#it feels unreal. it feels like it was only yesterday that we were all reading abt Jon in the castle but it also feels ages ago.

[moonsun2010]

The End.

Thank you for reading Dracula Daily!

[fruitr0llup]

“no matter what.”

im nayeon x fem!twice 10th member reader; fluff

warnings: a HINT of angst if you squint, talk of disbandment

w/c: 747

a/n: i don’t like this fic but i’ll post it anyways </3 NOT PROOFREAD !!!!

-

it was saturday, and today was one of the days where all of the girls had an off day. they were rare, so most spent it with eachother, doing fun things around seoul, but a select few, including you, decided to stay at the dorm and rest.

you lounged on your bed, keen on spending your day off rotting in bed. you had scrolled through your phone for hours now, and honestly you were getting kind of bored. you were thinking of going to bother Mina, who had stayed behind, but figured she’d probably tell you to leave so that she could continue playing her game.

so instead, you kept scrolling, mindlessly wandering the internet. that’s until something caught your eye. It was an article on Jeongyeon’s interview with Bazzar earlier that week. You skimmed through the interview, curious to see what the older girl had said.

You stopped when you came across a question asking “Can you believe twice is in its 10th year?”

You felt your heart pang. No, you couldn’t believe that twice was in its tenth year. You couldn’t believe that you had spent ten years with these girls, who used to be strangers to you. it all felt so surreal.

you continued to read, wanting to know what Jeongyeon replied. You felt another pang in your heart reading what she answered. She replied, “How many more albums can we release as twice in the future? We can’t be active as twice forever. Of course, it would be nice if we could, but there will come a time when we each have to walk our own path. It’s not a given that we can prepare an album together like now.”

You set your phone down, getting lost in your thoughts. You hadn’t thought about what it would be like without twice. without your members. you’ve spent every waking hour with them since sixteen, and a world without them feels unreal. but Jeongyeons right, you can’t be twice forever. you’ll have to move on eventually.

just the thought makes you tear up. and in seconds, you have tears running down your face, ugly crying. you grab the tissue box by your bed and try to clean your face up, but failing as the tears continue to stream down your face.

you hear a knock on your door, “y/n-ah, are you okay?” it’s nayeon. she must have heard your wailing.

you sniffle, using all your strength to muster up a reply. “y-yes, nayeon un-unnie” you said through sniffles.

“y/n, you’re clearly not. i’m coming in.” she opens the door, revealing you sitting in your bed, your face red, tissues spewed everywhere, and snot running down your nose. her eyes soften instantly. “oh baby…” she walks over to you, sitting on your bed and pulling you into her embrace. “what’s wrong?” she asks, stroking your hair.

“what are we going to do, unnie…” you mutter. nayeon pulls away, looking at you softly.

“what do you mean?” at that, you start spewing out words. you express how you’re not ready for the future. how you don’t want to grow up. how frightened you are at the fact that it’s already been ten years, when it seemed like only yesterday you all debuted. and how scared you are that you’re going to lose all of them. your best friends.

nayeon looks at you with a pout. she takes your face in her hands and wipes your tears. “it will be okay, y/n-ah.” she says, stroking your hair.

“unnie, i don’t kn-know what i’m going to do without you g-guys..” you say, sobbing.

nayeon sighs. of course she’s thought about disbandment. she wasn’t ready for it either; none of them were. so she tells you what she had been telling herself. “y/n, no matter what happens. no matter what path we choose to take. we are always going to be twice. a silly disbandment won’t break our friendship. we’ll always have eachothers backs, and support each other in whatever we decide to do.”

you nod, hugging her again. she lays down on your bed, putting your head on her chest. “go to sleep, y/n… you’ve had a long day..” you nod, wiping a stray tear.

the two of you sit in silence for a while, before you speak up. “i love you, unnie…” you say, hugging her tighter.

nayeon rubs your back with her hand. “i love you too, y/n.”

you fall asleep, with nayeons comforting embrace assuring you that no matter what life brings you, you’ll always be together.

you’ll always be twice

[somekindofpoet]

Like A Movie Part II

Summary: Jenna comes back to iron out some details on the movie with reader. Flirting ensues.

Word Count: 3.1K

Warnings: I cuss alot...so language

A/N: How do we feel about a slow burn friends? I'm gonna be up front and tell you I'm terrible with angst. Like I physically can't make myself do it. Life is sad enough, I just want to write happy things...for now. Also, I kind of picture the reader as an older Zendaya as Rue, but hey this is your fantasy so interpret away.

Like A Movie Part I

It took you hours to tidy the hot mess you called a living room. Even with Nando’s help and a case of beer, it still wasn’t as nice as you wanted it to be. Nando gave up trying to help you after hour three, claiming it was never going to be good enough, and Jenna had already seen it at its worst, so why did it matter?

You knew he was right, but you still felt the anxiety bubble up in your gut as you sat in your kitchen the next morning. The half-full mugs of coffee that littered the apartment before were now clean and awaiting their duty in your cabinets. Your clothes were shoved into laundry baskets or actually folded and put away. The three throw blankets on your couch were neatly folded and hung over the back of it. There were still mountains of scripts around; there wasn’t much you could do about those. Jenna seemed to like seeing them, though, or at least that’s what you told yourself to stop from burning your life’s work to get it out of the way. 

You made a dedicated effort to look more put together this morning. You convince yourself it’s because Jenna is technically now your employer, but you know deep down you’re trying to impress her. You’re not sure if she’s single or not, but it’s not like you’re trying to date her. You just want her eyes to linger a little, that’s all. Lord knows yours did yesterday and likely will again today. Hell, could anyone with eyes blame you? The woman is gorgeous. 

You have on a black short sleeve button up with a white collar, white hems on the sleeves, and black jeans over your old skool Vans. It’s all very Wednesday Addams, you note as you’re sitting at your table waiting for your coffee to brew. Even down to the crew length black socks. You hope she doesn’t think you’re mimicking her. This is the most professional thing you’re comfortable in, and you know you look good too. 

You run your fingers through your hair, shaking it out and fluffing it up all at once. A clock ticks on your wall, the minutes slowly slithering by. Jenna had come to your apartment around 10 yesterday, and it was currently 9:50. You get up to peek out the window over your sink, hoping to see her car in the parking lot.

Nothing. Only Janice tottering around the chain link fence. You puff your cheeks and let the air out all at once. You side eye your laptop, which is sitting open on your desk, a half finished screenplay mocking you from across the room. You may have sold one now, but that wasn’t going to stop you from writing more. A writer should always have multiple pots on the flame, as your screenwriting professor loved to say. 

You glance back out the window once more, seeing nothing different. You shrug, grab your coffee and head to your desk. You may as well work while you wait. 

You quickly get lost in tying together scenes, eyeing your outline and plot points, mouthing the dialogue as you write it. The story is moving along nicely, but you can’t help but worry that you were burying yourself in a particular scene and you couldn’t find a way out of it. You’re so concentrated on un-fucking the scene you’ve dug into that the knock at your door nearly scares the lights out of you. 

You flinch at the sound, looking around wildly. You look at the clock, it reads 10:23. Amazing how quickly you’re able to immerse yourself in a story, time feels unreal. You felt like it had been hours of writing. 

You stand and straighten your shirt out, run your fingers through your hair again for good measure. You make your way to the door as another knock comes. When you pull it open, Jenna is there, undisguised this time. She must have found solace in the fact that no one was around aside from Janice in the parking lot, if she didn’t feel the need to hide. She’s wearing a form fitting black long sleeve with black jeans, and this time she’s a few inches taller in her high heels. You fight to keep your eyebrows from flying off your head when you see her. 

“Hi.” She says simply, sliding her sunglasses off her nose and into her hair. 

You fight to remain composed. This is your boss, for goodness sake. 

“Hello, Ms. Ortega.” Ooof, fumble, you think as soon as the words leave your mouth. 

She scoffs and shakes her head, “No. absolutely not. Just Jenna.”

You grin at her, “Okay. Hello, Just Jenna.”

She blinks slowly at you, trying to keep a straight face, but you can tell the comment has tickled her by the slight uptick in the corners of her mouth. “Do you make it a habit to have guests stand on your doorstep for this long?”

Your eyes go wide and you scramble to the side, “Sorry! Come on in.”

You can smell her perfume as she brushes past you; it’s Chanel, you’d recognize it anywhere. You sigh as you close the door. When you turn around, she’s already in your living room, exploring your scripts again. If she notices the difference in cleanliness from yesterday, she doesn’t mention it. 

She glances up at you as you follow her and lean against the archway between the kitchen and the living room, crossing your arms. She looks you up and down, and you feel the need to pull at your collar and gulp.

“You’re dressed up today,” she says, “Got a hot date?”

You try to play it cool, “Nah, I always dress like this when I’m selling screenplays.” 

She smirks, knowing full well this was the first one you’ve sold. “Sorry I’m late, I had a thing this morning that ran over time.”

You shrug and jerk your head toward your open laptop, “No worries, gave me time to ruin a few scenes of my newest work.”

She eyes the laptop with curiosity, but politeness keeps her from going to it to read. She looks back at you, she’s waiting for something, but you can’t for the life of you figure out what it could be.

“So you promised me coffee yesterday.”

You smack your forehead, “Shit. Yes I did. Make yourself at home, I’ll grab you a cup.”

She follows you into the kitchen and lays her bag on one of the chairs, sitting in the one next to it. You busy yourself with the espresso maker, watching her in your peripherals. She rolls her ankles stretching them out before leaning down to pull a fat manilla envelope from her bag. She sets it on the table and crosses her legs, watching you now. 

You blow your hair out of your face, only for it to fall right back into place as you’re pouring her cup. You turn with it, placing it in front of her delicately. 

“Still a no on the sugar and oat milk?”

She smiles, “Unless you have white chocolate mix here, I’ll just have it black, thank you.”

You make a mental note to get white chocolate mix as soon as possible. Then you kick yourself for thinking she’d grace you with her presence a third time. She sips her coffee from the white mug you’ve given her, and you can see the ring of red lipstick that remains behind. You try not to roll your eyes at yourself as you consider never washing the mug again. 

You sit at the table across from her, sliding your coffee over from her side. She was sitting where you usually sat in the mornings, facing the window. The midmorning sun streams in, reflecting on her dark hair and turning her brown eyes into a golden hue. You weren’t about to tell her she’d taken your seat though. You now had the best seat in the house. 

You eye the envelope on the table, then watch her as she sips the coffee, closing her eyes and smiling. 

“That good huh?”

She nods, eyes still closed. When she opens them, she says, “They always serve drip at interviews. It’s depressing.”

You laugh, “Couldn’t you just have an assistant run and grab you something better?”

She shrugs, lacing her fingers around the mug the same way she had the day before. “Yeah, but he has more important things to do than get me coffee. Plus, I knew I could count on you for a better cup.”

The sentiment makes you blush but also swell with pride. Who was this magic woman who could fluster you so? You shake your head, smiling, knowing full well nearly any woman that good looking would have you turning into a barista and blabbering like an idiot. She raises an eyebrow at you, your internal dialogue lost on her. 

In an attempt to save the moment, you point to the envelope. “What’s that?”

She frowns as if she’s forgotten what you’re saying, her eyes following your finger. Realization washes over her features when she understands the question. 

“Oh, it’s your contract. You can bring it to your lawyers to review before you sign it.”

She slides the envelope over and you open it, pulling the thick stack of legal documents out. You try to read the first few sentences but the legal jargon makes you feel cross eyed. 

“Yep. Can’t understand a word. I’ll take it to them today.” You bluff. You don’t have lawyers. You’ll need to find one quickly.

Somehow, she sees right through it. “You don’t have a lawyer, do you?”

You smile sheepishly, “No I do not.”

She takes her phone out and scrolls to a contact before sliding it over to you. “Here, call this firm, tell them I sent you. You can work the agreement to have the production company pay them a portion of your check once they cut it.”

You take your own phone out of your pocket and add the contact, “Thank you.” You say, and you mean it. She doesn’t need to help you that much, and yet here you are.

She drinks her coffee and hums. Once you’ve added the number, you slide her phone back to her. She sets down the mug and slides the phone back to you.

“Put your number in there too.”

You’ve lost control of your face now, your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline and your mouth drops open. She just smiles back at you, leaning back in her chair with her coffee. She looks smug, like she knows what she’s done to you. She probably does, if you’re honest with yourself. She’s not naive. 

You take the phone and add a contact, typing your name and your number underneath. You slide the phone back over and she picks it up. She snaps a quick picture of you as you’re looking down at your mug and you protest.

“Awh no come on Jenna-“

She waves you off, adding the photo to your contact, “Stop, you look cute don’t worry. Candids are the best.”

Your phone vibrates in front of you and you see a text message has come in from an unknown number. You open it to read: Jenna Ortega. You have her phone number now. You’re trying not to hyperventilate. Of course she gave you her number, you are going to be working together. She called you cute. Were you sweating? Was it warm in there? 

As you battle your internal crisis, Jenna reaches for her bag again. This time she pulls out a dog eared copy of Secessus and gently lays it on the table. It’s full of multicolored sticky notes, and you can see highlighter marks spilling over the sides of the pages. The script looks like it’s ten years old when it has only really existed for a few months. The thought of her pouring over the pages makes your stomach flip.

You look up at her, “Who do you want to play?” 

She looks down to the cover page, tracing her finger along the title. Her expression is thoughtful, she bites her lip. 

“Who do you think I should play?”

You squint your eyes, looking up to the ceiling to remember the characters. The film is horror, but it’s cerebral. Any of the characters written in the pages would suit her, but you can only think of one that would let her talent truly shine.

“I think you should play Judas.” You lean back in your chair with your hands on your knees, your leg bouncing. 

The grin that spreads across her face is devious, and you can tell she’s pleased with your answer. “You think I should play the killer?”

You nod, “Well she doesn’t really kill anyone though, she just convinces her cult to do it for her.  I think the part would be perfect for you.”

“I want to be offended, but I’m really just flattered.” She says as she takes a lock of her hair and twirls it in her fingers. “It would be a big change from being the final girl.”

You shrug, “This film doesn’t have a final girl.”

She frowns, “Sure it does.” She flips the script open and thumbs to a page close to the end. “Judas lives, and so does the demon she summons.”

You raise your eyebrow at her, smiling in disbelief. “Are you seriously arguing with me about a script I wrote?” You jab at her playfully.

She’s fighting a smile, looking down at the pages. She looks back up at you and you can tell she’s ready to fight you on this. “You’ve left it open to interpretation. So it is whatever the reader thinks it is. I’m the reader. So I’m right.”

You scoff, a goofy smile plastered to your face. “I’ve never had anyone fight me on the content I’ve written in my life. You ma’am, are something else.”

“I’m your director and your star. So I hope you’re prepared to fight with me for the next year or so.”

Butterflies explode into your stomach. You think she might be flirting with you. Is she flirting with you? What the hell planet are you living on? It’s definitely too hot in there.The idea from yesterday that you might be dreaming returns to you. She’s eyeing you now, seeing if you’ll rise to the challenge. You’re nothing if not stubborn, so like a phoenix from the ashes, you do rise. Even if it’s clumsy and half-cocked. 

“I am ready and willing to argue with you at your every whim.” You blurt out. Seriously? You may as well roll over and expose your soft underbelly for the kill. 

Your answer seems to satisfy her because she leans back into her chair again, but she’s still eyeing you keenly over her mug. There’s a strangely comfortable silence that settles over the room, the two of you sipping your coffee. Jenna’s phone rings, breaking the silence and causing you both to flinch. She looks down at it, then back up at you.

“It’s my driver, do you mind?”

You shake your head no. You get up from your chair when she answers and head into your living room to give her some privacy. You flop onto your couch and pull up your phone, scrolling through tiktoks absently. After a few minutes, Jenna wanders into the room. She hesitates, but you gesture for her to sit down and she follows suit. She sits on the edge of the couch like she’s nervous to get comfortable, spinning the rings on her fingers. You wonder if it’s a nervous tick. 

She sucks in air through her teeth and looks at you, “So. I know we hardly know each other and everything but…my driver just got pulled away for something.” 

You stare at her blankly, not following. She screws up her mouth like she’s fighting against her better judgment and continues. 

“Would you mind if…like do you have any plans for today?” 

You frown, confused and still not following. “No. Just working on that dumpster fire over there.” You gesture to your laptop.

“Is it okay if I stay here for a few hours? Just while I wait for him to come back? I promise I’ll stay out of the way.”

If you were a cartoon, a bright yellow lightbulb would have popped over your head. Finally, you’re picking up what she’s laying down. “Of course!” You say, probably a little too enthusiastically judging by the look she gives you.

Jenna relaxes a bit, shifting back on the couch. It’s a good sign, you think, she’s getting comfortable. There’s a pile of screenplays stacked higher than her head next to the arm of the couch, and she glances over at them.

“May I?” She asks you, referring to the stacks of paper.

“Have at it. Most of them are shit.”

She tuts at you and grabs the ream at the top. You can’t remember which one it is, and you’re slightly nervous. She runs her finger along the page again, the same way she did with Secessus. You are beginning to realize she has a particular veneration for scripts. Which makes sense, seeing as they were the center of her career. But you think there’s more to it, she really loves something about the writing. 

“Haze,” she reads the title out loud.

You blanch, realizing it’s a very R-rated, very gay story. “Oh uh, that one is… underdeveloped.” 

She gives you a look, making you feel the need to justify yourself further. “It’s smut. Not good either. And very gay. Maybe not for your eyes.”

She blinks in surprise, and then interest alights her face. She opens to the first page and says, “I’ll decide what’s for my eyes and what’s not. You don’t need to entertain me,” she gestures back to your computer, “You can get back to work.” 

And that’s how you find yourself lying on your sectional, typing away. Jenna is curled up on the other side of the couch, reading your screenplays with her feet tucked up under her, heels discarded. Every once in a while, you glance over at her and secretly watch her chew on her cheek or twirl her hair as she reads. You’ve made her another cup of coffee and she sips it from time to time, savoring it. 

This is the second time you’ve been in her presence and you’re already beginning to feel like you could get used to this. It’s dangerous and hopeful, and you let it steer your writing as you dig yourself out of the hole you had fallen into earlier. Yeah, you could absolutely get used to this.

[scekrex]

I know you've wrote that you got a bit of a writer's block, but I've got an idea for you for later on when you're up in power of creativity.

So, I just woke up from, I'm not sure, a night terror, maybe (might be the hallucinations that are getting to me after yesterday, wooohoo, vicious cycle of not sleeping), and it might sound absolutely weird, but it got me thinking and I came up with an idea for a prompt where the reader gets a night terror, maybe something related to his family before he died like his godson or goddaughter are being tormented by some invisible force in a pram, the reader walks over to it wanting to release the kiddo. When he does, the child does what every kid likes to do which is sort of climbing when you get them into your arms, they like to completely change their arms position and try to get on top of your head, so the kid does that and the reader could feel like a sharp pinch on the back of his neck. The child suddenly dissappeared and he cupped the place where he felt the pain before suddenly waking up in cold sweat to Adam trying to calm him down to the best of his, we all know not the best, abilities, but he's trying! So a cookie for him. They just simply cuddle in silence until everything is fine and it's completely up to you if you want to make the reader talk about whatever happened in his night terror or not. I'm just feeling like some angst with a happy ending, cause jesuuus that nightmare/night terror/sleep hallucination was foking wild 💀

That's how I looked after I woke up, srs

No more writers block, bitches, ur boy's back at it again whoop whoop, (where's my fucking hype train huh??/jk) I also hope you slept better this time <3

Night Terrors

pairing: Adam x male!reader

warnings: language, night terrors (I guess)

note: not beta read bc fuck you I don't have beta readers

Screams and cries of a little child filled your ears and once you were able to focus on your surroundings, your eyes caught your adorable little goddaughter who was sitting in her pram.

She was screaming, crying out your name as she seemed to hit something invisible to your eyes, she was desperately trying to get whatever it was off of her but still being so small she had no chance. Her face was red and her lungs must have hurt by how loudly she's been screaming, tears were running down her cheeks as she tried to get out of her pram - to no success.

You walked over to her, not quite understanding what was wrong with her - what was wrong with the situation. You had goosebumps all over your body and it was only then that you noticed you were shaking. Where that feeling came from you didn't know but what you did know was that you had to get to your goddaughter. The poor little thing needed to calm down, her body must have been exhausted already and she was still putting up a fight.

“Hey there, little princess,” your words sounded unreal in your own ears, as if they were muffled by cotton, but you continued talking to her as you reached to pick her up, “Now, now, pumpkin, I’m here now, you don't need to be afraid anymore.” The little girl looked at you with curious eyes as she made grabby hands at you. You finally lifted her out of her pram and rested her on your hip with one arm wrapped around her body, the other supporting her head. “See?” you smiled softly at the little girl. “You’re all safe now, I won't let anything happen to you, pumpkin,” you assured the little human as you wiped her tears from her cheeks.

She, however, seemed to have different plans, because while she did stop to scream and she did stop to kick around, she was now climbing up your body - with your hands supporting her obviously. “Whatcha doing?” you asked, irritated by her behavior. She had done that before, it was simply what toddlers did, but she never went further than your shoulder. This time though, she covered your face with her small body as she wrapped her arms and legs around your head tightly.

You tried to pull her away, tried to get the child off of you but to no avail. You called out for help, somebody, anybody, but neither were your calls answered nor did someone step in. She was making it hard for you to breathe and then you felt a sharp pain going through your body, its origin at your neck where your goddaughter’s little hands and mouth had just been, causing you to scream at the top of your lungs. What the fuck was that? Had the little girl bit you? You weren't sure, to be completely honest, you didn't know what was going on entirely.

Suddenly the weight of the child disappeared and when you tried to grab the body that had just been on top of your head, there was nothing but air, nothing unusual and most importantly not your goddaughter. Your hand moved to your neck instead, where the pain came from and once your hand touched the area, your eyes shot open and your body was sitting upright on a soft mattress.

Then there were hands on your body, one big, warm and so familiar feeling hand was located on your shoulder, the other cupped your cheek softly. Your head snapped to the side where a warm body was pressed against you and with wide eyes you looked at your boyfriend.

Your heart was pumping fast, so fast that if you were still alive you surely would've had a stroke. Sweat was covering your entire body which caused you to shiver violently, you didn't know if it was because you were actually cold or because of the panic that was still screaming inside you.

Your boyfriend.

The fog that had made it hard to see your surroundings disappeared and all of a sudden your mind was clear again, silent, but clear.

Adam was holding you, your head was resting against his chest and the tip of his feathers gently caressed your arm, his heartbeat was normal, calm even and it helped you to calm down as well. Your eyes that had been wide open only seconds ago were falling shut and you leaned into the warmth the brunette offered you. “There you are, babes,” he mumbled with his face buried in your hair, visibly relieved about that fact. “Thought you were dying,” you knew just as much as him that you wouldn't die that easily but it gave you some kind of fuzzy feeling to think that, to pretend that you could've died, to pretend that you were still human. Just for the moment.

“No I-” you interrupted yourself. You wanted to explain to him what had happened, that you hadn't been dying. But the words never left your lips, instead you simply shook your head and repeated, “No.” Adam placed a kiss on your head, “Good.”

That was a thing about Adam that you adored, well one of the many things. He never pressured you to talk, he always gave you time and space if needed, even if it was hard for the both of you to understand and handle. So you silently cuddled up against him, your arms were wrapped around his hips and your face was buried in his chest as you listened to his heartbeat. Oh his heartbeat, one of the few things in heaven that were able to calm you down in an instant. His calm breathing helped you too and you breathed with him in order to calm your body down.

He always did.

“Sorry for waking you,” you mumbled against his skin, pressing your face even closer to his chest in embarrassment. “Shut up, babes,” he simply said. You knew he meant ‘It doesn't matter as long as you're safe and well’ and ‘I love you, stop apologizing for such nonsense’. So you did. You did shut up and continued to listen to his body, in the distance you heard a couple of birds singing but that was quickly tuned out by Adam who was humming something - probably one of the countless songs he and his band had written. But you enjoyed it, enjoyed him humming to you, him giving you the comfort you needed without questioning it.

Soon he slowly laid back down, pulling you down with him. Your head was still resting on his chest - your entire body was laying on top of him. “Try to catch some sleep babes, whatever fucked up demon was haunting you, I'll fight that bastard off for you if he tries again.” You chuckled softly at that but gave a quiet hum in agreement. You felt how his wings came up to wrap around your body to underline his words, he'd protect you.

[hey-yes-hi-hello]

Hi! I’m just a little Panic! fan who’s listening to the new album and wants to share my little opinions even though no one cares 🥰 Let’s go!

Viva Las Vengeance

Okay this was the first song released and I played it about 30 times in the first 24 hours. I unironically fell in love with it- I loved the beat, the instrumentals, and though the lyrics were nonsense (like all others) I could understand them and enjoyed singing them.

Middle Of A Breakup

This song was… kinda bad ngl. I really wanted to like it but the lyrics were kinda trash (except for a few lines). The “oh shit you’re kissing my neck” part makes me physically cringe EVERY time because what even is this??? Needed a filler real bad 💀 It’s still a bop but I’m probs gonna say that about most of this album because I’m a sucker and don’t like disliking stuff. Doesn’t stop it from getting stuck in my head though-

Don’t Let The Light Go Out

I definitely liked this more than MOAB and Local God, though the verses felt a little rushed and still too high pitched, compared to the vibe the song was going after. And the way the chorus went all quiet and musicless and slow-paced threw me off a bit but oh well. I’d listen to it while driving in the rain.

Local God

It’s an okay song, but it lowkey annoys me LMAO. Maybe it’s just the way he says “local god” but I wanted to punch him in the face fr. I didn’t catch most of the lyrics but I think I just wasn’t paying attention- but I got the general vibe and it’s not awful.

Star Spangled Banger

BRENDON BESTIE WHAT IS THIS. THE CHORUS IS SO RANDOM AND UNINTELLIGIBLE AND WE CAN BARELY HEAR YOU. AND WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO RAP THE VERSES LMAOOO. AND THE SLOW “HOME OF THE FREAKS” AT THE END OF EACH VERSE IS NOT IT.

God Killed Rock and Roll

Okay I can see why people are saying it’s a Bohemian Rhapsody rip-off- he didn’t even try to hide it 💀 Even this “slow-ish” song feels rushed and- wait why is it making clicky sounds- WHAT IS THIS SOUND LOL. If this man sings another high-note I swear- You’re tryna do that gritty thing but it’s not working 💀 Want a throat lozenge?

Say It Louder

First two lines really calling yourself out huh- THE SELF-MADE ECHO MADE ME CRY LMAO. Brendon the music covers up ur voice so much what are you even saying SAY IT LOUDER. This is such a mess I’m shaking and crying rn. The chorus has an good beat (rhythm? Idk I like how it sounds) but the lyrics- hm. This slow part does not go at ALL what was he trying to to LMAO. I like the little piano (I think) in the background tho that’s cool.

Sugar Soaker

Okay I like this more than the others so far, I like the soft thing he’s doing with his voice. Ah okay glad to hear the chorus sounds entirely unique and original 😃 Idk what decade this is reminding me of but it’s something old methinks. 60’s/70’s? Bro I don’t know but it’s got a vibe- not the chorus though the chorus sucks. WTF IS THE INTERLUDE LMFAO SOUNDS LIKE A DUMPSTER FIRE. “HA HA HA HA 🥵” STFU LOL. Okay I can handle a few “come on”s but dude 💀

Something About Maggie

Let him GOOOO- shh. WOAH straight into it with “makes me want to slit my wrists 🤪” bro read the room 💀 “People say people say run awayyyy” the level of cringe is unreal- THE HIGH NOTES ARE SO RANDOM AND UNCOMFORTABLE LMFAO. My dude you have a wife leave Maggie alone-

Sad Clown

Okay I heard 10 seconds of this yesterday and I think I’m going to like it so let’s see🤞🏻 “LEAVE ME ALOOOONE” BROSKI SOUNDS LIKE UR SINGING “INTO THE UNKNOWN” AGAIN LMAOOO. Okay nvm literally the only line I like is “your majesty’s magnificent, my tragedy is imminent” it’s literally the only good-sounding line WHY WASN’T MORE OF IT LIKE THIS HUH :( Every time he screams “I’m crying” I expect him to break out Local God again LMAO. “Is this all there is?!” made me wanna neck ngl I cringed 💀 Again, this slow part is NOT IT.

All by Yourself

“You sweet little kitten” STOPSTOPSOTPSOTP- Again, too many words in verses, or trying to sing too fast. Take a breather my dude. And the chorus- it’s a clear rip-off of the original but it doesn’t fit with the song at ALL. I like what he’s trying to do with his voice but he’s failing lol. I want more soft/slow lyrics/songs :( “It’s you and me~” alright Kate Bush 💀 And AGAIN he’s trying to do the gritty thing but FAILING.

Do It To Death

I like the music at the beginning. Why do “give it a try” and “before we die” sound like they’re from Grease LMFAO. Okay this isn’t as bad as the others so far I’ll give it that- nvm where did the music go 💀 Bestie you’re AT the limit and had surpassed your stay- Nvm this just sounds like such a try hard song lmao I’m not a fan. Now it’s slow and dramatic and for WHAT. OMG NO HE DID NOT. NO YOU SHUT UP. I SEE WHAT YOU WERE TRYNA DO BUT IT JUST SOUNDED LIKE THE SONG CUT OUT AND ACCIDENTALLY STARTED PLAYING VIVA LAS VENGEANCE 💀

Overall:

Look, I went into this as a hardcore Panic! fan prepared to force myself to like these and defend them and bop along to them- but this was actual dogshit. As previously stated there were a few songs that I genuinely enjoyed and would listen to again but most of these were straight up PAINFUL. And they don’t sound like Panic! at ALL. And I know not every album has to/will sound the same and I don’t expect them to, but they all had a vibe, y��know? A Panic! vibe. Just enough uniqueness and boppiness and drama and angst for it to WORK. Pretty. Odd. and Too Weird to Live, Too Rare to Die both sound COMPLETELY different but they both sound distinctly like Panic! in ways I’m not smart enough to explain. This did not.

I’m a full on proper Panic! fan and this album was incredibly disappointing to me. I know I’m sounding really mean and negative here but I promise it’s just for the funny 😭 I don’t hate Brendon or anything. And if you enjoy the album then I support you 100%! It’s just not my cup of tea :) But I’m not giving up hope!

[borathae]

Sibi! 😭😭😭😭😭

It's not over yet!? Say it isn't so. I'm not ready to say goodbye to MV. I'm so glad I saw in someone else's ask that you will never stop writing for the SA/MV world and I can't tell you how happy that made me. These are some of my fav characters out there and I never want to let them go. Thank gawd for upcoming drabbles! I am so excited 🥰

Sooooooo is this going to be a trilogy 👀 or just stay a two-part story? Or is it a secret for now?

Also.... As a Sope biased babe I will absolutely slurp up MV Sope. Our MV Hobi needs to be played with so bad. 🤤

I love that the mansion is just this happy fuck pad for everyone to just live their lives all happily ever after now. Everyone is free and they are finally feeling that weight lift off of them. I'm just so happy for everyone 💕

And I um... Took this chapter out on my hubs last night except switch table for kitchen counter tehe... 🤤

When Yoongi said, "don't cry you're making me want to fucking act up." Uggghhh I love this Yoongi! He's back bitches!!!!!

I don't wanna say goodbye either istfg I'm actually gonna cry 😭😭 it feels like yesterday when I started posting MV and now look at us :( when I reread the earlier chapters these days it feels so unreal to read about fjadjsfaj I can't desCRIBE IT LISTEN IT FEELS SO LONG AGO AND always transports me back to the times we shared whenever that chapter came out NAD AFDSFJA I suck at explaining ajjaja

Sooooooo is this going to be a trilogy 👀 or just stay a two-part story? Or is it a secret for now?

No I want it to stay a Duology BUT and here comes the big BUT I am working on a spin-off where OC and her three boys visit her grandma in The Plains for a few days as a lovely, magical summer holiday 👀 and obviously there's gonna be lots of drabbles and oneshots about the universe as well. Maybe (!!!!! emphasis on maybe !!!!) sudden inspiration for a third book hits me one day, but for now I have only planned it to be a Duology 👀

Also.... As a Sope biased babe I will absolutely slurp up MV Sope. Our MV Hobi needs to be played with so bad. 🤤

LISTEN!! besties!!! I started off as a Sope bias and then slowly but surely kook came around and was like "hey bestie" BUT LISTEN Sope is so dear to my heart istfg I love Hobi and yoobi so much fandfna and MV!Sope is gonna hit differnet yallll 😩

I love that the mansion is just this happy fuck pad for everyone to just live their lives all happily ever after now. Everyone is free and they are finally feeling that weight lift off of them. I'm just so happy for everyone 💕

SAME SAME SME !!!! the think where they started off, where they went and now where they finally landed at LIKE OMFG THEY'RE ALL A BIG HAPPY POLY FAMILY NOW AND I WANNA SOBBBB

And I um... Took this chapter out on my hubs last night except switch table for kitchen counter tehe... 🤤

GIRL I LOVE THAT FOR YOU HAHAHAH were you Yoongs in question or OC? because I stan the energy nontheless fnadsnfsa

When Yoongi said, "don't cry you're making me want to fucking act up." Uggghhh I love this Yoongi! He's back bitches!!!!!

ME WHEN YOONGI: woof woof bark bark meow meow

JFJADFJ😩

[chaoticgeminate]

Kinktober 2022 - Day Twenty Two

Pairing: Javi Gutierrez x f!Reader

Rating: Explicit (If that was not entirely clear)

Series Summary: You’re a fanfiction writer turned novelist, which was great since it was the path you wanted your writing to take you down in life. What you never thought would happen was meeting the Javier Gutierrez, who you actively write smutty fanfiction about from his film with Nic Cage, and you especially didn’t expect him to have a crush on you.

Fast forward several months of dating, with a good chunk of your relationship being distance due to his constant traveling and having to go home to Mallorca, when he surprises you with a prompt list and a vacation planned around exploring it.

You haven’t even worked up the nerve to tell him about what you write and post to Tumblr about him as a character yet.

Notes: Going to be using prompts from @the-purity-pen for my meta as hell indulgence! There are feelings in this (I have no idea how they got there) and I may end up removing some possible chapters here and there depending on how I’m feeling, I apologize in advance if that happens because my brain is super mean sometimes.

Possible Warnings: Smut, Phone Sex, consent discussions

Phone Sex (1.5k)

It had been an emergency flight.

Javi had apologized profusely about interrupting but there had been some issues with the olive business back in Spain and the vendors were refusing to budge if Javi didn’t make an appearance, likely tied to Paulina and her brother but you had no clue since even Javi had been in the dark about any problems happening.

He left yesterday, after you two fucked like rabbits in his study, and you’d been writing notes and blurbs and tidbits of ideas for new fics or even new concepts for your novel series. The inspiration of this place, of this month, was unreal and you were glad you had prioritized time with Javi over everything.

Even notes in your phone had been unimportant compared to just being here with him.

But now that you’d had him at your side for so long, you lived with him and woke up with him, you missed him more. Which was stupid, you had him to yourself -basically- for three weeks and you couldn’t realistically be by his side every waking second of the day.

“I really am sorry-“

“Gabi, hey, I get it. You’re not to blame because the workers won’t talk to anyone except him, and I wouldn’t want you dealing with their continued attitude by refusing to contact him just so we could finish our trip out.”

“A vacation is meant to be a vacation, that is all, I wanted you both to have this.”

“I can speak for Javi when I say, we do appreciate it, truly. You have been a great friend, to both of us, and we know you only called because you had no other choice.”

“As soon as we are done I will get him back to you.”

“I know you will, and thank you for helping me with this. I hope he likes it.”

“Javi will love it, I promise you, I cannot wait to see his face.”

Your phone beeped and you glanced at the screen, your boyfriend’s cheeky grin captured on a picture taking up your screen.

“He’s calling now, thanks again.”

“Ah, anytime.”

Hearing Gabi’s excitement only amplified yours and you swapped over the call after carefully closing the drawer beside you, not wanting any chances for you to slip up that surprise before you were ready. Javi’s face was close to the screen when the video call connected and you couldn’t fight the giggle that left you.

“Cariño, you can’t teleport through the phone like that.”

“I wish I could, I should have brought you here, Solecita.”

