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daechwitatamic · 3 months ago

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You Think You Might - Chapter 1 || csc

(banner by @itaeewon)

You Think You Might (masterpost) Seungcheol x fem!reader angst smut fluff fake dating!au, kind of sort of exes to lovers? Fake exes to lovers? I guess?

NSFW - minors DNI

Summary: Seungcheol agrees to be your fake boyfriend at your sister’s destination wedding, under the condition that it “stays there”. You didn’t expect it to hurt when he holds you to that promise.

WC: 54k total, this chapter 8.5k

Warnings: angst, reader working through some Stuff, language, drinking, Soonyoung is reader’s biological little brother, family drama, kissing, scoups and his ex are mutually toxic when together but neither is villainized, full warning list on the masterpost A/N: thank you to @sailorsoons and @eoieopda for beta-ing, and @kkaetnipjeon for naming almost every background character and teaching me about the Levels of Noona.

May

“Noona? Hello? Are you in there?”

It takes you a second to realize that your little brother Soonyoung is calling you, not snapping out of your reverie until he nudges your knee with his socked foot.

“Huh?” You focus back on the room around you - Soonyoung’s living room, cast in blues from the LEDs along the ceiling’s perimeter and the television, which is currently flashing brightly as his friends Seungcheol and Wonwoo work the controllers in their hands furiously over on the couch. “Sorry, what?”

Soonyoung gives you a little frown. “Chan asked if you want a beer.”

In the kitchen, Chan - Soonyoung’s roommate who is essentially a second little brother to you - waits for your answer, the refrigerator door held ajar.

“Oh. Sure,” you say belatedly. “Thanks.”

Soonyoung’s frown deepens. “You’re being weird today,” he accuses.

“Sorry,” you say immediately, taking a deep drink from the cold beer Chan placed into your hand on his way back to where he’d been sitting. Both Seungcheol and Wonwoo complain loudly - “Yah! Get out of the way!” - as he passes between them and the television screen.

Soonyoung watches your face carefully for a minute, and the scrutiny makes you itch.

“I’m fine,” you insist. “Stop looking at me like that.”

His eyes narrow knowingly. “Is this because of keun-noona?”

He’s got you. Your mind wanders back to the reason you’re so distracted tonight: a thick, silky-feeling, navy blue envelope with silver embossed lettering.

An invitation to your older sister Nayoung’s wedding.

You haven’t seen Nayoung in person in years, nor have the two of you held a conversation of any length since you were a child. A good deal older than you and Soonyoung, she’d moved out for college when you were nine and never looked back.

Part of you doesn’t blame her.

Part of you resents her for getting away before things got bad.

Most of you hates her for including you in the things she chose to leave behind.

You hadn’t opened the invitation, just left it on top of the pile of bills and advertisements, a problem for future you.

“Yes,” you admit. You’re aware of Soonyoung’s friends in the room, but Seungcheol and Wonwoo are deep in their video game and probably not listening.

Chan is, though.

“Are you talking about the fancy wedding?” he asks, perking up.

You roll your eyes. “You got your invite too?” you guess.

The question is for Soonyoung, but Chan answers instead; you’re used to this.

“Yes!” he whines. “I want to go! Did you know she’s paying for the whole family and their dates to stay at the resort? You only have to buy your plane tickets!”

And the dress, and the shoes, and the accessories, and the food, and the drinks, and…

You keep your mouth shut, keep your negativity to yourself. The deal is generous - you’re just salty. “I did know,” you admit. But not because you’d opened the invitation - because your mom had been bragging about it on the phone for weeks now, ever since Nayoung told her the plan.

On the coffee table, a rattling vibration startles everyone, and Seungcheol leans forward to pick up his phone. His expression darkens and he mutters, “Be back in a sec,” before disappearing through the sliding glass door onto Soonyoung and Chan’s tiny balcony, the door sliding closed behind him.

You all exchange looks - you’ve seen this routine for years. Jieun. His on-again-off-again ex, the gift that has kept on giving for years now. You’d all gone to university together, and this was nothing but par-for-the-course.

Chan clears his throat. “Noona, you’re not excited for it? The resort looks really nice.”

You drink more of your beer, suddenly very aware of everyone’s eyes on you. You’ve become the center of attention at guys’ night, and you don’t like it.

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” you say quietly, lowering your gaze to the carpet beneath you.

Chan opens his mouth like he’s going to push the issue, but Soonyoung interrupts.

“Okay,” he says easily. “Hey, did anyone hear about the comet that’s coming?”

“Oh yeah,” Wonwoo says, snapping his fingers once as he leans forward to join the conversation, since he’d paused the game when Seungcheol stepped out. “I heard about it at work today. They said it’s a once-in-a-lifetime event.”

You send your brother a grateful smile, thankful that he changed the subject for you. Soonyoung is a good kid.

He’s only a year younger than you, but it’s always felt like more. He’s always been your baby brother, yours to protect from everything until he got big enough to fend for himself. Even though he’s taller than you, and weirdly muscular now, it’s hard not to see him as the little boy you’d drag under your bed with you when your parents’ fighting led to door-slamming and plate-breaking.

It was you dragging him away from the noise and the anger, always you - never Nayoung. You held this truth like a bitter little treasure in your greedy hands: you’re the sister who was there with him, you’re the sister who held his hand through it. Where was Nayoung during those fire-fed years? Long gone - off living her new life, away from it all. Away from you. Away from you both.

And now you’re supposed to fly across the fucking ocean to watch her - this sister you text happy birthday once a year to fill your annual communication quota - marry some guy you’ve never even met?

You only know the wedding is across the ocean because it’s all your mother has talked about for the last week: Nayoung’s destination wedding at the beach, and how generous it is of her and her rich fiancé to pay for her family’s stay at the resort, and how beautiful her gown is, and -

Your sullen tirade is interrupted when the sliding glass door opens again, and Seungcheol slinks through, taking his place on the couch and picking up his discarded controller like he’d never even left.

The guys just stare at him, waiting. It takes a minute for him to realize everyone is frozen around him.

“What?” he demands, though there’s not much bite to it. When everyone just stares back at him, he deflates with a sigh. “What?” he repeats, but it’s much more resigned this time.

“You heading out?” It’s Chan who asks this, and so delicately that you’re surprised. Chan isn’t usually the one who handles the delicate conversations. Then again, you’ve always thought Seungcheol had a particularly soft spot for his younger friend.

“In a little bit,” Seungcheol admits, and you can feel the tension in the room, thick and uncomfortable.

“We were talking about the comet,” you pipe up, hoping to diffuse it. “Did you hear about it?”

His eyes flash to you, grateful. Soonyoung had gotten the attention off you minutes ago - you might as well pay it forward.

“Yeah,” he says, as Wonwoo restarts the game they’d paused. “You think we’ll be able to see it from here?”

Soonyoung hums like he’s considering this. “I’m sure we can see it,” he finally says. “But I wouldn’t argue that the view would be better from the countryside.”

“We should rent a place,” you say, though you know it’s a fantasy that won’t come true - Soonyoung’s group of friends (yours, by proxy) have such different schedules and financial situations and travel preferences that they’d never once made any kind of friendcation work out. But it’s nice to imagine getting out of the city together to somewhere slower and quieter, laying out in the grass with the people you’re closest to and watching something that you don’t fully understand pass your little planet by.

“The good places probably booked up weeks ago,” Wonwoo says, not taking his eyes off the tv screen. “Everyone’s gonna have the same idea.”

“True,” you sigh. “Well… it was a fun thought.”

Seungcheol’s phone buzzes on the table again, and he visibly rolls his eyes, jaw tightening. This time he steps out into the hallway instead of the balcony. You can hear his voice, loud and angry, but you can’t make out exactly what’s being said. You don’t need to - this is old news. The only time things are actually calm for Seungcheol are the weeks or months where he and Jieun aren’t speaking. Once they’re speaking, whether they’re actually back together or just fighting again, it’s always like this.

“This is probably it for the night,” Wonwoo says, a little glumly, tilting his chin at the wall that Seungcheol’s phone call is hidden behind. He closes the game they’d been playing and starts looking around to gather his things. “Thanks for the beers.”

“Yeah,” Soonyoung says easily. He fist-bumps Wonwoo goodbye on his way out. As the door opens you can hear Seungcheol’s voice, loud again, and then it’s gone as the door clicks shut.

You and your brother and Chan look at each other in silence for a second. Then, Chan gives a little sigh and starts picking up discarded beer cans from the table, heading past you into the kitchen.

“Hyung, I’m going to use the shower, okay?” he asks, as he disappears into the kitchen.

“No problem,” Soonyoung says, and waits for Chan to disappear down the narrow hallway before turning back to you. “Did you open it? The invitation?”

“No,” you mutter. “I’m pretending that if I don’t open it, I don’t have to go.”

“You don’t have to go,” Soonyoung says easily, like this is actually true. For him, it could be true. He could get away with not attending. After all, he was only eight when Nayoung moved out; he has even less of a relationship with her than you do.

“I wish that were true,” you grouse. You flop backwards, resuming the position you’d abandoned earlier - starfished on his living-room floor, staring at the ceiling fan. “Mom would never forgive me if I didn’t go.”

Soonyoung watches you, a tiny frown on his face. “Will it really be that bad?” he asks, and you know that he wants to understand but genuinely doesn’t. “At the end of the day, it’s a free stay at a beach resort.”

“It’s different for me,” you explain, not for the first time. “You just get to show up and be the cute baby brother and drink and dance and relax and go home again!”

“And you have to build a village with your bare hands?” He raises an eyebrow.

You toss your empty beer can at his knee, but miss. It skids next to the couch and you both leave it there.

“There’s a lot more pressure on me,” you insist. “Mom doesn’t use you as her emotional crutch the way she does to me. With her and Dad both there… she’s gonna be on her worst behavior, and I’m going to be the one responsible for cleaning it up.”

Your brother grimaces. “I’ll try to help,” he offers. “I can try to keep Dad on the other side.”

You purse your lips to display your doubt that this will be enough - but it’s nice of him to try, so you don’t say anything contrary. Instead, you add, “Plus all the distant family - people ask you about college, and your dance crew, and what you want to do next. They ask me why I’m not married with two kids. Like something’s wrong with me.”

Soonyoung winces. He knows it’s true.

You heave a frustrated growl, getting yourself worked up as you imagine the days of family events leading up to the wedding. “When I show up dateless…” You trail off. You don’t even have a good description for how all the aunties and cousins will treat you. You wish you could just be invisible - there in spirit, but immune to the looks and backhanded compliments.

There’s also a sick, tiny part of you that wants to show up Nayoung - look, I turned out great. Look, it doesn’t matter that you left us, I have everything I want. Look, I did just fine without you, look how good I’m doing.

Soonyoung shrugs. “Bring a date, then. Bring Chan!” He snaps his fingers like he’s just solved every problem.

You give him a look. “That’s worse. Can he even drink legally?”

Chan’s voice, muffled, floats down the hallway, shouting something defensive.

“Okay, not Chan then.” Soonyoung is eternally unbothered. “But, seriously - bring someone! They’ll be a lot more chill if you’re there with a boyfriend.”

You hadn’t heard Soonyoung’s door open again, but suddenly Seungcheol is flopping back onto his spot on the couch, his expression dark. You feel yourself flush immediately, embarrassed that he may have heard any of this conversation, and you try to shoot Soonyoung a warning look to drop it.

Unfortunately, the damage is done.

“Boyfriend?” Seungcheol repeats, and you wish the floor would swallow you whole.

You cover your face with your hands as Soonyoung fills him in. “I’m trying to talk noona into taking a date to Nayoung’s wedding.”

Seungcheol looks at you with a small frown; you peek back at him between your fingers.

“You can’t go alone?” he asks. “It’s 2025. Strong, independent women and everything?”

You sigh, uncover your face, and sit back up. This conversation is clearly happening.

“My family are vultures,” you try to explain.

He raises an eyebrow at you, perplexed. From down the hall, something buzzes, loud and demanding. Next to you, Soonyoung pushes himself to standing.

“That’s the laundry,” he says apologetically. “You guys good for a few if I go -?”

“Of course,” you say easily. “Can’t let everything get all wrinkly.”

“You get it,” he says sagely, and vanishes down the hallway, past the kitchen. For a minute, there’s no noise in the apartment except the faint sounds of Chan singing in the shower.

Then, Seungcheol says, “So. Vultures?”

You flush again. “We don’t need to talk about it,” you say. “You’ve got your own shit going on. I can handle my problems.”

He shrugs. “I don’t mind. I’d rather hear about your problems than think about my own right now, actually.” He chuckles dryly at this.

You chew on your bottom lip for a second, unsure.

“What harm can it do?” he asks. “Worst case scenario, you’ll feel better for getting it off your chest. Best case scenario, maybe I’ll have some advice.”

You consider this. It’s vulnerable, letting him peek into your family dynamic, showcasing the parts that hurt you, pointing out the bruises.

“I don’t really know where to start,” you admit. “It’s… there’s some context.”

"So," he says, "start at the beginning."

You take a deep breath. And then you do as he says.

You tell him how Nayoung left when you were nine and Soonyoung eight. How, after, she'd become a once-a-year figure in your life, as elusive as Santa Claus. You tell him about your parents' ugly divorce when you were eleven, the years of broken porcelain and promises that preceded it.

You tell him the truth: that your extended family blames your mother for the split, and (whether it’s true or not) they see your singlehood as evidence that you're just as fundamentally fucked up as she is.

Your voice chokes a little when you say it, and you realize this is something you’ve never articulated to someone else before. But you’re alone in Soonyoung’s familiar living room, and Seungcheol’s gaze on you is serious and careful. It just feels… okay to let this thought out.

"Soonyoung said that if I could get someone to agree to..." You struggle with what word you want. "…to pretend with me, he'd help uphold the lie. Just to, like, make this slightly less shitty for me."

Seungcheol doesn't speak for so long that you get self-conscious. You worry at your bottom lip with your teeth and then murmur, “Sorry. Was that… too much?”

He shakes his head. "I'm just thinking," he explains. Then, he taps his fingertips on his unlit phone screen. “Want me to do it?”

You almost choke on your own spit. “You to - what? To be my pretend boyfriend?”

“Yeah,” he says, lips downturned as he seems to turn this possibility over in his mind. “I mean, you can say no. I’m not trying to be presumptuous. I’m just saying… if you need a friend to help you out, I could.”

You let out a disbelieving little laugh. “Why would you do that? Why - for me?”

His eyes find his phone, as if this is an answer. And, in a way, it is. Jieun. What would this be, for him? Just an escape, a distraction? A way to make her jealous? All of the above?

“We’re friends,” he says, even though before tonight you’re not sure you would have called him your friend - you would have called him Soonyoung’s friend. “You need someone to help you. I think I could handle it.”

You lapse into silence, looking at each other, both thinking.

“I don’t know, Seungcheol,” you say finally. “I really appreciate the offer, but it feels like a big ask. We’d have to like… really fake it. Like, pull out all the stops, not make it weird when we have to act all in love or whatever. I’m not sure I feel comfortable asking that of you.”

He’s looking at you, but the corner of his mouth ticks up, like he’s amused.

"If you think about it,” he says, “It’s actually a pretty good deal. All I have to do is pretend we're in a relationship and pay for my airfare?"

"You probably need a tux," you add quietly.

Seungcheol taps on his mouth as he thinks. “Honestly,” he says slowly, “the idea of four days at a beach resort is really appealing right now.”

“I feel like there’s a but coming.”

Seungcheol smiles, something sheepish about it, like he didn’t mean to let it slip, his dimples peeking at you as he glances sideways as he appears to cross a street.

“But," he says playfully, “I mean, I’m assuming you want to be convincing… I’m figuring it’ll be more than sitting next to you and holding hands sometimes. Right?”

“Yeah,” you admit, thinking about this. “We’d probably have to… kiss and stuff.” You feel like your face is on fire. You clear your throat and then add, “Is that going to make things weird with us? Or with you and Soonyoung? I don’t want to…” Mess everything up.

“I’m not worried about that,” he admits. There’s something in his tone that you latch onto.

“What are you worried about?” you ask, eyes narrowed.

He nods, looking at his hands instead of at you for a minute. “When we come home, it’s back to normal, right?”

The question takes you aback. “I mean, yeah,” you say uneasily. “That’s the whole point. It’s pretend, just for a few days.”

“It’s just,” he huffs, pulling the black beanie off his head and ruffling his hair so that it falls to frame his face before pulling back on, “it’s important to me that we agree ahead of time - all that stuff stays there. It stays pretend.”

This makes you frown. “I think I’m offended,” you say seriously. “What, are you scared I’m going to fall in love with you, Seungcheol? Please. I’ve heard you fart, right here in my brother’s living room.”

He drops his phone and goes scrambling for it, and behind you Soonyoung re-enters the room with a basket full of laundry. He plops it down in front of the chair he’d been in earlier and starts folding. Out of habit, you reach over and grab a few items to help.

“If any of this is Chan’s,” you say seriously, “I don’t want to know.” Out of the corner of your eye, you watch as Seungcheol straightens back up, phone back in his hand, his face somehow both mortified and outraged.

You think about his offer. Could it work? Doesn’t this always, always go wrong? Doesn’t it always start with “don’t fall in love with me” and end with someone crying? Even if that didn’t happen - could you fake being lovey with Seungcheol?

Could you hold his hand, kiss him in front of your family, call him oppa and make googly eyes across a table? Could you ever go back to normal after that, or would you want to go up in embarrassed flames forever, every time you saw him again?

Probably. Right?

You regard him calmly with one eyebrow raised. “It stays there,” you tell him. “It’s only four days. We should be okay.”

Soonyoung looks back and forth between you, something knowing dawning on his face.

“Alright,” Seungcheol says finally. “I think I might be in. Text me the dates?”

“Sure,” you say, adrenaline starting to rush through you, along with relief. "And… thank you.”

Soonyoung’s head still looks like he’s watching ping-pong.

“If you wanna repay me,” Seungcheol says, a sneaky smile crossing his face, that dimple deepening, “you can cover half of my plane ticket.”

A laugh startles out of you. “Done,” you agree.

Soonyoung’s eyebrows fly up, and he’s able to suppress himself no more. “You’re doing it?” he asks, looking at you even though the question is worded for Seungcheol. “You’re going together?”

“I guess?” you say. “Maybe?”

“We can talk more about it,” Seungcheol says, but this is directed at you. He stands, sliding his phone into his back pocket and grabbing his keys from the coffee table. “I have to go, but… I’ll text you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” you say. “Sure. Thanks.”

He gives you a quick smile, knocks Soonyoung’s shoulder in goodbye, and heads out.

In the silence he leaves - Chan’s done singing down in the bathroom, apparently - you let out all your breath and flop back onto the carpet. You can feel Soonyoung’s gaze on you, so you peek sideways at him.

“What?” you snap.

“What?” he asks innocently, shaking out a pair of slacks and folding them along the seams.

You shake your head. “I really don’t know about this.”

He scowls at you. “Don’t be like that. It would take some of the pressure from the aunties off, and you might actually - gasp - have fun some of the time.”

You scowl back. “None of this is going to be fun.”

“Not with that attitude, it’s not,” he quips. Then, “I think Seungcheol-hyung could really help. And you know I won’t blow your cover.”

And do know that. He’s a good kid.

You leave the envelope unopened. Work gets busy; you lose yourself in your routine until your mother brings up Nayoung’s nuptials again, letting you know that she received her invitation and inquiring if you received yours.

You don’t tell her that it’s sat unopened on your kitchen table for over a week.

June

You text Seungcheol with some regularity for a few weeks. You send him screenshots of plane times and ticket prices, he sends you tux options, you send the resort’s website, he sends memes. Then, as the actual logistics get settled and handled, it slowly drops off until you’re back to not texting at all.

When you can delay it no longer, you fill out your RSVP card and send it back to your sister, indicating that you and your plus-one will both attend. You should have expected her to rat you out, but you’re somehow caught by surprise when your mother calls five days later and demands, “So who exactly is this date you’re bringing to Nayoung’s wedding?”

Panic floods you. “What do you mean?” you ask, mostly to buy time. You take a big breath, will your heart to quit pounding, and try to think clearly. The best way through this is to stay calm and immoveable.

“You sent in your RSVP card indicating you are bringing someone named Choi Seungcheol?” your mother asks, her syllables clipped and irritated. She’s mad, you’re sure, that she doesn’t know who this is.

You’re about to make her more mad.

“Yeah?” you say, trying to keep your tone light, as if you’re confirming something obvious. “What’s the question?”

Your mother lets out an aggravated huff of breath. It crackles through the phone, makes you wince. “Well, who is he?”

You let a silence fall between you - as if you’re confused by the question. “Mom,” you say finally, acting like you’ve never acted before, your tone just bordering on confused, “that’s my boyfriend.”

Now the silence on the line isn’t forced. It lasts for so long that you eek out a timid, “Mom?”

“Your boyfriend,” she repeats, flatly.

“I thought you knew,” you say, trying to sound unbothered.

There’s another long silence, one that you don’t like at all.

“Sweetheart,” she says finally, and you almost shiver from how threatening the endearment is. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not lying,” you retort hotly, and the feeling of indignation is so strong in you that it’s easy to forget that… yes, you are.

You can hear her roll her eyes.

“You’ve never mentioned a boyfriend,” she says flatly now, and you hear it for the accusation it is.

“You didn’t ask,” you point out.

Another silence. You wait this one out. When she speaks again, voice still cold, she says, “Well. I look forward to meeting this young man.”

“We’re looking forward to it, too,” you say, and then silently congratulate yourself for the automatic we, something that you’d probably do with a serious boyfriend.

She doesn’t talk to you for the next six days, but you take what you can get.

Then, about a week and a half before the trip, Soonyoung texts you.

Brother of mine: so how did you and hyung start “dating” Brother of mine: whats the story

You stare at your phone blankly, part of you wondering how you hadn’t realized you’d need to get your story straight, and the other part wondering how your dumb little brother did.

You: it has been brought to my attention that we might be asked questions about… “us” Seungcheol: 🤔 You: idk things like how we “got together”, how long we’ve been together, that kind of shit Seungcheol: youve been secretly in love with me since freshman year of college, obviously You: sure sure but when YOU realized you were secretly in love with ME how did you make your move? You: weren’t you worried that my brother would kick your ass? Seungcheol: TELL ME THAT’S A JOKE

You catch yourself laughing out loud. Then you send, “so how long have we been together? six months? a yr?”

Seungcheol: let’s say it’ll be ten months soon? feel like thats less suspicious You: you gonna propose soon? Seungcheol: ok calm down

You laugh again, then flush with embarrassment as if anyone were there to catch you.

You: we saw each other around soonyoung’s place a lot until you finally asked me out? Seungcheol: why do i have to do it You: my family knows i’m a chicken lmao

You nail down the details of your first “date” (an outdoor concert and then a walk along the river, complete with food from the streetcarts), as well as a few other key details.

Seungcheol: your mom won’t think it’s weird that she didn’t know you were dating someone? You: seungcheol… are you admitting that you’re a mama’s boy?? Seungcheol: i told my mom about you after the first date 🥲 You: she asked me about it when I sent in our rsvp card, actually. I told her you’re my boyfriend but she didn’t ask any follow-ups. You: honestly i dont think she fully believes me but… we can handle it Seungcheol: lay it on extra thick around your mom, got it Seungcheol: my mom LOVES you, by the way

You catch yourself snickering again and try to school your face back into neutrality, scolding yourself silently. You never knew that talking with Seungcheol could be this easy - you seem to be much on the same wavelength. It’s pleasant, and kind of interesting.

You: if we get asked anything that we didn’t cover, just let me answer Seungcheol: what if i’m alone You: oh that’s easy You: never leave my side :)

July

“Fancy meeting you here.”

You turn in your seat at the airport bar just in time to see Seungcheol drop into the empty spot next to you, dropping a black backpack into the small space between your seat and his.

You can’t help but smile at his teasing. “Flying makes me nervous,” you admit. “And before you start to tell me that flying is safer than driving or whatever, I’m not scared of the plane crashing. It’s just all the people. I hate crowds.”

He squints at you a little, reaching up to push his hood back an inch on his head. “I’m starting to think I’m just here to be your people buffer.”

You squint back, mocking. “I thought I made that very clear. Certain people specifically.”

You keep up this pretend face-off until the bartender comes over, and Seungcheol orders a beer.

“You’re also here so I’m not drinking alone,” you say, smiling. “How was the traffic?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “There was an accident or something… we were just sitting there. My Uber driver literally jumped a curb to get us around it.”

“Jeez. I’m glad you made it.”

“I take my people buffer duties very seriously.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. You sip at your drink, looking at him out of the corner of your eyes. He looks good today, as usual, and you wonder how awkward it will be when you have to start the fake shit.

When your boarding time rolls around, you amble together towards the gate, patting your pockets and checking for phones and airpods and wallets.

“Got everything?” you ask, as you join the back of the line of your boarding group.

He nods, popping in one of his earbuds, fixing his hoodie absently. Then, he reaches the other bud towards you, an offering.

Giving him a tiny smile, you reach out and take it.

You’re about halfway down the plane when you find your row. You glance at the boarding pass on your phone and realize you’re the aisle seat. You glance behind you, where Seungcheol is keeping a polite distance, his eyes scanning the row numbers.

“Hey,” he says suddenly, coming a little closer, “do you mind if we switch? I like to be on the aisle - the inside feels too cramped.”

You slip into the row and take the window seat as requested, fighting a little smile as you slip your bag under the seat in front of you.

“What?” he asks as he slides in next to you, clocking your little smile.

“Nothing,” you say. But you’d been about to ask him if you could have the window. He’d beaten you to it.

When the plane takes off, your stomach swooping as the earth detaches beneath you, you lean back against your seat and close your eyes happily. Bass-heavy music thumps in your left ear, and you glance over at Seungcheol, grateful for all of it - his companionship, his music, his presence.

“Hey,” you say.

He glances over, one eyebrow quirked.

“What’s your favorite color?” you ask.

Seungcheol laughs quietly, aware of the people around him. “You think someone will ask you that?”

“Probably not,” you admit. “But I realized I don’t know.”

He indulges you for a little, trading little details - dark blue. jajangmyeon. winter. gaming. seventeen, but I tell people fifteen. - until you lapse back into silence. You look out the window for a while, fingers tapping on the tops of your legs to the music playing in one ear, watching the light at the end of the plane’s wing flash on and off in a steady rhythm.

You don’t notice when Seungcheol falls asleep, but when you glance at him after a while he is - eyes closed, mouth open just slightly. You smile - it’s kind of cute - and when the snack cart rolls by you ask for a second packet of pretzels in case he wants them when he wakes up. You’re surprised into stillness when he shifts in his sleep, his shoulder coming to lean heavily on yours, but you don’t move away. You just flick a finger up the lone earbud he’d given you, turning the music up one notch, and close your eyes, still smiling faintly.

—

Seungcheol’s sleepy blinks when the plane touches down - jostling you both so hard that you grab his arm for a second before letting go just as fast - make something flutter below your diaphragm. You staunchly ignore it, instead offering him back the earbud he lent you so he can slide it into the case with his own.

It takes a long time to actually deboard the plane, and you both walk in silence through the airport, following the baggage claims signs. He’s quiet because he’s still waking up, you think. You’re quiet because you’re one step closer to seeing your family, and your heart is starting to thump in advance.

You two exist quietly through the whole process - waiting for the bags to come out on the carousel, waiting for a driver to pick up your ride, the twenty-minute drive to the resort during which you can’t see anything outside the car’s windows due to how dark it is outside.

