a/n: ok so funny story. i was stressing out about how this fic doesn't pass the bechdel test. and then i remembered the hunger horseman speaks to reader in ch 5 and breathed a sigh of relief (might do a lil soyeon cameo tho she's my queen)
chapter warnings: more creepy mind control/possession stuff, violence, fighting, near death experiences, blood, kinda angsty, v mini bonedo cameo bc i love them
chapter word count: 3.9k
You’re transfixed by the deep murkiness that dwells within Hyunjin’s eyes - although you suppose they aren’t his any more. He holds your gaze a moment longer, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. It’s almost as if whatever controlling his mind hasn’t quite familiarised itself with his body yet.
Sharply, he turns away, so fast you know it would hurt his neck if he was fully present in there.
He bolts for the door.
Chan lunges forward, tackling him to the floor, but Hyunjin fights, and you leap forward, helping to pin him down. Eerily silent, he struggles hard, lashing out and raking his nails down your neck; you ignore the sting, trying to grab his face so you can look him in the eyes. In response, he snaps at your hand with his teeth, narrowly missing your fingers. Hard, his knee knocks into your ribs. Pain explodes behind your eyes.
For a paralysing moment, all you can see is rank upon rank of dead eyed soldiers, and at their head, the boys, your boys, slack faced, movements jerky and not their own - the shadows linger at the edges of your vision, grins eternal. Fire licks down your cheek like a caress from War’s mighty hand, and you’re struck through with such terror the air is knocked from your lungs.
And then you’re back, and Hyunjin has gone terribly still. The horror on Chan’s face is stark; the colour has drained from his skin, and his hands are balled so tight in Hyunjin’s shirt that they’re shaking enough to shake you too.
“Hyunjin,” Felix breathes, kneeling by him, pleading. “Snap out of it, please.”
You feel him twitch beneath your hands, and then suddenly he’s surging up, wrenching one arm free from Chan’s hold. Hastily, Felix dodges backwards, raising his arm, and he strikes with a deafening clap of thunder. Hyunjin reels back.
The back of Felix’s hand is stained the same blooming red as Hyunjin’s cheek.
He grabs either side of Hyunjin’s face, searching his eyes for any lingering darkness, but it’s lapsed, replaced by soft, frightened hazel. Water fringes both their lashes as Felix presses his forehead against Hyunjin’s, silent apologies on his lips, and you can’t help but feel that War’s retreat is more of a careless mercy than your triumph.
Chan’s fingers dig into Hyunjin’s wrist, and he wrenches him away from Felix. Frantic, his eyes dart across the former’s face - your leader remains that way, jaw clenched, for a long time, long enough for Seungmin to stumble to his feet and make his way to the window, hunting for something you’re not sure he knows himself.
He’s trembling. You grab his hand, squeezing it hard. There’s a haunted hollowness in his eyes that wasn’t there before - you wonder if it felt like what it did in your visions, with shadows ridiculing him and War whispering wickedly in his ears.
“Guys,” Seungmin murmurs, and the tone of his voice submerges you in unspeakable dread.
He’s tilted the blind open again, revealing a sliver of the outside, of the crimson sky and the army approaching too fast down the road. At their head is a man, and although you can’t make out his face, a voice as velvety black as the night insinuates that you’d recognise bronze skin cast with pallor and irises consumed with shadows.
Even though it’s impossible from this distance, you feel his gaze like worms crawling in your bones. The sound of their marching has stopped. It’s clear that they’re not going to just pass by.
Changbin curses, quickly crossing the room to the bags, no longer trying to be stealthy; in a flurry of efficiency, he begins loading the bags onto his and the boys’ shoulders, barking orders. You catch a glimpse of what he must have been like serving in the military.
“Grab as much as you can, but make sure you can still run,” he commands. “We’ll leave some behind if we need to. Exit is the back window.”
And just like that, he’s wielding the fire extinguisher like a broadsword. It’s the innocent, naive red of a toy bus, nothing like the blood tinted sky that looms overhead, and yet it still shatters the glass on the first swing. Changbin smashes it through the remainder of the window, then glances back, his jaw set and expression grim.
There’s two bags left. You hurry to scoop up the one closest to you - you’ve only got one, and Chan, Changbin and Jisung already have two - and move to curl your fingers around the strap on the right when a hand comes down and grabs the one on the left. You glance over your shoulder and recoil so hard you stumble a step back.
Why should I trust you, he’d snapped. We barely know you.
Minho’s irises are clear now, their usual umber, yet all you can remember is the roiling distrust in them that cut you to the heart. You look away as he drops the strap, leaving the bag to you. Maybe there was a truth to what he said, even in the throes of anger and possibly whatever hold War had over him, and the undercurrent of his words circle round and round in your head, sharp and damning: you don’t belong.
It doesn’t matter if Felix or Hyunjin or Jisung or any of the others swear by you. They are like links that join together to form an unbreakable chain, and you severed yours with Minho by rising to his challenge - rising to the challenge of War through him.
You fix your gaze on the bag at your feet, and in your peripherals, you see him cross the room to Changbin, who’s already boosted Chan and Hyunjin through the window. To your relief, Jeongin’s taken the other bag, so you heave the one before you over your shoulder size up how you’re going to get out.
Changbin offers you a hand. Oddly surprised, you stare at it, at the strength in his fingers and the callouses along the top of his palm and on the inside of his joints; your stomach churns with unrest, with regret. It makes you feel hollow inside, and yet you must refuse his help.
He deigns to help you because he is kind, though you have always thought it odd that he was never openly suspicious of you. Even then, there is an invisible string that ties them all together, a thread woven from love and unwavering confidence in one another, a thread that now burns with shame where you have knotted it securely around your heart, searing your flesh with the same sting that lingered on Minho’s words.
It fucking hurts.
And still, you do not have it within you to cut yourself free. What once was a comforting presence, a rope tethering you to them, has become barbed wire made of cords of guilt. It makes you bleed, lacerates you on the inside, but it continues to be your safety line.
You climb through by yourself.
The nine of you take off, Changbin leading you. Glass crunches underfoot from the shattered window, and then you are hurtling after them down the street, not even pausing to look behind you. You take the back streets, careening down alleys you would have never risked going down alone before - a greater danger follows you now.
The houses you pass are strangely intact, like their owners just went out for the milk. You wish it was as simple as that.
Snapping at your heels like a wolf, the fear fuels you and keeps you running: the others don’t know what fate awaits if you get caught, but you know. You’ve seen, and you know it’s worse than anything they might be imagining. You know you can’t let it happen.
Overhead, the afternoon sun glares down, like it watches you, a red stained eye tracking you from the sky. It doesn’t take long for footsteps to sound behind you, perfectly in time. A pack of them, about twelve or thirteen, run in tight formation as they tail you, obviously sent to retrieve you; you can see War looking on scornfully from their blank, darkened eyes, the reflection of his grotesque face in their blurry edged irises.
There is no way to shake them - they follow you through backyards, jumping the same fences and scrambling through the same windows you do, gaining on you, seemingly unaffected by exhaustion, and all the time their faces are slack, empty but for the darkness that resides in them. Sweat trickles into your eyes, stinging them, the sharp pain of a stitch pierces your side, and there’s an ache beginning in your calf that’s probably got something to do with the old dog bite.
It begins to become clear that you will not be able to run any longer from them soon. The sun has sunk lower in the sky, so it barely peeks over the rooftops of the houses around you. Although he tries to hide it, you can tell Chan is flagging. He took the heaviest bags, and you know he won’t ask for help - it’s in his nature, he wouldn’t allow anyone else to carry them for him while he still can.
“Changbin,” Minho gasps from the back of your group, an unmistakable tone of fear in his voice.
You glance over your shoulder, instinctively pushing Jeongin behind you and bringing your knife up (he elbows you so he can stand level with you, stubborn as ever). War’s soldiers have caught up, and now they fan out, trapping the nine of you against the wall you were about to scale. You can’t now, not without getting stabbed in the back. A heavy silence settles, filled only by your laboured breathing as you ready yourselves for a fight.
The fear in your heart curdles, morphing into the type of berserker strength that fuels a cornered animal. Sweat pools in your palms, making the handle of your knife slippery, and you swallow harshly, shifting your weight from foot to foot, waiting for someone to make the opening move.
You cannot let them take you. Once War sinks its teeth into you, there will be no escaping him.
The soldier at the head of the pack moves first, and Changbin drops low and slashes at her calves. She makes no noise, just crumples to the floor. Dimly, you register her shirt: it’s oversized and baggy, a pastel coloured tour t-shirt for a band called ‘BOYNEXTDOOR’. The name rings a bell in the back of your mind, but that old life seems so insignificant you don’t chase the thought.
She’s barely hit the ground when all at once, the other soldiers strike, and you are forced to dodge the length of rusting metal piping that flies past your head. Cursing, you throw up an arm to shield yourself as the soldier strikes again, and this time, you can’t duck out of the way - you’re penned in by Jeongin on your left and Minho on your right, and you won’t be able to get close enough to use the knife.
For a giddy second, the world slows, the roaring of your heart drowning out everything else, and it all seems like a dream. None of this is real. Nothing is real. You just need to wake up. You just need to -
The blow he lands rattles your teeth, sending pain shooting all the way up to your shoulder. Slipping your arm out of your rucksack, you clench your teeth through the sting of the strap cutting into your skin and swing your bag hard at the soldier. It hits him squarely in the jaw, and inside, the cans clatter sickeningly against each other.
He stumbles back, stunned.
You seize the opportunity to yank the piping from him, switching your knife to your belt so you can get a good two handed grip on it.
“Fuck,” you gasp under your breath. “Holy fuck.”
Though he’s weaponless, though it would be smart to, the soldier doesn’t back off. Sweeping your stolen weapon down, you crack it against his kneecaps, and his legs give way and fold beneath him. It must have hurt, might have even broken something, but even so, he remains eerily silent. None of them make any noise when they fight: they are truly possessed, their spirits suppressed, not even a hint of who they were shining through in their empty eyes.
He takes your blows in silence - the soldiers do not cry out, nor do they communicate with each other in any way: it makes the dull thuds of the rusting piping against his flesh all the more loud, all the more unsettling. Gradually, his movements begin to slow, enough so that you’re able to focus on his features, not just his attacks, and you become half hearted as you fend him off.
He is far older than you, maybe around fifty. Despite the vacancy of his face, you can still see the smile lines that crease the corners of his dimmed eyes. A ring is on his finger but it does not glint as it should; it is coated in dried blood. You wonder if he had children, a daughter, maybe, who shared the same asymmetrical dimple in her right cheek that he has.
Dread swells in your stomach, creeping up on you as realisation dawns. It’s obvious now that you have the upper hand, you have both the weapons, and yet he won’t stop, he only continues to attack you with his bare hands, forcing you to injure him further and further in order to keep him at arm's length.
Cutting through the fear, a slow, frigid horror worms through the haze of adrenaline that has descended over you. There’s only one thing you can think of that might stop him long term.
You don’t want to kill him. You don’t want to kill anyone.
You’re scared.
Somewhere deep inside the darkness imprisoning his mind, he is buried under the rubble, but he is not lost - Hyunjin came back, after all, except you’re beginning to realise that he was only released because War thought it humourous to grant you false hope. You were being toyed with.
Even so, this soldier, this man, was once part of a family. Though he is lost in shadows, though War moves his limbs for him as if he is but a puppet on strings, he is still in there, watching and helpless. If you kill him, it will be you that has taken the life from him, not War. If you kill him, you will have declared survival a hopeless cause, but it cannot be. There must be a way.
Desperately, you look over at Changbin, hoping he might have found a solution, but he has not; you can see it in the state of his attackers. They are slashed in places that would have hurt enough to incapacitate a normal human. These are not normal humans.
And then you see her - the first soldier he fended off. Part of her legs are in ribbons, her blood making tiny streams in the cracks in the pavement, and she drags herself forward by her arms, millimetre by millimetre. Somehow she has gotten hold of a knife. She moves slowly, inching towards him, urged on by a force that is totally inhuman, that disregards the limits that her body should have and destroys them, rendering her a vessel and nothing more.
“No,” you whisper, but no one hears.
Changbin’s back is turned, and he is occupied by two other soldiers; you cannot risk calling out to him without giving them an opening. She is close - close enough to slash his achilles.
Lunging forward, you lash out with the piping, gritting your teeth as you snap it to the side, catching the soldier before you in the temple and sweeping it in a wide arc to knock back another that comes at you. You duck past Hyunjin and Jisung, and before she knows you are there, you cringe and bring the piping down hard on her skull.
She flops onto the ground, limp, and the knife slips out of her fingers. Hesitant, you hover for a moment, your piping still raised in case she is only partially stunned, but she remains still, spread out on the ground, and if it wasn’t for the rise and fall of her chest, you would believe you’d killed her.
Silence has fallen, the alley void of the sounds of fighting again. There’s blood seeping into the pavement. All the soldiers have been knocked out, some way or another, and yet you can’t take your eyes off the woman, slumped face down, her tour t-shirt now stained claret. Your stomach churns. This isn’t right. You don’t know what any of you have done to deserve this.
A hand wraps around your elbow, and you whirl around.
Shakily, you sigh in relief - it’s just Chan, his arms limp by his sides and his eyes tired. Casting the piping to the side, letting it fall with a clatter, your shoulders sag, and unthinking, you lean into him, squeezing him tightly and burying your face in his shoulder until you don’t see the soldiers’ bleeding irises in your mind's eye. You can feel his heart pounding, almost taste the adrenaline still searing through his veins, and although it means he’s as scared as you are, it means he is alive.
Chan clings to you, and you can tell he needs the anchor of a warm body as much as you do. His hands tremble where they are fisted in the fabric of your shirt. Someone touches your shoulder, and you lift your head and send Changbin a weak smile; gently, he squeezes your arm, his eyes serious.
“Are you hurt anywhere? There’ll be bandages in one of the bags.”
You shake your head. “Don’t think so.”
“I’m fine, too,” Chan adds when Changbin looks questioningly at him. “Just a bit shaken up.”
He grimaces at his own gross understatement. You grab Changbin by the shirt before he can move on to check up on the others, quickly scanning him up and down: there’s a bruise purpling near his right eye and fast drying blood stains the front of his shirt, but you’re pretty certain they’re not his. Once you’re sure he’s not seriously injured, you nod and let him go.
You can’t quite find it in yourself to separate yourself any further from Chan - it feels like if you don’t hold onto something, or someone, they’ll slip from your grasp and you’ll be left alone in the midst of this horror. Sooner rather than later, you’ll need to be on the move again, but for now, while the soldiers are still mostly unconscious, you let him ground you.
A scuffle sounds to your left. You glance over to find that Jeongin crouches over one of the soldiers who has already begun to stir. Chan tenses by your side. The youngest has his fists balled in the front of the soldier’s jacket, shaking him until his lolling head snaps up, blackened eyes fixing on him.
“Snap out of it,” Jeongin demands. “Wake up!”
Deathly silent, the soldier makes no noise, not even when Jeongin slaps him across the face in desperation. You take a step forward, hand extended, but Minho beats you to it, knocking the soldier out again and pulling Jeongin off him and into his arms; the quiet, assured words that he whispers lowly into his friend’s ear don’t reach you, but whatever they are, they make him relax into his embrace.
Chan leaves your side to draw close to Jeongin, wrapping his arm around Minho too, and you look away, bitterness blooms in your mouth. Though it’s a selfish thought while all your lives are threatened, you can’t help but wonder if you are part of what makes this family whole. You’d tried so hard, but in the end, War tainted the bond you’d forged, and you let him.
It is Changbin that breaks the reverie that has fallen: “We should move. They’re going to wake up soon.”
And so you continue your flight across the city. This time, you move at a brisk jog - there’s some quiet discussion on which direction to head (you decide to aim for the train tracks, which Changbin explains are far enough away from both the army in the military base and the army you’re running from, like a sort of ‘no man’s land’), but for the most part, you remain silent.
A quiet apprehension has settled over your heads, an acknowledgement that this is far from as bad as it could get. In its heaviness, you allow yourself to lag behind. You are tired, from the fight and the death and the bags on your back, but mainly, you are tortured with the knowledge that you took War’s bait without a second of hesitation. Yes, Minho is stoic sometimes, outwardly detached, but you’ve seen the gentler parts of him, the wilder, humorous parts: you should have known it wasn’t him talking.
You question if any of them would notice if you slipped away right now.
And then Felix turns, and though he looks exhausted, a new bruise swelling high on his cheekbone, he shines the way the sun used to before the world went and fucked itself.
A weary smile flickers across his face, and he outstretches his hand for you: a wordless offer that holds no weight to him, but to you, it is an ember of hope, a reminder that this is why you will not leave, even with the shame as much of a burden on your back than the bags of supplies.
Sighing, you lace your fingers with his and squeeze, quickening your strides to fall in step with him. The rest of the night goes by in a blur, anchored only by Felix’s hand in yours. It is strange, to look up and see a sky that is not navy and star-filled, but dark, deep red and peppered with alien ships. At some point, you slow to a walk, and by the time the sun has started to rise again and your feet are leaden and blistered, you stop to sleep.
You find a draughty hotel lobby to huddle up together in, and despite the drawn look on his face, Chan insists that he’ll go on watch because he won’t be able to sleep anyways. Awkwardly, you avoid the quizzical glance he sends you when you skirt around where he sits on the blankets and wiggle between him and Jeongin. To your relief, none of them ask, so you’re not forced to voice the uneasiness in your heart about your reaction to Minho’s words.
You’ve just settled down when the first explosions sound. They’re far enough away to not warrant moving, but you sense Chan stiffen and sit up a little straighter, his fingers curling around the handle of his knife. Restlessly, Jeongin shifts beside you, Minho’s voice sounding behind you, low and assuring, and you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block everything out.
You just want to make it through tonight.
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sex therapist!chan x client!reader
after years of unhappy endings, your friend suggests a trip to sydney's most up and coming sex therapist. you hadn't expected much, least of all to discover the cure you'd been looking for all this time was your therapist himself.
word count: 11k
<< back to dash // next episode >>
CONTENT WARNINGS
𐙚 - female masturbation, mutual masturbation, vibrator use, phone sex, guided masturbation, dirty talk, use of "slut" and similar terms, chan is called sir, lowkey orgasm denial, sub!reader, soft dom!chan slightly possessive chan, some mentions of a corruption kink.
! - inappropriate relationship dynamic (chan is her sex therapist), reader is written to be neurodivergent though it isn't explicitly stated, mention of dissociation and depersonalisation, brief descriptions of a dissociative episode, non-descript mentions of trauma around sex, therapy talk/setting. everything is intentionally vague but be careful nonetheless.
episode one - a cure for unhappy endings
Never in a million years had you ever expected you’d be sat in the plush, sleek office of one of Sydney’s most esteemed sex therapists.
You weren’t quite sure how your close friend had managed to convince you to make an appointment, her perky voice insisting it would magic away all of your problems while sliding an equally polished business card toward you. Perhaps it had been the conviction and openness with which she told you it saved her marriage that had you contemplating it in earnest. Alternatively it could’ve been her manner of being–the cheery disposition which led her to float into every room with a wide smile–one that made you sure she was doing something right. Whatever the reason you were here.
The waiting room looked akin to a modern showroom, the walls a crisp white save for a wide strip of matte black that accented one side of the room. Lounge chairs dotted the sizable space, the light grey of the velvety fabric contrasting against the one black wall. The greyscale of the room’s aesthetic was broken up by pops of green and gold, present in the flourishing of tall house plants that scattered the room beside towering, pale yellow-lit lamps. The floor looked to be a marbled stone material, perhaps a dark porcelain sleet or purbeck, partially hidden beneath a single rug that housed the centre of the room. Atop the geometric carpet a glass coffee table sat littered with pamphlets and magazines, a bouquet of white lilies placed in the very middle. The dreary silence of the near-empty space was compromised by the whirl of the air conditioning accompanied only by the occasional taps of keys echoing from behind the receptionist's desk.
You tapped your foot soundlessly as you awaited your appointment, fingers curled tightly around a paper cup. The cardboard was hot beneath your already too-warm palms, the container half-filled with a surprisingly expensive tasting coffee. Perhaps you shouldn’t be surprised that Sydney’s most up and coming sex therapist spared no expense when it came to their guests, though knowing so little about the person you were due to meet, your expectations were caught in a chaotic flurry of uncertainty and nervousness. You tried to still your restless limbs, planting your foot firmly against the solid ground as if the feeling of the floor beneath your shoes would heighten your senses, stilling your mind. Attempting, instead, to focus solely on the white noise that exhaled from the AC vent. You couldn’t, though. You never could. That was why you were here after all. You were so entirely unable to relax–to calm your nerves and quiet your mind–that even a climax was too far from reach. Your leg bounced anxiously at this, a huff of air from your parted lips sending strands of hair catching in the soft breeze it created.
Your eyes lifted to the clock above the reception, brows scrunching as the hand ticked slowly passed 3:15pm. Fifteen minutes behind schedule. It wasn’t the lateness that had your eyebrows furrowing in slight annoyance, it was the minutes more you’d have to spend in the presence of your own nervous thoughts. Swallowing down some more of your coffee you placed the paper cup on the small side table beside you, freeing up your hands as you dug around the contents of your tote for your phone. The aged white fabric, its front decorated with a bright sun and array of technicoloured pastel flowers, rarely left your side. It was a comforting piece of familiarity in the otherwise chaotic and ever-changing ambience of Australia’s once largest city. The external screen of your mobile lit up the moment it was freed from the shadowed confines of the multi-coloured canvas, revealing a few messages from the very friend who had placed you here on this day.