“Javi we can’t be attached at the hips 24/7 no matter how much we want to be.”

“I miss you always but it is worse now that I’ve had you for so long without work obligations in our way.”

“I, uh, was looking over my contract with the publishing company. Gabi sent it to your employment lawyer to read over too… I can buy the rights to self-publish my existing novels and pay myself out of a legal obligation to stay where I am.”

“You mean… to move in with me?”

“Mhm, but only if you’re okay with that, I haven’t made a move yet because I wasn’t going to without consulting you first.”

“I was going to ask you what the legalities were with where you lived. I want you to live with me, even if you wanted me to downsize-“

“No, no, I had hang-ups in the past over the wealth imbalance but that was a me thing. You never once made me feel lesser because of it, that was my own mental block, trust me when I say that I won’t ask you to change a thing about who you are or what you have.”

“I love you, so much. I wish you were here, so I could show you everything. I want to see your face when I take you out on the boat the first time, when you see the pool and the cliffs… to sleep with you in my bed knowing that you won’t be across an ocean the next time I want to see you.”

His voice went soft and you set your laptop aside, watching his face as he looked away from you, and you couldn’t help but smile softly at him.

“Javi, I will need to handle the legal of things on my end but I’m- I am ready to move in with you. I took some time to just think and reflect, to talk with my therapist and my friends, and they reminded me that long distance or not there isn’t a set timeline for any relationship. That it’s okay for me to want everything even though it feels early.”

His eyes were round in disbelief for maybe half a second before he was crying, joyful tears with a smile that made you want to kiss him, and your own eyes welled over in response.

“I’ll let the staff know, do you want your own office for writing?”

“I would appreciate that, but you’re never barred from coming in okay?”

“That is- the same for you as well, even if I’m on a call, you’re welcome any time.”

Javi refused a phone tour, wanting to do one in person, and then he grinned in a way that was far from innocent.

“I am alone and have some time before I meet with the lead of staff, Solecita, if you were here I would encourage you to come sit in my lap.”

You couldn’t fight the thrill of excitement if you tried, adjusting how you were sitting in the bed, and it was a small blessing that the television stand at the end of the bed was there since you could prop your phone very easily into the groove and have both hands.

“Oh really, just to sit in your lap, or would you want me to be bare?”

He set his phone down with it propped up and you watched him lean back too, you couldn’t see much below the desk but you did know his hand was out of sight.

“Bare, of course, maybe with a flowy skirt so that I could fuck you and anyone who might walk in would be unable to tell exactly what we’re up to.”

“They would know, we aren’t exactly subtle, especially when I get so wet because of how good you make me feel.”

“Are you wet now, mi amor?”

“Just thinking of your cock inside me makes me want you, cariño.”

“Show me.”

It was easy to slide your hands down into your shorts, gathering the wetness before it could soak into your underwear, and Javi moaned at the shiny gleam on your hand.

“Play with that pretty clit for me, Solecita. You know how I touch you, close your eyes and imagine its me.”

“Fuck, Javi-“

You did as he said, closing your eyes and letting him croon through the phone as you circled your clit with two fingers, and Javi was panting into the speaker as he watched your face.

“Are you nice and wet for me, are you going to cum for me?”

His praise about how pretty you looked, how good he knew you felt, all of it made your body propel toward an orgasm that had you seeing stars and you knew he’d cum based on how hard he was breathing and the flush of his skin on your camera.

“Javi-“

“I’m taking a red-eye, I will be home as early as I can, and I will be waking you up if you’re asleep.”

Javi’s voice was rough and you knew he wanted to take care of you, to cuddle with you and stroke your hair and whisper words of love into your skin, he was an aftercare king. But the door was wide open for a conversation that you hadn’t been sure how to have with him.

“You don’t have to wake me up, Javi. You have my consent to do what you want to me while I’m asleep.”

“Solecita… you truly consent to me being physical with you while you’re sleeping?”

“Yes, Javi, I do consent to it. I wasn’t sure how to bring it up before but the idea of CNC is something I am interested in.”

“Only if you are sure, Solecita, I do not like the idea of violating your trust-“

“Which is why I trust you, Javi, you’ve been nothing but respectful and open with me.”

“If you wake up and don’t want me to continue you must safeword, do you understand?”

“I promise you if I don’t like something I will safeword, Javi.”

He nodded and a knock on the door on his side of the call made him apologize, likely shoving his cock back in his pants and trying to not look like he’d just cum, so you let him go and smiled at the small screen for just a second.

Surer than ever with what you had planned.

All Fics Taglist: @hardc0rehaylz @wordsnwhiskey @pagannightwitch @radiowallet @musings-of-a-rose @amneris21 @trickstersp8 @practicalghost @rominaszh @alwaysdjarin @alexxavicry @all-the-way-down-here

Just Pedro Taglist: @maievdenoir @beecastle @littlemisspascal @writeforfandoms @AynsleyWalker @lovesbiggerthanpride @MSWarriorBabe80

Alt Taglist: @imtryingmybeskar @fan-of-encouragement @grogusmum @sizzlingcloudmentality @deadhumourist @prostitute-robot-from-the-future

Kinktober Only: @nicolethered @katareyoudrilling

[moonjxsung]

Hey star, I know this may be a tough subject but.. I trust your wisdom, and I know I can’t push all of my trust on something that someone over the internet says, but I genuinely believe that you are a good person. I trust you with your words, even if they may not seem good to you, your words are very healing to me.

I’d like to begin this by saying tw//pet loss.

Yesterday I had to put my 7mo Cat down. It hurt me a lot considering that he had a life ahead of him, and we didn’t get to do a lot of what I promised him we’d do. He ended up growing ill extremely fast overnight and with the sudden vet trip, I was unfortunately not able to pay for the medical treatment that he urgently needed. It was a life or death situation, and unfortunately I could not afford the life for him. I feel like I failed him, like I was worthless for not being able to afford his treatment. I feel like a horrible pet parent and I feel like I let him down. I couldn’t even be there for him in his last moments to comfort him because I just didn’t want that image of him in my brain. Anyone who knows me knows that I loved him like he was my actual son, and he loved me just as much. He was underneath me 24/7 and hell I’d like to say we did everything together. We ate dinner together, played together and took the best naps together.

It still feels unreal, and though It only happened yesterday my heart feels so heavy. I can’t cry anymore because my face hurts and I just feel so empty. I live alone and now that he’s gone I’m really alone in my house now. I had to make the rough decision of paying for his loss of life or rent and I had to let him go humanely. I didn’t want him to suffer. I have no idea what I’ll do about my housing situation, but I couldn’t let him suffer like that. I’m getting his ashes next week, and though it makes me glad to know I’ll have him in some way, it makes me sad to know it won’t be in the way that I’d want it to be. I wanted to ask, how do you deal with loss? With grief like this?

It’s been my first pet passing in my entire life and I feel so lost and so lonely. I feel like I can’t be here without him. It’s been a rough couple of hours, it still feels so unreal to go downstairs and know that he won’t be tripping down the stairs right behind me.

I hope none of this made you uncomfortable, and you don’t have to answer this ask by any means.

Thank you for reading, I hope that he still follows me everywhere I go.

Hi my love ❤️ this didn’t make me uncomfortable at all, and I actually want to thank you for trusting me with this story. It’s not easy to open up about grief or your vulnerability, and I’m glad this blog feels like a safe space where you can find some solace. I’m so sorry for your loss and I’m here for whatever you need while you cope with this.

First, don’t ever consider that you weren’t the best cat owner you could have been. You did everything you could in this scenario, and with the few resources available to you. It’s not an easy decision to choose between a pet’s life and your own wellbeing, and especially when the treatment is something so complicated. We always have to choose what’s best for our babies, and that’s exactly what you did. You didn’t fail him, nor did you fail yourself. You simply made a decision that would bring both of you peace, and though it was a difficult one, I think you did the right thing. He’s not suffering anymore and he’s at peace.

I lost a cat in January, he wasn’t an indoor cat and he lives at my parent’s house, but I grew up with him nonetheless. He was too feral to keep inside, but we fed him and built a little bed for him outside and we could pet him. He got old very quickly, and he ended up getting a teeth infection as a result of stomatitis, as well as feline leukemia. When the vet told us our options, they presented us with all sorts of treatments we could issue, and realistically we knew none of them were a tangible possibility. We couldn’t administer injections, or pills, or chemotherapy. He was mostly feral and the slightest bit of discomfort would cause him to disappear for days on end. We had to ask the vet if putting him down was an option, and she seemed a little disappointed that was the route we chose, but we didn’t want him to be in pain and we knew there was nothing more we could do.

My mom felt the guilt very heavily. Constantly asking if we should have tried something, and I had to assure her so many times that we did all that we could. He’s happy now, he’s at peace and though I miss seeing him by the door for his evening dinner, I couldn’t bear to see him suffering. I dreamt of him shortly after he passed, that I was in my childhood car on the way home, and he was following the car. He seemed fast, and young, and youthful again, and I like to think he’s comfortable wherever he is now.

The grief is always present, but it alters between melancholia and comfort for me. I acknowledge that his absence is sad, but I look for the positivity in it, too. I remember the good times we had and the fact that he’s not suffering, and that’s how I best cope with it. Please remember you gave him the best life in those 7 months and the rest was out of your control. You did the best you could with the resources you had at the time- his fate was in the universe’s hands. Don’t blame yourself and please know that he’ll be watching over you always. That little silhouette of him will be following behind you down the steps always ❤️

Sending you all my love sweet angel, I’m so sorry for your loss and I’m here if you need anything while you’re grieving. Remember to take care of yourself too ❤️ I love you lots

[jonathankatwhatever]

The cat is alive! At least for today. 20 Mar 2023.

I wrote down the date. I knew I had: I kept saying to myself that I had told you the date in writing so that drove the conclusion. It did not occur to me, under the stress, that I could look for that. I wish I were kidding. It popped into my head, but the panic made me miss the obvious, meaning the panic is self-sustaining, has a boundary, has movement around that boundary which prevents proper action. That we can take apart later today. I’m really looking forward to that, because it finally occurred to me to search this blog. That didn’t help because Tumblr only ‘remembers’ the posts which are loaded by it. I typed in March and got only the last few days where I used the date. So I scrolled back to the beginning of the year. Couldn’t find it. Then I realized: I hand wrote it! That narrowed it down. I found the reference and it clearly says March 28.

So no betrayal! The cat lives!

At least for today!

The amount of pressure that applied to me was unreal. The guy I’m in was entirely calm, while I was freaking out. This isn’t just a case of dissociation of inner and outer self: it was entirely tinged, all the way through, with the identity issues, meaning largely gender and sexual identity.

That’s the idea I couldn’t get into words last night. The thoughts about issues in spaces like gender and trans and other non-binary identifications is that you don’t purely become a binary this or that as your ‘non-binary’ choice or as your swap or transition. I carry with me the patterns of thought and behavior from being right-handed. It makes me right-handed though I really am not, though I function better in every single way when I am left-handed. That this must be true is obvious in gs, especially given the D-structure, meaning that you are tinged, are labeled, no matter what labels you apply to yourself.

It’s amazing how the focus shifts when the panic starts to subside. Now I’m worried about you taking on so much.

I had written my farewell notes in my head. You saw some of them in print, and they got ‘better’, if you call it that.

I wasn’t able to get out the example I had in mind. Here’s another. When I see you, I see you. That was a strange realization which truly sank in yesterday, under all this pressure, when I realized I hold you to your standard, not to mine, that my criticisms of you in my head are a version, a 1-0Segment flip of the ones in you, which I can see when I look at anyone else. So, you should be feeling good when you look in the mirror because I now look in the mirror and I see the person you want to see in the mirror. I’ve gone over this feeling before, and that’s the first time I’ve been able to articulate the thought.

Back to bed. It’s still early and maybe I can sleep without my hands curling to my face in stress.

————-

Not much sleep but an interesting experience, which included an examination of panic as rotational speed, as an object, a gear which spins fast to avoid connection with others, meaning it is analytic to that pole, meaning a whirlpool like I painted on the wall of my bathroom.

That startled me. So I went with it and started to think that maybe the way I’m sitting now is actually part of the transition. I want to give you back your girlhood by combining mine with yours and for our boyhoods to merge in the same way.

That made me turn my head the other way, which made me realize I used to sit the other way, like how I’d lead into tasks with my left so my right had the higher degree of freedom, and thus control of not only the movement but of the structure and its supports. So I started to handwrite and realized that fundamental motive seems to appear in the ways you can use a notebook, as highlight by the strange way I do mine: right to left overall, but left to right within, so you open the cover like the book is in Hebrew, but you write and read first on the left, then the right, then go to the left beyond, meaning you count 3 spaces over, past the left you already wrote or read, over the right that you haven’t, to the next left. Then you count back to the right, then you count the same 3, then back 1.

Look at the inside cover: beginning on the left means the step back is to the cover, then count past that first to the next left. It’s the continuation of a pattern which reads both left to right and right to left, with one side dominant. This works the other way if we switch all the left and right labels, so this is the minimum for counting both methods: you get a choice of sides, and these count in the oddest 13 yet: the fundamental pattern of take 1 step back, 3 steps forward or 3 steps forward, 1 step back. The idea when we came up with that arrangement was to embody identification space so that a space is identified not only as one chain but as multiple chains or even combinations of sets, and that this skip over and going back is a lot like you have set the edge of your territory along that left side and now you have developed your territory within and you’re stepping out, past the edge, which makes a second identification. But what completes the identification is, and I’m loving this, is that skip over the right to the next left leads to the step back, which sets the identification for the space as now it is behind the front edge. Or beyond the line of scrimmage, because I thought of the line advancing, then the QB drops back and they throw a pass forward, so they line up there, then drop back and another pass forward.

So f1-3//3-1 has been recreated or rediscovered. Does it fit? I know it does, but I can’t accept that without doing the work. The fundamental expansion and contraction of a 1Square to a 4Square sets the boundary of the 1Square relative to the other 3 gs. I’m seeing it as a breathing motion, as the 1Square blossoms, then the contraction to the next gs along the szK, then the breath. Exactly like the old pictures I found which I posted over the weekend. So yes, this does exactly embody. Now I remember thinking that. Good.

And? So what? So I organized these notebooks with that thought. And that lets you identify these chains. And these chains rotate a Triangular: if you count around 1 2 3, back 1, then you rotate the End count around the triangle. So this combines SBE with Halving, because this also organizes by 2’s. It occurs as the count of 2 new when you skip over the right. It occurs as the count of the 2 skipped rights over a left. It occurs as the step back because that divides or Halves the space within the current edge.

I took a break without posting. I feel like I should apologize for stepping away, though I imagine it’s us taking a break and doing something else. Like I just did some fantastic left side learning and stretching, which included thoughts about how might say to a person, it’s not your religion that’s wrong, but your version needs to conform to the reality of the mathematics. So yoga and other systems of movement naturally express the same desires for connection and purification as any other culture expresses fitness, expresses ideals of movement and expression. Didn’t this used to be obvious? Is it obvious? The French were seen by the English as ‘weak’ because they like dance at Court because ideal dance expressed the ideal movements one had to follow, which could be portrayed as reflecting form over substance, even to death by over-heroic acts. It’s interesting this conception persisted when Napoleon was beating everybody. And I’d say the issue Napoleon faced was that you can’t innovate that much with 1800’s military: no planes, limited artillery, no repeating weapons, only horses or foot transport. So the space he had to operate in was finite. If I can translate that, it would be gold.

The space he had to operate in was finite because the Dimensional Enclosure generated to a 0 boundary which inverted to the limits of his capability to fit to the DE, which I’d say he largely accomplished. In that light, I can even see the attraction of Russia: not to conquer but to take over from the Czar, meaning to become ruler of an existing Empire which he would run better, which would make his Empire the best ever, etc. Install a new Czar and that entirety inverts to and from him 0-1-0.

But finite also means that when you count a certain number of times, you reach that 0, which translates along the line where that occurs through to Waterloo, as all the dimensions line up to that Actuality.

I can’t quite see it in grid squares. Yet. So, let’s use the counting above. He’s ahead, and the others catch up. Because the utility of the ways he’s ahead, like in his conception of political organization, do not have the same effect within the Space or are, perhaps better said, more removed from the Actuality of the conflicts, of the battles and related events. So, they could catch up because the space imposed a finish line for military advantage. Phrase that in I//I and that becomes rational, which has a denominator, so the idea is that finite order is that denominator, whatever that is, so finite and infinite, which is exactly what I//I enables. OK.

So D3-4//4-3 acts as I//I in any moment at scales. That’s really cool.

The moment as a Counter again with the Observer.

There’s something I’m having trouble getting about the subgroup being finite, meaning an element is finite as a finite subgroup, which means in I//I that it must reach a 1 that can become a 0 or there is no 0. Oh, the flip appears: the 1-0Segment!

——————

I’m getting upset, and not out of panic but anger. How could you do this to my family? I spent the weekend experiencing the nightmare of having to tell my children: I’m dead and I destroyed all your lives. And now I have to turn to Debbie and say it’s less than 4 weeks until your beloved daughter gets married and we have to file for bankruptcy. Why? Because the promises made to me are always being shuffled off into the future. She’s barely hanging on now. The stress is physically hurting her. And you do this to her. How can you do this to my family? How can you hurt them like this?

It’s unnecessary. It’s cruel. So now I’m picking up on negatives and then I start to think that isn’t what you are, and I know that but I can’t understand this behavior. It’s wrong. Just plain wrong.

I can do the forms. I’ve been reading through them. Can’t find the lawsuit, but I can get the details. I cannot fathom why this is happening. What good does it serve? Why hurt people when the idea is to help them? When the idea is to stop pain, to stop people hurting, to stop people from hurting other people, and from hurting themselves, then why hurt Debbie, who is a complete innocent? Why hurt Rachel, who is a complete innocent about to get married? Why hurt Jordan? They do not deserve such callousness.

I get the reference: why are you still writing pages? Because that’s the process, but this is a finite group in this finite existence. I am a finite group in this existence. My processes all have biological Ends, really the analytic Ends where the processes of life here 0. And while that enables 1 in eternity, that means it’s 0 here and that means you’re affecting others and their eternities.

What kind of example is it to say: we wouldn’t even help the one of us who did the math? We inflicted gratuitous cruelty on his family. So come on and join the party because it’s much better to be aware. Great message in that lesson.

It stands against everything I think about. I get up to take care of the animal’s needs because he asks me and I’m not going to assert the right to not listen unless I have a good enough reason, like it’s too late or too early or he needs affection while I’m doing something else. If I don’t have the energy, the motive force, to care about his needs, then shame on me.

Maybe I can talk more about the panic loop. It’s a neat example of an elliptic: there’s a rational point, which this weekend was the date, and that extrapolated into an entire scenario which is the developed as the curve constructs, which is mechanical, all connecting to that original rational point, which is thus the mapping of Irreducible layer to layer in I//I because you have the rational points, indeed the curve on the one Irreducible or as constructed by the layers both with the complexity in the rest of that gs process mechanism.

You can see this happen over the weekend. I fixed that rational point, which was that my memory was wrong, held that versus it was correct, and the loop developed. This loop turned so fast I could not see that I had the ability to look up the truth. I filled that space at very high speed and grew very tense. I thought my chest was going to explode.

I see a theory developing, which is that the outer person, my shell guy, operates under I//I principles at a slower internal rate so he can act faster on an external basis. That explains why I keep trying to get myself, my attention, out of the way: focus on physical activity requires focus on the physical activity. In part perhaps because I’m cross-wired left to right and back, so another example of this Winding pattern. This spins and that projects a 0 boundary over the 1Space (and thus a 1Space boundary over the 0Space). Kind of like throwing a discus if the discus itself spun larger rather than in a line or arc, so it would expand and then contract over the space of that line or arc extend over the field. Like if you stood at the center and hurled disks repeatedly with a blindfold so the direction shifts.

That enables a lot of comparison.

So, that would explain why I spend so much of my time trying to slow my mind down. Playing music as I should means reducing the external gs processing to the act of playing so that externality bounces around 0, meaning it 0’s in such a way that the music keeps moving while also counting resolutions and other forms of Endings. All those hit 0’s because they’re all analytic in gs process.

Oh, I get it. I’m the one who put us into this mess in the sense that I’m the one who forced the error that cut my tendons. It wasn’t him. It was her. Or me. Because my speed put way too much dimension into that moment. I remember how I was caught up in the silly storyline of teaching my brother how he could in the future get his own bottle down though he was just then crawling.

That’s exactly why I want you, need you to make decisions for me. Oh, so if it works that way for me, then it works the same for you. There is an experience way back when this work was really getting going, when I felt that I accessed a mind, yours, which was spinning super fast. And I passed that off because it reminded me of the Twizzies, of the twins who spin, and one holds still and that’s I//I because we dance with our hands tied because that forms our space for spinning. I’ve seen that image countless times and now it makes sense.

Slowing my mind down as search translates into slowing I//I so the spins match for what I’m doing. In other words, rather than slow down, I Wind faster, tighter, around that loop, around the hole that loop describes, so it’s boundary to center as 0-1-0, and that shrinks the 1Space down, so in the 0Space, I can’t see the choices clearly and start spinning pat them becuse I must have missed something except I keep missing it because it’s only visible when I slow down sufficiently to focus.

So internal processing speeds can go haywire compared to external processing speeds. Athletes and the uncoordinated. Depth of athletic skill too: fast processing with less depth from the internal side of the I//I.

How would we treat that? I keep reminding myself with little success how things have gone. Does not work well. Medication works but it isn’t full time and the gaps in coverage can be enormously powerful. That’s something people seem to have a hard time grasping, that medication of any kind has gaps and those are dimensional spaces, so when one appears constructs appear to fill the gap. Oh, and the thing is that negatives have a bit of advantage: they can spin very fast because they need to come around to the positives, meaning they’re freer, they have more room, they can go fast on the open road, because they don’t have to tie to the Actuality as closely. Thus chance estimations or priors become very distorted because threads have to slow down to communicate to the external self, who isn’t slow but isn’t set up for that kind of DC&R because the external self has to deal with the external self’s finite groups. Like school or a show or a tour or a career is a finite group. Like a life.

So, as we’ve said many times, the D-structure reduces in grid squares to D3-4 threads meeting D4-3 threads. The external self is thus responding to the finite expressions, the finite order of the group of a you or me or whom or whatever. I can’t dunk a basketball unless the net is very low. So all the stuff I can’t do with the basketball has to get discarded, when of course most people can’t do that. They can’t become a performer like you.

Need a break. But isn’t that a cool idea: that we are groups of finite order within groups of infinite order. That is I am finite here because all the 0Space processes End, which makes a 0 of me here and a 1 of me in what is to us Eternity.

That is the description of the soul I’ve been looking for. Tangible you is a finite group in gs process. Golden thread indeed within an orthogonal space.

Your stagecraft is exactly you. Exactly you. Tangible and intangible.

—————

Some thoughts came that I would normally try to exclude, but I think now I have a way to address and maybe analyze those. So as uncomfortable as this makes me, I was thinking about how R and I can tell D to stop worrying about the wedding, to stop trying to take on jobs that don’t exist, to stop trying to do work they don’t want her to do, that they are getting married because it’s a legal step and they don’t see this as a big deal in a public sense at all. They want it casual. They want it relaxed. Then I thought, like you or I would. Then I thought like you would if you got married. Which became you’re married. Which became this is all a hoax, which led me to say, wait a minute I’ve done this before: why are you tipping to negative. Which mean the negative automorphism, a flip of the 1-0Segment at that End, so we can infer a result based on these dimensions reflecting into that negative image of you. Then I thought of the song and how that has the opposite meaning of that, particularly in reference to the sadness because this is a choice of sadness for the sake of Eternity. Which deserves capitalization there. So, if everything lines up to say you’re the embodiment of that positive, I take the gap and infer a negative which speeds very fast to exclude comparison, which is a form of insistence, which connects - finally? - to the long ago idea that the flashing light in my head regarding my damaged hand was actually trying to get my attention, not turn it away, but I’m incapable of seeing that because my internal identity connects to my shell or external identity.

What a strange result? Why would we loop destructively? Why do birds pull out their feathers? Stress. Pressure caused by not knowing what to do and being uncomfortable, which pretty much depicts how I existed for most of my life because I was physically disconnected by the side switch. But why the message? Oh, because it’s food or flight: what draws attention at the base levels is food or run for it. And those can combine because danger lurks near your food. This connects to the dreams about a force in my life guiding me physically: it expresses you that way, what you want for me, not the insecurities. As in, all that fussing with my hair was to get me to accept myself, not to criticize my looks. That took approaching the left side to get at all. I mean as a right-hander, I couldn’t see myself in the mirror at all. I couldn’t see how I walked or stood.

So panic points are meant to say look at this and dismiss, like when the warning buzzer went off as Neil Armstrong was flying the LEM to the moon’s surface.

[yoonpobs]

bad boy good thing xviii. | m [last chapter]

pairing: jeon jungkook x oc

genre: angst, smut, fluff, miscommunication (we hate her lol), pining

warnings: sad and happy tears, growth, so much cuteness, smut, face-sitting, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, jk's body o-o, mentions of a quarter-life-crisis, the END ;(

words: 15, 628 (!!!!!)

summary: a series of drabbles where you’re confused and jungkook’s confusing

a/n:

oh my god!!!!!! we're finally here. the last chapter of bad boy good thing. honestly, it feels surreal to even say because I couldn't ever imagine it getting this far, especially with the love and support that it's gotten along the way. I've grown attached to the characters, especially since I was essentially writing them through each chapter and it's nice to see that they've grown along with the story.

i wanted to end the story in a way that's both satisfying and necessary, and I really enjoyed writing this chapter despite it being the last one for bad boy good thing :(

thank you so much for everyone who has read this story and has shown so much love and support that I frankly don't know if I deserve or not. i hope you enjoy this chapter, and find it as pleasurable to read as it was to write.

[and on another note, I'll be opening up an Ask My Muse for bad boy good thing, so please drop any questions that you have for the characters in my ask! I'll release it all as a separate post at a later date 🥰 happy asking!]

- pobbie <3

What people don’t ever tell you about change is that you can never plan it. No matter how stringent you claim yourself to be in following timelines and the zero hour—life will work out in the way it’s supposed to and you’ll have absolutely no control over how things will play out. Usually, these thoughts unsettled you. Your routine was the most important aspect of your life because it never changed. It was always to keep up with how you’ve got by so far, kept the people you were already comfortable with close—and never do things that you were uncomfortable with. A routine was perfect—for you. Not for the people around you.

To a certain extent, you couldn’t even fault people for saying that you had a stick up your ass. Though there were definitely far more constructive ways of pointing it out—you knew that people were simple yet utterly complex creatures. Often, they made split-second judgements in scenarios that required more thought and care. While on the other end, simple decisions were decided with rigorous usage of your brain muscles that lead people in creating unreal, unsolvable and frankly—uncomfortable—problems.

But complexity was unnecessary and unhelpful. Especially when your heart and mind are on two completely different pages. Yet, they remain the two organs that play the most vital role in keeping you alive and sane. People are aware of the internal conflict that most face when it comes to making rational decisions, though verbalising these exact sentiments never come easy. How do you accurately depict a struggle that is both so universal yet so personal all at once? It’s a paradox that only continues, and as humans, we add fuel to that already blazing fire.

You suppose that time did indeed dictate all. It was linear, continuous, and perhaps a social construct. Nothing worked out in a timeframe, yet we adhere to strict rules of day and night, do or don’t yesterday and tomorrow—we followed time because that was the only thing that allowed us space. You didn’t understand when people said that things will just feel right, because how could something feel right? Right wasn’t tangible. It wasn’t just a direction, it wasn’t just the socially acceptable option—it was a multitude of things. But like most things in life, they only become real when it happens to you.

And today, it felt right. It felt like time.

It could have felt right a week ago when you first got your tattoo. The impulsive yet not-so-impulsive decision felt right. It felt uncomfortable, terrifying and frankly—stupid—but it didn’t for one second, feel wrong. But somehow, the tattoo being right was the only thing that you could truly feel. The apology you owed? Not quite.

Not even when your friends carefully gauged your reactions to let you know that Jungkook was joining your group for lunch a few days back. You missed him, your heart definitely did—but your mind did tell you—it wasn’t right. So, you let them know. The right time will come, but until then, you’ll do your part and allow time to dictate your next steps for you. They didn’t pry, though you could tell Jimin was curious while Namjoon remained concerned. You didn’t need to explain anything. What would you say, anyway? Your existential thoughts were candidly absurd to be comprehended by most. It was things that ran through your mind, not necessarily needing to be shared.

You don’t know if it’s the tattoo, or if it’s Jeonghan, or if it’s Jennie, or if it’s Jungkook—of if it’s just you—but there was something that you buried deep down in your chest for a long time, and it finally felt big enough to leave. To let go.

Maybe it’s because you officially turn a year older today. The impending doom of a quarter-life crisis washing over you while you frantically decide that you didn’t want to take the mindset you and in the first twenty-five years of your life along with you into the next chapter. It could be a multitude of things. But you woke up today, weary yet determined—and you knew that it was the right time.

“Happy birthday!”

You’re welcomed with an overexcited Yena as she topples into your body in giggles and grins while she wraps her arms around you. You stumble back but catch yourself before the both of you fall over. Though you’re surprised, you can’t help the smile that makes its way to your face—sincere and happy.

“Thank you,” you laugh, hugging her back as you rest your head on your shoulder.

She hugs you for a while longer, as if you were going to head anywhere but into the apartment, you rang the doorbell to. You don’t complain because you know she likes this. It’s her way of telling you that she’s happy and glad you’re here. You understood her well enough to know that the way she clings to you is her love language and you appreciated that.

When she pulls away, she’s still beaming. It’s almost comical to see Yena so happy. Not that she wasn’t on a daily basis. But her facial expressions were usually limited to her usual stoic appearance and misleading resting face that intimidated people. This Yena was a cheerful puppy waiting to be played with.

“Very Gemini of you to turn up late,” she says snootily, eyeing you up and down as you roll your eyes.

“By five minutes,” you clarify.

“I’ll let it pass only because it’s your birthday,” she pinches your cheeks as you nearly bite her finger off at her attempt. You’re about to finally enter the apartment but her hand on your shoulder stops you from getting far. “New outfit?”

Her question makes your eyes dart down to your attire. You take in the relatively risqué apparel you opted for today. But in reality, it was simply just a cropped tank top and a pair of high waisted jeans that showed a little bit of your skin. You weren’t thinking much when you reached for the outfit, your only intent was to show off the tattoo you got. But now as Yena ogles you further, only do you realise how different it is from your usual style.

“Yeah,” you breathe, even if your heart rattles a little in anxiety, “Is it okay?”

Yena grins.

“You look gorgeous,” she compliments before she’s gripping you by your arm and dragging you into Jimin and Taehyung’s apartment.

You stumble forward, and you’re greeted by blown up balloons that wish you a happy birthday, along with streamers and party hats that adorn your friend's heads. They’re all beaming at you, eyes crinkled into thin slits as you laugh at their keen endeavour.

“The birthday bitch is finally here!” Yena hollers, queuing the loud horns of streamers that Jimin and Taehyung attempt to deafen you with as Namjoon slams his hands un-rhythmically against a tambourine.

Your eyes soften ever so slightly when they finally rest on Jungkook, who’s slightly tucked away from the rest but yet still carries a sincere enough smile on his face. You know him well enough that it doesn’t quite reach his eyes, and your heart clenches for a split second when you recall the reason. But you hear the birthday song be led by Taehyung, and you’re snapped out of the mini-stare off you and with Jungkook.

“Happy birthday to you!” He all but shrieks, drawing closer as you wince, “Happy birthday to you!” Taehyung ditches his instrument to wrap an arm around you while the rest of the circle you like prey as you laugh at their antics. “Happy birthday to ____, happy birthday to you!”

Your cheeks hurt from laughing and smiling, and your heart feels content with the way your friends continue to huddle around you, squeezing you until it hurts to breathe. In the best way possible.

“Is this what icon treatment feels like?” You snort.

You spot a grimace on Jimin’s face, even if you know it’s a light-hearted jibe. He rolls his eyes but tugs you to his chest fondly anyway, his arms immediately providing you with a sense of warmth in a friendship that’s lasted for over a decade.

“Don’t get used to it,” he warns, “I think I’ve exercised all my festive spirit this year.”

“My birthday is in September, you know,” Namjoon interjects.

“Then celebrate it by yourself,” Jimin sticks a petulant tongue out that Namjoon gapes at.

“It’s my birthday month too.” And for the first time, Jungkook speaks loud enough that it has all of your heads turning to him. The millisecond of silence is loud enough for you to hear, and perhaps to everyone else too. Your cheeks heat ever so slightly, but Jimin—ever the observer—picks up on this immediately.

“Hm, no wonder the two of you are so alike,” Jimin mumbles off-handedly, a glint of mischief painting his tone.

You don’t miss the insinuation behind his words as you shoot him a glare that you hope isn’t as obvious to the rest as it is to him. He smiles innocently before ruffling your hair, hopping away towards the table of assortments that they likely prepared for the celebration.

“Happy birthday!” Namjoon walks over with a dimpled grin, arms immediately open for you to lean into as you giggle at his exaggerated expression.

“Thank you, Joonie,” you beam up at him.

Namjoon gives you a tight squeeze before he reaches his arm towards the couch where you only notice the small box that lays atop of it. Your eyes follow his arm where he subtly (or not so) hides it behind his back that makes you shoot him an unimpressed look, your heart immensely thankful but the gesture still flustered you.

“I got you something,” he mumbles.

You whine, “Joon.”

“No, none of that,” he scolds, “I wanted to get you something, okay? Just let me gift the birthday girl.” He adds on playfully.

You scowl but receive the gift anyway, wrapping an arm around his waist as you admire the pretty mint colour the box was embellished in.

“You didn’t spend too much money, right?” You ask sceptically.

“And if I did?” He retorts.

You scowl.

“Namjoon.”

He sighs, “Okay, it was a decent amount of money but”—he stops you from returning to gift into his arms as he shoots you a stern look that you pout at—“I told you. I wanted to get you something. You’ll make me really happy if you accept it.”

You know he’s baiting you with his puppy eyes and you sigh at your resolve dissolving at his attempt.

“Fine,” you accept, “Thank you, Namjoon.”

He waves you off with a bashful smile as he urges you to open it. You abide as you carefully unravel the meticulously tied ribbon (that you’re kind of sure that he got help with) as you wonder about what he had gotten you. Namjoon was always a thoughtful person and you were really warmed by his consideration—so you knew that whatever he got you, you’d love.

Once you finally reach the end, you lift the lid as you gasp—an intricate ceramic planter that mirrored your favourite animal—a cute rabbit that peers up at you with wide eyes. It’s a pale yellow, with a red ribbon carved around its ears as your face crumbles in adoration.

“Oh my God,” you marvel, “It’s adorable! Thank you so much, Joon.”

He grins at you as he leans forward to admire the piece with you.

“It’s a customised order by one of my favourite ceramic artists,” he tells you, “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

You nod your head vigorously as he chuckles at your awestruck expression.

“It is,” you breathe, “God. It must’ve cost a lot, didn’t it?” You accuse playfully with narrowed eyes as he rolls his own at you.

He brings his finger up to his lips to mimic a lock before he throws away the key, smirking at you when you huff petulantly. Nevertheless, you were touched and you absolutely loved the gift. It was very Namjoon and very representative of what you liked—and what he did.

“Thank you again, Joon,” you murmur, engulfing him in another fond hug that he returns with equal affection.

You’re not sure if it’s bad taste to hug someone like this when they had feelings for you. But Namjoon was a great friend and a great person in general. But when you peer up at him with gentle eyes and he returns the gesture, you know that despite it all—he’s a friend that you’re willing to fight for.

Before he can get another word in, the presence of another person hovers by your side as you feel their shadow loom over you. You release Namjoon from your tight hug, and his eyes briefly dance across the guest as he smiles knowingly to himself, shooting you an equally implicative glance that makes your throat clamp up. You recognise it intimately; and even if you didn’t. You knew that only one person would induce this type of reaction, especially in the current setting.

“I’ll … I’ll leave you two to talk,” he smiles, and that’s when your head finally turns, face facing Jungkook who stands awkwardly by your side with his hands stuffed into his pockets. Namjoon squeezes your shoulder to bid farewell for now, but you know the implication runs far deeper than it did. “Hope you like the present.”

