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youthguk · 2 months ago

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✦ Encore | jjk (m) ✦

pairing: idol! jungkook x editor! reader

genre: smut, ex lovers, second chance au, angst with smut, toxic ex au

summary: You loved him before the lights, before the headlines, before he learned how to disappear.Now he’s back — older, hotter, famous — and this time, you’re the one calling the shots. But Jeon Jungkook doesn’t do endings. Only encores.

w.c: 10k

author's note: writing and creating stories takes a lot of time, and no matter how much i love doing this and jungkook, i would love your support and feedback 🖤

You’ve always known how to keep secrets. It’s a requirement—the requirement—of survival in an industry that trades on whispers, scandals, and carefully curated lies. Fashion is ruthless, a pretty monster wearing designer heels, and no one understands that better than you.

Two years of blood, sweat, and designer tears later, you've earned your throne at Vogue Korea. A glass-walled office overlooking Seoul's constellation of lights, your name etched in gold next to campaigns that make lesser editors weep with envy. You didn't just climb the ladder; you conquered it in six-inch heels.

They call you the Ice Queen of Editorial. Untouchable. Unshakeable. The woman who can stare down Korea's biggest idols without so much as a flutter of mascara-coated lashes. Your boundaries aren't just lines in the sand—they're walls of steel and glass, keeping your personal life locked away where it belongs.

You’ve been handed the crown jewel of assignments: the exclusive BTS cover story.

The kind of story that turns editors into legends. Or ruins them completely.

“You must be feeling the pressure,” Hyerin teases, nudging your elbow as you both stand by the studio coffee station. “If I had to face seven of the most beautiful men on Earth, I’d probably collapse.”

You smile lightly, perfectly controlled. “Luckily, fainting isn’t part of my job description.”

Hyerin laughs, tossing her silky hair back. “You’re seriously not nervous? Not even a little?”

Before you can respond, another voice cuts in—cool and sharp as glass.

“Y/N’s never nervous,” Kara says smoothly, sidling up with a carefully constructed smile. Her eyes skim over your perfectly ironed blouse, searching for any flaw she can exploit. “Even when she probably should be.”

You meet her stare evenly. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. It’s just another day at work.”

“Oh, sure,” Kara shrugs, delicately adjusting her blazer. “Just the biggest magazine cover of the year. With the biggest K-pop group in history. But you’re right—no pressure at all.”

You hold your tongue, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. Kara’s smile widens, eyes glittering dangerously.

“Don’t worry,” she says softly. “We’re all rooting for you.”

As she walks away, Hyerin gives you a sympathetic glance. “Ignore her. She’s just mad they picked you.”

“She’ll get over it,” you say calmly, taking a sip of coffee. But privately, you wonder if she ever will. Kara’s eyes feel permanently locked on your back, waiting for you to slip—and she’d love nothing more than to watch you fall.

You inhale slowly, forcing the tension from your shoulders as you remind yourself that Kara isn’t your concern today. No — your concern just stepped through the studio doors like he owned the light that followed.

So you lift your chin, smooth the edges of your expression, and bury the frantic thrum of your heart beneath that practiced, glassy calm you’ve spent years perfecting.

You feel Jungkook’s presence before you see him. Hear the chatter ripple across the set, feel the shift in the air. Turning slowly, you catch sight of him walking toward makeup, tTattooed fingers, midnight hair, confident smile charming everyone in his orbit.

He hasn’t noticed you yet, but your pulse already quickens. You haven’t been face-to-face since he vanished from your life years ago, choosing fame over what you once shared. Not even your closest colleagues know about your past—not Hyerin, certainly not Kara. To them, you’re the girl who can handle any celebrity without batting an eye.

But Jungkook isn’t just any celebrity. He’s your first heartbreak. Your only weakness.

And the moment his eyes find yours across the room, his casual smile fading into something raw and hungry, you realize secrets never stay hidden forever.

Not when every glance he sends your way feels like a promise—Encore. We’re not done yet.

Your breath catches painfully in your throat, stomach twisting into a knot so tight it leaves you dizzy. For all your polished composure, the sight of Jungkook still manages to unravel you like loose threads on a designer gown.

Seeing him again feels like reopening a wound you spent years pretending had healed. It floods you with memories you'd promised yourself to forget—quiet nights tangled in sheets, whispered promises that felt unbreakable, how he used to hold you as if you were the most precious thing he’d ever touched.

But then came the silence. Slow at first, then deafening. A text left unread, calls unanswered. You waited like a fool, convinced something must've happened, sure he’d reach out again and say everything was fine. But days turned into weeks, then months, and eventually you stopped counting—stopped waiting.

He'd left you in a silence louder than any goodbye could've been.

It still haunts you, that hollow uncertainty. All those unanswered questions, the ache of wondering why you hadn't been enough—why something that had been your entire world had apparently meant so little to him.

Even now, standing across a crowded room from him, you feel nineteen again, confused and heartbroken, questioning yourself: Was it you? Was it fame? Or was he just that good at faking forever?

Your hands tremble slightly, and you quickly clasp them behind your back, steadying your breath, forcing your expression back into neutrality. You are not that girl anymore. You're not nineteen, naive and waiting.

You're the woman who clawed her way up the ladder, who built herself from the ground up, and who refuses to be unraveled by Jeon Jungkook ever again.

Yet, as his gaze locks onto yours and his expression shifts—something fragile breaking beneath the confident mask—you realize you might not have a choice.

You're the woman who clawed her way up the ladder, who built herself from the ground up, and who refuses to be unraveled by Jeon Jungkook ever again.

You grit your teeth, straightening your posture defiantly. No, you're not going to fall apart because he decided to show up now, years later. It doesn’t matter how familiar his gaze still feels, or how your stomach flips traitorously when his eyes linger a second too long. It’s just shock, you reason. The surprise of seeing someone from your past. He means nothing now. He can’t mean anything—not after he left you drowning in unanswered questions.

And yet, as his gaze locks onto yours and his expression shifts—something fragile breaking beneath the confident mask—you shove down the dangerous impulse fluttering inside you.

Because you won’t allow it. Not today. Not ever.

But Jungkook tilts his head slightly, eyes darkening with an intensity you know too well, and you feel your carefully constructed resolve begin to tremble at the edges.

It doesn’t matter, you remind yourself harshly. You’ll never make the same mistake twice. Not for Jungkook. Not for anyone.

Still, the moment he takes a step toward you, your heart skips—just once. And you hate yourself for it.

And it’s terrifying how much your body still reacts, how tightly your stomach knots, how you feel yourself leaning backward without meaning to. You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing.

But just before he can get closer—

“Jungkook! Manager wants you in the briefing room, now!”

The shout cuts across the set, snapping him back to reality. He hesitates. A small shift of weight. A flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Then he turns, walking toward the exit without another glance.

You make yourself go still, expression smooth, breath finally releasing. He’s gone again. And you hate how that emptiness still lingers in the space he almost crossed.

✦

The studio smelled like caffeine, expensive cologne, and urgency.

Light rigs hummed above, shifting shadows across white backdrops. Stylists darted like bees between racks of designer coats and racks of idols. The floor was a mosaic of garment bags, wires, coffee cups, and carefully controlled chaos.

And you were in the eye of the storm.

Clipboards. Checklists. The shoot brief folded neatly in your tote, annotated with sharp red edits. You’d been here since seven. Confirming the team, adjusting the timeline after a last-minute delivery delay, nodding politely through the photographer’s temper tantrum over lighting angles.

Professional. Polished. In control. Just like always.

Hyerin only nodded, already lifting her phone to send the message.

And then a shift. Subtle, at first. Not a sound, not a movement, but something in the air tightening, thickening — the kind of change you feel against your skin before your mind can name it. Like the slow drop in pressure that happens before thunder splits the sky.

You didn’t need to turn. You already knew.

BTS had arrived. This time, all of them. Fully, unmistakably, overwhelmingly present.

Voices lifted across the space. Polite bows, excited murmurs, stylists practically vibrating. You focused on your clipboard, eyes locked on the line that read: Group cover, final set — standing profile + seated variation.

You could feel it before you saw him. Like a magnet realigning in your chest.

Jeon Jungkook. The name alone was supposed to mean nothing now. Not here. Not in this room. Not in this life you built without him.

But your gaze lifted—just once, just for a breath—and there he was.

Dark hair, slightly damp. A black oversized tee clinging to his frame like it had no choice. Tattoos curling down his arm like vines. He was talking to one of the stylists, something easy in his body, but then—

His eyes found yours. Again.

And froze. As if the moment before seemed unbelievable to him, and now he got a confirmation that it was truly you who he saw before.

For one suspended moment, the studio blurred. Sound dulled. All you could hear was the low pulse in your ears, thudding like memory. His gaze didn’t flicker. Didn’t flinch.

It lingered. You turned away first. Professional, you reminded yourself. You could breathe later.

Behind you, a quiet voice laced with syrup and venom sliced through the air. “Well, don’t you look composed.”

Kara.

You didn’t bother turning. Her heels clicked as she approached, each step full of intention.

“I’d be shaking,” she continued, feigning casual amusement. “If he looked at me like that.”

Your clipboard didn’t move.

“I don’t mix work with fantasy,” you said coolly.

Kara laughed, bright and biting. “Right. Of course. You’re very composed.”

Before you could answer, the studio door opened wider, and the rest of the crew flooded in behind the members. Lights adjusted. Cables plugged. The moment passed.

But your stomach? Still twisted.

You didn’t have time for this. Not the memories. Not the questions. Not the way your breath still stumbled just because he was in the same room.

You crossed the set in brisk, deliberate strides, addressing the camera assistant without once glancing his way — you didn’t have to.

The air shifted again, electric with movement, and you felt it before you saw it. He was walking toward you. He wore that perfect, easy smile — all charm, all textbook idol — as if the cameras had never stopped rolling. But his steps were purposeful, and they were headed straight for you.

Still, you didn’t move. Behind him, Taehyung watched with a slight tilt of his head, a flicker of something unreadable tightening his brow.

“Where’s he going?” he murmured to Jimin, his voice low enough not to carry.

Jimin looked up from his water bottle, following the path of Jungkook’s steps.

“Who is that—” He paused. Squinted. His expression shifted slowly. “No way,” he muttered. “Is that… Y/N?”

Taehyung’s eyes narrowed as he got a better look. “Damn,” he said under his breath. “She really changed.”

“She doesn’t look like a college student anymore,” Jimin added, then whistled low. “She looks like she’d step on your throat for blinking at the wrong moment.”

Taehyung snorted. “And Jungkook’s walking straight toward her like it’s nothing.”

Jimin’s smile faltered, just slightly. “It’s not nothing,” he said, softer now.

The glance he shared with Taehyung was brief, but loaded — a silent recognition passing between them that didn’t need words to say what they already knew: this was going to get complicated.

Jungkook stopped just close enough for it to be plausible. Two colleagues. Two professionals. A friendly exchange in the middle of a crowded set.

But you felt the heat of him at your side. The static in the air between your bodies. The weight of five years in the space between his next breath and your silence.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said. His voice was lower now. Smooth, familiar. Dangerous.

You kept your eyes on the call sheet in your hands. “Then maybe you should’ve read your shoot brief.”

He let out a quiet, amused exhale. “Guess I was distracted.”

You finally turned to face him, slow and deliberate. He looked at you like you were a memory he wanted to taste again. And you hated how much you felt it in your knees.

“Still pretending I don’t exist?” he asked softly.

You smiled—polite, cold. “You’re not that hard to ignore.”

He tilted his head, amused. “You used to say I was impossible to forget.”

You didn’t blink. “People change.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. The smile dimmed, only slightly. And you hated that it made your chest ache.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “They do.”

You stepped back first. Not because you were retreating—but because if you stayed, you’d say something you’d regret.

“We’re about to start,” you said, voice crisp. “Please get into wardrobe.”

He didn’t argue. But his gaze lingered like the brush of fingers on skin—something remembered. Something unfinished.

You turned on your heel and walked away. And behind you, Jungkook watched like he was seeing something he thought he'd lost forever.

You walk with your back straight, spine stiff, each click of your heels against the polished floor louder than the last. The studio spins in a blur around you—shutters firing, stylists buzzing, interns darting past—but your body moves like it’s on autopilot.

You don’t need to see him to feel the weight of his stare still pressing into your skin, hot and searching. Your lungs burn quietly, your heart hammering beneath the silk of your blouse in a rhythm that doesn’t belong to a woman in control.

You handled that well, you tell yourself. He didn’t rattle you. Not really. It was nothing—just a greeting. Just a ghost in designer boots. You didn’t flinch.

But your fingers still tremble as you slide the clipboard into your bag. And his scent—faint on the air, sandalwood and heat—lingers like a bruise. That voice you used to fall asleep to.

He said so little, but it was too much. Too soft. Too knowing. Too close to the edge of the past you buried under ambition and late-night edits and deadlines that couldn’t be missed. A past that still knows exactly how to make your mouth dry and your pulse quicken.

You exhale through your nose, slow and tight, pressing your thumb into your palm until it stings.