[ from: Matilda ♥️]
2:32pm: don’t forget ur apt ik what ur like 😉
2:55pm: istg if ur still asleep ?? i juss knew going out last night was a mistake smh
3:01pm: k i see how it is ,, enjoy being pent up for the rest of ur life cunt ❤️
You snickered at her quick descent into petty remarks, fingers tugging at the folded screen until it opened. Tapping in your passcode you responded, letting her know you hadn’t missed your appointment despite the simmering of an ache in your temple. She wasn’t wrong, going out last night wasn’t the smartest idea but you’d insisted it would help you get out some of that nervous energy that threatened to spill over in instances like this one. You theorised that with a pounding head and an undercurrent of nausea your racing thoughts would have something else to fixate on. Imagine your surprise when you awoke in near good health. It was only natural that the one time you didn’t mind feeling a little worse for wear you felt on cloud nine. You were cursed, that was the only explanation; one that felt even more true given your current occupancy in the waiting room of a sex therapist.
The creek of a door drew your attention away from your phone, a deep voice calling your name despite the absence of other customers situated in the expanse he’d entered. Your gaze fixed on the figure half-hidden by the door frame, eyes widening when you took in the details of the person a few feet from you. It suddenly became abundantly clear why the man before you was so successful in his attempts to fix his clients sex lives; he was exceptionally handsome. Attractive in a quiet and unconventional way but undeniably so all the same. His dark gaze was soft despite the all-consuming black holes his deep brown eyes became. They sucked you in without warning, swallowing you whole the longer you held his stare. It wasn’t just his enthralling pair of aphotic orbs that had the breath catching in your throat, everything about him seemed crafted by an artist so proficient in their technique you failed to scrutinise a single flaw.
You managed a smile as you grabbed for your coffee, swallowing down the last of the cooling liquid to discard in the metallic bin on your journey toward the magnetic man; the muted thud when it hit the bottom going unacknowledged as you passed. Your tote hung from your shoulder lazily as you followed him into his office, watching the way his upper back and arms flexed beneath his too-tight charcoal dress shirt. The silk-cotton sleeves, despite the slightly ill fit, remained rolled up mid-way; veiny arms on full display as he directed you toward another set of lounge chairs. You’d hoped to feel better once your appointment began–you usually did–but having laid eyes upon the man you were expected to speak openly with regarding such intimate details, you only felt worse. His pink, plump lips widened in a large smile as he motioned you toward one of the chairs. You complied, bag slipping from your shoulder as you lowered yourself into the comfortable leather.
“Sorry for the late start; had a meeting overrun.” He spoke with emphatic sincerity, dimples pressing indentations against his pale cheeks. You could only nod, mind preoccupied by the tufts of dark curls caught in the artificial breeze that pulsed throughout the space. The office was a little larger than the last room, the aesthetics similar save the large windows on one side of it; their transparency enveloping the area in a warm glow of natural light. The beating sun against the crystal clear glass contradicted the chill of the aircon, balancing the room’s temperature to near perfection. Yet, despite this, you felt far too hot with your flushed cheeks and sweaty palms. A symptom, no doubt, of the man sat across from you.
“That’s okay, I get it.” You murmured back, fingers toying with the hem of your checkered summer dress, the soft cotton providing your anxious energy with some relief. The man in front of you seemed to take note of your nervous fussing, eyes falling to your bare thighs momentarily to fix on the opening and closing of your fists around the hem. His tongue darted across his bottom lip adding a glossy sheen to his already enticing smile; deep brown pools still drinking in your itching fingers with an unreadable expression.
“I know you must be feeling nervous–that’s normal–but you don’t have to worry about diverging anything until you’re ready.” His smile widened, reaching beside him to grab a large ipad from a short table, action in tandem with the raising of his gaze. “Why don’t we start with introductions and then we can go over some basics; try and set a baseline for what you’re comfortable discussing?” You nodded at this, words failing you for a moment.
“That works for me.” Your mouth caught up with your brain, offering him a smile of your own.
“Good, well I’m Chan; Bang Chan. My friends call me Chris though, so you’re welcome to call me that.” His disarming nature was impossible to ignore, the tone of his voice paired with his approachable expression relaxing your shoulders. It had been hard to imagine that a man with such stature and poise could be so easy-going, but the moment a smile tugged at his lips it was as if his entire being beamed with it.
“I’ve never heard the name Chan before, I like it.” You thought aloud, earning a wide-eyed grin from the man in front of you. It was hard not to allow yourself to stray when a sparkle lit up his gaze; the soft glimmer of something unknown swimming in its brown depths. Its mere presence making it near impossible to cling to your inhibitions, to remain anything but comfortable beneath his stare.
“Thank you, umm, that’s the first time anyone’s ever told me that.” He practically radiated with warmth–giving the sun beyond the glass a run for its money–now shy gaze lowering to the device in his lap. Your confidence grew at this, the power balance between you shifting in your favour for just a moment.
“Well, most people are dumb I've learned.” Chan stifled a laugh at this, looking up at you through his lashes in brief acknowledgment before the dull tap of his purposeful actions against his ipad screen stole his attention near instantaneously.
“Hopefully I can be an exception to that rule.” He quipped back, earning a soft chuckle from you. “So your name is y/f/n, right?”
“Oh, yeah, sorry, that’s me.” You exhaled a soft breath. Your newfound comfort was enough to simmer your busy brain, but your body had other ideas, hands fiddling with the decorative string of your pastel summer dress while the conversation flowed between you.
“No, that’s okay. Always better to make sure in case another y/n somehow wandered in.” It was his turn to offer a laugh, the contagious noise a chortle cut off by the push of air from his lungs. Breathy and short-lived, but genuine nonetheless.
“Now that would be a crazy twist of fate.” You humoured him, smile widening with every moment spent in his company. It was inexplicable the manner with which the air around you had changed–as if something magnetic and charged hung within its formless presence. You couldn’t see it, just as you couldn’t see the crisp air expelled from the AC, nor the humid warmth that radiated from the sun, but you could feel it.
“Truly, stranger things have happened though.” Chan looked up from his ipad, seemingly finished with whatever had occupied his attention. You figured it had been the documents you’d been asked to fill out before your session, pages upon pages of personal information and sexual history now ingrained in the confines of his mind. That was an odd thought to say the least.
“Ain’t that a fact–did you ever hear about that dude Mike Madman Marcum?” You distracted yourself from the rising discomfort, brain making leaps and bounds toward a vaguely relevant subject in its attempt to retreat.
“Mike Madman Marcum?” Another exhaled laugh from his nose followed his words, lips parted in a grin that showed his pearly teeth and a glimpse of pink gum. Again the craters grew in the soft dough of his cheeks, expression transformed from unreadable–nearly disinterested–to warm and inviting.
“Yeah, bro literally invented some sort of black hole, time travel portal shit and then mysteriously disappeared, like what?” You kept talking, brows raised in disbelief as if you hadn’t heard the story spilling from your lips until now.
“That sounds fake.” He shook his head, tipping it to the side afterward in interest.
“You’d think so but it's true.” You shrugged, ghost of a smile still present. It felt impossible not to have even a slight upturn of your lips around him; about as implausible as a rainy day during an Aus summer.
“How can you know that?” His laugh grew beyond the point of breathy displays of amusement to a noticeable chuckle.
“It’s a long story but there’s a police report about him and his time machine, bro got run out of his hometown and everything ‘cause of his antics. Then he makes the machine again somewhere else and ends up missing. It’s crazy, truly insane.” You filled him in, fingers still picking at the hem of your dress, out of habit more than nerves now.
“... You gotta send me that article ‘cause I’m curious not gonna lie.” His response had you tipping your head back in silent laughter, not expecting his genuine interest.
“Yeah? I’ll email you the podcast I listened to.” You nodded.
“You better ‘cause I'll lose sleep wondering about Mike Madman Marcum otherwise.” Sharing a laugh at his words, you couldn’t help but notice how melodic the different tones sounded together. Almost as if you were harmonising one another’s merriment. It charged the air with a new kind of unseen feeling, almost as if giving what had once been there more fuel.
“Oh, I will. First thing I’ll do when I get back home.” You promised, bottom lip enclosed by your teeth while you fought back your widest grin yet. Was it too much to call that sensibility between you chemistry? Were you the only one aware of the electric buzz that emanated through the air, feeling most active in the space that kept you from one another.
“Thanks, much appreciated. We should probably get back on track though, don’t wanna waste your money talking about time travel.” He maintained a smile, eyes leaving yours to trail across the brightly lit screen once more.
“Yeah, sorry, that’s my bad.” You apologised, fingers intertwining with one another to refrain from picking at the stray threads of your dress any longer.
“Don’t even mention it. Are wandering thoughts something that you get often?” He voiced aloud his observation, your shoulders rising slightly as the atmosphere around you changed again. Only, instead of the impalpable gravity that drew you to him, you felt something indiscernible push you backward.
“All the time.” You admitted, answer short.
“Do you feel that it encroaches on your sex life too?” He cut straight to the chase, your eyes blinking wide as your shoulders grew tense.
“Probably.” You retorted, shifting in your seat.
“Well, let me ask you this then–have you orgasmed before? Either from sex or masturbation?” He sounded so calm despite the words that left his plump lips, meanwhile your heart hammered in your chest, a contrast that felt improper, misplaced even.
“Oh boy, straight to the big questions… I don’t know. I’m not sure. I don’t think so.” You countered. You’d already given him a list of answers to these questions, and you’d hoped at the time you’d forgo the awkwardness of the current topic as a result. It was clear you weren’t that fortunate, but when had you ever been?
“What makes you uncertain?” The soft brevardo of his voice kissed the shells of your ears, so gentle and genuine in its delivery that it had you melting all over again.
“I wish I knew. I guess, when I’m having sex, at least, I don’t think I ever have. It’s like I automatically check out and leave my body. When it comes to… myself, I don’t know, that’s more of an unknown. It’s like I feel something but then right as the build comes I just can’t reach the end.” You said, as honest as you could be given the circumstances. Your cheeks were ablaze, heart nearly deafening in its antiphon.
“Okay, well there’s a couple of things to unpack there.” Chan nodded half heartedly, the thin apple pen pressed against the pout of his mouth in thought; eyes trained on the screen where a set of scribbles that made up his short-hand observations lay.
“Probably above your pay grade.” You joked, though a hint of sincerity simmered beneath the chime of your tone.
“Nothing is above my pay grade, don't you worry about that.” He offered you a reassuring smile, tongue darting out to wet his lips once more. It distracted you again, forcing you to once more confront the attractiveness of the man supposedly holding all the answers to your problems. “Let’s start with this, have you been to any form of therapy before?”
“Only when I was younger.” You blinked, willing your brain to focus on his words rather than the formation of his mouth as he spoke them.
“What was that for?” He queried, thick accent pulling at the syllables as they left his parted lips.
“My mental health among other things.” You retorted ambiguously, not wanting to ignite that storm within your consciousness.
“Okay, we don’t have to get into the specifics, that's fine; did you find it helpful?” Chan seemed to pick up on this, you weren’t surprised, of course he would.
“No, I’m not great with talking about my feelings–I don’t feel like it helps.” You admitted, shoulders slouching and rising in slight discomfort. You felt your foot shift restlessly, suddenly hyper-aware of every movement you made in the leather confines of your prison.
“So what was your motivation for coming here?” The curious man inquired, no amount of austerity present in his tone.
“My friend said I should try it, apparently you saved her marriage. She’s the most stubborn person I know so if she can do it I’m guessing I can too.” You were back to making light of the situation, hoping to pull another bright smile from the seriousness that clouded his expression.
“Glad to hear she found it so beneficial.” You’d been unsuccessful, managing only to ignite a momentary spark within his dark gaze before he was back to scrutinising you, gently still, but profoundly all the same. “So what I’m getting from this is that talking to you about the root cause of things isn’t going to be the most helpful approach for you?”
“Maybe, I don’t know.” Your voice came out sheepish, body almost crumpling in on itself. You wished you had the answers, wanted nothing more than to be the perfect patient just as he had been the perfect therapist thus far.
“Well we can always try and go from there? We take a holistic approach to therapy so if one thing isn’t working we’ll switch it up, okay?” The man kept his eyes trained on you, flickering from corner to corner, taking in every nook and cranny of your features until they settled back on your uncertain eyes.
“Sounds good.” You forced a smile, the room around you shrinking in size in anticipation of what was to come. You could feel your mind failing you, the interior of the room transforming into a twisted, swirling haze of unfamiliarity. Of course, you didn’t know the place well, but all at once it didn’t feel as if you knew it at all. Like you’d never been here, like you didn’t remember coming here. As if you weren’t really here at all.
“The other reason I asked about your history with therapy is that you mentioned leaving your body when you’re engaging in sex with someone–did you ever discuss dissociation or depersonalisation with a therapist in the past?” His voice felt foreign all of a sudden, as if he’d been replaced by someone who looked like him, felt like him, should be him, but wasn’t.
“I did not.” You murmured, blinking in the hopes you’d return to your prior state of being.
“This is a little more of a personal question: have you experienced a traumatic event associated with sex or intimacy?” His voice rang in your mind, sounding almost like a bell as it echoed within the confines of your skull. You’d heard what he’d said, but it hadn’t settled enough to register. Instead it kept repeating, your brain trying to make sense of the words strung together, just enough to elicit a response from your parted lips, but not enough to make you remember.
“Uhh.” You felt like you’d been gawking for an hour, mouth opening and closing as you felt yourself move further and further from you body.
“Are you okay?” His voice pulled your gaze from the floor to his own pointed stare, those all-consuming pools of dark brown just enough to settle your momentarily.
“Yeah sorry, this- this is why I don’t find talking very helpful. It's like my brain just shuts down when shit gets real.” You stumbled over your words, fingers pressing against your temple in an attempt to coax your soul–or whatever it was that was retreating in haste–back to your body.
“Don’t apologise for that, you’re okay to react whichever way you need to.” He assured you, your heart dancing to the melodic tune his soft affirmations took on. “It sounds like what you’re experiencing are episodes of dissociation, and, while I can’t diagnose anything, or say for certain that’s what it is, it certainly appears that way. It’s common for people who have difficulties in this area to have a dissociative disorder or experience episodes of dissociation when they’re faced with a trigger.”
“So my trigger is sex?” You queried, words coming a little easier now. It was as if this feeling, the one he’d named dissociation, came over you in waves. You’d felt choked up, near to the point of drowning, mere moments ago. Now it felt like ripples more than strong currents.
“Maybe, that’s what we’re going to get to the bottom of. It could also be intimacy, your attachment to others or your own body. There are so many reasons why people feel they can’t cope with a situation, and their brain instinctually shuts itself down.”
“Okay, I guess it's reassuring knowing my body isn’t broken.” You muttered back, feeling rather deflated by now. The air felt sucked from your lungs, replaced by the salt water of your apparently dissociative episode. It made it hard to breathe, only managing laboured, reluctant breaths as if expecting another wave.
“Absolutely not, nothing about you is broken, not your body or your brain. Dissociation is a fear, stress or anxiety response; the same as fight or flight. It’s perfectly normal, your brain is just trying to protect itself as it's designed to do.” His smile was back, eyes forming crescents that threatened to conceal his caliginous orbs all together.
“So, like self-preservation?” You attempted to piece together the sentiments that fell from his lips so easily. Perhaps he really did hold all the answers, and that gave you a sense of belief, or attachment, that suddenly wanted him nearer to you.
“Exactly!” He beamed, fingers tapping mindlessly atop his meaty thigh. “What I want to start out doing over the next few sessions, however, is to focus on you and your relationship with your body. You should be able to pleasure yourself and know your body well before you trust someone else with that task, right?”
“That seems okay.” You nodded.
“Right, well we won’t do anything you’re not comfortable with, but we’ll start you right from the beginning and we can skip ahead if needs be.” He continued, shifting easily back into the pensive professionalism that hid away his affectionate smiles.
“Alrighty.” Your foot bounced.
“Do you know where the pleasure points are on your body?” His eyes flickered from the ipad in his lap toward your furrowed features.
“I think so.” Your leg joined in the restless dance.
“Go ahead.” He urged, eyes tracing your figure in what you could only assume was acknowledgement of your nervous mannerisms.
“Oh you want me to- okay- there’s the clit, umm, there’s the nipples and somewhere there’s a g-spot.” You tried to act like the mature, confident adult you surely should be when discussing this topic at your age.
“Yeah, those are the main one’s sure. There’s also your inner thighs, your neck, your lips; some people find the bottom of their feet to be pleasurable, their ears, lower back, armpits–”
“Armpits? That’s a new one.” You cut him off with a surprised laugh, hand coming to cover your mouth as if to emphasise your bewilderment.
“Yeah there’s a lot.” He chuckled, tongue poking at the inside of his cheek “I noticed you said ‘somewhere’ when mentioning your g-spot. Have you ever found it yourself?” Chan asked, eyes darkening as he did so, an outcome you didn’t think possible until now.
“No, umm, my fingers aren’t very good at all that.” You shifted in your seat, pulling the hem of your dress further down your bare thighs, nails grazing your clammy flesh.
“Okay, have you used toys?” His voice had dropped an octave, a sound that had the air instantaneously charged again. It was as if the pull was back, but not without the push; both worlds colliding in one disorientating, magnetic combustion.
“I don’t even know where to start with all that.” You shrugged dismissively.
“So how do you usually masturbate?” Your mouth grew dry at his words, the hypnotic buzz that seemed to exude from him almost impossible to ignore now. How were you supposed to take his words so lightly? So entirely void of all subtexts and implications when he was staring at you with such heated scrutiny.
“I just… you know… my clit.” It was a miracle he had heard you, you were almost sure you’d been whispering. In the back of your mind you could hear a white noise that sounded like the crashing of waves, almost as if threatening another trip beneath the surface of reality.
“Okay, and does that make you climax?” You focused carefully on his words, using the image of his mouth as it curled around each syllable to guide you from the deep end. That tongue of his, a threat in itself, traced the seam of his bottom lip once more, lingering for a moment too long.
“I get close but err, I don’t know, I can never get all the way my mind wanders.” Distracting yourself from his plump mouth, you moved your own until a riposte drew from it.
“Okay, have you tried watching porn to focus your mind?” His response was near immediate, chin balanced on an open palm now as he leaned back in his chair, legs parting, elbow pressing deeper into the armrest.
“No actually, I haven’t.” You retorted, watching him nod gently as if contemplating his next words, long, pretty fingers clutching the pen as it moved across the screen. His hand moved from his chin to his throat, the back and forth motion as his reflexive state persisted an image that would surely haunt you. You’d never noticed that a person’s hands held their own beauty until now, each digit perfect in length and adorned with ridged veins.
“Alright, well then I think you have your first piece of homework.” He concluded, snapping you out of your day dream and forcing you to draw your eyes away from the sight. You managed a smile, waiting for him to continue. “I’m going to give you a starter toy, then I want you to go home. If you get in the mood, open up a porn site and type in solo female. Find a video that you think is going to be the most relevant to you and then, using your fingers or the toy, follow what the actress is doing in the video.”
“Right, okay.” You nodded along, thankful that your first session was drawing to an end. However, the prospect of an at-home-assignment was one that brought a new wave of uncertainty.
“Don’t be nervous, it’s just you and the video. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work and that’s okay.” His smile was back, stature adjusting as he placed the ipad aside, both palms planting themselves atop his thighs.
“Uh huh.” You were distracted, but you’d heard him, contemplating his words with a degree of skepticism.
“What’s making you anxious?” He asked, and on one hand you wanted to blurt out ‘you’. It truly was a challenge all in itself to hear him speak about such a personal topic while he unconsciously made every action attractive and impassioned. From the flicker of his brow, to the rise and fall of his chest, you’d gone from hyper-aware of yourself to hopelessly unable to pull your eyes from his motions.
“I don’t know, guess I’m just not good at trying new things when it comes to this–I feel like I’m setting myself up for failure.” You admitted, the rise of his brows enough to have you wishing you’d kept it to yourself. That thought didn’t last though, not when the words that followed lulled your anxiety in a way never knew it could be.
“Failure doesn’t exist in this sphere, you cannot fail, only try and then if you want to, try again.” He leaned forward in his chair, less relaxed in his posture as he grinned at you encouragingly.
“Right, yeah. I don’t know. I feel like your positivity is so infectious but the moment I get home I’ll just be stuck overthinking again.” You chuckled, an undercurrent of nervousness pulling the whimsy from your tone.
“Well, why don’t I give you my work number and if you get nervous and need me to talk you down you can call me, yeah?” His assurances continued, palm reaching into the pocket of his cropped suit trousers.
“Are you sure?” You blinked at him, leaning down to pry at the strap of your trusty tote bag.
“Of course, whatever you need–I’m here.” He gleamed, and with the way he was looking at you so intently, you could tell he meant it.
The moment you’d gotten home you’d done as promised, sending the podcast via email before opening pornhub preemptively to get ahead of your ‘homework’. It was intimidating to say the least, even more so when the toy Chan had given you sat beside your laptop caught your gaze. The box called it a G-Spot Vibrator, at one time concealing the long, slightly curved pink device from view. Now the vibrator led there, taunting you with its unfamiliarity as your gaze shifted to and from the screen of the laptop. Eventually you chucked in your desk drawer defiantly, fixing your attention on the brightly lit screen to begin scrolling through the wealth of videos. You couldn’t decide on one, none of them seemed to match your skill level; their wrists expertly shiting fancy looking toys in a thrusting motion while their bodies shook and convulsed with over exaggerated pleasure. It was off putting, almost taunting the manner with which they played up every action and sound.
