidified your solitude, sucking the two of you into your own universe. The chill of the air made you want to dive into his hold even more, seeking for the warmth that you felt that only he could provide you. You had other partners prior to being a chief usher, having your fair shares of boyfriends and kisses. However, they all felt so childish and immature. This being your first kiss in years, this felt world renouncing and powerful.

Nanami’s large hands quickly found purchase on your hips, further wrinkling your work clothes in his hold as he pulled you closer into him. His entire presence was swallowing, your entire senses filled with him. Pink muscles dancing with each other, never fighting for dominance, but for equity— finding a home within one another. He tasted tonight's late dinner, but so did you, and somehow it was the sweetest thing either of you had ever had.

He had made you out of breath, speechless, by the time you two pulled away from each other. Both of you panting and catching your breaths, it takes you some time to recuperate and come back to your senses. When you look up into Nanami’s eyes, though dark and the only source of light being the moon, you can still see the brown hues that remind you of fresh coffee beans when you stop by the cafe early in the morning before work. You wonder if there’ll be a time where you could do that with Nanami.

You should’ve said good night. You wanted to, but the moment you started imagining a future with him, was the moment you broke the lenses of your own rose-tinted glasses. In a haste, instead of good night or telling him that you enjoyed your night, you said, “I should— I should go.”

You didn’t have to say it. Because your actions spoke loud and clear for Nanami. He knew what your heart meant. He nodded, eyes sparkling with want as he fixed his shirt. The tunnel door still open, he repeated his instructions— a left and two rights.

The next day when you were doing your usual run-arounds, you and Nanami managed to cross paths. He was stealthy when he slipped something into your coat pocket. On your lunch break, you finally notice it when you’re reaching into your pockets for something when it slips out. Folded into a square, when you straighten it, it reads: Everything went smoothly, so I’m expecting a second date in two weeks.

The microwave beeps as you chuckle. You’re grateful that you’re all alone at the moment. You breathe, “That jackass.”

“He was the sweetest thing to ever happen to me,” the corner of your eyes watering as you spoke. “Said he would end his presidency for me, but I convinced him to run for another term. I didn’t want him to call it all off just for a woman. The damn man said I wasn’t just any woman.

“It’s a shame he passed before you two could meet him,” you sigh. “You’d have loved him. He was so down-to-earth when he wasn’t a pain in the ass.”

You had made each other your favorite habits, finding it easy to sneak through the corridors in the dead of night to see each other. The bodyguard’s tunnel had become your bed friend, memorizing the route to the president’s bedroom in a matter of time. It’s shocking that you haven’t been caught yet.

You had been told time and time before that your brazen and headstrong personality would be a deterrent, making people repelled to form any relationship with you, you had started taking it to heart within your early twenties. It was harder to create new friendships and the people you were attracted to didn’t seem to like you back. You didn’t mind it at first because you know at some point that your job would make you forget all about that, but now, Nanami’s sparked up those old memories. But just as quickly as he reminds you of them, he’s made them disappear with the snap of his fingers.

When your paths would cross, he’d always put in subtle effort to tell you, he sees you. Little slips of notes, the graze of his finger against your skin, quick glances thrown your way while you were busy settling small disputes, and so much more. And when the moon covered the sun’s shift and the sky grew darker, you and him were trapped together underneath his covers. Thick comforters underneath the vent that blows ice cold air, he shields you from the winter of it. In each other’s embrace while the bodyguards stood outside stoic, his body was summer, engulfing you in a tight embrace that made you feel like you were at home.

“C’mon,” he chuckles, messing with your pants buttons while you try to swat them away. You have to stifle your voice, sucking in your giggles as you jut out your knee. His next hand’s on your hips, his fingertips digging themselves into the bone. He’s so close, his nose kissing the tip of yours as he puckers his lips. “Let me take it off. We’ve got more than an hour until Haibara’s off his shift. That’s plenty of time for me.”

“Plenty of time for you to do what?” you scoff, still pushing him away. “To torture me to no end? It’s bad enough I’ve got to work for you for a few more months. Now you want to subject me to pain? No, Kento. Leave me alone.”

“What?” he smiles, those tired brown eyes brightening up. “You think I don’t have what it takes to win a second term? O ye of little faith.”

“No,” you joke along with him, losing your grip on him as he’s finally able to undo the button and pull down your zipper. Finally giving in, your hips rise up as you shimmy out of your pants and kick them off the moment they pool at your feet. “You’re the worst president we’ve ever had yet. The people will see for themselves in your second run.”

“You’ll tell them how much of an asshole I am?” he snickers. You nod, spine shivering as the cold air seeps underneath the comforter, tickling your skin. But Nanami’s always been the blanket you needed, his large palms resting on your upper thighs and massaging them with his body heat. His fingers rise to tap against your inner thighs, coaxing you to spread your legs.

“By the end of it, they’ll know just how bad you are, Mr. President.”

Arms draping around his neck, your covered chest presses against his as you pull him for a kiss. You could never get tired of the way his lips tasted against yours, the way he took your lips with such fervor and want. If there was something more than wanting and needed, that’s what he made you feel. If there was something more than longing, something stronger than love, that’s what he made you feel. That’s what you felt.

He helps you get out of your blouse, nearly ripping out a few buttons in his impatience. And with ease, he slips you out of your bra, freeing you from their manacles. Another kiss he plants on your lips, so sweet and tantalizing they are, creating a trail down to the juncture of your neck and to your cleavage. But before he can have you just how he likes and wants, he looks up at you through the strands of his disheveled blonde hair. “I’m sure I’ll change your mind soon enough.”

Nanami wishes he could love you in the light. He wishes he could admire you truthfully in the brightness of the sun, and not only have the moon as a witness to his utter devotion to you. When he’s explored your body, his fingers have felt the thick lines of your stretch marks. He wishes he could admire them under the morning beams, waking up to you in the sun’s glory. He wishes that when he kisses and prods on the dark nubs that stand erect for him, that he could see you for all of your truth.

But the darkness stands for the secrecy that this relationship is, forever being the obstacle that holds you both back from having each other out in the open. So, every time he has you in a position like this, he doesn’t take you for granted and gives you what feels like his all. But, is it really? Nanami feels like can never give you his all as long as he keeps you in the dark.

Someone like you, you’re not made to be hidden. He knew that from the moment you called him an asshole because of some damn menu plan.

His pink tongue drags a line from under your breast, tasting the salt of today’s hard work, all the way up to your puckered nipple. He salivates like a rabid beast, the muscle dripping in spit before he suckles on it.

And just as your personality is strong, so is your body— so reactive and vocal to his touches. Your chest rising and falling as you put in your best effort to keep yourself under control, your back an inch off the bed as you silently plead for more. You’ve always deserved more and Nanami feels unfortunate that he can’t give you that. He’s the president, for Christ’s sake, that’s what he’s supposed to do. Give people more in life and provide for his nation.

But how is he supposed to provide for a nation if he can’t even provide to the one person he desperately wants to?

He wants to hold on to you so tightly in a way that you could never leave his embrace. He wants to hold you so tightly in a way that he’ll never forget what you feel like. Lips latched around your nipple, his next hands playing and flickering with the bud, he bucks his hips in between your legs and into the sheets of the bed. The taste of you on his tongue is addicting, your entire body an aphrodisiac to him, something he’s hooked himself on the first time he had gotten you caged underneath the sheets.

You’re a temptress who must’ve casted a spell on him specifically, because how could a man such as him succumb to you so easily? For the majority of his life, he had focused on himself and his future. Never indulging himself into the pleasures of what romance could provide him. People used to tease him for it, but now that he’s here now, he doesn’t regret any of his choices.

His cock erect underneath his clothes, he rubs it against the fabric, hoping for some friction as he finds home in your chest. Saliva pooling from the corner of his lips as he suckles and latches onto your breasts.

You squirm in his hold, arousal pooling down on the crotch of your panties. Clenching around nothing, you can only buck your hips up as Nanami finds himself so enamoured with your chest. You’re not even sure he can hear you when you call out his name. But that’s all you can say, his name. Kento.

You’ve held yourself back for so long. You’ve restricted yourself from the possibility of having him for longer all because of your stubbornness, but maybe it could have worked out back then. However, you try not to drown yourself in the maybe’s and what if’s, importing yourself to the present and the pleasure that right now is giving you.

You’ve only worked with two presidents prior to Nanami and they all had the same thing in common— how selfish they are. But not Nanami. No, Nanami was the most selfless man you knew with how he treated you. He always tended to your pleasure and needs before his own, finding himself cozy in whatever position he was as long as you felt good. Putting himself second, there were plenty of instances where he was left with blue balls due to his own stubbornness and pushing your wandering hands away from him whenever you wanted to jerk him off or stuff him inside your mouth.

You used to question it, but they all went answered by the sounds of his moans when you moaned. He took pleasure from this just as you did. His large palms planted on your breasts, gripped and groped at the fat as he hopped from one to the next with his mouth. When he pulled away, they’d be swollen and overtly sensitive from his endless torture. And his eyes would gleam in a sense of pride by the way you would whine and mewl when his fingers would flicker over the nubs. However, he wouldn’t stop, thick digits playing with them as he’d sit himself up and slot his legs right in between your thighs and pressing against your sweet mound.

You immediately started searching for some reprieve, grinding your panty-clad cunt against his lower thigh. Your slick soaked into the cotton and soon soiled his bottoms, but he couldn’t care less. You were feeling good.

“You’re so pretty like this,” he whispers. “Always so pretty when I’m making you feel this good.”

He took so much pleasure and pride in how you felt, the corner of his lips inching upwards as he watched how your eyes would gloss up and your mouth would form an ‘O.’ However, you still weren’t good with patience, your hands reaching to dig your fingers into his wrists, forcing his hands to go lower and just where you want. While you were a very vocal person when it came to being a chief usher, Nanami had found a way to silence you in the bed. The only thing it seemed you could manage to muster was his name, always battling from Nanami to Kento. Right now, it was “Kento” being sung in the air, in a low tone as you’ve trained yourself to keep silent.

“My needy little baby,” he said, but obliged to your request, pulling at the seat of the soiled cotton and dragging it down your legs. A string of your arousal follows before it snaps. You kick off the flimsy fabric in impatience, being greeted with the icy air before Nanami’s thumb prods and presses down on your clit. He can feel how much you need him, how much you want him, your sticky slick hugging at his fat digit as he glides it back and forth.

He leans down, finally meeting your face for another kiss as you throw your arms over his shoulders and your nails claw into the back of his neck. His thumb still gliding against your wet mound, he swallows all the moans that threaten to spill as your sensitive and needy bundle of nerves cause your body to jolt in need. Walls clenching, your legs tense up before they can wrap around Nanami’s torso. Simultaneously, his thumb presses at your entrance, diving in as you let out a high-pitched whine that Nanami shushes.

A reminder you’ve heard aplenty, him pressing a finger to your lips. “You’ve got to be silent, my love.”

You nod all the same, as he pushes his thumb inside, toying with your entrance with slow and little thrusts, barely grazing a thing. However, he’s no true man of torment, quick to switch it out for his index and middle with a plunge that you’re never expectant of. A gasp as your legs tighten around him, all you can feel is Nanami. He swallows your next squeal, knowing you and your body well enough to know what comes next as he indulges in your ecstasy.

Your first orgasm is quick, having built you up for some time now that the quick scissoring of his fingers brings that band inside your stomach to snap. There’s no warning, but he couldn’t care for that, loving how you make a mess of his fingers as he continues forth. It becomes harder to conceal your voice, seeing how Nanami’s come to love this dance between danger, making you feel so good that it becomes harder to hide. His next hand plays with your clit, overstimulating you and calling a fire to your body.

You pant in short breaths of air, choking on your moans as your eyes begin to water. Oh, how bad you want to let out a sound, but Nanami silences you with the deep dive of his tongue. Your second orgasm is wetter, splashing onto the both of you and opening a line of questions from the cleaners that he’ll only ignore and rush them to do their jobs. Your moans and whines are muffled out against his lips, feeling how your chest presses into him and your body spasms. There’s a discomfort to wet clothes, but he ignores it for the sake of you and what you want. He pulls away, his hot breath dancing against your skin as he pants. “Have you changed your mind yet?”

And somewhere in that foggy mind of yours, you still manage to shake your head, your defiance still holding on strong despite the vulnerable predicament you’re in. But, who is he to complain? It’s one of the reasons why he loves you so much.

When his fingers are unsheathed from you, he has to have a taste, sucking in your juices and never finding himself disappointed with your natural essence. It’s then that he’s reminded of his own wants, feeling how painstakingly hard he is under his pants, and for once feeling such a strong urge to indulge in himself. He can see it in your eyes, you slowly coming back to reality as your breathing steadies, but your pupils still swirl with lust as he feels the perpetrator for this. Your hand against his erection, you rub at it with greedy need, a silent plea for him to be inside you.

Nanami’s a fulfilling man, always checking up on you, always making sure that he’s not making his job difficult, and always making sure that he’s filling you up when he’s got you in whatever position. With your back into the comfort of the mattress, your head pressed into the pillows, and your knees pressed into your chest as well, Nanami’s sure to make sure he fulfills his duty in making sure you’re well taken care of. Bed legs steady into the carpeted ground, when he presses into you, the sound of creaking very low, it’s this that he’s the most careful with. Yet, still making sure he’s done a satisfactory job in giving you what he wants.

Pulling at his blonde locks as you hide your face in his shoulders, you conceal your sounds into the crevice of his neck as your tears kiss his skin. He whispers, “I know, I know,” when he truthfully wants to apologize for having to hide you away. Why couldn’t you have met him prior to this job and shown him what love was about before being inaugurated into the White House? With a beauty like you and a mouth like yours, he was sure you would have called out to his soul then. Now, he yearns for more the same as you do, but even with all this power, he knows he’s got limited options.

“Kento,” you whisper into his shoulders, your pussy holding him in a visceral grip. He can feel himself twitch, his orgasm coming to follow in suit of yours.

“C’mon, love,” he egged you on. It was just the words you needed to cum once more, your hands shaking as your grip on him weakened. Your releases became one with each other, mixed in together as the both of you took a moment to recuperate. He could feel your heartbeat against his chest and you snuggled into him a little bit longer before you finally mustered up the strength to sit up. You searched for each article of clothing while something was nagging Nanami in the back of his mind.

“I was thinking of not going for another term,” Nanami knew better than to let you know this piece of information. He knew that you would talk him out of it, but he wanted to be honest with you, because that’s what relationships were about— honesty and so much more.

In a flash, nearly raising your voice, you cry out, “What? What— Why?”

“It’s pointless being here if I can’t be with you,” Nanami speaks candidly.

“Kento,” he didn’t like the tone you’d taken his voice in. You were half dressed, just needed to fix your blouse. “You didn’t become president to fall in love. You see, this is why I said no in the first place. We’ve gotten ourselves too wrapped up into this.”

“And I don’t regret it one bit,” he grabs your wrist, pulling you down to the edge of the bed. “I’ve done my major part and set my policies. The people are happy. I’ll be happy not going for a second term.”

“But, there’s still so much you can do,” you speak with so much passion. “There’s still so much I can see you doing. Yes, the people love you. That’s why you should keep on going.”

Nanami shook his head, and you could tell that he still needed some more convincing. No worries, because you started conjuring up a speech to give him for the very next day. Slipping off the bed, you kiss his cheek. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. Good night.”

He sighs, knowing that you’d react this way. “Good night, love.”

When you had made your way through the tunnels and back to your office, Shoko was waiting by your office door. Right as you were about to call her name, making sure she didn’t see exactly where you came from, she turns around and bumps into you.

“Oh, Shoko—”

“Ah!” Steadying the girl, you look at her sheepishly.

“Sorry,” you apologize. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Miss (Y/L/N),” she looks behind you, trying to decipher exactly where you came from. “Where were you? I’ve been looking everywhere.”

“Oh, I had just come from the bathroom,” you pointed back, thankful that there was one conveniently behind you. “Did you knock? I mustn’t have heard…”

Shoko gives you a once over, taking notice of your disheveled state, but making no effort to question it any further. “That’s fine. I just came to drop these off. This week’s reports on our total spending and how much stuff we used.”

“Thank you,” you take from her. Quickly, you throw your farewells to each other, Shoko lingering on longer than needed as you enter your office, but never outright saying anything. You let out a yawn, stretching out and your chest causing your shirt to rise, showing the misaligned buttons to protrude. You should’ve gone straight home, but before you called it a night, you overlooked the paper the head chef had given you, never anticipating what she would do.

“I had eventually convinced him to run for a second term, and he won,” you roll your eyes, stating the obvious. “But things fell shortly after when that article dropped, of course. Nanami came under fire for it, but there was no hard evidence of our relationship, it was pure luck that it never went to court. It should have, but we’re not getting into that conversation.”

Flashing your hand, to dismiss that can of worms, you sigh before continuing, “I felt so guilty for nearly tarnishing his career, but he assured me that everything would be fine. He ended up resigning in the end. He wanted me to follow him, but he knew that if I did, it would just confirm our relationship— what we are. And he knew that I loved my job. I loved being chief usher.”

“Then, why’d you quit so soon?” It had been confirmed that two years after Nanami’s resignation, you followed in it. It sparked another story, this one short-lived as people could only speculate. While the two of you had been a hot topic, press during the time didn’t run heavy. People could only skepticize that Nanami paid someone to have it that way.

“I loved being chief usher, but I don’t like a conniving bitch,” you pointed out. “Figured out who ratted us out— the head chef! She said she needed the extra money and she knew a journalist who made a hefty pay. It’s a shame because I liked her, but after that whole fiasco, she made my job a lot harder and it didn’t feel the same anymore. Looking back at it now, I was a bit naive to think that things would’ve run smoothly.”

While you said that this story would hopefully answer all of the questions they had, they didn’t. Truthfully, both Nobara and Yuuji’s minds were rattling with questions, wanting more answers. Nobara leaned closer to you, chest rising and falling in excitement. “Is it true that Nanami left you a lump sum of money before his passing?”

“Is it true that Nanami left me money—” You snorted, trying to contain your laughter. You thought this story was obvious enough to know where yours and Nanami’s relationship led to. Guess you have to spell everything out for this younger generation. “Baby, of course, he did. He’s my husband.”

Yuuji and Nobara’s jaw drops. They should have seen it coming, but they thought because of the lack of new information in the media coverage revolving around you and Nanami, there was no way that the two of you could be married. How did the two of you manage to cover so much up? Yes, the former president had so much power, but how could this have stayed in the dark for so long? You chuckled at their expressions. “It was hard keeping that under wraps, but we did. It was more so Nanami’s doing, of course.

“We planned on confirming everything sooner, when he was still here. He wanted to do it over a big baby reveal, but it turned out I was infertile and that killed that plan.”

Nobara reaches out her hand, placing it on yours. She whispers, “I’m sorry…”

You manage to conceal your look of despair quickly, fanning off the piece of information like it was nothing. “It’s fine, dear. I’ve long gotten over that. We realized that if we publicized our marriage, it would only lead to more public curiosity. While he was always going to be stuck in the limelight, it was nice having our story be some sort of mystery, you know?