This isn’t college. This isn’t your bedroom at 3 a.m. waiting for his text. You are not that girl anymore. And he doesn’t get to reach into your life now just because he remembered how to say your name.

Across the studio, a pair of eyes followed your every step.

Kara leaned against a lighting rig, one arm crossed lazily over her chest, a paper cup of overpriced coffee in hand. She wasn’t watching the shoot, not really. Her gaze was fixed on you—your clenched jaw, your too-smooth posture, the slight tremble in your fingers as you adjusted your sleeve.

Her lips curled just barely at the edges. She didn’t say anything just sipped her coffee and tilted her head thoughtfully, like a girl already collecting dots to connect.

And when her eyes flicked over to Jungkook, now slipping into wardrobe, and then back to you. Something in her expression sharpened. She had nothing solid. Not yet. But Kara had always known how to smell blood long before the wound appeared.

✦

The shoot was already in full swing by the time you were called in.

High-key lighting flared against the matte white backdrop as the photographer directed the rest of the group into place. Jungkook hadn’t shot his solos yet — he’d been saved for last, as if they all knew the best tension builds slowly.

You were reviewing proofs on a monitor when the stylist approached you, breathless and mid-hustle.

“Sorry, Y/N—can you approve the jewelry for Jungkook’s third look? We’ve got the options prepped, but he wants to wear the chain without layering.” She didn't wait for a full answer, already turning back. “He’s in the fitting room.”

You don’t hesitate. Don’t sigh. You just nod once and follow, clipboard in hand, pulse tucked neatly beneath your professionalism.

It’s just another detail. Another decision. You’ve approved a hundred accessories today already but you haven’t approved him.

The fitting area isn’t private. Just a curtained nook off the main set, half-lit by dressing bulbs and cluttered with half-dressed mannequins and hangers heavy with sponsored silk.

And he’s there when you slip inside. Shirtless, silver chain dangling from his fingers, tattoos curling down his arm like they belong to a different man than the boy you once knew.

He looks over his shoulder the moment he hears you enter. His lips curve slowly, like this is a scene he’s played in his head a thousand times already.

“Oh,” he says. “They sent you.”

You don’t react. You’re too tired for games and too exposed for softness.

“Only because the chain needs editorial sign-off,” you say coolly.

He turns to face you fully, unhurried. Like the air between you isn’t thick enough to choke on.

“Then by all means,” he murmurs, offering the necklace like a dare, “approve me.”

You step forward without flinching, though every part of you wants to be somewhere—anywhere—else. The chain is cool in your palm. His hand is warm. The heat of his body radiates as you move into his space, standing just close enough to clasp the piece around his bare neck.

His skin smells like cologne and memory. Like summer and sweat and one a.m. phone calls you’ll never get back.

You keep your eyes down. Your fingers are steady as you drape the chain across his collarbones, lock it into place behind his neck. He watches you in the mirror and doesn’t blink.

“Still pretending I don’t affect you?” he asks, low enough that no one outside this curtain will ever hear.

You don’t look at him. Don’t let him win.

“You’re not that hard to ignore.”

He laughs, soft and sharp. It brushes the side of your cheek like smoke. “Liar.”

You step back; one clean motion with no hesitation. Your eyes scan the chain against his chest. Simple. Effective. Professional.

“It works,” you say.

He’s still looking at you. Not with smugness now, but something quieter. Studying the way your arms stay crossed. The way your voice never shakes, even when your throat does.

“You always liked this one,” he says, tapping the charm. “You said it made me look dangerous.”

“That was a long time ago.”

His smile shifts. “You still look at me like it’s not.”

You leave before you can answer. Let the curtain fall shut behind you like a closing door.

And you don’t breathe again until you’re halfway down the hallway.

The bathroom is cold and sterile and mercifully empty.

You close the door behind you, flip the lock, and let your clipboard fall to the counter with a dull clatter.

It’s only then—only then—that your shoulders drop.

Your hands brace against the sink, breath coming out in one sharp exhale like it’s been trapped under your ribs since you walked into that fitting room. Your reflection in the mirror is still composed, still precise… but your eyes are too bright, and your skin is too warm, and the chain you touched is still clinging to your fingertips like a memory you can’t scrub off.

The cold water against your wrists and temples helps clear your mind as you gather yourself in the bathroom. This is just another work assignment - he's just another subject to photograph. You've dealt with far more challenging situations than being near someone who once made you believe in forever.

With practiced efficiency, you touch up your lipstick and straighten your blouse. When you emerge into the hallway, your composure is flawless, your expression revealing nothing of the storm beneath. The studio has quieted now, with only essential crew remaining.

Light rigs now buzz on low. Laptops closed, garment bags zipped, coffee cups abandoned on carts. A few stylists linger in quiet conversations by the exit, voices hushed with the kind of fatigue that only comes after a perfect shot.

The hallway outside the dressing area is empty except for you and the steady hum of the hard drive transferring the final export. Metal and stale sweat linger in the air, a reminder of the day's shoot. You've maintained your composure perfectly throughout, every interaction calculated and professional.

But when you hear those footsteps approaching - measured, purposeful, unmistakable - your carefully constructed facade threatens to crack. You don't need to look to know who it is.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” Jungkook says, voice low behind you.

You glance over your shoulder. He’s out of wardrobe now, in a simple hoodie and sweats, hair still slightly damp from styling. His tattoos are half-hidden under the sleeves, but his eyes are all sharp edge and unfinished business.

You straighten. "Waiting on a drive."

He moves closer, maintaining a careful distance. "They left in a rush. Didn't even say goodbye." The words carry a weight you both understand - he's not talking about the crew.

"It was a long day," you reply, your voice measured.

"You always were good at making things efficient," he observes, a hint of something unspoken in his tone.

You turn to face him with your perfected expression - the unflappable editor no one dares to question. "Did you need something, Jungkook?"

His composure shifts, tongue pressed against his cheek. "I need to know why you're acting like we didn't matter."

The words land with the weight of years unspoken. You meet his gaze steadily. "Because you acted like we didn't."

The silence stretches between you as the truth of it settles. He doesn't deny it. "I didn't know how to end it back then. I was selfish."

"You were a coward," you reply, voice steady despite the burning in your throat. "A call, a text - anything would have been better than disappearing."

"I thought it would be easier if I let you hate me."

A bitter laugh escapes you. "Easier for who?"

He closes the distance between you until you can feel the heat radiating from his body, his familiar scent mixing with the dim emergency lights that line the floors. "I still remember everything," he murmurs. "Your old apartment with the mattress on the floor. How you'd cry over unfinished articles. The way you'd fall asleep against my chest like you belonged there."

You remain frozen, breath caught somewhere beneath your ribs as he leans in slightly, the air between you crackling with tension. "Do you remember any of it?" he whispers.

The memories flood back unbidden, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction. Instead, you tilt your head and deliver the words with practiced indifference. "You're five years too late."

You walk away before he can notice your trembling hands, and he remains rooted in place, torn between the urge to follow and the knowledge that he lost that right long ago.

✦

The suite smells like charcoal-grilled meat and takeout beer. The shoot’s over. The glamor is gone.

They’ve all crammed into Namjoon’s apartment for a late dinner, half-unwinding, half-rehashing the chaos of the day. Yoongi’s in the corner scrolling on his phone. Jin’s talking over everyone about how the lighting made him look “unfairly youthful.” But Jungkook hasn’t touched his food.

He’s nursing a beer. And he hasn’t said more than a few words all night.

Taehyung notices first.

“You good?” he asks, lazily tossing a cushion at him from across the couch.

Jungkook doesn’t look up. “Yeah.”

Jimin lifts an eyebrow. “You’ve been zoning out since we left the studio.”

There’s a beat of silence then Jungkook exhales and runs a hand through his hair. “She was really there.”

Jin, mid-chew, frowns. “Who?”

Jungkook glances at the ceiling, leans back, eyes unfocused. “Y/N.”

The name still tastes strange in his mouth. “She’s… she was our editorial lead. For the cover.”

Yoongi finally looks up. “Seriously?”

“She didn’t even flinch,” Jungkook mutters. “Like I never existed.”

Namjoon gives him a long look. “You expected a welcome hug?”

“No,” Jungkook says, quieter. “I don’t know what I expected. But not… that.”

He thinks of the way she stood—straight-backed, calm, like she’d stripped him from her system entirely. He thinks of her voice. How carefully detached it was. You’re five years too late.The line replays in his chest like a lyric.

“She looked good,” Jungkook says after a pause. “Better than before.”

“Better without you,” Yoongi says flatly.

Jungkook doesn’t reply. Taehyung sighs, sitting up. “It’s insane that you’re surprised. You ghosted her while fucking your way through rookie girl groups.”

“I didn’t—” Jungkook winces. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like that.”

“But it did,” Namjoon says, voice firm. “You left her. And you never gave her a real goodbye. You just vanished.”

Jimin shifts, arms crossed. “You think she forgot? That she sat around waiting while you made headlines with girls you didn’t even text back?”

“I was overwhelmed,” Jungkook snaps, frustration leaking out. “We were finally being notice, I was twenty, the world was on fire—”

“And she was in the middle of it with you,” Taehyung cuts in. “Until you acted like she was a phase you could leave behind.”

That shuts him up. Jungkook stares at the label on his bottle. His jaw ticks.

“She looked right through me today,” he says quietly. “Like I never touched her. Like she doesn’t still exist in my head every fucking day.”

Silence falls over the room. Then Jin sighs and pats his shoulder. “Well. Maybe now you know how it felt.”

✦

You hold the final print like it owes you something.

Not just a paycheck. Not just another spread to fill your portfolio. But proof that you belong here.

Vogue Korea – October Issue. The one everyone wanted to work on. And you got it.

The paper stock is matte heavyweight — no gloss, no gimmick. The cover design minimal: just the group’s name in clean serif and the issue title in metallic foil, whispering luxury. Echoes of the Future.

You flip through the pages like you haven’t already memorized the entire layout. But it still hits. The gravity. The precision. The power of it.

Each editorial frame is stripped to its bones — no backdrops, no props, no distractions. Just symmetry, shadowplay, and seven of the most photographed men in the world, captured like you’ve never seen them before.

Jimin in sharp Céline tailoring, wet hair pushed off his forehead, lips parted like he’s about to ruin someone.

Namjoon in a crisp Ferragamo overcoat and nothing underneath. Minimal styling. Maximum command.

Taehyung draped in silk Givenchy, silver rings on every finger, a single brow arched like a dare. Yoongi — Gucci and attitude. Seated. Unbothered. A king tired of his throne. Jin in a Bottega turtleneck with sculptural shoulders, the kind of silhouette only he could make feel warm. Hoseok’s frame wrapped in a monochrome Rick Owens layered set, gaze tilted away from camera — like he knows you’re looking. And Jungkook. Front and center. Mugler suit. Bare chest. One silver chain. Wet strands falling over his brow, a half-smirk caught between innocence and provocation.

You chose that shot. Pushed for it. It’s not about sex. It’s about control. Power. Presence.

There’s no overstyling. No theatrics. Just tension. The kind that doesn’t need words.

When you close the issue and step into the elevator of the JW Marriott rooftop lounge, your reflection catches in the mirror: off-the-shoulder Alaïa column dress in black crepe, Louboutin heels, lips painted the exact shade of silent danger. You look expensive. Untouchable. Editorial. Exactly how you planned it.

The party has already started by the time you arrive — hosted in the private event wing, high above Seoul’s skyline. Dim, golden lighting. Smooth jazz threaded with ambient house. Crystal glasses passed by silent staff in Tom Ford uniforms. Everyone here is someone.

Vogue doesn’t just launch a cover — it celebrates it. Especially one this anticipated. Especially when the entire campaign broke engagement records before it hit print.

And when the subject is BTS? The fashion world watches. So tonight isn’t just a party. It’s an affirmation. For the magazine. For the editorial team. For you.

You float through it with your usual ease — nodding to the creative director from Boucheron, chatting with the head of marketing from Dior Beauty, accepting compliments on the issue from half the room without blinking.

Until someone mentions it. “Did you hear BTS might actually show tonight?”

You maintain your composure, letting the champagne brush your lips as you smile with practiced nonchalance. The air in the room shifts subtly, and with the slightest turn of your head, you see him.

Jeon Jungkook. Walking in through the side entrance, flanked by two staffers and dressed in black-on-black: a Saint Laurent suit jacket left open over a silk shirt, sheer enough to tease the curve of his chest. No tie. Just skin, chain, stare.

He looks different tonight - transformed from both the idol whose image you curated and the ghost who haunted your hallway last week. There's something raw and deliberate in his presence now, a man who arrived with clear intent. His eyes find you immediately across the room, heavy with purpose, and you notice with a start that he came alone.

Namjoon had RSVP’d but sent a polite decline. You’d caught wind of Jimin flying out for a brand shoot in Tokyo. The rest were likely busy or deliberately laying low — as expected.

But he showed up, of all people, leaving you unsure whether to laugh at his audacity or grip your glass tighter.