You text Soonyoung that you’re pulling in as your driver pauses at the resort’s security booth, giving the name of Nayoung’s fiancé. The gate lifts and the car glides in, coming to a stop at the front door.

“Room’s under your name?” Seungcheol asks quietly, as you thank your driver and head through the resort’s main entrance.

“Mhm,” you say, glancing at your phone to see if your brother has answered. He hasn’t.

You go to the front desk, where you’re greeted brightly. You give your name, and then your credit card for incidentals. Once the front desk worker has talked you through everything you need to know - breakfast hours and location, how to connect to the wifi, etc. - you lead Seungcheol to the elevator bay. You don’t realize you’re showing your nerves, but he must catch the way you exhale slowly to expel your anxiety, because he bumps you with his elbow.

“You good?” he asks.

You smile sheepishly, embarrassed at being called out. “Nervous, I guess. It’s starting. We’re here. It’s too late to say just kidding - we have to go through with this.”

The light comes on above Elevator 4 and you shift closer to the metal doors. The elevator slides open and you both wheel your bags inside. Once the doors are closed, Seungcheol meets your eyes in the mirrored wall.

“What are you most nervous about?” he asks, something almost gentle in the question.

Getting caught in the lie, you think immediately. Getting called out on it. My family seeing right through the bullshit because they know I can’t be someone’s partner, not the way we’re pretending.

You simplify. “Getting caught,” you admit.

He nods, like this is very fair. Maybe it is. “We won’t get caught,” he says.

He sounds sure, but you know he can’t promise that. “You don’t know my family,” you say reproachfully.

“We’ve got this,” he promises. Then, inexplicably, he reaches for your hand and gives it a squeeze. “I am fully planning to wife you up someday, and not a soul here will doubt it.”

The shock of this makes you laugh, and that’s all it takes for the anxiety to release its death grip on you, to simmer down into something more ignorable. You shoot him a grateful look. “Are you prepared to talk me down for three more days?”

“Two and a half, I think,” he teases, as he releases your hand. “You’ll be okay once we head to the airport on Sunday.”

“That’s true,” you agree. “I might actually be fun by then.”

“You’ll be fun before that,” he says, giving you a small, sideways smile. The elevator dings, the doors slide open, and the moment dissipates. You take a breath and grab your bag, heading into the brightly lit hall.

Inside, the room is great, with a bathroom bigger than you have at home and an oceanview balcony. The only setback is the bed - one solitary King-size - but you’d both known this ahead of time and had talked it out, agreeing on making a Blanket Wall in the middle and being grown-up about it.

You unpack a little bit - plugging in your tablet, tossing your toiletries bag onto the bathroom counter, and then wander to the sliding-glass door that leads to the balcony. You crack it open and slip through, greeted by the sound of crashing waves.

You feel instantly more at peace. Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you check it to see that Soonyoung and his date (whom you realize you know nothing about) are at one of the resort bars on the main level. You text him that you might join, and go back to breathing in the salty sea air, feeling calmer than you have in the last six hours.

“Hey,” Seungcheol says, and you realize he’s hanging halfway through the doorway, holding onto the doorframe for balance. “Neither of us had dinner. Should we try to find food?”

Your stomach growls on cue.

“Soonyoung is down at one of the bars,” you say. “Want to see if their kitchen is still open?”

You change shirts in the bathroom just to get the airplane smell off, and then the two of you wander back to the elevators, following signs that lead to the bar.

This particular bar has some indoor seating but seems to open out onto the resort’s private beach. You spy Soonyoung perched on the outside half, a drink with a pineapple slice and a little blue umbrella in his hand. Then you spy who’s next to him and you stop short.

“You brought Chan?” you yell.

Beside you, Seungcheol is giggling wildly. “Bro, I thought you two were joking!”

Soonyoung is laughing so hard that he’s snorting as you approach. The two of them, idiot roommates, are practically laying across each other they’re laughing so hard. You wonder how many pineapple-garnished drinks they’ve each had already.

“What else was I gonna do, bring a Tinder date?” he asks, still chortling.

You and Seungcheol settle in next to them, the guys immediately launching into a conversation that doesn’t necessarily interest you, and you scan the food menu instead.

You feel much better after you eat, perking up considerably. Soonyoung talks you into one of the umbrella drinks (it’s fucking delicious), and Chan orders a round of shots for the four of you (“only one, I have to function tomorrow,” you insist). By the time you order one final cocktail, you’re feeling fully unfurled in a good way - nice and loose, relaxed and almost happy.

It lasts until you hear a vaguely familiar voice call your name, and then your brother’s. You all swivel to see your cousin Mijin heading towards you, her husband - whose name you don’t remember- in tow behind her.

“Fuck,” you whisper. Then you point a sharp finger at Dumb and Dumber and hiss, “Don’t fuck this up. Remember - Seungcheol and I have been dating for almost a year. Let us answer any questions she asks about it.”

Chan and Soonyoung both stare at you, wide-eyed and glassy, which doesn’t instill much confidence in you. But Seungcheol scoots his chair closer to yours, snakes an arm around your waist and tugs you minutely closer to his body, and says assuredly, “We’ve got it under control.”

Mijin greets you with open arms, a big smile, and shriek that you aren’t sure you deserve - you’ve never been close - but you swivel in your seat to return the hug, feeling Seungcheol’s arm retract from around you in the mess of limbs.

“You remember Jiseong?” she asks, as she backs up from the hug, nodding her head behind her. You reach forward to shake her husband’s hand.

“A little bit,” you say, as she moves on to hug Soonyoung, cooing over how he’s grown since she saw him last. “When did you get in?”

“We landed this morning,” she tells you, coming to take empty seats on Chan’s other side. “How about you?”

“We just got here a few hours ago,” you say, and then realize you haven’t introduced anyone. “Oh, this is our cousin Mijin and her husband Jiseong. This is my boyfriend, Seungcheol, and that’s Soonyoung’s best friend Chan - all four of us are friends from college.”

Mijin’s smile doesn’t shift but her eyes sharpen. “I didn’t know you had a boyfriend,” she says, voice light. “Have you been gatekeeping him from your socials?”

You shrug and let yourself laugh. “Kind of,” you say, like you’re admitting something. “You know how nosy the family is.” You let yourself smile sideways at Seungcheol, who winks at you, smirking. “I kind of like keeping him to myself.”

She looks between you, that smile plastered in place. Seungcheol casually sips at his drink and reaches an arm around your shoulders, unbothered. Or, pretending to be.

“Well,” she says finally, her voice bright. “So happy for you! Soonyoung-ah, how’s your dance team doing?”

With the heat off of you for a minute, you sip on your drink and sneak a glance sideways at Seungcheol. His body language is relaxed - he’s settled back in his chair, that one arm still draped around you, and he watches the conversation with friendly interest. When he catches you watching him, his mouth quirks and he bumps your knee with his.

We’re fine, he seems to say. Or, maybe, lighten up and have some fun.

“So, not to be nosy,” Mijin says, turning her attention back to you, and beside her Chan visibly grimaces, “but what’s the story with you two? Have you been together long?”

“Just shy of a year,” Seungcheol says, before you can answer. “Big anniversary coming up. How about you - how long have you been married?”

The tactic works - Mijin sends her husband a sickly sweet smile over her shoulder and launches into their own history. Hidden behind the bar, you reach over to Seungcheol’s knee and give it a grateful squeeze. He doesn’t acknowledge this, but one of his dimples pops.

When Mijin’s drink becomes only clinking ice cubes, she turns to look at her husband. “Ready to head in?” she asks, and he nods amiably. They rise, telling your group goodbye and heading up the lit path back towards the rooms.

You wait until they’re out of sight and then mutter, “One down, six hundred to go.”

“I think that went fine,” Soonyoung says.

“I feel like I’m waiting for someone to straight up tell me sounds fake, but okay,” you admit.

Soonyoung snickers. “Only Mom would just say it like that.”

“And she might,” you point out darkly.

“I honestly don’t think anyone is looking that closely,” Seungcheol tells you seriously. “Your family isn’t examining us for cracks, you know?”

“I assure you, my mother will be,” you grumble, and Soonyoung nods, lips twisted. He knows.

You all nurse your drinks in silence for a little, and not much later Soonyoung and Chan rise from their seats, claiming they saw the sign for an arcade room inside.

Left alone, you and Seungcheol take in the newfound quiet. The ocean breeze carries the smell of salt past you, and Seungcheol sighs happily. “It’s so nice out,” he remarks, his eyes on the beach beyond the bar. “Do you want to walk a little before we head up?”

“That sounds really good, actually,” you admit.

You carry your shoes, reveling in the soft, silky sand running over and under your feet as you walk. Seungcheol stays close, his hands shoved in his pockets.

“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” he asks.

You shrug. “We’re supposed to have breakfast with Mom tomorrow - you and me and Soonyoung. And Chan, apparently. But you don’t have to go if you’re uncomfortable, I can say you don’t feel great after the flight and you wanted to sleep -”

“What’s the point of me being here if I don’t go to the things with you?” Seungcheol argues lightly.

“Yeah. I guess that’s true,” you say quietly, turning your head to watch the stars flicker above the ocean. You can hear the faint thumping of club music - there must be a place for dancing somewhere on the sprawling resort property.

“Brunch will be harder than tonight,” you tell him, a warning. “My mom will be trying to poke holes in the story - she’s already accused me of fabrication.”

“Fabrication,” Seungcheol echoes, his voice wavering with a laugh.

“What?” you ask defensively, but you’re smiling too.

“Just say lying,” he says, smiling over at you. “This is a conversation, not an entrance exam.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “Leave me alone,” you complain.

“Mmm,” he says, mock-thoughtfully, “I’m pretty sure that’s the direct opposite of my directions this weekend. So what’s the game plan for her? What’s our strategy?”

You laugh a little. “You have such a gamer brain,” you observe.

“It’s going to work in your favor,” he promises.

“Just be ready for a barrage of questions,” you tell him. “Try not to get defensive. Try not to let me get defensive.”

He nods, then asks, “How much of a show are we putting on?”

When you look at him blankly, he clarifies, “Do you want me to, like… walk you into the dining room holding hands? I guess like - how much of a show do you want? What are the boundaries? If I’m acting like your boyfriend, I guess I need to know what you’re okay with. Like… should we kiss goodbye and stuff?”

You stop walking. He gets two more steps and realizes you’re not next to him and he stops too. It’s very dark on the beach, but you swear you see a bit of a blush on his face.

“Can I just say,” you say slowly, “bless you for even asking me first? You’re a good kid.”

“I’m older than you.”

“By four months.”

“Still older.”

You smile at him, enjoying this little game. You laugh when he pretends to scowl at you, and then you get serious, thinking about his question. “I guess we probably should. If you’re okay with that.”

He holds your gaze and nods seriously. “Okay,” he says, and then neither of you say anything else.

“Should we… kiss now?” you ask, heart suddenly thumping against your ribs.

His held tilts. “No one here to trick,” he points out. But it’s not no.

“Yeah, that’s my point,” you explain, hearing how breathless you sound and hating it. “Maybe our first kiss shouldn’t be… in front of an audience? So if it’s weird, we can deal with it now?”

He licks his lips. You don’t think he realizes he does it. “I think…” he says slowly, “I love the way your brain works.”

“Don’t flatter me,” you manage to breathe, before his hands are cupping your jaw, his mouth meeting yours firmly, not shy or hesitant in the slightest.

It’s good - nothing weird about it. He tastes like the shot you’d all had back at the bar, and his hands feel amazing - strong - as one cups the back of your neck and the other slides to the dip of your waist. You fall into it, barely holding back a noise as his tongue sweeps across your lips, seeking entrance.

You clutch at his biceps as you open for him, knees going weak when your tongue meets his. His mouth is firm against yours, moving in ways that make you want to gasp for breath, your skin tingling when he leaves your lips and trails his teeth and tongue along your jawline.

When he pulls away, breathing a little heavily, he murmurs, “There. Won’t be weird next time.”

You breathe out a quiet laugh. “No,” you agree. “It certainly won’t.” You realize you’re still clutching his arms and you relax your fingers, stepping back.

The sea breeze suddenly feels a whole lot colder, a foot away from his tall form, and you shiver.

“We should go back,” he says, and it warms your cheeks to hear that he’s a bit hoarse.

“Sure,” you say. “Big day tomorrow.”

And even though there’s no one here to fool, he leads you by the hand back towards the hotel’s glittering lights, your fingers intertwined with his. You hold tight until you’re in the elevator - just in case you run into anyone from your family again.

No other reason.

—

Back in your room, you stand near the foot of the bed, trying to decide what you need to do.

“I think I’ll take a quick shower,” you think out loud. “I smell like airport.”

“You smell fine.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll go after you,” Seungcheol says easily, and flops on one side of the bed, his phone in hand. “Don’t use all the hot water.”

“Maybe I will, just because you said that,” you tease.

Is this flirting? Part of you wonders. And if it is, is that wise? Will it help your mindset, help with the bit? Or will it complicate things down the line?

And if it is flirting, why? Did a single kiss get beneath your skin so quickly? Or is this just normal for you and Seungcheol, the natural rhythm of what friendship with him would look like? You’d never spent time alone together - he had always been Soonyoung’s friend, just your acquaintance.

You tap the shower knob bit by bit until it’s almost too hot to bear, the questions burning off your skin and slipping through the drain.

When you emerge, in pajama bottoms and a hoodie, Seungcheol is in the same position, except with a little grey toiletry case next to him.

“Your turn,” you tell him, and he glances at you gratefully as he rises and heads into the bathroom. When you hear the shower turn on, you turn off all the main lights in the room and close the curtains over the balcony door, sliding into your side of the bed. It feels like heaven to stretch out and lay down, and you very nearly doze off, startled awake when Seungcheol turns off the bathroom light and re-enters the main room.

“Sorry, were you sleeping?” he asks quietly.

“Not entirely,” you say, and then notice that he’s hovering awkwardly near the bed. You guess at the reason for his hesitation. “Time to make the Blanket Wall?”

He laughs a little, like he’s embarrassed to be caught. “Yeah. What do you want to use, the sheet?”

Once you have it all figured out and situated, Seungcheol climbs into his side.

“You can do whatever,” you tell him. “Like, if you wanna watch tv or be on your phone, it won’t bother me. Don’t feel like you have to be quiet for me, okay?”

“I’ll probably be on my phone for a while,” he admits. “But I’ll use my airpods.”

“No problem,” you say, reaching to turn out your little light, leaving the room cast in blues from his phone screen. “Sleep well.”

“Sleep well,” he returns quietly.

You lay there for a while, settling in, adjusting to having a person near you in bed. You’re facing away from him, and you feel hyper-aware of his presence behind you, just inches away, separated only by a sheet rolled up like a taquito. Eventually his movements, every tiny shift or heavy breath, stop alarming you, and you feel yourself starting to drift off. He smells good, some defunct, mostly-asleep part of your brain observes. Then you’re pulled under, the thought barely registering at all.

Next ->

thank you for reading!!!

586 notes · View notes

taegularities · 19 days ago

Text

colour me in: photograph | jjk (m)

Summary: With both your and Jungkook's careers peaking, the future feels promising and bright. Yet, amidst the glowing hope, one single phone call dims the light in the rooms of your shared home.

➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader ➳ rating: 18+ ➳ genre: fwb/f2l, fake dating; angst, fluff, smut ➳ warnings: work-related stuff, new gallery/art/fair stuff, stress and feeling overwhelmed, death of a pet, tears, sadness/grief, doubts, tender moments, talk of jk's future and his art, support, surprises, (talk of) a break up oop, mention of children (i guess that's a warning lol), explicit sexual content: let-out-some-steam-sex, car sex!! a cmi first!!, dom!jk, big dick!jk, he's actually insane, lots of fingering, bit of overstimulation, (multiple) intense orgasms, kissing, manhandling, smacks on pussy/ass, sum hard sex, they're half clothed, playing with his bawlls; the ending.. <3 ➳ word count: 19.4k ➳ a/n: happy bts month and 3rd anniversary to cmi! get ready, it's gonna hurt for a whiiile now :') i know it's been quite long, but i hope you guys are still around. so as always, come and talk to me about this 🤍 ➳ listen to: photograph by ed sheeran | full collaborative playlist 🤍

SERIES MASTERPOST | TAGLIST MASTERLIST | WIPs

“Jungkook?”

“Babe?”

“Jungkook,” you repeat solemnly, lifting yourself off the far end of the mattress. “I hate surprises.”

There’s light static in the foot previously tucked under your bottom, tingling when you limp to his distracted, pajama-clad self. He’s immersed in the sketchbook you gifted him for his birthday, embellishing yet another page but never showing you what you’ve been begging for.

Mid-stroke, he chuckles, side-eyeing you; you’re still sulking from the conversation before. “Nice try, munchkin. No lies in this household.” Because you love surprises and that butthead knows. “Now sit your ass back down. Wait a bit more. If you’re a good girl.”

You pout again. Leaning in, you press your fingers into where his dimples usually emerge, moving his face back and forth until he whines, and tell him, “You’re a mean man, you know?”

“Stop,” he protests, grabbing your hand when your fingers dig in and removes it from his slightly crimson cheeks. “Learned it from you, apparently.”

“Ah… how fucking dare.”

Your joke slips past him as he pats your thigh twice and places the sketchbook on your pillow. You move aside for him to jump off the bed; the day has passed languidly for most of its part, but Jungkook doesn’t know laziness when it comes to hunger.

It’s snack time anyway — a possibly unhealthy comfort after the diligent workout sessions he powered through this week. But they say couples who munch together stay together, and you’re all for increasing your odds.

“Okay, sushi or dumplings?” he asks, fetching the phone he left on the work desk earlier. “Or both?”

You’re more indecisive than him. Wrong person to ask. “Either is fine. Both reduce stress.”

“Why? Are you stressed?”

“I mean… it’s why people snack sometimes, no?”

“You didn’t deny it, though. What’s up?”

You emit a deep breath, combining anxiety about life and relief about being able to talk about it. As he orders whatever he’s craving, you tell him, “Work’s just been chaotic, which wouldn’t be news if I wasn’t the one responsible for fixing it all.”

You shake your head a little, click your tongue and then continue, “I mean, it’s not that anything needs to be fixed, but with the season changing, the collection does, too… and… of course we need to advertise every single sock and glove.”

There is no need to repeat the current situation to him; perhaps you just need to spell it out again, to torture yourself or maybe, to raise your own awareness of how important this thing is.

So of course he’s calm and reassuring when he says, “But you were so excited about it?”

“I still am. Just nervous as hell, too, because I’ve never taken the lead before, really.”

“No? You did do a hell of a job at Charmante, though.”

You smile weakly, hiding the little sigh and admit, “Yes, but those were never my projects alone. Back when I started here at Novaura and they were doing the autumn launch, I was still just learning and watching. It looked so difficult then, too.”

“Only because autumn to winter fashion is such a jump. Listen,” his eyes lift, the phone thrown back on the bed and a moment later, himself as well. His hand lands on yours, rubbing energetically. “It just means they trust you!”

“Yeahh,” you drag the word, and then nod, “yeah, no, sure. Like, so many people do that all over the world and they manage, so I should be fine.” Jungkook hums. “As long as the models don’t leave us hanging — one of them still hasn’t answered.”

You pause for dramatic effect, an expression of your gathered frustration and fear of failure. But when you look at him, eyes filled with support but a slight distraction in the far back, you digress, “But you have your own stress to deal with right now.”

His eyes flit to the ground and he presses his lips to a line as if to disagree, and then actually does, “I don’t know if I’d call it stress. Just nervous, like you. First big thing for me, too.”

So was the exhibition months ago, and he mastered it so easily. But there are a dozen reasons he’d rather forget about these long nights, no matter how victorious he came out of them.

Despite the exposure he received, he doesn’t talk about it, except once, shortly after you found each other again. Poured how it still sometimes hurt to think about the dread that so overshadowed his excitement, bringing to light every other insecurity he’s ever lived with, too.

But. A healthy number of amazing results followed all that anguish — like, the guy scouting him, or you coming to the exhibition after all.

Okay. Anyway. Your turn to offer some peaceful words before any of you can enable any approaching nightmares of everything that can go wrong.

“You know,” you start, “I could easily give you my very personal and totally unbiased opinion if you let me see.”

You lower your head to throw an ominous through-the-lashes glance, and you probably look like an idiot enough to make him laugh like this. But then, all earnestly, he explains, “No. If I’m able to land this job, I will show you something far bigger. And—”

He stares up to the ceiling, forming an imaginary rainbow with his hands, all theatrical. “And the stuff you want to actually see is part of what will be one day.”

“Dramatic poetry.”

He shrugs. “I might’ve flicked through your anthologies.” A similar pat as before follows on the back of your hand and he rushes to the table, returning with his turned on laptop. “But know what? I can show you a few of these at least.”

The display lights up bright once he’s typed in his password, directly offering a look at the folder containing the pictures he took on your vacation. Random ones, some of them already edited — he likes doing this.

There’s crystal clear water and the horizon behind it; or random alleys. Very artsy stuff, but carrying an obvious signature note. And the edits add to the specific tone that is so easily distinguished from what other people create.

“Does the guy want photographs, too?” you ask, scooching closer.

“Just for the portfolio. I don’t need to exhibit any just yet… maybe someday.”

As he opens a picture the screen froze on before he shut the laptop, you exclaim, “Oh, this was right after the slippery soccer game! When we were having dinner at this fancy hotel restaurant.”

“Right,” he zooms in, dragging the mouse across faces, “you didn’t like the dessert there.”

“But I liked the main course,” you tell him with a slight lift of your shoulder, watching until your face jumps into your eyes, “look at me here. I fucking hate you for catching this moment of all.”

Your expressions are contorted, left cheek filled with a bite of the tart. You aren’t focused on the camera, not posing or smiling like the rest is; entirely distracted by the attack on your tastebuds.

“Oh, I love myself for it,” Jungkook counters, zooming further into your knitted eyebrows. You hit his shoulder a little, and he fakes a devastated exclaim, “Owh. Bully.”

“I look like the grapes offended me and my ancestors.”

“Probably did.”

“Probably.”

You laugh, basking in the post-vacation glow, although missing the moments the pictures are refreshing in your mind. You take over the keyboard to move between them, dwelling on one or returning to another when you recall a story to it.

Jungkook, with the computer on his lap, leans back, listens to your tales and adds his own. Talking about the conversations held before, during and after all these many seconds were captured.

And at some point, as time passes and the delivery service rings the bell, you finally prepare to move from one activity to the next; Jungkook gets up to open the door.

But just before disappearing, uncaring of who awaits, he turns around again, one look thrown down to where you sit so calmly. Looking like the same girl chomping through her lunch in the empty skatepark, legs dangling underneath the summer sun as he teased her out of her mind next to her.

You have changed — but you haven’t. You look happier, at least.

If he could, he’d stare at the glow a little longer.

But instead, he remembers the food waiting outside and with it the certainly impatient supplier, and he leans into you slowly. Digs two fingers into your cheeks, much softer than you did to him before, and closes the space between your mouths.

The kiss is a mere peck, but feathery and sweet, finished in a moment. But it’s delightful, how giddy you still look when you ask, “What was that for?”

His shoulders rise again to a shrug, thumb brushing along your skin. And then, he backs away and leaves with a last statement that is so simple that it really shouldn’t stir your stomach the way it does— “Nothing at all. Could just do it all day.”

Jungkook looks around the dimly lit hall.

Very natural how the gallery collector chose an artistic museum-café for the first meet-up, surrounded by tiny shops offering bookmarks and puzzles of popular pieces.

Of course, the mere reason for this was the collector’s professional visit before Jungkook arrived, coinciding with this meeting only because the guy’s calendar was — as he claimed — already filled to the brim.

Fine by Jungkook. If circumstances offered a way to get into one of his favourite museums for free, just because the man vis-à-vis allowed him in, he wasn’t going to say no.

And the café is of the extraordinary sort — not at the end of the exhibition, behind some souvenir shop, right next to the exit. It’s situated in the middle of the first floor, surrounded by a couple entrances that lead to different eras of painted magic.

The exhibitions are showcased in rooms as brightly lit as the one Jungkook presented his own work in, but the hall housing the café-restaurant in the middle resembles a castle. Lights warm as candles, ceilings high, walls an art of their own.

And amidst all the wonder, there’s him, nervous and fumbling as the gallery collector, Mr. Paik, takes in each page of the portfolio with eagle eyes. Jungkook would run if he could, come back when the man has formed a verdict.

But instead, Jungkook slurps his flat white and waits, eyes bigger than ever as he stares through his growing bangs. And then, Paik finally nods a bit, forefinger tapping at a random spot on the page before he says, entirely unrelated, “You have some good connections, don’t you?”

“I— uh,” Jungkook sits up, uprighting his torso, naming the one person Paik already knows of, “I have Kim Namjoon.”

“Okay. Really, he is more than enough, too.” He shuts the portfolio, only to open it again to one of the first works. “You do have exceptional talent and are in good hands with Namjoon. A convenient combination if you ask me.”

“I think so, too. I have a lot to thank him for.”

“Mmhm, this is incredible. It takes people years sometimes to work their way into a gallery. And that without open calls or random submissions — I mean, possible, but rare.”

“I really am thankful, sir,” Jungkook says, voice a bit livelier. This is what he’s been wanting to hear all those years; it pumps a vast amount of energy into his soul. “Honestly. I can barely believe I was even part of a group exhibition, either.”

Paik laughs, multiple little crinkles of age collecting at the corners of his eyes. He puts a hand on the table, fingers brushing the saucer under his cup.

Then he asks, “Why’s that? Your awareness of detail is great. You can surely work your way up if you give your best, and people will definitely see how much you love doing this, too.”

“I am certainly intending to work hard. Thank you so much.”

A burden falls off Jungkook’s chest and lightens the space. Of course, this is just the beginning and the true trials are still ahead. But this is still a more than opportune way to start out; to find a footing in this area of work and then climb up to success.

The moment paired with the coffee leaves Jungkook hyped to the bone, but he attempts his best to remain composed. Not that he can hide much of his telling smile, and the man in front of him sees through him quickly.

He asks, “Excited, yes?”

Jungkook sighs in relief; his pupils are probably enlarged as hell. “I can’t even find the words. To tell you the truth, I was so anxious about this for so long. And I really want people to feel the same way you did just now. It has been a goal for the longest time.”

He’s probably rambling — so much to staying calm. But perhaps it’s just right, to show his humane side, to actually manifest into words all that his hands bring to paper. Artists are vulnerable; why not show all of it instead of stashing his heart?

“I will help as best as I can,” Paik says, and Jungkook half nods, half bows, ready to nearly tear up until the collector’s next words freeze him on his chair, “we could start out with an art fair. There’s one at the end of November, so in around a month? Not long before the gallery showing. Do you want to come?”

…What?

Let’s see…

That’s in nearly three weeks. No time left at all. Everything is happening so fast that it appears downright unbelievable, too good to be true — never for a second did Jungkook expect for opportunities to fall into his hands like this.

Insane. Insane. Insane.

“No?” Paik asks again, and Jungkook soon notices that he’s supposed to answer, that he hasn’t said or done anything yet, other than to ponder his luck in his head.

“D-do I want to—” he stammers, aware that his conversation partner is amusingly registering each of Jungkook’s joys.

“I mean, it’s not that easy. You’d have to present your stuff and create new things — if you want. And select pieces you could sell. The competition can be tough, but I wouldn’t be worried—”

Oh fuck.

Half his heart is thrilled about the chance; the other half dreads the moment, finding artworks he can give away. And if nobody purchases it? Or even fails to find their way to his booth? And can he do a lot in three weeks at all?