“Though,” you jutted your bottom lip out. “It really wasn’t a mystery, but it sure did get under people’s skin that we neither confirmed nor denied it after all this time.”

“Why now though? Why after all this time?” Yuuji asks.

“Because I’m gonna die soon,” you explain bluntly, watching the journalists blink. “Oh, don’t be so dramatic! I’m old and we all die! The Earth’s gonna have me six feet under anytime now.

“Utahime!” you call. “I’m feeling peckish. Are you two hungry again? I can have Utahime fix us something very quick.”

The two of them decline your offer as you ask Utahime to make you a light lunch. Nobara knits her eyebrows together, tapping her pen against the notepad in a light rhythm. “Why’d you choose us specifically? Wouldn’t you have liked someone more professional and experienced to document this?”

“Because you’re both so young,” you smile. “When it was Nanami’s term, you lot were probably in middle school. I didn’t need any veterans telling my story. Theirs are boring, you young children got a certain spunk I like and I trust you’ll do my story some justice.”

This sparks a newfound pride in Nobara and Yuuji, making them feel like they’re at least doing something right in this career. “After all, I’m paying you guys a good $50,000 each!”

After asking you more questions and both of them actually taking up that offer to be fed some more, Nobara and Yuuji finally call it to an end. When they stand from the dining area, they feel lighter, a sense of clarity washing over them as they look at each. They had never agreed on how to approach a story, always finding a way to bicker about A, B and C. However, on this story that you were so willing to share, they silently agree on just how to approach things.

Like a good host, you bid them a farewell on their way out.

“It was nice meeting you,” Yuuji grins. Nobara nods in agreement.

“It was nice meeting you both,” you chuckle. “Feel free to stop anytime y’all want. It’s getting lonely with just me and Utahime all the time.”

They take you up on that offer, having to note down your address for later reference. Yuuji decides to go ahead, leaving Nobara alone to linger on a bit longer. You figure that she still has more to ask, so you wait.

“Can I be honest?” Nobara asks. You’ve quickly become a blueprint for how things should look for her love life, making her yearn for a relationship like yours. “I really hope to meet someone that makes me smile the way Nanami makes you. Your story’s the closest we’ve got to a real life fairytale in this country.”

You laugh at her comparison, your hand falling to Nobara’s shoulder as you grip it gently. “Dear, I’m sure you’ll find it. You’ve got a spark in you that reminds me of myself. If I was able to snag the president’s attention, I’m sure you’ll find someone that’s equally fulfilling.”

Nobara finally gives her goodbyes, heading to the car and jumping inside. With Yuuji driving this time, she rushes him. “Hurry up! I wanna get back and get started.”

“Alright, alright,” he huffs. “You were the one who took the extra minute to talk to her.”

“Shut up,” Nobara sneers, hearing the engine rev as Yuuji starts pulling out the driveway. When Nobara and Yuuji glance back at the entrance, you’re still there, watching them pull out safely. With a last wave goodbye, the journalists head back to their merry ways.

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THE TRUTH ABOUT FORMER PRESIDENT, NANAMI KENTO, AND FORMER CHIEF USHER’S, [YOUR FULL NAME], RELATIONSHIP

By Kugisaki Nobara and Itadori Yuuji | Jujutsu Kaisen Press | [Insert Date] | [Insert Time]

On March 25, 2025 at approximately 1:04 p.m., an article had been released exposing a relationship that the nation saw coming, President Nanami Kento was in a secret relationship with his chief usher, [your full name]. It shocked the nation as people always questioned why a man like him wasn’t taken. Ever since the reveal of such intimate details being revealed, the nation and global sources all wanted to pitch in their two senses. However, despite the unconsented release of information from an anonymous tip, (or the former head chef at the time), President Nanami denied all claims of their relationship even happening.

We all knew that was a lie!

And we’re here to confirm that it was, in fact, a lie as the former chief usher, [your full name], has trusted us to report more intimate details of their relationship with the late president. You see, if it wasn’t love-at-first-sight like the initial story claimed it to be. No, it was more so… nuisances to lovers! Read more…

─────

“Kugisaki, Itadori.” A shaggy headed boy calls for their attention. Standing there, Fushiguro Megumi, stands there with his typical nonchalant expression. He points to his left, “Mei Mei wants to speak with the both of you.”

With their desks seated right next to each other, they both nod and head towards the pointed direction. They walk in silence, believing it was just another article they’d be assigned to cover when they entered the personal office. Yuuji knocks before being called in, the door creaking when opened. Mei Mei doesn’t look up, just telling the two of them to sit as she clicks away at the computer screen, multitasking.

“I’m very proud of you both for covering the former chief usher’s article,” Mei Mei praises all the while never looking at the two rookie journalists. “We got a lot of positive reviews about your writing. And while I don’t doubt that you two are a very talented pair, I still wonder why she chose the two of you.”

Finally does Mei Mei look at the two of them, eyes narrowing down in question. There’s a line of silence that’s suffocating, having the young adults shrug in question. Mei Mei sighs, pulling out two envelopes. “These were addressed to specifically go to you. A young woman with a scar across her face. Was really adamant on handing it to the two of you specifically, but you guys weren’t in. She reluctantly handed them to me after some persuasion.”

Mei Mei holds the envelopes within their reach, watching as they’re about to grab it before sliding her hand back. “I was this close to opening it myself, but I have integrity. Do you guys know what it could be?”

Truthfully, the two journalists had forgotten about your money-led promise, both shrugging their shoulders with honesty when they claimed that they didn't know what could be in the envelopes. Mei Mei knew the two idiots well enough to know when they were lying, utterly disappointed to see no crack in their facades. Giving up, she shoves the envelopes in their direction. She has a hunch on what they could be, but hoping that they’d both tell for themselves. Carefully opening the envelopes, Nobara and Yuuji are greeted with the pretty coverings of a card. Both saying ‘Thank You,’ they flip it open. Their eyes flash straight towards the black-ink inscribed into the cardstock paper, reading the heartfelt message left by you. At the end of the note, you ask them to be sure to visit soon.

It isn’t until they look to the right of the card, a check made out in their name with the promised $50,000 each. It takes everything in Yuuji to hold himself together, but Nobara lets out a gasp. Mei Mei leans into her seat, “What? What is it?”

“No!” Nobara bursts, standing up quickly to run away from the impending interrogation.

“Is it money?” Mei Mei asks, shooting her head towards Yuuji. Eyes widening, he stands up as he immediately shakes his head ‘no,’ heading straight for the door.

“I think Nobara and I are gonna take our lunch breaks early,” he says, his voice surprisingly holding up together before he dashes out of the office completely. Jumping to her feet, Mei Mei’s quick to chase after them, prompting Yuuji to grab a hold of Nobara’s arm once he catches up to her. They can hear their name being called as they make a run for it, running by their desks to grab their stuff and head right for the door. Nobara throws her keys to Yuuji, “You’re driving! You go faster!”

No need to debate, Yuuji hops into the driver’s seat as Nobara simultaneously gets in on the passenger side. When the engine revs, Mei Mei finally catches up. They can hear her shout, “Wait! How much did they give you? Tell me! I just want to know!”

When he backs out of the space, Mei Mei shouts, “You’re both fired if you drive away! You’ll be blacklisted from any other companies, too!”

Speeding down the street, Yuuji and Nobara are quick to call her bluff. Thirty minutes later, a message from Mei Mei: I’ve got another article I want you both to cover.

#nanami kento x reader #nanami x reader #jjk x reader #nanami kento smut #nanami smut #jjk smut #nanami x you #nanami kento x you #jjk fluff #jjk x you #nanami kento fluff #nanami fluff

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torturedtypewritersdept · 1 day ago

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omg baby an idea for dr rafe came up to me at work and i'm shksjcnd!!!! okay hear me out<33 reader is at work waitressing and for the last couple days she had that strange stomachache but she didn't really care about it when it suddenly hits her at work (it turns out to be an appendix) and she ends up in the hospital and when rafe sees her at the ER all the flashbacks comes back to him but he tries his best to stay calm to take care of her and be there for her 🤍

BABE <3 NOT ME WANTING TO GET HOME ALL DAY TO WRITE THIS!!!!!!!!!!!! HOPE YOU ENJOY, MY LOVE!

The ER doors burst open with a gust of hot air and urgent voices.

The emergency department was loud with the usual noise—overhead pages, squeaking gurney wheels, a child crying somewhere in the pediatric hallway—but Rafe barely registered any of it. His shift was rounding the corner of hour fifteen, and his spine was curved with exhaustion, the tendons in his shoulder aching from an earlier reduction. He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t sat down. And he sure as hell wasn’t in the mood for small talk.

He was halfway through charting when he heard the commotion.

“Twenty-five-year-old female—acute abdominal pain, febrile, suspected ruptured appendix. Transport was delayed due to emesis and instability—possible septic onset.”

Rafe didn’t even look up at first. The words meant something clinical, standard—he'd heard a thousand variations of them over his years. But then a nurse muttered your name.

And the pen slipped from his hand.

His chair scraped violently against the floor as he stood, already moving, already knowing.

You.

Not a patient. Not a stranger.

His wife.

You—who had just started teaching again, your sweet voice now filtering into the corners of your shared home as you led virtual classes from the kitchen table in oversized sweaters and soft joggers, hair pinned up with one of his old surgical caps. You—who had fought through months of agony and immobility after the accident that nearly took your life. You—who now called him baby when you were half-asleep and Rafe when you were afraid.

He caught a glimpse of you on the gurney and it nearly buckled his knees.

You were curled in on yourself, one hand clutching your lower abdomen, the soft blue knit of your teaching sweater soaked with sweat. Your glasses were crooked. There were tears on your cheeks and vomit crusted near your collar. Your laptop bag had been hastily tossed onto the floor beside the EMT, as if you’d collapsed mid-lesson and someone had simply tried to gather your life in one arm before rushing you here.

His stomach dropped.

It was the accident all over again.

That night; The blood in your hair. The way your body seized in his arms, arching as your heart gave out. The weeks spent hovering between here and gone. The breathless nights where he held you through the pain, praying you'd come back. The memory ripped through him like a blade.

And now—this.

You whimpered as they adjusted your IV. The pain was eating you alive.

Rafe forced himself forward, teeth clenched so tightly his jaw ached. He reached your side, brushing the damp hair from your temple, thumb ghosting across your cheek.

“I’m here,” he whispered, voice thick, steadying himself for you even as his knees trembled beneath the weight of it all. “You’re okay, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Your eyes fluttered open—barely. But you found him. You always did.

“Hurts,” you whimpered, and Rafe swallowed hard, nodding.

“I know. Appendix ruptured—we’re going to surgery. I’ll be right there the whole time.”

You groaned, curling tighter, your knees drawn toward your chest.

“S-sorry,” you gasped.

That shattered him. Sorry—like you had done something wrong by hurting. Like your body failing was somehow a burden.

“Hey. No,” he said, firmer now, his forehead pressing to yours. “None of that. You’re going to be okay. We’re going to get through this.”

He glanced at the monitors. Your vitals were slipping—blood pressure bottoming out, heart rate climbing fast. Sepsis was setting in. Fast.

“She’s crashing!” a nurse called out.

And just like that, it was happening again. Too fast. Too much.

He was on the gurney, straddling your body, the curve of your hip digging into his thigh as he began compressions, his palms pressing down hard into the center of your chest. His wedding ring clinked against your sternum with every thrust. He didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

“Come on, baby. Stay with me. Stay.”

He could barely see. Everything blurred—tears or sweat, he couldn’t tell. All he knew was that this was you, his wife, the woman he loved more than life itself, slipping away beneath his hands.

“Not again, please, don't leave me.” he whispered, his voice ragged, haunted. “Not again. Not today.”

They wheeled the two of you into the OR, your body beneath him, your life cracking open all over again—and Rafe holding it in his blood-stained hands, determined not to lose it.

Not to lose you.

The ICU was quiet in the way grief is quiet—dim lights humming, machines breathing in rhythm where lungs couldn’t. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeped in slow intervals. A nurse whispered something behind the glass. But in room 3B, time had slowed to a crawl.

You were lying in the center of it, pale against the white sheets, your body still trembling beneath the weight of what it had survived. A nasal cannula curled into your nose, pushing oxygen through your system one soft stream at a time. Your wedding ring had been taped to your finger by the nurse after surgery, just beneath the IV port, and your sweater—now bloodstained and cut down the center—had been placed in a biohazard bag outside the room.

The surgery had gone well.

The appendix had ruptured. They’d caught it just in time.

But your body… your beautiful, bruised, stubborn body had gone into shock, and it had taken longer than expected to stabilize your heart rate again. The code Rafe called had been the third of his career—and the second on you.

He hadn’t left your bedside since.

Still in his scrubs—now stained and wrinkled, the collar stretched from where he’d yanked at it in the OR—Rafe sat in the chair beside you, hunched over your arm like a man at the altar of something holy. His head was bowed, eyes closed, fingers loosely wrapped around yours. A bag of saline dripped slowly into your arm above him, its quiet rhythm the only metronome in the room.

He hadn’t spoken in hours. He didn’t need to.

Because in the silence, he was remembering—every word you’d said before the pain took over, every look, every apology you’d never needed to make. The memory of your eyes—glassy and searching for him—burned behind his own. The way your body jerked beneath him as he’d done compressions. The way your lips had parted, trying to say something, anything, before your consciousness gave out.

And he’d been afraid. God, he’d been so afraid.

More than the night of the accident. More than the first time you coded. Because this time you had his last name. You were his. And the idea of living without you—again—was something he couldn’t survive a second time.

“Please wake up, honey,” he whispered, forehead pressing gently to your arm. “You’re okay now. You made it through. Just wake up.”

And as if your soul heard him across whatever threshold it had wandered toward—your fingers twitched.

Barely.

A tremble in the space between sleep and wake.

His eyes snapped up. Your lips parted on a dry breath, eyelashes fluttering.

“Hey,” he breathed, rising to hover over you, his hand moving to your cheek, thumb brushing a smudge of iodine from your skin. “Hey, baby. I’m here.”

You blinked at him, slow and heavy, eyes glazed with pain and confusion.

“Rafe?”

“Yeah. I’ve got you.”

Your brow creased slightly. “It hurts.”

“I know.” His voice cracked. “It’s over now. They got everything. You’re gonna be okay.”

You made a small sound, barely audible, and tears immediately welled in his eyes. He pressed a kiss to your temple, hand cradling the side of your head.

“Shh. Don’t talk yet, just rest. You’re in the ICU. They’ve got you on fluids and antibiotics. I’m staying right here.”

“Did I die?”

“No.” He swallowed, his throat burning. “No, baby. You lived. You fought through again. You’re the strongest goddamn woman I’ve ever seen.”

You smiled faintly—just a flicker of it—and he swore the sun broke through the hospital window when you did.

“I didn’t even get to finish teaching,” you rasped.

A broken laugh left his chest. “Your students can wait. I’m the one who needs you now.”

You squeezed his hand, feeble but real. And he held it like a lifeline, like a promise. Because it was.

He wasn't going anywhere. Not tonight. Not ever.

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tacoguacamole · 22 hours ago

Text

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 4

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Chapter Word Count: 8k+]

[Note: Several time jumps. OC is finally getting back at him. Somehow. Bringing in Hobi and Jimin! I know there are a lot of unanswered questions but I promise it'll all make sense later. What do you think is going to happen to JK? How about OC? Let me know. Keep dropping your comments and theories. I love reading them! 💜

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The soft drizzle falls around you, the light mist catching the edges of your blazer and the hem of your skirt. You pull the collar up a little higher, the cool air a contrast to the warmth of the house you’d just left behind.

Behind you, your mother’s voice calls out, reminding to take your car keys and drive carefully. You turn back, offering a quick smile, but shake your head. No need for the car today. Not when the rain feels just right, and the familiar walk to the store is all you need.

The streets shine faintly from the rain, puddles holding broken reflections of streetlights and neon signs. A bus rumbles by, sending a damp breeze that smells of wet pavement and far-off fried food. Somewhere close, a bike chain rattles, and a quiet laughter drifts from an alley.

Jeongguk’s already waiting by the convenience store, umbrella tilted enough to keep the rain off his shoulders. The pavement’s slick, but he stands like he’s been there a while—shirt crisp, slacks pressed, shoes untouched by the puddles gathering near the curb.

“Did you walk?” No ‘hi’s or ‘hello’s’, he greets you with a questioning look.

“Unless I was dumb enough to drive with the sunroof open in this weather, then sure.” You say, wiping your face with the cuffs of your blazer like it would make a difference.

“You’ll get sick.” Before you can even react, he pulls you under his umbrella, arm around your shoulders like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Should’ve taken your car,” he mutters, and you almost miss the small, teasing glint in his eyes, “Or at least a raincoat, genius.”

“That would’ve ruined my outfit.”

“And it isn’t already?”

“Was aiming for that dramatic, soaked-to-the-bone, movie scene vibe—like something straight out of one of your old short films.” Jeongguk doesn’t laugh. Only tightens his grip a little on your shoulder.

“Let’s go inside before you turn into a puddle,” he says, almost quietly, as he begins steering you toward the convenience store.

It’s a familiar chaos inside – the old freezer rattling in the back, faded posters on the walls, narrow aisles that make you stand too close. You both slip into the old routine without thinking — wandering to the snack shelves, fingers brushing when you grab the same bag of chips, quietly arguing over ramen flavors in front of the shelves.

“Seafood again?” he murmurs when you toss two packs into the basket. “That’s gross.”

“You have gross taste.”

“I married you. You’re far from gross.”

You blink, a little thrown off, and for a second, you forget about the ramen in your hands. The playful remark catches in your throat, his words hanging in the air longer than they should.

“Going to get coffee. Put some ice-cream in that basket, will you?” You avoid his gaze. “And none of that mint choco shit, please.” Walking away, you hoped he doesn’t catch the way your heartbeat’s just a little bit faster.

Jeongguk snorts under his breath. Reaches for his usual spicy pick. Pauses over the pack. Sets it back quietly. Picks up the same flavor as yours instead.

The soft hum of the store surrounds you as you both sit by the window, ramen cups warming your hands. The rain taps against the glass in a steady rhythm that blends with the quiet between you. You take your time with each bite, the steam rising gently, mixing with the faint scent of the store’s dim lighting.

Every so often, a laugh escapes—when Jeongguk almost loses a fishcake or mutters under his breath about the heat of a bite still too much for him.

He blows on another spoonful, glancing around. “You could’ve picked anywhere,” he says, not quite looking at you. “Why here?”

You shrug, spoon tapping lightly against the rim of your cup. “Felt like ramen.”

“There’s a million places for ramen.”

You take a slow sip of broth, eyes fixed on the rain sliding down the window. “Yeah, but not all of them have that loud freezer in the back,” you say, nodding toward the buzzing from behind. “Music to my ears.”