Jungkook doesn’t approach you. Not at first. You feel his gaze like pressure behind your bare shoulder. But he moves slowly through the room — greets the Vogue team with a bow, gives the photographer a brief, easy hug. Accepts a drink from a server. Ends up near the bar with a woman you vaguely recognize from the Seoul fashion circuit — a model with collarbones sharp enough to cut glass, her dress barely skimming the line of decency.

She leans in when she speaks to him. Laughs too brightly. Touches his forearm once, casually.

He barely acknowledges the model's attention, his gaze fixed elsewhere in the room - on you. Through the evening, his eyes find you repeatedly, not with desire but with careful observation, like he's memorizing every detail. The looks fall into a steady rhythm, yet he maintains his distance while others gravitate toward you.

You’re halfway through your second glass when two men — suits, handsome, not strangers to the room — flank you near the edge of the terrace. One is from an ad agency you’ve worked with before. The other’s from an international menswear brand.

They talk shop. Compliment your dress. One of them offers you another drink before you can say no. The other leans in when he speaks, a little too close to your ear, and you catch the ghost of his cologne mixed with something slightly sour.

You offer your practiced, polite smile But you're aware of how their eyes follow the dip of your neckline like they’ve been given permission. One of them lets his fingers rest too long against your elbow. The other jokes, "Are all editors this pretty or are you the exception?" and doesn’t seem to care that you don’t laugh.

Your eyes drift across the room unbidden to find him exactly where he's been all evening, his steady gaze never having left you.

Jungkook’s grip on his glass is tighter now. The model beside him keeps talking, oblivious. He’s not listening. You know that jaw too well. The tension behind it. The twitch when he’s about to break.

You take another sip. Feel the flush of alcohol under your skin. Your vision gets softer at the edges, but the awareness sharpens. You know how this ends. You feel it humming beneath your ribs, hot and inevitable.

And when the man beside you brushes your wrist again — subtle, casual, entitled — you don’t pull away fast enough.

Without warning or spectacle, Jungkook materializes beside you with the practiced grace of someone who's spent years in the spotlight. His movement is fluid, deliberate - sliding between you and your unwanted admirers with a hand ghosting the small of your back. His body creates a subtle barrier, the gesture so smoothly executed that it appears almost accidental, yet the message is unmistakably clear.

“Didn’t realize I was late to this conversation,” he says smoothly.

You catch the flicker of recognition on the men’s faces. One of them steps back half a pace, suddenly less charming. The other adjusts his collar and offers a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Jeon Jungkook,” the taller one says, offering a hand. “Didn’t know you were here.”

Jungkook shakes it. Calm. Collected. “Figured I’d say hello to the team who made the shoot happen.”

His eyes flick toward you, then back. “Though it looks like I should’ve come earlier.”

It’s almost nothing. Just a hint. A slip beneath the surface. But you hear it. Feel it in the weight of his voice. The way his hand stays just a fraction too close to yours.

Possessive. And yet — perfectly palatable for a crowd.

No one would question this display of protectiveness - the touch, the timing, or the implications. The men's faces fell as their evening plans crumbled, replaced by hasty excuses about drivers and text messages from L'Officiel. They melted into the crowd, leaving as quickly as they had appeared.

Jungkook watches them disappear into the crowd with that unreadable expression you remember from his early idol days. When he didn’t know how to speak with words yet — just stares.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, voice quiet, cutting.

“I know.”

“Then why?”

He shrugs. Still watching the crowd. “Didn’t like how they were touching you.”

“That’s not your concern anymore.”

He turns to face you then. Full. Real. And the look in his eyes is darker than the mood lighting.

“It never stopped being my concern.”

That does something to your throat. Tightens it.

You want to roll your eyes. Push him away. Instead, you take a half-step back and fix your dress strap.

“You can go now,” you say, coolly.

But his jaw tightens. That’s when you know you’ve hit something.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He says it so quietly. But it doesn’t feel soft. It feels like something pulled from the center of his chest.

You scan the room out of instinct. Too many eyes. Too much potential noise.

Jungkook notices. And he moves.He doesn’t ask.His hand brushes your wrist—light, guiding—and then he’s walking. Confident. Unbothered. Heading toward the side hallway just past the lounge bar, near the VIP exit where only staff and talent are allowed to pass.

You should stop him but instead you follow.

The hallway is quiet, dimmer than the rest of the event. A velvet rope keeps guests from entering, and a private elevator tucked at the end promises anonymity to anyone important enough to use it. You’ve seen it before. Watched stylists hustle idols through that door like ghosts, like secrets.

Jungkook stops just out of view.

The corner of the hall is shadowed, walls covered in gold-veined marble and muted hotel art. The muffled bass from the party barely reaches here. His back is to you.

He turns when you stop. And then he steps in.

Close. Too close. He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t raise his voice. But he towers.

The heat from his body sears into yours. His jaw clenches once before relaxing, like he’s trying to hold back a thousand versions of the same mistake.

“You know what they wanted from you,” he says, voice low. “And you were going to let them?”

“I wasn’t going to let them do anything.”

“You let them touch you.”

“You fucked half the industry,” you snap, too fast. Too exposed. “Don’t start pretending I’m the one who crossed lines.”

That lands. Sharp. But he doesn’t retreat.

“I haven’t loved anyone except for you.”

Your breath catches in your throat as the weight of his words sinks in, leaving you dizzy and unsteady.

You want to argue. You want to scream liar.But he’s looking at you like it’s gospel. Like the weight of that confession has been killing him slowly every night since. And god, he’s close.

You feel your body respond before your brain can stop it. The heat between your legs. The flush rising beneath your skin. The sharp, brutal ache that coils low in your stomach just from the way he’s standing there — like he’d throw himself between you and the world all over again.

You glance down — mistake. The open collar of his shirt frames his chest like it was designed for your hands. The chain you once clasped glints against his skin, half-damp from heat. You remember how he tastes. Wonder if he still does.

Your thighs press together instinctively as his gaze drops to notice the movement. The knowledge that he can still read your body's reactions makes your stomach twist with loathing.

“You have no right to be jealous,” you say, voice barely a whisper.

“I know.”

“You left me.”

“I know.”

Your heart is pounding. Your mouth is dry. And when he leans in just a little closer — breath brushing your ear, his voice raw and unfiltered — it takes every ounce of strength not to melt against the wall.

“You can hate me all you want,” he says. “But I still know how to make you come apart.”

Jungkook’s stare is heavy. Focused. Unflinching.

He says nothing for a long, charged second, and you hate how your body reacts to that silence — like it remembers something your brain is still trying to forget.

“You don’t get to act like this,” you say, and it comes out sharp, acidic. “You don’t get to touch me now and pretend it means anything.”

His jaw tenses, but his voice stays level. Quiet. Deadly calm.

“I’m not pretending.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, shifting your weight — and that’s when he does it.

His hand slides down with deliberate intent, finding its target. He squeezes your ass with possessive familiarity, the firm pressure making your breath catch. Though you maintain your composure, your body betrays you - skin flushing hot, thighs pressing together as desire coils in your stomach.

“You’re disgusting,” you mutter through your teeth.

But he leans in, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“You didn’t stop me.”

You shove at his chest, but there’s no real strength in it. Not when your knees feel like static and your pulse is hammering between your legs. Not when your own body is already betraying you, flooding with heat from the base of your spine to the ache you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.

“You’re the one who fucked other people the second you got famous,” you snap. “Don’t come near me like we have unfinished business.”

“You think I don’t remember how you taste?” he breathes, low and lethal. “How your thighs shake when I—”

“Shut up.” You cut him off, voice breaking around the edge. “You’re pathetic.”

But his hand is still on you. Still burning through the fabric of your dress.

And now he's walking.

You're not sure when his hand left yours. You're not sure when your legs decided to follow. But you're moving. Toward the private elevator at the end of the hallway. It dings as it opens — discreet, slow, waiting for no one else.

“Don’t,” you say, half-hearted, hovering just outside the doors.

He steps inside the elevator and glances back, waiting with an unspoken challenge in his eyes.

“Unless you're scared,” he murmurs.

You could slap him. You should, but instead you step into the elevator with feigned composure, despite your trembling heels.

The doors close with a soft click, leaving you enveloped in thick, electric silence. His presence looms behind you, coiled and simmering, while you maintain your dignity - chin raised, gaze fixed steadily on the elevator doors.

Your mind races as the floors tick by, but you've already surrendered to whatever destination he has in mind.

You tell yourself it’s just physical. You’re tired. Your bones are tired. You've been carrying ambition like armor for too long and you want — god, you want — to feel something. Something that doesn’t require you to smile, or pose, or win.

You want to stop being the calculated editor, the polished image, the embodiment of perfection - if only for one night. And if it has to be Jungkook, the only man who ever witnessed you come undone, then so be it. After all, if he's determined to shatter your composure again, you'll make sure he crumbles right alongside you.

The car ride settles into a weighty silence, charged with unspoken tension that fills the space between you.

A stretch of velvet air between you, thick with all the things neither of you are brave or stupid enough to say.

Jungkook’s limo is absurd. Sleek black leather, blue LED trim humming at your feet. A built-in bar you ignore. Curtains drawn. City lights blur past the tinted glass as if the world outside has nothing to do with what’s about to happen inside.

You sit rigid, legs crossed. The dress has ridden up just slightly — the soft part of your thigh kissing cool air — and he notices.

He notices immediately. His hand moves with quiet confidence, as if remembering a familiar path. Fingertips rest briefly on your knee before sliding upward, his thumb drawing lazy circles where silk meets flesh.

Though you avoid his gaze, busying yourself by twisting your hair between your fingers, your body betrays you - thighs pressing together as his touch ventures into dangerous territory. The corner of his mouth lifts in a knowing smirk.

“I forgot how stubborn you are.”

You glare. “You forgot a lot of things.”

His fingers don’t retreat. He slides them just a breath higher, pulling the hem of your dress with them.

“You can say stop,” he murmurs, voice dropping low. “You know I’ll listen.”

You hate the truth of it, hate even more that you don't want to stop him. Your thighs remain locked together as heat builds between them, as if friction alone could erase what's about to happen.

He stays perfectly still, his touch a gentle reminder on your skin. Patient. Waiting. Your body responds to his presence with a familiar ache, your pulse quickening as it remembers his touch.

Through the window, city lights blur past while you try to steady your breathing. There's no denying what's about to happen - you knew it from the moment you followed him from that party.

Tonight, you’re not Vogue Korea’s untouchable ice queen. You’re just a woman.

Lonely. Starving. So fucking tired of pretending she doesn’t want to be ruined.

✦

The car stops in front of La Premiere, one of Seoul’s most exclusive residential towers — all glass, obsidian stone, gold accents that shimmer even at midnight. You’re not surprised. This is the kind of place you only enter if your name is a brand.

The lobby's marble floors echo beneath your heels as you follow him to the private elevator, where a thumbprint grants access to the upper floors. The doorman's familiar greeting only amplifies the tension crackling between you.

Your heart pounds against your ribs as the elevator climbs to the penthouse. The space unfolds before you - a stunning expanse of high ceilings and concrete walls, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a breathtaking view of Seoul's glittering skyline. But you barely register the luxurious details.

The moment the door clicks shut behind you, he presses you against the wall, his mouth capturing yours with desperate intensity.

He kisses you like a man starved, like he's been haunted by the memory of your taste. His hands roam possessively over your body while his tongue claims yours in a heated dance of desire. When an involuntary moan escapes your lips, his mouth curves into a knowing grin against yours.

“Still pretending you don’t want this?”

You shove at his chest, breathless.

“Still pretending you don’t want to be fucked?”

His laugh is dark. “You want to feel me inside you, don’t you?”

You don’t answer and he takes it as a yes.

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, carrying you down the hallway. You catch glimpses of modern art, black marble floors, absurdly expensive furniture you could write articles about.

But then...His bedroom.

Of course it’s massive. King-sized bed draped in jet-black sheets, one wall entirely glass, Seoul glittering behind it like a crown.

He lays you down. Stares at you for a second. Then bends. Presses a kiss to your shin. Your knee. Your inner thigh. You arch.

“You’re not going to tease me,” you spit, breath shaky.

“Oh no?” His voice is warm silk wrapped around something feral. “I think you’ve been begging to be teased.”

And then he’s peeling your dress up, up, over your hips, dragging it slowly, deliberately, like he’s unwrapping a sin he’s already claimed.

His hands never stop moving.

He spreads your legs with ease, dress bunched high at your waist now, the cold kiss of air meeting warm skin. You feel obscenely exposed and utterly alive — laid out against his sheets in nothing but a paper-thin pair of black lace underwear that does nothing to hide the heat soaking through.

And when his eyes land there, dark and molten, his breath catches.

“Fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “You’ve always been unreal.”

You watch his throat move, swallowing thickly. His fingers trail from your calf to the inside of your thigh, slow and reverent.

“I’m gonna fuck you so good,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your heat like he’s watching a meal he’s about to ruin. “You’ll forget how to hate me.”