It didn’t take long for you to lose interest, opting to go about your evening as normal instead. Easily the events of the day became background noise as you took care of the needs you struggled with far less than. By the time you’d finished your skincare you were crashing down in front of the couch, mind wandering back to the soft spoken man who’d assigned you such vexatious and troublesome homework. A drama played on low volume in the backdrop of your thoughts, your mind's eye picturing the way your therapist's tongue had travelled across his plump bottom lip. It was miraculous how you’d so easily managed to commit every part of him to memory. You could see him as clearly as the ceiling above you, his veiny hands tightening around his thighs while his dark eyes both provoked and lulled your anxiety. You didn’t realise the extent of his intoxicating stare until you were without it, nor the heat with which it took in every detail of your face as you did his.
Before you knew what you were doing your fingers had begun shifting toward your already hard nipples, one hand covering your t-shirt clad breast. You squeezed softly, head falling further back against the sofa with your eyes now tightly shut. Your free hand skimmed lower, tugging the hem of your oversized shirt to cup your bare flesh. The action of your open palm squeezing against your clit and dampening hole was enough to have your thrusting gently upwards. What a dilemma that the very person who was supposed to be helping you pleasure yourself had become the object of it. The mere thought had you huffing in disbelief–just your luck.
Deciding to distract yourself you seized the opportunity to do the homework you’d been assigned. Getting up, you trudged the short distance to your desk, grabbing your laptop and the vibrator before returning to the sofa in haste. Your fingers continued tugging at your nipple, electric sparks travelling straight to your core. You kept the drone of the tv on as you clicked play on one of the videos, muting the sound to focus on the girl's actions. That earlier worked up feeling died down somewhat as you mimicked her movements. Taking the vibrator in your mouth you sucked on it stiffly, allowing your tongue to press against the base of it as you wet the velvet soft device. You should’ve known better though, then to think your mind could focus just because you willed it to. Instead, you began to wonder, deliberating whether Chan’s hard cock would feel this heavy between your lips; the thought drawing a hum from your stuffed mouth as you tried to concentrate on the video.
You felt yourself grow soaked at the image of your sex therapist pushing his member further past your lips, the tip of it entering your throat while he exhaled grunts. You thanked the heavens when the actress removed the toy from her mouth, switching the vibration on to press it against her clit. You did the same, body jolting at the unfamiliar feeling. You tried to keep up with her motions, alternating between teasing your soaked entrance with the toy and rubbing it against your clit. Your pleasure came and went as you did so, your clumsy movements trying to keep up with her own. You felt yourself grow frustrated as you did so, mind aching to return to the image of Chan using your mouth.
Your head lulled back at the thought of his hand clutching your hair with those big, veiny fingers, pushing your head down against his cock until your nose met his muscular flesh. Your eyes glazed over, the video no longer in focus as you fixated on the memory of his slender digits. They were so long and shaped in such a way that you were certain, in your imagination at least, they’d have no problem fucking you open. Neither an issue finding your g-spot; bringing you to a satisfying climax again and again until your body begged him to give you a moment to recover. You could picture it now: his large body hovering above you, one hand pushing you against the mattress to keep you still while the other pistoned his skilled fingers in and out of your gushing pussy. You knew you’d surely be convulsing like the girls in porn did, hips unable to keep still despite his heavy palm.
The movie playing behind your closed lids was enough to have you more worked up than you’d ever been before. You pressed the vibrator into your entrance letting it linger before you thrust it past your walls, leaving yourself no time to prep like the man in your imagination refused to. He touched you with an air of impatience, desperation even, as if he’d deprived himself of you for too long; torturing himself with the thought of how you’d feel constricting around his rock hard length. You marvelled at the way his cock would feel spreading you open deliciously. You imagined his member to be as veiny as his arms, the ridges pushing against your spongy walls sending a new type of wave throughout your body. No disconnection, no retreating. Just the crashing of ecstasy that was building up with every desperate push of the vibrator. Moans fell from your lips as you thrust the toy in and out, the length of it brushing blissfully against your clit every few motions. You pictured the push of his hips against yours, the feeling of his breath against your clammy skin and the melodic muse of his groans. You just knew your moans would sound perfect together; as harmonious as your chorused laughter.
It felt so fucking sinful fucking yourself with the toy he’d given you, imagining him in place of it. The revelation had your high approaching and your walls tightening as you tried to push yourself over the finish line. It felt like a knot, or a rubber band, constricting and pulling until it threatened to snap. You tried to imagine him circling your clit with his soaked fingers, his teeth latching at your throat as he painted plum coloured hues against your skin. You kept your frenzied motions up–thrusting and rubbing in desperation to cum–but the band never snapped. The knot coming undone as your stamina reached its limit. You felt overstimulated, but without the post-orgasm floods of pleasure that should surely be wracking your body. Instead, you just felt tired, defeated even.
You’d usually give up, the magic of the moment gone with the disappointment that overtook it. This time around, though, you were still endlessly frustrated. You wanted release so badly. Your hand pushed the toy back into your needy pussy as you let your mind wander back to the therapist clouding your mind with lust. This time, he coaxed you through it sweetly, whispering reassuring words in your ear as he took his time thrusting his fingers in and out of your hole. That dark gaze captivated you again. You imagined the way it would scrutinise you once more, peering up at your spent form as he trailed kisses down the valley of your plump breasts; close to where his busy fingers worked you open. Your imagination had you near sweet release again, the image of his plump lips latching at your clit was enough to have your back arching as you tried desperately to cum.
Cruelly, despite your best efforts, the blissful feeling died out like the embers of a long forgotten fire. The feeling becoming duller and duller till the pleasurable light flickered out for the last time. You let out a whine of defeat, chest heaving as you caught your breath before trying again. You tried, and you tried, but no matter how many times you thrust the vibrating device in and out of your puffy cunt you ended up exhausted and disappointed. Realising it wasn’t going to happen, you got up with glossy eyes, tears lining their brim as you wobbled over to the desk. You found your phone discarded by the vibrators packaging, the sudden igniting of the screen reminding you of its presence. Reminding you of your plan b.
You didn’t expect him to pick up, thumb between your lips as you chewed anxiously at your nail. By the third ring he did, though, your eyes widening not only at his quick response, but how real the situation suddenly felt. What were you doing? Had you actually called him? You had. That became abundantly clear the moment his voice filled the silence the call tone had left behind. “Hello?” The octave sounded a little rougher than it had during your appointment, leaving you suddenly panicked that you might’ve woken him up. Your eyes darted towards the time on your laptop’s screensaver 8:12pm visible in big letters.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, did I wake you up?” You quickly blurted out, back straightening in anticipation of his response.
“Oh hey, no you didn’t don’t worry. I was just listening to that podcast actually.” The strain in his voice dissipated, replaced instead by an enthusiastic tone.
“Really?” Your hesitance was gone, the swirling of something close to affection beginning to churn in the pit of your stomach. It reminded you of that prior unseen tension between you, the kind that felt like a perfect storm; a destiny playing out in a beautiful collision.
“Yeah, shit’s insane…” He trailed off, the muted clattering of background noise leaving you no clues as to what he could be up to. You wondered briefly how he spent his time when he wasn’t cooped up in his office. Did he frequent a bar? Maybe the gym? Did he have a favourite takeout spot? Or did he have a book of recipes he flicked through every night? Maybe he spent his time much the same way you did, curled up on the sofa with a show you only half-paid attention to.
“I know right, it’s wild.” You agreed, pushing the far-too-domestic thoughts out of your mind.
“Right? He just disappeared off the face of the earth.” Chan exclaimed, the distant, indistinguishable noises fading to a settled silence. “So, are you okay? Did your homework go okay?”
“Actually, that’s why I’m calling.” You admitted, growing a little sheepish at the turn in conversation. You couldn’t tell if you were flustered because of the subject matter, or because your cunt still throbbed and ached in desperate anticipation of something that would seemingly never come.
“Sure, what’s the matter?” He spoke, voice level as always.
“I tried to do the porn thing but I don’t know, I just felt way too uncoordinated and ended up getting distracted. But, like, this time it was a good kind of distraction and I got close so many times but I just couldn’t cum.” The recollection of your disappointing evening had you shuffling in your seat, the friction of your bare clit against the couch setting your over-sensitive body alight. You got a bit more comfortable, squeezing your legs together in the hopes the pressure would lull the ache. It didn’t, it seemed nothing would. Nothing except an outcome that you couldn’t attain.
“Okay, well that’s a positive development, right? You tried something new, it didn’t work but you gave it a really good go, yeah? You should feel proud.” His positive disposition had once filled you with so much assurance, but right now, it did nothing but taunt you. No shit it didn’t work, you were practically throbbing with desire, desperate for release.
“Right, yeah, I guess so.” You muttered.
“Did you try the toy?” At the mention of the vibrator–still close to you on the sofa–you felt a knot form in the pit of your stomach. You weren’t sure how, in your frantic mind, you’d figured that having a sexually-charged conversation with your very attractive sex therapist was going to help your situation. Right now, it only worsened it tenfold.
“I did.” You retorted shortly.
“Did it feel good?” You felt like your ears were playing tricks on you. Could’ve sworn his usually balanced voice wavered with something unknown. You wanted to call it restraint, but you knew that was surely your desires playing out in your mind; your current disposition plaguing all reason. He was good at that–consuming every part of you–and you were starting to think that was exactly what you needed. To be consumed. To not be able to have a single sense focused on anything but him.
“Uh, umm, yeah.” You felt your situation growing exponentially worse, body shifting again in a fruitless attempt at distracting yourself from the heavy throb between your thighs. You hadn’t even realised you’d managed a response, not until he was talking again, offering that same assurance that still held little weight.
“That’s another positive step, maybe we can give you more toys to try out to see if there’s one that can help you finish.”
“Uh huh.” You hummed, head pressing against the sofa, free hand skimming your bare thighs. You knew you couldn’t do anything about your situation, not with Chan on the phone, but frustratingly, you knew you couldn’t do anything about it without him either. It was a cruel catch 22; sit here and squirm beneath the mundane distraction his sentiments provided, or try and get yourself off again and again to the image of him in your head.
“Are you okay?” He seemed to pick up on your absentminded demeanour, pitch raising in slight concern.
“Just… frustrated. I’m open to trying more things but, like, I’m just… what about now?” You admitted, perhaps if you were honest about his situation he’d know the right thing to say. The perfect affirmation that would finally have you climaxing after years of pent up frustration.
“Oh… right. So when you say frustrated…?” He attempted to connect the dots, your eyes squeezing shut as you released a huff.
“I’m really fucking desperate to cum.” You spoke bluntly, the hand that sat at your thigh itching to circle your clit. The thought alone had your hips rising in ecstasy, eyes rolling back as you imagined your fingers strumming your sensitive nub in a frenzied attempt to cum. You’d have to keep quiet, you wouldn’t want your sex therapist to know you were trying to orgasm to the sound of his perfectly innocent intimate questions “Chan?” You questioned, when silence followed.
“Yeah, sorry, umm, just thinking.” He seemed distant now, and you suddenly regretted being so honest. Had you crossed a line? Well of course you had, many in fact. You hated that justifications followed suit; so surely you can cross one more, right? To give your clit that attention it so desperately wanted.
“Am I hopeless? Is there nothing I can do right now?” You asked in defeat, the ache almost painful beneath your continued resistance.
“You’re not hopeless, no– okay…” He started to speak, still sounding much different than he had moments ago. “I don’t usually do this, I’m not supposed to do this, but, if you want I can, umm, I can help you?” There was hesitance in his tone, uncertainty wrapped up in every syllable; leaking through each word the same way your cunt gushed at the prospect of his statement.
“Help me?” You uttered, not daring to believe he could mean what you thought he did.
“Like guide you.” Oh, you thought. So he meant exactly that. The man of your prior fantasies wanted to talk you through your masturbation. If you thought your desperation had reached maximum capacity before, then you were certain you were at the breaking point now. Your pussy clenched around nothing, whole body suddenly heavy with thick hot lust as you managed a response.
“O-Okay.”
“Yeah, you want that?” He was back to sounding level again, and how he could be in this situation you didn’t know. You didn’t care, though, not when your deprived cunt was about to get abused once again.
“Yeah, so bad.” Your voice no longer hid your frantic state, hips rising from the sofa, hand reaching between your thighs to ghost over your sensitive clit in an attempt to feel any relief.
“Mm fuck, okay.” Whatever professionalism he’d mustered up had quickly faltered, something close to a groan falling from his lips. “We can stop whenever you want to, I only wanna help you with this if you’re comfortable with it.” Before you could register his new state, however, the collected therapist was back. You questioned your sanity, were you hearing things now? Your mind conjuring mirages of your hot therapist moaning in your ear as he got you off. Fuck you wanted to touch yourself so bad.
“I want your help, Chan.” You confirmed, gnawing at your bottom lip as you ran a finger through your soaked folds, digit quickly growing sticky, body jolting from the small amount of contact.
“You sound so strained, gonna help you okay?” His voice held promise, and your eyes practically rolled into the back of your head at the prospect of finally cumming.
“Please.” You begged, restraint completely vanished along with any shame you might’ve felt about sounding so unbelievably desperate.
“You still wearing that pretty little dress?” His voice dropped an octave, his ability to stay unphased broken up by bouts of what you could only surmise was his body betraying him.
“No, just a t-shirt” You responded, mewls falling from your lips at the prospect of him being affected by your insatiable lust.
“Nothing else?” Chan questioned.
“Just the shirt.” You confirmed, finger circling your gushing hole as you awaited your sign to begin pleasuring yourself properly.
“Take it off for me, drag the fabric against your skin nice and slow. You doing that for me?” To your dismay, he had other plans, his request to take your time sending every one of your nerves into overdrive. You did as you were told, though, too turned on by the current events playing out to rush through it.
“Yeah.”
“Good, give your breasts special attention; squeeze them together, let the rough part of the fabric stimulate your nipples.” You followed his commands, putting your phone on loud speaker by your head to squeeze your breasts together; the fabric against your sensitive nipples sending waves of pleasure straight to your desperate pussy.
“When your shirt is off, bring your fingers to your mouth and get them nice and wet. You doing it baby?” Behind closed lids your senses were heightened, the sound of his voice from the speaker–so close to your ear–jolting your forward. Leaving your breasts alone for the moment, you removed the thin clothing, the air of your cool apartment stimulating your bare skin in a way that had your head spinning.
“Mhm.” You moaned loudly at the nickname, mouth stuffed with your fingers as you sucked on them. You were reminded of your earlier imaginings, the thought of his cock between your lips instead of your fingers pulling another pitchy groan from you.
“You like it when I call you that?” He asked, not waiting for a response before he continued. “Good, such a good girl, so responsive. Suck on your fingers till they’re nice and coated then I want you to play with your nipples okay?” You were frustrated at the pace he’d set, brows furrowed as you let strings of spit coat your fingers, hips continuously jolting as if trying to beg for your attention.
You couldn’t help the moans that spilled from your lips at the state you were in, cool air stimulating your already needy clit as you rubbed your soaked digits over your nipples. You played with them harshly, almost annoyed at the pent up feeling that grew and grew. With each pinch your pussy clenched around nothing, the emptiness reminding you of what you wanted there most; his cock.
“You sound so good, fuck, doing so well.” His resolve crumbled again, a huff of air the only release he could manage. “Take your time with yourself, okay?” Chan sounded strained now, the level part of him gone, replaced only by a man pushing his patience to unseen limits.
“It’s too much, wanna touch myself properly.” You whined, wetting your fingers some more to continue playing with your breasts.
“You’ll get there baby, don’t worry, not gonna leave your pretty pussy neglected.” Another desperate moan fell from your lips, noises carelessly flowing from you with complete disregard for your neighbours let alone the man on the other end of the phone. “You like that? Like me calling your pussy pretty? Mmm, I bet it is. I know it is.”
“Hmpf, Chan, please.”
“Ohmygod.” His ability to maintain level-headedness was slipping with every sound that fell from your lips. You sounded incredible, mind racing with vivid images of your legs spread, pretty fingers prying feverishly at your swollen nipples. “How does it feel baby?” He questioned, feeding his own thoughts more than yours with this request.
“Good but not enough, want more.” Your hips rose and fell, so unable to continue just playing with your plump tits when your aching, needy cunt was pleading with you to touch it.
“Okay baby, go slow, leave one hand playing with your nipples and let the other one start trailing down your body. Make sure you give every part of yourself attention, squeeze at your thighs, graze your tummy with your nails; do whatever feels best.” You released a sigh of relief, glad to finally be moving on from your top half.
“I’m doing it.” You murmured, trying to follow his direction as best you could. However, your hand skimmed your flesh clumsily, hurriedly, squeezing at your thighs to keep them pressed against the couch.
“Good girl, brush over your clit when you get there, okay? use your finger to push through your folds and spread your juices over your clit.” You did exactly that, digits instantly drenched in the sticky, wet mess soaking the sofa beneath you. Your entire body moved in haste, pushing your fingers between your pussy lips and up to your clit over and over, hips thrusting with them.
“Ah, fuck, that feels so good Chan!” You couldn’t control yourself anymore, moan after moan spilling from your gaping mouth as you repeated the motion.
“Yeah? fucking hell– sound so pretty, darling. Start circling your clit when you’re nice and soaked and make sure to give your entrance some attention too, okay?”
“Yeah, okay, god so good.” You mewled when the tips of your fingers prodded teasingly at your clenching hole. With every tightening of your pussy a new stream of sticky cum would gush onto your fingers, coating them deliciously for your sensitive clit’s unquenchable thirst for more.
“You doing that?”
“I think so.” You whined, near sobbing by now.
“Describe it for me.” He insisted, tone low with a growing impatience.
“I’m rubbing my clit with two fingers, now I’m moving them down and pushing the tips in.” You recited your motions, repeating each step with a thrust of your hips and a squirm of your limbs.
“Good, that’s good. Keep doing that for me until you’re ready and then I want you to get the toy I gave you.” His commands continued, the only thing keeping you grounded in this moment of uncontrollable, desperation for release.
“Alright. I already f-feel close.” You moaned, that tight feeling growing expanding, filling the empty place you wanted Chan to most.
“Drag it out baby, take your time.” His words drew a frustrated sob from you, eyes screwing even tighter shut as you circled your clit furiously.
“I wanna cum so bad though.” You cried, tears streaking your cheeks as your hips moved at their own accord.
“You’re gonna cum, baby, i’m gonna make you cum– fuck.” At his promise, you reluctantly pulled your hand away, blindly reaching for the vibrator. The moan that punctuated his sentence had a wave of arousal washing over you again.
“Are you touching yourself too?” You asked, the mere thought causing your cunt to clench in a way it never had. You bet he looked incredible with his fist wrapped around his cock, fucking his closed hand with the same amount of disregard you showed your sensitive nub.
“No. This is about you.” He broke your illusion, a whine falling from you lips.
“I’m getting the toy, what should I do with it, sir?” You clutched the vibrator, pressing it against your clit in anticipation of his next request. “Chan?” You spoke after a beat in time.
“Uh huh, yeah, fuck, sorry I’m still here.” Whatever thread of resolve he’d been clinging onto desperately was audibly gone. He sounded like a man starved. As if he himself was beginning to understand the torture you must be feeling to be deprived of sweet release the way he currently was.
“You sound good when you moan, can you do it again?” You pleaded, using the toy to circle your clit as you waited for him to comply.
“Mhm, yeah like this baby?” Chan didn’t disappoint, the sounds spilling from his lips sending jolt after jolt of mind-numbing pleasure straight to your core. “You like that, huh?”
“Yeah so much.” You moaned, rubbing the toy up and down your soaked folds; punishing your neglected hole with the velvety tip.
“God, so fucking hot, bet you look so good right now.” Chan seemed on a not-so-slow descent into madness, his palms no doubt twitching in place as yours had earlier, wanting nothing more than to palm his hard cock through his clothes. “Turn the vibrator on and do the same as earlier; give your clit and your hole special attention.”
“I’m so close, sir” You moaned, fingers fumbling with the button until the default vibration setting turned on. “Please can I fuck myself with it? Feel so empty clenching around nothing.”
“Fucking hell, your tight little pussy wants to get fucked so bad, yeah?” He moaned, so loudly that it almost felt like he was right there in the room with you.
“More than anything, please.” You pleaded, hips back to moving at their own accord as you circled your entrance with the vibrating toy.
“You sound fucking incredible begging for me like this baby–such a good little slut–so obedient.” his growls filled the air around you, cunt clenching at the image of his gritted teeth and clenched jaw. Gone was the pretty smile and the dimpled cheeks, no doubt replaced by a solemn expression and distant stare as his own mind busied itself with visuals of your submissive form.
“If I keep being good will you touch yourself with me?” You pleaded, tone wavering beneath the chorus of moans that flew from your lips with every exhale of breath.
“A-are you sure?” He stuttered, caught off guard by your comment. If you’d asked him to do this at the start of your call, he’d give you a categorical no. Now, though, beneath the heavy haze of lust, and battling with the feeling of painfully stiff cock confined beneath his work clothes, he could only comply eagerly.
“Yeah, please, wanna hear you moan some more.” Your voice was starting to break now, tip of the vibrator pushing further and further past your walls with every flick of your hand. You pictured how he must look, strong hand clasping desperately at his poor neglected cock; not even bothering to remove his clothes entirely before he was circling the base with his first.