Jeongguk huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Right. Music.”

You nudge his foot with yours under the table. “Don’t act like you didn’t miss the suspiciously sticky floor.”

He smiles. Doesn’t say anything else.

The conversation wanders, light and easy. You complain about your mother’s terrible playlist from earlier at the house; he tells you about a messy photoshoot he has to redo with a rookie group who kept striking anime poses. The laughter between you softens.

Across from you, Jeongguk leans back a little, his shoulders no longer drawn so tight, and for a moment, everything feels a little lighter.

In between bites of ice cream, you catch him looking – nothing grand, just quick glances when you’re busy wrestling with a stubborn scoop. His eyes follow the way your brows pinch in concentration, the smudge of vanilla clinging to your chin.

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything. Just wipes the mess off you, goes right back to his own cup. You keep your eyes on your ice cream, but your next bite comes a little slower.

The cups end up stacked between you, half-melted, sticky around the edges. Neither of you says much as you stand, wiping your hands on stray napkins, and straightening your clothes as if it was another routine.

By the door, the rain is still coming down—not hard, but enough. You hesitate, eyeing the gray outside, the sidewalk gleaming wet. The cold’s starting to get to you, starts seeping into your bones but there’s no regret with your choices this morning. Just thoughts on how you were going to get to work.

Jeongguk shifts beside you, umbrella already in hand. “I’ll drive you.”

You shake your head, pulling your blazer a little tighter. “I’m good. It’s not far.”

The air outside feels lighter than it should, like the morning forgot to wear its usual weight — and maybe that’s why you’d rather walk.

He doesn’t argue. Just presses the umbrella into your hand and steps back. You glance down at it, then back at him, brows raised.

“No gifts,” you remind him of the list that’s been dangling around, messing with reality.

“It’s just an umbrella. I’ll get it some other time,” He’s already turning toward his own way. “Just—don’t do the dramatic rain scene again. Once was enough.”

You smile, barely. “No promises.”

The office buzzes with its usual tension—the kind that builds before a storm of deadlines. Fashion week team is about to leave, and it feels like you're nowhere near ready to give them what they need. You’re starting to regret asking your mother to let you focus on this last project instead of the rest of the pending things needed to be taken care of. You've been stuck at your desk for hours, scrolling through model updates, fabric delays, and endless revision requests.

The conversations outside your office, the clatter of keyboards near the desks nearby, fades just enough for your eyes to drift to the black umbrella leaning against the corner of the room. It leaves a brief comfort in your chest amidst the office chaos but you quickly push the thought away before focusing back to the never-ending tasks on the table.

Mark’s voice cuts through the noise like caffeine. “Are you planning to blink today or should I hire a personal assistant to turn your head every few hours?”

You roll your eyes, tapping at your tablet. “If you bring me one more intern who can’t tell crepe from chiffon, I’m replacing you with AI.”

“Please. Even an algorithm wouldn’t put up with your mood swings,” he mutters before sliding into the seat across from you. He barely gets comfortable before he squints at you. “You walk here or swim?”

You don’t look up. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Sure. And I’m Miss Korea.” He leans back, head tilting slightly. “You’ve got that look—like one of those soaked leads in a drama who says they’re fine five minutes before fainting in the street.”

You finally glance at him, unimpressed. “I’m not going to faint.”

“Yet,” he adds, already pulling a file from your side of the desk like he’s about to manage your life himself. “Next time, toss on an extra coat. Or maybe wear a waterproof personality.”

You try not to smile, focus snapping back to your screen.

Mark flips through a few pages, then mutters like an afterthought, “Can’t even pick on you properly when you look like a sad dumpling.”

The hours stack on top of each other. Your inbox keeps refilling no matter how fast you clear it, and the tablet screen glares back like it’s judging your posture. Every time you blink, there’s a new message, a change in schedule, a missing sample no one can seem to track down. The morning calm feels like a different lifetime.

At some point, Mark slides a protein bar your way without looking up from the papers scattered. “If you pass out now, I’m not carrying you. My back’s already had enough this week.”

“For the hundredth time, no one’s passing out.” You huffed. “And don’t blame me for your old bones.”

“Take that back.”

You don’t.

Mark doesn’t say much after, just stands and disappears for a while—something about checking prints downstairs, or maybe he never said at all. You’re too deep into revisions to notice until his chair squeaks again.

Not long after, the office door creaks open. You don’t look up at first, expecting another intern with bad timing and worse questions. But then a voice breaks through the static in your head.

“You still squint at the screen like that? Thought Mark Hyung would’ve bought you glasses by now,” comes the familiar lilt.

Another joins in, teasing and warm, “She only listens to lectures if they’re wrapped in a compliment.”

You blink. And there they are—Hobi and Jimin. Hobi looks like he stepped out of a launch party, and Jimin, hoodie up, cap low, like he’s dodging both fans and responsibility. One of them’s already holding a takeout bag, the scent of something greasy and fried curling through the air like a bribe.

Jimin raises an eyebrow. “You eat today or just survive on sarcasm and spite?”

Hobi grins, leaning his elbows on your desk like he’s got all the time in the world. “Someone said you needed rescuing. And voilà, the rescue party has arrived.”

Jimin plops down in the chair beside him, pulling his cap a little higher. “Not like we needed the call. But if we didn’t show up today, you’d probably talk to your fabric suppliers till later and not even squeeze in a call to deliver bread at least.”

You snort, setting your tablet down with a sigh. “If I had known I was going to get a course on how to stay on track today, I should’ve left the office, gone to the mountains for a hike.”

Jimin raises a brow. “Bold of you to assume we wouldn’t follow.”

“You’d get lost halfway up and complain about not having Wi-Fi,” you mutter, but the corner of your mouth is already lifting.

The smell of fried chicken and bulgogi fills the office as the five of you settle into the small lounge area. The takeout containers are spread out like a battlefield, half of them already picked through, the other half still piping hot.

Hobi leans back in his chair, balancing a bottle of soda between his hands. “I still think you should let me do a rebrand on your office look. Maybe a neon sign with your name in it. Just to hype this place up.”

You roll your eyes, feeling a laugh bubbling up. “A neon sign in this place will make my company look like a club instead of a luxury fashion line.”

Hobi’s grin widens. “Man, I miss clubbing. Like an actual party where I don’t have an earpiece with staff panicking and asking what comes next.”

You shake your head, chuckling despite yourself. “You and your partying ass. Get over it.”

Jimin, who’s been quietly observing the banter, leans in with a teasing smile. “It’s not that bad. Though I bet Hobi Hyung would love an excuse to throw a real party here. We could call it ‘Fashion Week: The After-Party Edition.’”

You raise an eyebrow at him. “Don’t encourage him.”

Hobi shrugs innocently. “What? A little bit of fun never hurt anyone.”

You laugh, finally feeling like yourself again.

Jimin’s expression turns a little more serious. “It’s been a while since we caught up. Really caught up, you know?” He’s smiling, but there’s a quiet edge behind his words. “You good?”

You shift in your seat, avoiding his gaze for just a moment. “I’m fine,” you say, a little too quickly. “Just... busy.”

Hobi isn’t having it, though. Leans forward, narrows his eyes at you. “You sure? Because from where I’m sitting, you look like a walk-in freezer that’s been running on empty. I don’t know what’s worse—watching you survive on coffee or seeing you avoid the topic every time someone asks.”

Mark shifts, his gaze flicking between you and Hobi, before cutting in lightly, “Hobi’s just mad because he doesn’t get to plan your next ‘catch-up’ event. But yeah... ‘fine’ is not the word I’d use.”

Jimin sighs, a little quieter now. “You’ve been through a lot. If you want to talk about it—”

You shake your head, a half-hearted smile trying to escape. “It’s nothing. Just work and... you know other stuff.”

Hobi watches you closely, the corner of his mouth twitching in a subtle frown. “I get it, you’ve got a lot on your plate. But... seriously, how are you holding up? Other than—” you give him a look that makes him stop. “Jeongguk, how are things with Jeongguk?”

Your lips part, but nothing lands right away. “We’re... civil.” It’s all you say.

You don’t mention how you’ve been pretending to be fine with how things are, even when it’s harder than it should be. You don’t mention how you’ve offered yourself to your soon to be ex-husband’s shoulder to cry on when he shares his troubles with the woman, he’s replaced you with. You don’t mention how you sometimes catch yourself wanting to ask him things you shouldn’t.

“Civil,” Jimin echoes, unconvinced, breaking the silence.

“He’s civil. I’m civil. He’s keeping to the terms.”

“Civil’s overrated. Bare minimum” Hobi crosses his arms, drifting his attention to the office windows. “He’s still fucking married to you. Supposed to be giving you these things without it being printed on some damn paper. You don’t have to play nice for anyone.”

You stiffen slightly but keep your expression neutral. “It’s complicated, Hobi.”

Hobi raises an eyebrow, not backing down. “That’s your polite way of saying you’re letting someone walk all over you?”

Before you can respond, Jimin cuts in gently, giving Hobi a warning glance. “Take it easy.”

Hobi leans back, giving a mock sigh. “Told you from the beginning, I never liked that list.”

You smile faintly. “You also said we were the couple that’d never fall apart.”

“I still lose sleep over my wedding pep talk for you.”

“Loved that pep talk. Probably would’ve run away if it weren’t for that.”

“Good,” Hobi replies dryly. “You should’ve.”

Jimin shakes his head with a half-smile. “Hyung, let it go. Jeongguk’s important to her, she loves him and that means we have to tolerate him.”

Mark, who’s been pretending to focus on sorting samples, chimes in. “As long as he doesn’t mess with her deadlines, I don’t care who she loves.”

You snort, grateful for the shift. “Touching.”

“I try,” he deadpans, then sets a fabric swatch book down with a soft thud. “Now, if you three are done reliving heartbreak, someone needs to sort these model cards before I start mixing up shoe sizes with waistlines.”

Hobi stretches with a groan but grabs a stack anyway. “Alright, boss man. But I’m only helping if you admit I make this office look good.”

“You’re literally in a hoodie,” Mark replies.

“It’s Louis,” Hobi grins, already flipping through cards.

Jimin moves beside you, peeking at your tablet. “I’ll take over this round of approvals. You look like you’ve forgotten how to breathe again.”

You don’t argue. Instead, you lean back, letting them fall into your chaos like they’ve always known how. For the first time that day, the weight on your shoulders feels a little lighter.

The sounds of clicking keyboards and soft rustles of fabrics fills your office. Hobi’s made himself at home by the mood board, offering unasked-for commentary on color pairings while Jimin plays assistant, flipping through lookbooks with exaggerated seriousness.

“Please tell me this model isn’t walking the finale in suede,” Jimin mutters, squinting at a printout.

“She’s not,” Mark replies dryly. “Unless you’re volunteering to carry her down the runway when she slips.”

“Depends—do I get a signature Seora tux?”

You just listen, fingers moving slower over the tablet screen. Hobi's voice floats nearby, filling the room with something lighter than what usually hangs in the air. Even Mark’s tension has eased.

Your phone buzzes once, face down beside the tablet. Absentmindedly, you flip it over.

An Instagram story—Jeongguk’s username in soft gray at the top.

You tap before you can think. It’s a video, no more than five seconds. A woman in the passenger seat, laughing at something, her voice muffled by the hum of the road. The camera shifts slightly—Jeongguk must be holding it—then settles on her smile. The caption reads nothing but a small white heart.

The video ends. The screen stays still in your hand. Something in you stills with it—like a thread pulled too tight.

Around you, the others are still talking, still moving. Jimin’s flipping through a file, Hobi’s complaining about fluorescent lighting, Mark is reaching for the stapler.

You clear your throat, folding the tablet shut a little too gently. “We should go out.”

Jimin looks up. “Now?”

“Now,” You’re already reaching for your coat. “Need something stupid. Loud music. Tequila. Bad choices.”

Mark doesn’t move right away. “You hate drinking.”

“I hate being bored more Besides, Hobi said he misses the club.”

He squints at you, like he’s trying to see what’s beneath your voice, then shrugs. “Fine. But if you start handing out hair ties instead of cash again, I’m not pitching in for the bill.”

Hobi chokes on his drink. “You what?”

“She tipped a cab driver with pastel scrunchies once,” Mark says, deadpan. “Three of them. Said they were limited edition.”

“They were,” you mutter, grabbing your bag.

He grins. “She blinked twice and called him a national hero.”

“Did not.”

Jimin’s already pulling you toward the elevator. “Definitely something you’d do.”

By the time the city wraps itself in night, you're walking into a bar – walls pulse with bass-heavy music, sticky tabletops, all neon haze and lights smearing across floors. It smells like citrus and vodka, crowd packed in and pressed close. The music thrums deep in your chest—loud enough to make you forget why you needed to come here in the first place.

Mark secures a booth near the back, but it’s barely enough to keep the group together. Hobi’s already nodding along to the beat, shoulder-rolling with someone from another table.

Jimin returns with drinks, grinning like a thief. “Don’t ask what’s in these. Just trust me.”

You take the glass, the cold damp against your fingers. Sip, cough, and laugh—too sharp, too quick.

Mark watches you over the rim of his drink. Doesn’t say anything, just clinks his glass gently against yours, like a nudge. Like he knows.

The music’s heavy with bass pulsing through the floor and bodies moving like they’ve got nowhere else to be. You’re tucked in a booth with the others, nursing something that tastes vaguely like lime and trouble. Your cheeks are flushed from the heat, maybe the alcohol — hard to tell.

Jimin’s off in the crowd, still dancing, his shirt clinging to his back. Hobi’s yelling at the bartender about the injustice of watered-down whiskey. The chaos keeps spinning around you.

Mark returns with a bottle of water, sliding it in front of you without a word.

You give him a look. “No more fruity disasters?”

“Your face is pink, and you’re blinking like the lights are talking to you. Figured hydration might be smart.”

You crack a smile, fingers curling around the cold bottle.

“You good?” he asks, all teasing disappears in the air.

You nod, too quick. “Having fun.”

His eyes linger on you for a second longer than they should, but he doesn’t say anything else. Just leans back, letting his arm rest on the back of the booth, fingers tapping along to the beat — slow, relaxed.

“Still can’t believe you’re out drinking,” he says after a beat. “Thought you swore off alcohol after trying to tip that cab driver with your hair tie stash.”

You groan. “I thought they were coins.”

“You tried to convince him you were paying in ‘emotional value.’” He’s laughing now, full-bodied and loud, and you can’t help but laugh too.

“Still think he should’ve taken the deal.”

“Yeah, well. I think he did out of fear.”

He bumps your knee gently with his. No big deal. Just enough to remind you you’re still here — not stuck in your head or somewhere else entirely.

The tray keeps refilling, and so does the laughter. Something about the loud music, the spinning lights, and Hobi trying to choreograph a dance routine with two strangers at the bar makes everything feel distant, easier. Lighter.

You’re halfway through a very passionate explanation about why mozzarella sticks should be a food group when you decide — loudly, proudly — that it’s time to get your life together.

“Okay, okay, wait—shhh,” you hush the table like you're about to deliver breaking news. You dig through your bag like there’s treasure buried beneath the receipts and lip balm. “I need to call Jin. Like, right now. I’m making big-girl choices.”

Mark side-eyes you. “You’ve had three drinks in the past thirty minutes and tried to high-five a coat rack.”

“I meant to,” you insist, already tapping at your screen. “No more waiting. No more maybe-this, maybe-that. We’re finalizing the divorce. I’m done.”

Hobi nudges the bottle of soju away from your reach. “I vote we give it till tomorrow, when you’re not quoting Taylor Swift between shots.”

“Thought you wanted me to get rid of Ggukie?” Your cuteness usually does the trick of easing your friends. Guess mixing it with drunkenness was not as effective as you thought it’d be.

“Babe, that’s enough.” Jimin tries taking the two shots you’ve stolen from Mark but you’ve already drowned it before your thumb scrolls past half your contact list. You squint. The letters blur a little. It start’s with a ‘J’. That’s good enough. Green button. Press. Done.

It rings once.

Twice.

Then clicks.

“Hello?”

You don’t wait for confirmation.

“Jin! Listen to me. I’m ready. Let’s just finalize it. The divorce. The thing. You know. The huge emotional mess I’ve been dancing around like it’s a part-time hobby?”

There pause on the other end encourages you to go on.

“No, seriously, like—what am I even doing anymore? It’s been dragging on and on and now I’m out here at Seoul Clubhouse, in case you need to send backup—and I’ve had, like, three drinks and a fry that might’ve been someone else’s, and I’m just—tired, Jin.”

You tap your nail against your glass, looking anywhere but at your friends. “It fucking hurts. Pretending everything's okay fucking hurts.”

Hobi watches you closely. Mark pretends not to. Jimin’s stopped trying to grab the phone from you.

“Thought I was stronger than this. This was supposed to make me happy,” you mumble, softer now. “But here I am, making emotional speeches to my lawyer like a rom-com extra.”

You pause for breath, lifting the phone to say more—maybe something about closure, or freedom, or how weirdly loud the DJ’s playlist is tonight—but all you get is a click.

The call ends.

The blurry call log stares back at you, vague and impersonal. You drop your phone into your bag, reaching for another drink as Mark leans closer, steering the conversation back toward something safer.

The lights blur like streaks of color, and the bass is thudding through your shoes. You don’t even feel your legs anymore. Just warmth—in your cheeks, in your chest, maybe in your throat, too, where the last round of drinks is still trying to settle.

You’re laughing at something Jimin said, though you’re not sure what it was, and your body leans a little too far to the side. Mark catches you with a steady hand on your back. He says something, but the music swallows it whole. You don’t hear him. Just feel the steadiness of him.

Your hand finds his. Without thinking, you lace your fingers together like it's nothing. Like it’s normal.

Mark stiffens a little, glancing at you—but you don’t meet his eyes. Just leaned your head against his shoulder, letting your fingers rest there in his. He doesn’t move away. Your breath is warm against his neck, and then your hand is brushing his jaw as you lift your face. The space between you pulls thinner. You lean in—

He pulls away before your lips get too close.

"Nope," he says, half-laughing, half-sighing. "Don’t go handing out kisses like drink coupons. I’m flattered, but also not trying to get sued by future you. Plus, you're not going to be like him."

You squint up at him. "You’re no fun."

"I’m plenty fun. Just also not a complete idiot."

He smiles at you, but his eyes say something softer. Excuses himself to get more napkins from the bar before you notice anything. Or maybe you’re too far gone you’re seeing things.

Jeongguk’s not sure what made him come. Maybe it was the call. Maybe it was the silence that followed. Maybe it was your voice on the other end, slurring things he didn’t know would break him.

His eyes adjust slowly to the dim lights and flashing neon. The music hits him first—loud, messy, alive. Then he sees you.

You’re at a booth, slumped a little, smiling faintly, blinking slow. Your makeup’s a little smudged at the edges. Mark’s sits beside you, arm draped across the booth behind your shoulders. Casual, but close.

He leans in to say something near your ear and you tilt your head, eyes closing like it’s the only way to stay balanced.