You don’t have time to snarl back before his mouth is on you again — dragging up your body, lips trailing over your stomach, your ribs, your bra. He finds your breast with one hand, slipping beneath the delicate cup, warm palm cupping it, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. Then his tongue is there, licking over your nipple through the lace, wetting it until the fabric turns transparent and your back lifts off the bed.

You whimper. Loud. And you hate that it sounds like relief.

His other hand finds your ass, gripping it with the kind of pressure that says mine, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed as he grinds down against you, clothed cock heavy and hot against your inner thigh.

He nips at your breast, tongue flicking, eyes on your face.

“Still pretending you don’t remember what this feels like?”

You pant, fingers buried in his hair. “Just fuck me already.”

But he’s not done teasing. He slides lower again, mouth kissing a path down your torso, tongue tasting your skin like it’s his.

When he reaches your panties, he pauses. Licks his lips.

“These need to come off.”

You lift your hips. He slides them down your legs, slow and smooth, like he’s savoring every inch of skin revealed.

And then he groans.

“Fuck, baby…” His thumb brushes over your slit. “You’re soaked.”

You glare. “You’re not special.”

He chuckles. “We’ll see.”

Then he kisses you again, deep and dirty, hand slipping between your thighs, two fingers sliding through your folds with ease, coating themselves in everything your pride is trying to hide.

He presses in — just one finger, shallow and slow — and you gasp into his mouth.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he breathes against your lips. “You really haven’t let anyone else stretch you like this?”

You don’t answer.

But your moan says enough.

He adds another finger. Curling them. Moving them just right.

“This is me preparing you,” he murmurs, voice all silk and sin. “I’m gonna make it good. Gonna make you cum on my fingers before I even fuck you.”

Your eyes flutter shut. “God, Jungkook—”

“I love when you beg,” he growls, “but not yet.”

You reach for him then, desperate, fingers tugging at his open shirt — sheer and slippery beneath your grip. You want to see him. Need to.

He feels it. “Patience,” he smirks, but he lets you undress him anyway.

Jacket drops first. Then that ridiculous silk shirt that slides off his arms like water. You make a sound low in your throat when you see him again, bare and sculpted and dangerous. Then he pushes his pants down, black slacks pooling on the floor, and all that’s left is his boxers — stretched tight over his cock, which is very obviously hard.

And huge. Your mouth parts. He sees it. Smirks again.

“Don’t act surprised,” he murmurs, leaning in. “You’ve had it before.”

His body covers yours, the warmth of his skin burning against you, his cock pressing hot and heavy between your thighs. He grinds once, slow, and you gasp — the length of him perfectly aligned against your soaked slit, dragging between your folds like he’s memorizing the shape of your desperation.

He doesn't push in yet.

Just teases. Rubs the head against your clit. Circles it. Slips down, catches your entrance, then pulls back again.

You bite your lip so hard it stings.

“Jungkook,” you pant, voice breaking.

He kisses your jaw, your neck, his voice low and smug and maddening.

“You’re gonna say please.”

You don’t say please.Not with your mouth.

But when you look down and see him reach for the nightstand drawer, tear open the foil packet with steady fingers, and roll the condom down his thick, veined length...Your mouth parts on instinct.

God.

You forgot what he looked like like this. Not just big — devastating. Long, hard, flushed dark at the tip, heavy in his own hand. Your core clenches around nothing, heat flooding your stomach.

You don’t mean to moan. But you do. His smirk falters for a split second.

“You’re still so easy to ruin,” he murmurs, fisting his cock, stroking once, lining himself up between your thighs. “I barely touched you.”

“You’ve been talking too much,” you whisper, chest heaving. “Shut up and—”

But the words die the second he starts to push in.

You gasp — your whole body tensing — and your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging in hard.

He groans above you. “Shit—you’re tight.”

You feel the stretch like it’s the first time. A slow, thick pressure as he sinks in inch by inch. Every muscle in your body coils, thighs trembling, breath catching.

His mouth finds yours again — wet, open, filthy — kissing you through it, licking into your whimper like he’s feeding off your pleasure.

“Just breathe,” he whispers, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your waist. “I’ve got you.”

You do. You let him in.

And god, you hate how good it feels — to have him deep inside, to feel the way your body opens around him like it remembers exactly where he belongs.

When he bottoms out, hips flush to yours, he groans into your throat.

You’re both panting. Stunned. Then you move. Your legs wrap around his waist. Tight. Holding him there. His back arches into it, and he nearly chokes on his breath.

“F-fuck,” he stutters, voice cracking. “You’re gonna make me cum just like that.”

You grin, delirious. “Control yourself.”

“Impossible,” he groans, but he stays still, grinding his hips in slow, rolling circles, letting you feel all of him, the friction igniting fire where your nerves used to be.

Your hands slide down his back — hot, damp with sweat — and you whisper between shaky breaths:

“You feel so good, Jungkook… so fucking good—”

That does it. He starts to move. Slow at first. Deep. Letting you feel every inch drag through you, the way your walls flutter around him. He groans again — long and low — kisses you like he’s starving.

Then he leans back just enough to slip a hand between your bodies, tugging at your bra strap.

“Off,” he pants. “I want to feel all of you.”

You arch for him, and he peels the lace away, throws it somewhere behind him without a second glance. His mouth latches onto your breast immediately, tongue circling your nipple while he thrusts deeper now, rhythm gaining speed.

Your moan rips from your throat — helpless.

The room is filled with slick, obscene sounds. Wet kisses. The slap of skin against skin. His name. Your name. Every broken breath in between.

He fucks you like he never stopped wanting you. Like every other girl was just a placeholder. Like this is what he’s been chasing for years.

You meet him thrust for thrust, body to body, every part of you singing from the friction and the fullness.

“Jungkook—” you gasp, legs shaking around him.

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut tight.

“I’m close—fuck—I’m gonna—”

Your nails dig into his back. Your mouth finds his. Hot. Messy. Breathless.

And you both fall.

You cum around him with a strangled cry, legs locking, mouth open, his name your only word. He follows seconds later — hips jerking, body shaking, groaning into your mouth as he spills into the condom, both of you swallowed in heat and noise and everything you said you’d never feel again.

The room goes still except your breathing. And the heartbeat pounding between your ribs like a warning.

Your body is still shaking when he collapses beside you, skin damp and breath ragged, his palm pressed flat against your stomach like he needs to anchor himself to something that’s real.

Neither of you speak. Your lungs are too full of what just happened — of the heat still lingering between your thighs, of his scent on your skin, of the kiss still wet on your mouth.

And then he moves again.

You feel it before you see it — the subtle shift of his body behind yours, the press of his chest against your back, the way his hand slides down your stomach, lower, lower, fingers brushing over your still-sensitive slit with the softest, filthiest reverence.

Your legs twitch.

“Jungkook…” your voice is nothing more than a broken breath.

But he’s already hard again. His cock slides against your ass, hot and ready, nestling in the curve of your body like it belongs there. Like it never stopped belonging there.

“I can’t stop,” he whispers, voice husky and wrecked. “Not yet. I need more.”

You don’t argue because the truth is, so do you.

You feel the crinkle of another condom. The soft hiss of him rolling it on. And then he pushes in from behind.

This angle — lying on your side, body curled into his, his arm wrapped tight around your waist — it’s too much. Too deep. Too intimate.

You cry out softly as he fills you again, slower this time, his hips moving in lazy, grinding rolls that feel like velvet dragging through your core.

He groans low into your neck.

“Still so fucking tight. So warm,” he pants. “You’re made for me.”

Your hands scramble behind you, reaching for anything to hold. You find his hair, his neck, your fingers threading through damp strands and pulling him closer. His mouth finds yours again — messy, hot, upside down, your teeth clashing a little before they part.

The kiss is deeper than it should be. Slower. Desperate in a different way.

Like neither of you are trying to cum anymore. Like you’re just trying to stay here.

He fucks you like he’s drunk on you — like your body is a drug he’s been forced to quit and now can’t get enough of. His hand slides over your breasts, then down again, gripping your thigh to tilt your hips back, opening you wider.

You whimper into the pillow, moaning his name over and over, helpless.

“Feel so good, baby,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t stop.”

You don’t want him to, you’re shaking. Sweat-slick. Eyes wet.

You twist your neck just enough to kiss him again — messy, slow, tongues tangling mid-thrust, like your mouths can’t stay apart even now. His pace stutters.

You feel him start to lose it, his rhythm breaking as you clench around him, your walls pulling him deeper with every snap of his hips.

And when you cum again — this time quieter, slower, your body trembling as you squeeze your eyes shut — he goes with you.

He groans your name into your skin as he spills into you again, the rhythm fading into soft, tired rolls of his hips, your bodies still locked together under the sheets.

For a long while, neither of you move.

You just lay there. Breathing. Tangled. Spent.

He kisses your shoulder once. Light. Almost careful.

And then sleep pulls you both under — not out of comfort, but out of collapse. Because neither of you came here looking for peace.

You just needed an escape.

And you found it in each other’s ruin.

✦

Your eyes snap open before your alarm ever has the chance.

The room is quiet. Dim gray light filters through blackout curtains. The sheets smell like sex and sweat and a mistake you swore you'd never make again.

Slowly opening your eyes, you feel the weight of memories flood back.

The kisses. The way he moaned your name. His hands, his mouth, the sound of skin slapping skin. The taste of him on your lips. The way he said you’re mine without ever needing the words.

“Fuck,” you breathe, pressing your hand over your eyes.

You sit up slowly.

Your body aches in all the right ways and all the wrong ones — thighs sore, lips bruised, a pulsing between your legs that still flutters when you shift.

Next to you, Jungkook sleeps facedown. Bare, sprawled, shamelessly beautiful. The sheets only just cover his waist, one arm bent beneath the pillow, the muscles in his back stretching in long, carved lines.

Your gaze lingers on his sleeping form. He looks peaceful and unguarded, making him all the more dangerous in his vulnerability.

You bite your lip hard, fighting back unwanted feelings.

Your fingers twitch with the urge to trace the curve of his spine, but you stop yourself. Because you don’t have time for softness. You have work. You always have work.

Dragging yourself out of the bed, you start collecting your clothes — your dress crumpled in the corner, your heels under the chaise, your bra on the floor beside the door like a monument to your downfall.

When you catch your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you wince.

Mascara smudged. Lips bitten raw. Hair wrecked. You look like a woman who had a night.

And in less than an hour, you need to look like a woman in charge of the most powerful editorial campaign of the year.

You move fast. Cold water. Concealer. Lip balm. Breath mints. You finger-comb your hair and twist it into something sleek. But the problem isn’t the face — it’s the clothes.

Your dress is a dead giveaway. Wrinkled, short, undeniably last night.

You move to Jungkook’s closet. Rows of Saint Laurent, Givenchy, Alexander McQueen. Racks of custom suits and silky button-downs. Not a single item designed for discretion.

But then — a structured black blazer. Boxy, masculine, clean-cut enough to pass.

You slide it on. It swallows your frame. The hem falls past your thighs, hiding your dress completely. You roll the sleeves once. Twice. Pair it with quiet confidence and a pair of sunglasses from the entryway table.

You almost look like a Vogue editor again. You don’t let yourself look at him again.

You just close the door behind you, call a taxi, and vanish into morning traffic with nothing but your pride duct-taped together inside that blazer.

The office pulses with energy when you arrive, as your colleagues look up with warm, welcoming smiles.

“Y/N! Congrats again on the October issue—” “That cover is insane, seriously, you killed it—” “You must be exhausted after last night’s party!”

With a practiced smile, you offer polite thanks to your colleagues while trying to ignore how your skin still carries traces of last night - a mix of sex and his signature cologne. When an intern approaches with coffee, you accept it with silent gratitude, thinking you've almost made it through unscathed.

Until Kara appears.

“Wow,” she says, voice honeyed and loud. “You look… rough.”

The conversation halts like a car crash. A beat of awkward silence. Someone clears their throat.

Meeting her gaze, you watch as Kara's smile spreads across her face, predatory and sharp.

“Late night?” she adds, mock-innocent. “Or should I say… early morning?”

Without a word, you lift your coffee and stride forward, but she trails behind you through the main office hallway. As you approach the glass-walled door of your boss's office, it swings open to reveal your editor-in-chief - a vision of authority in sharp heels and an immaculate outfit, her penetrating gaze already assessing the situation.

Kara laughs softly and says, “She probably didn’t even go home. Just look — same dress as last night’s party. Slept over somewhere fancy, though. That’s not hers.”

Time seems to slow as your muscles tense. Your boss's calculating gaze sweeps over you, her expression as impenetrable as marble and twice as cold.

“Y/N,” she says. “My office. Now.”

Your stomach plummets as you head toward her office, acutely aware of Kara's self-satisfied smirk and the way she bites her thumb, savoring her apparent victory.

Your phone buzzes in your palm.

Unknown Number: That blazer suits you. But you’ll have to pay me back eventually. Preferably not in cash.