“Fuck this is so wrong. God if only you could see what you’re doing to me.” Chan sounded like heaven, puffs of air exhaling from his lips as small grunts filled the room. He was no longer moaning for your entertainment alone, no, instead the noises were accompanied by the wet sounds of his fist stroking his length feverishly.
“Mmm I wish, wish it was you fucking me right now.” Not a lie, either. Your head couldn’t settle on one script to stick to: him jerking off uncontrollably or you bouncing on his cock. The latter would be quite the scene, pussy gushing around his pulsing member as you rode him with haste. His hands planted firmly at your hips to spur you on. You imagined it must feel blissful to feel his palms clasping at your body, keeping you grounded, reminding you the best things weren’t hiding in the corners of your mind but right here in reality.
“Baby, fuck, don’t say that.” Chan grunted again, sounds broken up by moans and curse words. “You fucking yourself nice and slow, yeah?”
“Yeah, not enough.” You sobbed, drying tear tracks repainted with fresh salty tears.
“So greedy, such a spoiled little pussy, does it wanna be fucked hard and rough?” His voice couldn’t find an octave, one moment it was deep, controlling almost in its approach to commanding your every move. The next it reached new heights, pitchy moans interjecting each breathless word. You liked this, felt like you were adding new polaroid pictures to a scrapbook keep-sake. Finding new things to add to a growing collection of moments you’d replay over and over again in your mind. You were good at that, fixating on one situation good or bad, thinking about it from every angle until the edges of it became frayed and aged. Until it lost all meaning; all feeling.
“Want you to ruin it.” You could barely form words by now, you wanted nothing more than to quicken your pace. You wouldn’t though, not without his word. There was something so hot about doing what your therapist told you to, even if he couldn’t see you, nor hold you accountable if you misbehaved. You wanted to be his good girl, his favourite patient; the only one who could corrupt him into breaking every rule he swore he’d keep. Maybe it was the power in an otherwise powerless dynamic that had you so hot on bothered, but really, truly, that didn’t feel like the perfect fit.
There was something about him, you couldn’t describe it. You could only remember how electric the air around you had felt, how badly you wanted to let yourself be pulled into his orbit, to centre him in every aspect of your life until he was the only thing that remained. All consumed, entirely taken up by him. Every crack in your broken mind filled with him, and his voice, and his promises to fix you. It was so undeniably unethical, let alone wishful thinking. You knew you were latching onto him, your next fixation, your special interest.
“Shit, you know I can’t do that, gonna have to learn to do it yourself.” His words reminded you just how hopeless your new infatuation was. Lust and affection were two different things, not mutually exclusive, in fact rarely hand-in-hand. Chan was trying to help, he took pity on you, right? Sure, somewhere along the way his cock had ended up in his fist, moans spilling from him like a pot left to boil too far too long. But that was a happy accident, an inevitability when you were moaning like a pornstar in his ear.
You were losing focus again. God, who knew your distraction would become a distraction from himself. But just as you’d begun to run out of momentum, mind conjuring up anxious thoughts and momentary bouts of shame intermingled with embarrassment, his voice sliced through the noise. “Pick up the pace for me, keep going, keep fucking yourself like a slut if that’s what baby girl wants.”
“So close. I-I’m fuck, fuck, so close.” You clenched around the vibrating device, the loud groans emanating from your phone’s speaker pushing you closer and closer to the edge. An edge… now that was new. Usually you felt a tightening in the pit of your stomach, an indescribable pressure that wanted to be released. But this felt more like a building of something that was destined to end in you reaching an undiscovered depth; the deepest darkest part of an ocean you’d yet to explore.
“Yeah? You sound so fucking hot baby, you gonna cum for me? gonna cum for sir like an obedient little whore?” The filth that was spewing from his lips so easily had your mind racing in an entirely new way. You couldn’t keep up with your body anymore, vibrator plunging in and out of your abused hole as if running on a motor. The space around you smelled like sweat paired with the sweet scent of your cum; the sounds of your wet pussy battling to be heard above your shrill moans.
“Want you to cum with me, you gonna cum with me sir?” You spoke between pants.
“I’ll cum with you, yeah, that’s so hot– I can hear how soaked you are, bet you’re making such a mess baby.” His groans did indeed sound perfect in harmony with your own, you’d been right about that.
“Would feel so good creaming your cock with my cum.” you murmured, biting down on your bottom lip to keep yourself from screaming.
“Ahhh, fuck, fucking hell I’m gonna cum.” He stammered and you could hear so clearly the sounds of skin slapping against skin. You could tell, even through the phone that his release was already leaking from the top of his angry head, every thrust of his fist wet. You could practically taste the salt of his cum on your tongue, the image of him dumping its entirety in your wide, eager mouth enough to have your hips spasming uncontrollably.
“Yeah? Me too, please, please.” You felt your body teeter so close to the edge you almost lost the ability to thrust the vibrator in and out of your desperate hole.
“That’s it, good girl– fuck– fuck yourself so good like you know I would.” It would appear that in his near-climax haze Chan had given up on the idea of not buying into your fantasy of fucking him. You liked to think he’d reached the point of complete inhibition, no longer able to keep up the facade. That perhaps he wanted your cunt just as badly as you wanted to feel his cock rammed deep inside you, tip prodding against your cervix with every well-timed thrust. “Would treat that pussy so well, yeah, would fuck you so well baby, fuck.” He was babbling now, barely indistinguishable beneath the sounds of wet fist fucking.
“Please, please.” Was all the words you could muster, so close now that you felt yourself being pushed from the edge you’d been almost afraid to fall from, vibrator hitting your spongy walls at just the right angle to have your toes curling and your body heaving.
“Keep going baby, keep going. Imagine it's me, yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you?” Chan kept talking, seemingly unable to keep his desires pent up any longer as he too reached the edge. “Bet you’d love it, fuck such a good girl, taking my cock so well–you’d feel so good, tight cunt wrapped around me.” He was relentless now, words sending jolts of hot pleasure straight to your already overstimulated pussy.
“Be the only man to make you cum, you know I can.” He continued, barely able to get the words out between broken moans, each one louder than the next. “Gonna make your cunt mine baby, yeah, you want that don’t you? I’ll treat you so good don’t worry; i’ll take good care of your desperate little pussy.” The possessive growl he let out, paired with the absolutely sinful rambles he couldn’t seem to stop from spilling out of him, was more than enough to send you tumbling from the edge. You were rendered near immobile, white light breaking through the darkness behind your closed lids. Your hips shook, every limb twitching and seizing until all feeling returned.
You hadn’t even noticed you’d been moaning his name, over and over until your voice was hoarse and your throat felt raw. You could feel every part of you grow stiff, chest heaving as you tried to make sense of what had just happened. One second you were pushing the toy in and out of your clenching hole, the next you lost all control of your body. It was easy to see why they called it little death, that feeling of going into a place filled with light, a place that threatened no return. No way to flee back to the safety of normalcy. It was a contrast to his dark gaze, the one that consumed you in the same way. It was like fire and ice, light and dark, yin and yang. So entirely wrong but right.
“Ah, you came, fuck, yeah, you’re so– god, I’m cumming too, fuck.” You realised then, as you caught your breath, listening to the sounds of his own release play through the speaker, that you didn’t want to return to normalcy at all. You wanted the light, you wanted the dark, you wanted both of them at once. No, not want; need.
You needed the dark to find the light. You needed him.
tag list:
@mangojellyyy • @diekleinesuesse
A/N: this was made to celebrate the 100 followers milestone so thank you so much to everyone who has been a part of that. this one's for yous <3
hope you enjoyed my first written fic! this was semi-unedited so if there are any major errors let me know. haven't done smut in a long time so fingers crossed it was okay lmao. there will be another episode but not any time soon, please see "genre" for more details.
Today I turn 36 and so far I burnt the pan of birthday brownies I made bc I fell asleep (birthday nap!) while they were in the oven and I slept through the timer going off.
Also it rained and is slippery out, so naturally Penny saw a stray cat and took off at full 100lb speed, causing me to slip on the driveway and skin my knee - which hurts a lot worse when you’re 36 than when you’re 8 and just fell off a bike (which I’m fairly sure is the last time I skinned my knee).
So, overall, I give it a 5/10 (I did get to nap) but it can probably only go up from here 👍😂
Y/N is the sort of girl who keeps to herself. With a long list of people who seem to want nothing more than to destroy her and see her downfall, Y/N has no interest in trying anymore. Combined with a traumatic home life that her peers can barely even begin to imagine, the teenager has given up on the idea of happiness a long, long time ago.
She meets Christopher. A boy who seems far more wise and mature than his real age, Chris is kind, warm, and charming ... everything that Y/N is unfamiliar with. They become accustomed to one another, and together they grow and bond together, whiling away each other's company until one day, they don't. Their entwined paths come to a halt and they go their separate ways, each one of them trying to figure out who they are on their own.
Alone, they change and they develop, struggling and battling the difficulties that life throws their way ... until one day, when fate wills it, they meet again.
—From the moment Felix saw you drawing your dreams in the sand, he knew you were a daughter of the seas, with frozen fingers and feelings like the tide. So when the waves rush overhead, he will place his soul upon your tongue so your hollow heart can finally feel the warmth of the sun.
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠・felix x mommy issues!reader
𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞𝐬・angst, smut, a collection of moments the two of you have ever wanted to say I love you, his vow to find your soul in every lifetime, elutions to supernatural connections of humans hearts
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬・8.1k
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬・The reader had mommy issues that are heavily described, manipulation, verbal abuse, references to physical abuse but it really isn't described, love bombing, alcoholism, references to blades and knives, sweet PIV sex, an ungodly amount of crying, panic attacks, there are some potentially disturbing descriptions in this honestly, uhh pregnancy and proposals (its really cute I promise)
𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐬 ・If you want to see the preview for this story look here
𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ・Family Line by Conan Gray, If the World Was Ending by Jp Saxe and Julia Michaels, The Night We Met by Lord Huron, Cover Me by Our Beloved Stray Kids, Evergreen by Richy Mitch & The Coal Miners.
𝐚/𝐧・I have poured my heart and soul into this fic; I hope it heals you how it healed me.
i. It is the wounds we hide from the light that beg most to be seen.
Age 12.
Scene one.
The sand feels like stardust as you glide your hands across the sky, your frozen fingers tracing the edge of an anguished cry.
lair.
You write in scribbled chicken scratch,
lair.
lair.
lair.
You wipe it all away.
The ruthless afternoon sun glares off the playset before you, stabbing through your eyelids. You actually have to squint to make out any of the children shrieking and playing on the variety of scattered sets; a few push and shove each other on the slides, while the quiet, more reserved ones sit silently on the swings. Some were climbing on the monkey bars, others spinning on the merry-go-round, and then there was you, 12-and-a-half, drawing their sorrows in the sandbox.
You don't even know why you come here anymore. It almost makes you chuckle, imagining how others must see you—too old, too tall, too out of place to be sitting in a snot-infested box that smelled like the remnants of many, many nasty toddlers.
Though, as silly as it seemed, you needed an escape, an outlet to channel all this burning rage. You wanted to flip the world inside out, turn it around and upside down; shake it, shake it, shake it untill humans finally had some common sense. I mean, really, how could they not see it? How could anybody not see it?
The worst part of it is you don’t even have a reason to be mad. You hadn’t argued, you hadn’t fought, she hadn’t hit you, hadn’t taken away your stuff. No, that isn’t why you were mad.
You were mad because she's a liar.
A big, fat, ugly, fucking liar.
Her love only ever pools at the tip of a knife, the glint of all your hopes and dreams; It shimmers and shines in the overhead lights, in the cloud of the crowd’s ceaseless cheers. See it, look everyone, I'm great. Her hands cover their eyes. Look, world, she's trying. Do you see it? She's trying. She's trying, you're crying, and the world only ever applauds.
You sigh, smacking your hands on your thighs. You were inches away from combusting—Your emotions, like unreleased electricity, coalescing in the pit of your gut, one wrong spark away from exploding.
Why couldn't anybody see it?
An earsplitting screech of pure bliss pierces your eardrums as you snap your neck up. It wasn’t really hard to pinpoint the noise, figuring every few beats it would happen again. The sound was home to a little girl with blond braided hair and a smile that rivaled the sun, but it wasn’t her that caught your attention the most—It was the boy behind her, gently pushing her on the swings. Your heart skips in your chest; he was beautiful, the unique type of pretty, the kind that’s utterly humane. He had sprays of freckles and cheeks that permanently crinkled in a grin.
Who was he?
Perhaps it was Cupid’s feathered wings that tickled the boy’s chin up, because as soon as your gaze lifts, he inadvertently steps into a patch of light—his amber irises seeming to be encrested with honeyed seaglass, a phenomenon only created by the restless tumbling of a thousand folded seas; and even with an ocean of blinding afternoon sun, his eyes still found you.
Well, now that you really think about it, you were staring at him first, so it really isn’t as magical as your brain makes it up to be. But still—
You feel your lips part, your stomach flipping upside down. You would have usually been embarrassed, caught staring at such a beautiful boy, but you were floored, utterly flummoxed. Cupid drew his stringed bow, and with a flick of a finger, your heart was ensnared.
Subconsciously, you slip your hand into your front pocket, your thumb running over the smooth surface of a million different frosted bottles.
You found comfort in the concept—how easily humans discarded their broken trash, and in the excruciating process of being shattered, crushed, destroyed, the sea smoothed out their jagged edges. It was not their gruesome end; no, it was their birth.
Their birth into something so captivating so unique—
You were seaglass.
You wanted to be seaglass.
You were way too young to be thinking about the phenomenon of the ocean and the wisdoms of the world.
He was nothing less than breathtaking as his nose crinkled, the corners of his eyes disappearing into crescent moon-shaped slits. He was staring at you the same way one would look at an adorable puppy that just fell straight on its ass.
Oh, well, here comes the embarrassment. It hits you like a semi-truck, reality slamming into you harder than the tonnage before. There you were, sticky in sweat-caked sand, shifting through dirt and grime like a grody toddler, and there he was, innocently playing with what is probably his kid sister, looking perfect and beautiful and impossibly unsweaty.
Like, actually, how is he not sweating? It’s at least a million degrees out here. He catches your eyes again, his grin slowly forming into some (mysterious) mix between curious and mischievous. He eases the swing to a stop. The little girl grumbles in protest before he leans down into her ear, whispering something that makes her smile and nod, innocently toddling off into the abyss of grass and giggles.
You wonder why he stopped playing with her—that is until he starts walking over to you.
You had never, in all your 12 years of existence, heard a voice so naturally inviting—like the tender lullaby of whispering rain.
"Hi, my name's Felix. What's yours?"
Your lips formed around the letters—the way they fit so perfectly in your mouth.
In every lifetime, you turned the words on your tongue like a promise forgotten in the stars.
In every lifetime I will find you.
With jarring familiarity, you take his extended hand, blushing profusely when he asks if he can take a seat, you almost tweak a muscle nodding with such enthusiasm.
And in every lifetime, I will make you mine.
ii. I could find your soul in the sky because yours is the only one that smells like home.
Age 16.
Scene two.
"You look like shit," Felix teases, a pencil lodged firmly between his teeth; he was obnoxiously chipper for a Monday morning in math class.
You roll your eyes, tossing your backpack onto the floor of the classroom with a heavy-handed flick.
"Fuck off and die," you smile, slumping into your seat.
Felix lets out a forceful laugh, shocked by your abrupt hostility. His mouth stays agape far into the droning silence, his brain scrambles into damage control when you lack an immediate explanation.
“Come on now, is that any way to talk to your best friend?” He showcased his obnoxiously large smile with the bottoms of his palms in a gesture that said, Look at me. His goofy antics would usually make you at least grin, but today you were the very epitome of exhausted, swimming in a vat of thickening cement. You just wanted to melt into the comfort of your fluffy sheets—
The room erupts in a cacophony of screaming voices and roaring laughter.
Why must humans be so loud?
You groan, scooting your chair so close to Felix your bodies are practically smooshed together. If it bothered him, he didn't show it—or maybe you were too tired to notice. Either way, you drop your head onto the dip of his shoulder, his heat wrapping around you like a threadbare blanket—just enough warmth to dull the bite of a chill, but never enough to melt the ice.
"Somebody's tired," he coos with a hint of concern, slipping an arm over your shoulders. You nod, mumbling something along the lines of "tired" and "understatement." Your eyelids flutter shut to the sound of his heartbeat, and even under the bright fluorescent lights, everything starts to dim.
That is until your teacher shakes you awake, rudely plunging you back into the land of the living. You blink a few times, Felix's face a blur. You clear your throat. Your teacher was a short lady with a smile like a snob and her hair styled in a bob. She was loud and callous, with the temper of an obnoxious lapdog. You dig your palms into your eyes until your vision is painted in Picasso.
"We have a test today, L/N. I would sit up if I were you," she says, tossing two packets onto the desk, she flicks her eyes between the two of you, before pursing her lips like a woman clutching her pearls.
Of course.
Of fucking, fuckudy, fucking, course.
Of all the days.
Most of your night was encased in a bubble of beer, the stench of anguish, and the echo of wet cries. Your mother insisted on proving her godliness until the sun came up, for she, the untouchable essence of perfection, could never be wrong.
You nodded in and out of consciousness, only ebbing along the edge of the ocean before the tide pulled away.
You just wanted to sleep.
"Hey, wake up," Felix says, softly nudging you awake. His touch is feather-light, but it feels like the stab of a thousand sharpened pencils, the way your annoyance flares up.
"No," you croak, the lights like little lanterns reflecting off the surface of your tears. He hesitates for a moment, his tender hand leaving your skin for just enough time to make you crave it more.
"You have to wake up, or you're going to fail the test." He mumbles, gently lacing his fingers through your hair.
"I don't care anymore." You were traipsing on a tightrope with a body made of glass. You slip, you fall, you risk it all to tumble into his embrace. You felt it in your bones, the way he smelled like home, and you'd give anything to have it back.
Just once.
"Please," you whisper. It grates in his ears like gravel, your watery lashes cracking his heart in two.
You wanted to go home.
He pauses, narrowing his eyes in indecision before biting his lip and turning to scan Mrs. Womperbottom. You sit impatiently, bouncing your legs up and down. He flicks his stare to you, all your eye bags and smudged makeup, with that, his gaze softens, face melting into a small smile.
"Okay." He concedes, taking your body into his hands, carefully nuzzling your head to sit snug on the curve of his chest. You were so glad to sit in the back, especially as the world fades to black.
"I expected far more from you, young man."
It had been a few days since you fell asleep in Felix's arms, opting to turn in a blank packet rather than fight the urge to skydive without a parachute. Your brows furrow as your teacher frowns in disappointment. Felix, whose cheeks turn red as his eyes grow wide—equal parts panic and regret—seems to know exactly what's going on.
She flips the packet around. His fingers wrap around the paper, never turning it to see the depth of the damage. Only when he hastily unzips his bag, do you notice in the frenzy of movement—
A thick red F at the front.
Your jaw goes slack, lips gaping ever so slightly. He doesn’t meet your gaze, even when the room erupts in a deafening ring, chairs screeching as people scamper out. Your eyes blur like the lens of an old camera, faulty with the ages of time.
Carefully, you turn your page.
A
Your mouth is filled with sand.
You never did the test.
You flick through the edges of oblivion.
Every answer.
Every circle.
He did your test for you.
It was the sheer selflessness of his act that threw you for a loop—how a man who could have the whole world at the tip of his fingers could also be so impossibly kind.
That was a feat you believed no human was capable of, cynicism long engraved into your DNA. Your own blood was indebted to your mother, so how could a man with no inherent obligation to you, show such devotion?
"In the scars of sea glass, you will find your answer," the stars whispered.
"He loves you," the universe says.
"Do not doubt his intentions," time tells. "His soul has already found you in every lifetime."
iii. There are so many things in the world that must first collapse before it is born; why do we not believe humans are the same way?
Three months ago.
Scene Three.
Playing: The Night We Met.
"I love you, you know that, right, baby?" your mother slurs, her words tangled in a cloud of stale beer. She called you in a fit of drunken giggles, professing her undying ardor, wedged between passive pleas to come pick her up.
Something deep inside you screams as her arm wraps around your waist, the voice you fought to hide, it sounds and pounds at the walls of your ribs.
Not again, please.
You had spent so much of your life tangled in her web of lies, pulling at every poisoned thread.
Mirror, mirror on the wall, how many different ways can I make my daughter fall?
“I love you so, so much,” she cocoons your cheeks in comforting hands, and almost for a minute, you fall into the fuzz, into the black and blurry buzz of the mix between right and wrong.
She does not love you.
She loves your reflection and how it so greatly mirrors hers.
You were an extension of herself, the one she holds, the one she molds, her fingerprints sticking in the sand.
Brick by brick, she builds you up.
Mirror, mirror on the wall, how many different ways can I make my daughter fall?
She loves you, she says.
But she is in love with a mirror, the shattered glass of a battered reflection, the one that can never improve.
For she is too great in her empty state; she has nothing to prove.
You will never change a woman made of stone.
You will only ever break your bones.
So you drop the remote
with an echoing plop
and let all her love leak out.
You don’t really love me, do you?
Just pretend one more time.
Just one more time.
You drag her stumbling figure up a grueling flight of stairs. She giggles and hiccups when one of her feet catches on the edge of a step.
Her eyes are clouded as you lower her onto the bed. She caresses your cheek with silky fingers.
You relapse.
Rewind.
“Come lay with me, baby.”
You don’t cry, don’t die as the tip of her knife digs into the skin of your thigh.
You collapse into the warmth of her covered arms, shrouded with the lies of alcohol.