Jeongguk watches from where he stands near the door, half-hidden behind a group laughing on their way out. It should be easy to walk away. You’re surrounded by friends. You look… happy. Or at least like someone trying to be.

But his jaw tightens, and something keeps his feet planted.

Hobi spots him first. There’s no welcome in his stare. Just the faintest wrinkle between his brows. A silent question. Or maybe a warning.

Jeongguk nods once, barely.

And then your eyes find him. Even through the haze, something sobers in your face.

“We’re leaving,” he says once he’s close enough. His voice cuts through the haze like a thread—steady and low.

You blink, slowly. “We are?”

“Let’s go,” he replies simply.

“I came with them.”

Jeongguk looks at the group. Hobi’s arms are crossed, unreadable. Jimin’s chewing on his lip. Mark’s the last to glance up, his jaw clenched.

“She’ll be alright,” Mark says, but it lacks conviction.

“Respectfully Hyung, fuck off.” Jeongguk says, gaze flicking toward him. “She called me. This conversation is between me and my wife.”

“She’s your wife now?”

That pulls a shift in the air. Everyone exchanges glances, and it hits you with a wave of confusion.

“I didn’t…” you trail off, brows pulling in.

“Go,” Jimin leans over, pressing his palm to your back. “You’ll feel better if you talk.”

You look back at Jeongguk. His face isn’t angry. Isn’t soft either. Just still.

Your mouth opens to argue, but Hobi already helping you stand. “Call us if anything happens.”

Jeongguk takes your coat from the booth, drapes it gently over your shoulders. The moment you step into the cold air outside, it bites at your skin, but the tension in your chest is sharper.

You’re not sure how Jeongguk’s here. How he even knew where to find you. Not sure why your friends wanted you to do this as if they knew it’s something that the two of you needed right now.

But you’re walking beside him anyway, under the streetlights, your steps unsteady but sure enough to follow.

Jeongguk drives out of the city, past the closed shops and quiet streets, until the lights thin out and the tress start replacing buildings. You don’t know where he’s taking you at first. Just know that you want to get out of the seat that was occupied not too long ago by someone you wish you never get to see in this lifetime.

But you don’t smell that awfully familiar expensive, sweet, citrus fragrance that usually made your stomach churn. Then again, you’re too drunk out of your ass to know which of your senses were functioning right at the moment.

Jeongguk parks at the edge of an overlook, an old, tucked away spot you haven’t seen in years. A place people go to when they need to escape the harsh reality.

“Used to come here,” you murmur, eyes on the city lights below. “When the world felt too loud.”

“I know,” he says, leading you to the bench that’s still around. “You brought me here once. After your first runway show. Said the noise didn’t follow you up this high.”

Dropping onto the bench, you look up to the sky. “No one ever comes here this late.”

“That’s the point, right?”

Beyond the trees, a breeze stirs the leaves, brushing through the branches like a careful whisper. A few crickets sing from the grass nearby, soft and steady, like they’re keeping a quiet rhythm for the moment. The single lamppost nearby, casts long shadows that barely move. Everything feels like it’s waiting—for what, you’re not sure.

Jeongguk observes you, like he’s trying to find something in your expression he hasn’t seen before. “Any reason you chose a night of partying instead of dinner with me?”

“Thought maybe tequila, mojitos and shots of soju would help with forgetting – better than some truffle pasta that’s not even made with real truffle. And some noodles they probably boiled in the microwave.”

“Excuse me,” Jeongguk scoffs, then chuckles under his breath, trying to ease the tension between you. “That restaurant is Italian-owned. Verified and approved by Taehyung. You know how picky he is.”

You groan, your head falling back in laughter, nearly tipping off the bench—until Jeongguk catches your arm and pulls you close to his side. “Don’t make me add another regret to tonight.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything—just keeps his arm around your shoulders, steady and quiet.

“I’m sorry you had to come here,” you whisper, hoping he hears you over the wind starting to pick up. “Sorry if I messed up your plans for tonight.”

He exhales softly. “My plan was to take this beautiful woman to a little place called Eatanic Garden,” He glances down at you, voice playful. “She was supposed to have her favorite truffle pasta and a wine that was way too expensive for what it tasted like. Maybe laugh at my awful attempt to be the next best comedian in Korea.”

You smile, eyes barely open. “Sounds like she dodged a bullet.”

“Hope she didn’t,” he says, tugging your jacket gently. “She’d love that truffle pasta.”

You don’t answer. Just stare at the city beyond you. Jeongguk looks at you then, and his voice comes softer this time. “You okay?”

You nod, too fast. “Yeah… just a little foggy. Think I said some really dumb stuff earlier.”

“Yeah?” he asks, casual—but not really. You sense there’s something behind it, just couldn’t pin point what.

Shifting closer to Jeongguk, your body instinctively leans into his chest like it’s the only stable thing in your spinning world right now. “Last I remember, I picked up the phone. Meant to call Jin…probably to yell at him about paperwork or whatever.”

Jeongguk goes still like he’s holding his breath. You’re not sure. You’re too far into your head to name it.

“Didn’t even check if I dialed the right number,” you mumble, fingers now twisting in the hem of your sleeve. “Might’ve said things I didn’t mean…”

He swallows, his voice coming quieter than before. “Remember anything you said?”

You shrug against him. “Not really. Just that feeling like I was ready to... burn something down. Start over, maybe.” You laugh, but it comes out hollow. “Bet I sounded like a mess.”

“You didn’t sound like a mess.” Jeongguk says. Shrugs off the surprised look on your face, looks away with a forced kind of ease. “I mean…I can just imagine. You’re not really the screaming type, rambling maybe, but never yelling, even drunk. Probably just another sad and dramatic episode of yours.”

You narrow your eyes at him, half-joking. “Wow. Thanks.”

“Must’ve been a weird conversation, though. For the person who picked up, I mean.”

“Yeah. Wonder if I even got through Jin.” You tried looking for your phone in your bag, eyes still clouded. Relieved you got to find it quickly. Only for Jeongguk to snatch it away from you. You frown, not expecting him to take it. “Hey—”

“Maybe don’t check it right now,” Jeongguk holds the phone just out of reach. His voice is gentle, almost coaxing. “You’ve had enough for tonight.”

You blink up at him, confused. “What? Why?”

He hesitates. “Because I don’t think you’ll like seeing the call log.”

Your stomach dips.

He doesn’t hand the phone back.

You look at him suspiciously, your senses suddenly coming together when you start to move away from him. “It was you, wasn’t it? I called you.”

Jeongguk taps against the phone once. Doesn’t answer.

The ripple in your chest feels like a shoot set has collapsed. “That’s why you’re here. Fuck, I called you. What did I say?”

He hesitates, shakes his head, thinks he can keep the truth from you. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Gguk.”

There’s a long pause but he couldn’t keep up with the way you were looking at him. “You said you were done holding on. That it was time.” His voice cracks there, so faintly you almost miss it. “You didn’t say my name. Didn’t have to.”

Silence pools around you. The wind brushes past your cheek, cold now. “I was drunk.”

“You sounded sure. Of finally letting go.”

You pause, glance at him with a tired smile. “That'd be a relief for you. Your final freedom.”

There’s a flicker in his expression—gone almost instantly, but you catch it. A tightening around the eyes. “Sure, whatever you say.”

“I’m sorry for whatever other stupid shit I said.”

His fingers twitch slightly where they still rest near yours, like they want to reach for you again but think better of it. “You said what you felt. That’s not stupid.”

You observe how composed he looks, how carefully he holds himself together. It strikes you, strangely, how calm he is right now. Or rather, how hard he’s trying to look like it.

“You’re being weird,” you mutter, resting your head against the back of the bench.

“I’m always weird,” Jeongguk says, but there’s no bite to it. Just quiet. A stillness too long between his answers. “Come on,” he says gently, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “Let’s get you home.”

The air is too warm, too still. The silk sheets tangled around your legs feel like they’re trapping heat instead of offering comfort. Light cuts through the curtains in soft gold streaks, but there’s nothing gentle about the weight pressing against your chest.

Your skin’s damp — not from sweat, but from something deeper, like your body’s been fighting a quiet war all night and lost.

Every breath feels heavier than it should. Your limbs ache, not the kind that disappears after stretching, but the kind that lingers under the surface. Dull. Faintly buzzing. Like a warning that’s easy to ignore until it isn’t.

Somewhere downstairs, you hear muffled footsteps. A door opens, closes. Then silence again. Must be your mother leaving for grocery errands. You hoped it was. Wouldn’t want her seeing you like this again.

You shift onto your side, half hoping it’ll ease the tightness in your head, but it doesn’t. Instead, it sharpens — a pulsing reminder of everything you poured into last night like it wouldn’t matter come morning.

Your phone vibrates against the nightstand. Once. Twice. You painfully reach for it. Read the messages through hazy vision.

Tuanzy 👴🏼: You alive? Or did Soju win?

🌞💛: Barely. Think I’m actually dying.

Tuanzy 👴🏼: Joke like that again, and I’m firing you.

🌞💛: Can’t fire me. I’m the boss. Just not today. Think you can handle off-site alone?

Tuanzy 👴🏼: Already on it. Sending help. Hate me next time.

You don’t argue. Don’t have the strength to. Just go back to sleep at some point before the heat becomes worse. Not from the blazing afternoon sun. No, you love those. Loved how it’s a comforting warmth on your skin. This time, it burns from the inside. Your bones feel like they’re melting and freezing at the same time.

The knock is soft when it comes. Two taps and a pause.

“Let me guess,” you mumble hoarsely. “Doctor delivery service?”

The door opens. Yoongi steps in — long black coat, silver chain peeking beneath his collar, a familiar bag slung over his shoulder. “You look awful.”

“Always know how to greet an old friend huh?”

He drags a chair to your bedside, sinks into, starts pulling things from his bag. “I should start charging Mark Hyung at this point.”

“I’ll pay you in cough drops and poor life decisions.”

“Pass.” He checks your pulse first, fingers cool against your wrist. His brows knit slightly. “Heart’s too fast.”

“Guess it missed you.”

Yoongi doesn’t smile. Just presses a thermometer under your tongue and sets his watch.

“Thought I felt bad last night when I got home.” You mumble. “Turns out that was just the preview.”

“Didn’t even change out of your clothes.” His tone’s flat, but still gently works the blanket over you. “That’s not ‘preview’ bad. That’s post disaster.”

“Was cold. Too tired to change, to do anything else.”

The thermometer beeps, and he checks it with a short sigh. “High. Not dangerous yet, but pushing it.” The stethoscope goes against your chest next. “Breathe.”

Shallow breaths. Deeper. Again. Yoongi listens for too long. Finally, he pulls back and leans in his chair, rubbing his jaw. “You’re paler than usual.”

“Thanks. Been trying this new foundation—thought we could use it for the Paris models. Not for my skin though.”

Yoongi doesn’t even blink. “Well, your new foundation’s reading a 41.2°C and counting.”

You groan and drop your head back into the pillows. “Maybe I’m just glowing.”

“If by glowing you mean burning alive from the inside out, sure.”

Your fingers tighten around the edge of the blanket. “It’s just a fever.”

“You’ve had three in two weeks.“

“I danced in the rain and drank poison. What else do you want from me?”

Yoongi leans back, crosses his arms. “To stop being reckless hoping the damage resets overnight.”

You look away. “It didn’t. So boo me.”

Yoongi shifts forward, reaching for your wrist again to check your pulse a second time. “I’m prescribing rest, fluids, and for you to stop pretending this is fine.” He begins repacking his bag slowly but doesn’t leave.

“Not pretending.”

“You are,” he reaches over and brushes the damp hair away from your forehead. “Can’t keep burning both ends. Sooner or later, it’s going to catch up.”

You pretend not to hear him. And he pretends not to notice.

Then Yoongi's gone. The silence that follows is louder than anything he left behind.

The gym smells like metal and sweat — the kind that sticks to your skin, soaks into your clothes, and clouds the mirrors. Jeongguk moves through his warm-up before the sun is even visible, breath steady, arms coiled tight under the weight of the barbell. The plates clink against each other like a metronome. Clean. Predictable. Easier than the mess in his head.

He lifts until his muscles burn and his palms sting. Until the thoughts go quiet.

Across the room, Mingyu waves, a playful grin on his face. They slip into an easy back-and-forth — set for set, sweat for sweat — until the hours pass, and they’re both leaning by the water cooler, shirts stuck to their skin, hearts still pounding.

“Bulking again?” Mingyu jokes, flicking his towel at Jeongguk’s side.

Jeongguk just shrugs, glancing away. “Just staying busy.”

Mingyu smirks, eyes unreadable. “That’s a lot of protein powder for someone who’s just passing time.”

Jeongguk doesn’t explain. Wouldn’t know where to start if he tried.

By the time he gets home, the sun’s high enough to throw soft shadows across the hardwood floor. He lets the gym bag fall by the stairs. The house greets him the same way it always does now — too still, too neat. Like a place where nothing lives anymore.

His eyes land on the scuff mark on the wall — the small dent from when you’d tried to carry that too-big box upstairs, laughing as you bumped into everything. He always said he’d fix it. Never did.

The fridge clicks open, cold light spilling over shelves lined up too neatly. No jars of sauce shoved in the corners. No half-empty cartons of almond milk pushed to the back. Just neat rows of containers he doesn’t remember filling. He shuts it again, the sound sharp in the quiet air.

A purple tulip sits on the counter in a slim glass vase — yesterday’s, technically, but the petals still hold their shape. His fingers graze the stem as he walks by. He changes the water. Watches it settle.

The streets of Seochon hum with life. Rain from the night before clings to the stone, and the scent of something sweet drifts from the café on the corner. Jeongguk walks beside Taehyung, listening — mostly — to a monologue about some artist who paints sadness in nothing but blues and grays. Taehyung calls it moving. Jeongguk can’t decide if it sounds lonely or honest.

His thoughts keep slipping sideways. To the curve of your shoulders under his jacket. To how small you felt, pressed against his side. To the way your voice cracked — just once — when you said you were ready to let go.

“You’re distracted,” Taehyung says, lightly shoving the younger to the sidewalk.

Jeongguk lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “I’m okay.”

“Sure,” Taehyung drawls, but he doesn’t push. That’s the thing about old friends — they know when to let the quiet be.

They stop beneath a green awning, where a street stall overflows with peonies, ranunculus, and there, bold and bright — purple tulips. Jeongguk goes still, the movement small, almost easy to miss.

Taehyung leans in, his voice low. “Coincidence?”

Jeongguk doesn’t answer. Doesn’t have to.

There’s a shop tucked behind the record store — tiny, too warm, a little cluttered. He trails his fingers along the edge of a display until they stop on a postcard. Tulips, faded and bleeding at the corners like a memory that won’t stay whole. It’s just a card. Just paper. He keeps telling himself that as he brings it to the counter, as he slips it into his pocket.

Back home, it rests between his fingers longer than it should before he tucks it into a book you loved. The Little Prince. Right at the part with the fox —the part you always stopped at, smiling softly when you read it out loud.

Somewhere in between folding the laundry too neatly and fixing the bookshelf for the third time, the stillness starts to feel heavy. His eyes drift to the window — to the sky that stretches wide and quiet. He doesn’t name the feeling, but it tightens in his chest. It’s not longing. It’s not regret. He doesn’t know anymore what it is.

It’s nothing, he tells himself. Just the pull of an open day.

Almost without thinking, Jeongguk grabs his keys. The tulip on the counter watches as he walks past. The door clicks shut behind him. Though the house doesn’t speak, it feels like it knows exactly where he’s gone.

The afternoon drapes itself softly over the garden. You tip the watering can, slow and steady, watching droplets gather on the leaves, the scent sharp and familiar. Somewhere near the trellis, a bee hums lazily through the air, darting between lavender blossoms, unbothered by your presence.

From the veranda, your mother’s voice floats across the stones, light with amusement. “Careful — you’re going to drown that poor basil.”

You glance back, lips curving, the sun catching in your hair. “I’m practicing moderation,” you call, the words lilting, playful.

She steps onto the path with practiced grace, linen robe brushing her ankles, arms folded loosely in front of her. “You’ve been out here all morning.”

“Figured I owed the basil after nearly drowning myself with cocktails the other night.”

Her brow arches. “Drowning yourself and calling the wrong number, apparently.”

You don’t answer, just lean over to pat soil around a drooping sprig, movements a little too careful.

Your mother watches you for a moment longer. “You know, sweetheart, it’s okay to rest. You don’t have to work it off like penance.”

“I’m not,” you say quickly, too quickly. “I’m just—”

“—fine,” she finishes, a faint smile at the edge of her lips. “You always say that when you’re not.”

You blink down at the planter, pretending to check the stems again. Your hands smell of thyme and dirt, and there’s a tight pull in your shoulder that won’t quite stretch out. “It was one stupid night.”

Her hand brushes your hair back, a mother’s touch — practiced and full of quiet worry. “You walked in the rain in a blazer too thin for the season. Skipped meals if it weren’t for your friends. Then burned through your tolerance like you were nineteen again.”

You huff, a little defensive. “I’m only thirty-three. I’m still allowed to be a mess sometimes.”

Her thumb smooths over your temple. “Not this kind of mess.”

The words land heavier than you expect. You try to brush it off with a laugh, reaching for the watering can again. “Come on. You said I needed fresh air. This counts.”

“You’ve had enough fresh air,” she says, fingers curling gently around your wrist. “Let the gardeners do the rest.”

“I’m not fragile,” you say, too soft for it to sound convincing.

“Never said you were.” But she holds your wrist a moment longer before letting go.

You sit back on your heels, breath coming thinner now. The sun is warm, but there’s a faint chill that clings to your spine, like it knows something you don’t. Still, you press a palm to the planter’s edge and slowly push yourself to your feet.

“I’m fine,” you repeat, forcing a smile. “Just went overboard a little, that’s all.”

Your mother doesn’t press further, but her eyes flick over you once more — the way your skin looks slightly paler today, the subtle flush that’s not from the sun. She lets it go, for now.

“You’ll come in soon?” she asks.

“In a minute,” you promise, already turning back to the herbs.

She nods once, then makes her way back toward the house, her robe trailing softly behind her.

The wind shifts. A breeze filters through the garden, carrying the scent of earth and rosemary, and something else — a hint of something familiar. You don’t notice it at first. You’re too focused on getting the soil just right, on grounding yourself in this routine that feels easier than thinking.

But then — the faint creak of the garden gate.

You glance up, startled.

Jeongguk stands at the edge of the path, the sun catching on his dark hair, a paper bag in one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his coat. He looks like he wasn’t sure he’d find you here. Like he wasn’t sure he should’ve come at all.

You straighten slowly, heart thudding, unsure if the warmth rushing through you is from the heat or something else entirely.

He lifts the bag slightly, something sheepish in the tilt of his mouth. “Brought croffles.”

“It’s Sunday.”

His gaze flicks over you, pausing at your flushed cheeks, your hands smudged with soil. “Yeah,” he says softly. “I know.”