Namjoon leaves with a smile before you can muster a thank you. He leaves you with more than just a gift, but an empty space waiting to be filled. The person was right there, Jungkook hovering quietly as he awaits your introduction. You knew you knew that it was you who needed to take that leap of faith. His silence or perhaps his patience was a queue for you to take that.

Not here. But you’d do what you could with what you had.

“Hey,” you say breathlessly, offering a gentle smile to Jungkook.

He returns the gesture but his eyes aren’t settled on your face. They’re on your shoulder, or more specifically—your upper arm and on the comprehensive detail that marks your skin permanently.

“Hey yourself,” he replies equally as breathless, then he looks up at you with the same gentle eyes that you grew up with, that evokes far more than a sense of familiarity but thunder in your chest. “Happy birthday, by the way.” He says softly, knocking your elbow in a way that’s both friendly and hesitant.

You laugh softly, “You can ask you know.” You say teasingly, an attempt to defuse the situation. He was too tense. It was odd because it was definitely a switch in your roles. But you supposed it was necessary, the only way that you could grow and learn.

“Oh, I definitely was about to,” he snorts, “A tattoo, huh?”

You nod, twisting your body ever so slightly so that he gets a better glimpse of the artwork.

“Yeah,” you smile, sincerely pleased with the choice you made; albeit spontaneous and driven by the inherent need for change. “I took the leap of faith.”

He catches on your double entendre, and a small smile twitches on his lips as he nods his head slowly. He leans in closer to observe the work, and his eyes squint as if he was taking the time to appreciate the beauty of it. You suppose it’s the artistic side of Jungkook that pushes him to do so. He was talented, in more way than one. He knew what looked beautiful, how to create beautiful things—and definitely how to appreciate them.

“The line work looks familiar,” he peers up at you, “Did you get it done at the tattoo parlour by the book shop?”

Your eyes widen at his spot on pinpointing. Was it that familiar? Or was it just a tattoo-lover thing?

“I—yeah,” you nod, “How did you know?”

His eyes harden along with his jaw but he shakes his head off-handedly, shrugging his shoulders.

“I recognise it. Got some of mine done over there,” he mumbles, “Maybe not anymore.”

You know exactly what he’s referring to, especially when the second part of his sentence comes in as you freeze. You nibble on your lips, chest needing relief on the truth behind your tattoo. But you’d settle for the surface level honesty before anything else.

“Jeonghan did mine,” you blurt, “Maybe that’s why you recognise it.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen, next to his brows furrows, clearly displaying his confusion when the words leave your lips. You don’t fault him for his confusion, especially when the last interaction you had with him turned out more sour than pleasant—all at the hands of someone who apparently gave you your first tattoo.

“You—?” He starts, brain gearing to piece the information together. “He gave you your first tattoo?”

You nod your head, firm and resolute. You muster a smile, one that you hope tells Jungkook that it was far more than just him giving you a tattoo. It was a needed sense of closure that you didn’t plan for but somehow needed.

“Yeah,” you murmur, eyes peering up in a gentle and calm way. “I think it’s exactly what I needed.”

Jungkook accepts though you can tell he’s still slightly perturbed by the information. He still stares at your tattoo, though. He smiles ever so softly that you almost miss it, but you’re highly tuned to Jungkook’s every reaction. The smallest change of mood is easily picked up on, and you know that he likes it. That’s all that mattered to you.

“It looks beautiful on you,” he says softly.

You flush, fiddling with your thumbs.

“Thank you, Jungkook,” you say in a low whisper.

He shifts his weight across both his heels, hands still stuffed tightly into his pants pocket in a way that shows his restlessness. You can tell he’s thinking of something else to say, but can’t quite find the exact words. The situation is all too fresh, you suppose. You don’t blame him. You wanted to tell him that he didn’t need to feel that way, that you were done running. But you don’t think now is the time and place—not with the cackles of your friends as the background music, or with the promise of cake to be devoured.

He settles for a tight smile before he turns to leave, but you stop him before he gets far—your shaky hand wrapping itself around his wrist. Jungkook stops, head-turning over his shoulder with a raised brow as you clear your throat to prepare for the next words that leave your lips.

“Can we talk?” You ask, and Jungkook’s eyes widen. You realise the lack of context immediately as you flush in embarrassment. “After. I mean. At your place—or mine. Wherever works for you.” You stammer out nervously.

Jungkook’s gaze rests on you for a tense second as you nervously wait for his response. You almost think he’s about to say no, but a small smile makes its way onto his face that immediately soothes your nerves.

“Mine. It’s closer anyway,” he says, “Happy birthday, again.”

He stuns you by pulling you into an unexpected hug, chin resting on the top of your head as he squeezes you tightly but holds you contrastingly soft. You immediately melt into his hold, missing the warmth of his sincerity in the short yet long time away from him. You smell him, and he smells familiar. He smells safe. You sigh contentedly when he doesn’t let go, and neither do you.

“Thank you, Jungkook,” you repeat.

“I—” He’s about to say something but cuts himself off immediately. He pulls away, ears slightly flushed as he shoots you a brief grin before shaking his head. “Never mind. I’ll tell you later.”

Your head tilts to the side, but you don’t question his vague statement. You allow him to leave with a tender grin. You had things to tell him yourself, too.

“Hey, you,” Yena bumps into your shoulder with her own as you turn your head to face her. Her head cocks to Jungkook’s retreating figure where he joins the rest of the boys in an attempt to devour the assortments that you hadn’t had the chance to dig into just yet. “Everything okay?”

You smile gratefully at her before bringing her into a hug, surprising her ever so slightly.

“Yeah,” you murmur, “It is.”

And for once, you mean it.

“Sorry about the place,” Jungkook apologises when the two of you step into his apartment.

He’s referring to the pile of clothes sprawled across his couch and the numerous amount of art supplies that take up the floor space. You wave him off with a smile.

“Don’t mention it,” you say, “Your room, then?”

Jungkook raises a brow at you before you blush ever so slightly, catching the insinuative tone before you’re offering a meek smile and a correction.

“To talk.”

He nods his head in understanding before returning the gesture with a small grin of his own. He helps you with your stuff and sets it aside, as well as your shoes because Jungkook was meticulous about things like that.

When the two of you approach his room, you take a few moments of silence to get your thoughts in check. It’s terrifying, knowing exactly what you want to say but having no idea how to say them. You always told yourself that honesty is the best policy—but your mind races at a hundred miles per hour whenever you’re around Jungkook, and you don’t know if you have it in you to be eloquent.

His room is the same, and so very much like him. It’s neat and it smells fresh of laundry. He’s nothing like the stereotypical college student that dumps his laundry in one big pile (though the mess outside suggested otherwise), but you’ve always remembered Jungkook to have been a fan of tidy spaces.

He’s like this with his habits too. Strict and clean, always going the extra mile to ensure that his comfort was maximised in a cosy environment. And his room clearly represented this habit and goal of his in mind.

He gestures for you to sit on an old beanbag you fondly recall from your younger days where you’d sprawl across when you hung out with him. You know he took it with him to college for that very same reason. Well, before everything that has transpired between the two of you anyway.

Though things are not quite the same—you don’t wish it to be. You don’t want to be the same person you were just a week ago, let alone years ago. You wanted to be the person you were meant to be now. And that meant doing things you would’ve never done but should’ve done a long time ago.

Before you can plan out a speech like you usually do with any events you considered important, your mouth moves faster than your brain does.

“I’m sorry.”

Jungkook’s eyes shoot up from where it laid on his lap as he eyes you with a wide gaze.

“Why are you—?”

“I know you don’t think I need to apologise, but I do,” you say with a sad smile, “I owe you an apology, Jungkook.”

Jungkook purses his lips, hinting that he wants to say something but decides against it when he recognises the determined expression that lingers on your face. It’s the same one that you have when you really wanted to do something. Or at least had a plan on what to do.

He doesn’t interrupt that momentum, not when you take another deep breath.

“I’m sorry for not choosing you.”

He flinches, head drooping to his lap while he fiddles with his fingers.

“I’m sorry for not choosing you the first time,” you repeat, and his head glances up with a furrowed brow, “I’m sorry that it took me this long to realise that all I needed … that all I needed was you—not anyone else.”

“It’s not your fault.” He interjects softly.

“Maybe,” you shrug, “Maybe it is. But that’s not the point,” you say softly, “The point is that I was searching for answers everywhere else but where I could find one that mattered. I looked for answers in people, in the words of others—as if what they said somehow would change the way things were.” You murmur. “It didn’t.”

“Then why look?” Jungkook asks, the question heavier than it sounded. You know it’s because he wonders, too.

“It’s because I was afraid,” you confess, “I was afraid of so many things that I didn’t even know what I was afraid of anymore. I kept on making excuses for us—because that was safer than … than choosing. Because choosing meant there was a wrong choice and I didn’t want to make a wrong choice.”

Jungkook looks at you with a solemn expression before you begin to fiddle with your thumbs.

“My tattoo means a lot to me,” you tell him.

“Well, it’s beautiful,” he murmurs quietly.

“It means I’ve grown,” you continue, “I-I always wanted a tattoo. I just—I never got around to getting it until recently.”

He nods his head in understanding as he eyes the piece once more. He takes it in gently, not judgementally, and you can feel his smile than see it when your eyes dart to your lap.

“I’m glad you finally did.”

“Me too,” you say. “I’m glad.”

“But …” he trails off, “Jeonghan did it—right?”

You can hear the edge in his voice when he brings up a name that should’ve evoked a sour feeling in your chest. The discomfort is there, but just like anything in life—it would always exist. It was just a matter of what you focused on and what was your priority in that moment.

And now, when you see Jungkook, you know it’s not yourself—but it’s Jungkook who’s your priority.

“Yeah,” you breathe, “It didn’t matter, though.”

He raises a brow, “Really?”

You nod.

“He doesn’t matter,” you say softly.

You hope Jungkook gets it, that this is you letting go of the fear of judgement that took away such a huge part of your happiness—for the both of you. But you knew that speaking in riddles wasn’t what he deserved. He deserved to hear it—to feel it.

“Why not?” He asks, just as softly.

“Because no one else matters but you, Jungkook.”

Jungkook freezes, but you don’t let that deter you when you look up at him with gentle and resolute eyes.

“Because you were the only thing that should’ve mattered,” you say more firmly, “Because …”

You swallow when you realise that Jungkook’s staring straight at you.

“Because I love you.”

You don’t know if this is the first time you’ve said it. But it’s the first time you’ve allowed yourself to truly feel the way that you do. There’s no more judgement from your end. No more critical words on how other people may talk. There was nothing. Nothing but pure, unadulterated love.

“Is that enough?” Jungkook asks.

“It is,” you smile softly, “You are.”

Jungkook smiles, gentle and calm when you allow yourself to just look at each other. And for some reason, his face makes your throat clamp shut and your eyes water. It’s more than just him—it’s what had happened.

It’s the fact that you’ve been stalling for so long, hurting each other in the process when you could’ve just been honest. When you could’ve just chosen him.

You should’ve chosen yourself, too.

“Hey, why are you crying?” Jungkook asks softly, even though you hear a small smile in his voice.

He’s a distance away, yet you feel his sincerity, his concern. And that makes you cry harder.

“I’m sorry,” you choke, “I-I’m so sorry.”

You don’t leave your spot, too flustered to do anything.

“It’s okay,” he returns gently.

“I want to be with you, Jungkook,” you mumble, “I want you.”

Your second statement returns with much more determination, even through your puffy eyes that you’re sure made you look ridiculous. But you can’t think of anything more than you wanted—that you’ve prepared for.

“Me too,” he smiles, “I want to be with you.”

For the first time, you feel like your feet takes you further where your heart yearns to be. One moment you’re sat in the small beanbag that Jungkook keeps in the corner of his room, and the next you’re toppling over his startled frame and onto his plush bed. The two of you land (more so him than you) on his bed as his palm rests on your waist to catch you.

Your arms are wrapped around his neck while you helplessly sniff into the crook of his neck. Your heart lays easy and your body feels light. There’s still a fear in you but it doesn’t matter. Not when he laughs, clear and loud as you whine against him.

“Stop laughing!” You hiss, and your words sound clogged due to your stuffed nose, which only makes Jungkook laugh harder.

His hand squeezes your hips when you don’t bother to pull away, even with the potential of suffocating Jungkook to death with your body atop of his.

“Sorry,” he snickers and his apology is half-hearted at best. “You’re just—you sure you’re okay?”

His hand leaves your hips, much to your disappointment, but reaches up to your face to force your cheeks to peer up at him. He chases your wandering eyes playfully when you avoid his wide smiles, eyes still unalterably puffy from the tears you shed earlier. You were sure that the tip of your nose was still red and that your cheeks were tight with your dried tears. But he doesn’t relent, even if you threaten to bite his fingers off.

“Stop looking at me,” you snap.

He shoots you a toothy grin, “But you’re so cute. How can I not?”

You tuck your face back into his neck and make a noise of frustration, mostly because you were so flustered that you didn’t know what to do with yourself. Jungkook seems to enjoy your demise, however. He was definitely far better at the teasing than you were—that enough was obvious, especially when he coos onto the crown of your head while you pinch the skin at the back of his neck in warning.

He yelps, shooting you a playful glare that you return with you sticking out your tongue.

“Don’t be mean, baby,” he husks, and you’d be lying if the term of endearment didn’t make you squirm, both under his hold and his intense gaze.

“You were being mean first,” you pout.

“But that’s because you’re too cute,” he retorts smartly, “All I wanna do is be mean to you and see you blush.”

Jungkook’s grin is nothing short of mischievous as you gawk at his blatant admission. He doesn’t look embarrassed, that was your job. His job, was just as he said, to be mean to you and see you quiver.

“Shut up,” you scowl.

“No,” he smiles, and before you can get out another retort, or shove yourself off of him, he pushes the two of you up until you’re straddling his hips. Your head spins at the sudden movement as your arms leave Jungkook’s neck to scramble for balance, but the one arm around your waist is enough to keep you comfortably rooted into position—right on his lap.

Just as you’ve recovered from the sudden whiplash, you’re about to give him an ear of expletives until you realise that he’s yet to shift his gaze away from you. In fact, Jungkook’s just staring. Soft and gentle, yet wickedly all at once. Your faces are so close, and despite the heartfelt moment the two of you shared just moments prior—you still can’t help but get flustered at the proximity.

When you’re this close, you can see all of his pores. You see the freckles adorning his cheeks that he never quite grew out of, despite his whines. You see the scar on the top of his cheekbone, a permanent reminder from his rough-house days with his older brother. You knew he grew up to accept it, and you found it adorable. A necessary part of Jungkook that made him him. The slope of his cupid's bow is more apparent than ever when you’re basically pressed against his body, and foolishly, your eyes dart down.

You feel his breath on your lips, yet neither one of you moves. It’s intimate like this, just being held. You wonder if this is what you could’ve had if you weren’t too caught up in your own thoughts. You wonder if there was an alternate world where you weren’t as selfish.

“Hi,” he murmurs, breaking you out of your thoughts as your eyes snap back to his.

His eyes are still gentle, especially when the arm around your waist tugs you impossibly closer until you’re all but flushed against his chest, hands looping around his neck as the only space available for you to leave them.

“Hi,” you return shyly.

He’s gentle when he brushes the hair out of your face, fingers trailing across your cheek and down your face until it’s softly gripping your jaw. This time, his thumb rubs across your cheekbone and all you can do is melt into his touch. You’ve never felt so accounted for. As if you were being studied by someone who wanted to melt your feeling into memory. And the fact that it’s Jungkook giving you this attention makes your heart uncontrollably flutter.

“This is real, right?” He asks in a soft whisper.

“I am in fact, very real,” you joke, even if you know what he’s implying.

He rolls his eyes, squeezing your jaw in warning as you swallow. The heat in your stomach is soft, but definitely brewing. It didn’t help that you were precariously placed in Jungkook’s lap, where your hips could just inch—

“Don’t be a smartass,” he sighs before leaning closer to you, “Makes me want to do real mean things.”

Your body heats, but you’re empowered by some sort of confidence that you only get when you’re intoxicated with Jungkook’s warmth and scent.

“Then do it.” You challenge.

Jungkook’s jaw ticks and you note that he doesn’t relax the hand clasping your jaw. You teasingly rub your cheek against his thumb, hips slightly inching forward. And as observant as ever, Jungkook’s other arm that was wrapped around your waist stops you as his fingers drop down to your hips—squeezing in another warning that has you anticipating for more.

“I don’t think so,” he shakes his head as you frown. The expression he gives you isn’t one that’s saying no. Instead, he still smiles. “You deserve a tender kind of love.”

When he whispers those words to you, you literally melt into his hold. Your mind and heart can’t take it anymore. They make the decision for you to lean forward, crushing your lips against his as you chase for that euphoric feeling that only Jungkook can evoke in you.

Jungkook grunts at your force and uncoordinated movements. You don’t think too much about how there are more teeth than mouth, but what you do focus on is how Jungkook taste. He tastes like the strawberry chiffon cake from earlier mixed with cherry whine. It’s addictive—and you wonder if this is what love tastes like.

“Calm down, angel,” he whispers onto your lips, briefly pulling away.

Your eyes are half-lidded and dazed when you watch the string of saliva that connects your lips. He sees it too. His eyes darken significantly as you tug on the collar of his shirt, a whimper stuck in your throat as you peer up at him with your best version of a bedroom gaze.

“Kiss me,” you all but demand, “Kiss me stupid.”

Jungkook looks at you filled with lust before he’s recapturing your lips with his own. This time around, he leads. He’s by far more experienced in dragging out the experience and heightening all of your senses when he plays with the pout of your lips, purposefully dragging his teeth over the creases and nudging your lips open with his tongue.

He’s especially good when he groans into your mouth, low and husky as it pulls out a whimper from you. His hands explore your body, running up the curves of your waist, over your hips, and unconsciously pushing you forward on his lap.

“So pretty,” he murmurs, kissing down your jaw as you tilt your head up to give him more space to work with. When he looks up for a brief second, your breath hitches at the way his lips are swollen at red. His gaze is dark, and you suppose it’s because your lips are likely the same. “So fucking pretty.”

You whine in embarrassment, approaching to cover your face with your hand but Jungkook stops you with a firm grab to lock your wrists together. His look is enough of a warning, and your lower body clenches in response.

“Don’t,” he warns, “Wanna see your face.”

What else could you do but comply?

You nod silently, and all your senses are in overload when he returns to laving at your neck, tongue darting out to soothe any bites that he’s left. All you can do is helplessly gasp as he sends goosebumps all across your body, growling into your skin with a purpose to drive your mind wild.

You never imagined making out to be this pleasurable. But you suppose it’s both because of Jungkook’s skill and your ardent feelings for him that makes you crazy. It’s the same feeling that makes you want more, that makes you grind your hips in a slow circle, right on his crotch.

Jungkook’s hand stutters as well as his mouth, probably not expecting the sudden onslaught of pressure on his lower half. He groans, tucking his face into your neck as you continue your ministrations, your own bundle of nerves stimulated with each grind forward.

“What are you doing?” He hisses.

He looks up and his eyes are completely blown up. You swallow, the fire in your chest already slowly starting to erupt into flames. His palms are unconsciously splayed across your ass, and you just know he’s tempted to push you forward.

“Wanna—” you croak, emphasising your point with another grind that has him hissing in pleasure. “Wanna feel you.”

“Don’t start a game you can’t finish, baby,” he grits, eyes fluttering shut as you continue rutting against him; your own breathless whines escaping your lips.

You shake your head frantically, “N-No!” You deny, and suddenly you’re darting forward as your foreheads clash. You wince in pain, and so does he—but the clumsiness of it all only makes Jungkook smile fondly at you, briefly dropping the persona he’s admonished. “I really—I really want you. All of you.”

Your desperate pleas don’t go unheard by jungkook. In fact, his arms completely still, as if he took a whole out of body experience to process your words.

“Really?” He smiles playfully, a look that has you softening into his hold. “You want me?”

You nod your head, “Y-Yes.”

Jungkook nudges your nose with his before he’s kissing you again. You whine, frustrated at how he still insists on kissing you. Sure, you loved his lips on yours—but you were undoubtedly wet right now, and you felt the telltale signs of his cock pressing against your inner thigh.

“Jungkook,” you whine, pushing him away as you scowl at him, “I want you.”

You’re aware of how petulant you sound, and it’s almost embarrassing when you shamelessly rut your hips forward. Jungkook laughs with a small smirk, and you’re about to chew him out for laughing at you when he was clearly hard! There was nothing amusing about the fact that you were so wet that you could die and he was doing absolutely nothing about it.

“My pretty girl wants me?” He croons, pulling you flush into his chest until he’s plopping back to the bed. You shriek, falling forward as you all but gracefully crash into his chest. “You want me?” He teases.

You scowl, suddenly more irritated than horny.

“Oh my God, do you have comprehension issues?” You snap, glaring at him when he grins cheekily at you from where you tilt your head up. “I said I want you!”

He hums noncommittally, “You gotta be more specific than that baby. Use your words.”

The way he shifted from such an alluring and … dark tone to such a light-hearted jibe that still makes your stomach clench is stupefying and impressive. But this Jungkook seemed more collateral with an easy smile marring his face, arms wrapped around you in a relaxed way as if he had all the time in the world.

“I-I—” you stammer, cheeks flushing embarrassingly red, “What part of I want you do you not get?” You opt to scowl at him further, glaring at him with your red cheeks.

“Let me help you then,” he murmurs, shifting backwards ever so slightly until his head was perched upon a pillow, right against his headboard. He looks at you with lazy eyes that has your core clenching unconsciously. You blush, unsure if he felt. If he did, he doesn’t say anything but smile. “Tell me how you want me.”

You blink.

“H-How?”

He nods, hands resting around your hips as he nudges your body upwards until you’re the one fully straddling him while he lays down, comfortable and casual as he rests his arms behind his head.

You gape at him, especially at the relaxed state he was in. As if he hadn’t riled you up in a way that has you wanting more while he awaits your answer as if you were just having an ordinary conversation.

“Yeah,” he nods, “You’re always complaining, right? Use your mouth and tell me then, and maybe if I’m feeling nice I’ll give you what you want.”

You still completely above him, legs resting at the sides of his hips while you stare at him like a deer caught in headlights. You were unsure where he was going with this, but you liked it. Despite the sheer mortification you felt at the insinuation of the fact that you had to verbalise what you wanted, the wetness pooling in your panties definitely told you that you were enjoying whatever Jungkook was playing at.

Especially when he sighs as if you were taking too long. The inherent need in you wanting to please him was overpowering your senses, even the one where you feel embarrassed.

“I,” you clear your throat, eyes looking away with red cheeks. “I want you to … I want you—to—t-touch me.”

“It’s rude not to look at people when you’re asking for something,” he snaps.

His voice suddenly startles you into looking back at him. He’s frowning at you, and your heart suddenly drops.

As if he senses your hesitation, the gentle look replaces the bored one almost immediately, hands darting out to grab your hands.

“Are you okay? We can stop—”

You shake your head immediately. You were way too worked up to stop right now and Jungkook looked too appetising with his cold expression. You knew that you’ve come to a point where your feelings for each other are known and that you are his as much as he is yours. It was nice, to have the coldness—it’s almost shameful to admit. But you thought it was hot. And the fact that you knew it would go away right after this was done made the situation even more arousing.

“N-No!” You deny, “I-I’ll be good. I promise.” His eyes widen at the sudden breathlessness of your voice. “Sorry.”

You duck your head down, and Jungkook gauges your expression for any hint of discomfort or uncertainty but doesn’t find any. He almost chuckles at how eager you seem, all innocent and doe-eyed when you struggle to find the right words.

“I forgive you, baby,” Jungkook husks, thumb rubbing a circle against your hip before his arms return to the back of his head. “You remember, right? Use your words and focus on me.”

You nod your head obediently, swallowing the saliva in your mouth as you shift around on his lap, unconsciously trying to relieve the pressure in your lower region. Jungkook’s lip twitches in a smirk at your semi-frustrated expression but doesn’t comment on it. He’s enjoying this way too much, and it was taking him more self-restraint than ever to not give in.

He knew what you wanted. But he wanted to be sure. He could wait for years if that meant having you fully be ready. This playfulness that he adopted was a first too since he was usually a one-and-done kind of guy. It wasn’t something he was proud of but it worked. It worked with women he didn’t care about. But you weren’t just a woman he cared about. You were the person he’s in love with. The woman he’s been in love with for the last decade of his life and the only other woman that wasn’t his mother or grandmother that he loved.

And you seem to be enjoying it, even if you’re a little unsure. It only adds to the sexiness of the entire situation. Even with your flushed cheeks and wide eyes, he thinks you’re stunning.

When you decide you’re ready, you clear your throat and establish unwavering eye contact with Jungkook, even if you felt like your face was the surface of the sun with how hot it was.

“I want you,” you say softly, yet your voice is firmer than before. “I want you to—touch me. To t-touch my body.” You say breathlessly, leaning forward ever so slightly as your hair dangles in front of your face. Jungkook clenches his jaw at how you’re progressively getting breathier, almost desperate as the manic look in your eyes surface.

“Where, baby?” He prompts.

You flush harder but swallow.

“My b-breasts,” you whimper, embarrassment painting your face, but Jungkook nods in contentment, cocking his head for you to continue. “M-My … my …?”

You didn’t even know what to call it. You knew it was your vagina—you weren’t stupid. But the lewdness of all other alternatives made you want to quiver into a hole and never return. It sounded good when Jungkook said it but what if you sounded awkward? What if he thought the way you pronounced its synonyms was unsexy—?

“You want me to touch your pussy?” He finishes for you, voice low in a whisper as your eyes widen.

You nod shamefully, still maintaining eye contact as you unconsciously find yourself nibbling on your bottom lip while you gauge his expression. Jungkook’s eyes immediately dart down, as he licks his own lips in response.

Jungkook smirks at you, suggestive and devious while he rakes his eyes all over your body. Your outfit is different from usual, but still nothing to rave about. Yet, with the way he ogles you, you feel almost naked. And, an even more absurd realisation comes across you when you note that you don’t mind.

“You gotta say it, baby,” he sighs as if he were disappointed in you.

Your confusion only spurs him further, cock straining against his pants when your mouth moves to get the words out, the lewd term still feeling foreign on your tongue.

“I—I want you t-to touch my—” the breath you take is shaky, but as always, you were always a determined person by nature, especially when something you wanted was on the line. “—want you to t-touch my p-pussy.”

When the words leave your lips, you hear Jungkook groan under his breath, eyes fluttering shut as his hands twitch behind his head. His obvious satisfaction causes a deep sense of pride to swell in your chest, the humiliation being overpowered by the innate desire to have Jungkook make that sound again.

“Please touch my pussy,” you beg, almost whiney when you look down at him.

Jungkook’s using all the restraint in him to keep himself level-headed. Where in actuality, he’s both baffled and thanking the Gods above for having you in front of him like this. He’s never allowed himself to delve much into his fantasies, even if he’d shamelessly admit that he had one too many of these same scenarios play out in his mind. It sounds sweeter on your tongue, almost verboten when you whimper those words out.

The usually kept together version of you is slowly unravelling, and Jungkook never thought he had a corruption kink—but he definitely did. Or, maybe it was just you. He wasn’t going anywhere else to find out.

“What a good girl,” Jungkook murmurs, hands teasingly drafting across your thighs as the lower half of your body twitches ever so slightly at the touch.

He smirks at your eagerness, but there was a devious part of him that wanted to drag this further. To see you completely be his, even if he knew where your heart laid.

“Take off your clothes, then.”

You were just about to rut against his crotch desperately, the heat in your body almost searing uncomfortably as you feel the fabric of your panties sticks against your folds.

“M-Myself?”

Jungkook tongues the inside of his cheek, “Do you see me helping?” He asks with a raised brow.

You don’t, in fact. Jungkook’s completely still, perched snugly under you as he continues to draw lazy glances over your body, awaiting your next move. Your cheeks are still on fire, and every inch of your skin is begging to be touched. It’s almost hysterical at how Jungkook’s managed to reduce you into an absolute desperate mess without even needing to touch you—directly, that is.

He’s fully clothed, cock hard—and he commands you to his will. And you obey.

You’re about to push yourself off his lap, but he stops you before you can get any further.

“On my lap.”

His authoritative tone makes you whimper, almost frustratedly begging for him to do something. To touch you. To kiss you. Anything.

When people spoke of sex, you always thought that they just got to it. Sure, there was foreplay that was enjoyable, but sex has never been something that you found inherently desirable. That’s one of the reasons why you still hadn’t had sex yet. It’s because you never saw the appeal.

But you suppose you’ve never had a reason to. Not until now, at least. Because Jungkook makes you want him. Makes you want to feel his cock in you while you moan and cry. It’s a part of you that you’ve never seen, but you imagine has always been there. You wanted him—and that was still as scary as it was the first time you realised it.

You hesitantly start at the hem of your tank-top, fingers stuttering when you realise that Jungkook’s just staring. It’s different this time. His eyes are dark and purposeful, trained sternly on your upper body that still remains covered.

“L-Like this?” You ask hesitantly, lifting the fabric ever so slightly.

You realise that you’ve never been fully naked in front of Jungkook before, despite him being somewhat familiar with your intimates. The thought makes you nervous, but the way he’s looking at you makes you feel sexy. Like you were capable of making him push himself over the edge.

“Touch your body, baby,” he directs.

You follow his instructions obediently, albeit a little stiffly. You try to channel your inner seductress out when you graze your fingertips across the panel of your stomach, the sides of your body and up your breast. It’s so intimate, especially when Jungkook’s looking at you so intently while you attempt to map out your body. It’s funny how it’s been twenty-five years, yet this is the first time you’ve properly felt your body. That it’s the first time it’s felt like a home.

“You’re doing so good,” he encourages you softly, eyes raking over your breast when you give them an experimental squeeze. Your hands are small, but they do the job of alleviating some form of pressure. You gasp, eyes fluttering shut when it starts to feel more natural.

Jungkook’s praises spur you on, as you finally decide to tug at your tank-top, slowly and steadily as you attempt to teasingly lift it up.

“You’re a quick learner, aren’t you?” He murmurs, smiles apparent in his voice as you slowly peel your tank-top off, your heart beating with the adrenaline pumping through your system at the prospect of Jungkook seeing your body for the first time.

It’s both terrifying and arousing. You wonder if he notices the flaws you see when you undress at the end of every day. You wonder if he likes your body—more than you—or less than you. Though, it’s even exponentially more terrifying to think if he liked it less than you did. You’re nervous, especially when he hasn’t said anything and you’re fully topless, with the exception of your bra that covers the last bit of modesty across your chest.

What if he didn’t like your boobs? Did they look awkward in the bra? It wasn’t … sexy. You weren’t trying to get laid tonight. But you don’t know if Jungkook preferred the extra get-ups, or not. You didn’t know at all. And you definitely didn’t know what he was thinking when he continues to stare at you, face surprisingly blank.

“J-Jungkook?” You whisper, voice nervous.

Then, his eyes flutter shut, as if he was defeated before you hear him mumble a low fuck under his breath.

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion, and before you can do anything else—he stares up at the ceiling as if there was something he needed to contemplate before you proceeded.

“You’re gorgeous.”

You don’t know how to react, especially because his works sound almost pained when he chokes it out. He wasn’t even looking at you—so you were rightfully confused.

“I—thank you?” You say slowly.

“I love your tits.” He blurts, eyes suddenly returning to zero onto your chest.

You blush at his vulgar words, hands immediately rushing around to hide your chest despite the fact that he continues to ogle.

“Don’t,” he whines, suddenly turning into the regular Jungkook that you know and love. Your eyes almost widen comically at the duality of the man in front of you, especially when he petulantly tugs at your hand to reveal your cups back to him.

“Did my tits really break you out of your persona?” You snort, finding the situation both funny and stimulating.

There was something about breaking a joke with someone during foreplay that made the build-up to sex much more enjoyable, and your heart nearly flies out of your chest when you realise that you’re experiencing this with Jungkook.

“I’m sorry but if you’re finally seeing the main character of all your teenaged wet dreams in person then I think you’d react the same way,” he snaps back.

You gawk, “Y-Your teenage what?”

He scoffs as if he can’t understand your disbelief.

“Don’t act so surprised,” he sneers accusingly at you while you continue to gape at his sudden confession, shirtless and all. “The number of things that I did on your tits—” And what makes it worse, wasn’t that you were turned on, but was when Jungkook’s eyes fluttered shut as he groans—as if he was picturing it all over again. “—fuuuck.”

“Jungkook!” You shriek, slapping his chest as he sighs, a dopey smile on his face.

“Promise me you’ll let me.” He begs.

You look at him dubiously.

“Let you what?” You ask carefully.

“Cum on them. Fuck them. Suck on them.” He shrugs. Your jaw is slackened when he says them so casually. You also note the jump in his pants, his cock twitching against your core as you gasp.

“J-Jungkook!” You say, scandalised.

(Though your panties are definitely drenched.)

“Please take your bra off.” He croaks, hands finally reaching out to grab at your hips.

You roll your eyes at the desperation in his tone. Even if Jungkook had done some growing up, he was still such a boy. You find his fascination with your tits almost amusing, especially when his eyes darken even further when you reach out to unclasp your bra.

You feel empowered on top, even if you know that ultimately, Jungkook calls the shots. It’s the way that he groans beneath you when your tits finally fall free, cups thrown carelessly aside as you smile bashfully at him.

“I’m going to die,” he groans.

“Just because you saw a pair of tits?” You snort, “Hm, maybe you really aren’t as impressive as I thought you were, Jeon.”

Jungkook immediately snaps up to look at you, eyes narrowed at your amused grin painting your phase. You’re about to continue jibing at him, but you realise that his eyes are hooded and menacing when they stare straight into your soul. Your face slowly drops when you realise he doesn’t respond with an equally light tone.

“I-I was just—”

You can’t even get another word out before he’s interrupting you.

“Pants off, baby.”

He doesn’t ask this time. He’s demanding.

You don’t argue this time. Even if you’re excited at the way he so effortlessly switches back into his first persona—you didn’t want to piss him off. Yet.

Fed with more confidence than earlier, you trail your hands up your thighs until they reach the button of your jeans. Jungkook’s still watching you intently, face void of any emotion that you can read as you begin to undo each button until your panties are peaking through the slit.

You slip your jeans off, a little unseemly, but it gets the job done. You aren’t sure if you can keep up being patient this way, especially when you return to settle down onto Jungkook’s lap, you feel the roughness of his jeans press against your clit as you gasp.

“So fucking wet, baby,” he smirks, “I didn’t even do anything.”

“Jungkook please,” you beg, hips jutting forward to chase anything. This time, without the barrier of your jeans, it feels so much better. So much more raw as the bump of his zipper nudges against your clit, your wetness lubricating the movement. “Do something.”

He stops you from moving before peering up at you with dark eyes and a warning expression. You immediately halt, the same fear returning as you whimper in a desperate tone.

“On my face.”

You blink owlishly at him as you attempt to process his demand.

He quirks an eyebrow up at you, impatient when he clicks his tongue.

“Did I stutter?”

“I’m sorry but did you just say—your face?” You ask incredulously.

Jungkook sighs, annoyed.

“Yes, my face. Hurry up before I get mean.” He warns.

You almost tell him that you wouldn’t mind, but the demand finally settles in as you gape at him in horror.

“I-I can’t sit on your face!” You snap, “I’m going to crush you.”

“I’m a big boy,” he rolls his eyes, “I can take it.”

You don’t think you can.

“Jungkook, you’re literally going to suffocate and die.” You deadpan.

“I’m not,” he drawls as he shoots you an unimpressed look before he’s pulling your hips forward. You nearly stumble off if it weren’t for your palms that press against his headboard. You turn absolutely red when you realise that you’ve hovering above him, cunt in his face as your scent essentially surrounds him.

“Fuck. You smell so good.” He groans, sniffing your pussy in an obscene manner that has your cheeks burning.

“J-Jungkook—“ you say nervously, attempting to shuffle back in embarrassment.

“I’ll be fine.” He snaps.

“I really don’t—”

“Why do you have to be so bratty,” he sighs with an irritating tick to his brow when you peer down, “Even if I die—I’d be happy to go by your pussy.”