Brick by brick.
You nuzzle your head deeper into her neck.
She builds you up.
Just one more time.
She curls her hands around your heart.
I love you.
Your mother was too in love with herself to find room in her heart to love you.
Your tears taste like sorrow when they seep onto your tongue, cascading down your shuddering lips like the bullets of rain that whip across your face, dripping into your sodden shirt. Your heart was burdened by paradox, the overwhelming tonnage of utter desolation; you sink your fingers into your chest as if breaking the surface of snow, searching for any sign of humanity.
Perhaps it was fate's gentle hand that guided you from stumbling through your mother's desolate driveway to softly rapping your knuckles on Lee Felix's front door, cause the moment your weary feet touched his familiar steps, something stirred deep within. In a multiverse of infinite universes, it felt as though every timeline suddenly collided, merging to form this pivotal moment in your history—the story of you and him. The mere thought made you question its legitimacy, until the door creaked open, and suddenly, everything you'd almost forgotten came rushing back.
It was the disheveled state of his hair that you notice first—tousled atop his head like a misty halo; his eyes were heavy-lidded, foggy with frosted sea glass. You choke back a sob; the sunlit streetlights really do him wonders.
The moment you step into his line of sight, he can sense something is wrong. You're soaked to the bone, though the rain is barely coming down; your eyes glazed with a grief so acute it resonates in his very core.
He reaches a hand out—
"Y/N, what happened?"
You unravel; your knees giving out, all the energy spent on keeping yourself upright diffuses into an agonizing sob. Your hands find purchase on his steady shoulders as you threaten to collapse straight into the wet patio floor.
The universe had split apart, the sky falling down. You were crumbling, caught in between thick chunks of earth; you couldn’t breathe—
you gasp
The weight of a quivering world crashes into your chest, an earthquake erupting at the base of your spine. You were the daughter of destruction, bleeding with the wrath of humanity's woe.
Wordlessly, Felix chases your agony down, drawing you gently into his embrace. You had rehearsed your excuses all the way here, but when his arms wrap around your waist, the lies soak straight back into your throat.
Settled atop folded thighs, his free hand moves; lacing his fingers around the nape of your neck. His lips like life, pressing into the cold, dead skin of your outer shell; he grazes the apple of your cheek, the slope of your nose, the flat of your forehead, the tremble in your hand; and at last, with hooded eyes, his gaze finds your mouth. You are an amalgamation of quivering limbs, your bones like leaves; he locks his strength around the base of your spine, palms steading you from the outside in.
And yet, you lament, how desperately you wanted his lips to form around your flesh with the irrevocable promise of always, but you know the ramifications of such a thing; you were the embodiment of devastation, born with a blade in your hand, you would only ever hurt him. He did not deserve that. So instead of chasing your dreams, you chase the solitude of his skin, firm against your cheek.
"I'm here." He is—through it all. Through every violent hiccup and every hushed sob, Felix stays with you, fierce hands anchoring you back into reality. Finally, after lifetimes locked in this position, you find the strength to plead, "Do you think we could go somewhere?"
I would go anywhere with you, is what he wants to say.
“Of course,” is what he does.
A muted smile tugs at the corners of your cheeks, and with every labored rise of your chest, he fights the urge to hook his hand underneath your jaw, sucking all your pain into his lips. He doesn't. Instead, he lifts you up and follows his feet wherever your soul wants to take him.
He hooks his ardency on the sun as it starts to sink low. The world is dipped in darkness, perforated by the warmth of a cratered moon. Déjà vu follows you down the dark, dirt-paved road, marked by children's footsteps. Your heavy steps stop, mouth forming around the shape of a suffocated gasp. The trees rustle in the breeze, the wind slapping against the metal of a misty memory.
You had never, in all your 12 years of existence, heard a voice so naturally inviting—like the tender lullaby of pattering rain.
"Hi, my name's Felix. What's yours?"
Your lips formed around the letters—the way they fit so perfectly in your mouth.
In every lifetime, you turned the words on your tongue like a promise forgotten in the stars.
He remembered.
He really remembered.
Felix could never forget.
"Well, what are you waiting for? Come on!" he calls out, breaking into a backward jog, his smile beckoning you closer to the swings.
And with a swipe of his hand, you have already left your afflictions on the imprint of your shoes. Cold rubber hits you first, your thighs bouncing into the seat. His fingers latch around the frame of your waist, thrusting you into the air.
You laugh with the resonance of lost youth.
Time slips from your fingers like dust, forgotten in the way you had drifted from the swings to the slides, only to circle back again. It wasn’t until your skin had brushed every corner of the park that you found yourself lying on the damp earth, sinking deeper into the solace of Felix’s chest. His heart hums like the rhythm of a song so intimate, you could recite the whole melody from just the first note.
Stars blink overhead, still—sparkling, spread across the sky like golden thread sewn into rippling silk. You first settle into comfortable silence, both equally at peace, but the heavy burden of unspoken questions leaks into the calm air; forcing you to speak.
Softly, weakly, you tell him about your fears, about how much you hate her, how much you hate loving her, and how much you want to rip out every helix of her DNA.
Felix doesn't respond for a long time after this, inhaling your confessions with all the deference you deserve. Your heart slams into the slats of your ribs, shaky breaths forced into the balmy summer breeze. There was something so potently terrifying about voicing your issues, especially after masking them for so long; your pain splintered across the ground like the most fucked-up stained glass—as though Felix could sense your building anxiety, he kisses the crown of your head, murmuring into your hair:
"Even the moon hides parts of herself from the sun."
At that moment, with overwhelming certitude, you knew—even littered with secrets and scars, his rays would kiss whatever side you wished to show.
"In every lifetime," you plead through tear-stained lashes.
Maybe in another universe, you could be easy to love.
“In every lifetime.” Aged fingers run the length of your soul, tracing the vow 'I do.' In every lifetime, he would find you—broken or whole, with the sky falling, the sea sinking, the world tumbling down.
"Stay with me," you whisper to the wind as the stars start to dim.
"Always." He will find you in every lifetime and love every mangled piece.
The ocean.
You are wrapped in its cool embrace. The shore hums with soft lullabies as the wind whips across the water. Amorphous mist floats along the top of the sand, shrouding it in a dreamlike shade. Your fingers are formless as they dip into the darkness. Something sparkles. You lift your gaze.
Sea glass.
It’s basked in warm moonlight, buried in a fissure of the earth. You collapse onto the ground, your knees quivering as frantic fingers dig into the land.
Your hands are cold, holding something so old. You flip the smooth stone.
I love you.
You run your thumb over the inscription.
I love you.
It is only through the tumbling of a thousand folded seas that sea glass can even come to be, and maybe, that is how your soul found me.
You wake up in a bed that isn't your own with the warmth of the sea and the smell of home.
I love you.
iv. Just once, let him rewrite the story; just once, he promises you will never have to watch the same ending again.
Present day.
Scene four.
Playing: Cover Me.
The screen flickers off.
The velvet curtains close.
The world fades to black.
The End
Your ribs crack open, heavy sobs echoing through the gaps of your unfolded bones. Your hands make purchase around your shredded soul, the warm liquid of your sorrows trickling through your splayed fingers like the shadow's phantom finger tracing the lines of your melancholy, dusting over the hill of your cheeks.
One more time.
Just one more time.
You rewind the tape-
The velvet curtains stutter open.
The screen flashes white.
Just one more time.
How many times could you watch the same movie before you realized the ending would never change?
You rewind the tape-
How many times could you lick her love off the edge of a knife before you realize the blade will never dull?
You slide the tip across your tongue-
Just one more time.
Please.
Just pretend to love me one more time.
"For once, can you admit that you're wrong?" you snap, attempting to steady your rising voice.
You've been arguing with your mother for centuries, breath grating across your throat like grains of sand. It took every shred of mental stability not to bash your head into the wall.
"I did what I had to do to teach you discipline; you were unruly-"
"I was nine!" you shout, a weak, wounded cry. "Nine!"
How could she not see that?
"I did it because I loved you."
Where did the argument even begin? You search the past 30 minutes, all the way from the start, sitting on the couch with Felix, The Princess Bride playing in the background. Your ringing phone cuts through the movie. He tells you to answer it. You do. What happened after that? Your head is foggy with hurt, time forced into an everlasting circle of the same issues.
"Maybe you should reevaluate your definition of love."
"Maybe you should have just been a better daughter."
The signal of an ended call rings through your ears as the world fades to black.
The velvet curtains close.
The screen flickers off.
The movie sputters to a stop.
The End
You are far too entranced with the stillness of your spine to hear the door creak open, Felix’s hesitant footsteps carefully creep closer. It is only when he mumbles a soft, saturnine "sweetheart" that you finally feel something-
"How did it go?" Felix believed the strings of your souls were so intertwined, the two of you experienced emotions the way an instrument feels the thrum of a cord; but as your heart pumps with an intangible amount of anguish, maybe even for you, some feelings were simply too subjective to share.
Wordlessly, thoughtlessly, your hand chases his touch, a million different uncompleted sentences dissipating as soon as your skin connects; your fingers beg, hold me, even as your mouth shutters shut, dusty rivulets cascading across your cheeks.
You were empty.
so, so, very empty-
Felix's hands lock underneath the bend of your knees, steady arms curling around the small of your back, and in a gentle flow of movements, he cradles you against his chest.
You rewind the tape.
Just one more time.
"Please," you have lived so much of your life caught in a perpetual state of emptiness, for once, you wanted to remember what your body was like before your mother bore you with the heavy burden of broken wings.
"Touch me," shaky fingers cling to him, pleading with so much of your soul none is left to protest. He gasps into your neck, his face scrawled with worry, the etch of a thousand different fears drawn into the deep lines of his forehead.
Just once
Let him rewind the film
Just once
You will never have to watch the same ending again.
"Are you sure this is what you want?" Though his words are unsure, his actions tell a different story; tender hands massage the tops of your thighs, reluctantly begging you to open up, to unfold your deformed ribs, where he will fill your hollow bones with the type of love you have only ever yearned for.
"I need you."
You need him more than you need your heart to beat, your lungs to breathe; you need him more than you need the birds, the bees, the ground, the trees—
Your frantic fingers smooth around the base of his neck, further blurring the line of friendship; and in one sharp movement, he takes a sledgehammer to any hope of going back. Your lips collided with the zeal of years lost to silent longing, a kiss that unfurled all time and space, bursting with the passion of hearts starving for connection.
He would not hurt you-
Please, collapse into him, just once-
Let him prove that you will never have to fall again-
This could ruin everything, and yet he lays you upon the silken sheets with such soulful kindness your glassy eyes threaten to break; his heart thrums with the vow of I'll make you fly. His hand dips into the band of your shorts, pleasure peeking out from the shadows of your mind, only ever bobbing its head long enough to fill your skin with a minute tingling sensation—like running your hands under hot water after a long day in the snow, but it was not enough.
"Felix, I need you," His eyes widen slightly, features stricken with a sudden tightness, a burdened tonnage; you were handing him your heart with the hope his hands weren't made of blades, and the idea of the utter trust you have put in him to do that makes his stomach flip.
Just once—
He will prove it all to you.
"As you wish," Not even 20 minutes ago you were sitting on the couch watching the greatest love story ever told, and now, here you are living it. How did you get so lucky? It's unfathomable how attentive he manages to be, his nose nudging the slope of your neck before laying a peck on your collarbone. His mouth never leaves your flesh even as he slowly strips off layer after layer of fabric.
"I want to see all of you" Now it was your turn, taking his time removing your clothes. His fingers slide across your skin with a delicate intimacy, a tender reverence; his lips tracing the lines of your seams until your very atoms are etched with his name.
I hate her
I love you
I love you
I love you
He coupled every leak of anger with a river of love, kissing your limbs until all your body could remember was the pureness of his ardor.
"Are you ready?" he whispers, lining himself with your entrance, all he needs is a word to finally sink himself in. Your eyes are glossy, gazing up at him with such an unadulterated passion, a pure amount of pain—this will tear you apart, and he promises with every fiber of his being, he will put you back together.
"Yes." You have lived most of your life with the heavy burden of a body’s broken wings, and it isn't until Felix’s crafted hands finally crease your ribs that you realize origami can only emerge when you fold it up, the way a bird can only fly when it falls.
You are an amalgamation; so much of your soul is lost in his lips you don't know where he begins and you end, but when a rush of pleasure tingles up your spine, you don't care.
The world is tangled somewhere on the edge of in-between space and time, melding together into a mushy, gushy substance that slips through your fingers as they lace in his raven locks. You pour all your pain into the slit of his lips, where he sucks in every drop, leaving no room for your protests.
Your head is empty, airy, only tethered to the earth by one dangerous thought:
I love you. You did. You have; in every timeline; in every universe; in every lifetime; you have loved him, and you knew with all your heart, he felt the same.
“I love you.” The words slip off your tongue, dripping into his mouth like melting snow. You had fallen in love with existence itself—a boy with a soul made of sun and eyes like sea glass. A man whose strings reached across every plane of time to find you. His fingers still, a soft burst of air puffing into your cheeks.
For minutes, hours, Felix can only stare, his strangled breaths wafting over your chin. You gulp, at least five differently worded apologies tangling themselves on your tongue. He doesn’t let you speak. Instead, he brings his hands to either side of your face, resting his forehead against your own; on your lips, not fear, but instead, words.
"Say it again," he urges, kisses split by the warmth of a starlit smile.
"I love you, Lee Felix." you share the galaxy in between your lips.
His arms slip around your waist, drawing you impossibly closer; there are no limits, no constraints when he captures your shuddering gasp. He has waited years to hear those words, so with a breathy rasp, he begs, "Tell me you love me, tell me until you are sick of it."
"I love you," you repeat, beginning to laugh. "I love you. I love you, fuck, Felix, there has never been a time where I haven't loved you."
The passion that surged in the twists of your heartbeats began to be too much to bear; his hips ruthlessly rutting into yours, you cry out, chasing the edge of a daydream. So close, so close, so—you can only hear the crash of your soul shattering before his ginger fingers sew you back together.
You both slam down into the earth at the same time, holding each other's tired bodies as the ground swallows you up.
His arms lock around your head, quivering as he struggles to hold himself up, droplets of tears land on your cheeks as they drip down the slope of his nose. He was so perfect-
so, so, very perfect.
Your mouth raises to kiss a tear clinging to the tip of his nose. He chokes, squeezing his eyes shut. You both are thrumming with tension, overflowing with emotion; before you can even blink, he is pulling you to his chest, naked and sticky, he holds you closer than you have ever been.
"I love you." He cups your trembling cheeks, throat tightening around the earnestness in his tone. You can run from the stars; you can hide from the bay, but his love will find you just as the sun finds the day.
v. She is only in your DNA.
Five months later.
Scene five.
Playing: If the world was ending.
Anxiety is like a cup that never falls, the tease of water sloshing at the rim. It comes in inclines—the clench in your chest, the flip in your stomach, the tremble in your spine. The world begins to quake, the table tips, the water shifts, but none of it ever pours out.
That was how you felt right now, a bright pink river rushing underneath your feet, sinking deeper and deeper into the abyss.
No matter how many times you squeezed your eyes and wished it all away, reality still managed to smack you in the face.
Positive
Your numb hand goes limp, the plastic pregnancy test tumbling to the tiles with a deafening crack. Cold porcelain seeps into your skin as you drop your tear-stained cheeks between your knees, all your deepest, darkest fears suddenly snapping into view.
"Just wait until you have kids." Sometimes, it is the most overpowering emotions you can feel most clearly.
Determination.
"One day, when I grow up, I'll meet the perfect guy, and get married, and have tons of babies—and I will do it all without ever becoming you." She scoffs, rolling her shoulders as if she had already unraveled the scrolls of your soul, and engraved on the paper was your life, traveled down a perfectly mirrored path.
"I said the same thing when I was your age, but then I had the kids, and everything changed. You aren't going to be able to do it."
You were only 13 then, and yet, with unwavering resolve, you declared, "Watch me."
How were you going to tell him? Was your first thought.
How could you manage to be a mother? Was your next.
You dug your hands into your chest, wishing to tear your seams. In her womb, she had stitched you up, and now you spent every waking moment trying to unravel the threads.
You wanted to vomit—vomit until your blood ran dry, until it curdled around your muscles, trembling over the cold toilet seat.
"Watch me," you had said.
"Watch me fall apart" is what you had meant.
So she does, through the blurred layers of your reflection, her eyes staring back. Why did you have to bear such an eerie resemblance to her? The power she held over you was suffocating, for even in thought, she found ways to claw at your lungs.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, how many different ways can I make my daughter fall?
It's been hours.
Many, many hours before Felix finds you huddled beside the toilet bowl. Your dead eyes stare—just stare. Not blinking. Not moving. Not twitching an inch. His reaction is almost instant; he drops to his knees, jerking you towards himself. He grips your pale cheeks, begging you to look at him—just once. Blink. Flinch. Move something. Finally, finally, like little butterfly wings, your eyelids flutter to life. Before you can even speak, he's yanking your head onto his chest, his heart pounding vehemently inside the thin fabric of his cotton T-shirt.
Though every cell in your body screams at you to stay, you withdraw. Your gaze is laden when it lands on him, and for a moment, he is taken aback—that is, until you slip a slim white object into his palms.
Silence.
That is what precedes your actions. He stuffs your heart into a meat grinder, and with every excruciating minute that passes, it feels like he cranks it up one level higher. He reads the result over and over, breaking it down to syllables, letters—backwards, forwards, flipped upside down. Part of him didn't believe it—not that he didn't want to believe it, but simply because he couldn't. It felt impossible, improbable, really. His tongue twisted into knots between his teeth, rendering him utterly speechless. So instead, with trembling fingers, he grasps your wet jaw and pours all his thoughts into the line of your lips.
It came out a little something like: I love you
The whiplash is dizzying, like stepping into pounding rain and spinning; spinning, spinning, spinning until it feels like you'll twirl right off the earth. How could you believe that he’d reject you? It was so colossally stupid you almost want to smack yourself in the face—not that Felix would let you, of course.
You gasp at the same moment he sniffles, your synchrony causing him to chuckle, the sound thick with tears. He lays his forehead on yours, a disbelieving smile cracking across his cheeks.
"I'm going to be a dad," he utters, already envisioning all the adventures ahead. Hell, he was practically braiding his baby girl's hair right now. He seems to catch up with this reality because, with a sudden jerk, he has locked his hands underneath your armpits, hauling you into the air. You squeal, clutching his shoulders so tightly your nails dig in; it doesn't faze him—not when his head is tilted back, his smile like the edge of an everlasting sunrise. In that moment, as the bathroom swirls, you know, it was only with him your baby could view their reflection through the shattered glass of a broken cycle; and that is an accomplishment worth celebrating. At last, you begin to laugh.
Once you have begun, you don’t stop—not even when he gently sets you down, giggling as you sway, foggy and disoriented, his hands firmly steadying you by the shoulders. When you find enough balance to walk, you clasp urgent fingers around his wrist, drawing him to the bed. He happily follows. Calves hitting the frame, you fall backward, bouncing onto the mattress. With a dimpled grin, he crawls over your waist, littering kisses all over your face, leaving wet, slobbery marks. Laughter spills out of you uncontrollably, groaning when he licks up your cheek.
"Ewww, Lix, that was gross!" you giggle, wrinkling your nose in faux disgust. All of a sudden, as the overhead lights catch the bands of your eyes, it feels as though his breath has been ripped straight from his lungs—a stunning epiphany dawning on him.
He could reach across every timeline in an infinite multiverse of parallel realities, and yet, he still wouldn’t find a version of himself as in love with you as he is right now.
So, he does something crazy.
"I wanted to wait for the right time to do this," he utters, his face tight with masked emotion. "And I promise, one day I'll buy you something flashier." Your brows furrow, your heart pounding wildly in your chest, about as confused as you are nervous—especially when he slides down the bed, halting to leave a kiss atop the fabric of your covered belly. His nose bumps your stomach when he peers up at you through tear-stained lashes. "But for now, I wanted to ask for your heart with something meaningful—something that means forever."
Every atom buzzes with anticipation when he dips to one knee, digging a finger into his pocket. Finally, he fishes a small velvet box from the confines of his pocket. Your hands fly to your face, shielding a choked sob. "Will you marry me, Y/N L/N? Will you let me love you in every lifetime?" He flips open the lid, and as if you were dipping into the well of time, nestled in the silky cushions was amber sea glass—your amber sea glass. For years, it burned a hole in your pocket, anchoring you to the ground, to earth. Then you met him, and suddenly, you didn’t seem to need it anymore. You evolved, and in time, your little sliver of the sea got lost among the waves of life. You don't ask him where he found it; frankly, you don’t care. You don’t really care about anything except him.
Without a shred of doubt, you exclaim, "Yes! Yes, Felix! Of course, I’ll marry you!" You don't even let him hand you the necklace before you collide with his chest. He grunts as your full body weight slams into him, but he doesn’t mind it—not when you’re busy kissing words onto his freckles, mumbling over and over, "I love you. I love you. I love you." He is so enthralled with the moment that he almost forgets.
"There’s more," he breathes, extracting the box from between your smooshed stomachs—not really sure how it got there, but nevertheless settled atop his folded thighs, he uncurls your fist, sliding the pendant into your palm.
Your hands are cold, holding something so old. You flip the smooth stone.
Time was such a volatile thing; how easily it is broken—for with a simple flick of the wrist, you are caught outside of all existence.