“You can also just come and look around, without being one of the showcasers, too!” Paik tries to comfort, but—

Isn’t this what Jungkook wants? To show the world pieces of his himself, what he loves, what he’s always done?

Wouldn’t it be thoroughly stupid to say no?

Paik tries again, giving Jungkook some space to think about it. He comments, “I’ll give you some time. But I suggested it because you bring exceptional talent to the table and I know I’m not the only one wanting you to grow quickly.”

“Yes… yes, I can barely wait either,” Jungkook starts, nervously laughing, “but is that even possible? Can I afford to rush it…?”

“Are you really rushing it, though, if you’re doing what you enjoy? Then again,” Paik pauses, thinks about it, “you’re not wrong. I wouldn’t make my hobby a chore. If you feel like it’s too stressful, you can take your time. I’m sure you can make it big either way, no matter when.”

“You are too kind, Mr. Paik.”

“Honest,” he corrects with a soft, likeable smile, “take it easy.”

“Yes. God, I’m just perplexed because—” Jungkook puffs out some breath, blinking. His nervously shaking hands curl into fists, thoughts all over the place. “I’ve always wanted this. My own studio and everything.”

“But it’s too much at once?”

“No… yes. I mean, I want this, but I just can’t believe my luck.”

“You underestimate yourself. You can reach your goals with ease.”

Jungkook offers a vibrant smile, mixed with a bit of concern but with elation, too. When you love something too much, the fear of losing it grows even bigger. But maybe he should focus on what’s in front of him; and right now, it’s a huge ass break just to happen.

“Okay. You know what — I will give it a try. Why not?” Jungkook says, coming way too close to cursing, too close to throwing in words of strong eagerness. “I can already think of so many things. A couple old pieces can be refined by then as well.”

“Remember that you can opt out anytime, I won’t mind. You still have the gallery showcase.” Paik leans forwards, hands folding on the table. “But Mr. Jeon… I wouldn’t worry too much. You are already at a level of ambition that often bears great results. Don’t let any of it falter.”

His words tattoo themselves into Jungkook’s hearts. Somehow, he reckons this is a memory that’ll stay carved in his mind, repeating even if he fails; on loop when he succeeds — many years after today, he’ll remember these joys.

Crazy.

Jungkook’s tense muscles calm as some ease and confidence wash into him, and with a heart full of aspiration and a mind filled with ideas, he says,

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Once the high-reaching waves of delirium have ebbed down and Jungkook calms from soaring, he finds himself in smoggy hesitation. Or maybe, it’s not really that — more so growing portions of panic.

The more he thinks about it, the more his mind whirs. Yes, no doubt, he’s got half a dozen ideas already; he was certainly not lying about that. But — he’s not the only artist in the world. And he definitely won’t be the only or first one to attend the fair, or to be part of a gallery.

So much is at stake, so much to give. He has never considered failure an option; aside from you, art has always been the one thing he’s been sure about, the one skill he’s confided in and understood to the core.

But with all that hope and support comes fear, too, and Paik, while indescribably kind, has awoken pressure in Jungkook he had never put on himself before.

Hours later, as you meet him on your way back home, he doesn’t seem nervous to you just yet. You wait in front of the entrance of the building that holds Namjoon’s studio, car parked not too far. If you’d known he’d be rushing here even on his day off, you’d have told him to take the vehicle today.

Conveniently, you finished just a little earlier than he did, driving all the way to this corner of the town. It’s not particularly close to your work. But despite his retelling of the meet-up with the gallery guy today, you had an odd feeling about Jungkook.

He sounded enthusiastic first; then, different. Not necessarily worried, but his voice had changed and he was in a hurry, pushing the conversation to, “Later.”

“What’s up?” you ask the moment he finds you.

There’s ease in the kiss he presses to your cheek, melting relief in his doe-brown eyes. But you don’t know…

Given the news, you feel like he’s lacking the fitting glow.

“Nothing new since the afternoon,” he answers, light crooked smile as he finds your hand to hold, “what about you?”

You shake your head. “No, I mean. Are you okay?”

“Huh? Struck one of the biggest deals of my life. Is there any other way to feel?”

That’s it… considering the fact that this exact thing happened, you sure cannot hear the excited tremble that such an opportunity usually elicits. He isn’t properly looking at you either. Smiling and swinging your arms, yeah, but staring ahead and sighing, too.

“Tired,” Jungkook responds, a tell-tale answer to Jungkook-esque anxiety and scarily common in human conversations these days, “just really tired. There’s a lot to think about in the upcoming future.”

“Hmm, yes.”

You let the thought marinate, for a moment even browsing your brain for ideas you can deliver additionally to the ones he already has. And he’s distracted, too, walking the rest of the way to the car mostly in peaceful silence.

But when you get in, insisting on driving, especially after his admissions of exhaustion, you prod again, “You know, this is a huge thing. I felt out of my mind when I started at Novaura. It’s okay to feel nervy or something.”

You push the key into the ignition, watching as he nods, a surprisingly steady voice telling you, “I know. Of course, that’s normal.”

Yet, as the seconds pass and the motor roars, you feel him grow uneasy on the passenger’s seat. It’s not until you pull out of the parking lot and near the first traffic light that he finally fesses up.

“I feel really fucking weird.”

You turn to him. The day is darkening and the red traffic light colouring his face extra bright. In it, he looks particularly concerned and frightened, accompanying his words with a deep exhale. He rubs his chin for a second.

And when you dig, “Weird how?”, he says, “I’m just unsure about what I got myself into.”

“Into something you will love to do.”

“Yeah, I mean — I just get why people say it’s dangerous to turn your hobby into work. He said exceptional talent today and my God. It’s very scary, landing amidst many good artists that I might not be able to compare with.”

You hum, checking for pedestrians before taking a right turn. You chew over his words before you ultimately tell him, “You don’t need to compare, though, do you? I thought that was never really the objective.”

“No, but… in the end, competition is crucial.”

“Oh… Jungkook. It’ll all turn out just right.”

It’s all you can do at the moment; wrap your words in honeyed support, extra sweet as you operate the wheel. But he’s distracted; staring out the window, blinking slowly, a hand on his cheek — he looks magnificent even like this, nearly animated.

“Hey,” you start, overcome with bits of guilt that you can’t help better. At home, you’ll prepare a loose schedule for him, boost motivation. You pat the back of his hand resting on his thigh, tell him, “Be yourself. Present what you love. People see passion, so whatever you do, it’ll be enough.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen a fraction; Paik said something similar.

“Present what I love.” He tries out the words, inhales the crips air blowing in from the open slit of the window. Then — displays his signature smirk. “So shall I take you with me?”

It’s only that he meets your eyes again when yours narrow, playfully judgemental and incredibly amused. The humour he finds in every situation…

The palm previously touching his skin lifts and pushes at his shoulder, and you say, “You’re disgusting.”

“It’d be a win-win moment, though. I can just bring you anywhere,” he still jokes, though bits of light remorse resonate in his voice, too. You get why when he says, “After all, I’ll have to be away from you for a little, too.”

Ah… that.

“Well, I mean. Busy times are ahead anyway. I’ll drown myself in work,” you say.

“Yeah. I don’t know. God, this is… stressful.”

You move into your alley, a reflex when the pace slows and you carefully turn into the garage. Jungkook and you abandoned the random parking lots outside that are almost never free and opted for a paid spot in the garage instead.

Big advantage. It’s inside and not a 5-minute-walk away, warmer in the winter, cooler in the summer. And many lots are free because not everybody needs a car or a parking space.

So… it’s often empty…

Right. Mostly empty. Right now, just him and you.

An idea pops into your mind.

Or rather, a tempting reminder. An old joke, indecent, said in excited moments that you forgot about for a while. Life got hectic.

But… hm.

You let the engine die, taking off your seatbelt, but you don’t leave the car just yet. As Jungkook, lost in thoughts, targets for the handle to strut up to your apartment, you hold him back by his elbow. Tug at the jacket.

“Kook.”

He looks back. Big, big eyes. You almost feel bad for thinking what you’re thinking, because there is no way that huge ass pupils like this could ever give into anything but innocent. If you didn’t know this man and the things he does to you, that’s what you’d assume…

“Can I tell you something?” you inquire.

“What?”

He sits back down, fingers falling off the handle. The questioning look turns more curious, but not worried — you don’t look like you have anything evil to confess. Your cheeks heat up.

“I was missing you today,” you confess. How lame — but a start. You shrug a shoulder to yourself. “Like, can’t-work-properly kinda missing.”

“Yeah? Well, welcome in my head,” the tip of his forefinger pokes his temple, “I miss you all the time.”

You keep staring. Wait for the right moment, ponder whether it’d be better to just leave him be tonight. To let him go up, shower, eat a comforting meal and drop into the mattress. But you’re already riled up at your thoughts; already closing your thighs.

It��s just this dumb joke you have, to execute a specific idea on any day that you might need to. When the days are gloomy and the time is right and you feel like experimenting, distracting yourselves.

Suggestions uttered in steamy moments are usually whatever, mostly just a product of brave craze. Yet, it could be a temporary remedy.

Jungkook’s eyes follow your confused thighs. Whatever he sees, it lights up his gaze a bit. Opens his eyelids. His eyes move back to yours and he blinks again, asks you, “Do you want something? Need something?”

He inches closer. Just enough for you to feel his breaths, fingers pinching your chin. But there’s no lewd intention behind this yet. The touch is pure and modest.

You don’t think he’s caught onto you enough to initiate what you’re willing to give, but it’s still something… he doesn’t seem the least bit surprised when you say, “I’d just— love a kiss right now.”

“A kiss?” He laughs. Of course he knew. “Sure that’s not because you knew I needed one?”

“You’re not the only one who has needs an—”

Your words are cut off as they often are; the impish smile stays as his lips meet yours, but he’s still careful, loving, vulnerable after the week he had.

But for now, you don’t say anything — can’t do it anyway as he moves his mouth gently, kissing you sweetly, not for too long but still enough for your tummy to react. So you hold back a bit less when you part, starting, “This might sound sudden—”

You wait. Then, he asks, “But?”

“But… Do you want to… leave it out somewhere? The stress.”

Just a little, he backs away. Perhaps he didn’t expect to hear this already. Maybe he thought you’d promise more, promise a tender night once your door had closed. But you’re feeling like taking a risk today.

“Huh?” he voices.

“It’s what you think, I think—”

“Like now?”

“Like now. Like here. I mean it.”

“…Seriously?”

You nod just once.

He hesitates. Sure he does — is there anyone in this world who wouldn’t give it a thought, so exposed here, a bit hidden but in a garage open to at least some neighbours anyway? Yes, there probably is.

But Jungkook is… an enigma right now. You don’t know what he’ll say. Give in because he digs adventures like this? Lowkey one to enjoy risks, too, to feel the thrill of you under him, trying to compose yourself, to not be too loud; to give you everything in a space that requires caution?

Or maybe… he’ll just shake his head, roll his eyes and leave. Declare you a fool, laugh at you for suggesting it at all. Tease you with it even at a ripe age.

Damn it, you can’t read his expression.

So you wait. Wait for seconds that feel like minutes, watching him cock an eyebrow, look around, lean back, sigh. As if he’s thinking about it hard; harder than work. As hard as his pants stir.

Well.

Then—

“I don’t know what I’ll do.”

“What?”

“You offer that I let out my stress on you,” he repeats, and you nod, “obviously I won’t hurt you, but… I don’t know how hard I’ll snap.”

Oh, fuck… the liquid is pooling between your legs. The everlasting, old effect of his…

You’re quick to let him know, “I don’t mind.” You draw closer, a hand on his knee, inching up until you feel just the beginning of his stiffening member. You withdraw, put a kiss to the corner of his lips. “I honestly don’t.”

“Not even if somebody walks past?”

You toy with the hem of his jacket. “Don’t give a fuck.”

“Angel…”

“Yeah?”

“Sure?”

“Kook—”

“Okay— Okay. Just, you… You’ll tell me if it’s too much?” Shit. That’s it. Your eyes expand; you can’t believe he surrendered. You guess your effect on him is just as apparent. “Because I might…”

“I know. Yes, of course I will.”

“My God,” he whispers, fingers to your wrist, but so featherlight that it doesn’t affect anything. “Nobody who might know me once I’m famous better see me causing… a scandal already.”

You let out a gasp, faux-offended — the two of you have already learned to laugh about the news articles in the past that concerned you. Now, it’s whatever. But the timing of the jest is just right.

Because his grip tightens suddenly around your wrist, and the frisky gasp you let out turns into a real one. Morphs into a tiny shriek when he pulls you into him, dropping another quiet F-bomb and then commanding, “Back seat. Now.”

He doesn’t need to tell you twice. You get out of the car and back into it at a speed that is nearly embarrassing; especially considering how leisurely he strolls back, a hand through his hair, jacket zipped open.

It’s cold outside, but you feel warm somehow. Well, if you get sick because you were stupid… you won’t mind this time. You could squeak in electrified anticipation.

But not a sound escapes when he finally gets in, luring you into the corner and against the seat before a hand grabs your face and brings his mouth back to yours.

Again, for just a second. He doesn’t make too much of a fuss today, doesn’t say too much; it doesn’t happen often, but sometimes, like now, he does go straight into it with an incredibly determined mind.

And he probably doesn’t have anything to say anyway. His eyes are too foggy. Or at least, nothing except commands. Such as, “Turn around.”

You take off your shoes and your jacket, try to get into position… It’s not easy. Not in such a confined space, not with both your bodies here; not even when he leans back. He’s a big man, after all…

“You tell me if it gets uncomfortable,” he mutters, still soft when you get your knees onto the seat.

But your feet graze his hands, too close to his body; Jungkook fixes the issue fast. Grabs one of your legs and places it down, foot attempting to steady on the car’s floor. The other leg is squeezed along the back of the seat, next to his own leg.

It’s not too comfortable, but not bad enough to complain either. You can still endure easily; it’s not a chore to do so anyway when he leans down, grabbing your jacket and throwing it into the passenger seat. Or when his warm hands crawl beneath your top, raise it, lips just barely brushing your skin.

He wants to do far more than this, but the space doesn’t allow as much; you know that under different circumstances, he’d let his tongue wander down. But he can’t lean back more than this, so he lets the fingers do their job.

Tugs at your jeans, following the hem, unbuttoning them once he reaches the front.

He circumnavigates along your skin until he’s caressing your ass, allowing another chaste touch just to return to the spot that was covered under the jeans’ button a second ago. The movements are scarce, with an unspoken purpose that you can’t decipher just yet.

Possibly to his own pleasure, to take you in inch by inch, to feel the heat in his already alight fingertips.

And then, without a word or a warning, he yanks your jeans down, bringing the baggy material way to your knees. Your panties are still in place, unfortunately, still a probably irritating obstacle to the delirious hazard behind you.

But you guess he contains his urge to run wild, instead asking with a voice drenched in syrup, “Feeling cold?”

“Surprisingly not…” you tell him, lifting the hand once you notice it’s clinging to the car’s door handle. Nah — would be awkward to fall out half naked now. “Even if I was, I’d take the fever for this.”

Jungkook clicks his tongue, cursing under his breath; you can nearly feel and clearly see him shaking his head without even looking at him. He says, “You’re impossible. Then again,” he sighs, “if you just knew. My view is definitely worth the cold.”

“Shut up. Do something.”

It’s supposed to come out as an order, but you end up sounding as though you’re pleading instead. It must entertain him as much as it embarrasses you because he, clearly helped by the abundant sarcasm in his mind, responds, “Yes, yes. Certainly.”

At least he keeps his promise — happily obliges when he presses a finger to your nub. Not too harshly — it doesn’t hurt when he rubs the cotton panties against your skin before he moves to push them aside.

And you’re neither surprised nor ashamed when his digit slips right in, a smooth one fell swoop motion, prying out a satisfied sound.

You need to feel all of this. Need to be more comfortable. So you press your forehead against the door; immediately feel it when he pumps his fingers in and out slowly, follows the slight changes in your position.

He doesn’t stop. Continues until his movements quicken just a tad, but then slow down again. Initial instinct tells you that he’s already toying with you, using your devotion to him to tease you towards insanity.

But that’s not true. He’s still too hazy-brained to really think further than this mere touch, admitting to you, “This… is not easy.”

Oh… yeah. You’ve been kneeling here awkwardly; didn’t really think about how strange it must be for the almighty sex god sitting behind you, too. Besides…

“Wouldn’t have guessed,” you tell him; push his ego, “was already pretty fucking nice.”

He laughs, more so lovingly than mischievously. You told him to not hold back tonight, but you know Jungkook — in the end, even he can’t resist your charms. There’s an unspoken and spoken adoration between the two of you and he can never help but showcase it like this.

He attempts to provoke, “You’ll love anything I do, though, no?”

“You say it like you’re any different.”

“Shut up,” he instantly imitates, landing a couple faint slaps to your ass as he shifts. “And get up.”

And you listen instead of opting for snarky remarks. The faster you indulge, the quicker he’ll deliver. Fuck, you want him to.

The kisses don’t end for the night when you very briefly face him again, half turned to him with an arm backwards around his head. Your lips lock only for a moment before he takes a proper sit in the middle, tugging you up to him.

It’s funny, how he’d never kiss you months ago, no matter how many hints you left and no matter how badly his body urged for it; and now he’s never capable of stopping. Back then, his mind warned him to stay back; that it’d only throw him into this endless pit of madness and falling in love if he gave in.

In truth, he already had. Found out better late than never.

The entire process of moving in here, entangling your limbs and trying your best in barely a square meter, is draining, but you find a solution quickly. Granted, said solution is messy and forces your head against the ceiling for a painful second, but…

Once in his lap and between his legs, everything seems irrelevant.

And you hope he didn’t notice anyway. But of course he did. His laughter reveals it; you tried to brush off how you rubbed your head, to hide it behind your heavy breaths, but Jungkook is attentive. So you join in, surrendering to the playfulness amidst the ardour until it dies in your throat.

Gone and faded when he puts a hand around your neck, pulling you closer; your back is secured to his chest.

And goddamn, the kisses are wet. Sloppy, dirty, landing on more free inches of your skin when he lifts your head, other hand busy roaming over your tits — then further down, down your body, your top, your stomach, once again past the panties that fell back over your drenched pussy.

And the aching clit… begging and swollen. Just waiting for him to come back.

You let out a sigh and sound so lustful, it surprises even you.

And Jungkook, warm, heavy and hard under you, holds you tight, muttering to himself, “Okay.” Waits, breathes, licking his lips before he shortens, “‘Kay.”

You lean forwards when he cups your pussy, and then sit back — or rather, you are forced back as he tugs you in, greedy and fucked out of his mind. You grip his thighs when he sneaks closer to your awaiting hole, brushing over your leg, and then right back in.

God, the calculated movements…

Rounding the clit… gauging the wetness… stuffing you more and further and better.

And you feel it all. Every nerve lighting up, walls tighter around him now before relaxing again. Your lower tummy builds up the knot, and you let your head fall back onto his shoulder; only, it’s just your cheek that lands against his, free to be kissed.

“Spread them more,” he whispers against your jaw, nibbling at the earlobe. “These…”

He repeats when you don’t register. Then you take another moment to understand what you can spread, stupidly mistaking his order to hold apart your nether lips; but you soon realise that you’ve decreased the angle your legs stand in.

“Wha—?” you question, even though you’re aware of what to do. You just… you want to feel his piping hot breath against your aflame skin again.

“I said,” he starts, a harsh grip around your thigh pulling it to the side. Your heart rate increases. “Spread.”

Ah…

You’re already so sensitive even without any orgasm, and the sensation keeps you moving, legs shutting involuntarily. And he keeps parting them, pumping harder — but apparently, he wants to focus on more than on actually holding you in place.

You grin. Your mistake.

But you guess this route distracts him from daily issues just as much.

Especially when you let your legs fall over his own, dangling, keeping them there and spreading to your maximum abilities. He can take you out now. And he does. The squelching sounds, lewd, louder even in this car than in your spacious bedroom, make it clear.

Because now he’s using two fingers at once. Knuckles deep. Massaging the right spot inside with ease. The way he knows what he’s doing nearly renders you jealous — but then you realise he had plenty of time to practice on you, too.

There’s a reason for his extensive knowledge of your body, after all.

Like how you want his fingers inside, a thumb on your bud or his hands around your firm nipples. How you love the nasty fantasy of him spreading your cum over your tits, just as he is now when you release your high, screaming into the car, arching your back for seconds.

You attempt to get in between, to quicken the orgasm, to shift until nothing’s left in you. But Jungkook is eager to take over the work; pins your intruding hand to your thigh when you try to touch yourself again.

One more, “Stop this, will you?” is dropped before he is back to your clit, overstimulating you to whimpers.

Are you a masochist for loving this? Did he make you like this? Maybe — probably. You won’t complain. You will take it… want to take it. His angel, yes?

You turn to look at him. You barely see him properly from this proximity and in this light, but you do recognise a hooded gaze meeting into your own eyes’ daze. He closes the distance to steal another kiss, but then he stops; keeps staring at you instead.

He prefers this sometimes. Mouth agape. Forehead close to yours. A sweet voice asking, “What? I can stop whenever.”

Whether it’s a threat or a reassurance, you don’t know. You’ll take both; either does it for you right now.

“No,” you protest, “I told you to let it out.”

“But…” The sly smile returns. The switch from caring boyfriend to reckless devil is rapid, absolute madness. “But I do enjoy tormenting you.”

You tsk, “Then, do whatever the fuck you want. You know what I want.”

“Right… Do it then,” he begins, his voice almost imperceivable. “Take a seat.”

What an ass…

Not in the back seat, obviously; he has most of it occupied already, manspreading as he is. No, he’s talking about that throne of yours that you keep claiming on the regular. The one that…

You clear your head. If you don’t focus on lifting, you won’t be able to. Willpower.

And while moments of giddy weakness do pass, you manage to separate from him by a few inches, keeping an eye on his erection as he hurries — struggles — to take off his pants. It’s a hassle; you bump your head again, too, swearing, “Fucking hell.”

He doesn’t laugh this time. Too busy to rid himself off his boxers, letting the divine cock spring out, towering, veiny, big and fat. It grows by the second when you sit down again, settling between your ass cheeks, twitching.

Your slip is the last hurdle. Which you do try to remove before that pain in the ass — not literally, though you wished it was — brings his fingers back to where you ache for him, gives you some more, still overstimulating and edging when you say, “Bit more — just a bit—”

You’d rather have something else inside, but Jungkook is resolute today, and you will not be one to have a problem with it. Not with him, not ever.

You clench your jaw as you crawl closer to your high again, raising yourself and pumping him in retaliation before he finally gives up around a minute later and a strained voice quite literally demands, “Sit the fuck down.”

“…Pleasure.”

And that’s it.

He impales you so deeply; you never get used to it, always think it’s ending when it doesn’t. Hear the absolutely, devastatingly sinful moans he lets out, see the heavenly attractive face he makes when you look at him.

Your breaths are stagnant when you move back up and slap down onto his legs. Keep giving until something snaps in you after a mere minute already.

This orgasm he built was an intense one, and you awaited it, already knowing you’d wave the white flag very fast already. You’re surprised it took this long at all; you had anticipated to come undone the moment he entered you.

But it still makes your legs quiver. Strains and then relaxes your muscles, numbs you inside out, your body uncontrolled as you unwind in waves. How does he manage to do this each time? How do men usually not?

If you weren’t proud and possessive, and if privacy wasn’t a construct in relationships and the entirety of the world, you’d suggest for him to give a crash course to men on how to help a girl out. At least one guy does it fucking right.

Oh, anyone being fucked like this is just—

You exclaim in lust as you keep bouncing, his fingers pinching your nipples, teeth digging into your shoulder. He remembers that he’s the one supposed to let himself go tonight, and soon reverses, delivering smacks to your pussy before he parts your legs again.

And then… starts hammering from below.

Reflexively, you look down.

You still can’t recognise much in the dark, but you do see the hardness driving into you and out of you. His thrusts are wild, his balls bouncing — you cover them with a hand around them, massaging them and playing until he loses it.

“What the fuck—”

You love it when he expresses such a thing. Cursing, whispering it. It disturbs his rhythm, but that doesn’t mean the ramming stops. Still deep, still fast, still accompanied by low-pitched, guttural, exhausted sounds.

You soon hold onto his legs again, keeping yourself from falling to the side. Then again, Jungkook is well wrapped around you, and he won’t let you go anywhere just now. Not until he’s done with you, and you’re done with any feeling in your body.

What if you just stayed here tonight, told him to keep doing this over and over again? Would he do it…?

You’re so desperate, aren’t you?

“Oh, God… angel,” he only murmurs, biting harder into your shoulder before he moans against it. “Mmh— I love you. And this pu— oh, fuck—”

He can’t talk anymore. Too fast down there, a jarring pace, chasing his peak now at all cost. You’re permanently thirsty for this very moment; when you’re already all wet around him, spilled and filthy, waiting for him to lose control with only one goal in mind.

Seriously, anyone being fucked like this is lucky. You cracked a jackpot in the middle of a hundred concerns.

Crazy how you ran from them by letting him rail you on his small dorm room table, the front of your torso pushed down onto it or cheeks touching the cold of his door. He’d always find a way to bring you to tears of longing, but you didn’t think you’d ever find deeper affection in this passion someday.

But there is. So much of it when he kisses your neck again and then your jaw, raising your legs, keeping them up. Shooting his cock far up into you and pounding you breathless like a doll; all at the same time as he whispers, “I love you, baby. I love you.”

It is never a confession he misses. Like clockwork, always present. Words that don’t convey just yet what he feels but all he can still revert to.

This is what he meant by not holding back. He wouldn’t just stop fucking his craving into you, but all he’s grown to feel, too. And shit, do you love him, too—

He said he didn't know what he’d do. But he does.

Because despite the craze he’s delivering, he’s still somehow careful around you. Even now; always. Even while spreading your pussy wound. Injecting it into his words when he asks, “You… good?”

“Yes, yes,” you yell out; how could you hold back, lower your volume now? “Yes— Kook—”

“I know, yes, m-me…” A pause in between to catch his breath; he’s so fatigued but keeps going. “Me too.”

You call out again, and his hand flies up, leaving your body to shut your mouth. Unrelated, he admits, “Wish I could stuff a-all your holes.” Then shakes his head. “I dunno what sounds you’d make—”

You don’t know either; you can barely imagine it. Imagine anything. And you’re so permanently intrigued by this statement — he keeps saying it. Keeps teasing you. You’re still waiting for this fortunate day.

“You go– got me good last time,” he says, referring to the empty countryside house and the charm you bewitched him with, “my turn now.”

Indeed it is. He’s still not done.

Not at all as he pulls out suddenly, much to your demise, and throws you onto the seat and says, “Ass up. Bit like before.”

He sniffs, and as you look over your shoulder, you see him pushing back the hair and the shirt up to his chest, abs visible even in the faint lights of the garage. You are more than surprised that nobody walked past your car yet.

Or maybe, you just didn’t notice.

Who cares anyway…

You just want to focus. Not on them, but on how he pushes himself back into you, harsh from the start, leaning in with a finger in your mouth again to swallow some of your sounds. He pulls up your ass, pushes down your torso.

Your body is his leverage as his hands settle on your back, his cock shooting back and forth. Pelvis slapping against your ass, loud and aggressive, balls deep…

When he comes, your wrists are in his grip somehow. He’s kissing your shoulder again, endless loads of seed filling you up. His movements are irregular, too, sounds staggering on top of yours, thrusts slower but still deep until he’s… done.

Breathing heavily, he tries not to collapse over you, not getting enough air. But he doesn’t dare to open the windows or the door, either. With all the sweat, the two of you would be sure to get sick, and neither of you can, in hindsight, have it right now.