You flush even harder at his crude words.

“Jeon Jungkook!”

“What?” He says defensively, “Do you need it in black and white in case I do? I’ll write you a contract if you—”

“Oh my God,” you huff in exasperation, “You’re unbelievable!”

“Unbelievably hard and horny so if you mind I’d really like for you to sit that pussy on my face,” he retorts snappishly.

You sigh to yourself, still embarrassed. You’re still confused at how Jungkook’s able to switch from one personality to another, and you suppose it’s just the many faces of Jungkook you’ve yet to learn about.

“Jungkook, I really—Jungkook!”

Your complaints are interrupted when he quite literally rips your panties off of you, the sound of the fabric tearing filling his room as you gasp.

“Jungkook what the hell?!” You shriek.

He doesn’t placate you with a response until he’s tugging your hips down to his face, his mouth immediately latching around your clit as you fall forward at the first lick. You never stood a chance.

“F-Fuck!” You scream, loud and unabashed when your lower half seizes in pleasure.

Jungkook immediately laps you up like he’s parched for water. You don’t even know where to look, especially when your body is inevitably hunched forward due to the onslaught of pressure relieved at your lower region. Your eyes eventually wander downwards and you’re welcomed with an equally as erotic sight with Jungkook’s purple hair between your thighs, his own eyes shut in pleasure as he laps at your pussy like a madman.

You’re undeniably flushing and beyond wet. That enough is clear when the wetness of your cunt is audible enough in between your gasps of pleasure while Jungkook keeps his arms wrapped around your thighs.

“J-Jungkook—oh my G-God—“ you mewl, the heat in the lower half of your body sending you into overdrive, especially when he’s dead-set on making a home between your thighs. “Oh, oh.” You’re moaning lewdly at this point, eyes rolling to the back of your head when he pushes you further onto his face. “I-I can’t—!”

Your hands reach out to grab on his hair, startled when you realise that you’re almost fully sitting on him.

“You can and you will,” he snarls against your pussy, the sound muffled by the wetness and the way he doesn’t bother to even take a breather as he drags his tongue across your folds to gather all your wetness and centre it around your throbbing bud.

“J-Jungkook, I’m g-going to crush you!” You cry in the middle of a moan, “Jungk—fuck.”

On Jungkook’s end, he’s positive he’s already dead and in heaven. All he can smell, taste and see is you. Your face is contorted in pure pleasure when he licks across your slit, tongue fucking into you with a sense of purpose that drives you insane. You taste so heady and sweet. All for him. Especially when he gets to see your tits from below.

“Fuck,” he growls into your pussy, the vibrations making your thighs shake at the side of his face. Your hands were the only things supporting your weight right now, and even then, they were close to giving out with how good Jungkook was making you feel. “Ride my face baby.”

Your eyes widen, immediately darting down to shoot Jungkook a stupefied expression. Too bad he doesn’t catch it because he’s too busy shaking his head, tongue following his motions as he presses it firmly against your clit. You let out an embarrassingly loud cry and a moan, your hand immediately reaching to clamp over your mouth in embarrassment.

“Don’t,” he complains, “Wanna hear you cum, pretty girl.”

You all but melt into him further at his term of endearment. Your legs were shaking uncontrollably at the way he refuses to give you a break. You feel the coil tighten further and further, so close to release especially when your body gives out of you—the weight of your body resting on his face as you unconsciously grind your hips across his tongue.

And fuck. Does it feel good.

“O-Oh, oh—J-Jungkook—fuck, you’re so good to me you make me—feel so—good,” you ramble manically, heading dropping forehead to rest on his headboard as you grind further onto his tongue, uncaring if he’s crushed. Jungkook lays there at your disposal, tongue out for you to use as he continues to hum into your pussy like a personal vibrator.

“Come on baby,” he encourages with a growl, “Cum for me, yeah? Gonna prep you real good for my cock. You want it, don’t you? Deep in your pussy while I make you scream? Cream my face for me, baby.”

His dirty words make you gasp, your hands tightly pulling at his hair as you shamelessly chase your hair. Your face is completely pressed against the headboard, and Jungkook can only admire the way your face is morphed into an expression he never thought he’d be able to get out of a girl—let alone seeing the girl of his dreams all desperate and wet for him like this.

You feel so filthy like this—in more than one sense that wasn’t just your sweaty body and malleable limbs—but the way he digs his nose further, occasionally brushing against your pelvis as you grind against his tongue. Your body is moving on its own, the innate desire to chase your high is the only thing your mind can register. All sense of poise and modesty out of the window when Jungkook lets you use him.

“J-Jungkook—” you sob, “I-I’m c-cumming—!”

“Cum for me baby,” he purrs, “Cum on my tongue.”

Just as you’re about to cum, Jungkook makes a split-second decision to roll you over until your back is pressed to his bed. He loves having you on his face, but he loves this. Seeing you squeak in surprise while you continue to mewl in pleasure, your back arching off the bed as you gasp for air.

He buries his face impossibly deeper, speeding up the way his tongue rolls against your clit. You’re moaning out incoherencies, hazed to absolute pleasure as your thighs quiver by the side of his head.

“Oh—!”

You cum loudly and messily, your pussy clenching and unclenching rhythmically as Jungkook laps up all of your essences, continuously tongue-fucking you through your pleasure. You almost blackout at how intensely your body was shaking from that orgasm, your thighs clamping shut around his head in oversensitivity when he continues to slurp at your pussy in an obscene manner.

“J-Jungkook—” you whine, attempting to push him away as he finally relents, parting from your cunt with a soft kiss to your clit that has your legs jumping.

Your back is absolutely damp with sweat, and sore the sheets beneath you as you attempt to catch your breath. Your chest is tight with the lack of oxygen while the room spins. You feel more than see the sheets ruffling by your sides, and Jungkook slowly inches up your body with wet kisses against your skin.

You all but let out helpless whimpers, absolutely spent—yet frantic for more.

“You did so well,” he coos, gently kissing up to your stomach, your ribs before his hands are capturing your breasts in his large hands. He squeezes them, evoking a gasp from you, body still tingling from your orgasm. “So good for me. Don’t deserve you.”

You can barely register his words, especially when his mouth attaches itself to your right breast, immediately delivering kitten licks to your nipples that causes your back to arch into his hot mouth. You mewl in pleasure when he doesn’t keep himself soft, instead, it’s wet and loud and desperate when he looks up—eyes dark as you whimper.

“Oh,” you exhale when he plops off with a pop, sending you a smile that’s far more gentle than how you feel. For that split second, you feel your heart melt, shooting him a weak smile in return.

“Can’t believe you’re here,” he sighs dreamily into your left breast, peppering kisses around your peaked buds before squeezing it between his fingers. His eyes are honest when they maintain eye contact, the gesture too intimate for you to handle as you bashfully look away. “Can’t believe this is happening.”

“It is,” you say softly, “I’m here, Kook.”

The nickname causes him to groan, his head resting on your breast as your hand finally finds the strength to instinctively wrap your fingers between his locks, delicately scraping through his hair as he sighs.

“You know I never thought I was good enough for you,” he abruptly confesses.

Your eyes widen.

“What? Why—?”

He doesn’t respond, instead; he kisses up your chest until he’s inches away from your lips, his face carrying the weight of your words as you search for an answer.

And it’s scary that he looks so much like himself. The Jungkook you’ve known for long loved for just as much—but were only brave enough to accept recently. He’s always looked youthful, though he definitely grew out of his round edges. He’s more defined, carved by years of experiences and mistakes that made him the person he was today.

He looks hesitant for the first time this night. As if he’s mulling over the next things he’ll say.

Jungkook looks at you, eyes holding more than just your gaze but the magnitude of his heart. You wonder how long he’s looked at you like that for.

“You’re amazing,” he finally says, and it’s against your lips.

“You are too,” you say with a soft gaze.

He shakes his head, and it’s probably an odd conversation to have while you’re fully naked and Jungkook’s yet to shed off a single piece of his clothing.

“I’m good at things, there’s a difference,” he sighs, “You’re … you’re it, you know? I don’t think you know how great you really are.”

“Jungkook …”

“No, really.” His eyes are suddenly wide as if he was afraid you wouldn’t believe him. Yet, you found it hard to truly trust his words, the part of you that feels lacking refuses to. “You’re driven and you’re passionate. You care so deeply and profoundly that it’s impossible not to love you. You just—how could I ever deserve someone like you?”

Your eyes soften as his eyes dart away from yours, his eyebrows furrowed in displeasure. You know he’s caught up in his own thoughts. The expression is too familiar to you because you’ve been there. You were just there, and it took a long time for you to recognise that sometimes—we won’t ever know what we deserve or do.

“Jungkook,” you whisper, hands reaching out to hold his cheeks and guide his gaze back to you. His eyes are unsure, and all you want to do is reassure him. So, you do. “Look at me. Please?”

He does, albeit hesitantly as you offer him the gentlest of smiles.

“It’s insane that you think that because I wonder how I could ever deserve you,” you throw his words back to him with a small smile.

His jaw drops, “No way—!”

You giggle, shushing him with a gentle peck to his lips that has him melting into your touch.

“My point is,” you continue, never breaking eye contact with him. “We’ll always feel lacking in some way because we always will be. We’re human. We’re bound to make mistakes and we’ll never be perfect. But I wouldn’t have you any other way. I fell in love with this version of you, and I’ll love every version of you that I’ll be blessed to learn about.”

Jungkook stares at you, awestruck as you continue smiling lovingly at him. Whatever you had just said was the truth and you’d tell him that over and over again if it meant he’d trust your words just a little more.

“Do you understand?” You ask softly, “I love—”

He shuts you up by smashing his lips to yours, causing you to gasp in surprise at the ferocity of the force. He’s pushing you into the sheets, not enough for it to hurt but enough to show you his intuitive want for you at that very moment.

His hand reach up to cup your cheeks, the other one already making its way down your body until it's cupping your mound.

“J-Jungkook,” you whimper, eyes dazed as you tilt your head to the side, “Take off your clothes.”

You emphasise your point with a tug to the hem of his shirt and the waistband of his jeans.

He doesn’t argue with you, quickly pulling his shirt over his head from the back, exposing the firm expanse of his chest. The intricate design of tattoos trail up his arm and onto his shoulder, emphasising each slope of his muscles.

You really can’t close your mouth as you’re blatantly ogling him. You’ve seen Jungkook shirtless many times, it’s a given since he basically lived at the gym and was comfortable enough around you and in his own body when he lazily throws off his shirt when it got too hot. But you’ve never seen him like this. So close to you, panting in desire while his carnal eyes rake over your completely bare body while he’s in the midst of undressing.

“You’re staring,” he smirks.

You scoff, cheeks flushing even if you know it’s nothing but the truth.

“Pants. Off.” You demand, lips in a pout as he laughs, bending down to give you a quick smack before he shoots you that charming grin of him.

“Want to help?” He cocks an eyebrow up, licking his lips as you feel your pussy flutter at his tone.

Really, Jeon Jungkook was too hot for his own good.

You roll your eyes, yet you find yourself already shifting forward, despite the shake in your legs from your previous orgasm as you make your way towards the button of his jeans, fingers already working their way to undo it.

Jungkook observes your eagerness, especially when your eyes occasionally drift upwards as you search for his approval. All Jungkook does is rub a soothing hand over your head as you continue your ministrations. You help him tug his pants down, his briefs not doing much in covering his bulge that practically stares you straight in the eye as you swallow.

You’ve seen it once, had it in your mouth—yet, the thought becomes more appealing the longer you ogle.

Your hands are already reaching out to cup him through his briefs, your state of horniness throwing all hesitancy out of the window as you hear Jungkook suck in a deep breath before his large hand closes on top of your own.

“Next time, baby,” he murmurs, “This is about you.”

You roll your eyes at the cliche phrase, and you can’t help the indignant tone that travels through your chest and out of your mouth.

“And what if I want to suck your dick?”

Jungkook shoots you a pointed stare before pushing you down back onto your back as you squeak in surprise.

“Don’t be a smartass,” he sighs, “Besides, I’m the hardest I’ve ever been in my entire life and there’s no way I’m going to last if I have your mouth on me. The only place I wanna feel is your pussy, got it?”

Your eyes widen at his blatant words, and your gaping face may have thrown Jungkook off as his expression suddenly mimics yours.

“I-I mean—that’s if you’re still—we don’t have to have sex—”

You interrupt him by wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into a kiss.

“Jungkook,” you mumble against his lips, pulling ever so slightly to shoot him a serious look, “If you’re not going to fuck me then I’m going to be really disappointed. Or—maybe I’ll just go find someone who is going to fuck me—”

Jungkook growls, hands delivering a pert smack to your right asscheek as you gasp at his actions, his gaze dropping to yours in a hooded gaze.

“I’m not going to fuck you,” he snarls threateningly as your face drops, “I’m going to love you so good—you got that?”

Somehow, his rough tone is contrasted against his gentle words, especially when his eyes soften on your face.

“I’d really like that,” you smile.

Before you can say anything else, Jungkook already has his hands trailing down your abdomen once again to cup your mound. You gasp, squirming under his touch as you whine.

“Jungkook,” you whine, “Just—please just stick it in already.”

You realise how whiney you sound, but you were still really worked up and your previous orgasm along with Jungkook’s spit has provided enough lubricant for you to take him. At least that’s what you think.

“There’s no way my cock’s going to fit if I don’t stretch you out,” he says pointedly, “Even if your pussy’s all sloppy.”

His words make you whimper, thighs clenching in reprieve to relieve the pulsations in your lower abdomen. You can’t even imagine how it’s going to feel like—and you know that Jungkook isn’t average-sized by any means. It was already a struggle to have him in your mouth and you could somewhat contract and relax it voluntarily. Your pussy on the other hand? Not quite.

“P-Please hurry,” you beg, eyes peering up desperately.

Jungkook opens his mouth to say something but decides against it at the last minute, likely too worked up to do so. Rather, his fingers immediately gather the wetness from your pussy to your whole, causing you to mewl in expectation.

His index finger prods your hole before it slips in, as he peers up to gauge your expression. At this point, anything that Jungkook did would evoke a whine from you because you’ve already been riled up enough. He curls his digit, the pad of his finger immediately reaching deep in your wet cunt.

You gasp, head falling back onto the pillow as Jungkook smirks at you.

“Already?” He teases, “How are you going to take my cock if one finger gets you like this?”

You glare at him through lidded eyes.

“Would you prefer me to shut up and take it like a starfish?” You can’t help the spite that escapes your mouth, throwing back the familiar yet painful words back to him.

Jungkook’s eyes widen, mouth falling agape. You weren’t trying to be mean, in fact, it was more so that you were frustrated than anything else. Your heart has healed, but there was no harm in teasing—right?

“I—well”—he gulps, eyes comically apologetic as his face crumbles while his finger twitches in your cunt—“Baby you can’t do this to me.” He whines.

You roll your eyes.

“Then how about you get to it,” you smile sweetly at him, patting his cheek as he pouts, “Stretch me out so I can take you good.” You purr.

Jungkook nods his head obediently as if caught in a trance and you almost want to laugh. You quite liked the hold you had over him, even if it was just momentarily. You don’t dwell on your thoughts for too long because Jungkook’s slipping another digit in, your pussy acclimating to the stretch.

He thrusts his fingers into your pussy, digging deeper each time as you feel the tell-tale signs of your stomach clenching in desire as you moan softly.

“Does it feel good?” He asks.

You nod your head, eyes fluttering shut as he speeds up his fingers, your pussy throbbing around the digits. You were still wet from your previous orgasm, and still as sensitive—so you felt every inch of his fingers reach your walls and it felt heavenly, especially when Jungkook was pressed so close to you that his body warmed you up.

“So good,” you whimper.

“Can you take another?” He murmurs, the third digit already testing the waters.

You nod your head.

Once he gets your consent, he inserts his last finger as you wince at the burn. His fingers were long and girth enough to make you feel the stretch. He stills ever so slightly to catch your expression as he shoots you a concerned gaze.

“You okay?”

You nod your head, whimpering ever so slightly when he shallowly thrusts his fingers. Your pussy stretches to accommodate the new girth, and it’s both pleasurable and uncomfortable—but the way that Jungkook begins to press his lips to yours distracts you from the burn.

You feel his palm bump into your clit every time he thrusts harder, fingers curling expertly into the spot that has you moaning into his mouth, fingers clutching his hair in desperation to ground yourself. You think he’s just here to stretch you out, so you don’t expect much—but suddenly, he’s snapping his fingers into your pussy so rapidly that you catch yourself in a cry of pleasure.

“J-Jungkook—I—w-what—?” You ask manically, your voice high pitched as you clutch his arms while you feel your pussy clench uncontrollably around his digits.

“Cum for me again,” he grits, eyes narrowed in focus while he watches the way your wetness coats his fingers.

He scissors your pussy and you barely feel it, purely because your wetness makes it so much easier for him to thrust his fingers in and out without any barrier. It’s loud and wet, the way that your pussy squelches each time the heel of his palm purposefully drags itself across your clit.

“I-I’m going—ohohoh—please don’t stop please don’t stop,” you sob, head thrown back.

“So wet,” he growls, “Wanna see you cum again. Will you do that for me?” He whispers into your cheek, your whines caught against his mouth as you feel yourself reach the very edge. “Come on, you’re doing so good for me. Aren’t you? The prettiest and best girl.”

His praise makes you clutch onto him harder while he doesn’t stop the brutal thrusts into your cunt. And with one particularly good drag of his fingers on your g-spot, you cum—and it’s a silent cry that you let out while your lower half shakes.

Jungkook continues finger-fucking you through your orgasm, even when it begins to burn in oversensitivity as you whimper, body spent for the second time that night.

“That’s right,” he coos, “Always so beautiful for me.”

When you come down from your high, you slowly blink at him while you catch your breath. Jungkook’s already staring at you, and even if he’s yet to receive any direct stimulation, he looks equally as fucked out as he breathes, chest rising up and down while his eyes remain trained on your body.

“Jungkook,” you croak, throat raw from your moans. Your hands trail to his briefs as you tug on them, still desperate for more if it was from him. “Please fuck me.”

You don’t recognise your voice or your tone. You don’t think you’ve sounded this desperate in your life, but yet—you don’t feel ashamed. You don’t feel as embarrassed as you thought you would be. Instead, you feel even more desirable because of the man in front of you that gave you two mind-blowing orgasms while his cock strains against his briefs.

“You sure—?” He raises a brow at you as you whine.

“Jungkook please,” you plead, “I want you. All of you. In every way possible.”

The words are so similar, and Jungkook can’t stop the smile that threatens to appear on his face when he recognises it immediately. It’s the same words he’s reassured you with, and here you are throwing it back at him. You don’t realise the honest intention, but Jungkook does.

And he has to press another soft kiss to your lips before he’s quickly shrugging his briefs off, his cock springing free. It stands long and hard against his abdomen, the pre-cum undoubtedly leaking from his tip as you feel your mouth turn dry at the sight.

Jungkook was an attractive person but he was absolutely ethereal bare. His natural state, sweaty and flushed—only makes your pussy clench in expectation as you let out a tight groan of your own.

“You’re so hot,” you complain, “How are you so hot?”

Jungkook snickers leaning across your body as he reaches towards his bedside table. You briefly snap out of your horny daze as you furrow your brows at his gesture.

“What are you doing?”

Jungkook hums noncommittally before expertly dragging his drawer open to draw out a—

“Condom.”

You blink at him.

“You don’t need it.”

Jungkook freezes, hand still gripping the foil as he peers down at you with wide eyes.

“I don’t—?”

“You know I’ve been on birth control since high school. Acne and stuff.” you say pointedly, “Unless you’re not clean?”

Jungkook tosses the packet aside immediately before he’s hovering above you like a sweaty God.

“No,” he blurts, “I mean yes. I mean no, I’m not—I don’t have anything. Yes. I’m clean.”

You giggle, before wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him close, just enough so that his lips are fanning across your own.

“Then,” you lower your voice seductively, “Make love to me, Jungkook.”

Jungkook blinks at you before he’s letting out a groan of himself, looking to the ceiling for one second before his gaze returns to your own.

And the events of the entire night have been leading up to this moment, the way even Jungkook trembles when he lines up the tip of his cockhead to your hole as your heart beats vigorously against your rib cage.

It’s this. The way that Jungkook looks at you so softly while you bite your lip in anticipation. It’s this. When he finally breaks through the first barrier of your pussy as you feel the tip enter. You gasp, and he grunts, your fingers tighten against the sheets as you shut your eyes.

The burn is unpleasant. It’s expected. But Jungkook’s keeping a thumb on your clit the entire time to soothe any displeasure.

“Are you okay?” He whispers.

You nod, afraid if your voice would fail you.

Jungkook searches for any hesitancy before he continues slipping each inch in. It’s intimate this way when you see him clearly and he sees you. He watches your expression closely, even kisses away the frown lines on your forehead when you’re grimacing at the way your walls attempt to take him.

It’s when he licks his tongue into your mouth that he bottoms out completely. You gasp, feeling so wholly full and filled, even if the burn becomes more intense. It’s not painful, just … uncomfortable. But it’s almost mixed with the fact that he presses against your walls so well that there’s a fuzzy sense of pleasure that erupts in your lower abdomen.

“F-Fuck,” Jungkook chokes, his head dropping to the crook of your neck, “You feel so good.”

It strokes your ego that Jungkook looks absolutely destroyed right now. His face tight and eyes shut while he breathes heavily into your neck. You can tell he’s holding himself back because he’s scrunching the fabric of his sheets so tightly next to your hips, cock throbbing between your hot walls.

You can feel every inch of him like this, and you’re sure he does too. It’s because you get wetter just thinking about him fucking you, finally making you his while he becomes yours. The intimacy, the love, the years of pining finally bottoming out.

“You can move,” you whisper, running your hand through his hair.

“Are you sure?” He asks sceptically.

“Please, Jungkook,” you reply softly, “I’m okay.”

Jungkook lets out a sigh of relief before he tests the waters, pulling out completely before he thrusts back into you. At the impact, your body hikes up as you gasp, the pleasure tripling due to your sensitivity and the preciseness of his cockhead brushing against your sensitive spot.

“O-Oh,” you gasp.

“Baby, I need to warn you,” he says through a hitched breath, “I don’t think I’ll last long.”

You shake your head with a small laugh, your voice interrupted by your mewls when he starts to build up a rhythm of his own, thrusting into your pussy. You don’t care about anything else, except for the fact that you feel all of Jungkook. The heat and the desperation, all while he looks at you like you’ve hung the stars in the sky.

Jungkook grunts and groans above you, hips slapping against your own when he grinds his cock deeper into your cunt. He’s not rushing, and you suppose that the pace doesn’t need to be hard or at super-speed when you know what you’re doing. And in this case, Jungkook’s managed to master the art of your body and what you liked by just gauging your expressions.

His hand reaches out to intertwine his fingers with your own before bringing them to the side of your head. The gesture is so intuitively intimate and romantic that you unconsciously clench your walls around his cock, causing Jungkook’s hips to falter ever so slightly before he shoots you a playful glare.

“Don’t try and kill me now,” he warns teasingly, face leaning closer to yours as you smile brightly at him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you reply.

He catches himself and begins snapping his hips harder against your own, his cock brushing against your g-spot with every thrust as you moan in pleasure. The sounds of skin slapping on skin reverberate against the walls of his room and you feel yourself burn from the lewdness of it all.

But it’s worth it when Jungkook groans against your lips while you feel his sticky chest pressed against yours when he hikes up your legs with his free hand, the other still dead-set on holding your hand.

“I’m going to cum,” he warns in a breathless tone, “I’ll get you off later—”

You don’t allow him to continue until your hips are moving at their own accord, chasing his thrusts as he chokes at your sudden proactiveness.

You don’t care if he gets you off later or not, not when he looks like this above you, feral and desperate as he chases his high. His thrusts get more intense and desperate, and especially deeper when you feel his cock throb inside of you.

“Cum in me,” you murmur against his lips.

You hear Jungkook mutter a string of curses under his breath before he shoves his cock impossibly deeper into you and stays in place, all while you feel his hot seed pour into your cunt as you gasp.

Jungkook cums like he’s on a mission to milk himself dry. He doesn’t leave your lips either, mouth continuing to receive open-mouthed kisses from you while you hold him close. He shallowly thrusts into your pussy, his cum pooling at the entrance of your cunt as you whimper at how erotic it feels.

When Jungkook finally comes down from his high, chest heaving, he does so by pressing a kiss so passionate that it makes your head spin and your heart grow ten times larger. He keeps himself in you, despite the way he’s softening.

“Fuck,” he laughs, eyes crinkling, “You’re really going to be the death of me.”

You smile cheekily at him, even though you feel the exhaustion suddenly hitting you like a wave.

“Nice doing business with you, Jeon,” you giggle.

He rolls his eyes and finally slips out of you with a wince, while you immediately snap your legs shut—not wanting to stain his sheets.

He raises an eyebrow at your gesture before you’re blushing.

“So this is what this was?” He pouts, “A business transaction?”

Now, it was your turn before you’re rolling your eyes.

“Don’t be dumb,” you scold, but it’s light.

He sighs contentedly and brings you close by wrapping his arms around your sweaty body. He rests your head against his chest while you listen to your heartbeat.

You’ve always imagined having sex for the first time to feel a lot more … desolating than this. Perhaps it was the unhealthy mindset that you associated having sex for the first time with losing a part of you. A part of you that somehow was someone else’s to claim. But with Jungkook’s breathing and your own intermingled together, it doesn’t feel like you’ve lost.

“Hey,” he whispers, catching your attention as you look up at him.

“Yeah?”

“You know I love you, right?” He asks.

You grin from ear to ear before leaning up to kiss him.

“Yeah,” you nod, “And you know that I love you too, right?”

Jungkook laughs, tired as his eyes threaten to shut.

“Yeah. I do.”

When the both of you fall asleep, sticky and honestly, gross. You feel anything but discomfort. You feel content. You feel happy. And most importantly, you feel at home.

[ahappyplacefornat]

Christmas with Nat's family

Word count: 1102

Warning: none

• The first thing to know is that Christmas is Nat's favorite holiday to spend with her family.

•She feels such joy in her heart at the sight of her children's beady little eyes writing their letters to Santa that she thinks it's unreal to have been able to live without them for so long.

Yakov: I don't know why I have to keep writing this, I thought I was old enough.

Irina: And yet your letter is longer than ours...

Yakov: MY SOLIDARITY OBLIGATES ME TO ASK FOR THINGS FOR EVERYONE, OK?!

• Putting up the tree is a big struggle, she loves that it's giant and brings a great Christmas spirit to her home, but decorating it is another matter.

Y/N: Kid, pass me the star before it falls.

–They were up on a ladder held by Nat.–

Natasha: Be careful up there,honey, remember Irina broke the next rung while--

–With a false step on the next rung, Y/N falls to the ground taking the tree with them.–

Jaden: See, I told them I had to do it.

Yakov: One less brother wouldn't hurt.

Natasha: YAKOV.

• On the other hand, they developed the tradition of dining on different foreign foods, it gave more flavor to the festivities.

Irina: You idiot, that's not the kind of meat we need.

Natasha: Iriana, don't call your brother an idiot, Yakov, this is the third time I've told you where to look.

Y/N: will you bring a chicken next time?

–Y/N laughs and high-fives Irina.–

Yakov: That was a good one...

Natasha: It actually wasn't.

• Nat is good at cooking, but when it comes to her family as helpers, she doubts it a lot.

Irina: First you have to boil the meat for half an hour and then...

Natasha: I already read that part, go straight to when I let it cook in the pan.

Irina: Okay, you have to cook it with a little oil and salt for at least 10 minutes on each side.

Natasha: Got it.

–She patiently cooks the meat for the full 20 minutes until she realizes that all that time she has been playing chess with Yakov without turning the meat... She only notices when the pan catches fire.–

Natasha: OMG WHAT HAPPENED?

Irina: YOU FORGOT THE MEAT IN THE FIRE!

Y/N: WHAT'S GOING ON WHY ARE THEY SCREAMING?

Irina: MOM FIREING THE KITCHEN.

Y/N: I WAS ASKING THE SMOKE DETECTORS BUT THAT ANSWERS MY QUESTION.

• The moment when Nat's family arrives is the most exciting for her. First Clint and Laura:

Jaden: Uncle Clint!

–The little boy jumps into his uncle's arms.–

Clint: Champ! How have you been? Has your mom been torturing you a lot?

Jaden: yeah, yesterday she wouldn't let me put honey in my tea, she said I'd get cavities!

Natasha: oh hush baby, you had already put five spoonfuls of sugar in it, do you think I want a little dinosaur running around the house?

• Then Alexei, Melina and Yelena arrived at the same time:

Alexei: Jo Jo Jo, Merry Christmas!

Natasha: Dad, I'm happy to see you.

–They hug each other as they hear footsteps running towards the entrance.–

Yakov: Auntie! You're finally here! You will give me the wrestling lessons I asked for as a present, won't you?

Yelena: Shhh, Natasha doesn't know that I promised you that...

Natasha: You've got to be kidding me.

• Once everyone is home, it's finally dinner time.

Y/N: So, I'd like to thank you all for co--

–With a crash, the Christmas tree collapses–

Natasha: You said you fixed it...

Y/N: I tried, ok? Not everything is so easy when your back hurts after falling off a ladder and all your daughter does to help you is use her phone.

Irina: I was expecting a message from Santa.

Jaden: SERIOUSLY?! DO YOU KNOW IF HE'S COMING?!

Irina: Fool.

Natasha: IRINA.

• When they finally finish eating the slightly burnt meat, Natasha decides it's time for a talk.

Natasha: Because our try to thank you properly for coming went wrong due to circumstances related to the Christmas tree, I'd like to start again.

–She clears her throat.–

Natasha: I want to thank my amazing family for being here, there's really nothing that fills my heart with joy more than seeing us all toge--

Melina: Wait, wait...don't you hear that?

Yelena: Now that you mention it, yes, I do....

Natasha: Let me finish please, so I was saying, to see us all--

–Out of nowhere a small part of the ceiling breaks and small but abundant rats come out of there.–

Natasha: Y/N, I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU TO CHECK THE NOISE IN THE ROOF!

• Christmas was not going at all as Natasha had planned, everyone ended up at a fast food joint eating burgers since apparently everyone had found a way to not eat Nat's food.

Natasha: You mean when I get back to my house I'll find chewed meat in my vase, plus of course a fallen tree and thousands of rats?

Alexei: Yes, that's exactly what I'm saying, I love how much we understand each other, daughter!

• This time of year turns Natasha into an emotional person.

Jaden: We'll keep getting our gifts, right?

Natasha: Sometimes I just want to hold you and keep you for your whole life, not letting you grow up and keeping you forever by my side, I love you.

Irina: That's weird...

Y/N: I think it's cute.

Yelena: It's weird.

• At what point did they end up outside a supermarket? Good question.

Natasha: Do you think it was a good idea? You know, spending thousands of dollars to buy things we already have at home.

Y/N: Well, it wasn't my idea...

Alexei: I'M SORRY, OK?

Melina: We just wanted this Christmas to end well.

Natasha: Pay for everything then.

Melina: Forget it, they're your kids not mine.

Yelena: Ouch, that was rude.

Melina: I'm sorry, honey.

• Finally the children managed to open their presents in a nearby cafe, and Natasha thought she couldn't be happier.

Irina: So this is it...a book.

Natasha: You said you wanted that book last week.

Irina: You thought I wanted a math book as a Christmas present?!

Jaden: Don't question Santa!

Natasha: A math book? That's not yours, that's theirs.

–Natasha points to Y/N–

Natasha: They're not good at math...

• After all, Nat doesn't care if Christmas happens at her house, at a fast food joint or under a bridge, none of it matters as long as she's with her family.

[wincore]

runway (m) | jung yoonoh

pairing: model!jaehyun x fashion designer!reader

words: 18.7k

summary: there are some things that come with dedicating your life to fashion: a taste for finer fabrics, a splash of love for art, and an appreciation of the human body. none of these are supposed to include the hottest model you have ever laid eyes on, or the fact that you completely, utterly hate his guts. 

genre: enemies to lovers, angst, fluff, light smut, comedy-ish

warnings: sexual content, mentions of anxiety

a/n: woohooooooo she’s finally here!!!! i cant believe this!! everything aside, i do not have first hand experience working in the fashion industry so please do take this with a grain of salt. i’m also going to pass out. good night <3

A list of things you appreciate: colours, satin, comfort.

A list of things you do not appreciate: Jung Yoonoh. Jaehyun. Whatever.

The hum of the car engine has little effect on you; you travel like this almost every day. Tall buildings, scorching pavement, the blare of traffic—it’s Seoul, after all. You sigh, more of a short expression of annoyance, scrolling down with your thumb and back up again. Since when did he get permission to post pictures from pre-fittings? And one of your works, no less. 

His feed is so messy. You click your tongue. For a model, that is. 

You open the story again and consider messaging him. It’s your cherry red coat, or rather the collar of it, golden thread sewn in swirls of patterns, and a sheer floral shirt extending all the way up to cover Jaehyun’s neck. You frown. It’s meant for showcase, not teasers. Even if the picture extends just from the curve of his shoulder to his parted lips, you can’t stand the sight of it on him. It’s not bias, you try to tell yourself. This is business. You tap your fingertips rapidly against the back of your phone. This is obviously business. 

Seoul Fashion Week is the height of your anxiety, which means you have little regard for anything else decorated around you. With a new frenzy arising in every minute of your day—you don’t have time to think, a sense of madness in the way you keep busy. Your Elixir collection is more than what you had hoped for it to be, a twinge of satisfaction sitting at the pit of your stomach. It nicely puts together everything rich and extravagant, humanity’s first love—everything you despise really, so Jaehyun wasn’t a bad choice for a model. 

You backspace on your text. Is this rude? Should you care if you’re being rude? How unprofessional, you imagine his voice saying. It wouldn’t be the first unprofessional thing you’d done.

The final text reads ‘Glad you’re enjoying my designs, but they were not meant to be publicly displayed before the official show, as common sense predicts.’ 

No, of course you’re not trying to be snarky. It’s perfectly formal. All that time writing professional complaint letters to companies for ripping off your designs paid off, you suppose.

You exit the Uber, thanking the driver quickly before you rush into the building, checking the time on your watch. It’s sunny, and hotter than you anticipated. You can only hope it’s cooler tomorrow so the heat doesn’t suffocate your models.

The company building is another madness in its own. Joohyun greets you with a quick smile, a bunch of fabrics being handed to her before she can make any conversation with you, and the rest of the workers bow in greeting before getting back to their own individual windstorms. You step over a few boxes on the grounds, beelining to your workspace so you can settle down your bag.

You’re team leader, you tell yourself, a short breath tumbling out of your mouth. Even so, you don’t do very well under several pairs of eyes on you at once. Some part of you is still the timid fashion designer, packing your entire identity into a small sketchbook.

The sunlight is blaring out of control in the place—it’s meant to be spacious and sunlit, of course, but the heat makes you adjust your collar before you can move forward. The bustle of the style and design team along with the production team in the same place is akin to a nightmare, and you trace your steps quickly.

“Guys,” you begin, fidgeting with the leather strap of your watch as you continue, “Firstly, good job.”

There’s a bunch of short cheers and clapping to interrupt before you can continue. 

“As for tomorrow…stylists, I need you to touch up the collars in all the Western-style coats. The detailing needs to be kept clean and sharp. I want the audience to be able to see it.”

You pause, your tone still neutral. “And let’s not start again on the lacing. We had that discussion yesterday.” 

There’s some nods and sounds of affirmation. 

“Production team…I don’t think I can say much to you without Doyoung getting on my case.”

There’s collective laughter and you crack a smile. With a few more rapid words, you dismiss yourself, walking over to your colleagues to help them out. You’re team leader, the one with the final say in all the designs, but you can’t possibly imagine completing it without Joohyun or the others. 

“Good pep talk there, (name),” Joohyun says, walking over to you as her hands sharp and steady as they go through the clothes rack. 

“They think I’m an asshole,” you say, breathing out. You know your words are too direct. Drunk co-workers on a Friday night are not the best place to discover facts about yourself. Sometimes even you think you sound bossy. You check the key parts for each item, knowing you’ll be doing this once again before the show.

“We wouldn’t be going anywhere without direction,” Joohyun responds, laughing as if you’d said something silly. “We’re all glad you’re here, (name).”