#jungkook fanfiction #jungkook ff #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook x yn #bts fanfction #fanfic #bts jeon jungkook #kim namjoon #kim seokjin #min yoongi #jung hoseok #park jimin #kim taehyung #jeon jungkook

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hannibalsstrapon · 2 days ago

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If you know about interview with the vampire, I'm afraid thrilled to inform you that there's a book in which the protagonist sucks and bites the vampire's cock and gets flashbacks to ancient Rome.

vampires were made up by fruity men who wanted their neck sucked on by other men, like ok what next? vampire that sucks your cock?

#Im not going to tell you which one #I mean its iwtv it could be any of them

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southern-gothic-comic · 2 days ago

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Page 107

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(Author Notes)

Panel 1: They continue on. The snow is deeper now and the wind beginning to pick up. Laudna is ahead, leading Imogen.

Panel 2: Flashback. Laudna is struggling through the wind and snow down a poorly-maintained narrow road.

Panel 3: She approaches what appears to be a neglected farm shed and tries to seek shelter there, but is driven away by a barking dog.

Panel 4: Delilah reprimands her as she bends down a branch to get at a few berries hanging from a vine tangled around it.

Delilah: Don’t eat those. They’re bittersweet.

Laudna: I don’t mind.

Delilah: You will if you eat them. Come.

Laudna: I’m hungry, Lady D.

Panel 5: In the present, in a little alcove in the rock face. Laudna is dividing up the last of the bread, giving Imogen most of it.

Panel 6: Past. As she sinks down to rest against a crumbled stone wall, Delilah's voice tugs at her, and her body shifts as though pulled on strings.

Delilah: No, don't stop here. Get up.

Laudna: I can't, D . . .

Delilah: You must. There's not enough heat in you to keep you from freezing stiff if you stop. If you sleep here, you shan't wake again. Come, child. Just a little further.

Panel 7: Back in the present. Imogen is leaning wearily into Laudna as she helps her along through the snow and wind.

Laudna: Just a little further.

#critical role #critical role fanart #critical role comic #imogen temult #laudna #delilah briarwood #imodna #southerngothic #imogen x laudna #comics #webcomics on tumblr #a long road home #mintywolf

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yuurei20 · 1 day ago

Note

Hii!!

Sorry, I don't know if this has been asked before, but are there any mentions of some of the events that happened in the second years' first year?

Other than the entrance ceremony that had been put in the book 7 (which might be the only thing I remember, since it was mentioned in Floyd's dream, I think?), are there any mentions of certain events of their first year?

Hope this wasn't too confusing! Thank you for your hard work~

Hello hello! Thank you for this question! 🏫

Here is a compilation of references to things mentioned about the previous year at NRC! (part 1)

There was too much information for one post, so it has been split into two.

(This account tries to pretend that content that has not reached the Main Story on EN does not exist, so nothing included beyond Book 7-10 m(_ _)m)

Year-One Riddle

Riddle might be the person we have received the most information about when it comes to previous-year information!

Jade mentions Floyd causing "a bit of a stir" at their orientation, and in Beanfest we find out how: he got "blasted" through the air by Riddle after teasing him.

We get more information about what happened in 7-10, with Floyd having grabbed Riddle's hair to say, "It's red, but it ain't hot," resulting in Riddle's violent reaction.

Jamil explains, "I doubt anyone in the sophomore class could forget the scene from that day. Riddle, furiously trying to chase after you while the faculty desperately held him back...Jade, laughing so loudly it echoed through the whole Mirror Chamber...and Azul, acting like he'd never seen you before in his life."

Soon after enrolling, Jade taught Riddle how to tell the difference between him and Floyd depending upon whether or not his hair forms a "J" from the viewer's perspective.

Jade: "Just remember: a highlight on your right makes a J for Jade."

A week into enrolling, Riddle became housewarden of Heartslabyul.

We see a flashback of Riddle after attending what may have been his first Housewarden meeting, complaining about the length and "people pushing work off on each other."

Trey encourages him to "dial it back a little" and Riddle responds "YOU'RE SOFT" and declares that he will be laying down the law.

Riddle gets a blister from wearing heels, to which he is unaccustomed. Vil sees him in the hall and provides him with a bandage.

2nd-year Vil observes, "That boy is a disaster waiting to happen."

Riddle seeks Vil out the next day compensate him for the bandage he'd received.

Six months into Riddle's first year he got caught in the rain and went to Octavinelle to dry off by running laps around a table in the lounge for six hours.

Jade: "Floyd tried to capture it on video, even though he was laughing so hard he couldn't breathe. He must have been highly impressed."

It was also during Riddle's first year as Housewarden that he, Leona and the other Housewardens experimented with a variety of ways to get Malleus to attend their meetings, to no avail.

Leona: "Why should the rest of us put in a ridiculous amount of work when Malleus won't?"

Riddle: "Again, it was I who put in the ridiculous amount of work..."

#twstask #twisted wonderland

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umbramauroraeexortu · 1 day ago

Text

"Ah yes, you're so weak and I don't want to see any of your kind around here. Totally racist man" pondering a bit further I added on "or I guess xenophobic in this case."

They just sputtered at that

"But your kind is a stain!!! You destroy eachother for fun and actively ruin others just to fill your own pockets. All your news reports bring new examples of this in their day to day reports...."

As they spoke I had a flashback to 10th grade. Our final unit in world history was the trial against humanity, whether or not humans should survive when another _____ came to earth.

I got assigned to be against humanity. Most of my classmates wanted that side of the argument. After all, the negatives make a much stronger impact in our minds than the positive. I switched with a classmate because although it was a losing battle I wanted to find the good in humanity. Naturally the side fighting for humanity lost. We've had a strong history over the years.

With a tone implying what I was stating was common fact i stated "There are over 8 billion people on this planet. Millions have done as you've said.... but that's not even an 8th of the population."

Eyes narrowing I continued "Also, your perfect planet. Why havent you prevented or stopped any of these things you so condemn? Get the duck out of here man."

The being puffed up, "I gave you free will. ObVioUsLy I wanted to give you a chnace to -..... what are you doing?"

I glanced up while sifting through my bag "I just remembered I had this on me"

Out of my bag came a squirt bottle. "Bad" I say accusingly. Simultaneously I squirt them with water. "Fuck off with you and your xenophobic statements"

"But-" They started

"No." I say squirting them again. They tried to start again just to recive another round of water to the eyes. They glared and started storming off, trying to start up their bullshit again.

"Welp," i say to myself, "someone needs to be taught a lesson and luckily I have a soda refill in my bag. Something tells me this is going to be a long day"

Hefting my bag over my shoulder I start after them. Someone needs to reevaluate their "facts".

“…and finally your feeble human race will no longer stain my perfect world.” “Jeez man, when did you learn you were so racist?” “Then I- wait, what?”

#writeblr #writing prompts #writing inspiration #story #flash fiction #short story

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punksyeet · 3 days ago

Text

- Heart & Sole 3 ❥

Plot: Curiosity arises when the middle sibling pulls up to the cookout with a fresh new woman on his arm.

Warning: Mature language, somewhat romance (finally), & tooth rotting fluff!

A/N: hi everyone! really quickly, i just wanted to thank you all for the overwhelming amount of love and support on this series so far. when i first came up with the idea, i wasn’t sure if my writing “skills” were good enough, therefore it means SO much to see this many people invested. thank you, thank you, thank you! i hope you enjoy part three! 💗

p.s: buckle your seatbelts. this is only the beginning. 🤫🙂‍↕️

previous chapter! <3

———————————————————————————————

I step out of the shower, immediately throw on my robe, and get started on my skincare.

Earlier, at the restaurant, when Josh asked me to come to his family’s cookout, I absentmindedly ended up saying yes.

** flashback: earlier that day! **

“I meant to ask, my peoples is hosting a barbecue tonight over at my brother Sefa’s place. You should pull up.”

“Your people?”

“The fam. Parents, siblings, cousins, allat.”

“O-oh, that sounds nice. Count me in!”

His smile. Oh, his smile in reaction to me saying yes.

It’s so naturally beautiful.

Like it could heal this entire fucked up world we’re living in.

“Sounds good, ma. What time you get outta here?”

“4:30 today.”

“I’ll grab you around 6. Just so you have time to get all dolled up n shit f’me.”

I can still picture the wink he had come along with that last part.

There’s just something about him that I can’t quite put my finger on.

His aura? His confidence? Something like that.

All I know is it’s dreamy as hell.

“Sounds perfect. I’ll see you then.”

And then, the part that had me damn near dead on the floor.

The hug and lingering kiss he planted just below my ear.

Filled with his warm scent - something like woodsy vanilla - and a pair of pillow soft lips on my skin to top it all off.

** end of flashback! **

One thing about me? I’m a huge people pleaser.

Would he have been offended if I turned him down considering I met the man less than a week ago? Knowing him, probably not.

But did my mouth work faster than my brain? Yes. Yes it did.

And now, here I am.

Getting ready on a time crunch - exactly forty five minutes to spare.

Mind you, I left work and arrived home at my usual time.

It was the overthinking that killed it.

What do I wear?

Will they like me?

What do I say when I arrive?

What if they ask when we met?

What if they’re judgemental?

Just to say the least.

But with a little bit (a lotta bit) of praying and blasting hype music in the shower to boost my mood, I feel confident and ready.

Will it last long? Probably not.

But for now? We’re good.

As I’m reaching over to grab my signature scent - Bare Vanilla by Victoria’s Secret - my music lowers down and phone chimes, signaling that I got a text.

Fuck. It’s gotta be him.

After taking a deep breath, I glance over at the screen and a wave of relief washes over me.

trin 💚: Hey boo!

Gigi 💗: heyyy! 🫶🏽

trin 💚: Whatcha up to?

Gigi 💗: getting ready. hbu?

trin 💚: Jon and I just got to Sefa’s place. Almost the entire family is here already!

Instant nausea settles into my stomach.

The entire family?

She says that like it’s a million trillion zillion people.

Gigi 💗: umm how many people exactly?

trin 💚: Girl.

trin 💚: Need I remind you this family is Samoan? It’s damn near Times Square during New Year’s Eve for a simple barbecue.

Gigi 💗: 😩

trin 💚: Girl don’t tell me you’re nervous

Gigi 💗: how could you tell?

trin 💚: 🤣🤣

trin 💚: I promise you everything is gonna go smoothly. These people don’t play about family, so you’re gonna feel loved and welcomed from the jump. I’ll make sure of it. Okay?

Gigi 💗: i really hope so 🥲

trin 💚: I promise ❤️

You loved “I promise ❤️”

Gigi 💗: okay girl i’m trusting you

trin 💚: See you in a bit boo 🫶🏽

I set my phone down and look in the mirror, both hands on the countertop, taking a moment to glance at myself.

I’ve got this. I hope.

———————————————————————————————

“Look atchu ma,” Josh coos, scanning my body up and down as I walk down the pathway to the curb.

I look up to greet him, but instead my breathing hitches.

Stood before me, this man is looking as fine as ever.

Dressed in a white tank top that showcases both biceps and tattoos, black sweatpants, his usual white socks and air forces, and even more jewelry than the last time I saw him.

I attempt to speak, trying my best to sound sweet and casual, but when the words don’t come, I end up sounding like a daydreaming idiot.

Which I am, of course.

“I….uhh….”

Bitch, get it together!

A cocky but sexy smirk appears on his face and he reaches out to hold my waist. “I gotchu distracted, huh?”

I automatically nod in response, perhaps a little too frantically.

He chuckles and presses a wet kiss to my cheek. “You look real good, baby. Got me feelin’ underdressed.”

I take a quiet deep breath. “Just aiming for good first impressions, I guess.”

He chuckles and tucks a stray curl behind my ear. “No need, ma. My peoples is gonna love you. Hell, I already do.”

I beg your finest pardon? You already do?

I smile sweetly and nod, doing my best to keep calm and stay casual.

I’m ready to projectile vomit already and we haven’t even left my damn street yet.

After a moment of him just admiring me, he rubs his hands together. “Well, we should get goin’. Don’t wanna miss out on all the food.”

He opens the passenger door and holds out his hand.

I let out a chuckle before taking it and hopping in.

He places a kiss on top of my hand before shutting the door.

Fuck, he’s so romantic already.

I’m not gonna last very long, am I?

“So,” he begins again, once we’re pulled away from the curb. “You ever had Samoan food before?”

“Never,” I reply, shaking my head.

A mischievous grin comes over his lips, eyes still on the road. “You’re gonna love it. Especially my mother’s cooking.”

I smile sweetly and look down at my hands, which are folded neatly in my lap.

Once we reach a red light, the car stops and, out of the corner of my eye, I see him glance over at me.

“Hey,” he begins again, reaching over to take my hand. “You alright?”

I look over and nod, a soft smile on my face. “Of course, why?”

Don’t let him know you’re nervous.

Just play it cool.

He shrugs. “You just seem kinda quiet, das all. You can talk to me, yknow.”

I sigh and nod, reaching out to stroke his beard. “I know. Thank you, love.”

His concern immediately turns into a smile, as he lifts my hand to his lips and kisses my palm. “Always, mama.”

I smile and lean over the middle console to kiss his cheek, before leaning back into my seat and running a hand through my hair.

For the rest of the car ride, we make some more small talk, our hands never separating.

He’s just so…..comforting.

———————————————————————————————

“My babyyyy!” an older, beautiful woman squeals, running over to Josh.

She’s in a white flowy shirt, capri length jean shorts, brown sandals, and the prettiest hibiscus flower in her hair, which is tied neatly in a low bun.

This has to be his mom.

I smile sweetly watching them, as Josh kisses her cheek and hugs her tight.

“My baby boy,” she coos, pulling back and cradling his face. “So grown up.”

“Ma, I just seen you last weekend,” he replies, making everyone, including me, laugh.

She playfully whacks his arm and her eyes finally land on me.

“And who do we have here?” she asks excitedly, sliding her hands into her pockets.

Here we go.

I feel his muscular arm wrap around my waist and I look up at him, smiling.

He smiles back and looks back at his mom.

“Ma,” he begins. “This is Gianna. Gi, this is my mom Talisua.”

I give her a friendly smile, holding out a hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Fa-“

“Nuh uh,” she interrupts and gently whacks my hand away, making my heart sink. “We don’t do none of that proper ish here, honey. None of that ‘Mrs. Fatu’ crap. Around here, you family. Understood?”

A wave of relief washes over me as I let out a breathless laugh, nodding. “Yes ma’am.”

She winks and pulls me into a hug, to which I respond immediately.

“Such a pretty girl you are,” she compliments, pulling away and placing her hands on her hips. “How did my son pull you?”

“Ma!” Josh whines, running a hand over his face.

We all burst out into laughter and she leads us further into the backyard, where at least 25 people are seated/stood in various places.

Josh walks me around and introduces me to everyone: first his stepdad, then his siblings, then his aunts and uncles, and finally his cousins.

Everyone is beyond friendly and super welcoming, just like Trin promised.

Speaking of Trin, once I’ve met everyone, I decide to head back over to her and the other wives.

“Make yourself at home baby,” Josh suggests, grabbing two waters from the fridge and handing me one. “Wanna come join me and my brothers?”

I take it and smile. “Thank you, but I’m gonna go sit with the other women, if that’s okay?”

He smiles, stroking my cheek. “‘Course it is, mama. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”

I nod in response, to which he replies with a kiss on my cheek before heading down.

I watch him until he’s out of sight and take a deep breath, heading back outside.

“Hey boo!” Trin calls, waving me over. “C’mere!”

I head over and we share a hug before I take a seat next to her.

“This is Galina and Almia,” she continues, before taking a sip of her martini. “Joe and Sefa’s wives.”

“It’s so nice to finally meet you!” Almia replies cheerfully.

“It really is,” Galina agrees. “Trin told us all about you before you got here.”

I raise an eyebrow and look over at Trin. “Should I be worried?”

All of us laugh in unison.

About ten minutes of more conversation goes by, until Jon, in true Jon fashion, makes his grand entrance.

“Ma! I got yo ice you wanted!” he calls out, entering the gate with a half-melted, huge bag of ice.

“Oh my,” Trin mutters, pinching the bridge of her nose.

I snicker, quickly covering my mouth.

“It uhh,” he continues, handing the bag over to his and Josh’s mom. “It kinda melted, doe.”

All of the cousins burst into laughter from across the yard.

“Boy, get outta my face!” she yells, going to whack his butt with the spatula.

He runs away just in time, laughing as well.

Pretty soon, he heads over to us after greeting the rest of the family.

“Aye, there she go!” he calls out excitedly, pointing to me.

I chuckle and stand up, reaching over to embrace him. “Hey, Jon.”

“How you doin’, girl?” he asks, rubbing my back. “Been a minute, huh?”

I nod in agreement. “A long minute.”

We share a laugh and pull away, as he heads over to Trin, Galina, and Almia next.

Eventually, Josh’s other brothers, Sefa and Jeremiah, come out of the house and join us as well.

Where is he?

Suddenly, my phone goes off, signaling that I got a text.

josh 🤍: How you doin, ma?

josh 🤍: I hear my loud ass brother

Gi ❤️: he made quite the entrance 🤣🤣

josh 🤍: He always do 😂

Gi ❤️: but i’m good. just chopping it up with the ladies. 🫶🏽

josh 🤍: Glad you enjoying yourself baby ❤️

You loved “Glad you enjoying yourself baby ❤️”

josh 🤍: Come down and see me

Gi ❤️: aw you miss me already?

josh 🤍: Duh

Gi ❤️: 🤣🤣

Gi ❤️: i’ll be there soon 🫶🏽

josh 🤍: Aight ❤️

“I’ll be back,” I announce, getting up and fixing my jacket. “Gonna go visit Josh.”

Trin sticks out her bottom lip dramatically. “The lovebirds can’t more than twenty minutes apart. So cute!”

Everyone laughs and I whack her, resulting in her winking at me and blowing me a kiss.

I roll my eyes with a smirk and head inside, closing the sliding door behind me.

The basement is almost like a man cave.

A huge flat screen TV on the wall, lots of video game consoles, two sofas, hell even a bathroom.

“Josh?” I call out quietly, once I make it halfway down the stairs.

“Over here baby,” he calls back, sat on one of the couches, his legs spread all the way open.

This man is gonna kill me one day. Book it.

I smile softly once I see him, and head over to the couch.

“You look comfy,” I tease, sitting down a few inches from him, cross legged.

He chuckles, placing his phone down. “I am. You like it?”

I nod, scanning the room, and land my eyes back on him. “Nice and cozy. I dig it.”

He smiles, running a hand through his curls. “This was Jon and I’s playroom back in the day. But now, it’s a hangout spot for all the boys.”

I smile, leaning back on my elbow. “That’s so sweet. Kinda like the room grew up with you guys.”

“Exactly,” he replies, placing his hand behind his head and leaning on it. “Real special, yknow?”

I nod in agreement.

He smiles and reaches out to stroke my cheek. “You was havin’ a good time up there?”