So you wait. Let him and yourself take a moment, reluctant to let him fall out of you just yet. This is somehow… nice. How he stirs and shrinks, keeping your body warm.

You turn your face to plant your cheek to the seat, and Jungkook, letting out a tiny, tired laugh, says, “Why did you even do your make up today?” Unserious question, really, because he’d never oppose your love for make up. But— “Guess it won’t be difficult to remove it today if I’ve already smeared most of it.”

“Oh fuck…” you say, trying to lift your body with your elbows, but you fall back due to his weight on half of you, “we’ll need to properly clean up the car this weekend.”

“Can’t even think about it right now.”

“Right. So… shall I stop doing my make up from now on?”

“No. It’s up to you,” he immediately answers — but then, like the ass he is, he says, “as long as you’re okay with having it ruined every day.”

You reach for his knee, slapping it as you say, “Sex maniac.”

“I’m not a sex maniac,” he protests, “it’s not about sex but about you.”

You understand — there were times when it was different, for both of you; no matter whether with each other or with others. Sometimes, sex does stem from pure lust, a consensual passing of time.

But you always sensed that the two of you were far more than that. Maybe not a couple-to-be, but certainly more than a way to pass time. Perhaps the night at the frat party so long ago already felt different, too…

“If you say so,” you tell him, wiggling your butt. He’s already soft, but you still utter, “Wish there was a camera to see what’s going on back there sometimes.”

“Mmmh. It looks pretty fucking good,” he says, pulling out, the panties back at their place as he traps the cum inside for now. “I’ll film it next time.”

“Seriously, man…”

You sit up. You already feel the liquid running out of you when you put your jeans back on; it’s somewhat disgusting, but a symbol of healthy obsession, too. It’s fine.

Besides, you’ll be up in your apartment in a jiffy.

“Truly, how do we clean this up…” you wonder as you look around, not able to see much anyway.

But he argues, “More importantly right now, how do we get to the apartment to clean you up?”

You wave him off with a hand. “Find a way. I can’t move and it’s your fault, so you figure it out.”

A hearty snicker follows, and you can’t help but lift your lips to a smile, too. He kisses your hair, and says, “I am somehow super proud of myself, hearing that.” He leans down, grabs a heavy piece of clothing. “Put this on.”

Your jacket. It’s getting colder by the minute now.

“Up, up, then.”

And you do tumble up. Slowly and cautiously, muscles already aching and everything sore — he’s loving it. “Seeing you like this… I guess it wasn’t a bad idea after all.”

“Not at all,” you agree, “honestly, both routes are fun. My turn next time.”

“Sure. You’re all hot and sexy and make me feel hot and sexy until,” the key turns in the lock, opening the apartment door as he grows quieter, “my mother comes in and sees the clothes lying around the next morning.”

You gasp in indignation, instant embarrassment flooding through you as you think back to the fervent night and the whimsical morning. You whisper, “Did she?!”

But as always, Jeon Jungkook is a jerk.

“No. I’m kidding.” You reach for his arm, whining his name, but sighing in relief, too. “Sorry! But. They probably still knew, you know? Why does a couple ever leave a party early, really?”

You think for a second. Then hum in agreement, letting go of him as you shrug, “To fuck.”

“And now we know it’s valid to do so. Because we fucked fucked.” No shame whatsoever. No filter, either. You laugh. “Alright. We’ve still got time.” He hangs the jacket on the racket. “Hungry?”

“Yes and no. I’m famished, but also more than satisfied.” You walk in with a yawn. “A snack maybe? Full dinner in a bit?”

“I know what snack is code for.” He winks; you roll your eyes. “Okay, okay — wanna watch something in the meantime?”

“Sure.”

As you enter the living room, he looks around, asking, “Where’s the laptop?”

But you’re already taking a turn to the bedroom. Off to grab your clothes, take a quick shower and press a dent into the mattress. You repeat, “Don’t know. I’m not moving anymore. You get it.”

“Brat.”

But he still does.

Still cuddles into you with food, preparing tea and bringing your favourite snacks, tucking you in properly with all the effort left and right. He’s tired and probably still — or again — nervous, and yet he spends the rest of the hours watching some show you started until he starts obsessing again.

Over your heart, over your mind, over you. Barely a mutter when his cheek lands on your chest again, taking in your fragrance as he breathes, “This helped… still does. You always help.”

“…I just want you to know, baby, that… I’ll always believe in the best outcome. You’ll rock this.”

“I’ll rock this.” And as you whisper an exactly, he chuckles quietly. Moving further into you and your soul before he adds,

“Why do I never get used to you?”

You don’t respond — only smile, running your fingers through his silky hair.

But you know the answer.

For this is exactly what happens when the soul keeps falling in love with someone. Over and over again.

“You do know that we’re supposed to meet up with them in like,” you drop your eyes to your wrist, pulling back the sweater to unveil your watch, “forty minutes, right?”

“And you think they’ll complain about some extra time alone?”

You launch a blank stare, not a single blink as you watch him shrug a shoulder. He sports a smirk that you would’ve clenched your jaw to months ago, but today, even if you won’t admit it right this second, it amuses you.

He laughs when you stand there unmoving, like a stick figure silently reprimanding a lethargic boyfriend. You hate to break, but when the contagious chuckle infects you, too, you feel a wave of relief and serotonin ripple through you violently.

Jungkook hasn’t left vacation mode just yet; while the work for the art fair and gallery is still ongoing and he diligent, you catch him slouching ever so often, doodling away at times. You’ll confess, the grey outside is tiring; different from the sunnier countryside you left behind.

There’s a sort of post-bliss blues that even you can hardly shake off.

“You can’t deny that, can you?” he utters amidst his melodious laugh, and you roll your eyes, taking two big steps towards him — much like two days ago.

“I don’t have to deny it to still teach you the importance of punctuality, right? Get up,” you say, smacking his hip — and he uses the chance to lift his arm from under his head, reaching for you, but… failing. “Uh-uh. Enough with your tricks. Get up.”

Last night still wasn’t enough — is it ever? You’re not surprised; neither by his thirst nor by your own inner, involuntary reactions. But no time. It’s rude to let people wait.

And you know exactly what Jimin would say — tease — if the two of you arrived at the double lunch date with him and Yoongi late again.

Jungkook’s voice turns half into a yawn, half into a sigh, tired when he responds, “Yes, ma’am.”

This should do.

But since everything good comes in three, and just for good measure, you add another laser-glance, shooting at him in warning to lift his ass and meet you ready once you are, too. A playfully sigh breathed, you amble to the bathroom, make up awaiting on the sink from when you put it there this morning.

This shouldn’t take long; you’re opting for the minimalistic approach today.

As the hues colour your lips and fill your lashes, you hum a random melody you can’t quite identify. It’s quiet in the apartment until it isn’t — and when Jungkook’s voice chimes, your hand halts mid-mascara-stroke, assuming he’s calling for you.

He’s not; you understand this much when he greets the person on the other end in his liveliest tone at first, volume decreasing as the conversation continues. He’s soon hushed enough for you to not really make out proper words anymore. Hums here and there — Jungkook doesn’t seem to say much at all.

Perhaps it’s Yoongi, or Tae, telling a story. Narrating recent occurrences, the delights and pains that emerged and shrivelled on the vacation that you weren’t part of anymore.

You don’t ask just yet, decide not to disturb.

You finish up whatever is left of your routine, setting the make up and ruffling through your hair, adding volume. When the talk he’s indulging in still remains when you deem yourself ready, you let out a breather and step back into the bedroom.

Still in the same clothes and with the untamed hair as his crown, Jungkook’s gaze is lowered, fingers barely curled into the sheets. He’s sat up now; you see his Adam’s apple bob when you walk in. Instinctively and immediately, you blurt, “Now what did I tell you just a moment ago—”

But the jest dries in your throat and then fades, as dead as Jungkook’s eyes when he looks up at you. Or maybe… maybe they’re not dead.

More so — in disbelief. As if he hasn’t really fathomed what he’s just heard, mind sprinting in circles, attempting to understand.

His chest isn’t moving as it should, and just in general, his body emits inner trouble. Distress. When he lifts his pupils and shifts them towards you, it looks as if he’s hoping that your presence could reverse reality, as if you’re pulling him out of the inevitable quicksand.

But you can’t. You get it; see it right away.

Because the watery gaze and the gap between his lips, this expression, are new to you, no matter how many of his aches you’ve mended. And you guess it has something to do with what his conversation partner just said.

Something that certainly wasn’t part of today’s agenda at all.

They informed you that it happened sometime during the first few hours of last night; not entirely out of the blue, but sudden enough to cause a stir in the house. Neighbours saw the lights, posed questions the morning after.

Ria is a light sleeper, often alarmed when it comes to Gureum.

The whining tugged her forcefully out of her dreams, a bit more defeated and pained this time until exhaustion stopped it altogether. When Gureum’s soul threatened to leave, Ria pulled him into his arms just in time, seated in the middle of the printed carpet.

The shock was too intense to not wake the surroundings; she was nearly hysterical as she drove to the small town emergency vet clinic in a hurry, right in the middle of the night. Her eyes were too blurry to see the numbers on her phone, not clearing for so long until the first call finally chimed in your city and lit up Jungkook’s phone.

Recounting the last hours and the visit in the clinic. Asking what to do. Telling him what the vet had suggested. Revealing how saying goodbye and letting him rest was the kindest option according to the doctor.

Hearing as the Jeons thought and spoke about it, losing part of their hearts, and then after an hour, with a weight on their burdened chests — gave in.

You already know that Gureum’s whimpers weren’t new to the family, albeit less dispirited before — everyone was aware he’d been sick for a while.

It was just that — Jungkook expected far more time. Didn’t think his recent goodbye required any form of final words as the two of you left the town. You guess the tears he shed this morning inhabited not only deep grief, but inevitable, cruel regret, too.

He was already talking about a return during the holidays, how he’d crouch and wait as his forever-puppy charged towards him. The same fluffy face squished between Jungkook’s palms.

The plan shattered like a mirror.

You cancelled the double date as soon as he opened his mouth, barely a word properly announced. Swallowed and eaten amidst the rush of overwhelming emotions. You saw the endorphins decrease in his eyes in real time.

It was more than enough to remain within these walls and offer most of the solace you could possibly summon. He’d need some of the quiet now. Basic human reaction; what good would it do to force himself out the sheets if his body refused so fiercely?

You told him. And then he broke down harder; now that he had no reason to veil the red-rimmed eyes that the tears caused, he let them out in waves, in bursts, unafraid.

Unbelievable, how a singular second could change the course of the day and, possibly, the upcoming week. You knew the moment you saw his face. He didn’t need to verbalise his shock — but when he told you what was going on, your heart still splintered.

The circumstances hit you like a brick, but you figure that they smashed into him like a truck.

And you’re uncertain whether you’re doing this right. Cannot figure out how to properly comfort him, to siphon off the torment. Will pulling him in, hugging him into you serve as a bandage enough? Or uttering the right words to clear the overcast mind?

You wish you were as good with your words as you are on paper.

As good as he is when you, or anybody, is hurting. You wish you could undo this morning.

But you can’t, and the underlying, rooted affection will worsen all that’s already broken.

Because loving somebody who’s gone like this is different from losing them to the world and to time and space and distance. This very love isn’t reciprocated anymore because there is no beating heart left to feel — and you can’t alter what the reality confronts you with.

You just keep loving because you remember and as long as you remember.

And because you feel that if you didn’t, you could impossibly ever honour their once cherished existence. As if forgetting could erase them out of history, when it of course never does.

You know it; once Jungkook has allowed to let him feel it all, you know he will, too. Because the only way to truly brighter days has always ever been through the misty pain. For now, you can only hold him, be here.

Mourn with him as his voice breaks through the silence that befell the late night, muttering, “How does any creature lose a fight against nature when it loved it so much before?”

His voice is so fragile and small; so is he. He’s probably only half expecting an answer when you whisper, “Nature gives and then takes…”

He nods against your clavicles, shrinking on the couch. Half on your body, eyes drooping.

“I read somewhere that… that nature needs to keep a balance for the world to stay intact. But,” he sighs through the exhaustion. The tears have dehydrated him; you throw a glance at the half drunk water on the coffee table. “But pets should be an exception.”

You guess that if this wretched world, separated by hate and misery, could come together and agree on one thing, it’d probably be this very request to exempt all that’s innocent.

You wish the universe and souls worked like this.

“I know.” You halt, mind travelling to what you remember of the Maltese, and then say, “Talking about nature… You once mentioned something about snakes, didn’t you? We never got to the end of the story.”

Your eyes drift to his profile. His muscles are still somewhat weak, keeping the corners of his mouth south, but you think you recognise a little smile nevertheless. And then, he nods again, just before recounting a memory in detail, surprisingly fresh and sharp.

He tells you about how Gureum would detect random snakes in the meadow or fields sometimes, follow them. Dogs are generally curious, but Gureum seemed to have, as Jungkook jokingly deducts, close to no awareness of the dangers around him.

You chuckle.

“And then, with time, he got used to me telling him not to touch or chase the snakes,” he continues, “and I remember him running towards me one day, with an incredibly weirdly shaped snake between his teeth and… I almost died.”

“Holy shit—”

“I kinda flipped just looking at him.” This time, he shakes his head. “Except, it wasn’t a dead snake, just a really damn strange looking, thick orange-brown stick. But I was already scolding him and he did not like my tone.”

“You can be scary. When you tell me to unplug the toaster after using it and stuff?”

Jungkook snickers lightly, joining your sound, and explains, “Gureum wasn’t used to it, though, that spoiled little ball of cotton.”

“Yeah, but… I would’ve gotten half a heart attack, too. Must have been terrifying for the first few moments.”

“But,” he intervenes, “I shouldn’t have been mean. I remember the way he looked at me, all disappointed.” He sighs, and you feel the breath against your skin. “And then he avoided me. Pissed and pouty in his basket on our way back. He— he didn’t look at me until I apologised with a snake toy I found in a shop. Boy loved that.”

“Oh, I saw the toy.” You recall the old and ripped plushie half buried underneath the rest of Gureum’s toy, scattered on the ground under the TV. “Looked all vandalised.”

“Yeah.”

There’s another stillness in the room as the soundwaves die, broken only by your breathing and your eventual hum. Jungkook slowly lifts his head from your chest, staring directly into your eyes, as if to read what you’re thinking — just like you are.

His pupils glint a bit less than usual, eyebrows calm yet sad — he blinks when the dryness burns, and then asks, “You’re trying to say something.”

It’s the same old; but people are different. You don’t know whether he wants to hear it. Sometimes, heartache demands distraction. Other times, sympathy and empathy; to just listen for a bit.

You want to give a healthy mixture of both without making him feel like you’re pitying him, because you’re not.

But you know Jungkook; even with you, he sometimes forgets that he’s thoroughly loved and rightfully so.

So you voice your sincere fondness still, “I am so sorry, Jungkook. And… I wish I could do more.”

His father said something similar on a later phone call today.

I wish I could do something about it. I’m sorry, Jungkook.

And—

Come over. We will talk and eat together.

Sorrow really brings people together, it seems.

He’d visit soon, Jungkook said. Needs some time alone, under the blanket, processing the truth for a bit until he can face actual conversations with people who witnessed the same individual for so many years.

“You might not believe me…” he starts, weaker again. His voice is barely a whisper; he’s so fatigued. “But I don’t expect more than this. You’re enough.” A little pause, and then. “I will also finally call a therapist… might be the right time. We were talking about it anyway.”

You were. You have been for a while. The promise to not let issues interfere with daily life anymore, to heal individually as well as together. So you nod right away, the first to support the idea.

“You have my back, Kook.”

“I know, angel.” He gulps. Close to cuddling back in, but you cradle his face, keep looking at him. He looks surprised for the tiniest moments, but his expressions relax quickly; followed by a question, “And you?”

And you?

You don’t know. You want to lean into his suggestion, but you’re still afraid. Fearful of what you might dig out of the depths of your heart through conversing with the therapist alone.

You’ll do it, pinky promise, but…

“I’ll still wait just a little,” you admit, and he nods, accepts it. “Besides… I want to support you first. Just a bit longer. Then I’ll go. Cross my heart.”

“Good… okay. Whatever you think is right, okay? I’m here, too.”

So typical. An anchor, no matter the turmoil in his own chest.

“I love you. I really do,” you tell him, obliterating any chance for him to respond just yet.

Instead, you pull him. Look at him, misty eyed, and press a tiny peck to his dry lips. He sniffs, parting his mouth and asks, “What was this for?”

And perhaps he’s anticipating your answer, head tilting to the side, another small glitter flickering when you tell him, “I felt like it. Could do it all day.”

And it works — even if for a fragment of a second. The smile appears, but it never really creeps up far enough to his eyes.

You guess that’s what happens when somebody’s soul keeps falling in love and then loses what it loved.

Sometimes, a busy mind is an oblivious mind.

Not that Jungkook ever forgets as the hours of the day pass, but at least work will keep him briefly occupied for now. Motivation wanes when the focus resides elsewhere, of course, so it isn’t super ideal that he was hit by the news at such an important time.

Then again, working isn’t too bad either. It distracts him.

And Namjoon, no matter how well he usually matches somebody’s energy, will do him some good, too. Will cheer him up, push some courage and artistic inspiration into him.

The upcoming trip, the one that will leave you alone in the empty apartment for a bit, is fast approaching, though still a while after the gallery event. But Jungkook and Namjoon are already discussing details, settling on spots that might ignite some painter’s fires in them.

Namjoon said this is all about getting Jungkook to a place that can evoke colours he doesn’t even know, arouse a side of his talent that might help him later on; if — no, when — he rises to the top.

And since you’re done with your meetings today, most chores taken care of for the soon-to-come launch, you allow yourself an afternoon off and meet up with your best friend.

The group has already been back for quite some time, and while you’ve gathered some intel on the latest, downhill occurrences, you want to be there properly.

This is what you know: Apparently, soon after the two of you left, the conversations got heated, and eventually, as the distress reached its peak, Taehyung and Eun broke up. Ever since, they have been coping — or however well their hearts permit.

You regret your absence the moment Eun opens the door. You were attempting your best to juggle work and the emotional burdens of every hour, bringing solace to Jungkook and finding a moment to meet Eun for an extended period of time.

Eun has been holing up in here for all these days the way you did back in the summer. You are somewhat the worst friend; especially when her quiet voice welcomes you in, her hug not as tight as usual, the bubbly girl even physically worse.

Dark undereyes. Sad and distant gaze. Half a smile, as if fearing that you’re pouring all your sympathy into her, pitying her. She doesn’t enjoy this type of attention, but she also knows that you’re you and that this level of care can’t be changed.

Pity? No. Sympathy? You’d lose part of yourself if that one was lacking.

“I missed you…” you start as you sit down, waiting for her to join as she places a glass of water in front of you. You shift, unsure where to start. “Eun—”

But she’s quick to interrupt, “Listen, I… I know I’m supposed to talk about this.” She’s barely looking at you. “But I’ve thought about it over and over again and I don’t even know what to say anymore.” Shake of her head. “None of us is at fault. I can’t even be mad at him.”

“No… I wanted to say that, too. And that means you’re just as little at fault.”

You wait — because whenever words fail, stuttering and hesitating, wheels whirring in a fragile mind… that’s when even more tumbles out a moment later. And your instincts prove true.

She begins, “But…” Waits; and then spills, “We still fought the way we did and then, when the vacation was over… he was crying and I was, too, and we just felt so fucking sorry the entire time—”

Her voice is already shaking and breaking. She must have practiced this a hundred times in her head, but no preparation is ever enough to keep the affliction inside. It always pours, like rain, inhabiting a story in each drop.

Everyone who has ever loved might understand.

You give her some time as she attempts to hold it together in the middle of her lively and bright living room — but then you place a hand on her knee, assuring that there’s no need for restraint. So she pulls in a trembling breath, eyes so watery that they keep overflowing.

It reminds you so much of him days before.

The tears leave her in streams, collecting abundantly. And her nose reddens; your heart drops. Eun is the last person to ever deserve heartache of such calibre.

She cries until her face grows hot, cries until the sounds echo painfully. You hold her to your heart, trying to piece hers together for a bit, so aware that the one able to do this isn’t in the room with you right now. Rather trying to mend his own.

It’s already bad as it is, and you nearly wish he could spawn in here, tell her he’ll reconsider, make her happy as he’s supposed to. Of course it’s counterproductive; but how could higher powers even split these two in the first place?

It’s brutal.

And it’s worse, much meaner, thinking of the world as a vile place when her blurred speech inquires, “How d-di… how did you cope… when Jungkook and you broke up?”

You don’t quite know what to say. You don’t know because there’s hardly any advice to give. You were a mess. Which is what you honestly admit, “I barely did. You saw me — but you helped make it easier.” You put a cheek to her head. “So I’m here, too.”

“I know. I know… it’s just—” The next breath is sharp, the kind where it hitches and the sounds become high-pitched, mixing with hints of panic and pure sadness. “It’s kind of worse that he didn’t do any— anything wrong.”

She moves her head to and fro again against your chest, furious, “I can’t even rely on anger or just— do my best to hate him because none of us did anything to actually hurt the other.”

Her voice, usually so composed, gains on volume with each word. Probably a way to keep herself from whispering; to keep her sentences from breaking.

“This doesn’t have to be a bad thing,” you tell her, “it can serve as hope, too, you know? That not everybody is just shitty, and that there’s somebody who’s as great as him with the things you want, too.”

“But I want him.”

“Oh… babe…”

It’s this childlike yearning, the burning ache that hurts the most. You know what it feels like and you know there’s no easy way to overcome it, regardless of who one’s surrounded by. Naturally, she feels that way; you wish it had come differently.

She speaks on, “I should’ve known! That man isn’t just good with kids because he’s a social butterfly!” There’s some of the anger she spoke of; somehow, it stabilises her voice. “I should’ve known that he wants his own some day, too. Men, they usually do and it’s just me being so—”

“No,” you immediately react. “You are not wrong or anything at all for not wanting them. Even I…”

You pause. Actually, you don’t really know. You realise that you and Jungkook never got around to breaching this subject, despite cracking occasional jokes about it. You do remember how giddy you felt during the slippery soccer game…

“It’s just that,” you opt for instead, “it’s not so easy to think about and even worse to talk about.”

“And of course it’s easier for men. They don’t know what it feels like. The fear of pain and committing for the rest of our lives and never knowing how a husband might change…”

She’s letting it all out; maybe she needs to. Maybe she hasn’t been able to do so until now. You wonder how much she has said to Jimin so far. He might understand the two of you better than anyone else, having known you all your life, but… he’s still a guy, after all.

“What did he say when you told him? Tae?” you wonder, trying to come up with your own ideas. As far as you understand Taehyung, you don’t reckon he ever responded with anything too insensitive. “Did he dismiss your feelings?”

And you’re right. Because—

“No!” Her body moves to upright itself. “The bastard was perfectly nice. I can’t even hate him!” she exclaims again, majorly upset. “He said he accepts it, but it might become hard to stay because he really fucking wants them.”

You can almost hear the speech marks. And then, you also hear the absolute drop in volume as she sighs; tells you, “He asked about adoption…”

“…Shit.” The word comes out as barely anything. You hush it to yourself. “And?”

“I said that I just dunno if I’ll ever be able to live or enjoy such a life… that it’s not just about the physical pain… that just—”

She doesn’t speak on. So you add, “That’s okay. That’s seriously okay.”

It becomes quiet in the room. You take a look around. See the curtains, neatly bound in the middle, red ribbon around white sheer drapes. And you see the decorations, the pretty flowers, the lunch on the stove.

Eun does everything so thoroughly in her life. She’s always been calm and organised and a role model for anyone ready to dare a fresh approach to everything. She’s unique, your friend, a sarcastic but warm ray of light.

She doesn’t deserve to cry. It’s ridiculous.

Doesn’t deserve it how frail she sounds when she says, more to herself than to you, “I want him in my life so bad. He’s the one guy for me.”

The phase of pure hope. Denying that it’s over, that he’ll appear here in the morning, that a miracle will make the issues go away.

But… it did happen for you. So you try, very carefully, “He might find his way back to you. Sometimes love endures.”

“And sometimes it doesn’t.”

“I know, but… Either way… you will be okay,” you say. Eun hopes, yes, but that doesn’t always go hand in hand with optimism. You need to give her space, give her time; find a balance between the things she wants to hear and what’s realistic. “With or without him, you will be okay. In the worst case, I’m here. I told you.”

It’s an attempt at a joke, and you seem to succeed, bringing out the lightest chuckle and a sniffle before she jests, too, “With or without Jungkook?”

You laugh. “You were the first love of my life. We’ll get there somehow.”

The faint twinkle in her eyes lifts your spirits, urges you closer to her. Your palm rubs her right arm, providing warmth to eliminate some of the frost in her heart. Then again, maybe you’re wrong — post-break up haze creates unpleasant heat after all.

The hot cheeks from made up scenarios and the jealousy that follows; the knot in the stomach that the pining calls forth; the tightness in your chest, breathing soon a myth.

No, she needs another type of warmth — one you can offer with the cold only.

So you get up to scour her fridge, humming on your way to the kitchen island as you say, “You never run out of ice cream, do you? You keep it stored the way others store potatoes.” You hear a weak, lovely laugh. Bend down to the freezer. “Coming in handy now.”

“Clichée remedy, huh?”

“Gotta be clichée for a reason,” you tell her before you plop down with the box and two spoons, taking off the lid to scoop directly from it. Vanilla and strawberry. “Here.”

You hand her one spoon, and she inspects her reflection for a while, as if she’s seeing it for the first time in a while. The utensil seems odd to her, like a new invention — but when she snaps back into her body and shovels in just lightly, you recognise the stare.

Because she looks just as you felt. When every mundane and basic daily achievement appeared like an uninvited stranger; or a chore to get done with, a challenge to survive.

She has something to say; you recognise it in the gulp and the clearing of her throat. Steadying her voice, giving herself a moment for the vanilla to cool her down.

Then, in a now gentle but defeated tone, she recollects, “It was… really weird. We broke up in the middle of everything and then spent the rest of the time there just— fighting and making up. Out of the bed and… back into bed.”

You don’t down your own bite yet; the sugar needs to awaken her happy dessert hormones first. Instead, you ask, “Have you heard from him ever since?”

She pokes the still somewhat solid ice cream, slowly melting. “No… Just whatever Jimin tells me.” She shrugs a shoulder. “Which, apparently, isn’t much either, though. And I hate myself for being this way, but not knowing what he’s doing and where he is drives me nuts.”

“I know what you mean,” you say, eyes following the spoon brought to her mouth and then back to the box. You’re just glad she’s eating at all; you understand that appetite is scarce when the tummy is already filled with dread and hurt. So you speak up again, “Hey. Come over for dinner sometime?”

Eun hesitates. Not the obvious type of rejection, but rather a weighing of options, thinking ahead, evaluating her emotions and what she’s able to withstand on days like these.

You already know what the issue might be before she says it; you realise it too late, but you guess you’d feel the same if you were her.

“I will,” she starts, fillers taking over the silence. “Uh… Well, once I’m able to look at Jungkook again without thinking of… him.”

“…I get it.”

“Which makes me feel horrible. I would love to offer him some comfort, too. He texted a few days ago, you know?”

You do.

As you strolled the aisles of the nearby market, he mentioned it for a second, summarising the already compact yet sweet message inhibiting his support. He was going to pick up some peanut-chocolate snack for her, too, but you reminded him of her allergy.