Words like these are so easing for a mess like you, not that you’d admit it. Joohyun has always been a sort of mother figure to you after you entered this company, followed by Doyoung. A good few years senior to you, she started out as a model before she moved on to designing. 

It’s her last year working in this place. But of course, it’s a given when she’s starting her own label (mom clothes and children’s apparel, she’d called her clothing line, rolling her eyes) and one of the most well-known names in South Korean fashion not having her own label is sacrilege (according to your colleagues anyway). She’d said to contact her when you start your own family, and maybe she’ll send a congratulations package for both you and your baby. You’d laughed. Out of all the insults you could ever receive, that was perhaps the loveliest one.

Ridiculousness aside, you’ll miss the comfort of her presence. You were still in school when your designs led you to a showcase in New York Fashion Week, your sponsor more than generous. You stepped into it too soon, too eager. It was breath-taking and awful all at once—and the first time you saw a world outside of your own. It was overwhelming. There are few people in this new world as kind as Joohyun.

The sound of your notification snaps you out of your thoughts. You swear you kept it on vibrate, a little irked at having to search for your phone when your hands are full. The notification itself brings on a stronger wave of vexation.

_jeongjaehyun:

My manager told me it was good publicity

But I could take it down for you

The ‘for you’ adds an unnecessary effect, you think as you hold back a scowl. And what does ‘could’ mean? A miscommunication with the sales team isn’t even on the list of things you need to worry about. Honestly, you don’t have time to fight him, quickly typing out a ‘whatever. it’s okay’ before looking back up.

You jump, the look on Joohyun’s face a little suspicious for what might come out of her mouth.

“It’s not a crime to text people.” She shrugs, shuffling through the rack one more time to take the clothes for transportation. 

You’re quick to jump to your defence. “I have nothing to do with him.”

Joohyun looks at you, amused. “He’s not a bad person, you know? How long are you going to keep hating him for one thing he did?”

“It’s not one thing,” you groan, averting your gaze to the clothes so as to help her. “I just- he’s so- so- oh come on. You know how I feel about him.”

“I’m just saying you don’t have any reason to. Everyone’s different from what they appear to be. Especially in this line of work.” Joohyun balances the clothes you give her across her forearms.

“So he’s fake. I hate that even more.” You sigh, pulling out the blue silk overcoat, the colour matching Joohyun’s work dress.

“You mean unreal? Models tend to be that way—don’t be so harsh on him, honey.”

You simply shake your head, words entering one ear and out the other. Joohyun presses her lips into a line but lets it go soon enough. She knows you’re capable enough to separate professional from personal and that should be enough. You’re not keeping a tab on something as warming as spite. 

You can’t believe you’d ever been within five feet of him without turning your nose. You can’t believe you’d smiled at his jokes once, even if it was just that one night. He was the godsent Prince Charming, just perhaps not yours. Paris surely had a distressing effect on you that year. 

You don’t make the same mistake twice.

You walk back to your desk to take a seat and scavenge through your belongings, most of the people already outside. Fashion Week, which once upon a time was a faraway dream, now is part of life—exciting and exhausting. It’s almost always over in a flash, your love for it whisked in peaks of bittersweet. (“You work your ass off for six months and it’s, what, fifteen minutes long?” your mother had asked after you’d brought her to one of the shows.)

This line of work is a nightmare without mental preparation. You have a degree, you have experience and yet it doesn’t feel enough, confidence easier to drain in a person than blood. And you’re not very fond of pale cheeks.

It came to asking yourself if you really have it in you for a few months—a test of sorts everyone puts themselves through at least once in their lives. At that time, your favourite professor, a bald man nearing his retirement years with the wrinkliest face you’d ever seen, had asked you just one question. 

Do you love it? 

Of course you fucking do. 

You couldn’t say that to his face, sure, but you know he saw it in you—either the effort you put out every day of the semester or the way your hands moved across fabric like a machine, your designs made with the persistence of nature. Your final year project landed you an internship at one of the largest clothing brands in Seoul and your internship landed you a job at the same. Your job, well, lead you to Jaehyun, among many other things. 

You scowl at the image of his face that appears when you close your eyes, massaging your forehead—it’s hard to not see it everywhere already, from Cosmopolitan to Vogue.

While you were biting your nails in New York, Jaehyun had flown out to Paris with Saint Laurent, one of the younger male models to show his face for the first time. He’d taken the whole place by storm, you had heard from a friend. To say half the world had fallen in love—either with his dimples or his confident walk—would be an understatement. A privilege, to be gold-plated in a mercenary world.

You’d briefly made eye contact at the airport the first time you saw him, a year later, when you were arriving in Incheon and he was leaving it. It was London, that time. For him, Milan. As much as you couldn’t believe living a fashion student’s dream, Jaehyun’s face was truly, unironically much more unrealistic. Your classmates’ gabs and gossip in sewing class had suddenly made sense. You taught yourself to not be swayed by faces, even if they look like they’re stitched together by Aphrodite and Apollo with their bare hands—friendly advice from seniors at the orientation night ‘party’. 

You’d met him formally in Paris, after you’d graduated from fashion school. He was certainly the most beautiful face in the room—and you weren’t the only one aware of it. The entire night you’d been starting conversations you couldn’t relate to, till he came along with his charming dimples and a faux connect. You were naive, and a little tipsy. The attraction was obvious, and it had been you by the bathroom pulling him in for a drunk kiss till he’d snapped out of the daze—as if it were some joke you’d been playing. He’d apologized before leaving, like it wasn’t a big deal, with silken lips parted in a gesture of remorse and a short, firm bow. It didn’t settle very well alongside the merlot in your gut.

You. You’re a big deal. 

You were alone in a room full of painted faces and he sat atop the throne they worshipped. Why had you expected any more from him—in the understanding nods or the few kind words that escaped his lips? You felt stupid. He made you feel like smiling for the first time that night and you hated him for it—you’re sure he doesn’t care either way. Or maybe he does, with the wonderfully irked responses he graces you with. 

Jaehyun made something out of himself in these nine years, just as you have. Runway supermodel to the face of South Korean men in fashion to an entrepreneur, he might as well have a documentary on him—and he would if he didn’t evade paparazzi and reporters like his life depended on it. Enigmatic, the articles wrote. You scoffed. Conceited, more like. After the initial years, he decided to settle in New York, frequently flying to Seoul and other fashion capitals for business and contractual events. Some of those occasionally include your shows.

Having Jaehyun gets more attention but it’s not like you’re a new, doe-eyed kid. Your works have been featured for popstars and foreign celebrities, and you’ve been invited to several interviews with big magazines. You’ve gone global (albeit under the brand’s name) and you’ve been to places you’d only seen pictures of in the very same magazines you looked up to. They can describe your work as unique all they want—and you don’t mean to sound fucking pretentious—but your job is nothing more than an expression of the self. It’s a part of you; you first started sewing patches onto things simply because your closet lacked colour. And eventually, you found yourself searching for more—colours, fabrics, dreams. You’re devoted to your job because you love it, you want to do it. You’re allowed to be a little arrogant about it. 

If only trying desperately to be arrogant did something about your insecurities.

You hope your works redefine themes, your need to stand out contrasting with your fear of it. Eye-catching is always your forte; this time it’s fairy tales and royalty in a mix of East meets West. 

D-1. Same feeling, new season.

The press is here, you take note. Photographers. Models. Students. Vloggers. It’s a burst of colours down there.

You hate running late, rushing down the stairs to the plaza through the crowds of people. Some recognize you, as they make their way to you but you end up walking a little faster to minimize your presence.  You curse yourself for wearing the jacket. It goes nicely with the rest of your outfit and March isn’t supposed to be this hot. You wipe the sweat from your hairline, hoping the makeup is waterproof like it said.

You consider stopping at the café for a fix of coffee but stop when you notice Joohyun holding a bunch of cups by the venue. She doesn’t look too happy about the sun, or the burdening errand of fetching coffee. You adjust her little red beret at her request, smiling at her annoyance but trying your best to keep it hidden. You don’t want to get cussed out by Joohyun. 

“Someone tell Doyoung to get his coffee,” Joohyun complains. “I’ve been waiting for half an hour.”

“I’m sure that’s an exaggeration,” you say, sipping your coffee. The taste fills your senses with a pleasant dose of energy and you hum out a satisfied note. “Why are there so many students out here? Influencers? Did we sponsor this many kids?” 

Joohyun shakes her head.  “Jaehyun just got here.”

You suppress an eye-roll. “Wonder why he still comes back for Seoul when he’s booked full for New York.”

“It’s his hometown.” Joohyun shrugs. “I’d come back too. Even if I’m paid more out there.”

You finish your coffee and duck into the fitting room, much to Joohyun’s displeasure as she’s left alone again. Doyoung’s in for an earful, you chuckle thinking about it.

It would look like a hell of a mess to anyone not accustomed to this. Everyone is a flurry by themselves alone but if you mix them with the eclectic crowd you find at a Seoul Fashion Week backstage, it’s more of a disaster. A colorful one, at the very least. 

New York was worse. You were too young, in a world that was too big. It’s a miracle you even received an opportunity from so big a name. But, you suppose, it hardly matters now.

You no longer live in a world where Seoul is far from Paris. Fashion and art are things unmarked by place of origin.

It’s easy to spot Jaehyun in a corner, two people adjusting his coat for better fitting at the waist. His makeup’s done, you notice as you get closer. Good, you think. If any makeup were to get on the fabric, you’d go feral (although you do have full confidence in the makeup artists here and their choice of product).

“Jaehyun,” you greet. Your co-workers give each other a look before excusing themselves. You raise an eyebrow, too late to stop them. They didn’t finish the looping of the belt properly, you take notice. You wrinkle your nose. Sloppy. 

“(name).” He responds with an equal lack of amusement. 

You pull the belt at his waist, Jaehyun stiffening at the contact.

“What are you doing?” he asks, looking down at you with a raised eyebrow.

“My job? What do you think, genius?”

Jaehyun presses his lips together and lets you complete the altercations. The chiffon shirt allows you to see the hazed definition of his core, a rather flustering thing to be exposed to for anyone with eyes. When you look up in a moment’s mistake, you’re reminded of why his face is everywhere. Flawless, almost. You hate it. Averting your eyes, you fix the collar so the pattern stands out more. You can feel his eyes over your outstretched hand all the way to your face, subtle as ever. If Jaehyun thinks you’re bothered by it, he’s an idiot for believing so. 

You take a step back to analyse the coat. The golden threads are flawlessly detailed, spiraling in patterns of different flowers and vines around the collar, gradually getting larger as they twine at the base of the neck. They meet the polished rhinestone buttons a little lower. You almost smile. You’d sewn each thread and each button in yourself the first time. It hardly looks the same now.

Bright red is an eyesore if you look at it longer than five minutes, you realize. The frown that’s been itching to show up finally does. Suddenly, you’re glad Jaehyun is modelling this piece. You shake your head and look back at his face, from his deep-set brown eyes to his full, tinted lips before pausing. The little Swarovski pearls line strands of his hair in a starry display, perfect in every angle of it. It’s easy to appreciate the human beauty when you see his face, and even if you claim your vehement dislike for him, you’re not a liar nor an idiot. 

How infuriating it is, to let things be. Bad blood can only dry to an ugly, unusable brown.

You narrow your eyes at the thinning layer of glitter on his peach-blushed cheeks. He doesn’t exactly need much more of it but the unevenness bothers you.

“Your makeup needs retouching,” you say, frowning. “Did you touch your face? I thought you were a more...professional model than this, Jaehyun.”

“You walked in,” he replies, casually. “I was distracted.”

You feel your cheeks colour. “That’s- that’s not a reason.”

He smiles politely. “I suppose I’ll leave you then. You must have other work to do.”

You hold back a biting remark. His playfulness doesn’t sit well with you; he’s polite just enough to annoy you and straightforward just enough to make you want to throw something at him. He could’ve directly told you to fuck off maybe—but oh no, it’s Jung Yoonoh, seamless and radiant, with only the sweetest collection of words on his tongue. You think of the first time you met, something warm in the corner of your heart. You’d mistaken it, of course. 

He didn’t care for you, or any of the people trailing after him and his silver flute, or the rest of the shallow carcass of a world so undeniably obsessed with him. It didn’t hit you till he’d left you hanging, mangled memories of something close to hurt. You’re glad you didn’t kiss him. You wouldn’t be able to get over the embarrassment, the blow to your pride had it escalated any further.

And of course, the one thing he did to make you absolutely certain of his distaste—was simply choose another designer’s work over yours when given a choice. It seems silly, unprofessional even, but the lack of response to your Fall/Winter ready-to-wear collection had been embarrassingly low, someone else’s designs sold out at an equally awful rate. You—your insecurities—wanted to blame your own failings—maybe it was the lining of the coats, or the colours maybe— the fabric? Perhaps, you hadn’t focused on comfort all too well. But it was clear, a word from Jung Yoonoh could change the minds of a fashion-forward youth as easily as his face and physique scored contracts with the biggest brands and labels. And it was clear he didn’t like you very much.

You walk over to the other models, eyes scanning down to the T. You glance over one of Joohyun’s designs, a modern men’s hanbok. The blood red paired with yellow is certainly easing on the eyes, though the shades vary from top to bottom, like a sunset. The dark grey chunky shoes fitted under dark tights complete the entire future oriental look you suppose she was going for. She’s only showcasing two of her designs this year and they’re just before the centrepiece. You shake your head, clutching the fabric of your jacket sleeve. You hate seeing other designs before a showcase, even if they’re a friend’s. 

You turn your head to make eye contact with Jaehyun across the room. It takes a few seconds but you snap your head in another direction to break the spell. 

How strange. You haven’t had nearly enough coffee to feel jittery under his gaze.

You’re forced to take a breather away from this jungle of liveliness. 

The amount of people outside the venue gives you yet another headache. Excited college students and fashion vloggers stand outside expectantly, and you give a short bow and polite ‘hello’ to anyone who approaches. You desperately want to be left alone. Even if it’s for a few seconds.

You walk quickly, your feet soundless against the floor. Your mask performs considerably (and surprisingly) well in hiding you. You consider visiting the Design Market to enjoy a seat alone and charge your phone before it’s show time.

Open spaces. You need open spaces. Suddenly, the DDP seems to be suffocating you despite its tremendous size.

“Hey!” You’re greeted with a sudden force to your right side, an arm wrapping around you. You look up to see Johnny, a wide grin on his face and you let yourself mirror it, shaking your head.

“Big day,” he says. “Want me to take some pictures? I’ve got some time between shows—lovely outfit, as usual.”

It’s strange how Johnny’s the photographer and not the model—you’ve heard he receives a lot of requests to get on the other side of the camera though he always refuses. He doesn’t visit Seoul as often, but he has much to do in uplifting the mood with his strangely effective sense of humour. The coffee-coloured shirt he’s wearing goes well with the plaid grey coat, reminiscent of Fendi’s Spring collection, and sometimes you wonder whether a job as a fashion photographer ever had much to do with his style. Johnny has always been effortlessly impressive. 

You politely decline, your mind still focused on the smooth running of things. Nothing’s ever on time when it comes to Fashion Weeks—yes, it’s called fashionably late but it just makes you annoyed. You consider ducking back to your venue, adding some final final touches and any more last-minute altercations. Years have passed and you’re still not used to it, fingers itching to do something about everything. You’re grateful the company gives you your creative space but it only makes you wonder just how far the limits are. 

Johnny accompanies you to the charging station till he’s distracted by some of the children in the latest Fendi kidswear and you make a mental note to never bring your kids to Fashion Week, if you ever choose to have them.

You breathe in and out for a few moments, feeling lightheaded before the sense of reality touches on you. People walk in and out of the stores lining the pathways, a soft buzz of conversation in the air as your eyes follow their movement. You wonder if you’ll have your own stores opened in plazas like this—here, in Seoul, and on brightly lit streets of the world outside. After all, colourful dreams are the hardest to get rid of. You sit quietly till you get a text from Doyoung asking you to get your ass over there quickly with several exclamation marks. You smile to yourself. Joohyun might have had a sour effect on him.

You arrive back at the venue, trying to tear your eyes away from anything that might want to make you fix it. You avoid Jaehyun’s eyes even more so, like you’ll jinx something right before it’s showtime. 

The buzzing reaches a peak before everything is drowned out.

The show finally starts. And it’s over. Twenty-two minutes, this time.

That’s the way it goes. You hold your breath till you’re sure it’s safe to let go, blind to everything that goes on in between. Sometimes it’s underwhelming, sometimes you can’t give a fuck when you love doing this anyway.

You breathe a sigh of joy when everyone gathers backstage, Johnny making all the models pose together for one giant group photo. It’s like a ritual for him, always finding time for a backstage picture with the models goofing off.

Jaehyun looks at you instead of the camera, a nervous shiver running through you. His gaze is not something of inconsequence, eyes piercing into you with words hanging in the air that you don’t care enough about. You think he sends you a smile, cockier than you’d like. Despite your efforts, you have to look away.

Now, what should your dear Fall collection look like? You exit by yourself, relief humming through your veins when you think of getting back to your apartment, papers to be sketched on in your hands, soft fabric to be sewn on your table. Maybe they’ll display your works in the front rows of the stores, maybe you’ll even have displays outside of Seoul. You’re not a student anymore and your job has taken you enough places. 

Even so, Paris and Milan sneak into your dreams often. You used to dream of them so much that it was hard to consider them reality—finding yourself in those streets, in between all those beautiful picture-book monuments.

You prefer Seoul, you decide after conscious thinking. You don’t have to worry about the world outside. 

Afterparties are not your thing. 

You somehow still find yourself in them, hoping to catch a drunk video of Doyoung for blackmail or make eye contact with an attractive stranger only to stop at exchanging numbers because you never find the time. 

It’s a social event. You’re supposed to be doing social things. It’s exhausting.

The last person you expect to bump into is Jaehyun, drinks in hand as he looks down at you with a greeting of surprise on his tongue. He’s wearing a simple dark Oxford button-down, two buttons at his chest undone, and tucked neatly into his pants. His hair looks untouched since afternoon, parted in messy waves, minus the pearls. The music changes to something with slower beats as you stare at each other for a few moments.

“What are you doing here?” You raise an eyebrow. There are other afterparties he could be attending. Big ones.

Jaehyun tilts his head, cracking his neck before smiling. “Charming, as always. I’m here because I want to be here, obviously. So does everyone, I’m sure.” 

“Fucking narcissist,” you mutter to yourself. You think Jaehyun might have heard you because you get a dirty look thrown your way, masked with the signature apathy across his relaxed lips.

“That’s a little rich from you,” he mumbles.

The muscle by his mouth twitches but he doesn’t say anything more. This is probably the most emotion he shows, you think. Wouldn’t his lovestruck magazines relish seeing him riled up like this? They’d still find a way to fall in love with him.

You could have, too.

No way. You tell yourself that’s ridiculous. 

You’re aware he’s booked for at least three other shows this week. It’s a miracle he agreed to yours, considering your mutual distaste for each other. You suppose it had more to do with his agency than himself but it wasn’t like you were the keener one. Jung Yoonoh is the face professionals look for and your company loves the publicity, although you keep telling yourself your designs would still shine without him. 

Jaehyun excuses himself before you can get on with any unpleasant conversation you might have. At least you have something in common—that is, trying to avoid each other as much as possible.

A few minutes (and uncomfortably snaking through swarms of bodies) later, you find Doyoung, unfortunately sober and intending to remain so, people congratulating him with claps on the back for securing the position of PR Head. You think it was supposed to be a secret, but someone higher in the ladder must have spilled early. Joohyun never attends these, and honestly, good for her. 

Afterparties are not your thing.

You shouldn’t have taken those shots but you’re on the dance floor now anyway—what more could happen? It’s easier when you’re not paranoid about all the eyes on you, dancing against a stranger with a lion tattooed against his neck. Maybe you’ll go home with him, maybe you’ll leave at the first signs of attraction. Romance isn’t quite on your to-do list, but an occasional intoxication with the skin works just fine. You could live like this for a few moments.

Your back runs into someone else’s rather forcefully and you turn around, apology bubbled up to your tongue already, mixing with the alcohol.

“Oh look.” You roll your eyes. “It’s the prince of high fashion. What can I get you today, sire?”

Jaehyun drives his tongue over his lips, quite definitely over your antics. Soft breaths leave his mouth in a rhythm irrelevant to this box of laughter and blaring music called a party. You love how he never knows how to respond—what new words will he choose to keep false dignity? If you think about it, he’s the embodiment of why you always thought everything was so out of your reach—big names, exclusive parties, not for kids like you. They were never for fashion students too honest to know their own worth.

“Jealousy isn’t a good colour on you,” he says, just loud enough for you to hear.

You scoff, a pang of annoyance sizzling through you. “Jealous? Of who? You?”

You sneer at the last part, Jaehyun’s frown deepening. Some days you just like to think you’ve won. A few moments pass between you two, the sound of pop music filling in the gaps. 

Jaehyun presses closer to you, your chests almost touching as your breath hitches in your throat.

“Do you know what makes success?” he says, head dipping lower to look you in the eye. The smell of alcohol disturbs you for a second before your heartbeat gets loud enough to drown it. You try to not focus on how his mouth is so near yours—and perhaps if you were drunk enough, you might commit a mistake against the very core of your being, something you’d been dangerously close to once.

You stay quiet, the pulsing in your ears too loud in the shallow distance between the two of you. You swear it’s always the two of you pressed up like this once you’re drunk enough, the dislike growing stronger and stronger with every breath exchanged. You’ve intertwined each other into a strange garden of contempt, easy to forget when you're facing him. Jung Yoonoh has the prettiest face in the industry, and the only one you can’t bear seeing. 

“It’s confidence,” he answers, as slow and steady as ever. “And there’s a thin line between confidence and arrogance I intend to keep. I’m not so sure about you.”

The rest of the night passes without conflict and you retire early, Jaehyun’s breath still hot against your face. Only when you collapse on your bed do you get an urge to shout, yell, anything that doesn’t make you call him up and scream at him. You have your precious dignity too, something he seems to look past. The effect he had on your breathing, the crawling over your skin—God, you hate him. You’re too stubborn to not continue doing it.

“What’s this?” you ask, your eyes darting in between the director of design and Lee Taeyong.

To say you were surprised to see him would be an understatement. You note the simple dark rimmed glasses in contrast with his light dyed hair, the mellow blue of his cashmere sweater sporting his own label’s logo—Lee Taeyong is a household name. You feel yourself shrink the tiniest bit.

This industry’s all about names, you think miserably. You meet people and you remember the ones who can get you ahead. It’s tiring.

Taeyong started his career even earlier than you did, and before he had changed his major to fashion. He’s a little older than you, though he doesn’t look it and he had begun with working exclusively on jackets. Several rejected designs later, he had popped up as one of the designers to look out for in Seoul Fashion Week. Now he has his own global label slowly turning brand, several worldwide stores and everything dreamers in the same place as you look up to. You think you’re fine here, you tell yourself despite that.

The director smiles at you, her hand gesturing rapidly at you to come forward.

“You’re going to be so happy,” she says, signalling Taeyong to continue.

“Uh, hi,” he greets.

A little awkward for a world-class designer, you think.

“I’m Lee Taeyong. You might have heard of me—”

“I know who you are,” you interrupt, ignoring the disapproving look of the director.

“Oh, that’s good!” He smiles. “I’ve seen your work—I’ve been following your work for a few years now…and, well, I’d love for you to work under my label—in a collaboration of sorts. You’ll have full creative freedom, of course! I’m just there more or less for supervision, really…”

You think you feel your heart stop for a few moments, Taeyong’s sudden stream of information fading out. The pinnacle of your career, you believe, had been Paris Fashion Week four years ago and you’d been dreaming of it ever since. This is a business contract, you’re sure, and you don’t know if you have a real choice but maybe you could take that step forward you’ve always wanted to.

“Isn’t that great, (name)?” The director interjects. “You get to work under the Lee Taeyong label. And…surprise! You’ll have your work presented at New York Fashion Week in September. They’ll hit the stores a week later.”

You freeze. 

“New York?” you manage to squeak.

“Yep!” Her voice a notch away from annoying. She’s not the first person you’ve met who sounds so goddamn manufactured. “Pack your bags, darling. You’re flying next weekend.”

You must be looking like a deer caught in the headlights because Taeyong opens his mouth to say something, alarmed. You speak before he does.

“Okay,” you say, more to yourself than them. It should be a good thing. It’s supposed to be a good thing. Even so, you feel the anxiety in your ribcage threatening to overgrow into thorns. 

“I’ll- I’ll do it,” you clarify. Looking from your manager’s bright yet stern face to the hopeful smile on Taeyong, you don’t think you have much of a choice.

New York, huh. How long has it been? You shudder at the memories, your focus a little off for the rest of the day.

Joohyun visits you a day before you leave. She places the box of chocolates on the coffee table, that Doyoung apparently sent for you. 

“You know, I’m really happy you’re getting this chance,” Joohyun says, crouching down beside where you’re splayed, trying to count the travel essentials and everything else on your messy checklist.

“He gets promoted and now he can’t even come visit me, huh?” you say, shifting to grab the box and tear off the clear wrap.

Joohyun laughs. “He’s certainly enjoying his duties. I can’t wait to boss him around again after I leave.”

Your shoulders hunch, a sigh leaving your lips. “Great. You’re leaving. Doyoung’s too busy to annoy. And now I’m a part of this godforsaken project for almost six months.”

Joohyun softens a bit, running her hand through your hair. “I heard you accepted it. All by yourself. You’ll do just fine, don’t worry.”

You feel yourself turn pink, a feeling of warmth you’ve been missing for a week. It’s cozy in your apartment, always the right temperature with a tinge of happy memories. You wish you could find comfort in people as easily as others do. Everything happened so fast, you can barely remember the conversation you had with Lee Taeyong. A few moments pass, Joohyun and you picking out chocolates before you can rummage through your suitcase again.

“I hate New York, Joohyun. Just what else can you throw into the mix to make me hate it even more?”

She freezes for a fraction of a moment, pressing her lips together before clearing her throat. “Oh. Uh. I probably shouldn’t tell you what I was about to tell you then.”

You turn your head to her, eyes narrowing. “What?”

She shrugs, eyes not meeting yours. “You know. New York. Fashion capital of the world. Lots of things to love.”

“What are you not telling me, Joohyun?”

She sighs, defeated. “A certain someone might be on the same flight as you. I was about to give you his number in case you needed help.”

You pause to think, curling your lips. “It’s Jaehyun, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

You groan, dropping your head back and yelping when it hits the coffee table. Joohyun moves to rub your head and ease the pain as you let out a stream of complaints.

“You really thought I’d call him for help?” you yell. “Him? Of all people?”

“I think you’d rather have a known face there. Besides, he’s a good kid,” she reasons, looking you in the eye. “And stop yelling.”

You quieten a bit at her glare, gulping. She adds the number to your contacts, saving it with a professional ‘Jung Yoonoh’ before she helps you clean up, advising you on how to manage your finances abroad. You know she’s trying to ease you, but how could she—after dropping this awful news on you like it shouldn’t matter at all? She doesn’t even know what happened—almost happened in Paris, or the fact that your honeyed feelings had turned bitter so easily. She’s worked with him before, you know this, when he was a much younger model and she trusts him more than you ever could. 

But maybe, just maybe she can’t see what you see—after all, she’s also part of the elite, crème de la crème of this industry, more so in this country. It’s frightening, and so vague what goes on up there, at the top of the chain; and whatever you have—it might never be enough. 

You’re you. Sometimes, that isn’t enough.

You jump at the water rushing from the shower, too cold for skin and scramble to twist the knob the other way. This time, the water’s too hot and you yelp, shutting it off altogether.

You press your hand against the shower glass, breathing heavy. You’re trying—you’ve been desperately trying ever since you landed a week ago. Change is not something you can take lightly. You miss the dim lights of your apartment in Seoul that Joohyun always warned would get you some brand new prescription glasses. You miss walking down the streets to your favourite convenience store at three in the morning to get honey butter chips. You miss picking fights with Doyoung over which detail to scrutinise during your project discussions. This project seems to have torn apart several things that belonged to you.

You can’t seem to get your head into it either—even spacing out during the meeting you had with Lee Taeyong among several other things. You can’t remember a single design detail he’d specified or what the theme was even supposed to be—a bunch of bright foggy lights replacing whatever fuzz was growing in your head. A twenty-something-year-old shouldn’t be letting homesickness affect them like this. 

You finish the rest of your shower with a heavy heart and a clouded head. 

Taeyong booking a luxury suite for you was a bit…much. Not that you’re complaining, but it gives more fuel to the profound sense of emptiness you keep drawing. There’s no intimacy to this place, no love. It’s a little hard to create things without love, and comfort.

Still, you grit your teeth and get dressed into something more comfortable for the night. If not today, then tomorrow. Something will have to give, even if it costs you—whatever the hell your parents keep telling you when you’re going through problems. What if you don’t want to be cost things? Compromise isn’t as delicate as it sounds. You try to comfort yourself, rocking yourself on the much too large couch, hugging a pillow close and trying to think of things that don’t immediately make you want to throw up.

The memories of your first visit are a little less than pleasant. You think you cried after the entire ordeal because you thought you did a bad job of talking, socializing, the most ordinary things. There are some people who are good at wearing masks—good at making copper look like gold, good at shining under dim lights, and good at using words that don’t have much meaning to their existence other than being pretty. 

You were not one of them. 

The intense need for everything to be perfect was still there, even when you couldn’t possibly have achieved it. You wanted to make things and show them to the world—what was so wrong with that? Why did being there make you feel like you could never even touch your dreams? You were so out of place, feeling completely out of touch with yourself. There were people from the top there, established and famous. It felt out of your grasp. You felt fake.

The city lights twinkle with life but there’s no sound, the windows shut tight. The ambience of the room is kept to a caramel minimum—the best you can do to honour your sweet little home back in Seoul.

The hatred for everything pretentious was born with your first step into this place, into the game that the big boys play. It showed in your designs, your choice of fabric, your distaste for certain people. You wanted reality—you wanted a taste of life in your everyday clothes. You wanted that flavour you feel on your tongue in a room full of strangers or the one on a quiet night by yourself at your apartment rooftop. You didn’t want dignified fur coat ensembles, you wanted the naive chaos you feel every day and you wanted to make it look good. It’s driving you insane just how much you feel like you’re losing now.

You take out your phone after what seems a few minutes of contemplation. 

Jung Yoonoh. Your finger hovers over the call button. What would he say if his night is interrupted by your voice?

You’d met at the airport after landing, though you were only two seats away in the plane. You’d made no error in acknowledging his presence, browsing through the inflight magazine half-heartedly. Truth be told, sometimes you couldn’t really seem to get over him. Sometimes the thought of him made you so pissed, you had no idea what to think of it. 

“Welcome to New York,” he had said shortly after you’d exited, a giant crowd of people greeting out-goers, holding up placards with names of people, in numbers you’re unaccustomed to. Or, used to be accustomed to.

You hadn’t talked since—and really, you weren’t expecting to.

You press your home button, any lingering thoughts of him vanishing at the force with which you tell yourself it’s not worth it. How is Jung Yoonoh better than anyone else you know here? He might have been living in New York for quite a few years now, and he’s probably the only one you’d feel comfortable enough to swear at—that doesn’t mean you’d actually ask for help. That doesn’t mean he’d actually help. Joohyun must have had her hopes far too high to have convinced you for even a moment.

The couch feels colder all of a sudden, and you turn down the air conditioner. This place will never adjust to you, and your stubborn little self won’t either.

You think of Jaehyun from the afterparty, loose shirt and knowing eyes, and you wonder if he feels just the same frustrated agony, if not more. You think of his parted lips and breathing words close enough to be provocative, discomfort growing at the base of your stomach. Who does he think he is? He might have the airs and dignity of someone way up in the hierarchy of society but you know what people can be like. You know envy, you know malice, and you know lies. He has to fit in there somewhere—and perhaps you would have hated him less if he did.

Even if you’d scoffed at the idea of jealousy, that might very well be the closest to what you feel, what you keep hidden in the darkest corners of your locked chest. When you first met at that star-spangled dinner, you’d felt what it’s like to watch a fireworks show or a big musical opening; but the fireworks are being blocked by skyscrapers and you’re only the helping staff at the theatre, watching from a balcony at the very back. Jaehyun was impressive with barely any words. It annoyed you so much and somehow, the only solution you arrived at was the tremendous need to understand him, pick him apart and see what made him.

No. That’s wrong. You were annoyed because you still wanted to kiss him after he’d pushed you away, his dislike steaming clear. It strikes you as gently as lightning that the only reason someone would have to hate Jaehyun is being attracted so violently to him. God, you hate making a fool out of yourself.

You pass the night in quiet contemplation, promising yourself a better tomorrow. After all, no one else is going to do it. 

You walk with your chin up as if you don’t feel the weight of the world on your shoulders. You picked out your black Harrington jacket to look at least a little more professional, but you might have miscalculated the size and the material in the equation because you look completely and utterly ridiculous in it. No one would look at you and think you even work in fashion, much less be competent in that line. 

(To be fair, you wear the same beige sweater and black corduroy pants to work and if your coworkers choose to judge you, you wouldn’t blame them.) 

It’s only been a month and somehow, it translates to forever to you. You think you’re adjusting better now, and you pat yourself on the back for it. It’s not raining today at the mercy of the skies, a tidal wave of sunlight splashing through the buildings every time you take a turn. The city doesn’t scare you all that much anymore. It’s a good day, for once.  

You lean your head against the car window, eyes trailing up and down the reflective blue of each skyscraper. You can barely see any clouds, and the sky’s endlessly the same, comforting blue. Just like back home, you think for a moment. Your eyes move back to the sidewalk, people passing by—mothers with their babies in strollers, kids clutching the strap of their school bags as they run, men and women in all levels of professional clothing. No one stops in this city. Except the fucking traffic apparently.

You sigh, glancing at your watch. Only moments ago, you were moving and yet again, you’ve stopped. The cycle keeps repeating and you’re trying to keep patience focusing on things around you that you can appreciate. 

Maybe you jinxed it when you said it was a good day.

You reach Taeyong’s studio just in time (not that you’d get yelled at or anything, he’s too nice of a guy). Your eyes fixate on the numbers that light up on the elevator one by one till it finally reaches the first floor.

You walk right into someone’s chest, an apology tumbling out of your lips as you bow out of habit. 

“(name)?”

You look up to find Jaehyun in the elevator of Taeyong’s building, a casual white shirt clinging to his frame that’s tucked into his jeans to look somewhat formal. A pink overshirt hangs at his forearm and from the windswept styling of hair and his perfected dark locks, you’ll assume he’s here for a shoot—even without it, he looks like something from a teen magazine, someone people would see and instantly daydream of. Best known for high fashion, Jung Yoonoh is still a spectacle in casualwear. 

“I can’t believe I have to see your face here too,” you mutter, getting into the elevator. You’ve had your share of moments with him.

“Good to see you too,” he says, bemused. 

You make a sound of acknowledgment, taking out your phone to turn the damn notifications off so you don’t feel it vibrate in your pocket every few minutes. You feel eyes on you for a moment and snap your head to the side.

Jaehyun has his eyes focused on the door, quiet breathing fresh against his lips and you hesitate before concluding you might have been mistaken in your perception. 

“You’re here for a shoot?” you ask, curious about his relationship with Taeyong. 

“What else can I be here for?” He says nonchalantly. 

“Sarcastic. Very nice.”  

“It’s a little weird, you trying to make conversation with me. You’re usually raving about me too much to actually talk to me.” He smiles, the dimples provoking and eyes the familiar beguiling brown. 

“I’m not trying to make conversation,” you hiss, crossing your arms. “I’m sorry, I forgot you’re only a person in front of cameras.”

Jaehyun takes a sharp breath before turning to you, a not-so-happy look on his face despite the calmness over his features. You’ve seen it enough times.

“How long are you going to keep up the pretentious this and pretentious that before you face it, really?” He looks at you with tight lips, poisonous implications in his question. “Why you love to get up in my case all the time?”

The words take time to settle in. You shake your head when you realize, a sardonic laugh leaving your lips. Of course he’d think that.

“Oh my god,” you scoff. “You’re so full of yourself. You think I’m interested in you? Don’t let what happened years ago get to your head.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Oh, what did you mean then? Pray tell.”