Your lips part, his sucking in your shuddering gasp. Right then, right there, all that existed was the two of you, his hands trailing up your shoulders, the cold snap of gold clasping around your neck. Felix kisses you like he will never be able to again. Your fingers tug at the weight around your neck, almost in awe that you still had it on—that any of this was real.
In every lifetime.
You run your thumb over the inscriptions, golden letters scrawled on the surface of a star. He had plucked his promise straight from the sky. For now, far past his grave, your love will live on, tumbling deep beneath the waves, until his soul finds it and pledges you his heart all over again.
If you liked this please consider telling me i worked really hard on this Thank you! also little side note if I find time I might add an installment because there was supposed to be one more scene before the pregnancy but I got too overwhelmed but that scene gave more of a closing to the readers relationship with her mom sooo maybe more soon lol
You slowly tiptoe up the stairs behind a shirtless Chan, hardly able to see anything without the light on. He stopped you from flipping the switch on your way up, whispering that it’s safer this way. He’s right—you can’t alert anyone of your being together like this. It feels like the two of you have broken yet another rule in this house and you worry that it is going to spin out of control.
You have both of your hands wrapped around one of his, holding on tightly. You tell yourself it’s so you don’t fall, but you’re really just trying to maintain what little physical contact you have left with him after what took place in the kitchen.
You remained bent over the counter with Chan laying on your back, uncomfortable under his weight but not wanting to move. He showered the back of your shoulder in kisses before finally withdrawing himself. He then promptly removed his shirt to tenderly clean you and himself off.
At the start of your time in the SKZ house, you would have never imagined such a tender moment like that to happen with him.
He discarded the shirt in the trash while you put the water bottles in the fridge and when he returned to you, the look on his face nearly broke you. His expression was caught somewhere between wanting to smile at you and feeling distraught. You know the exact feeling. All you could do was hug him.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered as he wrapped his arms around you.
“For what?” you asked.
“Being selfish. This isn’t fair to you.”
You squeezed him tighter.
“Does it ever occur to you that I need you just as much?”
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“It is. And I do, Chan. But I don’t want to get in the way of your future or come between you and your family. I could never ask you to make a choice like that.”
“Maybe you should.”
His reply was so soft, you weren’t sure you heard him correctly. He leaned back from the embrace and hooked a finger under your chin to tilt your head up.
“Do you know what I would choose?”
With your eyes locked on his, you felt like your heart was going to burst. In all of your time spent with him, he held the power. In that one quick moment, you felt it shift over to you. The weight of his words held you captive, frozen, you couldn’t say anything back. You weren’t sure you wanted him to confirm the answer, but deep down you knew it.
The silence after that still looms over both of you on your way up the stairs. You reach the third floor all too soon and Chan stops in front of Changbin’s door. Before you can even think about having to let go of his hand, he has your back pressed against the wall. He cups your face in his hands and kisses you softer than ever before. His tongue licks at your bottom lip, seeking entrance. You part your lips and allow him to enter, gliding your tongue along his. Your mouths move in perfect unison as you both remain careful not to make any loud sounds for fear of someone hearing.
“Fuck, y/n,” he says quietly when he breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against yours. “You have to stop this.”
“Stop what?” you ask, reaching up to caress the hairs at the nape of his neck.
“If I can’t leave you alone…if you won’t ask me to choose…you have to stop letting me ruin you.”
Ruin. This is the second time he’s compared your situation to complete and utter destruction. However, the first time he questioned if you were trying to ruin him. Now he believes his actions will lead to your downfall?
“Chan, you’re not—”
“I am.” His tone is hushed, but sharp.
You press your lips together in a firm line. Partially so that you don’t snap at him when you need to remain quiet, but also because…he might be right.
He kisses your forehead and takes a small step back. With his plea and this one gesture, it’s like he’s put an entire ocean between you. You start to take a step towards him, but he shakes his head and backs away again.
“Go to sleep.”
You grit your teeth as you feel needle pricks in your eyes and quickly turn around to open Changbin’s door. You step inside and shut it softly behind you without sparing another look at Chan. You press your ear against the door and wait until you hear his footsteps retreat. When you’re certain he’s left, you walk across the room and throw yourself onto your bed. You grab a pillow and hug it to your chest, cuddling up against it in the fetal position. You don’t bother to get beneath the blankets. No amount of warmth from fabric can take away the chill you’re feeling, being away from him right now.
You want to give yourself to Chan in all ways, no matter the damage it does to you. His actions and words tonight confirm that he feels the same. When he fucks you, you feel every single emotion he has for you and you know, without a doubt, that he cares about you. But how can he ask you to make him choose between you and his future and his family? Why is he choosing now to give you so much power over what happens to you both? And if you can’t ask him to choose, then it’s somehow your responsibility to end the lingering torment that follows the two of you like a shadow.
When he revealed his true feelings in Miami, you had a feeling you would have to be the stronger one in the end. But right now, it’s starting to feel like an impossible task.
Over the next few days, you go about your regular schedule and default back to operating on autopilot. Class. Home. Cook. Clean. Homework. Sleep. Repeat. Knowing Chan’s schedule, you do your very best to avoid seeing him again. As long as you can keep some distance from him, neither of you will falter. You even make up an assignment that ‘requires’ you to spend most of your time in the den, opting to have most of your meals in there so you can ‘finish it’.
The night in the kitchen starts to feel like maybe you dreamt it, but the next time you’re in the same room as Chan, your eyes are instinctively drawn to him. He looks back at you and your eyes lock for a brief second before you both look away. And you know it was real.
You both can’t carry on like this. You’ll be back with him soon and you’ll be forced to address what you last talked about. But, for now, you can put off that discussion while you sort through your thoughts.
On Sunday night, you decide to stay with Changbin. Over the last three days with him, you’ve started to see a different side to him. While he is genuinely an extremely silly man, he’s also caring, wise, and well-grounded in who he is as a person. He knows what he stands for—he’s a man of principle.
You find yourself crawling into bed with him for the first time, determined to stick a pin in the whirlwind of emotions you’ve been experiencing the past week. Unlike with Seungmin, you choose not to bring your own blanket this time and slide underneath his instead. He watches you get situated with a look of amusement on his face.
“Comfortable?” he asks when you finally lay on your side, facing him.
“As much as I can be,” you reply, before adding with a smirk, “you should step your sheet game up, though. Hyunjin likes Egyptian cotton.”
Changbin furrows his brow and promptly grabs his phone from his nightstand. He unlocks it and the light from the screen casts a blue glow on his face.
“Bixby, add Egyptian cotton sheets to my shopping list.”
You turn onto your back, shaking your head as you look up at the ceiling. His phone confirms it’s been added to the list.
“You’re too much,” you say with a smile.
“Never too much when it comes to love,” he teases, locking his phone and setting it back on the nightstand.
His words ring throughout your head. Prior to this experience you may have agreed with that statement. But if there’s anything you have learned, it’s that there is such a thing as too much when it comes to love. Although, you can’t say with full certainty that you love Chan. How could you? He’s been hot and cold with you from day one. When he’s hot and loving, it’s the best feeling in the world and that’s what you yearn for more of. However, when he’s cold it makes you feel awful. That can’t be love.
“You okay?” Changbin asks after you’ve remained silent for too long.
“Just trying to come to terms with graduation and the reality of what comes next,” you shrug, as if you’re not currently in an ongoing battle between your head and heart.
You want to be open with Changbin. Everything about him invites you to confess your deepest, darkest secrets and get his honest feedback. But this involves Chan, so you can’t. You’re thankful, though, that both Changbin and Seungmin are easy to talk to. It’s made this rotation a lot more bearable.
“Are you familiar with the Theory of Simulacrum?”
You turn your head and blink at him. He’s minoring in philosophy and always has a convoluted theory up his sleeve.
“You know I’m not, Changbin.”
“Have you ever been to Disney?”
You nod.
“You know the feeling you get when you’re there?” he continues, “Like you’re in a completely different reality. And when you make it back to the parking lot, it feels surreal…empty almost. It feels like your true reality is now wrong.”
You continue to nod, showing that you’re following along but you’re not sure where he’s going with this.
“What you’re going through right now, living here, is the simulation. It’s easy to fall into the belief that this is real. You have some kind of structure in schedules, relationships, a man—or men—that care for you, provide for you, and you do the same for them, right?”
You nod slowly once again, pushing away the sting of him insinuating that this experience fake.
“Are you following me?” he asks.
You turn your head towards him again.
“I’m honestly not sure, Bin.”
He chuckles at your candor.
“Who was your best friend in elementary school?” he asks.
The question throws you for a loop.
“Her name was Brooke,” you tell him.
“And what happened with her?”
“We went to separate middle schools…I don’t think I ever saw her again.”
“And how do you feel when you think of her now?”
You turn on your side to face him again.
“Nostalgic, but happy I guess.”
“You probably felt like you were going to be friends forever—that was the reality you were in, at that time. This isn’t any different, if you think about it.”
“Well…I wasn’t fucking her.”
He lets out a loud laugh at your response and you can’t help but laugh with him.
“Let’s talk about something else. Your theory is going to make my head hurt.”
He places his hand on your waist, and you tense up for a second before telling yourself to relax. He pulls you closer to him and turns so he’s lying on his back now. He moves his hand from your waist up to your head and guides it down to his shoulder. You allow yourself to snuggle up against him. It feels nice to just be held right now.
“You’re softer to lay on than I thought,” you tell him.
“Are you calling me squishy?” He sounds slightly offended.
“I would never,” you reply sarcastically.
He takes his arm that’s draped around you and brings it up to your head. He flexes his biceps and presses your head against his, now also flexed, pecs. Pinning you against him.
“I work out seven days a week—I’m rock solid, y/n.”
Your body shakes with laughter as you try to wiggle out of his tight embrace. After a moment, he lets you go.
“That’s a different kind of kink I don’t think I’m into, sorry.”
“Your loss,” he shrugs.
You enter the second and final week of the rotation feeling more comfortable and at ease with your assignees. Neither Seungmin nor Changbin have tried anything to make you uncomfortable. No one told you to get on your knees and you take some relief in that.
On Tuesday you stay back after class and walk to the baseball field to watch Seungmin practice. He’s in his element running around the diamond. When it’s his turn to practice pitching, he points to you in the stands before hurling the ball forward. He almost always gets a strike. He’s good. But you won’t tell him that and boost his ego even more.
Back at the house, he goes straight to the bathroom for a shower, and you help Rhiannon with dinner. You serve Changbin at the table, then head upstairs to Seungmin. He asks you to you use a massage gun on his back, arms and calves. Seeing how hard he practiced, you have no problem assisting. He lays there with his eyes closed, only moving and wincing when you hit a particularly sore area.
When you’re done, you set the massage gun down on his dresser and sit on the edge of his bed, watching as he meticulously stretches. It still surprises you how physically fit he is for being so slender—you’d never usually guess it from the oversized clothing he so often wears.
Your time with him and Changbin hasn’t magically erased what’s going on between you and Chan, but as you’ve grown comfortable with them, in the same way that you are with Hyunjin, you’ve started to wonder if you could be open to more. And the clock is ticking. Before you go back to Chan, you have the sudden urge to test the damage that’s been done to your physical desires. You will, after all, have to move on when you leave this house and be open to physical intimacy with other men.
“Seungmin?” you ask as soon as the thought crosses your mind, before you can talk yourself out of it.
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask for a favor?”
He pauses in the middle of his stretch to look at you.
“Depends on what it is.”
“Would you kiss me?” you ask awkwardly.
He arches an eyebrow, “Hypothetically or…?”
“No, like, right now.”
You both stare at each other without blinking for a moment. Then he makes the first move and comes to join you on the bed. You instantly feel your heartbeat pick up but once again you don’t know if it’s because of how close he is or because you want this…or because you feel like you shouldn’t be doing this. He turns to face you, and you do the same.
He reaches up to cup one side of your face and his dark brown eyes search yours again—maybe trying to understand your reasoning for this sudden request. He brings your face closer to his and your heart beats even faster, it feels so loud he can probably hear it.
“There’s no going back from this,” he says softly.
You nod your head, letting him know it’s okay. He cups the other side of your face, cradling your head in his hands.
“Once you have a taste, you’ll be dreading going back to them,” he boasts.
You scrunch your face up at that and pull your head away from him.
“Okay, you ruined it. Never mind.”
He lets out a Seungmin cackle and before you have a chance to react, he’s on top of you, straddling your waist. You instinctively lower yourself to the bed, wanting to put some distance between you. But he lowers himself too, arms outstretched on either side of your head.
Your heart continues having its violent reaction. Your brain, on the other hand, is telling you to let it happen. Give it a try. You have to know.
“Yeah?” he asks, still wanting to check you’re okay with it as he lowers his head towards yours.
“Yes.”
Your eyes flutter shut as he closes the distance between you and when his lips meet yours, your eyes snap open. Your body and brain are fighting with and turning on each other at the same time—one wanting you to break away, one telling you to chill the fuck out, then swapping their commands.
“Relax,” Seungmin breaks the kiss momentarily to whisper.
You hadn’t realized you’re completely rigid—your body, your lips. You exhale a breath and close your eyes again. You press your lips to his again, parting them and allowing him to kiss you deeply. He’s gentle and tastes minty. His tongue enters your mouth and at first it does feel foreign—but not unpleasant. But not right, either. You wrap your arms around his neck and relax further into the kiss.
He slips one hand behind your back and rolls you both over so that you’re on top. You feel a little more in control this way and relax further into the kiss. You lay your forearms on the bed, around his head and adjust to the change in position. His hands come to rest on your waist, squeezing gently as he nips at your lips between kisses.
“Okay, okay,” you say when you break away.
“Is that what you needed?”
You sit up as you catch your breath, placing your fingers over your lips and trying to sort out what you’re feeling.
“I think so…”
“Good,” he gives your waist another gentle squeeze. “All I’m going to say is be careful, y/n.”
“Am I that obvious?”
“I have some assumptions…the others do, too. It’s not our business, though. Just…don’t get yourself hurt, okay?”
“I’m trying not to.”
You can’t tell if the look on his face is one of pity or what, but you don’t have to look at it for long. He wraps his arms around your back and brings you down for a hug.
It puzzles you, how you can feel comfortable in the arms of so many different men and get different feelings from all of them. The way the members have all explained that this is a community, and everyone is here to support everyone, is starting to make more sense, though. Laying like this on top of Seungmin, after having just kissed him—he’s not even hard. There’s no underlying sexual tension in your relationship with him. He’s able to see and understand what you need and provide that to you. He’s helpful, even if his help is typically doused in sarcasm and cackles.
You eventually go back downstairs to make plates for you and Seungmin and you both eat in his room. After dinner he turns on his projector and aims it at the ceiling. You both lie in his bed watching a movie together until you fall asleep.
You wake up early the next morning when your alarm goes off, well before sunrise, to prepare for class. As a Teacher’s Assistant, you’re expected to help with some of the lessons and you have a presentation to finish for today’s lecture. You get dressed and whip yourself up a quick breakfast, then head to the den.
You have your headphones on, music blaring, as you alternate between eating your toast and organizing the slides. You feel your phone buzz and pick it up, taken aback by the name you see—Chan.
Look up.
Taking the message literally, you furrow your brow and look up to the ceiling, but nothing is there. You look back down at your phone and then see movement out of the corner of your eye. You turn and see Chan, waving his hand to get your attention. You pause your music and slide your headphones off one ear.
“Good morning,” he greets you with a smile, waving with one hand while the other remains behind his back.
“Morning…” you reply slowly, sounding suspicious of him.
“Can we talk?”
You glance down at your phone—it’s now 6:45am. Why is he even awake?
“About what?”
“What happened last week.”
“I don’t really want to think about that right now, Chan…it’s too much,” you shake your head.
“Okay,” he concedes easily. “Maybe later?”
You had expected a little push back, but there is none.
“Yeah, maybe,” you shrug. You really have no intention of facing this conversation until you’re back with him.
“I haven’t fucked her, so you know,” he adds.
“Chan, we’re not supposed to talk about that,” you say, turning back to your computer.
You can’t deny that a part of yourself feels relieved to hear that, though.
“Oh…now you don’t want me to share things with you?”
Your head turns towards him at that, eyes narrowed and shooting daggers—no, grenades—at him.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” you snap.
The shocked look on his face tells you he may have, in fact, been joking. However, you don’t find it funny at all given all that’s already hanging over you, because of him. For him to make light of something that caused you so much pain sets you off.
“You know what?” You let out an incredulous chuckle and turn back to your computer again. “I don’t care anymore, Chan. Don’t share things with me. You said you were good at sex and not so much the other stuff—I can see that clearly now. We’ll stick to sex for the rest of my time here.”
“Y/n, I wasn’t—”
“No. Just go, I need to focus.”
From your peripheral, you can see that he is walking towards you instead of leaving. You close your eyes and sigh, leaning back into the computer chair. You cannot have him come near you now. That’s when you always lose yourself to him.
“Chan, don’t…please.”
He stops at the side of your desk and brings out his other hand, the one he kept behind his back this entire time, and produces a single, vibrant blue rose with a small card attached to the stem. He sets it down on your desk.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he says.
He leans down and places a kiss to the top of your head before turning around and walking out of the room. Leaving you without a chance to thank him and feeling completely dumbfounded.
You look at your phone again to check the date: February 14th. It completely slipped your mind.
You lean forward with your elbows on the desk and put your head in your hands. That explains why he was up this early. How did he even know you were in here? Perhaps you aren’t the only one that has the schedules memorized. You let out a sigh—this interaction must have gone completely sideways from what he intended. And now you’re left feeling bad about the way you reacted.
You lean back in the chair again and pick up the rose. You’ve never even seen a blue rose before—it’s beautiful. They’re definitely not common enough to get at grocery stores. You flip open the small card attached to it to read the note.
너
You’re left puzzled by the foreign letters on the card throughout the day. When you return home you don’t have time to look any further into it because Changbin and Seungmin announce they’re taking you out to dinner. Your second surprise of the day, and it makes you genuinely smile for the first time all day. You get changed into a sleek, yet casual, black dress and head downstairs with them—they’re both decked out in black slacks and button up shirts.
You see Chan on the couch on your way out. His eyes trail from your head down to your feet, then back up again. He nods his head softly, lips pressed firmly together, then averts his gaze back to the TV. Is he not going out tonight, too? You feel the urge to go to him and ask what he would have said in the den this morning if you hadn’t cut him off.
In the car, you ride up front with Changbin while Seungmin sits in the back. Your phone buzzes—it’s Chan again.
You look beautiful.
You feel a wave of sadness and guilt course through you, knowing he’s home alone while you’re going out on a date. On Valentine’s Day. Without him.
You find it hard to shake the thought of him, even after you make it to the restaurant. You’re so caught up in your thoughts you don’t even take notice of the stares you get as you walk in with two men at your side. Even throughout the meal, your mind is elsewhere. You feel appreciative of Changbin and Seungmin being considerate enough to take you out tonight, but you can’t stop thinking about Chan. You’re half in the conversation, half in your own head.
His making the effort to come to you this morning was not out of the character of the Chan you’ve grown to care about. That’s absolutely something he would do. And yet you went off on him for not knowing how to do anything right, besides fuck you. You know that’s not true. Clearly, he had put some thought into seeking you out this morning. Plus, everything at Christmas? Perhaps you should have been more careful with your words.
As you’re waiting for the desert to come out, your phone vibrates. It’s him again.
Can I see you tonight?
You set the phone back down without replying. His persistence is causing even more conflict within you. You want to say yes. You want to apologize for how you spoke to him earlier. But should you? This is exactly the hot and cold behavior that’s been giving you whiplash for the last few months.
“This might be a dumb question, but…you guys can read Korean, right?”
They both nod.
You don’t want to show them the note, so you take a pen and paper from your purse instead and write down the letters. You stared at them for so long throughout the day, you’ve memorized them.
“What does that mean?” you ask, sliding the paper towards them.
Seungmin picks it up and Changbin leans over to inspect it with him.
“Neo.” Changbin tells you.
“No? Maybe I wrote it wrong…”
“Neo,” Seungmin says this time. “It means ‘you’.”
“Oh, okay. Thank you,” you say, trying to sound as casual about it as possible.
On the inside, your already spiraling emotions have turned into a fucking tornado. You think back to Chan’s question that night in the kitchen. The one you didn’t want to know the answer to.
“Do you know what I would choose?”
You.
a/n: it's getting heavier and heavier. and to warn you, it will be heavy the next couple of chapter. some light moments with hyunjin, though. and more smut, of course.
Gold stained her fingers and shimmered with a subtle glow under her studio lights like the burning embers of a cosy fire; Y/N's hair was falling into her eyes as she bent her head far over her desk with a high level of concentration ingrained into the furrow of her brows, her fingers as steady as she could get them to be as they gripped a fine detail paint brush.
The woman dipped into her sticky gold mixture and gently painted it onto the edge of a piece of broken ceramic. She took her time, her mind swirling with a constant buzz of various thoughts and analogies, her musings bouncing off of each other inside her brain the further she continued with her task.
“Mama?”
Y/N looked up; Sky was standing at the doors of her mother's art studio, and the woman smiled as her fourteen year old made her way into the room.
“Hi baby,” Y/N hummed, dipping her paintbrush back into the gold. “Came to keep me company?”
“What are you doing?” Sky asked in return as nodded towards the ceramic in Y/N's hands. She squinted as she gazed at it a little more intently, and the girl's eyes suddenly widened animatedly as she realised what it was that she was looking at. “The bowl! What happened?”
Y/N's smile grew at her question. “Your father and I were teasing each other and it fell.”
Sky frowned. “What?”