Your pulse quickens at the message, and you don't need to guess who sent it, you slip the phone into your pocket before knocking on your boss's door.

part 2

🖤

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#jungkook smut #jungkook imagine #jungkook ff #jungkook x you #bts smut #jeon jungkook #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook #bts jungkook #second chance au

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dior-luxury · 2 months ago

Note

Love your works. Can I request a fluffy romantic sleepover scenario with the housewardens x female reader please? Thank you

The Sleepover

( ✧ ) ────── boyfriend stories . fluff - no prns .

- [𝐜𝐡.] dormleaders

- [𝐩:𝐬] Kissing / Physical Affection . Comfort Fic / Hurt-Comfort Vibes . Established Relationship

Note: Finally did your request @alastor-simp, hope you like it!

Riddle Rosehearts

You were already brushing your teeth in Riddle’s private bathroom when he poked his head in, fresh from changing into his immaculate sleepwear: crimson silk pajamas, white trim, buttoned all the way to the top. His hair was slightly tousled from the towel he’d used to dry it, and without his uniform or dorm leader posture, he looked… young. Softer. Like the boy beneath all the rules.

"You’re using my toothbrush cup," he murmured with a little smile.

"And you’re wearing the pajama set I got you for Valentine's," you shot back with a grin.

He blinked, mildly flustered. "They’re... comfortable."

Once the two of you were settled in his bed — everything folded just so, duvet fluffed to Riddle-standard perfection — he reached out, guiding you closer with a hand at the small of your back. His touch was gentle, like he was afraid you might vanish if he wasn’t careful.

“You always bring a kind of chaos with you,” he whispered, his nose brushing against your cheek, "but… it’s the kind I think I might need."

You laughed quietly and nuzzled into the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of rose tea and crisp linen. He had a book on his nightstand, half-read, but he didn’t reach for it tonight. Instead, he just lay there with you, fingers tracing idle patterns along your back.

At one point, he pulled back just slightly, enough to kiss your forehead — once, then again, just a little to the side.

“I’ve always believed rules bring peace,” he said softly. “But with you here, I realize… peace can be warmth, too. Messy, unpredictable, but warm.”

You curled into his chest, heart quietly glowing at the rare emotional vulnerability he offered. His arms tightened around you, and the two of you drifted into sleep with your hands intertwined, the silence broken only by the gentle rustling of leaves outside and the rhythmic heartbeat beneath your ear.

That night, Riddle didn’t dream of tea parties or exams — only strawberry constellations and the way you smiled at him when you thought he wasn’t looking.

Leona Kingscholar

Leona’s idea of a sleepover was less about planning and more about dragging you into his world of naps and laziness — but the romance in it? Unspoken, constant, and powerful.

You were already under the covers in his massive bed, wearing one of his soft, oversized tank tops that smelled like sandalwood and summer heat. Leona lay beside you shirtless, his arm lazily thrown over his eyes, his tail flicking against the sheets in contentment.

"You keep fidgeting," he drawled, not opening his eyes. "You're worse than a sand flea."

You smirked and rolled toward him, draping yourself across his chest. "You love it."

He cracked one golden eye open. "Tch. Unfortunately for me, yeah."

Leona wasn’t one for mushy words in the daylight, but here, in the quiet dark, he became a little different. He let you touch the soft curve of his ear, his tail loosely wrapping around your leg in that instinctive, possessive way.

“You’re comfortable,” you whispered.

"Mm. So are you," he muttered, his voice deeper and more intimate in the silence of the room. "You're the only person I let in this close. You know that, right?"

You nodded against his chest. “You don’t have to say it. I can feel it.”

Still, after a long silence, he spoke again — low and gruff, but honest:

"...I used to sleep alone by choice. Thought I preferred it that way. But now… if you’re not here, it’s like the whole damn room feels wrong.”

You smiled softly and kissed his collarbone, and he exhaled — a quiet sound of surrender. His hand found your waist under the covers, warm and grounding, holding you like you were part of him. Not an accessory to his life, but a vital piece of it.

Outside the window, the breeze whispered through the night like a lullaby. Leona’s breathing evened out, one hand tangled in your hair, his body curved protectively around yours.

And just before sleep took him, you heard him murmur:

“Stay the whole night. Stay for the morning. Hell… stay as long as you want. I’m not lettin’ go.”

Azul Ashengrotto

You knocked gently on the door to Azul’s room, feeling your heart flutter. Though you'd been dating for a while now, staying the night in his private quarters was still a rare treat — something he hadn’t quite gotten used to offering, even if his expression always softened when you asked.

The door creaked open slowly, revealing Azul — no glasses, sleeves rolled, a surprised blink in his silver-blue eyes.

“Y-you’re early,” he stammered, then gave a quick, embarrassed smile. “Not that I’m complaining, of course.”

His room was dimly lit with soft, bioluminescent blues, the ocean theme present but muted — elegant. Nautilus shells adorned the shelves, and the low hum of water magic pulsed subtly through the walls like a heartbeat. You walked in with your overnight bag and saw that he’d already prepared a second cup of tea, neatly arranged beside a stack of parchment and a spellbook. As always, Azul tried to make things perfect.

He gestured toward the velvet couch near the fireplace. “I thought perhaps we could start with a little tea and reading, or — if you’d prefer — I could show you a new potion I’ve been working on for relaxation…”

You dropped your bag, walked over, and gently wrapped your arms around him instead.

Azul froze.

Then, after a long second, he let out a breathy chuckle and rested his forehead against your shoulder. “You always manage to disarm me, you know that?”

Later that night, when you were in your pajamas (he lent you one of his oversized Octavinelle robes — comically big, but warm and smelling like sea salt and citrus), the two of you lay beneath a navy blanket, the enchanted ceiling mimicking the ocean surface above.

Azul, no longer the composed businessman, pulled you close — shy at first, then more confidently once he felt your hand reach for his. You nestled into his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath the silk.

“I used to think I was safest alone,” he whispered, thumb brushing across your knuckles. “But when you’re here, the silence feels... gentle. Like I’m not just waiting for the tides to shift anymore.”

He kissed your temple — tentative but full of meaning — and tucked you close beneath his chin. The light from the ceiling dimmed as you both drifted into quiet conversation, then soft silence, wrapped in each other and the ebbing tide of sleep.

And that night, Azul didn’t dream of contracts or power plays — only the comfort of someone who stayed not for what he could offer, but simply because they loved him.

Kalim Al-Asim

Kalim greeted you the moment you stepped into the dorm — arms wide, grin beaming like the sun. "You're here! You're really here!" he cheered, practically tackling you into a hug that lifted you off the ground.

You laughed as he spun you once before setting you down, his joy infectious and unfiltered.

His room was extravagant, but in a cozy, familiar way. There were layers of vibrant blankets and embroidered pillows, gold and crimson drapery fluttering from the warm breeze that wafted through the arched windows. The ceiling above was open tonight — enchanted to reveal the real desert night sky — thousands of stars twinkling in full view.

“I made sure the cooks prepared all your favorite snacks!” Kalim said, dragging you to a low table overflowing with treats. “And I told Jamil to take the night off so it’s just us!”

You spent hours sprawled across a plush nest of pillows, laughing, sharing stories from the week, feeding each other fruit dipped in honey. Kalim, ever the affectionate one, would rest his head in your lap when he got sleepy, or tug you into his side like a human blanket. He was completely at ease around you — happy, open, unafraid.

And when it was finally time to sleep, he practically glowed with excitement.

"You can have all the pillows you want!" he offered, already tugging you onto the oversized bed. “Actually, never mind — just sleep right next to me.”

So you did. You curled up against him under layers of soft, embroidered blankets. Kalim’s warmth wasn’t just physical — it was the kind that radiated from someone who loved deeply and sincerely. He pressed a soft kiss to your hair and whispered into the starlit hush:

"Did you know? When I was little, I’d wish on stars for someone like you."

You smiled, snuggling closer. “And did the stars answer?”

His arm tightened around you. "They must have. ‘Cause I can’t imagine anyone better.”

The sound of Kalim’s breathing slowed and deepened, his body warm and relaxed beside yours. He slept like someone with nothing to fear — and you slept like someone who finally understood what it felt like to be cherished.

The stars above shimmered, silent witnesses to a night that felt like magic wrapped in gold and laughter.

Vil Schoenheit

Vil’s room was its usual masterpiece — pristine, elegant, and softly illuminated by gold sconces and candlelight. A gentle mist of his favorite essential oil diffused through the air, and a playlist of low, instrumental piano music played quietly in the background. He was waiting by the vanity, brushing out his long golden hair with slow, deliberate strokes when you walked in with your overnight bag.

"You're ten minutes late, liebchen," he said, arching a sculpted brow, but there was a sparkle of mischief in his amethyst eyes.

"Fashionably late?" you offered with a grin.

He scoffed, setting down his brush. "Lucky for you, I allow a certain level of chaos when it's you."

You knew Vil was careful with his routines, his space, and especially his sleep — so the fact that he invited you into this deeply personal bubble meant more than he ever put into words.

After your evening skincare ritual (which he guided with precision, dabbing product onto your cheeks with a tenderness that surprised even him), you changed into matching silk pajamas — his idea, naturally. As you both slipped into the large bed with its silky ivory sheets and plush pillows, Vil turned to you, perfectly composed but visibly more at ease in the soft light.

"You always look at me like I'm... human," he murmured, running a hand gently along your arm. "Not a celebrity. Not a dorm leader. Just me."

You rested your head on his chest, fingers tracing lazy spirals over his heart. "That’s because I love you. Not the brand. You."

Vil let out a slow breath, his usual guarded exterior melting. “Then allow me a rare indulgence, darling.”

He turned and kissed you slowly — no theatrics, no pose — just warmth, sincerity, and quiet devotion. When he pulled away, he tucked your hair behind your ear and laid his forehead against yours.

"You’re good for me," he whispered.

Later, when the candles flickered out, and all that remained was the sound of your breathing and the occasional rustle of sheets, Vil pulled you close in his sleep — face softened by dreams, lips parted in a small smile. No mirrors, no cameras, no critics. Just you, and the safety of love unspoken but deeply felt.

Idia Shroud

When Idia first invited you over for a sleepover, you honestly thought he was joking. Not because he didn’t love you — you knew he did, deeply, painfully, in the way that made him stutter and overthink every time you smiled at him — but because this was Idia. The man whose greatest battle wasn’t a raid boss, but eye contact.

So when you stood at his door with your overnight bag, you expected him to panic.

Instead, the door hissed open, blue flames flickering low and soft, and there he was: hoodie a little too big, slippers shaped like some obscure anime mascot, and a red face that could probably power a toaster.

“Y-you really came,” he mumbled, eyes wide behind his glasses. “I had like... a 14% chance calculated, based on previous patterns... but you actually— I mean—uhh... welcome?”

You stepped inside, and instantly felt like you’d been dropped into a neon-saturated sanctuary. His room was dark but glowing — monitors lit up the walls with shifting colors, plushies of his favorite characters lined the shelves, and you spotted a giant beanbag throne next to his bed, already prepped with snacks, sodas, and a pair of wireless headphones.

"You made this for me?"

He shrugged, face still crimson. "I-I mean, it’s not like I didn’t maybe spend a whole day setting up your preferred snack distribution pattern and optimal screen brightness levels for sleepover mood… but whatever… it’s n-not a big deal or anything."

It was a big deal. For Idia, this was like handing you the keys to his soul.

You ended up curled together on the beanbag in front of the biggest screen — playing co-op games, fingers occasionally brushing on the controllers, until the competition dissolved into you leaning against him, both of you giggling at the absurd in-game dialogue.

Eventually, the controllers dropped. The games turned into streaming anime. The anime turned into whispered headcanons. And then... silence.

Not awkward. Just safe.

Idia, surprisingly, was the first to shift closer. His arms wrapped around you slowly, like he was still trying to believe it was okay to touch you like this. You leaned in — close enough to feel the way his breath hitched — and rested your head against his shoulder.

"I don’t get it," he whispered.

"Get what?"

"Why someone like you would choose a low-stats, cursed flame introvert NPC like me."

You looked up and pressed a gentle kiss just beneath his jaw.

“Because you’re my favorite character.”

He was so quiet after that, you thought he might’ve frozen — but then he exhaled sharply, tucked his chin against your head, and murmured, “...Critical hit.”

Later, when you crawled into his bed (covered in a ridiculous galaxy-print comforter), Idia pulled the blanket over your shoulders like he’d seen in one of his many slice-of-life anime. You were both lying face-to-face, the soft glow of his floating tech illuminating the pink in his cheeks.

“I know I’m not good at real-life stuff,” he whispered, eyes avoiding yours. “But if you’re here… I’ll try. I’ll keep leveling up.”

You kissed him softly, and he practically melted.

And when you fell asleep, your hand resting in his, his voice barely made it to your ears:

“…I’ve never felt like a main character before. But with you? I think maybe I’m the protagonist after all.”

That night, for the first time in forever, Idia didn’t stay up obsessively doom-scrolling or replaying every awkward moment in his mind. Instead, he held you close, your warmth anchoring him, and let himself drift into a dream where he was loved — glitchy, nerdy, brilliant him — exactly as he was.