“First of all, stop cutting me off,” he says, taking a step towards you. A certain feeling of uneasiness runs through you when you detect annoyance in his quiet statement.

“Secondly,” he says, taking a another step forward just as your back hits the wall of the elevator, “Stop treating me like I’m the bane of your existence. I have nothing to do with you.”

He’s right, of course, but the words sting where they hit. Asshole, you think. He has no business telling you what to do and what not to do. But in this moment, you can’t fish for the correct words—you don’t have the strength to when you’re so close to each other like this, the scent of his cologne syrupy and sickening. His tall stature is intimidating, with his straight shoulders and proud jawline.

The elevator dings at the seventh floor, Jaehyun stepping away from you without a glance or care, striding out just as smoothly as on a runway.

You take a moment to breathe, unsaid words burning holes into your tongue. You wish you could’ve said something better, anything that didn’t make you feel so pathetic. Maybe you should’ve told him to stick his words up his ass, sounding vulgar being the least of your worries. You wait patiently to reach the last floor, each ding souring your mood little by little. 

You are so glad you didn’t call him that night. To think he’d ever help you knowing it’s mutual, the whole hating each other’s guts. You just can’t believe the audacity of him—to accuse you of, what, romantic feelings? In an industry where you can’t tell apart gold from copper? Where all the people warming up to you are fair weather friends and competitors? He must have let all that attention get to his head. Runway faces aren’t as easy to fall in love with as he thinks.

“(name)! Come quick!”

Taeyong’s voice urges as soon as you enter and you settle your bag down, rushing to him. His smile drops when he sees your seething figure place your bag on the desk with a loud thud. You turn to him, without a hint of sweetened formality and ask him the day’s schedule.

Taeyong gulps before responding, undoubtedly afraid of your lips, a twitch away from a scowl, but he explains nicely nonetheless.

“Can you do a rerun of these designs for me?” he says, arranging the papers on the desk. That’s how he says these need improvement. No wonder the interns love him.

Taeyong’s in his usual attire, still too chic for you but strangely comfortable to look at. You nod, immediately scrutinising them, your (almost pointless) years of training trying to give you hints as to where you went wrong. You’re not really expecting to find big flaws or anything—just details you can enhance. You’ve learned enough about Taeyong in a month and it’s that his sense of style encompasses comfort, even in the most abstract of concepts. You respect him for that. It doesn’t change the fact that you think it’s a little overdone maybe.

Taeyong laughs, breaking you out of your daze. You raise an eyebrow.

“Is- Is something wrong?” You look at him, perplexed.

“It’s just that- It’s just you remind me a lot of the fashion students.” He smiles at you.

Your shoulders droop. Amateur. New. Unprofessional.

“Oh.”

Taeyong rephrases himself quickly, waving his hands about. “I don’t mean it as a bad thing! It just means you still…love doing it.”

It sticks with you longer than you’d expect, as you work throughout the day. You think Taeyong is too nice to criticize you properly but he eventually gets the point across—stick to the theme, written in Taeyong’s dainty handwriting and pinned to the softboard. 

Secrets. 

What an atrocious concept. Firstly, it makes no sense apart from sounding like a fucking lingerie collection. Secondly, when you went over Taeyong’s designs with the layers and patches, you supposed he wanted to focus on the inside of things because everything he’d drawn was inside out. Thirdly, when you heard him explain it, you were a little taken aback to hear it was going to be all about you, us. The designers, the models, the photographers, the magazine editors—there are millions and millions of people working to make sketches come to life, for a few items of clothing in someone’s closet. It feels nice to hear that from him. You promise you’re going to perfect it. 

And perfection is your dear old friend. 

It’s what you always strive for, but end up with something else that’s a little less beautiful. You take slow breaths, removing and adding details (after all, art is in the details). But perfection can easily grow tiresome. It makes you increasingly frustrated and you don’t think you have the heart to tell Taeyong everything in his studio stresses you out.

“So, you’re working with Jaehyun?” you ask, trying to look less antsy.

Taeyong blanks out for a moment before responding. “Yes. Why? Is he- Is he making you uncomfortable?”

Uncomfortable wouldn’t even begin to explain what he makes you feel. 

“No,” you deny. “Just curious.”

Taeyong smiles. “We usually work on summer shoots together. It’s like tradition.”

“That’s…nice,” you say, trying to reciprocate his smile.

“Oh, but we’re having terrible weather so the shoots keep going longer than planned. That’s why I’m having to compromise planning time with you. Sorry about that.”

You try to keep your posture despite the mild annoyance brewing at the back of your head. Great. Now you have to see Jaehyun’s unbelievably annoying face every time you walk in. Maybe if you plead enough, you’d get permission to leave early and not want to throw some insults at him. 

You decide to walk, despite Taeyong insisting his driver help you get home. He doesn’t act like it but he’s a busy man, with side projects and interviews coming up so often you lose count. It’s no wonder he had to, and you hate using this word, hire someone for the label’s next venture. You think articles like Lee Taeyong loses touch and hires designers instead of doing his job would make him upset but he seems to genuinely not let it bother him. It’s about ideas to him. His label, almost large enough to be a brand, is for ideas; what a pretty thing to base your business around. While you thought you were a big shot back in South Korea, you’re almost nothing more than Lee Taeyong’s co-designer—assistant here.

You feel drops of what you felt years ago trickling down your throat. Overshadowed. Powerless. Imposter. Something about New York makes you want to pull all your hair out. You wish you hadn’t been here in the first place, maybe then this would seem more of a fun trip than memories weighing you down. But then if you hadn’t been here, you might not have even started.

You hug yourself at the sudden downpour, clouds kind enough for it to be nothing more than showers but you’re soaked anyway. Kind, but still a little cruel. Running under the eaves of a store, you curse yourself for not bringing an umbrella the only day you needed it. You stand there for a while, just breathing.

Real life is never like movies, is it? Cameras lie. Pretty faces lie. Sometimes you end up stuck in New York rains without an umbrella or a friend to call or a lover to protect you. You end up getting an Uber, taking awfully long to arrive due to the traffic the rain had ensued and try your best to ignore the disgruntled driver mumbling about you wetting his seats.

You still don’t know how the goddamn shower works. 

You manage to complete without either scorching your skin off or freezing it to Greenland and back—a feat much more successful than whatever you had going on for today. You slip into the absurdly soft mattress, pillows and covers swallowing you into a state of sleep.

You start the day almost pouring coffee onto Jaehyun’s spotless white shirt. And you might have were it not for immense self-restraint, and the fact that Taeyong’s eyes were trained on the two of you.

“So…are you two…a thing or something?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed.

“No,” Jaehyun responds calmly while you sputter it out.

Taeyong apologizes, a laugh following. “You seem to have worked together before. Jaehyun, you never told me that.”

“I…I thought you knew,” he answers, leaning back against the tabletop.

“Ah, well,” Taeyong shrugs. “Thanks for helping me out with this, (name). Maybe- maybe we can draw some inspiration for the collection from outdoors.”

“Of course,” you say as you smile wide, trying hard not to break the coffee mug in your hand.

If you’re being honest, you had a gut feeling you’d be asked to help with Taeyong’s (apparently) infamous summer shoot. He walks into his studio every morning with hair in a disarray, talking to more people than he might enjoy and the entirety of New York weather against him. There’s only so much time a man can have and under pressure, he’s going to have to choose. It’s easy to feel sorry for someone like him.

This should be the stylist’s job. Jaehyun stands with his chin up as you adjust the fitting, smoothing out creases and making sure the cerulean shirt is pinned right, satin feeling cool and nice under your fingers. Sleeveless is back in trend this summer, and so are low-cuts.

“Careful there,” he says when you hand brushes a little lower, just below the full-grain leather belt.

You hope your face isn’t steaming from the rush of heat but you manage to limit your emotions to a sound of discomfort, remembering the horrendous accusation he’d thrown at you. “I don’t care about your dick, twit.”

Jaehyun laughs, bending a little to whisper. “I wouldn’t mind if you did.”

“You look like you’re having a wonderful time making me uncomfortable.”

“You’re just so easy to work up.”

His dimples are getting on your nerves. You reach up to button his collar, perhaps a little too harsh because he chokes, an uncharacteristic sound leaving his mouth as he winces. You suppress a smile, glad you managed to do something about the look on his face.

The sunlight over this park feels like Christmas come early, with the way Taeyong is flitting from model to model and stylist to stylist with the intensity of a five year old after an ice-cream truck. 

“Is he- Is he usually like this?” you ask, eyes on the makeup artist getting directions from Taeyong.

“I just assumed all of you are this way,” Jaehyun, responds looking at the same sight.

You roll your eyes. “We’re not all crazy.”

Jaehyun raises an eyebrow.

“Okay, maybe a little bit,” you correct yourself, watching Taeyong almost trip over someone’s bag in order to greet the magazine’s style director. 

Jaehyun chuckles, eyes meeting yours for a moment before the two of you go about your own business.

You like magazine shoots for the most part. You never find a glass of water anywhere, but some intern or the other will definitely be there to fetch you Starbucks. There’s at least three people fussing over each model and at least two exasperated photographers trying very hard to snap clean shots. The stylist and designer look as though they might explode any minute, although the relief on their faces after it’s all over is something worth looking at. The skies are so bright and blue, you think, for a cosmopolis. The trees and shrubs lining the park are in a state of tranquility compared to the chaos it encircles.  

Magazines might not be as important in an age of social media advertisement, almost part of nostalgia now—but maybe some of you are not yet willing to deny kids the thrill of reading a magazine under their blankets in the middle of the night. It often gave hope to little boys playing dress up and little girls sewing their own clothes. 

You’d forgotten just how exhausting shooting with magazines is. The models must be having it worse but their masks don’t come off easy. If you had ever underestimated their job difficulty, it comes back to throttle you at full speed every time you’re at a shoot.

 Looking good in front of a camera is pretty damn hard. 

They don’t even get to keep the clothes, unless some asshole of a designer decides to pay them in apparel instead of actual money. Most models leave New York in debt. Men are paid even less than women. You’re surprised Jaehyun is as celebrated as he is—or the fact that he was clever enough of a businessman in launching his own high fashion-themed restaurant. You’ve heard he barely visits it, like a careless afterthought. But you’re not one to get carried away by sketchy articles on the internet. All you’ve needed are more reasons to hate him.

You sip the iced coffee, its effect pretty much worn out during humid afternoons. It’s time for a break, but no one’s willing to break momentum. You find yourself feeling a little awkward, as nothing more than a guest with creative advice, and so you sit under the comforting cool of the giant green umbrella at one of the tables. You could sink into your chair were it not so damn uncomfortable.

Jaehyun takes a seat right beside you to your surprise, offering you a box of diced mango before you fervently decline. You still think he’s an asshole. It doesn’t make any sense—why accuse you of unsaid affections and then flirt with you like he never said it? It’s not like you’re even friends, how ridiculous. There are quite a few jerks you’ve met in your life, but Jung Yoonoh really takes the cake.

“What?” you snap when his gaze gets on your nerves.

“I didn’t say anything.” He raises his hands defensively, eyes still on yours. “You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“I enjoy the air conditioned suite Taeyong booked me more than this, yes.” You sigh, leaning back. “I don’t really have anything to do.” 

“I’m assuming he booked you the luxury suite on the fifteenth floor,” he says, chuckling.

You furrow your eyebrows. It’s not impossible that Jaehyun knows Taeyong’s favorite suite to book for guests.

“The view’s pretty nice from there, right? Oh, and you must be enjoying the silence.”

“I actually like the outside sounds,” you defend. “It’s calming.” 

“Not when you’re on the third floor,” he says, shoving a piece of mango into his mouth with a fork. “All you hear is middle aged men screaming.”

You rest your elbow on the table, placing your chin against your palm. The shade is separated from sunlight by a thin line against his chest, pale blue satin glimmering where the sun meets it. Jaehyun’s eyes shine a darker hue of honey under the shade, moving to the box in his hands occasionally before trailing back to the background noise again. Taeyong really does love pretty fits, but this might just be one of the most gorgeous pieces you’ve seen this summer (and you’ve already been through all the ready-to-wear lookbooks you possibly could). A thought passes you in a breeze, that maybe it's the model making it seem that way.

“You’re talkative today,” you note quietly, the sun harsher on your cheeks than before.

Jaehyun shrugs, hurrying to finish all the pieces. He suddenly pulls a face, one you don’t see very often in high fashion websites and Instagram pages. It’s almost cute. 

“Sour.” 

You find yourself laughing, a gentle influx of peace filling the inside your chest. You quickly recover, looking back up to see Jaehyun simply staring at you, breathing. He looks caught off-guard, no camera to warn him. You straighten, your cheeks flushing with heat.

“Is- Is something wrong?”

He immediately shakes his head, more to himself than you. There’s a pause before the two of you are happily distracted. The style director appears to be gesturing at him from the other side and Jaehyun responds with a curt wave.

“You’re doing two different concepts today?”

“Three, actually.”

You raise your eyebrows. Well, they’re definitely taking advantage of the good weather. They could just photoshop it, in your opinion, but authenticity is everything when it comes to magazines nowadays. 

“Well, don’t let me hold you back,” you say, your tone dismissive. “Go get changed into whatever pretty shirt Taeyong has up next in his collection.”

“The next shoot doesn’t have a shirt,” he says, the corner of his mouth quirked upward.

You almost choke on your coffee, blaming the heat for your weak state of mind. You’re just having one of those strange days—just that, nothing else.

You finish the rest of the coffee, cup resting in your hand till you find the energy to get up and find a trash can.  

Jaehyun was right. This time the shoot’s a little too wet and a little too much skin for you to enjoy. The only thing added to Jaehyun above the waist are a dainty red scarf knotted over his neck and a small, flat hoop earring on his left ear. The velvet fingerless gloves, although you’re not very fond of them, complete a rather rugged yet soft look. You didn’t expect Taeyong to come up with something like that. 

Jaehyun’s well-developed physique, while you’ve seen it in other shoots and online articles, is completely different when you’re a few feet away from it. The dark blue cargo pants, silken, are a signature style of Taeyong but the details don’t distract you easily enough. Funny, this is the first time you’re feeling somewhat flustered in a place full of half-naked models. 

You suddenly think of reds and oranges, lilac shrubs and a hint of Burberry men’s perfume. In a way, it reminds you of the strums of the guitar your roommate used to play while you stayed up late, coming up with concepts. Cherishing, soothing—and special, just enough. The corner of your lips twitch and you take out your pocket sketchbook. It’s never too late to add a design to the collection, right? After all, you have secrets too. Maybe Taeyong was right about the outdoors for inspiration. 

Something sets into motion, subtle but sharp.

The next time you walk into Taeyong’s studio, you feel the sun on your face better. Everything seems to be fitting into place, as you smooth through designs at a pace your student self would be jealous of. When Taeyong praises your work, you feel a rush of pride smearing the inside of your chest and you finally feel like everything’s not falling apart. It feels good. It feels like you’re someone.

The days go by in what seems like barely seconds—you know what they say about New York minutes. The mustard cloth draped over your desk to the cottage blue of your curtains, the colours around you change as quickly as the wind. Sometimes they’re abstract—and other times, well, they have more to do with a stranger’s eyes, or the swirls within a coffee cup. It’s the way in which transition occurs around you, that you often forget it moves something within you too. 

You’ve put together some samples with Taeyong, most of them by yourself; the process of making is ever comforting, fabric even more so. You’ve sent the revised designs for production, feeling giddy about whatever is to come like it’s something new. (It shouldn’t be.) 

You fucking hate how different this is. Seoul is nothing compared to New York. The anxiety is nearly ten times worse, the streets are far more attractive when it comes to inspiration and the figure of Jung Yoonoh is no longer as easy to ignore. 

Even after the summer shoot’s over, Jaehyun often comes by to hang out at the studio, dressed in what you would call the simplest fucking thing you’d ever seen and still managing to look just as gorgeous. He blends in well with university students, often wearing the ugliest baseball cap you’ve ever seen, and the look of his face feels much, much worse than ever before. It’s at ease, smug even, but never failing to smile at you when you’re trying to focus. You don’t care how good of friends Taeyong and Jaehyun are—you want to tell him to leave. 

But you just can’t bring yourself to. It’s not that you don’t trust yourself, you certainly do, but whatever New York has done to you, includes making you feel a different way about him. Sometimes you find yourself pressing your legs together harshly, stiffening at any proximity with him and a pool of warmth at the base of your stomach you’d rather not feel.

It’s embarrassing to even think about it—the fact that he makes you feel that way, so hot and bothered like it’s your first time. You blame your lack of going out these few months because after all, anyone could fall in love with runway faces. It doesn’t have to mean it’s him you want. You carry on doing what you’ve been doing for the most part of your career, your best to avoid him. There are more pressing matters, and your head might just implode if you keep on worrying about things (a man, of all) you need not. 

Time passes even faster when all your thoughts revolve around the same thing.

One month. D-30. Whatever the hell you call time before the end of the world.

Your palms sweat a whole lot easier here. It’s a little weird, considering you don’t find much difference in humidity between Seoul and New York. Your heart often catches up in your throat too. Not a great feeling, your heart choking the breath out of you, but you’re used to it. You cope and you learn, that’s what it means to be human.

You pull your hand down before it reaches your teeth. The day ended in a meeting with Taeyong’s production team—everything’s running smoothly so you need not worry, he said. 

Why are those the words that make you worry the most? 

You check the time on your phone. 23:05 and a whole month to go. You better get some sleep for all the meetings you have scheduled tomorrow. You close your eyes and for a while, everything falls quiet.

You dream of New York Fashion Week. People come here to feel included. Everyone wants to be a part of something they don’t understand.

The models walk down the runway in increasingly uncomfortable outfits. You didn’t design any of them. Where are the ones you worked on? You can’t move from your seat, or turn your head from the runway, anything at all. Something’s wrong, everything’s wrong. You don’t belong here. Thunder strikes outside the venue and you wake up with a gasp caught in your throat, and the clock on the bedside table flashing 2:14.

You’ve had enough. You swear you’ve had enough.

You get up out of bed, pacing the giant bedroom, the empty spaces making you feel more and more miserable. The city twinkles with innumerous stars beyond your window, curtains half drawn so they can comfort you whenever you need—but these lights don’t shine for you, or anyone else. They shine for themselves. That’s what it means to be in New York again. 

What time is it in Seoul? Could you call your mother? Joohyun? Everyone must be busy right now—you don’t know what to do. It’s been a long time since you’ve felt so helpless. There’s a reason you’ve been avoiding New York for this long and now it’s come crashing down on you. 

This was a mistake. All of it was a mistake.

You look down at your phone, the light hurting your eyes despite being set to the lowest brightness. You think a little, and then some more. There’s no one else you can call. Even if he’s busy charming all the other employees whenever you see him, even if half the world is in love with him, there’s no one else you can call. This time you don’t stop yourself.

You tap the call button beside the Jung Yoonoh saved neatly. Tapping your foot against the floor nervously, your mind goes blank for a few seconds or so. He answers when you’re just about to hang up, breath hitching in your throat at the sound of his voice.

“Hello? Hello? If this is a reporter—”

“It’s me, Jaehyun.”

The line goes quiet for a moment and your voice overlaps his before he can begin.

“I- I didn’t mean to call so late. Sorry…uh.”

You scrunch up your face at your own voice. This is not getting you anywhere.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, voice lower.

You fall silent, unable to answer without breaking down into tears. You did not call Jung Yoonoh for that. 

“Yeah,” you choke out. “Fine. Completely fine. I just…”

You trail off, trying to get yourself to breathe.

“I’ll send you an address. Be there in an hour.”

You blink back tears, confusion adding to the burning pile of worries inside your head. 

“What?”

“Address. I’ll text you. Be there. One hour.”

“I’m not stupid, Jaehyun,” you snap, strength refilling your voice. “Why?”

“I’m not answering questions, just be there.”

With that, the line goes flat and an embarrassing amount of ‘hello’s get you to realize that he hung up. A notification pops up a minute later and you’re too groggy to decipher it, logging it to Maps instead so you can follow. It’s fifteen minutes away, you realize with a sigh of relief, so you can at least present yourself within the given constraint. 

You can’t grasp what you feel in the moment, the night air and warm streets beckoning you to leave the clamped apartment soaked in fear. You think this is unlike Jaehyun, what he’s doing, but you’re too shaken to care. You need some respite, even if it comes from somewhere you can’t picture.

“You…wanted to meet me at a Korean barbecue restaurant?”

Jaehyun’s ears turn red, as they often do when he doesn’t know how to respond to you.

“I-It’s not that I…Never mind,” he tries to explain, fidgeting with the cloth over his shoulder. “We can go somewhere else if you want.”  

We? You think, eyes scanning his face in confusion. If you want? Where’s the uncaring Jaehyun you’ve known, foreign eyes and impassive lips? He hardly looks the part he’s meant to play—a billboard face with a confident jawline and nothing more behind it. Outside of work—you don’t even know what else to call this—Jaehyun looks hardly intimidating, or abrasive. He seems different, gentle almost, although the dark circles under his eyes might have something to do with it. Maybe he’s too tired to say anything more and that’s it.

But he still came all the way here.

“Aren’t you a little…overdressed?” 

There comes the remark you were hoping to not hear. You just wanted to look nice; you’d hardly call this overboard. The loose, mustard-colored chiffon shirt cinches at the waist, paired with your nicest (only not faded) pair of light blue jeans and shoes that haven’t seen the light of day since you arrived here. You barely ever design clothes for yourself anymore but you thought you looked good in this.

“No,” you defend quickly, feeling your face grow warm. “You’re underdressed.”

You say that, but he clearly looks good in anything he wears. Could you expect any less of  a supermodel? He doesn’t seem to have dressed in as much a hurry as you had. Clad in a plain black T-shirt that’s half tucked into skinny jeans, he’s added his hideous baseball cap and a pair of navy blue shades which looks just as ridiculous as it sounds. You really think he shouldn’t be leaving his house without the help of a stylist. 

“I…I just mean you don’t wear anything other than the same sweater and pants combination to work, so… please excuse my surprise.”

Jaehyun's eyes flicker over your figure before masking it with an awkward cough. You reach out and pull the shades over his head, the look bothering you more than anything else. He doesn’t respond to it, at least not in a way that’s obvious, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to do—you fixing his hair and unquestionably awful sense of style.

“There’s a soju place a few blocks ahead. Or if you’re not into that, there’s a noodle shop just at the edge of K-town,” Jaehyun rambles on, not meeting your eye. “If you’re looking for something inexpensive—"

“You came all the way here to give me directions?” You raise an eyebrow. You might even be enjoying this, although your inner voice bites back at you, denying it.

Jaehyun shakes his head, the red in his ears pulsing back up. “No. I…I needed some fresh air.”

“You…have someplace to be then?”

Jaehyun might not realize it, but the answers he gives always have room for teasing. Aloof. Vague. Yet somehow sweet.

“And you’ll go alone? At this hour? No, I’ll accompany you,” he says out loud, trying to play off the sudden vocal inflection. You sigh. Boys will be boys, as they say. Even if they’re twenty-six.

You let him keep you company. Though the first few minutes are painfully quiet, neither of you knowing quite what to say without starting a disagreement, you continue your walk through a city that never sleeps. It’s awkward even, being side by side without you seething at his charming, (undoubtedly) fake smile. He feels real, for once, and you don’t know how to react. There seem to be some gold-tinted cracks appearing in your reality, slowly but surely, and you’re not very good at patching anything other than fabric.

“You know, it’s actually a little relieving to see Korean letters here,” you say, sighing. You never thought you’d be so corny, but it really does feel good being here. 

Or is it him? 

“Thanks,” you add quietly, hoping he doesn’t hear. No, maybe you do. You can’t tell at this point.

“I…I know what it’s like,” he says, so softly that it almost gets carried away by the wind. He clears his throat, an ‘ah’ escaping his lips as he stops abruptly.

“We…We missed the turn,” he declares, a little sheepish as he scratches the back of his head.

You look at him in disbelief. ��Jaehyun, how long have you lived here?”

“Oh, I was born here actually,” he says, tilting his face to look at you, blunt sarcasm evident on it. “How many times have you lost your way to the convenience store in Seoul?”

“Literally zero times.”

Jaehyun puffs a cheek before going back to normal and turning a hundred and eighty degrees down the street.

“Hey, wait up!” you huff at his increased pace, half jogging to keep up.

You reach the acclaimed noodle shop, your breath barely within your lungs and swearing at Jaehyun who looks like he wasn’t bothered one bit. He reaches his hand out to help you and you swat it away, chest still heaving with your hands on your knees.

“Dickhead,” you hiss.

“I don’t think I deserved that,” he responds with a widening smile. 

“Asshole,” you say, standing up straight to glare at him.

“What would Seoul say hearing their beloved designer swear like this?” Jaehyun looks almost amused, as if you hadn’t shared an awkward time together, like two teenagers who were forced to walk home together from the bus stop.

“They can go to hell,” you retort. “As can you.”

Jaehyun laughs, a strange sound to hear and you blink a few times, unsure of what to do. You wonder if it’s the night playing tricks or if Jaehyun really is an actual person, not the basket of preprocessed insults you were used to. The cracks are widening—you’re not sure if they’re meant to be patched.

Perhaps you were a little eager to enter someplace warm, but you feel immense relief in this little shop, despite the smell of chili paste and noodle soup wafting through the air. It’s a little empty; in fact, you two seem to be the only people there apart from some students at the other corner, but you sit there in your own bubble, talking with Jaehyun of all people about which singer is better. He laughs occasionally, still managing to catch you off-guard with how honest it sounds and you wonder for a moment, how nice this feels. For the first time in a month, your heartbeat seems to have settled at a normal rate.

“What?” you enounce, a little offended. “What’s so wrong about my love life?”

“You just- You just don’t seem that type,” he explains, his ears as red as the bowl.

“I don’t have time for commitments, Jaehyun,” you sigh. “It’s what happens when you’re good at your job.”

Jaehyun nods, something akin to agreement in his response. 

“So, your, uh, what is it? Training camp? What’s that about?” you ask, in between blowing your food.

“You could really Google things once in a while, you know?” he replies, bringing his chopsticks close to his mouth.

You roll your eyes. “I’m sorry I’m not one of your creepy stalkers, Mr. Jung.”

“Nothing to do with that,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s for kids interested in fashion, modeling, photography—stuff.”

“Oh? How so?”

“I just sponsor them. You know how difficult it is to get noticed in…this industry,” he explains, like it’s not a big deal. Nothing ever seems to be a big deal to him.

You nod, unable to help the smile. Maybe it isn’t a big deal, but you’re sure now that you were mistaken. Just a little bit. 

“I was lucky,” you mumble. “I can’t believe they saw those ugly embroidered patches and decided to sponsor me, oh my god. That sweater was hideous.”

Jaehyun laughs loudly. “They saw me cleaning outside my school and decided to pick me up and ship me straight to Paris.”

“Nothing’s worse than the first day.” You take another mouthful, the taste savoury and filling. 

“You know, I’m pretty sure they photoshopped my ears out in the first magazine shoot I had.”

You laugh, leaning in a little closer. “Your first year was rough, huh?”

He hums, his eyes flickering from your nose to your lips. It makes you a little self-conscious, blood rushing to your cheeks at an unexpected pace. Who knew Jaehyun could have such an effect on you? 

Your eyes flutter over his face once again.

He’s handsome. But it’s the sort of handsomeness that tells you, you don’t know much beyond it. You look back at your bowl, sobering up and completing the rest of the noodles.

It’s still midnight blue in the faraway sky as you walk down the streets. Most of the people you see out and about are those drunk off their faces from club hopping or a particularly enthusiastic group of tourists. The watermelon soju, while better with budae-jjigae and arguably the best soju flavor, somehow had little effect on you with the bitter aftertaste still settling in. The crowds in other places would make for great people-watching but you walk in a lonely street that calls for proximity. Beside you, Jaehyun sneezes, the sound of it making you jump on the quiet sidewalk.

“Jesus Christ, Jaehyun,” you huff, wincing at the sound, “you sounded like a fucking tractor.”

Jaehyun laughs, looking down at the pavement. When he looks back at you, the circles underneath his eyes seem to have darkened and you wonder if yours are the same. Yours can’t possibly be as important as his, though, and you wonder if it’s appropriate to laugh at how dorky he looks.

You find yourself not wanting to walk back into the safety of your suite. Jaehyun has a look of calm across his features, drawing over the landscape around you. New York lights don’t faze him, they only reflect in his eyes. 

The way his soft breaths fan out against his lips remind you that he is human, after all—he has a soul and body, thoughts and its beautiful intricacies. When he turns back to you, you feel those criminal feelings all over again, except this time it’s even louder. It feels so wrong, and yet you can’t help but think of the liberation that could come with his lips on yours. 

You could swear out loud, all the colorful words ready at the tip of your tongue.

“Your collar’s…”

Jaehyun’s voice trails off, his hand moving to fix your flipped collar, and when the heat of his skin brushes your neck, you try to not think of where else his hands could be, his lips could be. 

In fact, there’s a moment within where it’s perfectly reasonable for him to kiss you, the taste almost on your tongue. But Jaehyun moves away, an indecipherable look across his face.

“I should get going,” he says, “I have a- I have a shoot early tomorrow—today.”

You nod, cheeks coloring at your own unsaid thoughts. Just what have you done to yourself? Why is your skin searing, why does your stomach feel upside down and why were you so ready to give in to him? To Jaehyun? You’ve never felt want like this before, this need to press skin against skin in a manner so illicit. 

You part with a short goodbye, the sudden loneliness in your path making you want to backtrack, ask if you can go somewhere else again—maybe there’s a club nearby so you can see him through a round of shots as you usually do. Maybe the bitter feelings will return then. 

When you think of the words you exchanged over the course of so unusual a night—your former unforgiving words contradict you. You hate the realization but being so obscure in front of a camera doesn’t have to mean he’s pretentious. Maybe you were wrong. Maybe someday you’ll even admit it.

You feel a flash of heat in your face. You are not running to Jung Yoonoh—what an embarrassing thought. If the very core of your being isn’t repulsed by it, there’s something wrong with you. 

There’s something definitely wrong with you, love.

You breathe sharply, trying to organize your thoughts. As if the paparazzi wouldn’t have a treat out of this meeting you had with him if they got to know. You’d better limit it to the only one.

You bite your nails out of force of habit. It’s not going to help. You know. But there’s hardly anything else to cool your nerves.

Front row tickets to New York Fashion Week—the most mortifying dream out of all the ones you’ve ever had. The way Taeyong fidgets, you want to believe he’s in the same boat as you—it makes you thankful even. 

Even outside of New York, Lee Taeyong is known for booking out exclusively intimate spaces. There are some props for the pre-show photography, including inked sketches on giant vertical banners stuck to the walls and tables with a messy collection of coffee cans, pencils and a sewing machine. Diverse types of fabric roll off the table in long strips, gently lining the floor till they end midway to another table. It’s a mess—a mess you made look good.

You’d left that and the backstage behind now. All eyes are on the sparsely lit runway, your aspirations coating the air in a thick veil. Are you ready? You won’t know till the first model steps out and till you can elicit a response from the audience.

Jaehyun’s at another venue—career before friendship, or, heaven forbid, attraction. You’d seen the fitting, cape skirt doing daringly well with his long legs clad in black pants, and a classy vest over a ruffled white shirt. You hate seeing other designs before a show, but god, were you glad you’d visited Givenchy to meet Johnny. 

But you’re relieved even, that Jaehyun isn’t here. You don’t have the strength to face him anyway, all your energy directed into this chasm of whatever you’d call six months of effort. You want to call yourself accomplished. You want to be proud of yourself.

So this time, you remember all twenty-six minutes of it.

God, they look so beautiful up there, when they’re being looked at, seen for what they are—you’ll never get over it. There’s still hardly much to remember, except this time you’re happy to do it all over again. Effort only exists if it’s acknowledged.

It settles in quite a while later, the weight of all you’d done. You could almost cry, but that’s better left to pillows and the unrelenting skies above a midnight-coated rooftop. This is your moment. For once, you’re anything but afraid. 

Afterparties are still not your thing. 

However, you had your nicest outfit picked out and Lee Taeyong’s fancy, themed afterparties are something notorious among your colleagues. You’ve heard designers tend to go all out, wearing the best things they’ve designed even if it makes them a little embarrassed to be wearing their own work.

You feel a sigh leave your lips as you finally find a place to sit, your earlier conversations leaving you drained of social energy. You don’t feel alien—it’s strange—and their compliments feel almost warm. The music playing over the speakers is something, you’re sure, from a 60’s American movie, and while it has its own strange allure, the champagne gives you a larger dose of relief. 

In fact, if you’re not mistaken, it’s quite like the ballroom in Paris, although significantly smaller. Burgundy wallpaper and lit up crystals hanging in hexagonal shapes across the ceiling—it’d look lovely on a dress too.

Taeyong’s speech, of course, gives you a spike of anxiety with the sudden announcement of his label’s future, a brand now. He smiles on the small podium, everyone admiring his radiance when suddenly he gestures at you, the glass in your hand feeling hotter and hotter.

“…I couldn’t do this without the only designer I felt was up to this—the first designer to work under my brand, as of now…” 

You try not to blush under all the pairs of eyes that turn to you. 

“(name), thank you.” 

Success feels good. Gratitude feels even better.

Everything feels natural, as if a dream gone right. You’re no longer afraid of the world you stepped into, or the accumulation of feelings that molded you into the person you are now. The confidence you so chased after as if it were morphine, you’re going to be keeping an eye on it before it can run away again.

There’s still one little problem to your night of triumph, though. 

Jaehyun hasn’t taken his eyes off you ever since you entered, a conversation yet pending. You already know he looks good in the plainest of T-shirts, so it might be a no-brainer that he looks absolutely stunning in a suit. The crystals lining the lapels of his coat glimmer amidst the crowd he’s gathered. It’s hard to come in contact, however. He’s magnetic, almost formidable in the way he attracts attention, and you know it’s something that comes with being a man of few words. 

“You’re not enjoying the party?” you ask, taking in Jaehyun’s figure on the veranda overlooking the garden. He sits on one of the mahogany chairs, swirling the glass of champagne with a look of indifference coating his eyes and lips.

“I am,” he says, turning to face you. “Needed a short break.”

“I suppose being the most attractive man in the room needs a break,” you say, taking a seat beside him.

A wry laugh leaves his lips, as he lays his eyes on you. “You don’t seem bothered by it though?”

“I believe that pretty is as pretty does,” you say, your lips twitching.

Jaehyun smiles, furrowing his eyebrows yet still. “You think multimillionaire companies are built on things like inner beauty?”

He’s right. What’s inside is beautiful—it’s too idealistic a phrase. You sigh, adjusting your sleeve. It’s a difficult life, walking the runway no one dares to step on. 

I think you’d make that cut too, you want to tell him.

“You know the best thing I got told today?” you ask, diverting the stream of conversation. You think he’s a friend. Even if it could be the champagne talking. Even if you want something more than the innocence of friendship. 

Jaehyun raises an eyebrow. “Did Cristóbal Balenciaga’s ghost show up to compliment you?”

“No,” you emphasize, laughing at his pronunciation. “It was this girl. A student. Said she wrote an essay about me.”

Jaehyun hums, dimples marking his cheeks. “I didn’t know a student could get you so giddy.”

You laugh, looking down at your hands before resting your gaze on him again. He leans forward in his seat, strands of hair falling over his face from the rest and a contemplating look over his features. He looks much, much different from when you first saw him, and even handsomer, if that were possible. He’s grown up from the awkward boy you saw in the press release pictures of the Saint Laurent Fall Collection—he looks sharp and valiant on front covers, his shoulders broad and his eyes darling. Jaehyun is still unironically the most breathtaking man you’ve ever met. He might even be one of the sweetest, inside out. 

You look to his lips, full as ever. Perhaps you have something to confess. Secrets aren’t meant to be kept so long.

“Jaehyun,” you call, bringing his attention before faltering. It’s not like you’re the only one fawning over his smile. You get up instead, excusing yourself. “I’ll see you inside I suppose.”

“You know I like you, right?”

You turn around. “What?”

Jaehyun gets up, brushing his suit and fixing the lapels. The gentle night haze and the contrasting calls of the brightly lit party inside brush over an effect you’ve never felt before. “I…I like you. It’s pretty straightforward, I think.”