The chocolate-covered popcorn that is sitting on the table in front of you instead is the substitute that he chose a minute later; but you won’t tell Eun that. She already feels a plethora of negative emotions, guilt not being the last of them.

It’s already obvious when she asks slowly, “I meant to ask… How is he?”

Well, since you’re being honest.

You chew at the inside of your cheek, thoughts wandering to the man who’s trying his best to keep himself together. Smiles at your jokes and jests back, teases you a little to fabricate an illusion of wellbeing.

But you’re not stupid; you’ve grown to understand his inner workings, so you admit, “Not too well either. This took him out a lot more than I would’ve guessed.” You breathe out, deflating a bit. “It hurts to see. He’s living and all, almost his usual self, but. Doesn’t feel the same yet.”

“Mmh. So when I come over,” she says, spoon falling to her lap; perhaps the actual hunger is coming back in pieces at least, “we’ll just grieve our losses together, I guess.”

You nod, light pats to her knee, promising that, “It will stop hurting. For sure.”

But you don’t know.

No. Undoubtedly, pain always lessens, even when it doesn’t fade. Memories ensure a fraction of whatever stays back.

But… none of this will stop now.

You are aware of it, considering the moments these two shared, no matter how little time passed ever since they grew the way they did. And, considering each second you analyse Jungkook’s face, realising that he, too — the ball of sunshine — will experience rain for a bit longer.

No pain will subside just yet.

You saw it in the way his face dried up the last few days. How he remembers more and more of him. And how your eyes got stuck on a piece of paper just this morning, laying on top of a sketchbook and underneath a frequently used graphite pencil.

It was a drawing; Gureum sticking out his tongue, staring at whoever stared back at him. Only a couple strokes of lines and curves, but so insanely real, too.

For a bit, you couldn’t remember where you’d seen these very elements before, in just this order and shades, but then, as the day passed, you saw it in your mind, just in front of you.

A little photograph of Gureum, secured in Jungkook’s wallet for as long as you’ve known.

Never talked about it much. Never paid much attention to it at all.

But now, you keep thinking about it. Maybe less because of how cute you found it, or because of the fact that Jungkook is able to love this much.

More because the pain of losing somebody really is striking — because an essence remains in a photograph forever, affection stored in it, deeming something or somebody eternal.

That’s probably why human beings feel nostalgic about them. Why the concept was invented at all.

Because even when the fear of forgetting lingers — once a moment is immortalised, one never truly ever does.

Jungkook’s fingertaps synchronise with the ticking of the clock, like a pendulum, when you let him in on recent events. All with Eun’s permission, of course.

You’re surprised Tae didn’t open up to him about it much yet; perhaps there’s something about the rumour that girls feed and boys eat information. Or maybe he’s caught in his own emotions, dealing with them alone — it’s all fresh, after all.

Jungkook was the same — he dodged his friends back during the summer while you divulged your mind to Eun.

“I should call him,” Jungkook says. “It’s a bit selfish of me not to.”

He shakes his head a little, embarrassed, and you know why. Taehyung phoned him just yesterday, hearing of the current situation, speaking out his condolences. He didn’t mention Eun even once.

But you can’t blame Jungkook. He’s grieving in his own way, and you’re overly certain he won’t neglect Taehyung for his own misery for longer than his heart can bear. It’s okay to seek time alone in moments like these — it’s true for both.

“You can do it tomorrow if you want,” you tell him, bringing a hand to the nape of his neck to rub. “But don’t strain your brain.”

“No, no.” He leans back on the bed — he’s been spending most of his free time here now — and stares at his darkened phone. “I’ll call at noon.”

The phone falls to the side as he tilts his head and kisses his lips, and then, he adds, “It doesn’t sound right. Them breaking up.”

Certainly, it doesn’t. You saw them during the holidays; saw the invisible bond forming. But then, as you left, you saw something break, too.

“I know,” you agree, repeating Eun’s words, “and it’s hard to intervene or give advice because neither of them is wrong.”

“Mmh… and neither should be pushed to believe otherwise if they know they’ll stick to their perspective.”

“Yeah. I mean. I don’t think either of them tried to convince the other. Which probably hurts more — having to accept a choice while still being in love.” You push out a stuck breath. “It’s just unfair. I might sound crazy, but I still keep hoping they’ll find back to each other.”

“Nah, it’s not crazy. That’d be how it’s supposed to be. But I dunno.” He shrugs a shoulder, less hopeful than you. Makes sense. You don’t understand Taehyung as well as he does. “I’ve always known that Tae wants to be a parent someday.”

“And I’ve always known Eun doesn’t want it.”

“Some dilemmas are just cruel.”

He lets the ticking clock burn some more seconds, accompanied by quiet sounds of the passing cars down the street. You know he’s contemplating something when he stops blinking, and you’re about to ask when he beats you to it, “What about you?”

“About me? What, having kids one day?”

“Mmhm.”

“Hmmm,” you replicate.

You’ve thought about this, so it’s not like you don’t have an answer to it.

It’s just that it barely even satisfies you — you’re not quite sure how Jungkook will digest it. You remember when you locked yourself into Eun’s bathroom, terrified of his reaction and of the two lines appearing on the test.

But he was supportive. And you think he’d want this with you at some point; if you were honest, the times that you painted such pictures as you mused on a possible future, you didn’t hate the thought.

“Honestly?” you start, shifting. “I grew up not wanting to be a mother. I saw the void at home and how dark everything felt the moment I was alone. And… I didn’t want to do this to someone, too.”

Typical fear of adopting abusive behaviour and becoming the culprit.

Jungkook’s hand floats to your knee, brushing over it with warmth, “Why did you think you would?”

“Because sometimes, we forward trauma instead of processing it and learning from it.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard of that.”

“But sometimes,” you sigh, mentally switching from left to right, “I catch myself imagining what I’d be like nevertheless. And then I think I’ll want it one day. I really don’t know.” Your eyebrows twitch to kiss. “It’s scary. Talking to Eun scared me ‘cause I don’t want the same thing to happen to us.”

“It won’t.”

Short and precise. Determined and convinced.

Two words alone often suffice; you’re lucky, sharing a space with somebody who communicates with you on the same wavelength. It’s rare, this kind of understanding and love.

You feel instantly relieved.

Yet, you make sure, “It’s just because I know you want this.”

“I want you more. And,” he pauses, tongues his cheek, collects his thoughts to form the sentence, “really, if we settle on either decision while staying together in the process, I’m fine.”

The creases on your forehead deepen. As you said, lucky. But you never expected this level of purity; maybe Jungkook is written by an actual supreme being and you’re met with its manifestation.

Or really, maybe he jumped out of a 3D printer.

You ask, “You’d give up such a thing for me?”

“Like… I won’t lie, I’ve always wanted this. But… it’s your decision.”

See? This is why you deem yourself to be at just the right place in your life, so ecstatic that your heart knew to trust him, to trust this, and to not withdraw when you were hurting.

Your voice lowers, “Is it?”

“You’d be the one hurting,” he says, so matter-of-factly, not to sound smart or feminist. “I’m not going to leave because you decide to avoid pain.”

You chuckle, joyful and bright amidst the colourless days. “Yet, I might decide to go for it anyway.”

“Then I’ll definitely accept it, as well.”

He’s laughing again. It hasn’t been more than a couple days, but he’s never topped this period of time without genuinely laughing before. It’s a tender sound, and authentic, even though it’s still weaker than you are used to.

Obviously it is.

Jungkook is a deep empath; overanalyses and overthinks and overfeels. This day was bound to happen at some point and his heart was bound to break like this.

Some things in life are inevitable after all.

“I love you,” you tell him, a cheek falling onto his shoulder. You close your eyes for a moment, hear his serene breathing. “I’m not letting someone like you go anyway, so just… don’t leave.”

You’re attempting a joke, easing the moment with something as sugary as can get. But it barely takes him a heartbeat to respond, “I was thinking the same about you.”

“Oh… no—”

“It’s just even scarier now, you know, losing people I love.”

Your immediate reaction is speechlessness. You want to let his truth sink into the room, so you can bubble wrap it; just so he knows he’s safe and sound and that his fright, while still present, will crawl beneath the comfort you provide.

One day, he might not see it anymore. He might not dread such an outcome anymore.

“Sometimes these things are out of our control,” you tell him, “but I think some people are capable of promising to stay and actually do so, too.”

“You too?”

You look at him wordlessly, let your eyes speak. Smile at him, take his hand into yours. You don’t think you need to say much and that he understands; and he doesn’t pose a follow-up-question, so you assume you’re right.

Because he squeezes your hand, tells you he’s okay when you ask how he’s doing. Falls into easier and more casual conversation with you, one that allows less heart and mind and more lightness and relief.

As minutes pass, the atmosphere enlivens just a little, enough for you to hope. But maybe, you think, it tires him out, too. Because when you suggest watching a movie to kill the hours until it’s bedtime, he rejects your suggestion; instead, he declares, “I’ll lay down a bit, I think.”

So he does. With a tiny groan and a heavy body falling into soft feathers. And you still sit at your spot.

Watch him fall into a slumber quickly, much until his breathing evens out, peaceful and quiet. Blurry so far, your eyes clear when you, once again, detect the messy desk and the same drawing of Gureum on top of it.

It somehow stands out in the chaotic stack, like an intense presence blending out everything else.

The face on there, the lines and the inspiration behind them feel like a ghost, smiling at you; one he’s desperately carving into his mind, etching it into his memory — how he sounded, how he barked, how he whimpered.

An utter proof for the adoration one holds, beyond a lifetime, reserved even in the absence of a loved one. And these ghosts remain, whether somebody left your realm or just brought in a distance, alive but breathing from afar.

You know, because you recall how much Jungkook haunted you when he stole pieces of you and disappeared from your life for weeks. When he’d return in dreams and thoughts and fears, but never in person.

You couldn’t hear him and couldn’t see him — but somehow, somewhat, he was still always there.

In hindsight, you knew you loved him back then, too. Of course you did; the moment one questions their own feelings, it’s already over, isn’t it? If you had to wonder whether you were in love with him, hadn’t you already lost?

Affection contains such intensity, anyway; an ache stuck in a heart like claws and a breathlessness that doesn’t ever drain your lungs when you’re not in trouble already.

How insane.

Truly, denial often only remains for a moment and turns into transparency very soon. Today, you know with utmost certainty that you loved him.

But that’s exactly why this hurts so fucking much, looking at him.

Locking into his puffy cheeks, the strand of his hair covering half his eyebrow and sticking to the corner of his eye. He always looks so much younger like this. You wipe the hair back; he doesn’t move. Still slightly turned away from you, mouth a little ajar.

So you keep going.

You look at the wall in front of you, hands busy grazing his dark tresses. One of his arms and its fist lay on the pillow beneath his head, the other under the blanket, probably pressed to his heart.

It’s a human way of pushing against the unease.

When your thumb ghosts along his skin, over the apple of his cheek, he does stir. Not too much, only letting out a small puff of air before he turns under the sheets with his eyes still shut — and he stretches out his right arm to drape it around your hips.

You lift your arms a little to give him the space, and he seems to try to adjust until his sleepy brain decides that you are sitting too upright, your hips too high for his arm. But this doesn’t deter him; he doesn’t pull back but lowers his limb to your lap, just above your thigh.

It’s an interesting play, how a drowsy, unconscious mind still registers so much of its surroundings or its emotions. How he’s still acting and reacting according to the life he lives.

And you keep staring. It reassures you somehow. Fills you with soothing consolation.

And he feels the same, you reckon. Because in the middle of it all, he sighs.

Hm…

In a dry desert that exhausts his heart and body with each of its terribly draining attributes, you so proudly feel like his oasis.

Your eyes water, but you breathe in, keep it inside.

You gulp, tugging at the blanket a little to cover the rest of his and your legs; then, you relocate, sliding down on the mattress bit by bit, carefully.

It takes you a matter of seconds until you hear a faint protest, “Mmh, no…” and you hurry to utter an immediate, “I’m still here. All good.”

He relaxes. For a moment, you see his eyelids crack open a slit, and move further with a light smile until you’re lying next to him, forehead at the height of his mouth. You feel the hot breath when he lets out another one of solace.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you add, “just wanted to lay down, too.”

He nods, but barely. Your hand glides over his chest and then slowly rounds his torso, back to his shoulder blades. You want to hold him as close as possible and want to wait with an ear to his cotton shirt until his heartbeat winds down.

It’s warm in this room and under the blanket; the fall outside does nothing for you. But you don’t move.

Jungkook buries his lips in your hair. He’s vulnerable; possibly more than you ever experienced him to be in front of his father, or even without you. Those were different kinds of stitches tearing open.

Right now, he’s scared.

This is the main finding for you at this time — it feels like nothing is happening, but in this silence, his mind is crowded.

Jungkook knows very well that you won’t leave; but he also thought Gureum never would. Just like you, you imagine, he has realised several different ways to lose somebody, and it probably terrifies him.

He’ll swarm around you more often now, you know.

Minutes pass and his eyes shut again, but you know he’s awake. More so when he sniffles; doesn’t cry, but still strays a bit from his peace.

You’re groggy when you open your eyes, too, whispering a, “Jungkook…” as you take in his somewhat asleep, somewhat awake state. He’s aware that you’re here, knows where he is, but his brain is foggy, too.

His words, despite all, however, are still clear as day when he reluctantly, quietly says, “This sucks.”

“I know…”

Another break, another sniffle. Then—

“I love you.”

And that’s it.

You answer, but it drowns in his repeated sniffles, eyes and cheek dry when soon against your scalp. But the actual torment under his chest is more than evident in how he holds you.

You can’t help but revert to more promises, no matter how unoriginal they might be. Is that important as long as you mean them, anyway?

So you mutter, “I will always come home to you.”

Jungkook doesn’t nod. He doesn’t answer. Only presses against the small of your back and then moves his palm to the middle of it, keeps it there at last. He doesn’t need to speak his thoughts anyway, as little as you needed to before.

Your presence is enough. You will never become a ghost.

Talking to his parents and his brother in the past weeks helped immensely.

Somehow, the conversations killed pieces of Jungkook’s denial; and somehow, the revelation of the one he’s been hoping to return to actually being gone, led to a sense of acceptance. Easier to… well, perhaps not move on.

But easier to cope.

To realise that life needs to go on and that this way, dwelling on the past or reliving moments won’t hurt anymore one day.

And working towards his life goals didn’t hurt either. The fair is coming closer, and so is the gallery showing. He’s been working hard; and life is normalising.

You’re back to teasing and fighting and pouting and making up.

It’s nice to see.

When Jungkook comes back home from another day at his parents’, the apartment is empty. The silence is surprising, given the fact that you weren’t supposed to be absent for so long. As far as he was concerned, you were going to greet him when he came back, already here.

And he certainly returned later than he thought he would.

As he slips his shoes off and places them neatly on the side, he calls out your name to double check. Maybe you’re asleep. But you don’t respond; you’re a light sleeper. And on further inspection, he soon detects that the bedroom is vacant.

Jungkook fishes out his phone and dials immediately; you’re already on top of the list, so the five seconds save him some headache. And you picking up nearly instantly only adds to that relief.

“Hey! You home?” your voice chimes, and he relaxes, exhales, falling onto the edge of the bed weightlessly.

A hand dangles between his legs, arm propped up on his thigh, and he asks, “Where are you? I would’ve picked you up if I’d known you’re still out.”

“No, no, it’s okay. I wasn’t too far.”

“Where was that?”

You groan on the other side of the line, as if heaving something of significant weight, your breathing a tiny bit stagnant. He prods, “Are you okay? I can come help if you’re nearby.”

“No, I was just out, doing some shopping.”

“Sure? It’s cold as hell, too.”

“Yes, baby. I’m a big girl, I promise,” you chuckle into the phone and he joins in, nodding without you seeing, “but I’ll talk to you when I’m there. I want to show off my haul a bit.”

“Ah. Thought you hated surprises.”

“We both know that’s not true.”

The grin emerging on his face feels good. Feels freeing. You have an undeniable effect on him and he couldn’t be more enticed by its mystery.

“Alright. I’ll wait then,” he says, and you agree quickly, muttering goodbyes before the call cuts.

Hm. Okay.

Maybe he should take a shower in the meantime, prepare the ingredients for tonight’s dinner. What was it again you wanted to eat today? Risotto? Lasagna? You wanted either in some of the upcoming days. Italian, that’s for sure.

“Both not easy,” he comments to himself, snickering quietly; who would he be if he didn’t yield to your every wish?

The shirt flies into the laundry basket, the water under the showerhead warm and comforting compared to the dropping temperatures outside. It was raining again; while it has stopped, the wind still whipped his face — so you better hurry back to him carefully.

He hears the door open and fall back into its lock as he washes off the last of his shampoo, a hand sliding across his face, down to his neck and his chest. You don’t exclaim his name or announce your arrival the way you usually do.

Suspect, but probably nothing bad.

It’s okay. He’ll do it instead.

And you answer just as casually when he does. More cheerful than ever even, giving back a, “Take your time! I’m here.”

You’re a handful some days when you scare him like this, especially at such times that his mind makes up scenarios constantly.

Your absence can be mind-numbing — and since meetings often exceed the time you promised and the phone ringing is incredibly unprofessional, he does worry a little too frequently.

It’s not your fault, either.

Usually, you do exploit your position as the manager, allowing yourself a moment to message him back or let him know when you’ll be home. But sometimes you’re… gone, like this. And he hates the feeling he once lived through when you disappeared for so long, hiding at Eun’s.

“Seriously,” he starts as you meet him at the threshold to the bathroom, pushing him back inside, “will I ever not worry sick about you?”

“Sorry,” you begin frivolously, moving into him instead, reaching for his lips, “I got caught up with stuff, but…” Another peck, a hand still on his damp chest. “I’m here now.”

Jungkook isn’t too sure whatever came to possess you in these very hours between the morning and now, but he’s not opposed to it. He revels in the touch of your palm grazing his skin, down to the belly button, lightly tugging at the towel as a tease.

“Woman,” he whispers between kisses, the words growing quieter, “you’ll drive me crazy one day.” His hands come up to cradle your face, to look at you. “You scare me and then you come home to do this.”

“Mmmh, I guess so.”

You let him kiss you, let him open your mouth and push the tongue through — but the temptation doesn’t last long. Because he notices your hesitation, not because you’re unsure but rather… something else.

You want to say something. So he lets you.

“What is it?” he wonders.

“Just exasperated. Just want to show you what I shopped.”

Right. You said that already. You stepped into the apartment, dizzying his head so badly that he almost forgot.

“You have a weird way of showing that you’re tired,” Jungkook remarks, the last word dying as you push a hand beneath the towel, squeezing his ass just a little before backing away. “Honestly, babe.”

“Yes, honestly… come.”

Mysterious, this behaviour of yours. You’ve brought home stuff you needed or wanted several times, but you never seemed as enlivened by it as you do now. And you certainly never made much of a secret out of it as you are now.

And it’s not hard to guess why.

If it was a small object or a dress or a book or a plushie stuffed in one of these environment-friendly paper bags, he might not have noticed right away. But…

But what you decided to march back with today is an entirely different level of unexpected riddle. Or at least, a riddle until its eyes meet with Jungkook’s.

They’re…

They’re round and expressive. Curious and a little shy. Carry the same innocence and dark, serene night in them as Jungkook does. And the— the puppy is blinking slowly, eyes flopping a tiny bit; lets his head fall to the side for a second.

He’s so small. Alert yet gentle. A careful, dark brown Doberman watching a half naked Jungkook with peculiar interest.

Then to you, already a little used to you, and then back to some random spot again.

Maybe he’s taking in his new home. Maybe he’s trying to understand his surroundings. Probably not yet falling in love as quickly and furiously as Jungkook already is.

Certainly not having the same liquid collecting in his eyes as in his owner’s.

What did you…

Is this yours? His? Taken in to babysit? What—

You stand on the side, hands folded, waiting with your lower lip trapped with your teeth. You’re giving him a moment with the pup, Jungkook knows, removing yourself from the equation to permit the love to unfold.

But how could he ditch you anyway? How, when right now, he could crush you in his arms?

A month has passed since Gureum left. Life went on, but moments of yearning always returned — you saw it all in his eyes. The realisation that Gureum would never come back, and that nobody could replace him.

And of course you know; this right here — you aren’t trying to replace Gureum, but trying to bring new happiness and a new start into Jungkook’s life.

He mentioned this once or twice over the weeks, casually stating how he urged to love someone the way he loved his childhood companion. You put his wish into motion so quickly.

If this moment is what he thinks it is, then he doesn’t know how to digest it for now. How to swallow the mix of longing and relief, of missing somebody and meeting someone new.

The Doberman is a symbol of healing and affection. Of how you care, and of how Jungkook will once again be able to adore the same as he used to. Still does.

“Babe?” he only calls.

There’s nothing more he can murmur right now anyway. What, a thank you? Crying in the middle of the room? Kissing his appreciation into you? None of it will suffice.

“Yes?” you respond.

“There’s…” His open palm lifts, a finger loosely pointing to the focus of his attention. “There’s a dog on our couch.”

You laugh with a tender heart. “Yes. There is.”

Should he move? He doesn’t dare to. Only wipes away the dark, wet curls off his temples. Looks for a bit; watches the still figure barely fill the dip in the cushions, as if he could vanish the moment Jungkook speaks.

You are a bundle of excitement next to him, and the little thing is unbothered, not even looking when Jungkook is teetering between disbelief and wonder.

And then… just slowly, cautiously, surely, he steps forward. Courageous once you say, “Yes, say hi.” A hand already reaches midair before it retreats; should he sit beside him or drop to his knees? Pick him up and place him on his lap?

“Where did you get him from?” Jungkook asks, voice still delicate. “How long did you plan this?”

He’s wondering about a lot of things. How you picked him out of all the dogs you saw. How you chose the absolute manifestation of sweet honey, ogling up to him now that Jungkook lets his fingers reach the soft fur along the back.

He chuckles, breathless and full. Tells the newest member of the household, “So cute. You’re so freaking cute—”

Then, he picks him up, secures him in his arms, a paw on his tatted skin as he gets used to the moment. Trying to understand who he belongs to.

You finally dare to step closer; the dog already recognises your scent a tiny bit, staring at you, paw reaching for your hand when you stretch it towards him.

With kind excitement, you answer Jungkook’s questions.

“So, I was searching for a bit and then… one or two weeks ago, I spoke to a colleague at work about someone she knew who was looking for people to adopt puppies. Gave me her number and all.”

You’re distracted for a moment, delighted when the pup nudges your hand for more pets.

“And… the lady she suggested was repeatedly gushing about his eyes and all before she gave him to me?” you say, the back of the hand brushing along his back. “And on my way back I kept looking at him and realised how right she was. They reminded me of yours.”

Jungkook laughs, and you shake your head with a beam of your own, telling him, “It’s true! They’re this dark brown and huge and round and… I dunno,” you lift your shoulders, pupils flying up to your boyfriend’s, “I’ve always said you have starry eyes.”

You have; the admission is never new, but always heartbeat-increasing.

To be compared with something as gorgeous and celestial as the night sky…

“…And so,” you continue, “I thought.” You cradle the puppy’s face, but this time he retreats, rather leaning into Jungkook’s arms now with a soft whimper. Already fond. You say—

“Bam.”

It’s a simple syllable. A soft, two-letter sound. But something clicks into place immediately.

Jungkook feels it unwind inside him, as if it makes sense, as if whatever is happening is just the right thing. Just fitting to his timeline and life. This is nice. This is lovely. Worth remembering.

The ache, the doubt, the weight that followed him all these days… it all lightens, just a little.

No, Jungkook will never replace Gureum. But he can try to be a family with another one of the world's true angels; remember who he once knew as Bam’s lost brother.

Bam…

Bam. Short but just right, isn’t it?

“Bam,” he repeats, blinking away the tears, “hi.” His chest rises when he breathes in. Falls when he says, “Is it weird to say that I feel like I love him already?”

Is it?

No… of course it isn’t. No emotion that ever emerges out of a gut feeling is ever weird, is it? All it ever is and remains is real. In which sense Jungkook doesn’t need to question his emotions; can trash the question whether the newfound adoration only feels like love.

And as you watch from the other side, you so bittersweetly realise that you were oh-so-right.

Because some things don’t have to be explained. They don’t have to be questioned at all. A lot of times, things just are.

And a lot of times, when one has to ask whether they are loving… they already are.

a little (late) tribute to real life gureum, mixed with all that happened and has been happening in their lives. i guess this truly is a slice of life thing that keeps on hurting, but keeps on giving, too. idk – at least that's how i felt as i wrote and edited it. i really love them so much, y'all :') also, this was supposed to be the original banner, but i discarded it bc it spoiled too much lmao:

how did you guys like it? it's been so long, i hope it didn't disappoint. i would definitely love to hear what you think – this is truly what keeps me and this lil series going!!.. would make my day!! so leave a like/reblog/talk to me pls <3 love you!!

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

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murasaki-cha · 5 months ago

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One thing that has always pissed me off is when people call the Enemies to Lovers troupe toxic romance and say it's abusive. Like I don't know what was advertised to you as enemies to lovers but babe that is so not what this trope it's about.

Now listen I'm a fantasy reader, so my normal level of enemies to lovers is "they have tried to kill each other at least once" or "they have definitely physically fist fought" at like the minimum. Anything below that is rivals to lovers to me. Just wanted to make it clear I'm not sugar coating anything here when it comes to my ships.

Enemies to lovers was never about the abuse or the fighting and the attempted murder, that's not what makes the trope.

Enemies to lovers was always about seeing the worst in each other first, being unafraid to show someone the ugliest part of yourselves and them still managing to fall in love with you. It's about realizing that the only person who has ever truly known you is the one person you cannot stand, it's about them being an outlet to each other the one person they are not afraid to be negative towards because that's your dynamic all the time.

This is also why people enjoy the fighting and the bickering between the enemies, because it's the one time when these characters are not holding anything back, they are unafraid of showing each other cruelty because why fear being disliked by someone who you already hate, that also hates you back?

It's about this chemistry these characters have, how they are somehow always pulled towards each other, how they can recognize each other in a crowded room immediately because they are annoyed by each other's presence obviously. It's about them always somehow ending up in a situation together even though the last thing they want is to be near each other.

They start noticing more about each other, they realize their habits, they know little stuff about them that almost no one else has ever noticed and maybe along the way they realize that maybe they're kind of different from what they thought at first and maybe they're not so different from each other.

It's about name calling turning into pet names, verbal sparing turning into old married couple type of bickering, going from dreading each others presence to searching for each other in a room, sneers turning into smirks, it's about keeping the same dynamic you had but making it more lighthearted, warmer.

And this is my personal opinion, but I truly believe there is no way to make a good enemies to lovers story without it also being a slowburn. It makes absolutely no sense why these characters that hated each other until now are suddenly falling in love so quickly. Enemies to lovers was never just Enemies -> Lovers, There needs to be some forced proximity thrown in there, a begrudgingly friendship, actual friendship, unexplained feelings, realization of feelings, secret pining because we barely became friends there is no way they would ever feel the same way, confession and by the end lovers. It just makes sense since they have a very complicated relationship and they need to grow as people and need to get used to familiar feelings first before actually getting together.

And this is what enemies to lovers is all about, these characters knowing every part of themselves, from the worst to the best, hiding nothing and being free around each other. It's about truly knowing every single piece of your partner's heart and soul, from their anger to their joy and loving them not just despite it, but especially for it.