I nod again, leaning into his touch. “Really good. Your family is amazing.”

His smile deepens at the compliment. “They love you already, baby. Especially my mom.”

I look down, smiling once more. “I’m happy. She’s super sweet.”

He nods, taking my hand and rubbing the top of it with his thumb. “When she wants to be.”

We chuckle in unison and I scoot closer, leaning against his side and laying my head back on his shoulder.

“You comfy, mama?” he asks, wrapping an arm around me and running his hand up and down my side.

I nod, turning my head to the side to look at him. “Very.”

“Good,” he replies, looking back at me.

We kinda just sit there for a second, staring into each other’s eyes.

His are so dreamy.

Such a deep colored brown, with the most perfect beige undertones.

I could stare into them forever.

Suddenly, they lower onto my lips and linger there for a second, before slowly returning to my eyes.

“I ever told you how pretty you are, baby?” he asks, taking a strand of hair out of my face.

I nod slowly, smiling. “All the time.”

He smiles back and bites his lower lip gently. “Good. ‘Cause you really is.”

I blush like a maniac, my face becoming hot to the touch.

Suddenly, I feel a soft palm gently hold my face.

“Can I kiss you, ma?” he asks, a hopeful tone in his voice.

My heart stops in my chest.

Is this really happening?

I should say no. It’s way too soon.

But it isn’t. I feel like I’ve known him forever.

And I don’t want to.

He’s too beautiful. Too perfect. Too good to me.

I love him.

“Yes,” I reply quietly. “Kiss me, Josh.”

He slowly runs his tongue across his lower lip before gently taking ahold of my face, and leaning in.

Here we go.

“Ayo lovebirds! Food is ready!”

Liked by uceyjucey, trinity_fatu, jonathanfatu, thegalinaanoai, and 4.7k others

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luna-rainbow · 1 day ago

Note

That scene is horrible... they had him half naked in a room full of dressed men, men who, we can surely say, we're his abusers. It doesn't even have to be something s*xual, they were his abusers. It's horrible. My heart will forever ache for the 70 years he lived like that 💔

Thanks for the ask! Since I got a similar comment about the Civil War scene, I thought I’d just tag on my thoughts about both.

I feel like it’s already been mentioned by others, but the scene construction of the two scenes are so different. They put Bucky in a very different light, quite literally, for the audience.

youtube

I put the original clips here because many of our lovely talented GIF makers do a bit of colour correction and I just wanted to show how different the colour palette is in the originals.

The CATWS is bathed in a warm olive glow, a little bit sickly but starkly human. The CACW is a cold, icy blue that casts his skin with a ghastly paleness.

The CATWS scene also starts very differently. The camera hovers over Bucky’s face, giving him a humanness that we haven’t been allowed to see at all before. Most of that scene are closeups that really let you see Sebastian’s excellent acting as Bucky cycles through bewilderment, fear, defensiveness, doubt, and determination. The camera only draws back when Bucky is pushed back onto the chair, then it does that famous glide up over his torso, ending on his contorted face.

The purpose of that scene is to highlight Bucky’s vulnerability, through a combination of the horrifying flashbacks, the warm lighting that really brings out his human flesh, the shaky cam that mirrors his uncertain mental state, the camera angle that brings us very intimate with Bucky while also in the wider angles show how isolated and trapped he is by the people around him, the whole scene composition with the men looking down on him while he’s exposed and confused, not to mention the fantastic acting from Sebastian and also Redford in bringing out how quietly terrifying Pierce is.

The CACW intro is very different. We get a lot of distant shots of Bucky being variously obscured — by the mask and gas in the cryo chamber, by the shadows as he’s carried away, and simply by the distance as he undergoes the procedure. The composition of the scene (where he’s electrocuted) is distant and clinical, and the camera slowly approaches as the code words are read and we get the final close up when he accepts his mission. The harsh blue light makes him seem crazed and terrifying, rather than human and vulnerable. The costuming too — he’s clothed in this one in some quasi-futuresque nylon vest, again calling to mind robotics and artificiality. Then we get the yellow vintage glow right after the cut when we go to the Starks assassination scene, just to highlight the contrast.

The two intentions are incredibly different. CATWS is the breaking of a human. CACW is the waking of a monster.

The CATWS scene is a hard watch because of how vulnerable Bucky is, but CACW scene is fucking depressing because of how hard they try to make us forget his humanity.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes meta

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joshujin · 1 day ago

Text

can’t wait no more

🔞 18+, minors do not interact • masterlist • submit a request

your pov • soonyoung’s pov ⇣

soonyoung has been best friends with you for 10 years now—in love with you for almost all of that time. one way or another, those 10 years end tonight.

♫ darl+ing svt pairing: soonyoung x fem!reader word count: 11.6k (i don't want to talk about it) tags: best friends to lovers, idiots in love, a lil miscommunication, angst, happy ending, soonyoung pov, flashbacks cw: smut - possessiveness, unprotected piv (pull-out method. v irresponsible piv. don't be like these two), reader loses virginity, spit, oral f. receiving, fingering, mention of choking, mention of masturbating, soft vanilla smut, probably a little hornier than the other pov bc this is a MAN after all a/n: happy @citruscheol birth!!! ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و to celebrate this momentous occasion, i ofc had to honor her request for a soonyoung pov of we can be all we need. you don’t really need to read that before this one; after all, they are essentially the same fic. BUT! i recommend you do bc it will make this version more enjoyable + easier to understand. and y’know what, i literally had to drive myself bat shit crazy and completely alter my brain chemistry to write this. like. there isn’t enough grass in the world that i can touch to return back to normal. and idk if i can ever look at hoshi the same ever again, so the least you can do is read both ok ㅠㅠㅠㅠ kidding ofc pls do what you want haha. either way, i think you’ll enjoy whichever one you want to read! as far as smut goes, same thing as last time: i marked where the smut starts and ends, but this courtesy is for adults who don’t want to read explicit material. minors should not be interacting at all pls!

soonyoung has been avoiding you. he knows you know it because you’ve asked him multiple times now if anything was wrong, and every time, he’s lied to you and told you everything was fine. everything wasn’t fine. it hardly felt like anything was fine, actually.

because you just blew out your candles, you’re 30 now, and his time has officially run out. he can’t blame anyone other than himself, though, and he knows it. he had seven whole years to tell you, and instead, he foolishly thought if he just continued to love you the way he’s always loved you, you would simply see it yourself. you would see how hopelessly in love with you he is.

you didn’t. for whatever reason, his showering you with lavish gifts, vacations, and fancy meals didn’t strike you as odd for a friend. or the way he was constantly wrapped around you or leaving kisses on your forehead whenever he had the chance. or the fact that it’s been nine fucking years since he went on a date or slept with anyone. he’s fucking priestly at this point.

and he doesn’t do it just so you’ll get the hint. he does it because that’s how he loves you and that’s how he’s always loved you. but maybe that’s the issue: you think this is just how he is as a friend because he’s been this way ever since he met you. but you couldn’t be more wrong.

soonyoung has never even felt inclined to treat anyone outside of his family the way he treats you. as far as he’s concerned, everything he does for you are just things he watched his dad do for his mom his whole life. you’re not even aware that the way he loves you is supposed to be reserved for whoever becomes his wife.

and he’s been so happy to give you all of that even if it meant you never saw him the way he longed for you to. it fills him with pride to know that your expectations are higher because he’s loved you so well—that you know exactly what you deserve because he’s always tried to give you exactly that.

at least, up until a few weeks ago, when the horror of the truth really started settling into his bones: you weren’t going to fall in love with him by the time you turn 30. and without even really realizing it, he started distancing himself from you, deluded into thinking it would be easier to let go if he just put a little space between the two of you. he knew it was hurting you just as much as it was hurting him, and he knew you didn’t deserve it.

it’s against his hardwiring to do anything that hurts you, and it’s reflected in how terrible his life has become in just a handful of weeks. his apartment has been filthy; the only reason it was ready for your party was because he paid the housekeeper double to come even though he wasn’t scheduled to clean for another week. his work is fortunately still fine, but he spends whole days with horrible brain fog, hardly understanding or even hearing anything anyone says to him. he hasn’t seen any friends—mutual or otherwise—because he spends all his free time in bed or drinking himself into a sobbing mess.

that’s all he can seem to do these days, is cry over you.

soonyoung steps out into the balcony attached to his bedroom, leaning against the sliding door once it’s closed. he cranes his neck to look up toward the midnight sky, and takes a deep breath. it doesn’t help keep the tears at bay. he keeps his head tilted up.

he knows you don’t deserve this. he knows you’re hurting and that you feel him slipping away. he saw it. just now, just before you blew your candles out, he saw the way the joy and life immediately fled your eyes when they landed on him. he wonders what you saw. did you see the apathy he was desperately forcing? did you see how sad he was at all?

because he is. he’s the saddest he’s felt since you told him you would rather be on vacation with someone you were in love with seven years ago. someone who wasn’t him. maybe he’s even sadder now. at least back then, he was foolish enough to hope you would change your mind. at least back then, he had time on his side.

now, it’s over, and now, it’s time to give himself a fair chance to move on. you don’t deserve what he’s putting you through, and it’s true for him too. he doesn’t deserve what he’s put himself through for the last decade.

countless nights you fell asleep at his place, countless times he wished he could gather you up in his arms and carry you into a bed you shared. all the times you told him you loved him and he desperately wanted to beg you to repeat it, even if it was just so he could pretend you meant it the way he needed you to mean it. whole weeks spent overseas on all kinds of vacations, time he spent daydreaming that this was what a honeymoon with you could feel like.

it all adds up to a decade of putting his heart on the backburner so he could allow himself to continue loving you.

soonyoung scoffs at himself when the tears refuse to stop welling in his eyes. he shakes his head and steps forward, resting his forearms against his railing and staring at the blackness in front of him.

part of him hates the version of himself from seven years ago that thought making this stupid promise was a good idea. what good can come from not loving you? but the reason he’s stuck to pulling away and holding you at arm’s distance is because that version of himself somehow knew the pain would grow more and more, year after year.

he can’t do this for the rest of his life—can’t just keep making room for more heartache the older he gets. you’re 30 now, and even though you insist you’re fine and have no desire to date, he knows you’ll get restless soon. and when he thinks of you finally deciding you want to have a boyfriend, he wants to vomit. when he thinks of some other asshole’s hands on you, his lips on yours—when he thinks of you sighing anyone’s name but his, he gets near homicidal over something that isn’t even real. at least not yet.

soonyoung doesn’t want to wait for that to happen. he doesn’t want to wait for you to hate him for being unable to share you—and he won’t be able to share you. he also doesn’t want you to have to face the pressure of having to choose between a best friend and a boyfriend.

instead, he’d rather you start to hate him slowly, over time. he’d rather you allow him his space and not even realize you hate him for slipping away and leaving you behind—not until it’s years later, when you hear his name in passing, and you think, he just left, and you tell yourself it’s fine because your life is better without him anyway.

it hurts you now, but it’ll hurt less later. it’ll hurt less for both of you to endure this silence now, rather than fight until there’s nothing but resentment.

the door behind soonyoung slides open forcefully and slams closed a moment later. he flinches, looking over his shoulder to see who entered his room and ready to tell them to get out. when he sees you, though, he turns back away, trying to discreetly wipe his eyes.

“what are you doing?”

he quietly clears his throat, hoping he doesn’t sound too worn when he speaks. “just needed some air.”

“no.”

you say it in that tone that always scared him a little. it’s when he knew you were about to get your way. he wasn’t interested in doing the whole fighting thing with you; he just gave you whatever you wanted the moment this voice came out of your mouth. it always drew a smile out of you and it made his life easier.

this is about to be the one and only time he can’t let you have your way.

“what are you doing?”

soonyoung squeezes his eyes shut, like that will help him brace himself against the conversation he has to have with you.

this was coming, he tells himself. you knew this was coming. she was never just going to let you go without an explanation.

“why are you ignoring me?” you ask, voice cracking. it takes everything in him to stay where he stands and keep from wrapping his arms around you, apologizing, and begging you to stop crying. “why are you avoiding me? why are you acting like i’m not your best friend?”

soonyoung opens his eyes and almost laughs. best friend. he doesn’t know when the term became so derogatory to him. anyone would be lucky to be in your life, let alone be your best friend. he hates it anyway.

he’s your best friend. you’re not his. he would never dream of calling you that—at least not without calling you the love of his life first. his most beloved. the woman he would give anything to marry. on the totem pole of things he wants to call you, best friend is at the bottom.

“because you’re not,” he says honestly. he immediately regrets it when he hears the small whimper that escapes you. “at least, i don’t want you to be,” he adds, hoping it will soften the blow of what he just said.

“what are you saying?”

soonyoung feels so tired and sad and heartbroken. he hangs his head a little as he takes a deep breath.

“what are you saying, soonyoung?” you repeat when he doesn’t answer immediately. patience was never your strong suit.

when he’s sure he’s not going to start sobbing upon turning, he finally faces you, and even then, he can’t bring himself to look you in the eye. if he does, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to do this.

“do you remember your 23rd birthday?” he asks, gaze fixed on the stain on his balcony where you dropped a smoothie and he insisted you leave it instead of cleaning it. he forgot to do it himself and now he has a permanent reminder of how whipped he is for you.

“siquijor,” you basically spit at him. he feels your walls coming up. he feels your defenses getting ready, and he knows you’re aware of what he’s about to do. “what about it?”

siquijor. the best and worst trip of his life.

“i think i’m drunk,” you announced, words slurring so badly, soonyoung was convinced anyone else wouldn’t be able to understand what you were saying.

“what?” he asked sarcastically. “no way. what makes you say that?”

soonyoung loved being sober when you were drunk like this. he loved hearing and seeing all the silly shit you’d never say or do sober. most of all, he loved taking care of you. he loved pretending he meant something more to you and this was just another boyfriend duty of his—making sure his drunk girlfriend was happy and hydrated and safe, and that when she woke up, she had a lineup of hangover cures at her disposal.

you answered with the gnarliest burp. he burst into loud laughter, grateful the beach was far enough away from any rooms that the two of you weren’t disturbing anyone.

after a few moments, he realized you weren’t laughing along, simply leaning back on your elbows in the sand, smiling softly at him. he did what he does best: he pretended. he pretended you were just a lovesick girl staring at someone she yearned for. he pretended you wanted him just as badly as he needed you. he pretended you were in love.

“penny for your thoughts, you drunkard?”

you giggled, slipping off of your elbows and laying all the way down. he joined you, both of you looking up at the sky. it was different here than it was back home. it was quiet and warm and there was no light to disrupt the view of the stars. he loved that he was seeing something like this for the first time with you.

“my thoughts are worth more than a penny.”

he snorted. even drunk, you were a brat. “nickel?”

“nice try. a hundred bucks, buddy.”

“ha!” he shouted. “never mind, keep your thoughts to yourself.”

“soonie!” you half whined, half burped. he made a face of disgust at you. he thought he did a good job of hiding how endeared he was.

“gross.” soonyoung sighed, turning back to the sky. “fifty.”

you giggled. “deal.” there was no way in hell you were going to remember he owed you $50. “i’m thinking… i am having the best time of my life.”

his heart swelled knowing he did well for your birthday celebration.

he let his head loll to the side, watching you. you had your hands folded politely over your ribs and your legs were crossed at the ankles, your feet swaying side to side like there was a song playing that only you could hear. if soonyoung concentrated hard enough, he thought he could hear it too. it sounded like what he imagined his love for you would if it were a song.

you smiled at the stars like you were talking to them.

“i’m so happy,” you said. “best birthday ever, soonyoung. best month ever. thank you. i love you so much.”

“you’re welcome, y/n,” he said, voice coming out barely above a whisper. “i love you too.” so god damn much.

you turned to look at him when he said that, your smile fading naturally the longer you looked at him. “i…” you trailed off, frowning a little before you continued. “i think… i think i feel lonely, though.”

he mirrored your frown, immediately bringing his body closer to yours. he rested a hand on top of yours. “what’s wrong?”

you opened your mouth but before you could start speaking, you were suddenly crying.

“y/n?” he sat up, bringing you up with him. “what’s wrong, baby?” his eyes widened at the slip-up, but you were too drunk to notice, frantically wiping the tears that kept streaming down your face.

“i’m so happy,” you breathed, hand still in his. “this is everything i’ve ever wanted. this is everything i could ever dream of having.”

your words were still slurred and with the addition of the crying to your inebriated state, you’re hiccuping badly as you speak.

“then why are you crying?” he asked. “why do you feel lonely?”

“this is what i want from y—from…” you hiccuped again. “this is everything i want from someone i’m in love with.”

he felt his heart drop into his stomach, and he couldn’t help the way his hand stiffened in yours. he pulled away.

“oh” was all he could bring himself to say.

what else was he supposed to say to that?

“i’m in love with you. please let me be the one that gets to give this to you.”

“please love me.”

“please don’t break my heart like this.”

he couldn’t say any of it.

“i want you to want… i want…” you kept hiccuping, and despite feeling like his heart was breaking into smithereens, soonyoung found it in himself to rub your back comfortingly. “i want—” you cut yourself off with another hiccup.

“shhh.” it came out in a daze. the sky looked darker. the stars looked duller. the water wasn’t as bright anymore. “it’s okay. it’s okay.” he didn’t know if he was telling you or himself. “it’s okay.”

soonyoung pulled you into his arms, still rubbing your back as he tucked your head under his chin. he didn’t bother trying to find the right words to tell you; he knew you probably wouldn’t remember any of this. so he allowed himself to feel heartbroken as you wept and hiccuped until eventually, you fell asleep.

and when you did, it was his turn. he silently cried until the sun came up, and when it did, soonyoung gathered you up in his arms and carried you back—only as a friend, to a bed you’d never share.

“it hurt,” he says, tears finally beginning to stream down his face.

soonyoung never shied away from crying in front of you; he did it kind of often. but there’s something especially humiliating about it now. he’s wrapped up in his sadness, and it’s suffocating him, making it hard to speak. he thinks if he does, he might choke on his grief.

“it hurt more than anything i’ve ever felt, y/n,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. he isn’t sure if you heard him, but he can’t bring himself to repeat it.

your hands close over his, where they hold the lapel of his jacket around your shoulders. he doesn’t even know when he took it off to put it on you. loving you was exactly like that—an instinct he didn’t have to think twice about. loving you was just something that happened without his knowledge or permission.

“soonyoung,” you call his name, high and desperate. your defenses have come down. you’re not using that scary voice on him anymore. you’re not bracing yourself. he thinks you should be. “that’s not what i meant. i—”

“it’s okay,” he breathes, so many tears in his eyes, he can barely make out the shape of you. he blinks rapidly to expel them. “i’ve had time to—”

“but if you would just let me ex—”

“there’s nothing to explain,” he interjects softly, eyes coming to you now that he can properly see past his tears. “i stayed around, didn’t i?”

your fight falters and you stop trying to talk over him.