Malleus Draconia

When you arrived at Diasomnia that evening, the halls felt quieter than usual. There was a stillness in the air — not heavy, but ancient, as if the castle itself knew this night was special.

Malleus met you at the tower stairs, eyes glowing faintly green in the dim torchlight. "You came," he said softly, as though he hadn’t fully believed you would.

He took your hand — large, cool, and gentle — and guided you up to his room. It was more like a sanctuary than a bedroom: high arched windows let in streams of moonlight, and ethereal green flames floated in glass orbs along the walls. A dragon-carved fireplace crackled gently, filling the space with warmth and flickering shadows.

"I’ve never hosted a sleepover before," he said, watching you set down your bag.

You turned to him, smiling. “Then we’ll make this one perfect.”

He offered you one of his robes — dark velvet, embroidered with silver thread in patterns resembling stars and wings. You swam in it, but it was warm, and it smelled like lightning and old magic. Malleus’s room didn’t have a regular bed — instead, a nest of pillows and woven blankets near the hearth, surrounded by books and ancient tapestries. He invited you into it like a dragon offering a place beside his hoard.

“I hope it’s comfortable enough,” he murmured, lying down beside you.

You curled against him, the size of his body making you feel effortlessly safe. His hand rested lightly on your hip, his claws careful, reverent.

“Malleus?” you asked softly. “Do you ever get lonely up here?”

He was quiet for a long time, then whispered, “Not anymore.”

The two of you spent the night sharing stories — of your childhood, your dreams, your fears. Malleus listened with unwavering attention, his gaze fixed on your face like he was memorizing every blink. When it was his turn to speak, his voice dropped to a lullaby cadence — telling you about ancient festivals, about storms he’d danced through, about how long he’d waited to feel this warmth with someone.

At one point, you yawned mid-sentence, and Malleus chuckled.

“Rest, my treasure,” he said, cradling you close. “I will keep the night watch.”

You drifted to sleep in the arms of a fae prince, surrounded by timeless magic, moonlight, and the kind of love that felt eternal — as steady as the stars above and as deep as the ancient roots beneath the castle.

And somewhere in the silence, Malleus pressed a soft kiss to your forehead and whispered:

"You are my dream in a world where I thought I would never have one."

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cosmosogler · 11 days ago

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i'm really excited about getting to the lead-up toward the climax of my fic, so here's a short excerpt from chapter one!

Cliff climbed back down to the Nomai statue and found Gabbro across the island, sitting near their ship in the sand and playing their flute in deep thought. They dove into the water and swam back over, staying afloat and navigating with their jetpack. “Gabbro,” they started. “Did you know there’s a secret entrance to the workshop?”

Without pausing, Gabbro shook their head. Cliff shuffled in the sand and put their elbows on their knees, examining the stone wall above. They nodded their head to the flute’s tune, humming.

Eventually, they spoke up again. “What do you think about… about the idea of living the same day twice?”

Gabbro lowered the flute. “It definitely sounds like time is doing a foldy kind of thing. Or a loop, maybe? Or, I guess, a little presumptuous of me to call it a loop, if you’re not sure it’ll happen again. A time spiral?”

“You believe me?”

Gabbro shrugged. “I don’t see why not. I mean, the statue’s eyes opened, and they were made for storing information?”

“Memories. They’re called memory statues.”

“See? Maybe you’re finding out what that’s all about.”

“I plan on it. The translator’s already helped. If I could just get into the workshop…” Cliff tapped at their helmet, keeping an eye on the location of their Little Scout on the HUD. They wondered… They took a few pictures, noting the water flooding the bottom of the workshop.

Meanwhile, Gabbro had tilted their head back. “Maybe the whole universe is in a time loop, from beginning to end, and we’re just living the same lives within it over and over. Though, I guess that says some pretty unsavory things about free will, and about there being a point to learning from your mistakes. Encourages you to be pretty passive, I’d think. Maybe it’s more quantum than that.”

“Oh no,” Cliff said, baring their teeth. “I am not getting dragged into a quantum discussion with you.”

Gabbro’s grin colored their voice. “I’m serious! I think the existence of our quantum buddies implies something a little more uncertain than a perfect loop. The universe is made up of too many of those uncertainties. It’s a chaotic system.”

“I’m leaving,” Cliff sighed with a dramatic flair. “Any ideas on how to get into the workshop? I saw water at the bottom.”

#this is for my fic constellations in the sand #i'll post chapter 1 in full once i've got the whole thing drafted #cliff #gabbro #outer wilds #thank you to everyone who showed interest yesterday asdfjhgkfj it was really encouraging

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snowshinobi · 2 years ago

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yeah uh DPS Nahida is ... utterly devastating

#26k+ crit hits every 4 sec ... wild #Genshin impact #Nahida #here's the deets of her build #artifacts: 4pc gilded dreams (dendro goblet/EM sands/crit dmg circlet)#weapon: R0 Lost Prayer (lvl 80)#talent levels: 8-8-6 #no constellations #snowgames #usually i give her a 4pc deepwood set (EM goblet/EM sands/EM circlet) to support Alhaitham #i might ... bench Alhai for a bit ...#there's something so nice about the catalyst DPS playstyle. element application all the time feels good #i love Alhai tho he will always be my silly mirror boy

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shouyuus · 3 months ago

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I’m having a real kick out of cowboy Vi rn and was wondering if mayhaps, if you’re feeling like it, write some headcannons or maybe a lil blorb about it?

I just keep imagining being out in the field, staring up at the stars and shuuuucks the kisses might have gone too far. Save a horse, ride a cowgirl 🤠

i feel like i must prequel this by saying that i know nothing about cow-anything and that i've exclusively grown up in metropolis-type cities. but that being said. i do have a certain appreciation for the aesthetic and all the cowgirl!vi fanart i've seen's got me feelin' sum typa way, as they say.

you blow in like the summer wind, low over the horizon and kicking up all sorts of stardust, so of course, vi's been enamored ever since. you're a city-girl, anyone with half an eye could see that. but vi's never been the type to mind. and when asked, you weren't shy to admit that you're just here for the summer, just here for a little fun in the sun --

so that makes it easy, doesn't it? cause summer's made for stuff like this -- all that heat and dreamin'. all sweet tea and none of the leavin'.

"you can't see stars like this in the city," you tell her one night, laid up in the back of her bright red pickup, the desert stretching out on all four sides for miles and miles and miles around.

"yeah? bet you can't. but... i figure there's probably other stuff to look at in those big cities of yours," vi says, turning her head.

"sure... lots of big tall buildings, and metric fucktons of pigeons," you say, giggling. vi laughs, shifting so that she's facing you. all around you, the wild chirrup of cicadas rock the sand-strewn night this way and that. a second later, you turn to face her too, smiling in the syrup-ridden dark.

"metric fucktons, huh? that the official measure for tall buildings?" she asks, chuckling.

"sure is," you reply inching just a bit closer.

it's been weeks, and vi's spent too many sunlit afternoons wondering about the taste of your lips to question it when you lean in to brush your mouth against hers. you taste like seasalt and lipgloss, and vi's sure her own lips are way too chapped, but when you press in just a bit closer, she finds that she doesn't really give damn.

"been wanting to do that for a while..." you admit, pulling back. and like this, vi figures she can count all the summertime constellations caught beneath your lashes like jars of wayward lightning bugs.

"me too..." vi breathes, tugging you in for another kiss, and then another. when you break apart, she licks her lips and grins at the way you chase after her, toppling into her chest as she leans back, and the whole truck rocks with the weight. you let out a startled laugh, and she, another soft chuckle.

the wind tangles lazy fingers through the branches of the old juniper tree behind vander's farm and in the distance, the fwoosh of a diving nighthawk rends the air. a cluster of sparrows startles out of a nearby bush, their wings flapping against the star-scattered night, and vi finds herself lost in the bewitching sparkle of your eyes as you look at her, and look at her. she doesn't think she's ever been looked at like this before.

heat roils in her stomach as she clears her throat. faintly, she wonders if all city-folk are so shameless.

"so..." you say, your lips twisting up as a fox-fire glint catches behind your eyes, "what else have you been thinking of, hm?"

vi clears her throat, "oh... bit o'this, bit o'that..." she casts her gaze up and prays for strength. she catches a whiff, just then, of your perfume, something soft and sweet, but not like flowers -- no, something warmer, a strange, heady concoction that sends her head spinning.

some big-city magic, she thinks, beating down the urge to roll her eyes at the thought.

"oh yeah? would it be easier just to show me?" you ask, batting your lashes, rolling your hips down slightly against hers, "what's that saying now? save a horse...?" you let your voice trail off with a salacious grin.

and this time, vi really does swear --

"sweet jesus on a bicycle --" she laughs, shaking her head, "you're gonna be the death of me, aren't you?"

you shrug, leaning forward to brace your arms over her shoulders, the shape of you cast against the gathering night like some sort of desert mirage. vi licks her lips, feeling her mouth blister dry as you run your fingers through her hair, her hat long since abandoned too the wayside.

"didn't know jesus rode bikes... always thought he was more of a donkey-guy, myself."

at this, vi snorts, giving your hip a hard pat, "right, c'mon then."

you pout, listing your head, "what? no more stargazing?"

vi cocks an eyebrow, grabbing her hat as she swings out of the bed of the truck, reaching up to offer you a hand.

"well, as much as i love the thought of eating you out seven ways to sunday in the back of my truck... i think your delicate city-girl disposition might like a mattress just a bit better, hm?"

you blink, your mouth falling open into a perfect little 'o' of shock, before color floods your cheeks and you nearly topple out of the truck. luckily, vi's there to catch you, chuckling as she sets you on your feet.

"what happened to all that bravado, hm?

your crinkle your nose, defiance flickering behind your gaze as vi leads you back towards the house.

"that's not fair -- you caught me off guard is all," you say, tucking yourself into vi's side as she helps you side-step a dogwood plant.

"sure i did, princess."

you huff, glancing up at her even as the pair of you finally reach the soft ring of light cast by the large farmhouse stood in front of the massive juniper tree. vi pauses just before you reach the front steps to let you hop up on the first one, turning to grin at her, your eyes now finally at a level.

she thinks the bright twinkle of mischief caught there looks terrifyingly like falling in love. or perhaps, just the falling bit.

you bite your lips and rock on the balls of your feet. vi waits, her breath caught like a wild horse hoofbeat inside her chest.

"so," you say, your voice the perfect mix sugar-cube and snake-bite, "if i ride you tonight, would that make me a cowgirl too?"

vague continuation found here

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primepaginequotidiani · 6 days ago

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PRIMA PAGINA Equipe di Oggi venerdì, 30 maggio 2025

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zaharas-desert · 2 months ago

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Starcrossed Strangers

Hello! Looking through @sharkylass's au In Repetition And Change again I had gotten the energy to try my hand at making a short oneshot based off what sharky has shared as well as my own ideas. You can also find it on AO3 if that is preferred. Enjoy.

The wind feels nice on your hair as it flows past you.

It is quiet, the rest of the party has already gone to bed, leaving you to your thoughts. It surprises you sometimes, how easily you can try to forget why they aren’t the same as the party you remember.

…

Of course, factually they are, same faces, same smiles, same tears and glares, Siffrin’s puns are the same, Mirabelle’s kindness is undoubtedly hers, Odile is observant as always, and Bonnie is the same kid you all love. Yet it isn’t the same, because it is you who Changed.

Again and again and again and again until there was only the parts of yourself that you had buried away. The parts that were rotting, breaking, failing-

. . …

Seedling has Changed too, but it is different with him. He is still Isabeau, yet you are….not.

Seedling’s earring dings on your cloak as you continue down the path, watching the darkless sands of the beach get closer.

It is strange to be outside of Vaugarde, after so long within Jouvente, so long travelling the country, so long in Dormont, the House, that Blinding Tree. But it is nice. To see more, to travel, seeing the party so happy, seeing Seedling so happy, after it all.

Maybe even seeing yourself happy, sometimes.

Yet it is not all carefree travels, sadly. The party and you have been informed that there has been peculiar spikes of unidentifiable craft in parts of the world, with the closest being near the city you are visiting. You don’t want to jump to conclusions, but you can see the worry in your Seedling’s eyes. The possibility of what craft this is.

…you ignore the stares of the stars above as you feel the sand at your feet.

It feels nice underneath you, shifting and Changing, something you have experienced too much of yet are desperate to have more. You just needed to get away from them all for a bit, to think through it all and see if you can help them.

It is growing darker, the stars beginning to get brighter as they shine within the night sky.

…

…?

Something is glowing by the docks. What…?

You step forward, watching as the glow flickers in the distance. It can’t be a lantern; nobody would craft something so bright at this time. Likely not a light for ships either, this is not a harbor that larger boats would sail towards unless it is an emergency.

You get closer. As you do you begin seeing more than just the glow. It looks like a bright light, spanning outside of its source in all directions, connecting to….