#enemies to lovers #enemies to friends to lovers #enemies to soulmates #ship dynamics #couple dynamics #otp dynamic #romance tropes #book tropes #fanfic tropes

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isetfiretomyself · 3 months ago

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Yandere Male Boxer X Idol Reader (G/N)

I'm backkkk! This was a request so if anyone wants a specific Yandere or reader let me know! - Jay ＼⁠(⁠^⁠o⁠^⁠)⁠／

So I originally wrote Yandere Boxer with a PR Manager Reader but what if you were an Idol? 🙀

Trigger warnings! Violence, Implied creepy manager, drugging, jealousy, I tried to go a little harder on the Yandere part this time! This is all fictional I don't condone toxic behaviour irl!

🦷 Yandere Boxer still got a PR Manager but it wasn't you.

🦷 Yandere Boxer who was told to take a Collab with this shoe company or something... between you and me he was not listening

🦷 Yandere Boxer who really wasn't listening because why are there other celebrities!? This is going to such a drag...

🦷 Yandere Boxer who saw his shoe and...I mean it's okay. It wasn't really his style but everyone thinks he's edgy and all so it's nothing new.

What he didn't except was someone putting a very pretty and proper shoe next to his. "Excuse me? I'm sorry but" you fiddle with your fingers "can you sign this please?"

🦷 Yandere Boxer didn't even know who you were. You looked too pretty to be his fan. He signed it anyway not thinking much of it but he did clock you run off excitedly. That was the first time he smiled in awhile.

🦷 Yandere Boxer who cringed at his shoe adverts or posters, he hated it. This wasn't him but he saw your advertisements and it was like night and day. You were so comfortable Infront of the camera.

🦷 Yandere Boxer found out you were an Idol. Originally in a group but now is more known for your solo songs and modelling gigs. How on earth did an Idol like you become a fan of him!?

🦷 Yandere Boxer who was cooking when he got a call from his PR Manager.

There was a live going viral that mentioned him. Great, last time this happened a really boring match took place. He expected some B tier Boxer to be running his name through the mud, What he didn't expect is to be from you.

"Oh my goodness!" You squeal. "I think I'm allowed to talk about this now. You'll never guess who I met!" The chat was guessing everyone from other Idols to actors but was in shock when you showed Yandere Boxers signature. "Ah! I finally met him! He's just as tall in person, maybe a little hotter though." Yandere Boxer felt his face heat up, can you just say that about someone online!? Someone in chat said something about him being a thug. "Hey he is not! He was really sweet!"

🦷 Yandere Boxer who didn't know why you liked him so much!?

🦷 Yandere Boxer sent you a DM, he's never slid into someone's DM's before...how embarrassing.

🦷 Yandere Boxer who found out you used to do boxing while training. He didn't realise being an idol was so tuff. His face lit up thinking about being your favourite boxer.You were so sweet and friendly, you weren't like his other fans.

🦷 Yandere Boxer who's team meets your team. He saw the way your manager looks at you and he hates it. The desire to just punch his face in overwhelms Yandere Boxer.

🦷 Yandere Boxer who's got a little bit of a fake relationship going on with you for the cameras. He definitely is crushing on you though while you're blissful unaware of this new situation. Thinking you were simply gaining a new friend while being cuddly in public!

🦷 Yandere Boxer notices how you hold onto his arm or resting your head on him. It just feels like you want something, reassurance? Friendship? Maybe even love? (He's a little delusional)

🦷 Yandere Boxer DEFINITELY reads fanfic about you. Has ALL your merch as well, he's a mega fan!

🦷 Yandere Boxer who found out where your manager lives, I mean is it that hard? Like surely he realises that someone as big as Yandere Boxer was following him.

You get a call from your manager at night. It confused you but you still pick it up. "Hello?" "Y/N! I-I just wanted to apologise!" His voice was shaking ,it sounds like he's scared. "Apologies? I don't understand." "I think- I know! I know! I may have given you some inappropriate looks and that's unacceptable." He sounds terrified. "Is everything okay!? Have you been drinking?" You sat up properly, a little scared. "What!? Nonono everything's fine! Do you accept my apologies?" "Sure?" he hung up after that.

🦷 Yandere Boxer who listens to you talk about your weird call with your manager before he quit the next day.

🦷 Yandere Boxer listened acting like he didn't already know this. He knows more then you! He was the reason he was scared!

🦷 Yandere Boxer went around their home and beat the living daylights out of your pervy manger and made him apologise.

🦷 Yandere Boxer watched him make that call, listening to your angelic voice in the other end. He griped the hammer in one hand and the managers free hand in the other. Ready to smash his hand into mush. If a man's willing to look at you funny Yandere Boxer isn't risking him being about to touch you.

"Elijah...can I ask you something?" You look down at the cup you have. Who would of thought Yandere Boxer made such a good cup of tea? "Yeah of course,Anything." "You won't get mad?" Yandere Boxer almost laughs, he gently grips your knee. "Now why would I get mad?" "I..I don't know it's just you didn't seem upset by this? Maybe I haven't explained it properly but he sounded petrified! Then he just quite!" Yandere Boxer's face was blank before smiling slightly. "Listen I beat people up for a living. It's hard for me to get worried. It sounds like his guilty conscious got to him."

You knew your manager. He was a lot of things but self aware was not one. You even asked him not to make certain jokes and he thought you just didn't have enough sleep. How would he have magically realised he's a weirdo!? You had so many questions. You take a sip of the tea again "I suppose you're right... Finding a new manager is going to be a total pain in the neck." "Don't" "excuse me?" Yandere Boxer only really spoke when spoken to so him cutting you off was new. "Why?" You rub your eyes, all this stress is making you tired. "Just think about it. You've had a good career, why not quite while your ahead? You'll get publicity before retirement and then you can move on to more! Have more freedom!" You sip your tea again. "You're a very caring person Elijah but I love my job." You smile and yawn.

🦷 Yandere Boxer who just rubs his thumb over your knee, watching you get more tired over the minutes. The second you closed your eyes he pulled his hand away and went to put your cup in the sink.

He walks around his penthouses making sure all the windows were locked. He stopped getting to a specific door with multiple locks. He flawlessly put all the codes in. The room was large and it was a rather good replica of your room. He tried his best. He sat on the bed with his head in his hands.

🦷 Yandere Boxer needed to hype himself to lock you in there. What if this manger is worse? You won't quite . Deep down he knew you wouldn't but he wanted to try the easy way first.

🦷 Yandere Boxer gently placed you into the bed and tucked you in. He rolled his sleeves up, his dark skin complimented with tattoos.(including your initials because your full name it so public)

🦷 Yandere Boxer put a metal shackle on your ankle before letting you rest. It's okay! You'll get use to relaxing with time!

#yandere imagines #gn reader #x reader #yandere x reader #yandere oc #male yandere #yandere headcanons #idol reader #Yandere Boxer #request

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neiptune · 1 year ago

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surreal, but nice

cw: 7k wc, female reader, strangers to lovers, osamu doesn't exactly know how to handle one of the most famous music artists in japan suddenly popping in onigiri miya, inspired by notting hill, my sappy entry for the romcom collab hosted by @bloompompom! thank you @yellow-sword-lily, this fic is also a little yours :)

Miya Osamu is a creature of habit.

He gets up fairly early, showers, never leaves the small apartment without fixing himself a nutritious breakfast, more or less knows and is therefore prepared to what to expect from each particular day.

Downstairs there’s his beloved shop, a dormant creature he gently stirs from sleep each morning. When he doesn’t have to head to the market to select and order the freshest products, Osamu starts the day by contacting all his suppliers and arranging the deliveries. He then checks the inventory, reviews reservations, welcomes the only other chef to discuss any special preparations or new experiments. It’s not unusual for him to check his emails, monitor the website and official social media of the shop, the one thing he actually hates doing because he knows damn well one negative comment will ruin his day, especially since there’s nothing he can do to rectify mistakes made days, sometimes weeks before.

He has a chef, one dishwasher, three servers, two food delivery drivers and that’s about it. Osamu Miya is the owner, manager, host, executive chef, server and cashier of onigiri Miya. He juggles management skills, culinary talent and business acumen just perfectly. He’s prepared and knows exactly what each day has in store for him.

Until you happen.

Osamu has been cooking for almost three hours by the time the shop officially opens at 11AM. It’s not unusual for new faces to come in from time to time, despite his clientele being more or less established, but it is rare to hear the little door chime ring so soon. Except if his dumb brother happens to be in town.

But you’re not his dumb brother. You’re a new and yet strangely familiar face, even hidden behind thick sunglasses and a beret that one could deem more appropriate to a parisian getaway rather than a Kansai one.

“Morning” you offer a little bow, hesitant by the door “you’re open, right?”

“Uh, sure” he smiles, still a little uncertain after a moment of astonishment “I don’t often have clients for breakfast. What can I get ya?”

“I’ve been told this is the best onigiri shop in town. I’ll let you decide”

You seem to consider your options for a moment, then decide to sit at the closest empty table. Osamu would usually provide more than a nod: he’d make conversation, ask questions. Forming bonds with whoever visits his shop and trusts his food is his favorite part of the day, as well as a great activity to engage in while his hands are busy putting the rice into molds.

“Close that mouth” is the only thing he utters under his breath, glancing at the server who set your table “yer catching flies”

“But it’s her!” Hiro squeaks as silently as humanly possible “I’m gonna ask for an autograph”

“You will do no such thing”

“We could hang it in the shop!”

“Go help in the kitchen, Minato called in sick today. I’ll handle this”

Hiro disappears behind closed doors but only after batting his freakishly long lashes to his boss, a heartbreaking disappointed look on his face.

Osamu takes a deep breath and squeezes the molds together, an action executed as gently as possible to keep the fluffy texture that makes his onigiri the best in town.

He knows you, of course he knows you. Not only your face was on any available surface for the entirety of the previous summer (posters, billboards, magazine covers to advertise your first ever concert in the Koshien stadium), he’s also pretty sure in high school Atsumu had perpetually ruined the walls of their shared room with some crappy adhesive squares used to hang your poster.

Osamu is not really a dedicated listener, he knows a couple of your most famous songs and that your success is damn near planetary. You have a house in Tokyo but spend most of the year in America, California if he recalls correctly, and you tour across Europe as well. Yet, it’s been easy to pick what to serve you. The gourmet options such as salmon roe or roast beef are off the table: they don’t make new clients feel special. What new clients need is a taste of authenticity, something that reminds them of home, and don’t you look just like the kind of person who could use some of that?

Osamu decides on pickled plum, tuna mayo and bonito flakes. One serving usually consists of three onigiri but he can’t resist adding an extra treat for you, a tenmusu onigiri. He’s recently perfected the recipe with an egg-free tempura batter that is still thick enough to absorb his special sauce.

He hopes it’s not creepy that he lingers by your table after he brings your meal: celebrity or not, you’re a new client. And Osamu can’t resist observing the wander taking over customers who are unfamiliar with his kitchen, as soon as they take the first bite. He hopes you are no exception.

“If this is an onigiri” you lock eyes with him and smile, glorious, radiant “what the hell have I been eating until now?”

“Probably not the best in town” he grins, proud, a slight blush already coating his cheeks. Damn it, he’s tempted to turn the baseball cap once more, let the brim shield his awkwardness. But that would be totally lame.

“Is it a family business?”

“No. It’s just… mine”

You hum, busy chewing on another bite. Then you swallow and ask another question, invite him to sit eventually, then apologize because he’s probably busy (he is) and has things to do (he does) but this is never going to happen again for Osamu, because he’s not Atsumu. And so he sits and makes conversation like a normal human being that definitely isn’t obsessively dwelling on how beautiful you are, how different your voice sounds when you’re not singing, how much he’d hate for a client to come in and pop that bubble. Which is exactly what happens and he doesn’t like it one bit how you interrupt your chuckle, lower your head, hunch your shoulders in an attempt to hide. He doesn’t like that he has to excuse himself, call Hiro back form the kitchen, make conversation with Suzuki-san, listen while he describes all his latest hospital visits in horrifying detail.

You look at him from time to time, the quiet shop owner suddenly turned chatty sparks your curiosity. He’s skilled with his hands and genuinely interested in what the person who must be an habitué has to say. He’s attractive, too. Especially as he tries to disguise the occasional glances directed your way or the disappointment that flashes in his eyes when you get up and start collecting your things.

“Can I get the check, please?” you approach the counter, pretend not to notice his hesitation. Osamu decides against indulging in the “it’s on the house” cliche, opts for treating you as any other client. With the exception of a small discount you won’t even notice.

“That was the best breakfast I had in a while” you collect the receipt and put in your pocket.

“You should come back, then. To have another” Osamu cringes internally as soon as the words leave his mouth and Suzuki-san’s chuckle makes him want to dig a hole to disappear into. But you smile, despite probably having heard the corny line a million other times, and tell him that you just might.

It would’ve been perfect: a beautiful ending to a glorious encounter. It could’ve been. If only you didn’t turn around so abruptly, a small shriek echoing across the shop as you came face to face with Mai, the sudden sound and panic causing her to jump and spill the fresh iced tea from the jug in her hand all over your painfully clean, crisp, starched, white button down.

You both freeze, your mouth open in a silent scream, an horrified look in Mai’s eyes that would’ve been comical on literally any other occasion. Osamu wishes he would’ve went with the “it’s on the house” cliche.

“Oh my god! Oh god! It’s you! I mean, I’m sorry!” Mai’s voice comes out an octave too high “my god, I’m so sorry!”

“Well, this is great” you frantically grab a handful of napkins from the counter and attempt to dab the mess on your shirt “I have a meeting in half an hour!”

“Please, take my uniform! I will pay for the dry cleaning!”

“Actually” Osamu chimes in as politely as possible, trying his best not to let his anxiety get the best of him “don’t take this the wrong way but, uh, I live upstairs. You can get cleaned up and…”

“You’re kidding, right?” your astonished look is almost glacial. It makes him falter just slightly.

“Or ya can leave with a giant orange stain on yer wet, probably uncomfortably cold shirt?”

“Miya-san!” Mai’s hiss and your shocked expression make him think that sarcasm probably wasn’t a good idea. Osamu sighs.

“Listen, I’m really sorry. These are the keys, you can go on your own, I promise the bathroom’s clean”

You eye him for a few seconds more, then decide against grabbing the keys from his hand.

“I’m gonna need a change of clothes”

Osamu blinks a couple times, dumbfounded. His clothes? You’re asking to wear… his clothes?

“Sure! Yeah, sure. Come on” now his voice sounds uncharacteristically squeaky and he clears his throat as you follow him up the stairs, Suzuki-san’s good grief still ringing in his ears.

Thank god he cleaned the entire apartment just the day before. As much as he likes to brag about being the tidy twin, deep down he knows he’s just as messy as Atsumu.

Osamu tries hard not to look at you, leaning against the doorframe with your arms crossed while he rummages in his drawers in search of something that could fit you. He shortly wonders if it’d be a good idea to offer a complementary bento box to make up for the disaster Mai caused.

“I’m genuinely sorry” he starts rambling because the silence is unbearable and some of Atsumu’s genes really do take over sometimes “the worst incident we ever had at the shop was my brother almost choking on his dinner. I had to perform the heimlich maneuver, it wasn’t pretty” god, where the hell are this clean, not embarrassing shirts?

“Guess this one will go down in history” your voice is less sharp now, which relieves him.

“Oh, no. I will never tell anyone about this, ever. Mai and Suzuki-san will have to sign an nda. A proper, legally binding one”

The laugh you offer sounds weirdly intimate in the small space of his bedroom, it makes the tips of his ears hot. Finally, he’s able to dig out a decent, basic shirt you accept by thanking him softly. When you lock yourself in the bathroom, Osamu rushes to the kitchen to tidy up the mess he’s left behind after that morning’s breakfast. No time to concentrate on how you’re actually, genuinely in his home, cleaning yourself in the same bathroom he showered in, without a shirt on.

No one’s ever going to believe him. Hell, he may not believe it himself by the end of the day.

“Hey” he jumps at your voice, sudden and closer than expected. You look good in his basic shirt, it suits you somehow. Did you shove your own in one of the bags you left by the door?

“Hey” Osamu says back and cringes for the millionth time “are ya hungry?”

You smile when he shuts his eyes for a second, right after the silly question leaves his mouth.

“Not hungry”

“Right. Of course. Thirsty? I have really good tea, from Shizuoka. And orange juice” he pauses for a second, then adds “or water”

Your smile grows, almost melts into a giggle. “Not thirsty either”

“Okay” he clears his throat “how about dessert? I made some mitarashi dango just yesterday”

“I have a meeting to attend”

“Oh. Sure, yeah, that makes sense” he wants to bash his head against the wall “I’ll walk you out. To downstairs” thank fuck ‘Tsumu isn’t there, he’d never let him live this down. Jesus.

You precede him to the door, gather your bags, then softly thank him for the shirt.

“Nice meeting you, Osamu” he nearly explodes when you say his name, no honorifics whatsoever. How do you even know? He hasn’t carried a name tag on his shirt for years.

“It was nice to meet you too” there’s no time to dwell on dumb, pointless questions “surreal, but nice”

He thinks if your smile could conjure waves, he’d gladly give up all the oxygen in his lungs and drown in them. Has someone ever looked as beautiful while smiling at him? He doesn’t think so. He can’t think. Not when you’re leaning closer, not when your arms are suddenly wrapped around his neck, not when you’re pressing your lips to his. Holy shit. You’re pressing your lips to his. And he’s forgotten how to breathe, let alone kiss. Osamu just freezes, like a marble statue, like a teenager who’s never touched a woman before. Right as he’s about to swallow the shock and fucking move, you’re already pulling away, eyes not leaving his despite the slight self-consciousness swarming in those irises.

And then you disappear, just like the dream he believed you were, all that’s left is an empty spot by the door and his heart slamming against a pathetically ill-equipped ribcage.

La Suite is one of the most luxurious hotels in the prefecture and Osamu feels out of place with the 30 onigiri order he’s carrying past a french restaurant and a traditional japanese one, all soft carpeting, dim lights and wide windows. So different from his.

He timidly explains that he’s there to deliver an order to a certain Bennet-san, who for some reason insisted he’d be the one bringing it to her hotel. They look at him funny but let him through and give the coordinates: top floor, superior double room. A woman meets him the second he steps out of the elevator and sternly asks him to follow her, a silly part of him wonders if he’s about to get murdered in one of the top 25 hotels in Japan. But then she knocks on a door right before swinging it open and he doesn’t even get to explain that he’s not supposed to get inside, she can take the bloody bag and he’ll be on his merry way, but once again Osamu fails to determine what the day holds in store for him.

Once more, it’s you. A less preppy version, one that seems so small in such a gigantic room, the sea breeze blowing from the terrace gracefully lifting up the hem of a tennis skirt you immediately fight to keep down as you promptly get up from the couch.

“Hi” he says, so dumbfounded he barely notices the door closing behind him.

“Miya-san” you bow, keep your eyes down, no sign of a smile he could by now deem familiar “I’m sorry for the trouble, I know the hotel is pretty far from the restaurant and you must be busy. This will only take a second”

Osamu’s brows furrow, confusion evident in the way he cocks his head. You don’t catch it, because your eyes are glued to the floor. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior. I don’t know what came over me, I hope you can find it in yourself to forgive me”

His eyes soften as part of the tension leaves his shoulders. Truth is, Osamu is glad you’re apologizing: despite how beautiful and dreamy you may be, life is not quite a movie and he doesn’t exactly appreciate being blindsided by a stranger. He doesn’t really understand what made you think kissing him would be a good idea (was his awkardness interpreted the wrong way? Did his stare linger on your smile a second too long?) but he’s certain you meant no harm. A shitty person certainly wouldn’t take time out of her day to leave an autograph on a napkin, especially right after half a jug of iced tea was spilled on her shirt just minutes before. To Hiro, with love.

After a moment, he clears his throat. “Can ya look at me?”

You meet his gaze hesitantly, mouth a thin line of harsh disapproval directed at yourself. For a second, you remind him of someone and he almost breaks into a smile.

“Thank you for apologizing. We’re good”

“Are you certain?”

“Yeah!” he chuckles “you didn’t have to place such a big order”

You blink twice, then start nervously fiddling with your fingers “ah, actually I didn’t do it to… well, those onigiris are just really good. I wanted to take some extra ones with me”

“You’re leaving?” he doesn’t mean to sound disappointed, especially not while you’re so intentionally keeping your distance.

“Kinda. My record label rented a house in the countryside, I’ll spend most of the summer locked in, trying to finish my new album. I couldn’t do it in America, I missed being home but didn’t want to endure Tokyo’s chaos so I ended up picking Hyogo. Sorry, you didn’t ask to know all that” you chuckle tensely “we leave tomorrow and I didn’t want to go without apologizing first. That’s all. You may go now”

Osamu hums. “I may go? As in I’m excused?” he laughs when your painfully stoic expression melts into sheer horror.

“No! Of course not, I didn’t mean it like that!”

“You take yourself too seriously” he grins “I’m just messin’ with ya”

“That’s not very nice of you”

“Would you compare it to kissing a stranger out of the blue?”

“Oh god” you hide your overheated face in your hands “you said we’re good!”

“And we are” Osamu steps closer to gently place the bags still in his hands on the marble topped pedestal coffee table. It’s just fun to tease you, one of the many irritating habits he shares with his brother.

His brother. Osamu looks up, a risky desire taking shape in his head and threatening to spill over the tip of his tongue.

“I’m really sorry, Miya-san” you repeat and he doesn’t love that you’re now calling him that “uh, this is your shirt. Cleaned and ironed. Thank you for…”

“Whatcha doing tonight?”

You freeze, paper bag still in hand. “Uhm, nothing interesting”

“No packing?”

“My manager does that for me”

He chuckles. “Right. Chances you’d want to spend your last night in the city at an even less interesting birthday party?”

Osamu waits patiently while you weigh your options, recognizes the confusion in your hesitant stare but doesn’t quite understand why there’s a weary vibration to your voce when you accept, the slight disappointment that flashes across your features.

It’s only fair, you think as he parts from the room with a smile and the command to secure those onigiris in a fridge. If showing you off to his friends like some valuable conquest is the way he wants to even the score, you’re in no position to deny him. You’re the one at fault and you’ve been given a chance to make up for it by wearing the facade you wear best.

Then why does it feel so disheartening, this time?

When Shinsuke opens the door, he’s more surprised by your presence than the carefully wrapped gift in your hands. Not that he doubted Osamu: why send a message to the group chat telling everyone that a) he was bringing someone and b) they should’ve absolutely not behaved any differently than usual if not better (in bold), if he wasn’t actually going to show up with a plus one?

Still, a small part of him did wonder if Atsumu’s and Rintaro’s relentless teasing finally got the best of him. Shinsuke doesn’t think that his friend works too much or that he should start “looking around” before “his hair starts greying again only this once naturally”. He remembers Osamu rolling his eyes at his brother when he implied that at this rate he’s gonna have to tie the knot with the restaurant, only to then space out for most of the evening as everyone else found new topics to migrate toward.

In short, Shinsuke wondered if Osamu was going to come up with a last minute excuse to justify the empty spot next to him at the table. But it seems that spot is going to be taken after all, by you nonetheless.

“Nice to meet you, Kita-san” you smile after Osamu introduces you by your name and nothing else, not a wink, not even a subtle hint or a reasonable explanation “happy birthday”

Shinsuke accepts the gift with a polite thank you and he’s almost made sure you could preserve a nice, normal memory of stepping foot into his house for the first time, of course failing to consider the Hinata factor.

“Thank god, Osamu, I’m so hungry- holy shit! Is her your gift? I only brought a cap that says farm hair don’t care!” there’s a strange but seemingly friendly redhead looking at you with eyes so wide you fear they might roll out of their sockets.

“Shoyo, any chance you checked the chat today?” Osamu smiles at him widely but Kita recognizes the tension at the corners.

“What? Of course not, I was busy picking a cute gift” Hinata smiles too but his excitement is genuine “hello, nice to meet you! Please come in, you can help us set the table!”

You chuckle and meet Osamu’s horrified eyes for a second, his posture relaxes as your gentle reassurance puts him at ease. I’ll be in the other room, then. Leave it to Hinata to make a gigantic deal out of a special guest only to treat her as one of his buddies ten seconds later. You seemed comfortable, though, as one always feels whenever Shoyo happens to be around.

“Who is she?” Shinsuke doesn’t mean for his tone to be so conspiratorial but he keeps it low, just in case you might still hear them.

“A friend. Kinda. Ya wouldn’t believe me” Osamu takes his jacket off and hangs it by the door, then picks up the plethora of bags from the floor and makes his way into his friend’s kitchen.

“No, I mean… who is she? Why does Shoyo know her?” Shinsuke follows suit, intent on helping him distribute all the food he’s brought in the different plates he has prepared. Osamu shakes his initial surprise off with a chuckle.

“Only one of the most famous pop music artists in Japan”

Kita stills his movements for a second, then absorbs the new information with a simple nod. “Right. And you met her at the shop”

“How d’ya know?”

“Where else would you be meeting a pop music artist?”

“Don’t make it sound so obvious” Osamu pulls a face and Shinsuke’s eyes twinkle with mischief.

“Well, she’s here. With you. Is it like… a date?”

“No” the peremptory answer comes embarrassingly fast “it’s her last night in the city, she’s here because she didn’t have anything better planned”

“But you invited her”

“Yes”

“Because you like her”

“I don’t-” Osamu gestures vaguely with his hands “it’s not like that. ‘Tsumu used to have a poster of her face in our room, for fuck’s sake”

Kita hums. “So what you actually mean is it can’t be like that”

“I don’t see the difference”

“I do”

“Well-” a loud commotion Osamu has been trained for over two decades to instantly recognize as his brother’s voice, makes the words die in his throat. By the time him and Shinsuke return to the colorfully decorated living room (courtesy of an overly enthusiastic Hinata and one resigned Rintaro), Atsumu is already talking your ear off and seemingly invading your personal space multiple times as he follows you around the table you’re setting with Suna like a golden retriever on a sugar overload.

“Shoyo, you were supposed to keep her safe” Osamu glares at his brother and takes a mental note to scold Aran too, later. For snickering.

Hinata doesn’t get the chance to defend himself because of course Atsumu’s the only one who could outshine that intense excitement with his own.

“Samu! What the hell? If this is yer gift to Shin, what are ya plannin’ to get me exactly?”

“Can everyone stop assuming she’s here as a thing and not as a person?” it comes out harsher than intended and Osamu feels his face grow hot when all those present simply stare at him. When you stare at him.

Suna clears his throat.

“Cut him some slack, he came out of the bathroom and we could barely convince him she’s not a hallucination” you chuckle at that, which makes the ever stoic Rintaro look away with a faint blush blossoming on his pale cheeks.

“Wait” Atsumu looks at you, then at his brother and his brows become progressively furrowed “she’s here with you? As in, you invited her? And she said yes?”

Osamu wonders why he thought a simple admonishment in the group chat would be enough. He has half an idea of shoving an onigiri right into his brother’s loud mouth and not perform any maneuver whatsoever when the rice obstructs his airways.

“Actually, I wanted to come” you chime in so gently it takes a few moments for him to register the words “I’m leaving tomorrow and when Miya-san mentioned it was one of his friends’ birthday, I shamelessly asked if I could tag along. Hope I’m not a bother”

Kita is looking at you the same way Osamu is, puzzled. Hinata almost chokes on his coke and starts coughing profusely, so much that Aran has to lend him a napkin.

“A bother? No, of course not!” his nose might be on fire but by god, he physically cannot let you believe such nonsense for a second too long.

Atsumu’s mouth hangs wide open, brows still knit that make his expression overall hilarious “you make her call you Miya-san? Yikes, bro” he turns to you and makes a scene of slamming a hand on his chest “please, feel free to call me ‘Tsumu. I think we’re intimate enough by now”

“Given that we took five selfies and you made me sign my name on your abs, I also think we’re intimate enough” your grin seems genuine, which only startles Osamu more.