You deny it, or rather, some repressed little emotion inside you denies it vehemently. “Jaehyun, really. I admit I was a complete asshole to you and- and...it was…kind of you to accompany me that night but—”

“Stop. Don’t- Don’t call that kind. You’re not seeing the full picture.”

You stand there, unsure of what to do as you feel your chest grow warmer. Jaehyun turns his head upwards, letting out an audible breath. You can see conflict on his face, the struggle of someone still mulling over the perfect words.

“I don’t hate you. I never really hated you even if I wanted to.”

You suppose it wouldn’t be the right time to say that you might have indulged in that.

“I did,” you confess. “I hated you for a very, very long time, Jaehyun.”

“I know,” he whispers, looking straight at you. “I didn’t mean to leave you hanging—”

“Jaehyun, I don’t care about that,” you say, your voice rising, “You told me you felt suffocated in bow ties and laughed when I asked if you wanted to run away with me. I just ended up thinking you were a goddamn liar.”  

“Fine,” he says quietly in his baritone timbre, sounds of the chatter from inside numbing away. “Then let me be honest.”

“When I met you, I thought there was someone like me doing just the same—so…suddenly in the midst of everything. Even if you were a complete asshole to me. You were still real.”

He phrases it delicately, lilting, as if that hasn’t been your whole purpose here.  He’s only a breath away from you, but you don’t want to push him away this time. There’s a moment’s pause.

“Between work and myself, which is more important? For once, I thought I could answer that question.”

Your breaths are soft and shallow as they fall, trying to understand his words.

“And then you just fucking stopped. You stopped flying out and I’d barely see you outside of Seoul like you- like you gave up or something. I didn’t understand—what happened to you?”

Jaehyun looks at you with a hardened expression, ears turning red as if he hadn’t expected this outburst of truth. He gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. It’s not like him to open his mouth and let out words that are raw and honest; it makes you feel the weight even more. You were still kids that night. You’re not anymore.

“Jaehyun,” you whisper before reaching your hand out and placing it against his cheek.

It’s so hard to not take in the details. The prominence of the muscle by his mouth when he speaks, the fine lines by his nose which appear sporadically or the look of complete reverence in his eyes when he’s staring at you like this—everything those runway shots can’t possibly capture. Your eyes trail to his lips, your own drawn to it with a desire you don’t know how to comprehend—and don’t quite wish to, either.

You want to believe he made the first move but you give in so easy, it’s alarming. Your lips move against his in a rhythm new and frantic, his hands gripping you with full strength at the waist and you part your lips to allow a deeper kiss. Your hands are free to roam his perfectly styled hair, tousling it in a fashion that makes him groan, only to push you harder against the wall. 

“I should’ve- I should’ve let you kiss me that night,” he mumbles against your lips. “Maybe I…I wouldn’t have made you hate me.”

“Maybe you should shut up and kiss me right now,” you respond, your tongue pressing against his, effectively doing the job.

It’s not difficult to see stars when his hips press against yours, his hand resting on one thigh to pull it up slightly. You feel the impact of it head-on, almost moaning out loud when his fingers press harder against the back of your thigh.

“Tell me- Tell me you want this,” he breathes out when he breaks the kiss.

You respond with reconnecting your lips, your tongue sliding against his in fervent affirmations. You’ve already forfeited your modesty, there’s no reason to stop.

You leave early, getting into the car you’d booked for the night. It would be far more embarrassing were it not for the separation between the front and backseats, when Jaehyun’s hands are up your clothes and his lips rough against your neck. The lip colour has smudged by the side of Jaehyun’s lips, a short giggle escaping you when you notice. It’s not enough to halt the kissing, or feeling each other up —something that feels long overdue. You try to keep your sounds to a minimum but Jaehyun seems to not care about things as worthless as shame, at least for the moment.

“Well, you’re about as graceful as a sea lion when you’re off the runway,” you hiss when Jaehyun’s teeth prick your skin.

“I haven’t done this in a while,” he responds in a low tone, the rest of his retort pushed away by his lips against your mouth.

You don’t have time to take in the details of Jaehyun’s apartment because he’s already carrying you to the bed, your legs around his waist and continuing to kiss you as if making up for something. All those years, you could have been doing this. Maybe you do have some regrets.

The material of his dress shirt feels expensive but clothes are not what you need right now. His phone rings once but he drags a finger over it to reject the call, his mouth still pressing against your collarbone. The only sounds you hear are rugged breathing and you fumbling with the buttons of his shirt as you pull it over his shoulders. The city lights below you reach through the drawn curtains, all the unrelenting complicacies left behind in those faraway streets.

Jaehyun makes a sound of annoyance at the phone ringing yet again. He breaks apart from you, receiving the call while his fingers massage his temple.

“Hyung, I’m fine. I’ll talk to you later—”

“I was just wondering where you disappeared and you don’t even grace me with a hello?” Johnny’s voice rings clear in the all too silent bedroom.

“Hyung—”

“Wait a minute.” There’s a pause within which Jaehyun seems to tense up. “Are you fucking? Like did you leave the party to get la—”

“Hyung. I’m hanging up.” 

The coral pink spread over his ears is almost as pretty as the look of pure annoyance over his face.

“That—”

“Didn’t happen,” you complete, giggling. If someone were to tell you’d be seeing Jaehyun like this a few months ago, you wouldn’t know whether to be embarrassed or exhilarated.

You place your hand at the nape of his neck, pulling him into another kiss.

Sex is barely ever beautiful—even if it’s Jung Yoonoh over you, planting kisses from your mouth to jaw, neck to chest and whispering sweet, delicious words against each part. He certainly knows how to use that tongue of his, better than you’d expect from a boy so pristine.

It doesn’t matter if it’s not beautiful, when it’s just like a slow dance—in shared solace and love out of time. You bite your lips to stop smiling too often for it to feel as serious and indifferent as all the other times. Sometimes you feel Jaehyun grinning into the crook of your neck, the giddiness of love taking over the movement of your hips against his. The perfect anatomy of his, paired with his candied words makes you think that maybe you do fit together.

Jaehyun pushes into you at a steady pace, your fingers digging into his back and over his shoulder blades only to draw out sounds more pleasing to your ears. You let someone else take charge for once, his praising whispers of ‘that’s my baby’ or ‘you just look so good’ far too teasing but he follows through, your body barely able to respond apart from shaking and shuddering till you reach your high. 

The sound of skin against skin dies down well into the night and you get cleaned, still blissed out from making the summit of all your senses. It’s warm inside, despite turning the air conditioner on.

“Jaehyun,” you call, lowering yourself to press a quick kiss to his lips. 

“Hm?” He gives you a drowsy smile, arm under his head and hair sticking to his forehead funny.

“Did you really not hate me? Not even once?” You rest your cheek against your palm as you lie beside him.

Even under the dim lights, it’s not hard to spot the blush on him when he positively glows. Jaehyun reminds you of warm auburn and the touch of cool satin—it’s easy to make things, find inspiration in love.

“Oh my god, you were lying!” you accuse, sitting up straight. “There’s no way you didn’t hate me. I called your modeling as good as a coconut’s!”

“As you so love to remind me,” he mumbles.

There’s a brief moment before the two of you crack up, his deep laughter perfectly mismatched with yours. There’s hardly many sounds on the eighteenth floor, but maybe you’ve always been yearning for this privacy—this proximity in shared laughter and warm touches. 

“No, I didn’t,” Jaehyun answers your question after it’s quiet once again. “I thought...I think you’re…”

Jaehyun trails off, his eyes flickering over your face before fixing on your lips as his own tug into a smile. He gulps. “I think we’d be in trouble if the paparazzi saw us throwing choice words at each other, don’t you think? You were barely out of school then.”

“Me?” You laugh. “You were thinking about me?”

“And a little bit about me.” 

You fall asleep against Jaehyun’s chest with the certainty of kinder tomorrows, a thing he teaches you through whispers against the pillow and fingers playing with your hair. There’s something private in the way he holds your face, something delicate and homely running from his long fingers to his flushed knuckles and the rest of his hand as it presses against your cheek. It’s warm here, and safe, and maybe home is where the heart is, after all.

“Really? You’re not even a little bit sad I’m leaving?” you ask, placing your hand over your heart. “Who’s going to help you when you’re getting bullied in the workplace now?”

Doyoung huffs in annoyance, placing the box down beside the moving truck. “You’re the only one who bullies me in the workplace.”

You adjust the ugly baseball cap on your head, the one Jaehyun had pulled over your head in an attempt to stop you from complaining about his messy apartment. You hadn’t realized you’d worn it all the way to Seoul till the articles about your questionable choice of accessories had surfaced.

“Your boyfriend’s calling,” Doyoung says, making a face as he picks your phone up from the box near him. “I can’t even believe this. All those years of flirting and—”

You snatch it from him, glaring at him for the choice of words. He raises his hands defensively, rolling his eyes at your sudden movement.

“Are you sure you don’t want me flying to Seoul?”

“Unless you’re planning to work in a truck rental.”

You hear Jaehyun laugh on the other side of the line. Is it normal to have blood rush straight from your chest to your ears at the sound of laughter? You hope that doesn’t change.

You’d visited him a day before your flight. It hasn’t been all that long but Jaehyun certainly makes it out to be, just so he can use his cheesy one-liners. You try not to smile thinking about how he had flung his hair band out, immediately tousling his hair back into a pretty mess and struggling to keep a straight face when you’d visited out of the blue. Jaehyun wakes up at one in the afternoon when his schedule is empty and it had appalled you enough to help him out with basic chores before you left. (It didn’t end well. He kept putting his chin on your shoulder and sneaking his arms around you while you did the dishes.)

“(name)? (name), are you daydreaming again?” 

You sigh. “You can’t wait three more days, Jae? It’s, what, one in the morning there!”

“Do you want me saying something cheesy?”

“Absolutely not.”

“I don’t think I can sleep without waking up to your face.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, unable to grace him with a response. The dreamy languor in his voice is more than recognizable and if you’re not mistaken, he’s going to be saying something highly inappropriate.

“Do you know what dream I had last night?” he asks, the smile almost evident with how suggestive it sounds.

“Jaehyun, no,” you warn before lowering your voice. “I swear if it’s another dirty dream—”

“Come home and I’ll tell you all about it. With demonstrations.”

This time you can’t help the laughter, trying to mask it with a cough only to fail. You push the back of your hand against your cheek in order to soothe the involuntary blush. Your perfume smells just like him, and you realize suddenly why he’d gifted it to you.

“That definitely makes me want to leave faster,” you quip.

“I certainly hope so.”

It’s different now, especially if you remember your feelings just last February. Change feels easy for the first time in your life. You check off your list of items, counting the boxes as they’re lifted onto the truck. It took a good amount of thinking, and a bunch of fights before you could decide. New York isn’t so bad. Not when you have reason to be there. You’d like to call it love.

A list of things you do appreciate: Jung Yoonoh. Jaehyun. Whatever.

[endlich-allein]

Interview with Till about his life: he fought with his father, killed his beloved dog, swam on a wild river and worked on suffering. How Till Lindemann's mind works

"I will finish you off" and why you fought for the German army.

Werner Lindemann wanders around the room, interrupting the silence with strange questions, writing something down. His motive is to get to know his son and make him a friend. But it's complicated. Generational conflict.

"My island of tranquility is shaken every day. The day before yesterday, a guy pulled on my socks because his were torn. Yesterday he didn't put out a single lamp in the house. Now, with voluptuous delight, he spits cherry pits into the cat's fur. Is this grown boy really an adult?"

The apprenticeship in Rostock, where you have to do window production after graduation, is the limit of boredom. Till Lindemann moved to his father in the countryside so that he could forget about the hustle and bustle of the city and not fall under the article for anti-social attitudes. He thought of a new life, in which there was no pointless work, and arranged an attic in his father's house.

In the mornings over coffee, he scolded life that everything went according to schedule. And listened very loudly to music - electronics and metal. My father didn't understand and grumbled: “I matured late. Naturally, I wanted to listen to the music I liked, but I could not get my hands on these records. For example, my father did not understand when I bought the Alice Cooper record for a month's salary.

Werner Lindemann was a children's writer who went through the war.

At the height of his career he disappeared for weeks on literary tours - his fame spread to teachers and librarians across the country. His father pecked at Lindemann for refusing to work and promised to turn him in:

"My willful child. What doesn't fit his standards is rejected as nonsense or crap." So he took a job as a carpenter, where he made shovel cuttings and cart wheels. The head foreman constantly drank vodka during the day, didn't want to be annoyed with questions and addressed the long-haired Lindemann with the nickname: "Mozart!" This suited him.

Werner Lindemann talked about war, hard existence and limitations. For example, about a grenade splinter that remained in his body. Lindemann did not believe in all these stories - but categorically did not accept service, war and murder:

“After that I objected: “I would hide, I would not go to war. Why did you even let yourself be dragged into this? You could have hidden."

And he said: “It didn't work out. They searched for it and it took away."

Then I said: “I would rather go under arrest. Never in my life, I would go to the front line to shoot people. It's against my nature. It would be better if I went to jail."

Much of the time father and son were simply silent, even while watching television.

"He regularly made me feel guilty, to say the least, he placed himself on a pedestal towards me: I shouldn't complain. At your age, I ran barefoot through the stubble, and in my stomach - a potato in a uniform."

The only acceptance is Mike Oldfield's music: "One day my father came to grumble again. At that moment I was listening to Mike Oldfield, and he sat down and said: "That sounds interesting."

For me it was like a quantum leap: my father sits in my room, listens to my music and thinks it was good. Probably because of melancholy. He was sitting in a rocking chair that I made myself - at the time I was working as a carpenter on a farm. I, too, always sat in an armchair, immersed myself in music and smoked hand-rolled cigarettes."

The conflict was intensified by a fight. Lindemann bought a Trabant car, installed speakers in it and tested the sound - loud as usual. “Then my father came and I had to turn off this fucking music. It was kind of loud for him. He was then fiddling around his cases of flowers, and then suddenly the situation escalated. I think he slapped me while I was still in the car.

He leaned toward me and hit me with the back of his hand. I made some bullshit remarks like, "Leave me alone," something like that. That was a provocation to him, and he said: "If you do that again, I'll hit you for real." And I said, "Then you'll get it back. Because you're crazy. Don't you dare to hit me anymore."

And then he hit me with his palm again. He wasn't controlling himself.

He was exalting himself. Instantly he introduced himself as a boxer - he had boxed in the Hitler Youth - and I just... I thought I didn't hit him, I just pushed him away. And then he stood in front of me again, "Come on, I'll finish you, you haven't got a chance!" Somehow. After that, he went up to the attic and threw all my stuff out the window.

It happened over the weekend, my sister was there, a lot of screaming, serious drama. Then I packed my things, put them in the car, went to a friend's house and never went into his house again. At first I lived with this friend, and a week later I bought myself a house in the village."

His father's book is about his son, which the son will only open up after the death of the father.

Lindemann is a late child. He was born when his father was 36. The gap in their relationship was felt in everyday life and perception of the world. Werner Lindemann woke up early in the morning, worked with the circular saw under the windows and did not understand when his son slept until noon after a working week.

Lindemann's parents then lived separately, but kept in touch. Mom worked as a journalist and discussed her texts with his father. "She still lived in Rostock and always came to see him only on weekends. Mostly on Sundays she came back quite early, because she couldn't stand the stress of being with him, either."

In 1988, the book “Mike Oldfield im Schaukelstuhl Notizen eines Vaters" In this book, Lindemann Senior describes the relationship with his son (whom he calls Timm in the book), who settled with him at the age of 18. The book was written in the 80s and laid on the table until the German Democratic Republic and the Federal Republic of Germany were reunited.

Werner Lindemann wanted his son to take up writing too. But this only amused him, although as a child he wrote poetry. At the age of 13, little Till Lindemann and his father were returning home along the bumpy road to Mecklenburg. They talked about career self-determination:

"You should already have thoughts about what you want to become, boy." My answer: "I don't know yet, maybe a fisherman on the high seas."

But immediately, no matter what I said, objections arose: “But then you have to get a certificate of maturity. But then you will be away all the time. But then you won't be able to start a relationship."

There was always a “but”.

At some point it got on my nerves, as usual. And I said: "Worst case scenario, I'll just become a writer.

I still remember how alienated his face became. "And what do you think then, what do I do! It's a very hard job! In fact, it's not even a job, it's a passion. And it's a job that's supposed to be enjoyable."

I said, "I don't know anybody who works with pleasure."

"Yeah, that's the problem. You have to look for a job that gives you pleasure." Then I say again, "But some people never get to choose..." This gigantic discussion happened because I didn't take his profession seriously. At the same time, he was completely lost, funny!"

Lindemann thoughtfully read his father's book, in which he comprehends their relationship, after his death. Faked for hidden anger and indecision. For example, in a situation where their dog Kurt was bitten by a fox. The father was frightened because of rabies: “At the same time, we did not even know whether he was bitten by a fox or not. The father immediately called the huntsman. But I said: no one will enter this courtyard and shoot the dog. I'll do it myself if I really need it. At some point I really had to kill the dog."

Lindemann is not a monster. The animals he fiddled with are an important attribute of childhood. He had an aquarium and hamsters, brought mice and rats home, and was friends with dogs. “Like many children of new buildings, he felt the need for someone alive, in need of love,” said Werner Lindemann. Sometimes the appearance of an animal in the house was surprising:

“This guy will never say what he's up to. He appears on the doorstep at the same time as me. He gets out from his vehicle, throws his coat open and puts a young black shepherd in my hands. "Your Christmas present!"

Till's father is speechless. My son stands before me like the sun's little brother. Touchingly concerned, he directs me into the house, working out a plan for the animal husbandry, accommodation and diet of our new pet housemate.

With confusion, a question flies from my lips, "Wheredid you get the dog from?" "Timm" is gibbering, "Imagine, the mason in the barnyard wanted to hang him, simply wanted to strangle him with a rope, said he was a worthless eater..."

Werner Lindemann died of stomach cancer in 1993, when his son was 30. They didn't finally reconcile, but Till visited him in his last days and was there for him with his mother: "They couldn't be without each other, even though they lived apart. Unreal, but my mother never had another man afterwards. To this day she can't let go of him."

- Not going to the Olympics in Moscow and ending up in the German ghetto

Lindemann had the knowledge and the potential to be a swimmer. And a shyness that pounded harder three days before the competition than concerts in front of crowds of thousands. "I know how difficult it is to develop willpower and stamina and instill those attributes. In the GDR this was instilled in us by coaches and so-called functionaries."

Lindemann came to swimming at the age of eight and devoted his entire youth to the sport. He would get up for training at five in the morning and pass out in the evening. His grandmother watched him from the stands. At a competition in Leipzig she shouted at the coach, who told Lindemann off for a poor result. The grandmother took the coach by the ear and said: "How do you talk to my grandson?"

Sports tightened up his upbringing and developed self-discipline. “Drilling - probably the boy has already received this experience as a swimmer,” Lindemann's father wrote. - Once he had to take second place in a competition, but by no means first place. Of course, he got carried away, forgot about it, became the first, thanks to which he received a shouting for indiscipline. And whenever he lost in the future, his coach would torture him at practice for a long time and yelled at him: "Even if you win, you're not a winner yet!"

Lindemann swam the 1.5 km freestyle and could have gone to the 1980 Olympics in Moscow. Everything was ruined when he left the hotel without permission during a competition in Florence: "I didn't want to run, but just wanted to look at the city. Cars, bikes, girls. I was caught and kicked out of the team, but then I didn't give the required results either."

Lindemann competed at the European Junior Championships, but did not go any higher. After the story in Florence, his career in sport slipped away. Perhaps an abdominal injury influenced his departure. Lindemann is gone, but he doesn't yearn: "I was relatively young. There were no good [memories] left. I was glad it was over."

"The hardest part was getting back to normal. I fell into a real hole. My home was no longer a sports school, but a ghetto in Rostock. Now I stood out through drinking and fighting. I used to be surrounded only by beautiful ladies who were interested in swimming. Now I had fierce women standing in front of me asking, "How come you don't drink?" When I was shy about approaching a girl, it was interpreted as: "Are you gay?"

Lindemann now works with a coach and swims a few kilometers before his tours to get in shape: "When I exercise, I feel a certain lightness - not only physically, but also mentally. I just feel better. The main problem is staying in shape. That's where self-discipline comes into play. Teeth grinding is important."

- Three weeks in the wild and loneliness as a creative tool

Emotionally, concerts = sports:

"How do I go on tour? Hungry. And happy. It is good to compare concerts with sport. You don't want to do both at first. You don't want to go on stage. You don't want to go to the pool. You don't want to go to the boxing ring. It all happens with reluctance. It has to be accepted somehow, that's life: spring, summer, fall, winter.

When it's done, winter's gone, the blooming begins, greenery appears, it gets bright, and you start to get a taste for it. When it's over, you feel happy. Then the body produces a sea of chemistry, a lot of happiness hormones. I think the body rewards itself."

The stage, like sports, is an embarrassment, but a necessity. Lindemann wore dark glasses in order to collect fewer views from the audience. Therefore, a couple of steps before the water, he looked at the pool with a shiver. You need to cope with yourself in order to open up to new emotions.

Lindemann's gut requires solitude and moderate solitude. This is the point:

“Loneliness is always good for a creative push - you drink a glass of wine and you feel even shitier. Art is not complete without suffering; art exists to compensate for suffering."

With his friend Joey Kelly, Lindemann spent three weeks on the Yukon River. They paddled through the wilderness in a kayak for eight to 10 hours each and lived in a tent. Lindemann didn't take a tape recorder with him, so he transferred the lyrics wandering in his head on paper.

They were catching inspiration and atmosphere:

"There were times when we wouldn't say a word for hours, but then: look there, look there! It was breathtakingly beautiful. These relatively fast-changing panoramas and skies, layers of clouds, the colors.

Except for a few bears and wolves, it's hard to see anyone else out there, it's exhilarating. Along the way we saw two hunters setting traps. No one else.

I grew up in the countryside, and I have a very strong connection to nature. I love fishing, hunting. It's an archaic experience that I like to revisit over and over again. When I'm in the city for too long, I start to miss it."

To recreate situations in the Yukon, Lindemann and Kelly trained for nine months on the Rhine river in Germany because of its liveliness.

"We went down the Rhine to where the transport ships create huge bow waves. If we hadn't had a coach with us, we probably would have been sunk by the side wave impact already during our first attempt," Lindemann said.

Together with Kelly, he had four sessions with two coaches and swam from Cologne to Koblenz [more than 100 kilometers by car]. Lindemann trained separately each week on the lakes in Mecklenburg. It's both physically challenging and savage identical to being natural.

In 2015, Till started his solo project Lindemann. On the album Skills In Pills, the song Yukon was released, in which the lyrics appeared first, and then the music.

- "My lyrics come from pain rather than desire."

The country boy is big and not much of a talker. That's how the Rammstein members saw him at the start, when they were hanging out at home. "He looked cool, like a big peasant talking one sentence an hour," keyboard player Christian "Flake" Lorenz recalled. - He always had food and vodka. He'd just steal a couple of ducks somewhere and cook them on a tray. And then, frozen like in Sleeping Beauty, there were people lying in corners and on trunks in his house."

Lindemann loves and appreciates home gatherings. This came from my father, who always had guests. “In my opinion, this is the little bit that I inherited from him. Throwing parties and gathering people. Throwing parties and getting people together. He just enjoyed being a good host. The house was always full of guests from Leipzig, from Rostock, foreign guests, even from Kazakhstan.

It was always exciting for him. He stood at the stove, cooked, bought an abundance of wine, and there was always a fire in the garden. At some point he stopped drinking, then he left the party at 21:00 and the whole company continued to feast. And in the morning he got up at four, cleaned and tidied up."

Till Lindemann is about self-digging, overcoming and childish shyness, which is covered by a pumped-up figure of a swimmer. This is how Lindemann decrypts himself:

• “And I really am like a big child - ill-mannered, but harmless. People think that I am always strong, explosive. This is not true. I am sensitive and easily hurt, but in love I am romantic and passionate."

• “At the very beginning, you sit somewhere in a dark room, open a bottle of wine and figure out how to make the lyrics popular with the music. At first you only have a vague idea of ​​what it could be.

And when, three years after recording, mixing, and more mixing, developing the artwork, all this nonsense, then you stand on stage, and what you came up with then really works, when you manage to get 20 thousand people to raise their hands, then you experience incredible sensations."

• “Art is a kind of therapy.

When I feel that something is arising inside me, domineering and is most often dark, I need to give it a way out, otherwise it will simply crush me. So destruction and self-destruction are the two pillars on which my creativity is based.

But everyone chooses this for himself.

• “My lyrics arise from feelings and dreams, but still more from pain than by desire. I often have nightmares, and I wake up at night sweating, as I see terrible bloody scenes in my dreams. My lyrics are a kind of valve for the lava of feelings in my soul.

We are all struggling to hide behind good manners and outward decency, but in fact we are governed by instincts and feelings: hunger, thirst, horror, hatred, the desire for power and sex. Of course, there is also additional energy in us - this is love. Without it, all human feelings would fade away."

- "When you're constantly living someone else's life, it's very hard to get back into your own skin. I like that in principle, but sometimes you start to get confused - are you out of a role or not yet. You're already Till, or you're still a homicidal maniac."

- "I hate the noise. I hate the chatter. I expose myself to it, which is pure masochism. And then I have to protect myself from it. Noise makes you crazy. You die in it."

• “I think there is no God. And if he is and actually allows all the misfortunes on this earth, then he must punish me along with other sufferings. I will not pray to such a god."

This is how the members of Rammstein see Till - flexible and with a split personality:

Guitarist Paul Landers: "Till is so good that when you let him know that his lyrics should go in a different direction, the very next day he brings a new version of the song."

Guitarist Richard Kruspe: “He's a hell of an extreme man. He dives very deeply into situations where I cannot follow him. Everything he does is very extreme; I don't know anyone who does it. "

Drummer Christoph Schneider: "I would not want to be in Till's shoes: his soul is tormented by doubts and contradictions, he is equally a moralist and a monster."

June 1, 2021 - Translate by Lindemann Belgium

[belovedholland]

Can you please write a part 2 to Fuck me, where it's the next day on set, the reader and Tom wants to hang out on set and talk, but something always comes up, so they don't talk, and then they finally do🙏🙏

I love this idea, hope you like it

Fuck me [2]

》 summary: The only thing you want is to talk to Tom, but somehow everything gets in your way, but in the end you finally get some time with him

pairing: Tom x actress!reader

warning: Implied sex

w/c: 2.2k

a/n: This was my first request so I hope it turned out good, personally I love this one

navigation | part 1

-

So many crazy things has happened so close to eachother, it all started with getting into acting, then you got on a movie as one of the head roles along side Tom Holland, your celebrity crush. One thing is working with him, but you had some very intimate scenes, as in very intimate, and now...

"Can't even tell you how long I have wanted to do that." Tom says as he pulls away from your making out session. It should be you saying those words, you have wanted -and thought about- kissing him, and not just a kiss for a movie, no you wanted to kiss him for real. And now you are.

"Reading my mind I see." You both giggle before he pulls you in once again. "Tom," you try pulling away, but he won't let you. "Tom, it's really late."

"I don't care." He keeps kissing you, all over your face making you chuckle.

"Tom, we have to be up early."

"Well I don't wanna leave." He finally pulls away.

"If we are gonna be on the low, then it would be quite weird if you slept in my trailer, not to mention, Haz is probably searching for you."

"Fine, but before I leave, I have to ask."

"And what's your question?"

"Do you wanna be my girlfriend?" You just pull him in for another kiss to answer his question. "I take that as a yes."

"See you tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow, babe." Tom calling you babe made you freeze, how could this even be real life? He leaves your trailer after giving you a last good bye/good night kiss, but you just stand there froozen like before. It all feels so unreal to you.

You get ready for bed, but when you then try to sleep, you can't, your mind keeps going back to Tom. Thinking about what had happened today, as well as realizing, his hard from before was caused by you and not the scene. And that now running through your mind, makes it even harder to sleep.

So you take your phone in hand, finding Tom in your contacts, you deside to text him, but first change his name.

You: I can't sleep

Boyfriend <3: I thought you said we should get sleep, and see you now, texting me

You: Haha. Your still awake?

Boyfriend <3: Obviously cuz I'm texting you

Boyfriend <3: Couldn't sleep either, you won't leave my mind

You: And you won't leave mine, I still can't believe you're my boyfriend, I'm so happy

Boyfriend <3: No way near as happy as me

You: 🥺

Boyfriend <3: I love talking to you, but you were right before, we need sleep

You: Yeah, goodnight 😙

Boyfriend <3: Goodnight darling 😚

And after that, you have no problem about sleeping.

--♡--

"Wake up, you sleepyhead." Someone says while shaking your body awake. You groan, opening your eyes but the light is shining bright, bliding you, making you hug the pillow over your head.

"Get up." The voice becomes clearer, and it's the voice you definetly didn't think would be up now.

"Why are you even up now y/bsf/n? You are never up this early." You asked sitting up in your bed slowly.

"Wanting to prove you wrong." As she sees your confused face she explains. "Yesterday you said "don't come late", cuz I'm always late and sleep over, so I wanted to prove you wrong, prove I could wake up."

"Oh." You mentally thank yourself for not letting Tom sleep over. It's not that you don't want to tell her, you want to tell her about yesterday so bad, but you and Tom promised to keep it on the low at first. Yes, she will definitely be pissed that you didn't tell her earlier, but she'll get over it.

She walks out from your room, letting you get dressed. You get dressed just in some comfy clothes knowing you would have to change when getting to set anyways. As you are about to walk out to y/bsf/n you hear a bling from your phone, so you check it, and it's from the person, that always can make you happy.

Boyfriend <3: Goodmorning beautiful x

You smile at his text, he is really so cute, even before last night, even before getting together, he could always make you happy, just admiring him being him made you happy, how he respects people makes you happy, everything about him makes you happy. You still can't believe yesterday really happened, you can call him yours. You can call Tom Holland your boyfriend.

You stare at the text for a good amount of time before replying.

You: Goodmorning to you too handsome x

You don't even have the opportunity to close your phone before he has replied.

Boyfriend <3: Can't wait to see my gorgeous girlfriend 😍

But before you can come up with a text to send back, the door opens, turning your head to y/bsf/n, and going out to get breakfast with her, at a cafee close to set.

As you walk on set, you look around for Tom, trying not to be too obvious, but you see him nowhere. You and y/bf/n talk a bit with your other co-stars - still seeing no Tom tho - then the director about a couple of scene, and how you will make them.

As you begin to shoot some scenes, you can't help but still think or look out for Tom. And with him being on your mind the whole time, you can't seem to quite concentrate on your work. Wether it would be messing up lines, forgetting to move, or not changing your facial expresion.

All your thoughts were on Tom.

As you finish one of your scenes, you look around for him once again. And there he is, finally, talking to Harrison about something.

You go down from the set to talk to him, as you do, he looks around and catch your eye. The nerves in your body getting bigger, as he makes his way as well.

"Hey Y/n!" You stop in your actions as the crew calls for you from behind the camera. "Could we get your thought on this?" So you change your direction from Tom to the crew.

Watching back on the scene you just shot, it looks great, not necessary to take it once again. Which you are quite happy about, as you have already taken it around five times.

You turn back to Tom, making your way towards him, but again the chance of talking is ruined by the crew, now being Tom's time to film.

You watch from behind, seeing Tom, your boyfriend - which still is a shock - preform his scene. Both before and after doing the scene, he looks straight at you, smiling.

As with your scene before, it seems like he can't concentrate, like his mind is on a whole different planet, and his eyes keep meeting yours. Is he thinking about you, the way you thought about him?

"Action!" They start the scene over, but when Tom has to say his line, he doesn't. He just stands there.

His head turning in one fast motion, his eyes landing on yours as the first thing, not even searching for you first. After a second ot two, looking over to the crew.

"I'm sorry, I have no idea what happened." They nodd asuring it was fine. "My mind was just somewhere else." You would swear on anything, that he glanced at you as he said the last sentence.

"It's fine, let's just take it again."

--♡--

He finish the scene quickly after that, then rewatching and talking about it, as you stand to the side talking to y/bsf/n.

"He's coming." You turn around at her words, seeing Tom walking toward you once again.

Everything in you, hoping it won't be cut of for some reason. Hoping you can just talk.

But of course not. You are about to talk, when your stylist then calls for you, wanting to get you ready for the next scene.

You knew going into a relationship as two actors, would be hard with all the filming, traveling and the media. You knew going into this relationship would mean times where you couldn't get to talk or see each other. But never had you thought, that you wouldn't be able to speak with the other only half a day of being together.

You give him a quick look saying sorry, as you walk away with y/bsf/n. Y/bsf/n clearly sees you, when you turn your head back, giving Tom a sweet smile, him returing it.

"God, you two are flirting for real." You just lightly laugh at her.

--♡--

After the outfit change, and fixing your make up, you started on another scene. It was only a short reshoot from a scene a couple days earlier, as the directors had notices a small mistake, that needed to be fixed.

"Why don't you just go talk to her?" Harrison asks Tom, who is watching you act with love eyes.

"That's what I've been trying to do this whole day, but something always gets in the way." Tom says annoyed of the situation. He just wants to talk to you. Not about anything specifc, just talk, and see you.

"Well if I'm correct, neither of you have anything to do for about," Harrison looks at his watch. "An hour, after she is done with this one scene. There you can talk." Tom's eyes lit up with happiness.

"Really? An hour?"

"Yeah."

Y/bsf/n points at you with a death glare, as she walks up to you.

"Imma do this scene, and you talk to Tom, do you understand me?" Y/bsf/n threatens you, but you can't help but laugh.

"I'm gonna talk to him, don't even worry." You say still laughing a little.

"I seriously mean it, you two have chemistry, so why don't you do something about it?" You feel gilty for not telling her everything, but she is gonna know eventually.

"Yeah yeah, but you need to go." So she does, as well as telling you once more to talk to Tom.

"You haven't told her, have you?" You jump a little as you hear Tom's voice approaching you from behind.

"Nope, but she'll be fine."

The challenge of getting to talk like before was long gone after your scene finished. You had a whole hour of nothing, so you could talk as much as you wanted to, but it seemed to be a little too much, and at some bad times. Like running around like five year old while yelling at each other.

You and Tom are exhausted from everything, and it hadn't even been half an hour. So you choose to sit down, and just watch y/bsf/n act.

It's quiet, but then Tom turns to you and makes a joke, that made you laugh hysterically. The whole cast turns their head in your deriction, that makes you an Tom shut up.

"You two," one of the producers begins as he approaches you, "you are done for today, you can both go home." You make eye contact with Tom, and see he is just as confused as you.

"But we still have more scenes to shoot." You say, as you remember back to the scenes you and Tom ran over yesterday in your trailer.

"Yeah, but you two can't concentrate, so go home, and we will see you tomorrow." He explains. You know you were being a little loud, but were you really that loud?

You find Tom's eyes once again, as he then answer. "Oh sorry, uhm, we'll see you tomorrow then."

You both make you way out like that.

"What do you wanna do now?" You aks him.

"Wanna go back to my trailer?"

--♡--

Tom lays down on his back you stting on top of him a hand on each side of his face.

"I'm scared someone is gonna yell cut, and it's just another scene for the movie, or even worse that it's all a dream."

He caresses your cheek.

"It's neither a scene or dream, it does feel like a dream tho. But I'm right here, so come and kiss me." He pulls you down by your neck so your lips crash on his, and you start to make out even harder, feeling him getting harder and harder underneath you.

"You sure you want to do this?" He asks in a sweet innocent voice, but you can't help the thoughts that are far from innocent.

"Yes, you?" You answer seeing his eyes shine.

"More than anything."

"Well then," you start before moving closer to his ear. "Fuck me."

One moment you are sitting on top of him, the next feeling his strong arms and hands tighten, now pressed against the bed, his lip smashed on yours.

"My pleasure," he smirks at you. "Or I guess it'll be your pleasure too." You share a good laugh, before finding each others mouths again.

[magickastiel]

Somewhere Off in the Dark (Dean/Cas) 7.3k

It’s easier to be with Cas in the dark.

Dean hasn’t got to see those eyes at full brightness, boring into his soul. Instead he can just talk and not worry about the embarrassment scalding his face or the discomfort twisting his spine.