…

To a lightless body like yours. Is this the source of that craft?

You step onto the dock, your sandals making a small thunk on the wood. The source startles, turning quickly to look at you with a scissors sign ready.

They…they look like you used to, eyes wide and eyebrows furrowed on an otherwise featureless face. The star in their chest thrums with craft, the batches of constellations entwining the rest of their body as you continue to stare. A Vaugardian coin is held within their left hand.

You feel their eyes on you before glancing down at the coin, lifting it up to their chest as it flickers away. Something about the way they move feels so familiar to you, just like-

“Ah, pardon me, I didn’t hear your approach.”

Their eyes have squinted to look like they are smiling, their hands clasped together as they look you up and down. Your silence makes them falter for a moment before they continue on.

“My, struck speechless at the sight of me, how surprising~” You blink, trying to process the past few moments before opening your mouth.

“Apologies, I was just…not expecting anyone out here.” “You don’t have to lie you know, I can wager it is a surprise to find someone with as shining of a personality as myself, especially one that looks so….familiar.”

You look down at your hands, a similar shade as the strangers in front of you, a reminder of what you have gone through. What you have failed and survived.

“Yes. I can admit I did not think I would find anyone who looks like me, given the reason’s why.”

“I imagine, it’s not often you see someone touched by the Universe like us. What brings you here this wonderful evening sunsprout!”

Sunsprout? Hm, you suppose given your looks you can see the plant connection, but why the sun? You look at them, feeling that familiarity grow within your chest.

“I was just out for a walk, trying to think about the recent phenomenon that has been talked about.” “Oh~ Recent phenomenon you say? I am unfortunately a touch out of the loop on recent events these days, care to share.” They blink cutesy at you, leaning forward as if waiting for gossip. You tilt your head to the side.

“It is being shared that there are unknown spikes of craft emerging, with no one truly figuring out what is causing it. I am out here with my…allies to see if we can figure it out.”

You focus your attention back on them, your right hand fiddling with the earring on your cloak. They follow your movement and still, staring down at the item in your hands. You continue.

“Now I could be incorrect here, but someone such as yourself must have a decent grasp on craft types beyond common knowledge. Do you have any leads on this?”

They stay silent for a moment, before turning to look out at the water behind them. It ripples against the docks, the waves a quiet backdrop as the star seems to think. You see a flicker of something in their right eye before they snap back to you with their eyes closed. A strained smile if you were to guess.

“I can’t say I do sunsprout~ But I would be willing to help out. I don’t have much to do anyway and I have been finding myself growing bored.”

You…look at how they hold themselves. You can’t be sure, but if they are who you think they were then...

…

“More help would always be reliable, especially when investigating new areas of craft. My name is Roboro, they/he/it if you would.”

…you can’t let them go. Especially if you can help them like the others have done for you. What kind of person would you be…

“Of Course, sunspout. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance~”

…If you didn’t try to help a fellow Savior lost to time.

“You can call me Loop!”

#isat spoilers #in stars and time spoilers #in repetition and change #in stars and time #isat au #oneshot #irac #irac isa #irac roboro #isat loop

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lokidjarin-7567 · 5 months ago

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I Hate It Here ~ Part 2

Kang Dae-ho x Reader

You had survived the first few games together, and your friendship was growing stronger, but your newfound trust would still have to withstand the deadliest game so far.

fem!reader, fluff, see part 1 for more

5.1k words

And here it is - the promised part 2!! I haven’t decided if I’m doing a part 3 yet, but hope you enjoy this for now <3

Taglist: @itsvaleriegarza @marymustdie @hardbeingcasual @onlyangle1 @mady005 @loonysbarn @ghostofscarley

TTPD Contents | General Masterlist | AO3

<- part 1

The sun beat down on you, tinted shades doing little to shield you from its glare. You could feel the warmth of the sand beneath your bare legs and back, the pink grains soaking up every beam of light. You stretched out your hands far above your head, content and peaceful as your body sank further into the malleable surface, eyes drifting closed.

Then your peace was interrupted by a shower of droplets, salty water splattering your skin. You squealed, opening your eyes to see Dae-ho standing over you, smile wider than you’d ever seen it, shaking his long, dripping hair like a puppy.

“Dae-ho!” You gasped, secretly grateful for the splash of cool. He laughed, standing straight again and running his hands through the tangled locks. You were glad for the opportunity it gave you to gaze at him like this - happy and free. He was almost shining in the sun, the ocean drops still clinging to his form and practically glittering in the light. The way his body moved when he laughed was like art, toned chest rising and falling, arms flexing as he pulled his hair back into a lazy bun.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t resist.” He said with a grin, sitting on the soft sand beside you. His fingers moved to trace the droplets still sitting on your arm, connecting them with soft strokes like a constellation across your skin. You hummed in contentment.

“I just looked too relaxed, did I?” You asked in cheek, smile widening.

“Exactly. Need to keep you on your toes.” You closed your eyes again, only to feel his dripping wet head touch your shoulder mere moments later. You squinted, looking down to see him sprawled out across the sand perpendicular to you, arm draped across his eyes and using you as a pillow. Your heart swelled at the domesticity of it, the way he was so relaxed around you. Free from the games, free from your lives in the bustling city, free from the debt that used to drown you. It was a side of him you loved seeing; when he wasn’t on edge, or feeling like he always had to protect you from something. Just… calm. You pressed a feather light kiss to his forehead, the taste of salt and the scent of him filling your senses, and you watched as his lips curved slightly at the gesture.

Then something caught your eye. A flash of colour, just at the edge of your vision. There, by the sea front, a person was standing in a pink jumpsuit. Your heart dropped at the sight of them, recognising the uniform of the guards even without the signature mask. You moved to sit up, but Dae-ho’s head rested heavy on your shoulder. You tried to speak, to warn him, but nothing came out. Their face was blurry, but you knew they were looking at you somehow, whole body paralysed in fear. Then they started to move closer. Their steps were quick, and you tried to scream again, to move, to do anything but nothing happened. You couldn’t move, couldn’t make a sound. You could only watch as the faceless figure pulled a gun from their pocket, and shot Dae-ho in the chest.

You woke abruptly, gasping for air as your mind slowly worked out where you were, simultaneously relieved and disappointed to still be in this place. You took a few seconds to calm your panic, using the rise and fall of Dae-ho’s chest under your hand to slow your racing heart. His own hand had fallen from your waist in sleep, so you slowly and gently shuffled yourself out from under the bunks, careful not to wake him. As soon as you were sitting up, you ran your hands over your face, only to realise it was wet from the silent tears that had fallen from your dream. You wiped them away, steeling yourself, before glancing up to see who was awake. Young-il and Jung-bae were on watch right now, but from the looks of it, Jung-bae had fallen asleep, much to the annoyance of Player 001, who had a firm scowl on his face. Coincidently, Gi-hun seemed to wake up at the same time as you, crawling out from the single mattress with a yawn.

“Young-il…” you muttered quietly, not wanting to wake Jung-bae from his peaceful position, curled on the floor like a baby. “Have you been awake since we switched?” He nodded wordlessly, and he looked exhausted, eyes starting to droop. “Go to sleep for a while. I can look out for now.”

“Are you sure?” You opened your mouth to speak, but Gi-hun answered for you.

“I’ll stay up with her too. I won’t be able to fall asleep now anyway.” You nodded in agreement, and Young-il gently bowed his head in your direction. He settled himself in the single mattress, while Gi-hun woke Jung-bae gently, ushering him to where you had just been sleeping, insisting he would be in pain tomorrow if he slept on the floor. He agreed quietly, still half asleep, and barely a minute after he had settled in, you heard his soft snores once more.

You sat in silence with Gi-hun for a while, still rattled from your dream. It had been such an intense dichotomy; the beauty and peace ruined with senseless violence. The feeling of losing him was still stuck in your throat, sharp and painful, and you tucked your legs to your chest, hugging them tight in the hope that it might give you some small comfort.

“Are you ok?” Gi-hun muttered, sensing the fear radiating from you.

“Yeah, I just… how did you do it? When you won the last game… how did you cope with… losing people? Or did you manage to stay detached…” He laughed coldly at that, interrupting your rambling and shaking his head.

“When I woke up in that first game, I discovered that my childhood friend was there too. He was so well known in the community we grew up in - a genius that graduated from SNU, the pride of Ssangmun-dong. Everything I know about this game, I learnt from him. His perception every time we played something new, his ability to read the other people, his intelligence and strategy… it kept me alive for so long. Then he started to let the game get to him. Became more ruthless, killing people to get what he wanted. There was a young girl - someone who stole from me just before the game, but we became allies fast and I started to think of her like…” He paused, emotion raw as his voice cracked at the mention of her. “You remind me of her, actually. Resourceful, smart, kind….” Another pause, and he clenched his jaw, composing himself. “We were the final three. And he killed her in cold blood. Then in the final game…” He didn’t need to finish his sentence. Your heart hurt for him, losing the people he loved and cared about in such a brutal way, so out of his control. Even if his friend had changed, that wouldn’t have stopped how much it hurt to have to do that.

“But… couldn’t you have split the money and walked? The three of you?” A tear fell from his eye at that, the only sign of emotion perceptible on his face, and he sighed sadly as he wiped it away.

“That wasn’t a rule in our game. It was walk and get nothing, or kill and get everything. I wanted to choose the former, but when he killed Sae-byeok… I had no choice.” You nodded.

“What was his name?” He finally glanced at you then, shock falling across his features briefly before being replaced with a sad smile.

“Sang-woo. Cho Sang-woo.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Gi-hun. Truly. This game…” You reached for his hand, gripping it tight in both of yours, and he nodded, placing his other hand on your arm comfortingly.

“Thank you. I’ve not… Nobody has asked about them, because nobody knows what happened to them. So thank you for giving me the chance to talk about them. They were good people, truly, even after everything.” He nodded to you one last time, before removing his hands from yours and clearing his throat. “I’m sorry, I got sidetracked… in answer to your question, I didn’t manage to stay detached from it. I lost everyone, and not a day goes by where I don’t think of them.” He turned to face you, eyes scanning your undoubtedly terrified face. “I’m sorry, I know that the answer you wanted.”

“It’s not, but it’s the answer I expected. It’s too late anyway. I fear I’m already irrevocably attached to this team.” You sighed deeply, hugging your legs tightly.

“I guess we’ll all just have to stay alive for one more game.”

The music started, and you watched as everyone woke up, your team crawling from beneath the beds. The anxiety of what the day might bring was already making you sick to your stomach, but as soon as Dae-ho was in view, grinning widely when he spotted you, you instantly felt calmer.

“Morning.” He said cheerily, sitting next to you as the speakers announced that the next game would commence shortly, a 30 minute timer starting to tick down. His hand found yours, sensing your fear and panic that still lingered, thumb tracing comforting patterns across your palm.

“Morning.” You replied quietly. It was an improvement from the previous morning, when you hadn’t been able to speak at all. Right now, you just needed him to distract you. To help you forget what was about to happen. “Did you sleep ok?” He laughed lightly.

“I did, although I did get a shock this morning when I rolled over to see Jung-bae’s face instead of yours!” You laughed at that.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t sleep.” He just smiled, hand drifting to your face and tucking a stray hair behind your ear. You’d tied it up to sleep, but it had come loose, stands falling out and getting in your way. He seemed to notice, fingers lingering on the locks just a moment too long.

“Shall I braid it for you? Get it out of your way to help you focus today?” His voice was so genuine, so empathetic, you almost felt like you were going to cry.

“You can braid hair?” You asked, and he just gave you a look that seemed to say ‘really?’. “Right, 4 sisters.”

“Exactly. My sisters made me learn when I was young, and I used to braid their hair for pocket money, so I think that makes me a professional hair stylist, actually…” You giggled, heart warm. “Now spin around, lets see what we can do…”

It was exactly what you needed to distract you. When he was so close, it was the only thing you could think about - his hands gently running through your hair, his legs pressed firmly against your back, his breath fanning against your neck. And he was right; he was practically a professional. It was tight, but not too much to hurt. There were no flyaways, no annoying strands to get in your way. It was perfect.

He moved to sit in front of you once it was done, making a show of checking it like a real stylist would, making you laugh as he gently moved your head from side to side, hand lingering on your jaw.

“Beautiful…” he muttered, and you smiled warmly, gaze lingering on every detail of his face, committing it to memory. His puppy dog eyes, the curve of his lips, the slope of his nose. The comfort he brought you even during the darkest time of your life continued to surprise you, the sweetness and optimism you usually found irritating perfectly balancing out your pessimistic nature.

“Thank you.” You replied earnestly, and he leant forward, placing a quick kiss to your forehead as the speakers instructed you to line up in the centre of the room.

“Always.”

When you entered the game room, you didn’t know what to make of it. It was almost circular in shape, walls lined with multicoloured doors, and a large, carousel-like podium in the centre. The ceiling looked like a circus tent, swooping, striped curtains covered in lights that illuminated the whole space. Dae-ho’s hand reached out to yours instinctively, holding it tight as you were instructed to make your way onto the platform, and that you would be playing Mingle. You listened to the instructions as your team strategised, planning out the best combinations if different numbers were called out. You squeezed Dae-ho’s hand tighter, and your eyes met in a silent pact. No matter what was called, you would stick together.