“Ya made her do what?” oh, there are probably not enough words in the japanese vocabulary for the way he’ll have to apologize at the end of the night.

“It’s fine, I didn’t mind” you shrug “but if I could ask everyone a small favor…”

“Sure, anything!” Atsumu’s interruption only makes your smile grow wider “I’d really like to celebrate Kita-san’s birthday like you’d normally do. Please don’t make a big deal out of me, it’s his night after all”

“She’s asking not to be treated like a circus act” Aran whispers to Hinata, who blinks his big brown eyes in quiet understanding.

“Done!” Atsumu’s fist hits his chest right where the heart is as he solemnly declares “you’re one of the boys now, consider yourself a pal”

“Thanks, ‘Tsumu” he tries to keep his composure but nearly implodes as you direct your attention to Shoyo “no, Hinata-san, this doesn’t mean we won’t be taking that picture I promised. Don’t worry” your wink is the prettiest, most wonderful thing he’s ever witnessed and thank fuck he’s done drinking that coke because his airways suddenly feel clogged.

Kita thinks this is already the most entertaining birthday he’s ever celebrated.

And celebrate his birthday you all do. Normally, as per your request. You sit between Rintaro and Osamu at dinner and masterfully divert the attention from yourself whenever the questions start piling up. The uno reverse technique works well: your curiosity feels flattering and everyone is happy to satisfy it. The questions you direct are extremely specific, your laugh echoes alongside everyone else’s and Osamu can’t help but think that, in some odd way, you fit in seamlessly.

Keeping his eyes off of you isn’t but a strenuous fight with himself, it’d be lovely if looking would be the only activity he’d be allowed to engage in. It’s not hard to guess why hordes of fans and admirers are so enamoured: you’re such a natural. Polite, poised, funny, charismatic. Making you laugh feels like a privilege, having your brows raise in interest makes the story one’s recounting instantly fascinating. And yet you’re not doing any of that on purpose, he can tell. The one thing you’re being intentionally careful about is avoiding his gaze and making sure your arm doesn’t accidentally brush against his.

Osamu wants to ask himself why but also refuses to indulge in childish fantasies. What, he thought you liked him? Part of him believed you’d accepted to come to some stranger’s birthday party purely to spend an evening with him. Bullshit. Everyone in the world knows who you are and he simply owns an onigiri shop in Hyogo, one you happened to visit by sheer chance. He’s the guy you are so embarrassed to be seen with, you had to come up with a lie to justify your presence at the very same table that seems to adore you.

But when he jokingly throws a grain of rice at Aran, you hide your chuckle behind your hand. If he speaks, you always turn to look. Osamu doesn’t remember a social gathering where he tried to come up with just as many things to say, desperately conjuring genes that always weigh heavier in Atsumu. Unfortunately, the one person he could always count on, his dear friend and trusty supplier, decides his birthday night is the perfect occasion to stab him in the back.

“I’m sorry, I just need to ask” Kita refills your glass with fresh wine from across the table before retracting to his seat once more “your encounter with Osamu, how did it happen exactly?”

“Yeah, was his onigiri so good you wanted to-”

“Do not finish that sentence, Shoyo” Aran clears his throat as Suna, next to you, has a hard time swallowing his stir fry noodles.

“She heard my shop was the best in town, which it is, came to try it. That’s the story” Osamu wishes he could disappear into his kitchen as he often does when things at the restaurant get uncomfortable.

“I don’t buy it” Shinsuke shrugs “is that really the whole story?”

Kita’s knowing stare really hasn’t changed since high school and it seems you’re affected by it just as much as every other human. His eyes bore right into yours, trained to detect hesitation or even the hint of a lie, giving you no escape. Goddamn it, he’s still the team captain, there’s no running from him.

“Well” you gently swirl the glass in your hand, suddenly very much focused on the crimson liquid swooshing inside “I also kissed him”

This time someone does actually choke and, of course, it’s Atsumu. Right as Rintaro utters an ever quiet holy shit, he explodes in a coughing fit and Aran promptly strikes between his shoulder blades with the heel of his hand, perhaps with more force than needed. Thankfully, Atsumu manages to swallow his bite and, despite the tears threatening to run down his cheeks in all their shimmering glory, still conjures the energy needed to point an intimidating finger at his brother “ya bastard!”

“That’s a joke, right?” Hinata’s eyes have once again grown three sizes.

Kita doesn’t ask, the answer is written all over Osamu’s crimson red face. He was right, no one would’ve believed him.

“No, I really did” you take a sip from your glass and now everyone is looking at you like you’re some kind of alien. Except for Atsumu, who’s still glaring daggers at his brother.

“So this is… a date for you two?” Suna’s just as shocked as everyone else but seems to be the only person currently able to string words together.

“Oh, no” you brush the question off with a gracious wave of the hand “I just did it to thank him”

This time the silence stretches for a moment too long. Atsumu seems on the verge of passing out.

“You kissed him to thank him?” Kita cocks his head.

“Yeah. I mean, he was very kind. Have you never kissed someone to thank them?”

“Uh… no. I don’t think so”

“Really?”

“Do you…” Aran hopes to the gods that the words don’t come out the wrong way “do that often?”

“Aran” as much as Osamu wishes the earth could swallow him whole, he doesn’t want you to think his friends may be implying something they’re really not.

“I didn’t mean it like that!”

“It’s okay” you let our a nervous chuckle and because Osamu is sitting so close, he hears the shaky breath too “I know it was wrong. I tend to forget that’s not what normal people are used to. I apologized and now we’re good, right, Miya-san?” your eyes meet his and he feels his heart drop right into his stomach.

“Why are you used to that?” he asks instead of replying to your question and you just. Freeze.

“Yeah…” Hinata quietly chimes in “that doesn’t sound like something anyone should be used to”

For the first time, you don’t know how to respond. Osamu senses your panic, can read it in your eyes, but is too baffled to think of something smart or chivalrous to say.

“Holy shit, ya know what that means?” Atsumu slams both his hands on the table and both you and everyone else jump “it means she thinks I’m hot! In another life, I’d have a chance! Sorry, Shin, I know it’s yer birthday but I think this is the best night of my life!”

A quiet, astonished moment follows, then the table erupts in genuine laughter. You’re giggling so much you have to hold your stomach, Kita is shaking his head in resignation, Suna rolls his eyes with affection. Osamu settles for a smile as he relaxes against his chair once more. His brother may be loud and annoyingly inopportune, but his quiet support never once faltered throughout the years. One doesn’t need to be an old acquaintance to be taken under Miya Atsumu’s wing: if he senses as much as the hint of unease, his charismatic idiocy is summoned right away at the service of whoever may need it. Yet his loyalty remains unshakeable: Osamu knows that, in his stupid head, you’re already forbidden territory.

His mind is dizzy with confusion he doesn’t know how to properly address. As Kita blows out the candles on the cake he’s made, Osamu feels a wave of affection inundate his heart. He remembers that are nights like this that are worth being present, even if he has to get up at dawn or his sink is full of dirty dishes and he’s exhausted. Life only ever feels right when he’s with his friends or his family. It’s a routine he’s trained hard to get used to: work, work, work, carve out small moments to spend with those who come and go. It’s important for him to be there, when they come.

Osamu almost misses it, too focused on cleaning an extra plate or two in the kitchen, to make sure the birthday boy can get to relax once they leave. And then you call for him, a small crack in that poised facade of yours when his name almost slips out. You rush into the kitchen and urge him to hurry up, they’re already singing happy birthday to Kita-san. Come on, you’re missing it!

You probably wanted to go for his sleeve and found his hand instead, dragged him out of the room so quickly Osamu barely had the time to put the towel down. For some reason, once in the living room you don’t let go right away and neither does he. You only do so to clap with everyone else and even then it’s not entirely possible to establish who lets go first. Regardless, Osamu gives your hand a light squeeze and hopes you notice, despite there being no signs to indicate that.

You’re the first two people to excuse themselves: he refuses to let you go back to your hotel on your own, doesn’t give two shits that you have a driver or could well afford a cab because it’s a beautiful evening and Osamu is itching to have as little as ten minutes alone with you. He watches as you formally offer a hand to Suna and he grins as he shakes it, gently taking it in between his in a respectful attempt at suggesting that there’s no need to be so ceremonious.

You exchange quick hugs with everyone else, take the picture promised to Hinata, chuckle lightly when Atsumu timidly asks for a kiss on the cheek just because “it’s the american way of saying goodbye!” and of course you accomodate the request. Osamu is almost willing to bet you genuinely had fun but he also can’t seem to shake off the odd feeling suggesting you’ve somehow taken it upon yourself to just… appease everyone for the entire evening. Like some kind of duty. He doesn’t want you to think back to this evening like a task that had to be carried out.

“Oh my god, I cannot fucking believe it!” Atsumu’s shriek echoes loud and clear in the empty street as soon as Kita shuts the door and you meet Osamu’s exasperated glare.

“I’m genuinely not sure what I should start apologizing for” he runs a hand through his brown hair and his stress makes you smile as you fall into a comfortable walking pace.

“I should start by thanking you for inviting me. Can’t remember the last time I had such a normal night”

“My friends are many things but I don’t know if they really fall into the normal category”

You laugh at that. “I think they’re really nice. It was fun. I didn’t know there were two of you”

Osamu grimaces, lightly shaking his head “good call, he’s the thing I should start apologizing for”

“I liked Atsumu” of course you did, don’t they all? “you’re lucky to have such good friends and a brother. Is it true what they say about weird connections us twinless mortals wouldn’t get?”

He sighs. As much as Osamu hates stereotypes and all the disadvantages that come with not being able to be his own person, the curse of always being considered nothing but part of a set, he knows the bond with Atsumu is just as rare and irreplaceable as people make it out to be.

“Well, I can pretty much always read his mind. But it’s not a twin thing, s’just an Atsumu thing” he shrugs “most transparent, honest person on earth”

“You’re both very kind” your observation strikes him. It hits the nail on the head: he does his best but it’s unusual for someone to notice ‘Tsumu’s selflessness right away.

“Could say the same about ya” he’s eager to direct the topic to the thing he’s really interested in, the one person who refused every bit of attention directed her way throughout the night “that tea collection must’ve costed a fortune. Shinsuke loves tea, yer manager picked well”

You hum, gaze focused on your feet. “Actually, I picked it”

Another thing Osamu has in common with his brother, the ability to royally fuck up in such a short amount of time.

“Oh, I didn’t-”

“It’s okay, happens all the time”

“What happens?”

“People assuming things” you’re not mad, there’s just a sad vibration to your voice. If he could punch himself in the face, he would.

“I’m sorry”

“Don’t be” Osamu hates the smile you toss at him. He hates it so much he stops in the middle of the sidewalk and watches you turn around, confusion flashing in your disenchanted eyes.

“There’s a pretty cool park ‘round the corner. How about a detour? If you’re not too tired”

You hum in agreement, ask him to lead the way. Careful, Osamu, you’d like to say. This same polite regard is what got me in trouble the first time.

The park, which is more of a garden really, is a slice of eden in the jungle that any city inevitably ends up feeling like. Lowlands, an abundance of irregular but colorful flowerbeds that seem to glow in the dark, the warm air of the evening saturated with the sweet scent of lime trees, a gravel path you both follow all the way to a small, wooden playground. It’s only natural to gravitate toward the swings, relish in the comfort of the stillness the evening offers. It always feels like the earth rotates slower, pace decelerating to give you more time to enjoy the things it’s hard to appreciate during your hectic days.

Osamu approaches the swing like an old friend, takes hold of the chains with both hands. He lightly pushes off the ground with his feet while pulling back, giving you a perfect view of his perfect profile.

“I don’t want to assume” he says quietly “so is it okay if I ask?”

“Yeah” you rest your head on the chain you’re holding, still looking at him who won’t look at you.

“Why did you tell ‘Tsumu you asked me to come tonight?” the actual question dies in his throat. Were you that embarrassed of being there with me?

“You seemed pretty self-conscious. I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable” and I guess that way, you got to seem cooler.

Osamu almost chokes on his own spit from how surprised he is by your answer. What the fuck.

“I wasn’t-” not for the reason you seem to believe “I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable!”

You smile, patiently waiting for the moment where he’ll finally turn to meet your gaze instead of persistently staring at his feet. “I don’t think I ever felt that comfortable in a room filled with men”

“That shouldn’t be an exceptional occurrence”

“Right. But it is”

He spends a few moments trying to come up with the right words, a handful of seconds spent with part of his brain wishing he could have a talk with all the men who made you feel unsafe. How many? Where, why? Are they the reason why Osamu wants to get so desperately close and yet keep a respectful distance, not to scare you off, not to be another name added to the list of creeps you surely hate?

“Why did you kiss me?” those are far from being the right, considerate words he was trying to summon, but they bubble up from his throat before he can stop them.

You hum, pensive “I don’t know. You’re pretty, you’re gentle, I thought t’was what you expected to happen. It’s what men usually expect in return”

“In return for what?” he fights the urge to keep his eyes down, confident that the darkness will conceal the redness of his cheeks. You think he’s pretty and the first thing his dumb brain is able to link the revelation to, is Atsumu. Shit, he was right, this means you do find him attractive as well.

“Anything, really” your chuckle is devoid of actual humor “I know this night was supposed to make up for it but I didn’t expect to have so much fun. Regardless, I hope we’re even now”

Osamu furrows his brows.

“Ya think that’s why I invited ya?”

“Why else?”

He almost laughs, incredulous. You hide that mistrust really well, Osamu has to give it you. It feels unfair that life has given someone who seemingly has everything, so many reasons to think you can only be seen as an empty shell, some trophy with the sole purpose of being flaunted.

“You said you were leaving. I didn’t like the idea of not seeing you again”

“Really?” your lips curl into a small smile “the weird girl who jumped you on your first meeting?”

“You’re weird” he concedes “and selfless. Intelligent. Maybe jokes are not your forte but, hey, ya get to look like that” your laugh compliments his really well and Osamu can’t help but think he’d like to sit in a park, in the middle of the night, and talk and laugh and be with you just once more.

You briefly wonder if the man sitting so close to you is aware of just how devastatingly charming he is. Part of you wishes he’d want to take you out on a proper date, let you meet his friends on different occasions, include a weird stranger in such a well balanced life. Part of you also knows you’d never want to ruin that for him. Not for someone like Osamu. People who are unfortunate enough to stumble across you are almost always harassed away, it’s a life you’re used to and can’t bring yourself to run from. It’s who you are and, most importantly, all you have. It’d be too dangerous for your heart to desire anything different.

But he’s looking at you as if you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, land emerged from the sea millions of years ago for his eyes only to experience such a sight. No one’s ever looked at you with such wonder.

“I don’t want to assume” he holds your gaze locked to his, swing dangling lightly as he leans closer “so is it okay if I ask?”

“Yes” you utter a little too breathlessly.

“Can I kiss ya?”

You hum in affirmation and close your eyes, heart beating a little faster than what you’re used to as you sense his proximity. He smells nice, radiates warmth and his soft hair tickles a little when his lips gently press to your cheek.

Osamu smiles when he catches a glimpse of disappointment flashing over your features, the first of many clues he wants to learn how to interpret correctly. The cracks in a facade he’d make his personal mission to tear down.

“I know you have to go away tomorrow” he gently moves a strand of hair away from your forehead “but I wondered, if you didn’t, whether you might let me see ya a little. Or a lot, maybe”

You lean into his touch, calloused fingertips still barely grazing your skin.

“A lot sounds good”

#osamu x reader #osamu x you #osamu miya x reader #osamu miya x you #miya osamu x reader #haikyuu x reder #romcomcollab

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iwasthewind · 1 year ago

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Venti and Diona's interaction in the alchemy event is so special to me... because Diona is someone who really hasn't had any reliable parental figures in her life at all. Her father is a drunkard who barely has any time for her. She got her vision because she walked into the pouring rain as a child, all alone, terrified, to look for her drunk father in a forest full of animals and monsters and bring him home. Her father takes better care of Razor than her. She was so lonely she talked to a spring in the hopes that the rumours were true and there really was a fairy inside, listening. And then the voices that used to answer stopped, too. Leaving her with nothing but a curse- any drink she mixed would be divine. She's only twelve at most and she works in a bar. Her employer exploits her skills for profit. There's advertisements around Mondstadt advertising Diona's drinks specifically. Everyone loves them. Diona hates them. Everyone tells her how lovely her drinks are. Diona herself, despite despising alcohol, is proud of her skills. That's so fucked up. That's all so fucked up.

There's so many jokes about "haha child wants to destroy the wine industry but works in a bar" and while I can see why people find it funny they're honestly...so tasteless. Diona is a child who villainizes alcohol because she can't bear the thought of her father being at fault for his actions because she loves him so much. That he could drink less and he could spend more time with her and he could help her with her emotions but never does. That he could spend time with her and immerse himself in her interests but he never does. That he's willing to do all this for other people instead, but not her. That he chooses to do these things for other people, but he almost never chooses to do them for her.

But Venti does. Venti chooses to do all these things with Diona. He calls all residents of Mond his children and that's Diona too. He takes the time to search Dragonspine for an ingredient she might like, he chats with her and accompanies her to the location of the alchemy event, he presumably spends hours with her as she searches for ingredients and mixes her drink, keeping her company and making sure she's safe.

He doesn't have to do this. He doesn't have to patiently endear himself to her because he knows she hates people who drink, he doesn't have to bother going all the way to Dragonspine to find her something unique because he knows she's proud of her creations, he doesn't have to spend hours in the company of a lonely child who he has nothing in common with-but he does.

So many people would think he's doing it for the drink, but they all lack reading comprehension skills because I said so. Diona wants to create a drink which keeps people sober. Venti isn't going to get drunk and he's not doing it for the drink. It isn't pity either, it's affection- he loves his child and he wants to spend time with her and make sure she's safe. That's all. They're so special to me <3

Oh and another thing that I forgot to add- the Spring Fairy Diona talked to, Callirhoe, only found the spring in Springvale thanks to "a gentle breeze guiding her." The person who listened to the cries and rants of a lonely child was also coincidentally someone guided there by Venti. Still girlie why that specific blessing 😔

#i can't deal with it #i needed to get it out there #my heart #venti #diona #alchemy event #genshin impact #barbatos #genshin meta #diona katzlein

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darcellexxx · 1 month ago

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Better boyfriend than him.

Summary: Coming late to the common room was a mistake, keeping secrets even worse. Telling the marauders that you were dating someone was bad enough itself, but saying that he was a Slytherin made it even harder. Sirius, the charming guy, can’t just accept the truth and needs to go and deal with it himself, whether it be physical or not.

Pairing: Regulus Black x fem!gryffindor!reader (Sirius Black x fem!gryffindor!reader)

Word count: 2.2k

Warnings/Tags: Possessive!Regulus; Possessive!Sirius; The Black brothers competing against each other; PHYSICAL FIGHTING; BLOOD; slight angst (but it’s good)

A/N: WHEEW 😍 BLACK BROTHERS SAVE ME! It was so fun to write this, really. Hate the ending tbh but I think it’ll be fine. PLEASE DO LISTEN TO THE SONG, IT’LL MAKE IT SO MUCH BETTER PLS!!!

Being friends with the marauders meant being involved in all of their shenanigans and pranks, meaning it was a ride-or-die friendship. Being one of the marauders also meant hating all the Slytherin, except you didn’t.

You were actively seeing one.

Walking back to the Gryffindor tower after being down in the dungeons was a whole Quidditch workout itself, but you couldn’t just blatantly admit where you were when you had to be with your friends fifteen minutes ago.

Running up the stairs and hissing out the password breathlessly, you climbed into the common room.

The guys were already sitting there, Remus with a book sprawled on the couch and James sitting next to the fire while Sirius was pacing around the room.

“Sorry guys, McGonnagall stopped me-“ You started before you were met with prying eyes that were fixated on your shirt. Not really yours anyway..

You then realised what the problem was. While you were down in the castle, you grew cold, and you decided to take Regulus’ shirt.

With quick movements you zipped your Gryffindor jacket up, hiding the green fabric before dusting yourself off.

“Where were you?” Remus asked, putting his book aside.

“Stop beating around the bush, why were you in the Slytherin common room?!” Sirius demanded dramatically, looking at you with a small pout.

“What? I wasn’t-.. How do you know where I was?!” You scoffed, blushing at the question and at the way they found out about your secret. Walking over to the couch, you sat down next to Remus, hugging your knees as you watched Sirius who was staring at you.

“Stop lying, we saw you on the map.. What’s going on?” Remus being Remus, asked softly as he watched your chin rest on your kneecap.

With a sigh, you whined softly and hid your face.

“I can’t just tell you, you’ll kill him first and then me..” You reasoned carefully, watching James sit up subtly.

“He? Who is he??!” Sirius squealed, his pout growing deeper.

“Padfoot- just relax and let her speak.” James sighed and rolled his eyes, pushing his glasses up his nose.

Sirius sat down and crossed his arms, flipping his hair back like a fancy shampoo advertisement.

“Well? Who were you with?” The guy asked, and at that moment he looked more like McGonnagall than the rebel he was.

“Listen- I was with a..” You hesitated, thinking of a plausible explanation.

“A partner for a project..” You responded slowly, not exactly lying but not saying the truth either.

“A partner for a project?” Remus asked with a raised eyebrow, and you knew that you didn’t even fool him.

“Yes, no, yes. Kinda.”

“Kinda?” James asked, an incredulous expression on his face.

“I was with a guy- alright?”

“A guy?!” Sirius exclaimed, and this time James had to hold his arm in order for him to stay in his place.

“A Slytherin? A slimy git?” He continued, feeling agitated.

“Yes. But he’s not a slimy git! He’s actually super nice..” You responded, feeling giggly and slightly giddily about your boyfriend.

“A Slytherin? Nice?!!”

“Sirius, just shut up!” James scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“Why would you be with a guy in the common room?” Sirius asked, trying to push James away.

“Sirius, why do you think I would be with a guy?!” You scoffed, now sprawling yourself out on the couch.

“I- I don’t know..” Sirius mumbled, seeming uncharacteristically upset.

“Who were you with..? Not Snivellus, right..?” James asked in a careful voice, now caressing Sirius’ shoulder gently.

“No! No way.. but- it’s- not better either..” You mumbled, biting your lips in an anxious manner.

“If you don’t tell us-“ Sirius started, now looking like he’s ready to jump on you.

“Moony..!” You chuckled nervously, looking at the guy who now jumped at the sudden attention towards him.

“How about I tell you first and then you somehow, magically, without my presence tell it to the others?” You asked, even though it seemed like it was more like a demand than anything.

“Uhh-“ Remus started, glancing to you and then back at the guys.

“Lovely! Scoot over,” You exclaimed, gripping his shoulders.

When you quietly whispered Regulus’ name into his ear, you saw how Sirius was silently fuming and James was trying to soothe the guy.

The life drained out of Remus’ face, his eyes widening.

“Is it bad..?” You asked carefully, hoping to find sympathy in your friend’s expression.

“Bloody hell..” He whispered, looking at you as if you just told him you were pregnant. “Sirius will kill you..”

“WHAT??! Who is it, Lupin?!” Sirius exclaimed, and when the attention was now off you, you quickly darted up to the dormitories.

The only people in the common room were the marauders, and Sirius was now laying on the carpet, feeling numb and drained.

“My brother.. My death-eater, dirty, filthy, little Reggie..” Sirius murmured, staring at the ceiling.

“How did that even happen?! How-?” He scoffed, rolling over on his stomach.

“What do you mean? She’s the beauty of Hogwarts, it was weird enough that she didn’t get a boyfriend before him.” Remus spoke, trying to read his book but it was visible that he was deep in his thoughts.

“Yeah but- Him? That’s insane..” Sirius spoke, running a hand through his hair.

“Padfoot, if you want to discuss it, talk to her. I’m not gonna talk for her.” The guy sighed, slinging his feet off the couch.

“I’m going to bed, it’s a lot to take right now. Try not to kill your brother, mate.” He patted Sirius on the shoulder, walking to the stairs where the dormitories are.

“You’ll just leave me behind?” Sirius whined,

“Sorry mate, if you want to, we can talk tomorrow.”

A week passed and the guys were trying their best to keep the information hidden, but it was hard when all Peter wanted was to talk to you about it and Sirius who was trying not to strangle his brother in front of the whole school.

And yet in the whole week, Sirius was avoiding you like the plague, and you decided to put an end to it.

While Sirius was glaring at his parchment paper, you walked over to his table and dropped the heavy books across from him.

“What is going on? Why are you ignoring me?” You demanded, slamming your hands on the table.

“What’s going on? You’re literally dating my brother! My baby Reggie!”

You scoffed, feeling angry at the guy in front of you.

“Does it really bother you that much that I’m dating him? Because now it seems like you don’t want him to date me! Like I’m some bad influence or something!” You exclaimed, and you felt the ghost of the librarian moving behind you. Warning you to keep yourself quiet.

“I am mad at you because he is a Black! He is going to mess with you! He is not who you think he is!” Sirius hissed, his warm eyes suddenly cold. Like a storm.

“Why can’t you just accept this? You know, right now you seem just like your family whom you despise! Cold, heartless and selfish! Regulus was with me when no one was, while you were planning pranks, he was there and listened to me whine and even took me out to the black lake!” You spat, standing up and abandoning your books you initially brought.

“What?! I could’ve done the same! Even better!” He exclaimed, and now stood up as well.

“But you didn’t!”

“And what do you mean I’m like my family? Don’t you dare compare me to the disgusting blood supremacists!” His hand shot up to yours before you could walk out.

“Then maybe stop acting like one, Black.” You couldn’t stop the words that left your mouth, and now you regretted all of your life choices all at once, but you couldn’t do anything but to go and leave him.

Sirius now stood there alone, the cold shiver of realisation creeping up his back. He wasn’t like his family.. He couldn’t be..

His choices were now to find you again or to find his brother, and after the disappointing conversation with you, he decided to find his brother.

Every step was like torture, and he felt like he was just floating between the crowds.

Then he finally found the boy he was looking for, short hair, cold presence. A Black, not him. He’s not a Black..

Sirius grabbed his shoulder and roughly pulled into an empty classroom, slamming him against the wall, some pictures and things falling down from the impact.

Regulus hissed in pain, but before he could react, Sirius grabbed him by his shirt, pulling him closer.

“What are you doing with her?!” The older guy barked, tightening his grip around the crisp fabric.

“Who?” Regulus feigned nonchalance, gripping Sirius’ wrist in response tightly.

“Her. I know that you’re just using her. It’s in your blood.” Sirius fumed, clenching his teeth.

“Your blood as well, remember? Could’ve gotten the inheritance, but no.. You think you're better, huh? That you’re too good for it?” Regulus sneered mockingly, shaking his head lightly.

“I’m not a pure blood like you. I’m a person who has a heart, not like you. Heartless, cold. I’m a warm Gryffindor, you’re a greasy snake.” Sirius growled, his face now up to the other ones.

“Yeah? Good, warm heart? Where was your warm heart when she needed help? When she cried, oh so sweetly on my shoulder..?” Regulus cooed, pouting softly before breaking into a smirk.

“You get off of her.. you enjoy seeing her cry, don’t you..?” Sirius asked quietly, anger burning quietly.

“Oh no, not that.. I would turn the world around for her, buy her the things she couldn’t even imagine existed.. Get rid of the people that have yet done bad to her.. I just get off of the thought that she went to me, not you.” He whispered into his ear carefully, the words soft and warm, almost taunting.