Laughing at the confusion on her daughter's face, Y/N launched into recollecting what had occurred earlier in the kitchen.
“Let me get it, baby girl,” Chan laughed, his voice full of playfulness as he reached his arm out above his wife's head. His body cast a strong shadow over hers, the soft cotton of his t-shirt brushing Y/N's shoulders as his hand disappeared into the cupboard.
Y/N started to giggle as she watched him struggle. “Acting like you're six foot or something.”
Mouth dropping at his wife's statement, pride got the better of Chan and he tried to hold back from stepping up onto his tiptoes. He stretched his limbs rather wildly towards their target, and his fingertips grazed the rim of the large bowl he was trying to reach.
“Need a stool?” Y/N asked him helpfully, and her giggles intensified when she felt Chan's body shudder with more laughter against hers.
“Nah … almost got it … “
He leaned a little closer, his torso pressing into Y/N's back; a second later the man's fingers slipped against the ceramic, causing the bowl to spin off of edge of the shelf just as he stumbled into Y/N; the both of their eyes widened and Y/N gasped as the bowl dropped before either of them could catch it, the woman watching as it made contact with the cold kitchen floor and shattered.
Eyes as round as they could possibly get, Y/N and Chan stared silently at the large pieces of broken ceramic bowl in the middle of them.
“I'm so sorry,” Chan was the first to break the silence, his voice full of regret as his words tumbled out of him haphazardly. He looked anxious as he turned his gaze onto his wife. “Are you okay? You didn't get hurt, right?”
He reached out towards her, his hands soft on her arms as he examined her; Chan's eyes flooded with relief when he was certain she was unscathed, the bowl having missed the both of them, and he exhaled, leaning forward to press a tender kiss to her forehead.
Y/N smiled at his affection. She laid her hands over his and she sighed softly with a mild shake of her head.
“Told you you needed a stool,” Y/N joked, her words making Chan splutter all over again. “You should have listened to me.”
“I feel so bad … ” Chan whined, his face contorting into a melodramatic sad one as he squeezed her hands back. “That was your favourite bowl.”
Detangling herself from him, Y/N crouched down before the pieces on the floor. She reached out and gently picked one up before holding it up to the light above them both. “It's okay, baby. It's just a bowl … don’t beat yourself up about it.”
Scooping the pieces up carefully so as not to nick herself on the jagged edges, Y/N deposited them onto the kitchen counter. A deep bluish green colour, the bowl glistened with a pearly finish when it was viewed upon from different angles, and it had always reminded Y/N of the ocean waves; its intricate detailing was still incredibly beautiful despite the ceramic's unfortunate situation, and the longer Y/N stared at the shards, the cusps of an idea began to form in her mind. As clichè as it was, the broken pieces were reminding her a little of something else, and she suddenly smiled, looking up at her husband.
“I've got an idea,” she said, kissing his cheek. “I'm gonna fix this.”
Cocking his head to the side, Chan blinked at her. “How?”
“You'll see,” she giggled and picked up the bowl pieces again before making her way out of the kitchen.
Chan couldn't help but smile despite the guilt that had begun to niggle at him. “Be safe!” He called after her. “Don't want you getting hurt.”
Sky clicked her tongue against her teeth, her eyes crinkling with amusement as she imagined the look on her father's face once the bowl had smashed. She knew exactly what expression he would have sported - wide eyed, lips drawn back at the corners in his comical way. “So … it was daddy's fault for pretending he's tall?”
Y/N burst into laughter. “Don't tell him that. I don't think he'd thank you for it.”
Grinning, Sky swung her legs around the back of a chair and leaned her cheek against the top of it as she curiously watched her mother paint the gold glue onto the shards.
“Why are you making it gold?” Sky asked after a while.
“It's called kintsugi,” Y/N explained softly as she picked up another piece of the bowl and gently laid it onto the gold glue.
“Kintsugi?” Sky cocked her head to the side. “What is that?”
“It's a traditional Japanese art … it's based on the philosophy of finding beauty in imperfection,” Y/N explained. Holding the two pieces together until the glue was dried, Y/N inclined her head towards her daughter. “The idea is to use gold to repair broken things. Instead of hiding the cracks, the gold highlights them.”
“Why?” Sky asked, a little confused. “What does it mean?”
Smiling at her question, Y/N carefully let go of the pieces once they were stable and reached for her paint brush again. “Well … think about it. I could have thrown the pieces away because they're broken, right? I could be upset that it's broken - but the reason it even broke in the first place was because your father and I were messing around. We were having fun in the moment, and I don't think there's anything better than that … if anything, there's a nice story behind it breaking.”
She dipped back into the gold, her eyes tender. “Besides, it was my favourite bowl. Even though it's broken, the pieces are still beautiful, don't you think?”
Sky nodded quietly, willing her mother to continue.
“The whole point of joining the pieces together with gold is to show that even though the bowl was broken before, it can be fixed,” Y/N hummed. “And that it'll be even more beautiful than it was before.”
Sky blinked slowly like a comprehending cat at her mother's words. “Why do I get the feeling that there's a deeper meaning than just … fixing a bowl?”
“Because there is,” Y/N's laugh was soft. “It's not just about the ceramic - it's supposed to show that as humans, it's okay to have flaws and imperfections. And that … even if you've been broken down, and you feel like you can't get back up and continue, you can, and you're all the more beautiful for it. Because at the end of the day, no one's perfect - there's so much beauty in being imperfect.”
Sky was quiet, the way she always was when she was turning over new information in her mind. She leaned forward a little, her fingertip ever so light as she traced it over the gold cracks of her mother's bowl. They were far from smooth, but there was a growing charm to them, the lines amongst the deep blue captivating both mother and daughter as they observed the bowl. “They look like scars.”
Y/N smiled a little at that, her heart twinging as she noted the resemblance. “You're right.”
Riddled by Sky's words, the woman stole a secretive glance to the old, silvery lines kissing the skin of her inner forearm. Now that Sky had mentioned it, she couldn't help but mentally compare the marks on her skin to the visible cracks on her bowl, and she bit her lip, a wave of sudden emotion surging through her.
“Does it have to be gold?” Sky asked then, snapping Y/N out of her brief pondering.
“No, not really,” Y/N shook her head. “Traditionally they used either gold, silver or platinum - but I suppose you can use whatever you fancy.”
Sky continued to pepper Y/N with questions, her curiosity piqued by the new knowledge she had been given; after a while, the girl disappeared from the studio with the intention of finishing a few of her own tasks, leaving her mother to her own company again.
Y/N had finished sticking the pieces of her bowl together and was reclining against the back of her seat with her gaze lingering on the scene outside of the window when her husband walked in. His eyes were full of warmth as Chan leaned down to kiss her temple, his hands rubbing her shoulders in his signature affectionate way, and his gaze landed on the gold accented bowl with surprise.
“So this is what you were up to, huh?” Chan grinned, leaning closer to take a better look. “It's beautiful, baby girl. Think it looks better than before, actually … that's the whole point though, right? ”
Y/N smiled at that, though she was still a little distracted. Chan noticed immediately, and his fingers were tender when he reached out to softly cup Y/N's face in his hands.
“What's wrong, baby?” Chan hummed. “You look miles away.”
“Sorry,” the woman shook her head, leaning her cheek further into his palm. “It's just … it's silly but I kinda feel like the bowl.”
Chan caressed his thumb over the curve of his wife's cheekbone. “How so?”
Y/N curved up at the corners into a wistful smile. “Ky was saying how the cracks reminded her of scars … and it ended up reminding me of my scars, and … I don't know. I guess it just made me think how it was you who kinda put me back together when I was at my lowest … “
Her voice trailed off with a dozen more unspoken thoughts; but she didn't need to voice them. Chan was the single person who knew her better than anyone ever could, and the man knew internally exactly what she wasn't saying out loud.
Wordlessly, the man grazed the backs of his slender fingers over his wife's cheeks before slowly sliding his hands down to her arm. The raised skin of her forearm was as familiar to him as was the rest of Y/N's presence, and his hands curled delicately around her wrist as he used his thumbs to smooth over the bumpy markings. He moved with such care and affection that Y/N's eyes pooled with tears, and she bit her lip, suddenly feeling like the fragile teenager she had been when Chan had stepped into her life and patiently taught her what the truest of love felt like.
Much like he had in the past, Chan lowered his head, and the plushness of his lips landed on her scars with a lingering kiss. His words were like the brush of a feather against her skin, and the man smiled up at her with the endearing crinkle of his eyes. “Wait here.”
Y/N’s gaze followed him as he left the room; he wasn't gone for too long, and when he appeared in the doorway again, Chan was holding what appeared to be a thin cylinder that sparkled faintly as he sat back down beside her.
“Found it,” Chan chuckled, spinning the small item in his fingers.
Realising what it was, Y/N started to laugh. “Is that my glitter eyeliner?”
Chan grinned in response, his cheeks dimpling. He had taken a hold of her arm again and it rested comfortably in his lap as his fingers unscrewed Y/N's eyeliner. It wasn't one of her makeup items that she used often; she reserved it for special occasions, the gold multidimensional and the flecks of sparkles always twinkling in just the right way. It had a thin brush, not dissimilar to the one Y/N had been using for her project, and the woman watched with growing inquisitiveness as her husband set the tip of the brush onto her skin.
Once again, Y/N's eyes prickled as she watched Chan slowly trace the scar tissue of her arm with the gold glitter. He took his time, his touch loving, almost as though he was trying to paint the overflowing love his heart felt for her onto her skin.
When he was done, Y/N's arm shone like stars, and Chan grinned widely as he set the liner down beside him. He pressed the softest of kisses to her wrist, just below the glitter.
“I think your scars are beautiful,” Chan said simply, his fingers tracing her skin. “You're beautiful, baby girl.”
Y/N's felt as though her heart would explode with emotion at any second. Her eyes were glued to his, and her breath hitched the longer she stared into the comforting warmth of them.
“What?” Chan whispered, the bridge of his nose turning pink.
Y/N's voice was small when she spoke, and thick with affection. “You. You're just … you're always going around fixing things that you didn't break. You've always done it.”
The blush on Chan's nose crept to the rims of his ears, and a contagious smile spread across his face. He laughed, and it was an embarrassed sound that made Y/N's heart flutter.
“I don't know what you mean … “ Chan mumbled, bowing his head in an attempt to hide the flush burning onto his cheeks. He looked up then, and pointed to the bowl gardening on Y/N's desk. “Besides. I definitely broke that, and you're the one who fixed it.”
Giggling at his words, Y/N shuffled her seat a little closer to him. She reached out and placed her hands onto the man's face, his skin warm beneath his fingers as it morphed into the colour of ripe plums.
“I love you so much,” Y/N whispered, tracing the sides of Chan's face. “I don't think you'll ever understand just how much I really love you.”
Chan's lower lip caught between his teeth again as his breathing paused momentarily at his words. He considered telling her that he loved her even more; but realising that no amount of words could ever capture the intensity of the way he felt about her, Chan closed the distance between them instead. His lips were warm and plush and like the finest silk as he enveloped them around Y/N's, his hands going to rest at the curves of her waist; her own breath catching at the way his kiss was making her light headed, Y/N wrapped her arms around the man's neck. His fingers sank into the soft curls of his hair, and the glitter he had painted onto her gently smudged against his skin, encasing them both in gold.
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MERAKI (v., Greek). "to do something with soul, creativity, or love; to put something of yourself in your work."
Summary: Jungkook finds you irritating; far too energetic and insistent. But his perception of you changes bit by bit, minute by minute, when he's persuaded into spending an entire night with you at places he doesn't know.
➳ pairing: Jungkook x reader
➳ rating: 18+
➳ genre: e2l, grumpy!jk (+ photographer!jk) x sunshine!reader; fluff, smut
➳ warnings: bickering, bantering, jk is a bit rude at the beginning, flirting, tension, oc is bold and courageous, mention of someone being stoned, mention of insomnia, jk's lip rings <3, heights, not exactly e2l but more like "i find you pretty annoying" to lovers lmao, deep talks and sweet moments, one bed trope, guest appearance, jk takes pictures of pretty things, stars and sky talk <3 explicit sexual content: kissing/making out, implied pain kink? lol, fingering, manhandling, oral (f. & m. receiving), teasing, 69, spitting, one or two spanks, bit of choking, soft and hard sex, unprotected sex (oc has an iud), soft dom!jk but also glimpses of sub!jk, ofc biiiig dick!jk, doggy/riding/missionary, praises, more flirting, jk's godly body, masturbation, cum swallowing (he comes in her mouth); the lovely ending <3
➳ word count: 26.6k <3
➳ a/n: you guys built this fic!! 🥺 hopefully this is what we expected it to be. it's also yet another love letter to one of the gentlest men i know; happy birthday, jeon jungkook, you're the standard and i will never fall out of love with you 💕 i hope y'all enjoy it!! come and talk to me when you're done mwah <3
MASTERLIST | WIPs
1:04AM, Her
There’s a word for how you do what you do.
A term you hold dearly in the crevices of your bright heart. Ever since you first learned its meaning two decades ago, you’ve made it your primary goal to breathe through life with it as your philosophy.
Passion, it is. A word certainly common in conversation and daily life — you’re not the only person to live by it. Doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to wallow in it.
Because there’s a fire behind your hard-working chest, lit up, pride residing next to it. It’s where you feel the most vivid light when you do what you love, blooming and blossoming. There are synonyms of it you know, and each of them are pretty as a growing garden.
You gatekeep them for now; haven’t yet found a person to share your knowledge with. Which is okay; in the meantime, you’ll keep looking. You do think everybody needs something like this in their lives.
Something that forces your body upright, sprinkling fairy dust and glimmer into your eyes. Something you can resort to in order to escape the trials of life.
For you, as odd it may seem to people, it’s your job.
You usually work late like today, surrounded by sounds and disquiet. But you enjoy it. You like stepping into the night afterwards, and you like the dark blanket above, the starlight sprinkled across the comforting blackness.
And you like it when it drizzles sometimes. The giggles of couples or groups of friends as they wade through the rain. The absolute quiet and relieving serenity.
You live for this. You enjoy people. You enjoy sensing life around you.
Tonight isn’t different. Even when you find yourself hastening by the end, wrapping up the event with a dozen chores to tackle; even when the host rushes to you, asking for help. Your shoes click-clack across the floor as you move left and right, up and down.
But by God, you never doubt these days’ worth.
1:04AM, Him
Sometimes, people don’t want to be photographed.
Jungkook learned that early on when he agreed to be a photographer at events. He’s encouraged and urged to ask people to pose; that’s his job. Waiting for them to force a smile before they can resume eating, debone their fish or work on their lobsters, beef, veggies.
They long to return to whatever they were doing, or to their conversations, mostly insignificant ones; Jungkook knows because he, involuntarily, hears too many of them.
It’s only when they’re dancing or drinking that they open up. That’s when they’re okay with listening to him, obedient, almost as if he’s authority, staring into the lens with flushed cheeks and wide grins.
Though it’s irritating when every other person walks up to him afterwards, inquiring when they’d be receiving the photos, or, even ruder, if at all.
Today, there are a few more comfortable people around. Not as harsh, not as grim as he feels. You’re here, too, somewhere; of course you are — you got him here in the first place. Somehow, your paths often cross. You were ready for a picture immediately, drawn in by the host, smiling.
He perceived your presence just for a second, though. Doesn’t need or want any more than that. You’re too loud, too energetic anyway; he’s rather among himself, not in any photo, indulging in the job.
He loves clicking through his camera roll; it’s the people that tire him out. Working his way through the pictures he took once home gives him joy, though. Makes his fatigue feel worth it.
But God, you’re not the only one, right? So many people here are the same amount of enthusiastic, party people to the core.
Which is why he’s happy when the night finally concludes, and he, far after midnight, stuffs his equipment back into his bag and slips into his at least somewhat chic blazer.
1:12AM, Her
You groan as your hand dives into your bag, fishing out the key that you already removed from your keychain an hour ago. Back when the man facing you approached you; he’s the last face you see when you step out of the somewhat stuffy hall.
Or so you think.
You don’t know that the night is far from over when you linger at the entrance, handing him a key that he encloses in his grip with a grateful nod and a goodbye-wave. The final interaction when you excuse yourself, breathing in the night.
It’s a hunch cooler than when you left home today; yet, the breeze feels pleasant caressing your skin. The end of August is still warm, still fairly far from fall; you regard summer nights as the best part of the season.
Sighing, you come to a halt in the middle of the pavement, studying the alley. You ponder until you remember a bus not too far from here; you need to turn left, right? Should be there. You have never been around here before, so you’re not entirely sure.
But you’ll just go with your first instinct for now. Keep walking until you detect any kind of a promising sign. You hold onto your roomy bag as you pass the rare people still around.
Some of them are faces you recognise from the party; some are strangers. One couple you spoke to just earlier even lifts a thumbs up for you, praising you for the exceptional organisation. They make you feel at ease until the road quietens.
And the place stays serene and silent until you hear the clearing of somebody’s throat. It’s not near; yet not far. Your eyes scan the area, not for long when they recognise a figure sitting on the opposite side of the narrow street.
It’s a man, clutching a heavy object with careful hands. A camera, you know it immediately. He’s hunting through the pictures he took, face slightly lit by the screen. Jutting lower lip, slowly blinking eyes.
Simple attire — dark jeans, a white shirt, and a blazer on top that hides the wide shoulders.
Constantly and undeniably handsome, albeit always grim due to the lack of a smile.
You squint to confirm it’s him you’re seeing; but when he smacks his lips in the dark of the night, nibbling at the shiny lip rings, you know you’re right. This is a habit you’ve never seen on anybody this persistently as on Jeon Jungkook.
And the one and only Jeon Jungkook must be feeling your eyes on him, because only a second later, he lifts his gaze. Instinctively, you wave a little, but Jungkook isn’t on board with your hospitality. He rolls his eyes; you don’t take it to heart, though. You’re used to this.
As he starts stuffing the camera back into his bag, you waddle over, crossing the street. Upon reaching him, you ask, “Got some good pictures tonight?”
“I’d guess so.”
His voice is as nonchalant as always, his shoulders relaxed, uncaring. To your vampire-novel-reading middle school self, he would’ve been the coolest and most mysterious riddle, waiting to be cracked. But you know how he feels about you, and that makes the situation just a little less intriguing.
Yet, you never stopped approaching him, because aside from conversations like these, you know he’s just human, too. He smiles at events whenever he gets the chance, content with the moments he captures; he likes what he does.
Photography has always been his thing; or that’s what you gathered, at least. You see the same sparkle in his eyes that you feel in yours when you work; the same joy when he fumbles with his camera, always checking, presumably changing the settings, testing it out.
You lean in a little, wondering, “Can I see?”
“Uhm…” He hesitates, lifting the strap of the camera bag higher up his shoulder. “Do you have to?”
“If I may. I brought you here, remember?”
Of course. It’s always you; you’re the one to organise this, and you’ve seen his pieces and albums before. He might not hang around you too much, always the first to tell you he has somewhere else to be, but you know he’s good. You trust him in this regard.
“You say that every time,” he argues, a tattooed hand settling on his bag, clearly reluctant.
So you click your tongue, waving your suggestion off. You try to sound as lively as ever, but your voice is more earnest as you say, “Okay, it’s fine. Don’t show me the pictures, but come on. Be a bit nice at least.
“Alright. What else? Do you need something?”
You sigh in defeat. “No. I was just going home.”
“You should go home. It’s pretty late.”
“Aren’t you going, too?”
“I am,” he responds, his voice going up at the end. “I just wanted a bit of peace before leaving.”
“Peace,” you repeat, as if trying out the word. “You can’t get it at home?”
Jungkook doesn’t answer this time. Instead, he only shifts his stare from you to the empty road ahead, exhaling a dramatically long breath before he gets into motion. You immediately react, by his side until he asks, “Are you following me?”
“Huh? Did you forget that I was literally heading this way?” He’s distracted, looking for the street signs, and you laugh at his own confusion. “Do you even know where you’re going?”
“I guess so.”
Okay, at least he’s honest, not giving himself airs. You want to see what his inner compass suggests, but then somewhat shun the thought of walking further into unknown terrain.
So you question, “You taking the bus?”
“Nope. Subway.”
“Ah. That should be this way, then,” you nod towards the direction you’re approaching, “I know the bus is, because that’s where I need to go.”
“…Are you sure?”
“Yep.”
That’s it. He doesn’t respond much; only lets out the millionth sigh, following you with something you might nearly call trust. He doesn’t attempt small talk or any other kind of interaction, so you let him sink into his thoughts.
But a beat of silence later, you still ask politely, “How did you like the party?”
“Uhhh, it was okay.” For the first time in minutes, he looks at you. “The people were weird, don’t you think? But I got some good shots in.”
“Hmm… okay. I didn’t notice anything weird about the people.” You shrug your shoulders. “Talking about shots… did you drink a little?”
He whines your name as the question is a tale as old as time, complaining, “Every single time? Why is this so important to you…” He waits, shakes his head. “No, I didn’t. Seems you did, though.”
“A little,” you say, bringing your forefinger and thumb together, indicating a tiny space. “But I’m all sober and well.” Another brief pause. “Are you okay, too?”
He licks his lower lip, dimples appearing that don’t ever need a smile to emerge. Then, he throws back, “Why shouldn’t I be?”
“Dunno. You always look so bored at parties. And you always go home alone.”
You don’t know if the following laugh is sarcastic or not, but you soon discover the very answer when he lifts a finger and counts, “First off, how would you know?” Another finger added to the mix. “Secondly, I’m not bored. I’m just focused. And I don’t know anybody there.”