It’s dangerous being with Cas in the dark.

Gift for @jackttwist for the @starrynightdeancas gift exchange! ✨

mild warning for a scene during early s13 so dean is very self-destructive and doesn't care about his own life. It's along the same times as the show but if you're triggered by that, skip from: 'Dean is sick' and pick up again at: "The Empty?" Dean whispers, feeling cold' for the cute stuff!

a03 or keep reading 💖

_

Dean will never get used to waking up and seeing eyes peering back at him.

He starts awake, half-reaching for the gun tucked under his pillow before he can pull himself back. He glares and throws the blanket off his lap, immediately regretting it when the cool night air hits his legs.

“Hello, Dean.” Castiel says, voice dry and face impassive. He watches without shame as Dean clambers to his feet, eyes skimming over his legs, his rucked up t-shirt, the scowl on his face.

A chill shoots up Dean’s back and, not for the first time, he wonders how many pairs of eyes Castiel really has. He walks from the couch to Bobby’s kitchen for something to do with his overly observed body.

“I’ll shoot you one day.” He says over his shoulder. “That’ll show you.”

“What will that show me?”

Dean wants to be annoyed but instead he snorts with laughter. Castiel seems to have this affect on him.

“Nothin’. Forget it.” His eyes itch with fatigue and he rubs them with the back of his hand. “You want coffee?”

“I have no need for - ”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Dean turns to lean his back against the counter and almost jumps again when he sees that Castiel has silently followed him to the kitchen. He can count the number of worn tiles between his bare feet and Castiel’s shoes. He has to swallow before he speaks. “Didn’t ask if you needed it. You want some?”

The angel’s eyes travel over him again and Dean feels like an ant under the hot glare of a magnifying glass on a sticky summer’s day.

“Yes.” He says eventually.

“Right.” Coffee.

He potters about, feeling eyes on him wherever he goes. He doesn’t let his hand shake.

By the time they’re sat back on the couch with two half-empty mugs, Dean’s body has loosened as he becomes accustom to the silent scrutiny. There’s no looming threat and no harsh judgement because Castiel is as he always is – curious. Every movement is apparently fascinating to him, every sentence Dean says is worth contemplation and every sip of coffee is a new experience to mull over. Again, Dean is surprised how little it annoys him.

“You remember the first time you woke me up here?” He says after a long pause. “You threatened to throw me back into Hell. Real nice of you.”

In the dark, Dean has to rely on Castiel’s voice to judge his expression. “Yes.” The word sounds solemn, like he’s disappointed that Dean remembers it. “I did say that.”

Dean takes the last glug of coffee to think. There’s an obvious question that’s been lingering between them for the last ten minutes.

“Why did you come here tonight?” He asks and doesn’t know what he wants the answer to be.

Even though he can’t see him properly, he’s sure Castiel is staring straight at him even as he ponders his answer. It’s another reminder of how alien he is. He doesn’t have that need to look away, to hide his face as his mind races to find the right way to say the right thing. Dean envies him that.

“I wanted to apologise.”

“Apologise for what?”

When he speaks again, his tone is unnervingly soft. “Your friends.”

Ellen. Jo.

Dean’s heart clenches and he feels the urge to move, unable to sit still in his grief. His knee knocks against Castiel’s solid thigh but the angel stays perfectly still.

“I should have been with them.” Castiel continues his voice low and smooth. If it wasn’t for the subject matter, Dean might think he was being read to sleep like a troubled child. “I should have protected them.”

“Not your fault.” He mumbles and means it. It never occurred to him to blame Castiel. He’s been too busy blaming himself to consider anyone else’s actions.

“I arrived with them and I should have stayed with them. I let them down. I – I let...”

Castiel is hesitating. This is new behaviour for him and it’s dangerously human.

“I...let you down.”

Dean feels like he’s been doused with cold water. He doesn’t blame Castiel for not wanting to say that. It’s so ridiculously untrue and so goddamn weird to say that he let Dean down specifically. It’s too much focus on him, on them.

“You didn’t let us down, man.”

“You are being kind.” Castiel says in neither admonishment nor gratefulness. He just states it like it’s a sure fact. “Thank you. But I shall endeavour to make it up to you.”

“Oh.” Dean says feeling dumb and strangely warm. “Right. But like I said, nothing to make up for.”

“You are not sleeping.”

He almost gets whiplash at the sudden change in conversation. “Uh well, no, not right now. You did wake me up.”

“Allow me to clarify: you do not sleep enough.” The still air is disturbed by the rustle of his trenchcoat and the sharp clack of the ceramic mug being placed on the table.

“Kind of a lot going on, dude.” Dean says, trying to protest as Castiel pulls his mug from his hands and places that on the table too. “Uhhh, what are you doing?”

“Lie back down.”

Dean does as he’s told but frowns too. He tells himself it’s a good compromise. “You gonna stare at me until I fall asleep or something?”

“I could but I believe that will be unnecessary.” He stands and looms over the couch. He looks intimidating from down here – tall as a skyscraper and dark as a void. Dean clutches at the blanket for something tangible to hold on to. “Your body still hasn’t recovered from the physical and emotional trauma of the last week. And when you sleep you have nightmares thus reliving the pain. You must rest completely to correct this and regain your full strength.”

Dean snorts. “Oh, yeah? So what you gonna do – zap me to sleep?”

“Yes.”

“Wait – ”

Two fingertips brush his forehead and he sleeps.

_

Dean can’t stop looking.

Even as Benny regales them with some batshit story, even as he eats his handful of berries, even as he wanders the perimeter of their little camp.

Cas is here.

Like, actually here.

He hadn’t let himself lose hope but it had been slipping. Just around the corner, he’d think. One more fight and he’ll be there. On and on.

And then there he was, alive and washing his face like he’d just woken up after a bad night’s sleep at a motel.

Dean’s eyes flit over to him again. He isn’t used to it yet. They only found him a few hours ago. Man’s gotta bask in having his best friend back.

“Dean? You hear me?”

He sighs and turns back to Benny who, to his credit, doesn’t even look annoyed. “Yeah, yeah. Sleeping, shifts, food.”

He snorts. “Got the gist, at least.”

“I’ll take the first shift. Gotta...” He glances over his shoulder at Cas again. He isn’t quite sure what he’s got to do, but he knows it involves Cas.

“Like that, huh?” Benny says, a slight smirk on his face.

“What do you mean?” He mutters, grabbing a stick and poking the meagre fire for something else to focus on.

“Nothin’, nothin’.” He waves a hand, but the smirk hasn’t left his face. “Just startin’ to feel like a third wheel, is all.”

Dean’s face heats unpleasantly. He knows it’s not like that but he can’t quite bring himself to argue about it. Instead he stares into the fire as Benny wanders off to rest. He feels horribly cracked open. He’s gotten used to his hardened shell – Purgatory took all the resilience he had and coated him in it. But the first sight of Cas had split him apart and now his usual racing thoughts have come rushing back with the force of a ten tonne truck. He almost wishes he could go back to how he was yesterday, pure focus and drive.

Now he feels small next to the fire, between a vampire and an angel.

He’s just one slightly shitty human lost in Purgatory.

“Dean?”

Cas joins him suddenly, with that eerie angelic stealth. Dean only just manages to stop himself from jumping like a kid. Cas sits on his left, watching him intently.

Everything is kind of colourless in Purgatory. It drove Dean insane for the first few days; everything seemed slightly off and unreal. Then he got used to it – the lacklustre trees, the blank water, even the fire looked kind of grey.

Cas’ eyes are still very blue.

It’s the first real colour he’s seen in months.

“Dean?” He says again, sounding slightly alarmed. “Are you alright?”

He clears his throat. “Yeah. Just...weird to see you, I guess.”

“Oh.” Cas blinks. “I...I suppose it is strange to see you too. I have seen you from a distance a few times. If several leviathans caught me at once, it would take me a while to kill all of them. Each time, I was very aware of how you were likely closing in on my location. Then I would catch a glimpse of you through the trees and that was when I knew I needed to get ahead again.”

“You what?!” Dean hisses, only keeping his voice down for Benny’s sake. “You mean you’ve been in spitting distance before and you didn’t say anything?! You could have...” He thinks about the sleepless nights, the desperation to find him alive. “I was afraid you were dead.”

“I am sorry, Dean.” Cas squints and tilts his head a little. Dean feels his anger dissipate. “I wanted nothing more than to join you. Together, I am sure we can conquer almost anything.” Right. That’s a total normal thing to say to someone. “But I was the one who released the leviathans. It was my responsibility to deal with them. If they got to you I would never be able to forgive myself.” His gaze drops to the fire. “I will never be able to forgive myself.”

“Don’t.” Frustration pushes at Dean’s skull, making his eyes water. “Yeah, ok. You did something pretty dumb. But you did it because you were trying to save the world. I should have...if I hadn’t been so damn caught up with other stuff. If I had just been there more - ”

“Dean, you cannot blame yourself.” Cas sounds genuinely horrified at the thought. “It was my decision and the consequences are mine to bear. All I can hope is that you can find a way to forgive me. And Sam - ”

“Sam’s good now.” Dean says quickly, half to reassure himself. “You screwed him over, not gonna lie. But at least you fixed it.”

Neither of them speaks for a while. Cas seems intent on watching the fire while Dean’s shell shatters a little more. Had he really had forgiven Cas just like that? He thought of what John Winchester would say about that. To say Cas had ‘screwed Sam over’ was a bit of an understatement. He had totally destroyed his mind. And here Dean was, casually forgiving him like it was no big thing.

It isn’t just words either. Dean really doesn’t feel any animosity towards the angel at all. Look out for Sammy. That had been drummed into him since he was four years old, when he carried his baby brother from their burning home. He still lives by it too. So it’s unnerving to forgive someone who hurt Sam. He’d been angry at first, sure. Upset, if he was being honest. He’d been hit with the double whammy of worrying about Sam and being betrayed by the only real friend he’d ever had. The only one that sticks around.

Well, that isn’t quite true. Cas always leaves but he always comes back too.

Now Dean just feels happy. And tired. He’s pretty tired too.

“You should sleep.” Cas says, softly. “I can watch over you.”

His knee jerk reaction is to tell the angel that’s weird. In any other situation it is weird. But here, he really does need someone looking out for him.

“’Angels are watching over you.’” He says, thinking of soft blonde hair and a warm smile. He swallows around the lump in his throat. “That’s what my mom used to tell me every night when she put me to bed. Guess that’s true tonight, huh?”

“I suspect she did not imagine that to come true in Purgatory while you are travelling with an angel and vampire, but the sentiment is lovely nonetheless.”

Dean can’t stop himself from grinning as he settles down, wedging his jacket under his head like Benny did.

“Do we have to travel with the vampire?” Cas grumbles beside him, sounding wonderfully like himself.

Dean raises his eyebrows against his makeshift pillow. “What, you don’t like Benny?”

“I don’t like the way he acts.” His eyes narrow, glaring at the sleeping figure the other side of the fire. “He looks at you like he wants to...consume you.”

Dean laughs and, for a moment, the clearing rings with it. “Dude trust me: Benny ain’t gonna eat me. He’s got plenty of food around.”

But Cas still looks unsure. “That’s not...” He sighs. “Yes, I suppose you are right.” He gives Dean one of those rare, small smiles as he looks down at him. “Sleep.”

Dean does as he’s told for once, letting his aching limbs stretch out next to the warmth of the fire and under his best friend’s watchful gaze.

But after a few moments, he can’t resist another look, even as his body succumbs.

“You can sleep, Dean.” Cas says, almost chastising. “I’ll watch over you.”

“Ain’t that. Just...” His tongue feels too big for his mouth and his heart feels too heavy for his chest. “Just checkin’ you’re still there, is all.”

As he falls asleep, he hears his voice one more time.

“I’m still here. I’ll always be here.”

_

When Dean asks Cas where he can drop him, the ex-angel avoids his eyes and says something about being ‘between places’.

Yeah, Dean’s the worst friend in the world.

He drives them to a motel because that’s the least he can do.

He mentally berates himself on the drive there while Cas is quiet in the passenger seat. This really is the least he can do. He should be driving Cas home to the Bunker, buying him dinner on the way back. He should be apologising for throwing him out. But if he starts apologising that means he’s got to start explainingand that’s something he really can’t do. Not yet.

So he drives his awesome best friend to a shitty motel and books them a shitty twin room and orders a shitty pizza.

Once they’ve eaten in relative silence, Cas perches on the edge of one of the beds staring wide-eyed and blank faced at the television. Unfortunately, it’s not Dr. Sexy. Just some grim drama about murders and family betrayals. Like they don’t have enough of that to deal with already.

He looks small and Dean has the sudden urge to rest a hand on his shoulder.

“Dude,” He says, busying his restless hands with clearing up the greasy napkins and tossing them into the bin. “Don’t sit that close to the TV. You’ll get square eyes.”

For what seems like the first time in an hour, Cas blinks. “Is that possible?”

Dean chuckles and settles back on his bed, kicking off his boots with a groan. “Nah, just somethin’ parents tell their kids. Dad used to say it to me all the time.” His smile slips as John Winchester’s dark eyes narrow in his mind. “Used to watch so much Scooby Doo it drove him mad. ‘Turn that TV off and do something useful! Ain’t got no use for a son with square eyes!’” He fidgets on the bed, fighting the urge to pull a blanket over himself.

“Oh.” Cas half turns away from the TV. “That seems unnecessarily harsh.”

Dean shrugs. “Just watched it when he was gone.” Had plenty of time.

“I assume you had plenty of time to watch it then.”

Huh.

Dean’s stunned into silence long enough for Cas to look over. Something on his face makes Cas look guilty.

“I’m sorry. It isn’t my place to comment on your father.”

“No.” Dean says but isn’t sure if he means it.

Cas stands, flicking off the TV and sitting against the pillows of his own bed. The quiet makes Dean realise that he’s alone with Cas in a motel room. He isn’t sure why it sets his teeth on edge – it shouldn’t be any different from sharing with Sam. So why does he feel a bit too hot under his shirt?

“Family is a complicated thing.” Cas continues, oblivious to Dean’s discomfort.

“Y-yeah.” The word sticks in his throat. “You miss ‘em? The other angels?”

In the soft lamplight, Cas’ profile looks striking as he thinks. “Yes and no. I miss the simplicity of being with them.”

“Simplicity? Can’t imagine Heaven ever being simple.”

“Oh, it’s not, not really. But I knew my place and I knew what I required to do. And I was known. Understood.”

“You think I don’t get you?” Dean asks before he can stop himself.

Cas leans back further, turning slightly to rest his head on the pillow. His eyes look almost velvet in the soft light. Dean finds himself turning a little too, cheek brushing the cotton pillowcase.

“I think you understand me more than I could have ever hoped for.”

“Oh.” Dean feels struck dumb and something inside his chest clunks. “That...that’s what friends are for, I guess.”

“Yes.” Cas smiles, gummy and a little crooked where he’s resting his head. “It is.”

Dean rolls onto his back, heart hammering as he stares at the ceiling. Cas’ eyes are still on him – he knows the feel of that gaze like a dangerous coastline knows the relentless glare of a lighthouse.

The silence drags and his fingers itch to switch the TV back on.

“Coulda got you your own room.” He mutters, almost to himself. Least I could do. “Give you some privacy.”

“No.” Cas says firmly. “This is...this is good. Thank you.” He sounds so earnestly grateful Dean almost cringes in shame. “I spend quite a lot of time alone. It’s good to have company.”

“Right, yeah. Of course.”

“But if you’d rather - ”

“Nah, it’s all good.” He says and is surprised that he means it. He’s counted the stains on the ceiling three times and his heart is slowing to its normal pace again.

“Dean?” Cas sounds a little slower now. “Tell me something?”

“Uh, sure. What?”

“Anything.”

“Like a story?” Dean frowns and looks over to see Cas’ eyes are already half-closed.

“Hmm.”

“Uhhh...” He flounders. He hasn’t done this since he was a kid, making up stories for Sammy to fall asleep to in the back of the Impala. “Ok. Once, this guy woke up. Let’s call him...Dan. He woke up and realised he was underground, being suffocated. So after he panicked a bit, he dug his way out and almost goddamn blinded himself ‘cos it was a sunny day, right? He walks to this old gas station and keeps thinking ‘how am I alive?’ ‘cos he’s pretty sure he was dead.”

He knows he isn’t telling it well but it doesn’t seem to matter because Cas hums again, sounding pleased this time. Dean feels his own body melting like hot wax into the bed as he watches Cas’ eyes close.

“Then he looks in the mirror and sees he’s got this mark on his shoulder. A handprint. So he’s like, ‘who the hell left that there?’”

Cas chuckles, mouth thick with sleep. Dean pulls a blanket over himself and wraps an arm around one of the pillows.

“Turns out, his best friend left it there. But here’s the thing: he ain’t met him yet.”

Dean smiles as Cas’ breathing gets even and heavy. He watches for a moment and squeezes the pillow tight against his chest before turning out the light.

He dreams of Hell but when he wakes, all he can remember are dark wings beating hard against fire.

_

Dean is sick.

He throws up until his body is shaking, until his throat is raw and his eyes are bloodshot.

He slumps down next to the toilet and takes in breaths he doesn’t really want. The cool title presses against his burning back and he closes eyes. Which is a horrific mistake.

A beam of light streaming from his mouth, from his eyes, from the hole in his chest -

His body jerks and his foot knocks the empty whiskey bottle with a jarring clatter. Yeah, that’s rule one, buddy. Don’t close your fucking eyes.

He stands on shaking legs, picks up the empty bottle and goes back to his room where he’s stashed another. Thankfully, he doesn’t pass Sam on the way. He can’t deal with the pity, he can’t deal with the logic and he can’t deal with his stupid, childish hope. Mom’s gone. Ain’t no sense in pretending otherwise. Gone just like –

Nope.

He opens his door and chucks the empty bottle down again, letting it roll off to some dark corner of his room. He scoops up the next one and cracks open the top, taking a deep swig. It hits him hard; neat alcohol on his turbulent stomach makes him gag but he perseveres. He’s exhausted but he can’t close his eyes.

So he’s aiming for blackout.

It can’t be too far away – he can’t remember when he last ate. He’s aching all over, boiling hot and he’s...

Sobbing.

“You...you son of a bitch...” He sways a little when he looks up at the dingy ceiling but he’s trying to talk beyond that. “Whydya hav’ ta...fuck!” He rushes over to the sink and throws up the whiskey he just swallowed. It burns even more on the way up.

Once he’s stopped retching, he tries to take another swig but his body won’t let him do it. He collapses onto the floor again, legs too weak to stand. The bottle clangs in the sink, probably spilling all of its contents down the drain. He makes a weak sound of protest but doesn’t move.

His eyes feel tight and dry against the salty wetness on his face. He wonders how far above him Heaven is. If he’s even there. Something tells him he isn’t. If he is, surely he would have found a way to get back.

Dean whispers his name, a private prayer of desperation. There’s still some dumb part of him that thinks he might just appear again, slightly dishevelled and annoyed at Dean for not looking after himself.

But he doesn’t.

The silence stretches and Dean contemplates hitting his head on the floor. If he does it hard enough, there’s a good chance it’ll knock him out for a while, maybe a few days if he’s lucky.

He tries to lift his head but it’s too heavy. A wave of panic rushes over him as he starts to feel paralyzed – trapped in his own body and smothered with grief.

“Cas?” He chokes, a fresh wave of tears rushing down his face. “You...you’re meant to come back. You always come back. You gotta...you gotta come back, man. Please. Please, I can’t - ”

I can’t do this without you. I don’t want to. Don’t make me.

With all his might, he rolls onto his side before he’s suffocated completely. His head spins as he turns, his stomach churns and his eyes roll back. When he finally passes out, he doesn’t see anything at all.

_

“The Empty?” Dean whispers, feeling cold.

“Yes.” Cas whispers back. He’s only whispering because Dean is. Dean feels completely normal about that and not giddy at all.

“What was it like?” He doesn’t want to know but has to ask all the same.

“Empty.” Cas says, deadpan.

“Oh ok, smartass – thanks for clearing that up!” Dean huffs good-naturedly and has to grip the railing until his knuckles turn white. He’s got so much happiness in him his body doesn’t know what to do with it. He feels energy thrumming through him and he has the sudden urge to start sprinting and laughing.

They’ve stopped at a motel on the drive back from Colorado to the Bunker. Sam is already asleep, hair all splayed out on his pillow like Sleeping Beauty. But Dean...well, Dean was dead for a couple of minutes today so he figures he’ll enjoy being alive for a bit longer. He leans on the rail overlooking the parking lot and lets the cool air fill his lungs.

He’s got company.

“How is Jack?” Cas asks, obviously expecting a better answer than the quick reassurance they’d given him earlier.

“He’s doing ok. I was...” Dean trails off, his good mood momentarily dipping into guilt. “I was kind of a dick to him at first - ”

“What a surprise.” Cas sighs, world-weary and affectionately irritated. Dean wants to make him sound like that every day.

“- but we’ve gotten better.” He knocks Cas’ shoulder with his. “I’ve gotten better.”

“Good.” Cas smiles at him and he has to grip the railing again.

Dean watches him stare up at the moon, the pearly light making him look as otherworldly as he is. Dean is reminded there are wings somewhere behind Cas. Broken, yes, but still there. It’s weirdly exciting that Cas isn’t human. A strange thrill shoots through him when he really thinks about it. He feels like one of those people who inadvertently tame some dangerous beast and have their photos taken with the thing sat on their couch with them. It’s that precious feeling that you’ve been chosen, that something that would normally kill you with a snap of jaws or a click of its fingers saw you and thought you were special. So it decided that it wanted you to live. That it wanted to spend time with you. That he wanted –

“Dean? You’re staring.” Cas turns back to him with a raised eyebrow and a slightly smug expression. “You usually tell me off for that.”

“Right.” Dean doesn’t stop looking. “It’s just...you’re back.You came back again.”

Cas’s expressions softens and he edges a little closer. Suddenly – wildly – Dean thinks if Cas kissed him now he’d be fine with it.

He doesn’t.

“It was suffocating.” He says instead. “The black emptiness was...all encompassing. Like no matter what I did or where I went, I would never escape the feeling of total despair. Of being painfully alone. It was like - ”

“Choking.” Dean says and swallows hard against his healing throat.

“Yes.” Cas’ fingers twitch on the railing and Dean thinks that if he moved his left pinkie, he could feel his skin. Cas’ hand drops before he can really contemplate doing it. “But I did escape.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s full of energy again, happiness buzzing around his body like a swarm of bumblebees. “You got out, man.”

“I was afraid that feeling would follow me. That I would still feel that fear no matter how far I ran.”

“And?”

“I don’t.” Cas turns to the moon again, bathed in pure light, eyes shining as bright as his grace. “I don’t feel scared at all.”

Dean blinks back the sting in his eyes and smiles. “Me neither.”

_

Dean pushes open the door with a sweaty palm.

Cas stands next to him, staring into the room with his lips slightly parted. Dean’s gaze lingers on them for moment before he drags his eyes away.

Just because Cas...said what he said, doesn’t mean he wants that. Maybe he didn’t really mean it. Or maybe he did mean it but like...friends. Best friends love each other. Of course they do. Sure, it did seemlike a momentous romantic confession made by a guy madly in love with his best friend before he sacrificed himself to save said best friend but maybe...maybe it wasn’t really like that.

“You did this for me?” Cas sounds almost tearful and Dean can’t look at him like that. It reminds too much of –

“Yeah.” Dean clears his throat. “Well, Sam helped too. Turns out he’s kinda nerdy about plants too. But I bought ‘em all and watered ‘em and...Jack got you that stuffed bee, by the way.”

Cas steps inside the room and Dean can finally look up from his feet. His eyes go straight to Cas’ broad back, casually dressed in one of Sam’s sweaters. The sleeves are too long but Cas says he likes it. He’s wearing a pair of joggers that Dean kept aside for him and a pair of socks with a hole in the toe.

“I love it.”

Dean’s heart literally skips a beat. Great, he loves it. Loves it in the way he loves –

“Wanted you to have something to come back to, you know? I know this was always kinda your room but there was nothing in here and I thought...after what you said before about the Empty...thought you’d want something good to come back to. Bright and full of life...or whatever, I dunno. Just thought you might like it.”

“It’s incredible.”

Dean thinks that’s over stating it. It’s not that good. Not nearly enough to repay his debts. Not anywhere near what Cas deserves. He deserves a real home, a huge garden, a fucking mansion with butlers and people who bow to him and call him ‘sir’. Instead Dean has given him his old room back. Sure, it’s got a few shelves up, a new rug, bedding that Jack picked out called ‘jungle dreams’, a load of plants and a tall lamp that gives everything a nice glow but it’s still the same room.

Dean has never felt more pathetic.

Castiel is an angel. Ok, barely an angel now (and whose fault it that?) but still a celestial being. He might get tired sometimes, he might get hungry and he might be able to get drunk but he’s still an angel.

He’s still better.

Better than this stupid room, better than this miserable Bunker. Better than Dean.

“Is this your blanket?” Cas asks suddenly, plucking the Scooby-Doo fleece blanket from the bed.

Oh, that. “Uh, yeah. Thought you might get cold now. Don’t want you to get numb toes or nothin’.”

“That’s...” Dean isn’t prepared for the open, raw joy on Cas’ face when he looks up. It almost sends him reeling backwards out of the door. “That’s very kind of you. You didn’t have to do all of this. It’s...”

Stupid. Stupid plants, stupid lamp, stupid goddamn blanket.

“It’s wonderful.”

“It’s stupid.” Dean blurts, feeling awkward and childish. “Shoulda done something more. Shoulda got you - ”

“You got me.” Cas says firmly. “You got me out, Dean. You and Sam and Jack...I will never be able to thank you enough. And then to come back to this room that you worked so hard on, that you filled with things you knew I would like...there is nothing better than that in the whole world. The whole of creation. To be known and to be wanted is the best thing there is.”

Fuck.

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that. What can he say to that? What can he say that would ever compare to what Cas said? What he said before –

“Right. Ok. Great. That’s...good. I’ll just...” He gestures over his shoulder to the door. Being in here with Cas is too intense, like staring at the sun or holding your hand over an open flame. “You probably want to rest.”

Cas hesitates before saying, “Yes. I suppose I should. Thank you again for this. I really love it.”

“Yeah, man.” Dean almost winces. “No worries. I’ll just...leave you to it.”

He steps back into the open doorway, unwilling to take his eyes away from Cas because he’s here, in the room Dean has imagined him in for weeks. It’s kind of annoying that Cas doesn’t have the same trouble. He turns his back, wandering towards the plants on the shelves and gently touching the leaves.

Dean lingers, like a moth perched on a lightshade.

“Are you - ” Just leave. “Are you gonna be ok by yourself? I mean, you said before that it was lonely being in the Empty. Thought maybe you’d want company?”

Cas seems surprised when he faces Dean again. “Oh. Well, yes, of course. I would enjoy you staying for a while. But please don’t feel like you have to.”

The idea of Cas thinking he’s keeping Dean against his will is laughable.

“So, er - ” He sits on the bed, fingers clutching at his blanket. “What do you wanna do? I could get my laptop and we could watch a movie? Or we could watch one of those nature documentaries that kinda send me to sleep? You know the ones with the British guy with smooth voice - ”

“Actually, I should rest. I am quite tired.”

“Oh.” Dean tries to not look crushingly disappointed. “Right, yeah.”

“You could rest with me.” Cas says, just like that. Like it’s not a big deal at all. Like guy friends just clamber into bed with each other all the time and die for each other and confess their love for each other...

“Sure.” Dean’s mouth decides for him. “We could – we could do that.”

So they get into bed together.

Cas slides in as though this is his regular night time routine, looking totally at ease in his new ‘jungle dreams’ bedding and borrowed blanket. Dean’s hands shake as he lifts up the covers and slides in too. He waits for it to be weird, waits for discomfort and his father’s face swimming in front of eyes.

Instead, he just feels warm.

They’re led next to each other, unmoving and flat on their backs. Dean’s right leg is about to fall off the bed and Cas’ shoulder looks like it’s digging into the nightstand. Maybe this bed wasn’t made to fit two fully grown men too afraid to touch.

“Dean, are you comfortable? I am not.”

He laughs and rubs a hand over his face. “Yeah, this isn’t great. Maybe if we...uh - ”

“What about if we do this?”

Cas’ hands are suddenly everywhere, manhandling him in a way that Dean has never experienced before but wouldn’t mind experiencing again. He ends up with his head resting on Cas’ chest, forehead pressed against his neck. His right leg has nowhere to go but to hook around Cas’ legs, entwining them together.

And Cas is holding him.

His arms are wrapped around him and not just because they haven’t got anywhere else to go. Because he wants them to go there. Because he wantsto hold Dean. Possibly all night.

Dean starts to panic.

Led like this, his ear is pressed against Cas’ chest – his heartbeat the loudest thing he can hear. What if someone breaks into the Bunker without him knowing? What if something is happening to Sam? To Jack? And he hasn’t even brought a gun with him. He squirms a little, debating on popping back to his room to get one when Cas says,

“Are you thinking about getting a weapon, Dean? I promise you, you won’t need it.”

Cas’ deep voice rumbles through his body, rocking him out of his spiralling worry so quickly Dean briefly wonders if he used some of his remaining slither of grace to do it.

“I would never let anything happen to you.”

“What if someone comes in?”

“An intruder? Judging by our current position, I assume I am the being most visible from the door.”

Dean’s fingers curl in Cas’ borrowed sweater. “You mean you’d be shot first?”

“Yes.” Dean feels his arms tighten around him for a moment. “And I believe my body would shield you from the vast majority of attacks.” He sighs and his breath tickles Dean’s hair. “Of course, if someone were to gain access to the Bunker, it’s likely they would be a supremely powerful being. That would reduce our chance of survival by quite a lot. However, if you really insist on being armed, I am confident that in the few seconds I could shield you, you could at least reach for a makeshift weapon. Whatever good it would do.”

“Right. But...” Dean doesn’t really feel comforted. “I don’t want you to...” He can’t quite say the word.

“Die?” Cas finishes for him as his fingers begin to move, leaving warm trails over Dean’s back. “No, I cannot say that I am enthused by the idea either. I have no desire to leave you again.”

“Not ever?” Dean asks and despises himself for the needy edge in his voice.

“Not ever.” His hands are moving now, big and slow in soothing motions against Dean’s back. He can’t remember the last time he was held like this. Mom, he thinks. When he was a kid. He knows he must look pathetic – six foot plus guy that’s been to hell and back being held like a baby. He should move, should pull away, wipe his eyes and tell Cas it’s time he went back to his own room.

He doesn’t want to.

“You love me.” He says instead, face burning and mouth dry.

He feels Cas smile against the crown of his head. “Yes.”

“You’re like...in love with me.”

One of Cas’ hands moves higher, fingertips trailing over the back of his neck leaving goose bumps in their wake. “Yes.”

Dean will never admit to the half moan, half whine he lets out. He buries his face in Cas’ chest and breathes him in. The smell of him fills Dean’s lungs and Cas’ arms start to feel like a weighted blanket, pressing gently on his body. It makes his eyes soft and his limbs heavy.

As he drifts off, he feels Cas’ lips brushing against his temple.

Dean wakes slowly.

He’s cocooned in softness and warmth and he has no desire to rush anything anymore – least of all to the leave the comfort of his (new) memory foam and his angel. He shifts a little, nuzzling his nose against stubble.

“I thought you were making breakfast.” Cas’ voice rolls over him slow and sweet like honey.

“Hmm.” A murmur, breathed into Cas’ neck, is all Dean can manage.

“Dean, you did promise them.” Cas says, with barely a hint of firmness. His voice is a little husky, like he’s still battling the urge to sleep.

“Oh, yeah? When?” Dean’s lips brush over warm skin.

“Last night.”

He pretends to forget. “Can’t take anything I said last night serious, Cas.”

“Oh?” He sounds a bit more awake now – that familiar dry, teasing tone creeping in.

Dean feels a pang of something in his chest so intense he almost squirms. “Alright, maybe some things were serious.”

“Hmm.” One of Cas’ hands rubs languid strokes up and down his back. “I should hope so.”

The memories come back easy and bright, playing like a dream behind Dean’s heavy eyelids. The stillness of their bedroom is punctuated by the sound of quiet voices in the living room. He grins at that, relishing waking up with the love of his life and his family just in the next room. Happy. Safe.

“Screw ‘em.” Dean says, more to himself than Cas and rubs his foot along his leg a few times, settling down again.

Cas doesn’t seem to have any objections. His hand strokes higher, fingers brushing through Dean’s hair and his blunt nails lightly graze his scalp.

Dean almost whines, his head lifting to follow the touch. He half opens his eyes again and sees a smile, unhurried and adoring. Cas leans down a little and kisses him, stubble rough and lips soft. Dean’s fingers curl against skin and his legs squeeze a muscled thigh beneath the blankets.

They stay that way for a while – bodies warm and entwined, gently greeting each other as the new day dawns. The rising sun has drenched the room in rich yellow light, soft and muffled through the curtains.

Cas’ hand is just caressing his hip and his tongue is getting hotter and more demanding in Dean’s very willing mouth when there’s a knock at the door.

“I know you’re both awake.” Sam’s voice rumbles through the door, amused and still a little sleep rough. “And don’t think we forgot about breakfast either. Eileen wants pancakes and she says I don’t make them right.”

“Not unhealthy enough!” Eileen voice calls out, a little further away.

Dean laughs against Cas’ lips.

“Alright, alright! Gimme five.”

As they slowly detangle, he catches a glimpse of silver as Cas stretches. Dean’s hand feels heavy and warm, like someone’s been holding it for hours. Dean yawns and dangles one leg out of bed, then another. He’s easing himself into the day, taking it a bit at a time.

He can do that now.

He laughs as Cas drags him in for one last kiss before he slides away, shoving his feet into his slippers and tugging on his trusty robe. His ties it around him and wanders, a little stiff-legged, to the window. He pulls back the curtains and from the bed Cas both grumbles and raises his face to meet the sunrise.

Dean watches the sun bathe him in bright light and remembers seeing him like this before. But then it was moonlight and he and Cas were at some shitty motel just out of Colorado. Not in their own house, not in theirbedroom. Dean has his first unbearably intense wave of wild happiness. It won’t be the last one today.

“I like having a window.”

“I liked having eyesight.” Cas mutters, burying himself into the covers.

Dean laughs and thwacks him on the thigh as he passes out the door. Cas’ll be up in his own time.

Four steps and Dean’s in the kitchen.

His brother is perched on one of the chairs at the little island separating the kitchen from the living room. Eileen is signing at him and he’s watching, completely enraptured, with a look of total adoration on his face. Dean would have laughed at him for that once. Now, he knows what it’s like when someone looks at him like that. Now he knows what it’s like to look at someone like that.

But he might still laugh a bit. That’s a big brother’s right.

“Mornin’!” He calls cheerily, rummaging in the fridge for eggs and milk. He emerges triumphant, plopping them onto the counter with a grin. “If the lady wants pancakes, the lady gets pancakes.”

“Best brother in law ever.” Eileen says and Sam almost falls off his seat. She just shrugs cheekily. “Unofficially.”

“For now.” Dean winks and Sam splutters.

“Right, well. Once you’ve finished marrying me off, can we get some breakfast?”

“Alright, alright!” Dean glares but he’s itching to get started. “Goddamn demanding baby. Eileen you could do so much better. Sadly, I’m already taken - ”

She laughs and so does Sam. He wraps an arm around Eileen’s waist and she plays with his hair as they all talk. They talk about Jack getting hyperactive on sugared almonds, about Claire and Kaia wearing matching suits, about Jody and Donna getting drunk and singing karaoke until they were booed off the stage.

Then Cas stumbles out of their soft-lit room; hair wild and face crumpled. He bids them all good morning in a slightly rough tone before shuffling over for coffee. He cradles his mug in both hands as he leans against the corner counter, basking in the sun with his eyes closed.

Dean watches him, aching with joy.

Being in the dark with Cas is easy. But being with him in the light is better.

He twirls the whisk in his hand and it knocks against the ring on his left hand, so new it glows against his skin. Cas kisses his neck as he passes into the living room and Dean grins, looking up at his family.

“Hey, Eileen. What’s the sign for ‘husband’?”