Let the game begin.

The podium stuttered to life, spinning slowly as the room was filled with the sound of a childlike song, lights changing to the beat. Then, it stopped suddenly, lights darkening as the first number was called out.

You all looked around, trying to find more players to join your group, but Gi-hun was fastest, grabbing a hold of Player 120 and asking how many people were in her team. She answered 4, and you all looked around for another player, but it was chaos, everyone grabbing each other left right and centre and running into the multicoloured rooms. Player 120 spied someone, grabbing her, and you all ran to a green door, Dae-ho’s hand on the small of your back, guiding you as you sprinted as fast as you could. Young-il made it to the door first, holding it open and ushering everyone into the room, counting as he went, then closing the door behind you once everyone was safe. You took a second to breathe, heart racing, then you heard the gunshots. You flinched, and Dae-ho’s arm protectively wrapped around your shoulders, pulling your back close to his chest.

The shooting stopped, and the only thing that could be heard in the room was everyone’s heavy breathing, still in shock from what just happened.

“You’re alive thanks to me!” Player 044 exclaimed, her harsh, loud voice making you all jump. She walked up and down the room, looking at each of you with intensity. She paused at you and Dae-ho, glancing between your faces and his protective stance, a small smirk appearing on her face. You didn’t realise you were holding your breath until she moved away, sighing and glancing up at him in confusion.

“So, there’s a reason you’ve lived longer than you were destined to.” She spoke matter-of-factly, and you whipped your head around to see her directly addressing Gi-hun. “There’s a reason you were brought here.” Nobody spoke, confused and unnerved, ignoring her strange words and instead listening carefully as the intercom rattled off a list of eliminated players. Eventually, the door unlocked, and you headed back to the central platform, which was now painted with blood.

Dae-ho grabbed your hand as it started to spin again, now standing as a group of ten, waiting for the music to stop. It somehow still surprised you when it did, the motion of the carousel grinding to a halt almost knocking you over, and the speakers announced the number.

Your heart dropped. You’d have to split up, and if one of your group didn’t make it…

“You four, go, go…” Young-il said quickly, and before any of you had a chance to respond, he was lost in the chaos, shouting for three more players. You paused, trying to find him in the crowd, all of you frozen in shock, but Jung-bae snapped out of it first, grabbing Dae-ho’s arm and moving.

“We have no choice. Let’s go.” Dae-ho’s hand was tight around yours, dragging you to follow, and you grabbed a hold of Gi-hun, forcing him to move. You made it to a purple room, piling in quickly, but there were still 12 seconds on the clock, so Gi-hun stood in the doorway, eyes frantically scanning the crowd for any sign that Player 001 was safe.

“Do you think Young-il will be ok?” Dae-ho asked, voice shaking, and you squeezed his hand tighter, nodding furiously.

“He has to be.” Your voice was unwavering, but it was a front, your heart sinking further and further into your stomach as the time ticked down and Gi-hun still hadn’t caught a glimpse of him. As the clock hit 2 seconds, Jung-bae muttered his name quietly, pulling him inside, and shutting the door quickly. You heard it lock, and a deathly silence fell over the space. All you could do now was wait.

As the doors unlocked, you all hurried out, scanning the room and calling his name. You saw Player 120 and the rest of her team exit a room nearby, and you were relieved momentarily for them, making a mental note to stay near them the next round too.

“Gi-hun!” You heard a voice call behind you, and saw Young-il walking towards you all, a smile on his face. You breathed a huge sigh of relief, quickly moving towards him and giving him a big hug, so grateful that you were all still alive.

“I knew you were going to be ok!” Jung-bae exclaimed dramatically, patting him on the back as you released him. “I knew it! You’re not just anybody.” He laughed in response, grinning widely.

“I was worried.” Gi-hun said, looking at him intensely, tears in his eyes. “I’m glad you made it.”

“I’m a likeable guy, so I’m good at games like this.” He said lightly, but something in you thought he was downplaying it. Gi-hun was still yet to take his eyes off him, scanning him as though he had just woken up from a dream, coming to terms with the fact he was actually alive and well.

You stood together on the platform again, saying a quick hello and well done to Player 120 and her team. They were kind people, all expressing how glad they were that you were safe too, especially the older woman - Player 149 - who was arm in arm with her son. The music started once again, and you were more used to the movement. It stopped a lot quicker than you expected though, surprising you.

Fear flashed through you briefly, but there was also a clarity. A realisation. If that’s how terrified you had felt when Young-il wasn’t with you, how would you feel if you didn’t know Dae-ho was safe? If he couldn’t find a room in time? You swallowed, glancing at Gi-hun, but he was already looking at you. After your talk last night, you knew that he would understand the look in your eyes. I will not let any of them die for me to survive. I couldn’t live with myself. You nodded at each other silently in acknowledgement.

“Go.” You said firmly, and Dae-ho called your name, but you grabbed Gi-hun’s hand, quickly moving in the other direction with him to find a third player. You could hear his protests behind you as Jung-bae and Young-il dragged him towards a room, but you ignored them, tears in your eyes as you searched the crowd. You saw her at the same time; the mother, Player 149, frozen, staring at two other players who were forcefully dragging her son into a different room. You ran to her as fast as you could, Gi-hun just ahead, wrapping your arm around her tightly and forcing her to move as he went ahead and found a room for you. You made it with barely a second to spare, collapsing on the floor next to her in exhaustion.

“Are you alright?” Gi-hun asked her gently. She looked defeated, staring blankly at the wall, but she responded quickly as soon as she realised he was speaking to her.

“Oh. Oh, yes. Thank you. You two saved my life.”

“Not at all,” you replied, “you saved ours. I’m sorry you and your son got separated, but I saw him get into a room so at least you’re both ok.” She breathed a sigh of relief at that, grabbing your hand in both of hers.

“That’s wonderful, I didn’t quite see him get in so that’s such a relief. Thank you, thank you so much...”

As the door unlocked, you exited cautiously, scanning the room for the rest of your team.

“Mrs Jang!” You heard a voice cry out, and you watched with a smile as the two other members of her team ran up to greet her, enveloping her in a big hug.

“Goodness! I’m so glad you’re ok.” She exclaimed, holding them tight. You grabbed Gi-hun’s arm as you watched their reunion, touched. “You’re not hurt at all, are you?” She asked, looking over each of them closely as another player followed up behind them, and Player 120 gestured towards him.

“He saved our lives.”

“Mr. 246 here showed up when we were running out of time, just like Prince Charming!” He blushed and looked down as Player 095 spoke, a small smile on his face.

“Boy, you do look like a prince. Thank you so much!” Watching the interaction Mrs Jang had with her teammates was making you tear up a little. She viewed them as children, her love showing through in her actions so clearly.

“Not at all. These two saved my life.” Player 246 spoke up as she shook his hand warmly.

“Where’s Young-sik?” Player 120 asked, just noticing that she had been with you and Gi-hun rather than her son. But before she could answer, a quiet voice spoke up from just behind her.

“Mum…” He was frozen, breathing shaky, but she went up to him quickly, reassuring him as he broke down apologising. Player 120 asked what happened quietly, and you were in the middle of telling her when you heard a familiar voice call your name. You spun around to see Dae-ho nearly sprinting towards you, eyes red and bloodshot, scooping you up before you even had a second to register what was happening. His grip was vice-like, almost winding you as he held you flush to his body, burying his face in your neck. You wrapped your arms around his neck, hands finding purchase in his hair and running through it soothingly, a few tears falling with relief.

“It’s ok, I’m ok. We both made it.” You muttered as he pulled back slowly, eyes scanning you for any signs of injury, hands moving from your back up to hold your face gently. You sighed into his touch as he wiped the tears from your eyes, your own hands resting lightly on his chest.

“Why did you do that?” He whispered, voice broken and raw, and it shattered your heart, but at least he was alive.

“I couldn’t lose you. I needed to make sure you were safe. I’m sorry.” Your hands bunched up into fists, gripping his shirt tight as he moved closer to you, resting his forehead to yours in a promise.

“Stay with me next time. I can’t… you can’t just…” You interrupted his broken rambles.

“I promise.”

Your fingers were laced together tightly as the movement started again, deja-vu hitting you, and you couldn’t help but wonder how many rounds were left of this hell. It stopped quite quickly again, lights cutting out as panicked murmurs rose up all around you.

There were ten of you in your little group now, and you felt yourself start to panic.

“4 women, 2 men, go!” Gi-hun shouted quickly, and Jung-bae asked which 2 men, but before that question could be answered, Dae-ho and Young-sik gathered you up, quickly pushing you towards a door. The first one you opened was full, the team inside screaming at you to leave, but you heard Player 120 calling to say she had found an empty room. You and Dae-ho made it in first, closely followed Young-sik and his mum. You glanced back out through the open doorway, and could see the four you’d left behind grabbing two people and heading towards a room of their own. You breathed a sigh of relief, the time ticking fast, but Player 120 stopped, looking back at all of you.

“Where’s Young-mi?” She asked. She stepped out from the doorframe, wildly looking for her, but before she could go any further, a player you didn’t recognise shoved her hard, moving into the room and slamming the door just as the clock reached zero. Shock rippled through you, and the realisation hit that one of their own was still outside. Her face appeared outside the door, tears in her eyes, and Player 120 ran straight to her, saying her name over and over and frantically trying to open the door. Then you heard the gunshot.

When the doors unlocked, everyone was quiet and despondent. You’d lost someone. You felt sorry for her teammates, of course you did, but you couldn’t help but feel incredibly grateful that it wasn’t one of your own group. The player who had saved the rest of you was still trailing behind you, and you recognised him now as the guy who Young-il had saved on the first day - Myung-gi, or something like that. He already had a lot of enemies in here, and now he’d just gained one more.

The final round will now begin.

Dae-ho hadn’t once let go of your hand, and you were still standing side-by-side, arms pressed together. Myung-gi was standing just behind you awkwardly, trying to stay close to some people he knew, but keeping his distance from who he just betrayed.

“What do you think it will be this time?” Jung-bae asked nervously.

“Two.” Young-il replied, quick and definitive.

“Why?”

“There are 126 people left, and there are 50 rooms. So there won’t be enough rooms for everyone, only 100 hundred people. The rest will be killed.”

“If he’s right,” Dae-ho whispered, “the moment it’s announced we run straight forward to the first room we see, ok? No hesitating.”

“Ok.” You responded, gripping his hand tighter.

You didn’t stop for even a second, running straight past everybody else and towards the blue door ahead of you. He was faster than you, but only just, and his hand never left yours even though you were trailing behind. You made it to the door with time to spare, and you slammed it closed, throwing your bodies against it to prevent anyone from opening it before the time was up. You slid to the floor, using your feet to leverage your body weight, watching the time slowly tick and bracing for impact, but it never came.

The clock hit zero, and the door locked.

You immediately started crying, quickly moving from the door and throwing your arms around Dae-ho, hugging him tight as you waited for the guns to stop firing, so relieved that it was over. You sat back from him just slightly, hands finding purchase on his shoulders and listening carefully as they announced the eliminated players. You smiled widely when your team weren’t called, his hands finding grip on your forearms as he grinned back at you. You were inches away from each other now, your legs draped across his, exhausted breaths filling the space between you.

“We did it.” He whispered, hands moving to wipe your tears yet again. There was a tenderness in his eyes that was indescribable and warm, echoing your own feelings.

“Holy shit, we actually did it.” You laughed in disbelief. And in that moment, in your exhaustion and delirium, you couldn’t help yourself, hands gliding to the back of his neck and pressing your lips to his. It was brief, barely a kiss as you realised what you’d just done, letting him go and flushing bright red.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to…” He cut you off by placing one finger across your lips gently. His hand moved to your chin, gently guiding you to face him. As soon as his eyes met yours, earnest and kind, you knew you hadn’t made a mistake. He kissed you then, slowly and tenderly. One hand wrapped around your waist to pull your body flush to his, and the other rested against your jaw, keeping you angled just how he wanted. Your hands settled in his hair, legs practically wrapped around his waist as you tried to get closer, needing more of him. All of him. You hummed against his lips in contentment, feeling him smile against you before pulling back for air. You were completely breathless, but your lips chased his regardless, and he laughed lightly.

“Beautiful, kind angel.” He whispered, pressing another feather light kiss to your lips. “We’re gonna make it out of here, you hear me? We’re going to get out, and I’m going to take you on a proper date.” You smiled, giddy at the feeling of his hand on your waist and his body against yours.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You pressed your lips to his again, earning a soft, affectionate groan. Then the door unlocked, and you sighed. You didn’t want to go out there, back to the other people, back to reality, back to the voting and games and politics of it all. You wanted to just stay in this tiny room until you could go home. But he moved first, giving you one last kiss before untangling his legs, quickly standing up before helping you. “Let’s go home.”

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