Sirius didn’t like the sound of his explanation and he quickly pushed his brother to the ground, his back hitting against the desks and chairs that fell over. Regulus, one not to get messed with, dragged his brother down with him, throwing a punch in the air.

Blood staining the shirts were now all over the alabaster skins of the guys. Knuckles absolutely broken, bloody lips and groans as one and the other tried to get the upper hand.

Sirius was now straddling Regulus, an iron grip on the dirty and crumpled shirt.

“She should be with me.. she should be mine.” He whispered to the guy who was now lying on the wooden floor.

“Yeah? I won’t let her go so easily, I want her. And I always get what I want..” Regulus now grinned, showing his bloodied teeth.

Both of them looked horrible, almost impossible to tell who was winning or losing. Sirius looked like a wild animal, hair unruly and tangled, while Regulus looked like he got run over by a truck. And yet they looked both so hot, enough to make it on the covers for a magazine.

Sirius was about to say something, but he felt a hand on his shoulder that pushed him off his brother’s body, leaving him fall on his butt.

“Love..!” Sirius gasped, seeing you stand with a shocked and angry expression.

“Sirius! Are you out of your mind?” You yelled, crouching down over Regulus, taking his face in your hands.

“You don’t understand..! I-“ Sirius started, getting on his fours, feeling drowsy from the pain.

“You don’t understand! Look what you’ve done!” You cradled Regulus’ face, and while you glared at Sirius, you missed out on the smile on the guy’s face. One that said ‘You are priceless, love’.

“Love.. I’ll be fine, he didn’t even do anything..” Regulus spoke softly, trying to brush the fight off. Like he didn’t get any impact or injuries from the fight.

“No! You look horrible..” You spoke, breaking your gaze from the silent Gryffindor guy.

“Horribly sexy..” You didn’t know whether to scoff or to blush at his teasing. Damaged and pliant Regulus was probably your most precious Regulus.

“Let’s go, you’re acting weird and affectionate..” You murmured and tried to get the guy up.

“It’s just I’m drunk on your love..” He whispered and kissed your knuckles, and you didn’t know if it was because Sirius was watching you or because he really meant it. Nethertheless, you grabbed his arm and threw it over your shoulders, holding his weight, even if it was just a bit, Regulus couldn’t help but smile in satisfaction. Maybe he didn’t win the fight, but he won the war.

“You’re too good to me..” Regulus kissed the top of your head, a possessive gesture that showed who was the one who had you.

Sirius glared at both of you, now getting to his feet again.

“I could be better than him,” He said bluntly, clenching his fists. You looked at him over your shoulder, and watched his bad state.

Maybe you would have wanted to help him as well. Patch him up and take care of him.. But you had another one whom you needed to help, and you couldn’t have them both now, could you..?

“I don’t doubt it..” You whispered and were about to open the door when Regulus got ahead of you.

“Ladies first, I insist..” He whispered, showing his boyish smirk, and when you walked out he looked at his brother again who was fuming.

The war wasn’t over, it was just the start of the largest competition. Competition over a heart that wasn’t yet fully occupied.

Sure it was taken by a Black, but which one..?

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

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not-neverland06 · 1 year ago

Text

How About a Nuke?

Part I / Part II

Cooper Howard x fem!reader A/N: This is really a prelude to the real story. It’s who they were before the bombs dropped and not as fleshed out as it could be. Summary: Hollywood doesn’t agree with you, as much as you wished it would. Until you meet Cooper Howard and he flips your world upside down. (Image below does not represent reader, I mean I don’t even look like that)

“Quench your thirst and a little bit more,” you winked and held up the dripping bottle of Nuka-Cola. You shot your best smile at the camera in front of you, holding it until the director let out a loud “Cut!” The smile dropped instantly and you dumped the bottle back in its cooler.

Tom walked behind the camera, a frown on his face as he replayed the clip. You’d been here two hours already for a thirty second promo, there’s no reason it should have been taking this long.

You shifted, the leather on your legs creaking uncomfortably. They had you in some odd little space suit, more sexy than functional. The backdrop behind you was of painted stars and an out of scale moon. You weren’t sure how space and Nuka-Cola connected but a check was a check.

“Is that who I think it is?”

You turned around at the sound of gasping. Your eyes widened and your stomach dropped when you watched the Cooper Howard walk through the entrance of the studio. Your biggest celebrity crush and idol just walked through the door and you were dressed like a sexy astronaut. This is beyond embarrassing.

You had begged your agent to let you take some more serious roles, or at least a few fun ones. You’d been stuck in the same role of sexy bombshell for too long. You couldn’t even escape it doing a few advertisements. You wanted someone like Cooper to think you were classy or distinguished at least. Not some sellout with over lined red lips.

You whipped your head around, hoping he wouldn’t notice you, and pretended to be fascinated by the cheap set you were on. “Mr. Howard, a pleasure,” you briefly glanced over your shoulder to watch your director shakehis hand. Cooper looked up, his eyes briefly catching yours. You winced and turned back around.

“What are you doing here?”

”Filming a new advertisement for Nuka, would you like to see?”

”Why, yes I would.”

Oh, this was wonderful. Just great. You reached up to pinch the bridge of your nose but your hands just jammed painfully against the plastic of your helmet. You listened to them replaying your clip, hating the sultry tone of your voice. You hated being typecast like this.

You didn’t work so hard to earn your spot in Hollywood just to be forced into the role of a sex symbol. You could be more, you knew it. You just needed a chance. “You did wonderful.”

You jumped in shock at the voice near your ear, your helmet hitting something hard. You heard a groan of pain and turned around mortified to see Cooper holding his nose. “Oh, Mr. Howard, I am so, so sorry.”

He shook his head and held up a hand, smiling amicably at you. “My fault, sweetheart, shouldn’t have snuck up on ya.”

You let out an annoyed huff and finally pulled the damn thing off. “Honestly, I should pay more attention, this damn thing’s a safety hazard.” He chuckled and it made you smile without even realizing it. You could feel the heat already blooming under your skin, just barely resisting the urge to fan yourself. But you couldn’t help but be flustered. It was Cooper Howard!

He finally let go of his nose and you sighed in relief when you saw that it wasn’t too badly damaged. He seemed to understand your relief because he laughed again. You heard whispers behind the two of you and finally realized just how close you both were. A couple PA’s stood huddled together, pointing at you with accusing fingers and harsh glares.��

Probably not smart to be a sex symbol and stand so close to a married man.

You dropped the smile and took a step back from him. As much as you disliked typecasting, you would hate losing jobs more. You didn’t need any rumors to spread because you smiled too widely at Cooper. Lord knows your career barely survived the last round of gossip, that you’d been sleeping your way into roles. Which you hadn’t. You don’t need anything more like that bothering you now.

Cooper glanced over your shoulder and seemed to notice the same thing as you, but he didn’t seem bothered by it like you were. Of course, he was a man and he was very happily married, he didn’t have to worry about the same things as you. He was secure in both his relationship and place in the world. You’d just barely gotten a foothold on everything.

“I thought you seemed just sweet as peaches in that clip.”

You gave him a brief smile, “Thank you.”

”Though,” he frowned and glanced over at the director. You rolled your eyes when you saw Tom point over at you and then gesture to his stomach. If they sinched your waist one more damn time your ribs were going to crack. “I don’t quite understand why you had to be seductive.” He seemed genuinely perplexed but it didn’t take a genius to understand the underlying message of his words.

You shrugged, “Just seems to be the way my career is going right now.”

”Is that what you want?”

Your brows furrowed in confusion. You haven't been asked that before. Of course you’d spoken up about being unhappy with your roles, though you still took them. But no one had ever asked you what you wanted. An odd feeling bloomed in your chest and you took another precautionary step back. “Um,” you frowned and shook your head, “no. It’s not what I want.”

He smiled, seemingly pleased by the answer. “Look, sweetheart, I didn’t come here to drink cola or chat,” he held up his hands in apology, “as wonderful a conversationalist as you are. I’m filming a movie right now. We're looking for a lady with a strong presence to be my companion in the film. I’ve seen your movies, you’re capable of a lot more than they’re giving you to work with. I think you’d be perfect for the role.”

Your ears started to ring as you stared at him in shock. It was hard to keep your jaw closed the longer he spoke. There’s no way that everything you’ve been wanting was just being offered to you on a silver platter. Stuff like that only happened in…

Well, it only happened in movies.

“That is if you want the role? You’re not looking particularly enthused,” he gave you a charming grin and you finally remembered you actually had to respond to him to get what you wanted.

“Yes!”

You didn’t care how loud you were or how dirty the looks you were getting from others were. There was nothing on your mind other than the man in front of you and what he was offering you.

Everything you wanted.

You stared up at the poster on Cooper’s wall. “I always thought I looked ridiculous in this one.”

“Well,” Barb came up behind you and handed you a martini. You took it from her with a grateful smile and took a sip. You tried to stop your face from screwing up but alcohol had never really sat well with you. “I think you look amazing.” She smiled at you and walked back towards the living room.

You stayed where you were at the end of the stairs, staring up at the too-large poster. You and Cooper were standing back-to-back, your gun raised to your lips and a smirk on your red lips as your hat laid tilted over your eyes. The bright red cursive title sat under your spurred boots, The Outlaw and The Sheriff.

Well, they certainly hadn’t been creative with the name. You couldn’t really bring yourself to care, though, it had been your first real role. You had played someone of substance, someone whose entire life didn’t revolve around the man she wanted to have an affair with. Cooper had opened up more doors for you then he would ever understand.

You turned from the poster and back to the party. For once you weren’t being surrounded by a group of groping producers or Hollywood execs. Being a part of Cooper’s family, someone he was mentoring, it carried a certain power within the den of vipers. You weren’t untouchable, but you weren’t someone to be so easily ruined.

You flashed kind smiles and coy waves at the people who called out your name and made your quick escape to the backyard.

Cooper’s new movie had been released and he was having a sort of celebration party. Though, you think it’s just Barb trying to integrate Vault-Tec into the movie industry. From the disgusted looks on some of your co-star’s faces you could tell it wasn’t going very well.

You sighed in relief at the fresh air and slowly made your way over to the pool chairs. Your feet ached in your heels and you could already feel blisters starting to form. You undid the straps and slipped them off. You lowered yourself onto the edge of the pool and dipped your toes in, the relief instantaneous.

You weren’t out very long before you heard steps approaching. You let out a deep sigh, mentally preparing yourself for your peace to be ruined by whoever wanted to bother you. “You’re not skipping my party, are you?”

You opened your eyes to find Cooper smiling down at you. You always wondered how his smiles could be so genuine when he spoke to you. You hadn’t felt like you’d given anyone a real smile in a long time. This industry had taken a lot from you and lately you’d been wondering if it had stolen your happiness too.

You shrugged, “It was getting a little boring.”

He grinned and slipped his shoes off. You watched him roll his pants up and groan as he dipped his legs in the pool with you. His smile slipped and his eyes widened when his legs landed in the water, “Damn, it’s fucking cold!”

You barked out a laugh, rough and very unladylike while he squirmed like a girl at a little cold water. “Didn’t you fight in a war?” You teased.

He nudged his shoulder into yours, “Watch it,” you shook your head, dismissing his faux warning. You knew he didn’t really mind when you bugged him. It’s how you two had been acting around each other since day one. Tabloids labeled you two as close as kin, brother and sister.

As much as it bugged you every time you read a headline like that while standing in line at the grocery store, you supposed it was better than everyone thinking you were some two-timing slut. But it bothered you how much your relationship being labeled siblings in nature irritated you. He had a wife and child, you couldn’t let some pathetic crush cloud your judgment like this.

It was real hard to remember that, though, when he looked at you the way he did. Sitting by his side, under the moonlight, his eyes warm and earnest as he sent you an easygoing smile. You’ll never figure out if it’s in your head, but you swear he doesn’t smile at anyone the way he does at you.

You feel like the only woman in the world sitting there with him. Like there wasn’t a party going on a few yards away in his house. And you hadn’t just accepted a martini from his wife who had graciously invited you into their home. It was just you and him.

You didn’t realize you were leaning in until your lips were brushing his. He should have pulled back. You shouldn’t have leaned in. But his hand was on your waist and the other was buried in your hair, desperately pulling you closer.

It wasn’t gentle or slow like you’d always imagined it. His mouth was moving hungrily over yours, practically devouring you in his desperation to get as close to you as possible. His hand tugged at the roots of your styled hair, a pained moan slipped through your lips. That wasn’t enough to snap you out of your trance, but his tongue licking into your mouth was. He groaned, tasting and savoring you like you would be his last meal. Like he had wanted you just as much as you had wanted him and he wasn’t going to let this chance slip away.

You jumped back but he didn’t let you go far with his hands on you. His eyes slowly opened while the reality of the situation dawned on you both. You let out a horrified gasp at the sight of your lipstick smeared over his lips. “Oh, god, Coop.” You whispered, voice strained as you stared at him, “What did we do?”

His eyes darted between yours, the realization coming slower to him. When it did, you could pinpoint the exact moment it hit him. His mouth drew up in disgust and he ripped his hands off you. He leapt up, water splashing your dress as he did, but you were too hurt to really care. He clamped a hand over his mouth, looking very much like he was about to throw up on you. “Fuck,” he hissed, jaw clenched and eyes squeezing shut.

You grabbed your bag and shoes and rushed to your feet. You dug around in your purse, hands shaking so much you could barely undo its clasp. When you finally found your handkerchief you dipped it in the pool and held it out to him.

He glanced towards your outstretched hand and then to your ashamed face in confusion. “You have my lipstick on your lips,” you whispered. He snatched it out of your hand and scrubbed at his face so hard you wouldn’t even be able to make out the lipstick with how red his skin was.

Slowly, and without a word, you both made your way back into the house. The tension was thick, neither of you able to look at each other. You kept an unusual amount of space between you for two people who were always so close. If anyone looked out the door at you right now, well, even Bud Askins would be able to tell something was wrong.

You made it to the glass door and Barb intercepted you. Your heart leapt to your throat. You’d never been more disgusted with yourself. Not only did you kiss this woman’s husband, you had fucking enjoyed it.

In fact, you wished you were out there still. As small a taste you’d gotten of him, you craved more. Your body was on fire with desire, core throbbing when you thought about the way he’d kissed you. You forced yourself to stop imagining what it would be like if he had kissed somewhere else. God, the thought made you burn.

She laughed and gave you an odd look, “You look like you saw a ghost.”

Cooper chuckled and you whipped your head towards him in shock. Not only did he look completely unaffected, but he was smiling at you. You couldn’t look at him long, afraid your face would further give you away. You were a good actress, but not nearly as good as him.

“This one almost accidentally took a dip in our pool,” he and Barb both laughed and you forced yourself to join in.

“Yeah, and I think that might have been enough excitement for me.” You smiled at Barb and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek, the taste of her husband still on your lips. “I’m gonna head home. Enjoy the rest of the party.”

Cooper stopped you before you could completely slip away, “I’ll walk you out to your car, honey.” You nodded, not willing to argue in the middle of his crowded home. Still, you didn’t make it easy for him to keep up with you. You were at the door before he could blink, practically flying out of the house.

You probably would have made it all the way to your car without another word if it weren’t for him clasping a hand around your elbow. “We need to talk.”

You shook your head and he let out a disappointed sigh. You already knew what he was going to say, and you agreed wholeheartedly. What had happened tonight was a mistake. Not only were you risking your career but you could ruin his whole life if you continued down this path. As much as you wanted him, as much as you had yearned for him, you couldn’t be so selfish.

But you also couldn’t handle hearing him say that to you. It would break your heart to have to listen to him explain all the reasons you could never be with the man you were so desperately in love with. “I know, Coop, I know.”

His grip tightened on you when you tried to slip away. You set pleading eyes on him, praying he couldn’t see the tears already starting to build. You knew he could, though, when his gaze softened and he eased his grip on you. After another whispered “please” he finally nodded and stepped back from you.

You slipped your arm from his hold and ran to your car. You leapt inside and peeled out of the driveway like the devil was on your tail. And maybe he was, maybe you deserved it. Because you still couldn’t help yourself, glancing in the rear view mirror to see Cooper standing at the end of his driveway, watching you go with a distraught look on his face.

You wiped the tears off your face and turned back towards the road. You could never be with him. You could never love him the way you wanted. You’d have to be satisfied for the rest of your life with the taste you’d gotten tonight. That would be all you would ever allow yourself.

“A fallen star, Cooper Howard has become a reject within Hollywood. Fellow actors and actresses have been refusing to work with him, making it difficult for the former celebrity to find work. Recent reports say he’s been seen at birthday parties more than on set.”

The female reporter shook her head, “Such a shame. We’ve been hearing that this is all due to his former ties with Vault-Tec. Ties which were recently severed in a grisly divorce with ex-wife and Vault-Tec employee, Barb-”

You clicked the TV off, shutting the ridiculous news report up and ran a hand down your face. You hadn’t seen Coop in a few months. After that night at his house, you’d dropped the movies you’d been doing with him and put as much distance between the two of you as you could.

That thought made you feel like the worst piece of shit. You couldn’t have known that Hollywood was going to turn its back on him. You couldn’t have known that nearly two weeks after you cut ties his entire life would go up in flames. You should have been there for him. How you feel about him shouldn’t matter when your friend needs you.

He’d given you everything he could and you couldn’t even be there for him when he needed you. Of course, once you’d heard about the divorce, you’d called up Sebastian. But he had warned you not to try and reach out to Cooper. He seemed to think it would only make things worse. The more you heard, however, the more guilty you felt about not being there for him. Tabloids and gossip columns certaintly hadn’t been kind when the news of his divorce had come out.

They pounced on the opportunity to further rip into his wounds and present them to the world. You glanced down at your couch cushion, the magazine you’d picked up in the store staring back at you. The front was a picture of him walking out of a house, donned in cowboy gear and clearly performing for a children’s party.

You sighed and decided you should finally push aside your pride. You snatched your keys from the hook and headed out the door.

Cooper didn’t seem to believe it was you when he opened the door. His eyes, cloudy and red, narrowed before he frowned and took a step back. “That really you?”

You offered a weak smile and a, “Hi, Coop.”

He scoffed and you could tell he was getting angry. His accent always got a little rougher when he was pissed off. “‘Hi, Coop’,” he mocked, a sneer on his face. “Four months without contact and that’s all you have to say. Fuck off,” he went to close the door but you blocked him with your foot.

It stung, honestly, the cruel way in which he spoke to you. But you knew he could be a lot meaner if he wanted to and it wasn’t as if you didn’t deserve it. You had been a shitty, selfish friend. “I’m sorry, I was just nervous. I just,” you paused, struggling to find the right words to make this any better. He crossed his arms, still refusing to let you into his house. “I called the second I heard, but Sebastian had told me it would be better if I didn’t come.”

His brows furrowed before he glared at you. “So you don’t even fucking call?”

“I was wrong and selfish. Cooper,” you reached out, laying a gentle hand on his arm. “I’m sorry, I’m not asking for you to forgive me. I am genuinely so sorry I wasn’t here for you. But I’m here now, if you’ll let me be.”

The next minute was unbearable. You felt too awkward to take your hand off his arm and he refused to speak. He didn’t even blink, just glared at you, the longer the silence went on the more you could feel yourself losing your nerve. Maybe this had been a mistake.

Finally, he sighed and your heart leapt to your throat. “Come in,” he stepped to the side and opened his door up further. You kept your mouth shut and slipped into the house. It seemed to be the only thing he’d been able to hold onto since the divorce.

The door slammed shut behind you and he pushed past you to slip into the living room and throw himself down on the couch. You followed slowly behind him, taking oddly tentative steps, like if you made a noise he would kick you out.

He had his arm thrown over his face, his eyes clenched like he was in pain. You perched yourself on the edge of the chair you usually sat in, feeling oddly uncomfortable. You fidgeted restlessly on the cushion, crossing and uncrossing your legs, tapping your toes against the floor.

It had seemed like such an easy decision to come here half an hour ago. But you hadn’t had a plan and that was really biting you in the ass now. Desperate for anything other than the sound of the fabric underneath you, you blurted out the question that had bothered you for months.

“What happened?”

He sighed, like he’d been expecting it. He sat up slowly, grabbing a glass of brown liquor off the coffee table and taking a swig. He leaned forward on his knees, glaring over at you. “What are you talking about? You’re gonna have to be specific, sweetheart, everything in my life has fallen apart.”

You winced, hating the callous way you’d asked the question. You’d meant to approach the subject more gently, but it wasn’t easy to keep your curiosity contained. “Everything, I guess. Last time I saw you, you were on top of the world. What happened?” You tried to ask your questions as gently as possible, but there really was no use sugarcoating anything.

“Flew too close to the sun and I fell,” he shrugged and sent you a sarcastic smirk. “But I see you’ve been doing great, huh?”

“Not really, I’ve stepped back from taking on any contracts. I would have dropped Nuka-Cola too if their lawyers weren’t so damn good.”

He shrugged, like he didn’t really give a shit about your life or how it was going. This hurt, how he was acting, you’d never seen him like this. He was acting so mean and despondent. “Found out Barb was advocating for nuclear war and Vault-Tec was backing her. Finding out your wife is orchestrating war crimes really puts a wrench in your marriage.”

You wished you could be surprised, but Barb’s odd behavior since joining the company had been obvious to everyone but Cooper. He laughed when he saw the look on your face, “You say ‘I told you so’ and I’ll throw something at you.” You shook your head and sank back in the chair. “Anyway, Vault-Tec dropped me and since everyone in Hollywood hates me that was the last paying job I had. Now, I’m working kid’s parties.” He scoffed and smiled mirthfully, but the hatred in this look was directed at himself. “How the mighty have fallen, right?”

He threw back the rest of his whiskey and slammed the glass back on the table.

“I really am sorry, Coop. I should have been here.”

He didn’t look at you, just shook his head, “No point. If you had been, I would have dragged you down with me. Probably the smartest thing you could have done.” You hated this, it made your heart hurt to see him so down on himself.

This wasn’t the Cooper you knew. This was a man completely broken by what life had thrown at him. You hated this. You hated yourself for not helping him. Hated his wife for abandoning him. You hated the world for so easily turning their back on him like he was nothing to them.

You slipped from the chair and kneeled in front of him. You grabbed his hands in yours, holding on tight when he tried to slip away. “I’m sorry, Coop, truly. I wasn’t here for you. But I am now, I swear. Let me help you, please.”

He glanced down at you and stared quietly, trying to decide whether he should be an asshole and tell you to fuck off or just accept the help. He had been lonely for a long while now. He needed someone to tell him he was doing okay. That he had done the right thing in getting Barb out of his life. So, he nodded and squeezed your hands back.

“Pancakes?”

You laughed and sat up in bed, glancing over at Cooper while he got dressed. “Is that all you know how to make?” He smiled and crawled back onto bed to plant a hard kiss against your lips.

“You want food or not, smartass?”

You laughed and pressed another quick kiss to his lips, “Please.” He shook his head and walked out of his bedroom and towards the kitchen. You sank back against the pillows and stared blankly up at his ceiling.

You wished there was a title to describe what you were to each other, but you weren’t completely sure yourself. A few weeks after you’d stopped by his house you’d slept together for the first time. And then again and again, and you’d taken to staying at his house more than your own apartment.

You’d worried that you were letting yourself be a rebound after his divorce. Afraid that he was simply going to sleep with you and move on once he’d found something better. But he didn’t treat you like you were something to throw away.

But that doesn’t mean anything when he’s never explicitly stated that he wants something serious with you. You sit up when you hear him padding back down the hall, a tray in his hands. You smile at him and help him settle back in bed.

When you’re done eating you both lay back in bed and you figure you don’t need something definitive for now. You’ll just enjoy what you have while you have him. The shrill ring of the phone jolts you both out of your comfortable state.

He sighs and reaches over to grab it from its place on the nightstand. The cord stretches over you while he leans back and talks to whoever is on the other line. “Hello?” His brow furrows in confusion when the other person began to speak. You can make out their muffled voice but not what they’re saying. You give him a questioning look but he just shrugs and hands you the phone. “It’s for you, sweetheart.”

“Hello?”

Cooper watches you with growing confusion as your face lights up and you shoot out of bed. He sighs, knowing his morning is probably over. He figures he should go ahead and get dressed while you finish up the call.

When he comes out of the bathroom you’re still talking. Your finger is coiled through the cord and you’re pacing a track into his rug. You’ve got a serious expression on your face, listening intently, before you light up once more and let out an eager, “Oh, thank you so much!” You slam the phone back down on the dial and turn to him with an eager smile.

“That was Tom, he’s got a role for me.” Cooper shoots you a happy smile but he can’t help the twinge of jealously in his gut. A few weeks ago some pictures of you two together had been leaked. While your career and offered had considerably slowed, you hadn’t been completely stonewalled by all of Hollywood like he had.

He couldn’t help but resent that at moments, that you still got to live your dream while he was punished for doing what he thought had been right. He wouldn’t let that ruin your mood right now, though. “That’s great, what is it?”

You shrugged, going through the room and quickly changing into a long skirt and blouse. “He couldn’t give me many details over the phone. He wants me to head over to his house to pick up the script real quick.” You ran up to him, planted a quick kiss on his cheek and darted towards the hall. “I’ll be back for lunch,” you called over your shoulder.

Cooper sighed, overwhelmed slightly by your whirlwind of energy. He called out a quick goodbye he wasn’t sure you heard and tried to ignore the nauseating feeling settling in his stomach.

You stared up at Tom’s door, knocking quickly. You were the perfect picture of naïveté, wide-eyed and eager as you waited for him to open the door. When Tom wasn’t directing Nuka-Cola ads he directed only serious movies. The type that only critics liked.

Getting another serious role could really help in getting you back on track. Maybe you could even start helping Coop out, he was going to have to sell the house soon if he didn’t make real money.

The smile on your lips was hard to dismiss as you impatiently waited for the door to open. It didn’t take much longer, you could hear Tom approaching through it and then it was swinging open. He had a wide smile and seemed oddly breathless as he stared at you. “There you are! Come on in, I’ll grab the script.”

Not thinking much of the odd invitation you took a step inside and glanced around. You heard voices in the next room and your smile dropped just a little. “Come on,” he waved you forward when he noticed you had stopped, “I’ll get you something to drink.”

“Oh,” you took a hesitant step forward. “I’m fine, really, I need to get back home pretty quick.” Tom stopped in his tracks and turned around. The look on his face had your hairs standing on end, both of your smiles completely gone now.

“I said come in.” You tried to back up but your back hit something soft. Jumping forward, you turned to find one of the tallest men you’d ever seen towering over you. He pushed forward and you stumbled back, starting to feel real panic settle in.

He kept pushing until you found yourself standing in the middle of a crowded living room. Execs you recognized from meetings with your agent and premieres circled around you like a pack of hyenas. Each of them tittering and laughing, pointing at you with a dangerous gleam in their eyes.

You felt tears pricking your eyes, your gaze darting up to Tom. But he refused to look at you, accepting a large wad of cash from one man and shaking his hand. He spared you one brief glance, a distant regret in his eyes as he walked out the room.

You spun in a quick circle, breaths coming short and fast when the men started to close in on you. One of them grabbed you and you threw your elbow back into his face, it didn’t matter. They were all reaching for you now. Hands snagged on your blouse and the buttons popped open.

You opened your mouth, to scream or bite one of them, you don’t know, it didn’t matter. A large hand clamped around your mouth, forcing you to breathe in the cloth on their palm. You sucked in a sharp breath, something sweet tickling your nose before your eyes were rolling back in your head.

#cooper howard x reader #the ghoul x reader #fallout tv series #fallout x reader #ghoul x reader

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