“i stayed for seven more years. if i needed you to explain, i would’ve asked the second you woke up sober.”

your shoulders fall and he knows the rest of your fight has dissipated into the night. the next question you ask almost breaks his resolve. “only seven?”

the question comes out small and quiet and defeated, and soonyoung feels his lips tremble. he rolls them between his teeth to stop himself from telling you something he doesn’t want to say: no, of course not only seven. you’ll have me wrapped around your finger until the day i die.

he takes his hands back from under your hold once he’s absolutely sure he won’t say something that would disappoint the version of him that sat on that beach in siquijor, swearing that he wouldn’t let himself feel that heartbroken in the next decade of his life.

“i didn’t mind waiting seven more years to see if you would ever return my feelings,” he says instead of answering you, fully aware of how badly his voice wavers as he speaks. “my friends, they told me i was insane for letting my 20s go to waste like that. but to me… if i still got to be around you, still give you experiences and love that made you feel like that’s what you deserved from someone you actually were in love with, then… i can’t see the issue in that. i’d happily wait seven more years. because even if it was seven years of the same longing—and even if it was seven years leading to nothing more, it was still seven years of me being able to show you how well i could…”

he swallows the lump in his throat and fails. he shakes his head and just says what he should’ve told you seven years ago.

“how well i could love you. how much i do love you.”

you look dumbfounded, and if this were any other situation—if soonyoung didn’t feel like he was actually fucking dying—he thinks he’d make fun of you. your eyes are the widest he’s ever seen them, and your mouth is parted like you’re poised to say something but you don’t even know what.

“soonie—” you start.

he doesn’t let you finish. he can’t. he’s so close to ending this—to doing the worst thing he’s ever going to have to do—and if he lets you finish, he’ll lose the courage to walk away.

“i told myself… while you slept in my lap on that beach in siquijor, that if by the time you turned 30, we still hadn’t moved past… this…” he can’t stand the look of horror on your face as you start to process what he’s saying. he looks at the sky behind your head instead. “then, i wouldn’t spend my 30s torturing myself anymore. i’d let you go.”

you don’t let even a millisecond pass before you practically scream: “i don’t want you to let me go!” at him so forcefully, he flinches. “i don’t want you to let me go, you stupid idiot! if that’s what you’ve been doing the last, few weeks, ‘letting me go’—” you make exaggerated air quotes with your fingers and a face that tells him you think he’s ridiculous. it catches him so off-guard, he almost laughs. “—then knock it off!”

you slap his chest to each word to punctuate your point.

“wh—?” he brings his arm up reflexively to defend himself.

“what i meant to tell you, it came out wrong,” you inform him. his arms slowly fall back to his side as he listens to you as closely as he can. “i didn’t even mean to tell you anything, but if drunk me outed me like that, i need you to know that’s not what i meant.”

the words came out of your mouth in a rush like you thought soonyoung wouldn’t let you say them if you took too long. when he doesn’t say anything in the brief silence, you take a deep breath, obviously trying to steady yourself.

“i was lonely. i was really lonely,” you admit, seeming to remember the feeling more than you did the actual conversation. “and yes, it was because i enjoyed that vacation so much and yes, it was because i wished i could have it with someone i was in love with, but i was having it with someone i was in love with!”

everything in soonyoung’s body tenses, like his own defenses are coming up—like this is some kind of joke and his body is preparing to be laughed at. because you just said you were on vacation with someone you were in love with in the philippines… but you were on vacation with him in the philippines…

his body braces itself.

“i just meant i wanted it to mean more for both of us,” you continue, hands waving erratically between you to drive your point home. “i wanted to be on vacation with you!”

your brows furrow and your lips thin as you helplessly fight off a wave of tears he knows is pushing to be released. he knows that when you’re too emotional—whether it’s sadness, joy, rage—you cry, and once you do, you end up blubbering for so long, you usually end up asleep at the end of it.

but still, you bravely fight it off, obviously determined to tell soonyoung what you need to.

“but you as my boyfriend! not you as my best friend! there’s no one else i would’ve wanted to be with, soonyoung!”

he’s glad his body is stiff enough to keep his knees from immediately giving out under him. because all soonyoung wants to do now is fall to the floor and cry. cry because he never thought you’d say these words, because he felt like he was getting back something he lost on the beaches of siquijor, because the two of you wasted a decade dancing around each other instead of just fucking saying something.

“do you think i’ve been single our entire friendship for fun?!” you shriek the question through tears. “do you think it’s fun being the 30-year-old virgin who’s never even kissed anyone?! because it’s not!”

you whined about this often early on in your friendship, but eventually the complaints petered out, and he would drive himself crazy wondering if it was because that changed—if someone else had taken those firsts.

did it happen?

she would tell me.

right?

no, i’m still a dude. that’s weird, she’d probably tell a girl.

no no, i’m her stupid ass best friend. she would tell me!

oh my god, would she tell me?

what if i just die?

and so the cycle would go. he knows it wasn’t any of his business and that if you had lost those firsts to someone else, that was your prerogative, but still, he feels relieved to hear that isn’t the case.

and he knows he has no right to—not when you haven’t had the proper conversation to hash things out yet—but he suddenly feels an overwhelming possessiveness for you. because he waited for you. no one was ever going to make him stray away from you, so he waited for you—never expecting, just hoping. sorely hoping. and now he knows you waited for him too, and now… now, all he can think about is making you his. all soonyoung can think about now is giving you all the things you abstained from in the hopes you’d have it with him of all people.

it’s what you deserve, isn’t it? for waiting? and isn’t he in the business of giving you what you deserve? his hand twitches, begging him to reach for you and kiss you stupid.

“but i didn’t want anyone else! i wanted you!” you point at him almost violently, and his heart grows too big for his chest. “you waited seven years, but i waited ten! TEN, soonyoung! do you—”

his willpower can only withstand so much. at the end of the day, soonyoung is just a man who’s pathetically in love with you, and hearing you say you wanted him—hearing you confirm you waited your entire friendship just for the chance to have him and be with him and only him—it completely undoes his entire being.

soonyoung’s mouth is on yours before his brain can fully process what’s happening. he feels the shock on your lips for only a moment before you’re moving. despite it being your first kiss, you respond quickly, your body knowing exactly what to do with soonyoung’s like it’s second nature.

you taste like tears and champagne, and even with all the extravagant dinners he’s taken you on and the places around the world you’ve traveled to together, this is the best thing he’s ever tasted.

soonyoung thinks he’s happy to stand here, kissing you and tasting you and listening to your cute, little breaths against him forever. but then your hands start exploring him—his hips, his waist, his chest, before wrapping around his neck and bringing him in to kiss you even deeper. and he knows immediately that all the strength he mustered up to deal with tonight is gone. the moan that comes up his throat is loud and bordering on obscene, but you smile upon taking it into your own mouth, as if you’re feeding on his desire. as if you love the taste of it.

soonyoung doesn’t wait after that. he can’t wait after that. without letting your lips separate, he guides you back into his room, careful to keep you from tripping over the threshold and all the crap he left on the floor when he was busy having his pity parties.

he lays you in his bed gently, thankful that even though it’s unmade, he at least had the housekeeper wash his sheets. he lays on top of you, trying not to let his weight crush you, but when you wrap your arms around him, you press him to your body as close as it can possibly go, and after he releases his entire weight on you, you hold him like even that still isn’t close enough.

it’s all so much. after spending so long hoping you’d one day want him even a fraction as much as he wants you, tasting the excitement on you and feeling the adoration in your hands as they feel every surface of his body they could reach—it’s so much.

it wears down his self-restraint.

you don’t seem to mind, though, because when he runs his tongue along your lips, asking permission for more, you open your mouth immediately. and when his tongue slips in and meets yours, the moan he gets back is so loud and uninhibited and hot, he feels it in his dick.

you giggle a little, and though you recover quickly and continue trying to make out with him after that, the sound delights him enough that he stops to look at you. your makeup is tear stained and your eyes are still a little red, but you look worlds different than you did just a few minutes ago. there’s no tightness in your smile, no devastation in your eyes, no anger furrowed into your brows. when he looks at you this close, he realizes he’s never seen you this happy, this excited, or this light—like you’ve been relieved of a burden that was too heavy for you. but really, the most different thing about you now is that you just look like you’re his.

“what’s so funny, hm?” he asks, resting his forehead on yours. at the start of this night, he didn’t think he would ever hear you giggle again.

“nothing,” you claim, even though your voice still has traces of amusement somewhere in there. your hand snakes up into his hair and starts scratching his scalp. he hums at the sensation. “i love you, soonyoung.”

he lifts his forehead to look at you. it’s his millionth time hearing you say that. it’s the first time he’s hearing it in the context he’s wished to hear it for the last decade.

you love him. you love him. you love him.

“i’ve always loved you,” you announce unabashedly. “from the very start.”

in retrospect, the proper thing to do would’ve been to tell you he loved you too—so much that he didn’t even know how to process it well enough to attempt to put it into words. but instead, he pushes himself off you, slightly ashamed that your confession made his dick go from semi-hard to rock hard in record time, but insanely elated (and painfully and obviously turned on) at the idea of you having spent your entire friendship loving him just as much.

when he sits back, his pants uncomfortably pull against his erection, and he winces, glancing down at it and silently scolding it to stop embarrassing him and have some goddamn decorum.

he clears his throat and looks back at you, where you’re now propped up on your elbows, smiling at his crotch like it’s already yours. it ruins him.

soonyoung is going to tell you he loves you. and sure, you already know because he already did, but now he gets to tell you knowing you feel the same. so he’s going to tell you, and he’s going to say it over and over and over again, but once he does, he gets the feeling that he won’t want to stop at just kissing you.

he knows it’s probably a lot—to go from what you were to… this, and on top of that, lose your first kiss. and even though you made it clear that he’s the only reason you even remained a virgin, he doesn’t want to assume you’re ready to do something as big as have sex for the first time tonight too.

soonyoung wishes he could be a bigger person than the horny teenager he feels like right now. he wishes he could stop this for the both of you and insist on having a conversation first before things get any further like a proper adult would. but you want him and you love him, and it’s driving him absolutely fucking crazy, and if he gets any harder, his dick is going to start hurting.

“how far?” he asks, his voice so pathetically needy, he wants to die. “i don’t want you to feel rushed or pressured. i just…” he falters, trying to find a way to say this without making it sound like it’s all he wants from you. “we wasted so much time.” not a great start. “and i—”

“all the way,” you say, a coy smile on your lips when you interrupt him. his pants stretch even tighter.

it’s clear he was worrying for nothing; from the way you look at him, he knows you understand what he’s desperately trying to say and failing.

he watches you with heavy-lidded eyes as you lay yourself back down and wrap your legs around his torso, doing nothing when your already short dress rides all the way up to expose you.

“please,” you add on so sweetly, he groans. he won’t be lasting long at all tonight.

soonyoung rests his hands on your thighs, thumbs instinctively rubbing circles into the soft skin there as he tries to take a moment to process everything in front of him. he knows if he doesn’t, the excitement will paint over his memories with zero remorse, and all he’ll remember is that it happened—not what he said, did, or heard. and this is absolutely something he needs to remember.

he has to remember the way your knees quickly and easily fall apart and away from each other at his touch—almost like they’re sighing in relief at his arrival. he has to remember how your lower back arches and your pelvis wriggles underneath his fingertips before he’s even really done anything to you. soonyoung’s gaze rakes over your figure, taking note of every, little thing he can, when finally, they land on something that lays his fears to rest.

because there is no way he’ll ever forget the moment his eyes found the space between your legs. he stares at you now—right on the spot where your panties are already drenched with your arousal. soonyoung doesn’t care how overwhelming his excitement is right now; there is simply no possible way his brain will be able to gloss over this no matter how many years pass: the moment he saw physical evidence of just how much you craved him and needed him. how much you’ve deprived yourself of him.

and now, he gets to give you anything and everything you want from him.

his hands begin to travel up your thighs, goosebumps following the trail of his fingertips. he stops just shy of your cunt, trying to breathe deeply enough to calm his thunderous heartbeat. if he gets too lost in this, he’ll cum in his pants, and he will never forgive himself.

he stares hard at your desire, just barely able to keep from screaming when he realizes the dark spot is slowly growing the longer he sits there, unmoving. you squirm under him, and his hands involuntarily squeeze in response. your thighs are plush in his grasp, so full and beautiful, your flesh is forcing its way into the spaces between his fingers and turning white from hard he grips you.

don’t fucking cum right now, you loser, he thinks hard to himself. you cannot cum before anything happens during your first time with y/n. he exhales deeply and slowly. i will literally kill you if you cum right now.

he’s so tempted to look you in the eye just to see if you’re struggling even a fraction of the amount that he is, but he knows eye contact with you right now will just set his progress back.

when he’s mostly confident he won’t immediately finish in his pants, he has to swallow the idiotic smile that threatens to take over his entire face. finally, soonyoung gives in and he moves. just one finger, pressed against the part of your panties that sinks just a tiny bit more than the rest—right where he plans to be in the next few minutes, stuffing you full as far as he’ll go.

as soon as you feel his fingertip brush against your entrance, your hole pulses like it’s trying to clamp around something bigger than his finger that isn’t there. he feels some of the control he has on that pathetic smile of his slip, and as if it’s an avalanche, the rest of his control comes crashing down. without thinking about it, his finger sinks the tiniest bit deeper as he drags it up your slit, the wetness from your panties catching on his skin ever so slightly.

when his finger finds and presses on your clit, you begin uncontrollably writhing and gasping beneath him, and his eyes tear themselves away from your cunt long enough to finally meet your gaze. you look at him with so much lust and love and longing—all of it so loudly desperate—he completely loses track of where his finger is and what it’s doing. all he wants to do is latch his lips onto yours again and say what he should’ve at least ten times by now: that he loves you.

so instead of rubbing your clit until he teases your first orgasm out of you like he planned to, he removes his hand from your center so that he can lean forward and kiss you senseless. but as soon as his touch leaves you, a strangled whine forces its way up your throat and past your lips, making him laugh immediately.

“what?” you ask, your eyes narrowing at him. it should invoke fear in him, but he’s too endeared for that. “why are you laughing?! did i do something embarrassing?”

soonyoung scoffs as he brings himself over you. “‘embarrassing’? no, baby.” he rolls his eyes. “your neediness is not ‘embarrassing.’ it’s fucking hot.”

you turn the prettiest shade of pink. “shut up.”

he grins. “gladly.”

soonyoung kisses your nose, enjoying the shade of pink it turned under your blush. then, he kisses your lips, just for a moment so that he can lean back and look you in the eye when he says:

“i love you. i love you so god damn much, i thought i was going to die having to leave you.”

he knows it’s dramatic, but he was convinced that’s exactly what was happening to him not even an hour ago. the thought of doing life without you by his side made everything look and feel so colorless and dull and boring and ugly. dead was as good a word as any to describe what his life would look like without you.

“you’re not leaving me,” you say so matter-of-factly, the smile it brings to his face hurts his cheeks. he was so dumb to think he could; even if he had all the strength in the world to end your friendship, you would’ve never let him off the hook that easily.

“i’m not,” he says.

soonyoung gets to work covering you in as many kisses as humanly possible, his lips pressing against your mouth, jaw, neck, collarbone—wherever you have skin, his lips are all over it. your gasps and moans reach a fever pitch, and he figures it’s time to stop making you wait.

“you tell me if you want to stop, okay?” he asks, lips brushing against your ears as he speaks. “and we’ll stop, no questions asked.”

you nod so eagerly—so obediently—he can’t help but smirk. his tongue darts out to lick your lobe and bring it between his teeth to nip at before he starts kissing his way down your body.

“you sound so pretty,” he tells you as you continue to make sure he knows exactly how good you feel. all moans and groans and whispered begging. “exactly how i imagined you’d sound.” his lips graze your already hard nipples through the fabric of your dress and he earns another loud whimper. “fuck, even better actually.”

he pulls your dress down and off one shoulder to expose the breast he was just teasing, and when he sees you bare, he hangs his head, letting his forehead meet your chest as he grunts loudly.

what is my life? he thinks to himself. this is literally insane.

soonyoung flattens his tongue against your nipple, and you inhale sharply, your hips immediately bucking up. he doesn’t realize his eyes have fluttered closed until he opens them to look at you and make sure you’re okay. from the way your eyes roll into the back of your head and your mouth hangs open in dazed ecstasy, he thinks it’s safe to assume you’re okay.

“soonyoung.”

god, his name sounds so good when you say it, especially when you say it like this.

“fuck,” he grumbles against your tit. he swears his dick is throbbing from how hard you have him.

“lower! please, god, lower!” you order him.

“whatever you want,” he breathes against your skin.

but he’s not moving before he has the chance to leave a tiny, little something that can lay claim to you—something only he and you will see. he presses his hand against the side of your breast, groaning at how full you are in his palm. he leans down and bites into the flesh just above your nipple. your hips jerk up as he sucks on the spot just long enough that he knows it will stay a few days. he smiles when he releases you, the hickey already turning a beautiful purple.

“pretty,” he mutters. he wants to cover you in them. he kisses the mark gently before removing the other strap of your dress.

with the bottom of your dress completely ridden up and the top half bunched around your waist, you’re almost completely naked, and already, soonyoung can hardly refrain from jumping off his bed and running around the room screaming.

fucking breathe, bro.

he gently lifts your hips up and off the bed so that he can slip both your dress and your ruined panties off your body in one go. once he does, all the refraining he’s been doing tonight comes to a brusque end.

“oh my god!” he shouts, burying his face into your clothes and groaning into them. “i can’t believe this is my life right now, oh my god.”

soonyoung presses your clothes against his eyes so hard, he thinks he should see stars, but still, all he can see are your perfect tits and your bare, glistening cunt and the sensual look in your eyes like they’re all forever burned into his retinas. or maybe his eyes are open?

he blinks and brings your clothes down just enough to be able to take a peek at you. nope, the image of your naked body in his bed are definitely just burned into his eyeballs.

“oh my god, i really have you naked in my bed right now, oh my god oh my god oh my god.” he probably says it 20 more times. he’s not sure.

“soonyoung!” you berate his behavior the way you always do. he smiles into your dress because even as everything is literally changing before his eyes… nothing has. you’re still his best friend, pretending to get mad at him for being silly. he knows from the fond way you look at him that you aren’t mad at all. “focus! come on, you’re just teasing me now. please.”

“okay, okay!” he says, voice muffled by your dress. “i’m so sorry, i’m not trying to tease you, i swear. i just…” he stammers, unable to stop the whole bunch of nothing that comes spilling out of his mouth. “i’m—just, i—it’s just, like… what?” the question comes out as a laugh. “y’know?”

you raise an eyebrow at him and he realizes he isn’t really sure what he’s asking you.

“like, what the actual fuck?” he adds like that will help explain.

you groan. “it’s crazy how quickly you go from sex god to loser.”

soonyoung feels his face immediately fall into a glare—one you’re used to seeing whenever you two bicker. “you know…” he says, eyes narrowed at you. “my favorite thing about you has always been your patience.”

he throws your clothes aside, hands going to his shirt to begin unbuttoning it.

“good thing i have a lot of it then,” you claim. your bratty smirk falls right off your face as you watch him slowly undress.

“right.”

when he shrugs his shirt off and lets it join your clothes on the floor, your eyes widen like you’re seeing him shirtless for the first time. your eyes sweep up and down his torso, your chest heaving as you begin to breathe harder, and it almost makes him shy—almost makes him want to hug himself and jokingly tell you to stop ogling him like a piece of meat. but he also enjoys it more than anything.

so many times you’ve been half naked together, wearing swimsuits at the beach or at the pool, and although he’s relished having your eyes on him before, this feels different. you stare at him shamelessly now, making no move to avert your eyes the way you used to. this is where he would make a joke to lighten the mood—to give you an out from a situation you might feel caged in by.

this time, he just allows himself the space to revel in this feeling of being adored.

“wait,” you say suddenly when he stands up off the bed and his hands start undoing his belt. you crawl over to him, completely naked, and he thinks he might have a heart attack watching you on all fours like this.

“change your mind? it’s fine if you do,” he assures you, already fastening his belt before his dick can get any more ideas about where the night is going.

“no,” you laugh as you rest your hands on top of his. “i’m not going to change my mind, soonie.”

you sound as sure as he does about this. it relaxes him immediately. you smile at him before you press your naked body against his, tangle your hands in his hair, and bring his face down to lock lips with you again. he holds you delicately as your tongues slide against each other—different from how he’s pressed, tugged, and groped at you tonight. he forces himself to be gentler. he forces himself to slow down and enjoy the feeling of being in love with you openly.

he says as much. “i love you. oh my god, i love you. holy shit.”

“don’t start with the loser behavior again, please,” you mutter against the kiss. he wants to laugh, but he doesn’t dare leave your lips. “but i love you too.”

soonyoung doesn’t think he’ll get tired of hearing it. the past 10 years of his life have led up to this moment. it will take so much more than that for him to ever get used to the feeling of you telling him you love him.

he rests his forehead against yours and smiles. “i’m so happy.”

“me too, soonie.”

he watches as your hands leave his hair and travel down his chest, taking their time to trace every line and curve of every muscle. you finish the job of undoing his belt and unbuttoning his jeans, and that’s about all he can take before he decides it’s time to stop holding back.

before you can even touch his zipper, he grabs your face and kisses you roughly, tongue twisting with yours immediately. he kisses you like he’s held his breath for 10 years and you’re air. you kiss him back the same, exact way.

he finishes undressing, kicking his pants away and wasting no time picking you up, your legs wrapping around his waist as he does. his cock twitches violently once it’s sandwiched between you and his stomach, and he has you laying back in his bed in mere seconds.

our bed, a voice in his head reminds him. a bed we can share. if you want.

when you tear yourself away from him to catch your breath, your eyes immediately go south, and he doesn’t have to follow your gaze to know what you’re gaping at.

“see something you like?”

you don’t even pretend to hear what he said. “uh, what?”

it inflates his ego to unprecedented levels, but he doesn’t gloat and annoy you the way he usually would. mostly because his laughs are cut off with your frantic begging.

“soonyoung,” you whisper so suddenly and seriously, he freezes. “put it in me.”

the order catches him by so much surprise, he laughs even harder than before. “i can’t just put it in you.”

you shove him and he pushes off the bed to put some space in between you. he looks at you, amused. “what?! what do you mean you can’t just put it in me?” you sound the most offended he’s ever heard you. “is that not how sex works? you put that in me? like… over and over again?

“baby, please,” his laughs are bordering on uncontrollable wheezing. “you’re making this so unsexy.”

“you made it unsexy first!” you complain. “put it in me, soonyoung!”

he wants to keep pretending that this is incredibly unsexy, but this exchange, however goofy, is just making him want to fuck you even more. “stop saying that!”

“why?! you keep making me wait!”

the way you complain and beg makes soonyoung briefly forget that you’re losing your virginity, and he isn’t letting that happen without proper foreplay first—without getting at least one orgasm out of you.

“pu—”

before you can tell him to put it in you again, he presses his hand against your mouth. “okay!” he says, raising his voice to drown out your muffled pleas. “okay! shhh. relax, and i will. alright?” your eyes widen and he feels a burn in his stomach when he sees the submission in them. you nod. “good girl.”

you moan into his hand and grind your hips up into his.

“oh, you like that?” he asks, smirking. all you do is squirm more.

he releases your mouth, and when you stay silent on your own accord—so willingly compliant—he thinks there are a few things he’d like to try in bed later on down the line.

soonyoung plants a wet kiss on your lips before he rests his hand against your neck, eyes watching as you swallow underneath his fingertips. he thinks you look pretty like this: bare throat adorned by his fingers. he has a passing thought to ask you if you would ever be into being choked, but there’s no fucking way he’d do that during your first time having sex. he lets the thought go, making note of it for a later time.

“so pretty,” he says, finger tapping your lower lip. when you take his finger into your mouth all the way, sucking it and releasing it with a pop, he has to spend a few moments reminding himself he can’t cum already. “jesus christ…” he sighs. he needs to move fast or he will be embarrassing himself tonight. “let me know if i do anything you don’t like, okay?”

you nod quickly—impatiently. your enthusiasm stutters when he doesn’t immediately “put it in” like you’ve been begging. you frown as he pulls away again, but when he settles with his head between your legs, your tune changes immediately.

“oh.”

soonyoung has dreamed about this moment for so long. he’s had obscene, vulgar thoughts about you—thoughts he would touch himself to. he’s spent an embarrassing amount of nights moaning your name while vigorously grinding into his fist, and all it took for him to cum was the thought of tasting you. he didn’t even have to think about fucking into your pussy or how wet you would be or how warm you would feel—all he thought about was eating you out until you came all over his face, and that would do it for him.

if he was looking to get a quick orgasm, maybe release some frustration from a day spent hanging out with you, he’d just rub one out in the shower. but if it was one of those nights he was tossing and turning, thinking about how much he loved you and how much he wanted you to be his, he’d throw his blankets off, grab a bottle of lotion, a box of tissues, and sometimes, when he was feeling especially depraved, his favorite photos he’s taken of you. there was something about looking at photos no one else has seen of you—no matter how ordinary or innocent—that turned him on.

his daydreams always started with getting you sinfully wet. yes, with your own arousal, but with his spit too. he’d massage it into your clit, mixing the both of you and your pleasures together until your hips are bucking and shoving your needy cunt in his face. then, he’d give in and lap your clit gently and the first taste would send his eyes rolling into the back of his head. he would try to stay cool and composed, but realistically, he knew tasting you would send him into a frenzy.

he’d already be close by this point in his fantasies, whining and groaning, his phone and photos of you long forgotten because he has to squeeze his eyes shut to keep from coming before he could finish playing everything out in his head.

because soonyoung couldn’t cum before his favorite part: when he would imagine shoving his face as far in between your legs as he could, extending his tongue as far into you as humanly possible. you’d say his name the way no one has ever said his name. you’d pull at his hair until he was sure you were permanently damaging all of his follicles. sometimes, he’d immediately cum after this. other times, he’d be able to at least get to the part where he starts fucking you with his fingers.

on lucky days, he would reach the end of his dreams. by this time, he’d be feverishly tugging on his cock, a mess of sweat and whimpers of your name as he thought about you squirting all over his face. he would drink you up like it’s the fucking elixir of life. you would make the filthiest mess of his face—chin dripping, cheeks sticky, lips swollen and covered in you—and he would thank you for it and beg for more. of course, more would never come because he would make a mess of his own hand after that.

he always felt like a pervert after—always felt so guilty picturing his best friend like this and doing something so dirty with you in mind—but the next night would come and the next night and the next, and he couldn’t think of anything else. anyone else.

and as lewd and impure and delicious and downright euphoric as his fantasies were, nothing could have prepared him for how much fucking better the real thing would feel. how much better the real you would taste.

by the time you cum on his face, not once but twice, he knows this is something he can do for the rest of his life. he would never even need you to fuck him or blow him or give him a handjob; all he literally needs is to devour your cunt any time you’d grant him the privilege to and he’d be a happy man for the rest of his life.

you’re still panting, chest heaving from your orgasms, when soonyoung climbs up over you once more and wraps his arms around your waist, kissing, nipping, licking, and whispering i-love-yous from your collarbone and up until he reaches your lips. he kisses you lightly just in case you don’t want to put your lips on him after he just ate you out, but when you deepen the kiss and hug him even closer, he thinks you might actually like the taste of you on his mouth.

“soonie,” you eventually whisper against him.

“mmm?”

you say something that he’s been wanting to hear for a decade. you confirm something he’s been desperately searching for signs of for your entire friendship. “i want to be yours. i want to be yours so bad.”

he stops peppering you with kisses and watches you carefully, like this all might still be a hallucination that will fade if he gets too lost in the moment. but you remain where you are, looking at him with as much love as he imagines he’s always looked at you. tears gather in your eyes, some escaping the corners. he catches every single one that does, pressing it back into your skin with his finger.

when you give him a small smile to tell him you’re okay—that these are just tears of happiness—he leans in, presses his cheek to yours, and promises you, “then i’ll make you mine.”

just being inside you is enough to make soonyoung want to cry. he does his absolute fucking best not to because you already are and he doesn’t want you to think of anything other than yourself and your pleasure during your first time. but he wants to cry as he buries his face into your neck and slowly pushes into you, only moving whenever you say it’s okay to.

when he woke up today, he did it with swollen eyes from a night spent crying over you. he tortured himself all day, thinking about how every last time he had with you was the last and he didn’t even know it—the last laugh he heard, the last smile he saw, the last time you bickered with him, the last time you told him you loved him. he steeled himself to face your tears or your screaming or whatever else you did to him when he ended your friendship.

at the start of the day, soonyoung was preparing for his life to be over—for you to take every good thing he’s ever had and felt with you when he forced you to walk away.

now, he’s fully buried inside you, forehead resting against yours as you both struggle to adjust to the overwhelming feeling of each other. it’s when you tell soonyoung that after 10 years, there’s nothing that will change your mind about him, that he finally moves.

“oh fuck,” he breathes as he starts rolling his hips, cock dragging in and out of you in an astonishingly seamless fit. “your cunt is perfect.”

you bloom at the praise, and you don’t shy away from returning it, chanting his name over and over again, whispers of how good he feels wherever you can fit them in between—how good he is for you, how he was made for you.

“y/n,” he gasps. he tries to tell you that if you keep saying his name like this—like he’s yours—he’s going to cum inside you. but all that comes out is: “oh my god.”

and all you say is “soonyoung” again and again and again. he’s never put any thought into his birth-given name, but tonight, he decides it’s his favorite string of letters. he never wants to hear you say anyone else’s name. he never wants anyone other than you to say his name. it’s yours and yours alone.

at some point, he can tell you can handle even more, and he pushes up off you, using the headboard as leverage as he pounds into you harder and rougher, rhythm becoming erratic and frenzied. the noises that come out of your mouth are so nasty, he’s on the brim of losing it.

“oh my god. look at you,” he pants, his sweat dripping from his face, his neck, and his chest onto you. a drop lands on the corner of your mouth, and without hesitating, your tongue darts out to lick it up, and he groans.

it’s too much: your neediness, your obedience, your eagerness. your tits—one sporting his hickey—bouncing wildly as he fucks you at a brutal pace. your unbelievably tight cunt, sucking his cock in so desperately, near-strangling it and refusing to let him go.

“so fucking perfect,” he tells you.

you make it clear that you’re not lasting long—that your third orgasm is on the horizon. it’s a bittersweet realization; on one hand, he’s relieved because he’s been holding his own orgasm off since his tongue met your clit. on the other, he never wants to stop fucking you.

but this is just the start, he tries to remind himself. this is just the first time, and there will be so many more now—now that you’re his and he’s yours.

your voice rings loudly in his ears again. i want to be yours so bad.

his voice is hoarse when he asks, “do you feel like you’re mine yet?”

you nod frantically, pussy squeezing tightly around him like the thought is pushing you even closer to finishing. “yes, god, yes. yes!”

“say it,” he demands, eyes never leaving yours. he can’t look away when you look like you would say or do anything for him.

“i’m yours,” you say immediately. “soonie… i’m yours, soonyoung.” his name comes out in a tortured whimper.

“i never want to hear another name come out of your mouth ever again,” he declares. “ah, fuck, holy shit. you feel so fucking good, baby. just for me, huh? oh fuck.” his orgasm is begging to be released, but he refuses to let up until you reach yours. “you’re mine. and i’m yours.”

you barely finish agreeing and calling soonyoung “mine” when your pussy is suddenly and violently quivering around him, pulsing and throbbing as you ride through your third orgasm of the night. the feeling of your climax squeezing around soonyoung is unreal, and he pulls out just in time to avoid coming inside of you, painting your beautiful, soft skin with his bliss.

it feels like it lasts forever, the spurts of white splattering you. he thinks he could get hard again when you let your mouth hang open and catch some of him on your tongue.

“holy shit,” he breathes when he’s tugged himself dry, leaning back and trying to catch his breath. he feels drops of sweat sliding down his body everywhere, his muscles burning deliciously.

soonyoung looks down at you and is pleased to see you covered with him: his cum, his sweat, his spit. he made good on his promise. if you don’t look like his right now, he has no idea what you look like.

“c’mere,” you whine, reaching for him with grabby hands when you have no energy to sit up and actually take hold of him.

he smiles and leans in to kiss you, before retrieving a towel from the bathroom to clean you both up with.

for the rest of the night, you two stay tangled up in each other’s arms and talk about when you fell in love.

you: when you first met him.

him: when you first walked into the room.

neither of you know if the other is telling the truth or if you’re just trying to win the i-loved-you-first competition (you’re both telling the truth).

you talk about what the future looks like. you decide you don’t know for sure, but one thing you’re confident about is that you’ll be facing it together. one thing soonyoung is sure about is that he’ll be making you his wife.

you ask if you can make your anniversary two days from now so it doesn’t land on your birthday. soonyoung asks if you can make it two days prior so that he can forget that he was trying to leave you on your 30th birthday. you agree.

you both run through every big moment either of you can remember being so hopelessly in love with each other, it hurt and what the other person was thinking at that moment. for every memory of yours soonyoung can remember, he’s able to tell you he was suffering just as much as you were. the same is true for you. for every memory he can’t remember, he feels like a kid, giggling and kicking his feet in bed with you hearing about how you were equally, pathetically down bad for him.

your birthday party is long forgotten, traded for an intimate night getting to know each other in drastically different ways than you did as best friends. soonyoung feels like he’s meeting you for the first time again—a privilege he never thought he would be afforded ever again. aside from learning what you liked from your time in his bed tonight, he learns a lot.

like for one, you actually are very into physical affection, something soonyoung thought you didn’t like displaying since you were constantly shoving him away; you just avoided it because it exacerbated your feelings for him and blurred the lines too much for you. in fact, you stay burrowed into his side the entire night, whining any time he moved a tiny bit away, even when it was just to adjust his position or reach to turn off the lamp. you love playing with his hair and tracing little patterns on his chest (he thinks one of the things you traced was your names together). you constantly thread his fingers with yours and when you get tired of that, you still keep your pinkies linked.

he learns you love hanging out at his apartment more than you like the fancy dinners. you feel the most at home with him when you’re actually home with him. you tell him your favorite nights are when you’re in charge of placing a food delivery order at his place while he unwinds from his workday, showering and changing (and unbeknownst to you, probably jacking off in the shower to make sure he doesn’t accidentally get hard while you two hang out). you say it feels like you’re his wife and this is your home too. the sentiment is enough to make him tear up, and you, of course, tease him mercilessly once a fat teardrop lands on your head.

by the time the sun is rising, soonyoung realizes you both have rewritten siquijor in the confines of his bedroom. all the miscommunication (or absolute lack thereof) and the pain and heartbreak have been replaced. from where you two lay in bed, he watches the sun’s rays start to reach into the sky, turning it stunning shades of orange, pink, purple, and blue, and for the first time in seven years, he doesn’t cringe away from it and the feelings of loneliness it used to bring. he doesn’t feel heartbroken all over again like he used to.

this time, the sun rises, and soonyoung feels so ridiculously happy. you quietly watch the sky with him, and he thinks you know what he’s thinking of as you continuously trace hearts, one after the other, never-ending, into his skin.

“it’s a new day,” you say quietly.

“it is,” he agrees, his heart full. “it’s a new day, and i love you even more than i did yesterday.”

you hug him tighter to you even though there is literally no space between you.

“i love you, soonie.” you yawn. “is it time to say good night?”

“it’s morning, baby.”

“no, we didn’t go to sleep. it’s definitely still night.”

he grins and doesn’t bother arguing with that logic. he moves to get out of bed, but you immediately lock your arms so he can’t. he snorts. “i’m just going to pull the curtains so we can sleep.”

you sigh like it’s still an inconvenience, but you release him all the same. “fine. you should get, like, a remote for them or something. isn’t that what rich people do?”

he rolls his eyes as he gets up and closes the curtains, bidding the sunrise—the best of his life—a farewell for now. “rich people stay rich by not buying things they don’t need, baby.”

“i don’t think so,” you disagree, arms opening again for soonyoung to lay back in.

“you know what, whatever you say,” he says as you kiss all the skin you can reach from where you hug him. he preens at the feeling. “you’re always right.”

you hum, smiling against him. “good boyfriend.”

“soon-to-be husband,” he mutters before yawning.

you giggle the same way you have been every time he’s corrected you tonight. “soonie-be-husband.”

he scoffs. “boo,” he heckles you. “bad! get off the stage!” you laugh harder, and it coaxes a soft smile out of him as he watches you.

“best friend” doesn’t seem like such a bad title in this moment anymore. he thinks he gets it now that he’s able to call you even more than that; it’s such an honor to be able to be both your boyfriend and your best friend now. it’s such an honor to be able to build something more on a foundation of friendship as strong as the one he shares with you.

when the laughter subsides, you both sigh, sinking into the bed further and getting comfortable.

“good night, love of mine,” he says, kissing the top of your head.

“mine,” you repeat like you can’t get enough of the sound of it. “yours.”

soonyoung smiles and his eyes flutter closed with exhaustion, thoughts bleary but still painted with you and the last 10 years as he starts to drift off to sleep. if this is what he gets to have now, whatever pain he withstood and however much time he wasted is nothing to him—just a moot point in the story you’ll both tell for years to come.

he dreams of you two in siquijor that night, this time both of you sober and wrapped in each other and in love, with the rest of your lives ahead of you.

bonus (performance unit group chat):

#svthub #soonyoung x reader #soonyoung x you #seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #seventeen fic #svt scenarios #svt imagines #svt fic #hoshi x reader #hoshi x you #kwon soonyoung #soonyoung #hoshi #HAPPY CLOVER DAYYYYYY 🫶🏼🫶🏼🫶🏼#joshujin fic #bbchoco requests

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