His hand drops again, working on his bag’s strap again. Pushing it over his shoulder. He adds, “It’s a bit different for me than for you because they’re literally your clients and you know them at least a little.”
“I mean… you know me.”
“Yeah, but you’re…” He regards you from head to toe, not the softest of expressions, and you pout. You don’t ever take him seriously, but he can be hurtful sometimes. “I just don’t think we’d be good conversation partners.”
“Weird,” you challenge, “because you’re conversing with me right now, no problem. It’s also not my fault you always argue with me at every event.”
“I don’t. You approach me.”
“You do.” You lean your face closer to his, not making it very far when his palm pushes your cheek, and you, away from him. “Ugh. Okay. Seriously, though — why do you always leave alone?”
He exhales in defeat. Seems that Jeon Jungkook is too tired to take your idiocy tonight. You understand, but you’re just trying to figure out how to convince him that you’re normal, too. That he just dislikes you because you’re different from him, and nothing else.
“Hey…” he utters, out of energy.
“I mean it,” you still declare, “there are so many sweet and nice girls around. They ask about you sometimes, you know? I’ve also met many men on such pa—”
“That’s great,” he interrupts, a palm stopping you from spilling more info, “but… I don’t think I’m interested.”
“Oh.” The syllable is short, cut, harmless. That is, until it clicks in your brain, and your eyes widen, lips parting as you turn to him in shock, stating, “Oh, wait. Do you… play for the other team?”
Jungkook blinks at you. Then lowers his gaze, turning it a couple shades darker, staring at you from under his eyelids. He looks annoyed when he spits, “No, I’m not gay. And even if I was, it’d be none of your business.”
Shit.
Okay, you were sure about your assumption, but now that it turned out wrong, this sounds pretty shitty. And annoying. And awkward.
“Sorry,” you apologise, and he gives you a taunting head tilt. “Okay… different topic then? Tell me, what do you think of this dress?” You lift the hem a little, smiling; you were convinced the moment you first saw it. “Do you think I look pretty today?”
For a second, he joins; his initial gaze is still cynical, but his voice is appealing, a whisper when he leans in and asks, “Why? Do you want to be the one I go home with?”
Ah… why do the words, the way he speaks them, tickle you just right? You’re flabbergasted, seeing your reaction on the bare skin of your arms, but all he does is back away again and once again, shake his head.
You want to retort something snarky back, but you don’t get to it when he inquires a moment later again, “Are you sure we’re going the right way?”
Right… you need to go home. You forgot.
“Uh… yeah.” You look around, finally detecting a sign, picturing a bus and a number. “There’s the bus, so the subway should be…” You stop; hum; then see two women waiting at the bus stop. “Should we ask someone?”
“Sure.”
With a nod, you separate from him, walking towards the bus station bench they’re sitting on, hands folded, conversing quietly. They’re surprised when they see a figure advance, but relax when they catch your smile.
You ask the questions floating in your brain, trying to explain where you live, what you need. They attempt an answer, gesture around, and barely a minute later, you’re thanking them and leaving again.
Jungkook stands there in anticipation, waiting for you to deliver good news — yet confused when you return with slumped shoulders instead of an enthusiastic, “We were right! Come!”
Okay, there aren’t too many reasons for Jungkook to dislike you; you want to say this much. But when you see him understand that this is going nowhere, you do get his frustration.
Especially as you kiss your lips, staring at him like a lost bunny, and explain, “So… the subway isn’t here.” Big eyes meet yours. “I’m not sure where it is, and they,” your thumb points to the girls behind you, “couldn’t help because they’re tourists.”
“Ah. Great,” he says, delivering a falsely cheerful smile. Hands thrown into the air. “So we’re stranded and should definitely not be here. What about the bus? Where does it go?”
“Uhm…” You scratch your head. “Not where I need to go. It’s a different one. But!” Immediately, your voice rises, trying to approach this with hope. It’s not the end of the world, after all! “Don’t worry! We’ll get home either way.”
“Just a lot later than necessary.”
“But nothing’s lost yet. Don’t you trust me?”
And — much as you thought — Jungkook only ogles back in silence, blinking once again before he walks away with a curse on his lips.
1:25AM, Her
You catch up to him fast.
“It’s not that big of a deal, I promise!” you vow, but you reckon it only makes matters worse.
Because he breathes air through his nose, like a bull, arguing, “I’m tired, though. This is wasting so much of my time. You always do.”
You stop in your tracks. He doesn’t. You sulk, “That was mean.”
“And you’re idiotic.”
“Well… shit.”
This time you tilt your head, grinding your teeth; less out of anger, more out of embarrassment. You don’t respond much else, and he doesn’t throw another insult. Instead, he opens the bag again with the velcro’s ripping sound, heaving out his SLR.
You peek over his shoulder, confused about the timing to indulge in a passion, and ask, “What are you doing with that?”
“Looking through them,” he mutters, thumb working on the switching button, “maybe I took a picture when I came here. A sign where to find the subway.”
His reasoning elicits a sudden laugh out of you, probably unfounded to him, but very amusing to you. He throws a bewildered and somewhat warning look, and you immediately silence; still holding yourself back when he turns away again.
You wait, listen to the quiet of the night. He doesn’t seem to find any success, and the more time passes, the funnier you find his mind. Eventually, you step next to him and give up, telling him, “Hey. Don't be so tetchy. I'm not that bad.”
Jungkook side-eyes you, tapping the screen of the heavy Sony A9 Alpha. Inhaling the pleasant late summer air, he defends, “I'm never tetchy! But you got us lost.”
“So? You’re being dramatic. There's still Google Maps.”
That’s it. This look of his.
Jungkook must’ve gotten stuck in a decade you’ve long left, because he stares at you dumbfounded, camera still firmly in his hands. He tongues his cheek, blinks.
And then, you mock, “Guess I’m not the only idiot here, right?”
His next breath is deep, and he soon averts your eyes again. You dig, “What? If anything, then low battery might be your only excuse, you know?”
He doesn’t look at you, and you break into a grin again. Shake your head. Then fish out your phone at last, ready to type in the goal, or at least, to search the nearest subway and bus that fit your demands.
Hmmm, okay. If you need to go where you think you need to go, then the subway will really be in immediate distance to the bus. So you’ll be heading in the same direction anyway.
You open your mouth to ask for his address, prepared to type it in — but as you look at him again, you detect a deeply focused Jungkook, pursing his lips at his camera and regarding it with glitter in his eyes. You see it even from here, the sparkle.
Maybe he’s waiting for you to deliver a conclusion, because you catch him moving through older pictures in the meantime. From here, you only see glimpses. Of forests and roads, and then of waterfalls. Even some of him and his friends.
He doesn’t notice it, but his eyebrows are much more relaxed now, expression not quite as steely anymore; and his lips even twitch for a tiny second, tempted to smile. As if he forgot where he’s currently standing.
You let your arms sink, both hands holding your phone, and just gaze for a while. Then move your eyes to the side. To the sky. Remember places you’ve seen and loved in this town. Still hear his harsh tone echoing in your ears.
In hindsight, you really don’t think you've ever personally hurt or offended him. He might’ve been annoyed by something else. Perhaps he was dealing with something that he never dared to speak about; or perhaps, his perception of optimism is warped, because he clearly doesn’t wade through life with it.
You’d like to see his real self, though. The real self, because your gut feeling whispers to you that this isn’t him. Maybe there’s a kind and kindred soul hidden somewhere; maybe his smile proves far more intriguing to you than these mysterious moods of his. Once it appears, that is.
But…
He’ll probably say no. Your idea isn’t dumb, you’re certain, but he very likely will not go with it. But you want to try. Want to show him that you’re not as bad, that he can trust you; want to know what burdens him; or why he talks to you like this.
You might be the only one to wish for more time with somebody who wants to avoid you like the plague.
Yet…
You don’t want this to end just yet.
So you drop a suggestion that surprise even you—
“…You know what? Let’s try something fun tonight.”
“Excuse me?”
He voices it with his attention only half on you, not quite taking you seriously; so you swallow to dampen your throat and speak firmer, suggesting, “You need to trust me on this, though.”
This time, he does look at you. Works on stuffing his camera back into his bag, opening his mouth to retort something, but you stop him with a shushing finger that he doesn’t look too happy about.
“Hold on, okay?” you exclaim. “Listen. Are you busy tomorrow?”
“Uh… not until the afternoon.”
“So you can sleep in.”
“I guess.”
You clap once, loudly and dramatically, watching the man in front of you flinch. You can’t say if he’s irritated, shocked or terrified of you. But he looks hilarious like this, blinking, scowling as his fingers clutch his bag tighter.
“What is it?” he asks as if you’ve lost your mind.
“Look. Let’s not leave yet. Fuck Google Maps,” you suggest, and his eyes grow wider by the second, baffled, as if you’re caging him. “Let me show you pretty places until the sun comes up, and if you still hate me by then, I will never talk to you again. Isn’t this tempting?”
In your head, it is. Not for yourself, but for him. In your mind, he thinks of you as a constant nuisance that stands in his way, hopping around like an overhyped puppy.
Or not. Maybe he has a dog at home; maybe he regards you as worse than cute puppies.
Whatever.
You look at him expectantly, like your persisting stare could help him land a decision. Instead, however, he grimaces, his voice higher when he asks, “What even are you sa—”
No, you won’t give up yet; even if the recurring interruptions make him tear his hair out. You click your tongue and then argue, “Come on! Give it a try.”
Hesitation. Or rather, a question wondering if you’re crazy. Clear rejection. Are you losing?
“We’d be together, so nothing to fear,” you try further, “and how much time is there till sunrise?” You glance at your watch. “It’s barely half past one. The sun comes up in less than five hours. And like, I know it sounds like a lot, but if you give me some time, I’ll give you reasons to smile.”
He keeps looking at you in this questioning, are-you-fully-mad-manner, but you’re absolutely serious and you need him to know. You bat your eyelashes a little, offering your best laugh, and add, “Like this? If you really want to hate me after that, then okay. If not, then… maybe we could go get coffee someday.”
You’ve spoken enough. He raises a hand, quieting you down, and then finally says it.
“You must be crazy.”
“I am,” you confirm.
“You think I’d do this, huh?”
“…Maaaybe?”
“No.”
Jungkook’s answer is stone cold and direct, and it shuts you up with a near-wince. There’s a faint line between his thick eyebrows, lips pressed together; he looks dangerous and very, very mean.
So you don’t say much for another minute, following when he walks away. You side-eye him, notice him type his destination into his phone. Surrendering, you trudge the path he chooses, soon detecting signs leading to the subway.
He can’t say anything to your presence by his side. Even if his answer remains a steadfast, boring no, you’ll have to go in this direction anyway.
More than halfway through, you venture into a conversation again, “Have you ever tried anything like this before?”
“What? The nonsense you suggested?” he asks, and you nod, catching up with his long legs, slightly slower with your heels. “No. I don’t think I need to.”
“You’re so… don’t you ever try anything new?”
“I mean, is this your definition of something new?” He gestures at your surroundings haphazardly. “Going through town in the middle of the night instead of getting some decent sleep?”
You shrug your shoulders, defending, “It’s not like I do it every day. And nothing one can do every day anyway. That's why I want you to try it.” Your voice is soft, friendly. “But you don’t have to.”
He doesn’t answer; only comes to a halt when a bus stop nears, peeking up to the sign with the number before he asks, “That yours?” You hum in confirmation. “Okay. Will you get home well? It’s late.”
“Yeah, of course,” you pout, kicking off a tiny stone with your shoe, “done it a few times.”
He stalls. You don’t know why, but you’re sure he does. You notice it in his slow movements, the brief pause, the way he looks to the subway he needs to approach and then back to you. You smile when his eyes linger on you for a moment too long, and then he tilts his head, sighs.
“Alright. Then… good night.”
And that’s it.
You tell him to sleep well in return, earning a tiny nod, and then he’s leaving you stranded, walking away. Your eyes stay on him until he’s out of sight, down the escalator to the subway and far, far away from the fun idea you conjured.
You mimic his sigh. Take the two or three steps to the bench under the bus stop; and then you wait.
At this time, public transport operates irregularly, so you’re not surprised when you’re still there minutes later. For a while, you remain alone — that is, until a stranger tumbles to you, swaying before he takes a seat on the other edge of the bench.
You don’t look at him; don’t want his attention on you. But to your discomfort, he garbles just a second later, “This the bus to…”
He gets a hiccup, pointing to the bus sign, and then mumbles the name of the station he needs to reach. You don’t understand, however, so you prod, “What?”
Slower now yet similarly slurred, he repeats his question, but this time, you understand and nod your head yes. He overshares, “It’s just that I’m drunk, so I need to be sure. Sorry for interrupting.”
Suddenly, you feel kind of sorry for him. Your shoulders relax; you observe him letting his arms dangle between his legs, sniffling, incredibly exhausted, it seems. What did the fella experience tonight?
You respond, “It’s okay. It’s really late. Get home well.”
“Thanks. You’re very nice.”
The same finger previously signalling to the sign now points at you; but he doesn’t touch you. In fact, his digits are still a good distance away, already falling when you feel a hand on your elbow out of the blue; you nearly react on intuition, getting into position to break somebody’s nose.
But when your eyes meet the other man’s, you recognise him as the same figure standing tall that abandoned you a couple minutes ago. His hand is still grasping the camera bag strap, and he looks calm, confident when he speaks—
“All good? Sorry, I left for too long, right? Let’s go.”
Your voice changes, a chuckle hidden in it when you blurt, “What?”
“You wanted to take a walk.”
And just like that, the snicker dies again. Is he being serious? It seems so; it’s the whole package, even. The nod towards an entirely different direction and the sudden fingers around your wrist, pulling you away.
“Uhm…” you start, feet moving automatically. You turn to the guy drowning in inebriation, leaving a last, “Good luck!” as you wave, smile. Then, to Jungkook, “I thought you went away. Did you want to do this after all?”
You’re cocking an eyebrow, but much at the back of Jungkook’s head, so he doesn’t see. But it seems he hears the tease in your voice, because half-annoyed, half-argumentative, he explains, “No. Just wanted to be a gentleman. I was going to leave the moment you got on the bus.”
Ah. So he was waiting, hiding somewhere? But you don’t mention it; it’d probably just rile him up more.
Yet, you challenge, “You’re lying. You were concerned and you thought my idea was fun after all.”
“Whatever you say,” he says, waving the white flag, probably just to shut you up, “don’t know if I can do this until sunrise, but I can walk with you for a bit. Get you closer to home. And I swear!”
Now he turns, shooting a stare at you over his shoulders, lightning bolts in the middle of his pupils, “If you’re lying and there’s literally nothing special on our way, I’m actually never talking to you again.”
Nothing easier than that.
“Deal!”
“Cool,” he so nonchalantly remarks, finally letting go of your arm, “which way are you heading then?”
“North-east.”
“Good. Works for me.”
The sun is nowhere near up yet; of course not. It’s 1:37AM. Around four and a half hours.
You’re hopeful. In your head, you imagine an uplifted demeanour in no time; try to guess what his smile might look like. A genuine one. Maybe sweet? Maybe cocky? You’ll find out. You will.
So you straighten your stance, clear your throat, sigh a content breath, and step into the night with the courage the stars lend you.
2:13AM, Her
The first almost forty minutes of your night pass leisurely.
Jungkook’s initial sighs cease soon as you advance into the town, walking down a busy main street. You guess the bustling area, the sounds of the traffic and the lights of the flashing cars relieve him somehow. Give him an excuse to not talk to you.
But as the occupied road ends and you reach and pass a crowded square, you’re back in calm and serene alleys. Some people are still wandering around, passing closed shops, much like you.
You attempt conversation every now and then, and Jungkook, having eventually realised that he needs to cooperate with you — he agreed to your idea after all — isn’t as mad anymore.
At some point, he breathes in the late summer breeze, and your head swerves into his direction immediately — maybe the magic of the night has finally reached his core, too. Perhaps he’s appreciating the journey you set out to embark on.
You, for one, cherish the quiet; you know at least this much. The alley must be part of the older corner of the town because the lampposts seem Victorian. They’re fancy, bent at the top, the light a comforting golden.
You do admire the beauty in the dead of night, you do — but the weirdly bruising feeling on your skin becomes uncomfortably apparent the more you walk. Your heels and the Achilles tendons ache, the ball of your feet sensitive to each step.
For a while, you hide the stupid pain successfully, not wanting the night to end; and you do love the heels. Feel just the way those old romcom’s protagonists probably felt, strutting through town with a man whose life they’d change.
But as an involuntary groan slips out of you, Jungkook’s view changes from the old buildings to your struggling self. His eyes settle on your contorted expression before they move further down to your sudden limp.
He asks, “You good?”
“Yeah, yeah! Just been walking for a while, is all.”
“Hmm,” he hums, regarding your heels with a suspicious look. “Do they hurt?”
“Nah. I’m used to them.”
“…Oookay.”
He drags the word, as if in disbelief; and you can’t lie your way through the minutes when the ache worsens, the suddenly paved path too much of a chore. You nearly trip when your heel gets caught between the stones.
Jungkook immediately reacts when you hiss; you’re nowhere near actually falling, but his arms still reflexively jolt, the camera bag swaying and hitting your hand when he catches your shoulders.
“Okay, seriously,” he spits, eyes wide, “that’s enough. You can’t walk in these.”
“I can!”
“Not!” He takes a look around, inspecting the place; it’s quiet here, not too many cars driving by at all. So he points to the edge of the pedestrian zone, instructing, “Sit down there. Let’s see.”
See what?
You blink, but oblige. His pointing finger is dominant, and his eyes urging; you flatten your dress, taking a seat at the edge. The road isn’t high, so it’s a little uncomfortable; but you’re pleasantly surprised when he appears in front of you, crouching.
Very, very baffled when he requests, “Can you take them off?”
“Sure,” you say, unbuckling the straps around your ankles before removing the shoes. You sigh; you must admit, it does feel great. “I’m honestly okay, though.”
Jungkook doesn’t respond, ignores your statement; instead, asks, “May I?”
You don’t understand what he means until his hands come to a float right over your toes; he wants to check for bruises, doesn’t he? You nod curtly; something about this warms your chest. You don’t think you’ve ever seen this side of him before.
Not that you ever had the chance to.
He doesn’t really hate you, does he?
Carefully, his fingers reach for your ankle. The touch is warm and pleasant; doesn’t hurt until he moves his thumbs to your heel. Your feet are overworked; you notice. But rather than the annoying pain, you can’t help but focus on your view.
The big, round nose, hiding the plump, parted lips. His eyes look hooded from here, strands of his hair covering them. Intrusive thoughts plead for your fingers to card through the dark mane; it looks soft, pretty.
And the gentleness he handles your skin with fills you with fondness; you like being cared for.
Even when he shakes his head; pulling you out of your daydream. You take a breath, and then inquire, “You don’t have a problem with touching feet?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s just feet. Besides,” he stops for a second, detecting something at the back of your foot, shaking his head, “Mom used to work as a nurse. Tough job. I massaged hers sometimes.”
Ah… a loving son, a family person. You smile.
“And I thought you have a foot kink,” you tease.
“Shut up.”
“Found anything?”
“Yeah actually. Do you know how wounded your skin is here? Were you wearing new shoes?”
You gulp with a thin-lipped smile, wondering if he’ll kill you now if you tell him. You look to some random spot on your right before you admit, “Yes.”
“God, you…” He clicks his tongue. Puts your foot on the ground cautiously, reaching for his bag. He rummages through it until he pulls out a bandage, holding it in front of you. “You’re lucky.”
You chuckle, relieved and flattered. “I guess I am.”
He puffs out a laugh, but stops it right away, calling your name under his breath before he says, “God, you’re crazy. Be careful. And admit it when you’re hurt. Why didn’t you?”
Well… you didn’t want the night to end—
“I…”
You hesitate.
He works on your other foot just the same, a tender thumb running over your ankle, probably used to the soothing touch. It distracts you. And when he stops and you don’t answer, he puts his arm on his angled leg, staring up at you in anticipation.
“Yes?” he prods.
“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t think you’d care.” Nonchalantly yet pouting, you nibble at your lower lip. “And if I’d told you they’re hurting, you might’ve suggested ending the night.”
He cocks an eyebrow as if agreeing to the most self-explanatory statement ever, nodding as he confirms, “Damn right I would’ve. We should end the night right now if you can’t walk. Not in these, at least.”
Your chest is hot, your stomach twisting a little. Jungkook really does bother; if not due to a connection he shares with you, then simply because he cares for people. Never, you have never experienced him like this before.
With a tilt of your head and a batting of your eyelashes, you suggest, “And if I was barefoot?”
Which he reacts to with a roll of his eyes. “The night isn’t that warm. Don’t do this to yourself. The ground’s dirty, too.”
You take a look at the dark grey pavement upon his argument, much as if the night could allow you to detect any of the dirt he speaks of. Once more, you hum, pretending to contemplate what to do; and when you pick up your heels, suggesting to follow your idea either way, the back of his hand gives your knee the lightest of hits.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Watch.”
He does. Watches you place your spacious, black bag on your lap, opening the zip. Observes as your hand dips in, pulling out one pair of sneakers and replacing them with your treacherous heels. He keeps ogling when you put them on, mouth widening bit by bit.
He doesn’t speak until you’re done, socks picked out of the shoes, pulled over your feet, laces tied. You keep smiling, content with the moment, only dropping the grin when you see his puzzled expression.
“What?” you question.
“You had them with you and… Why didn’t you say so sooner?”
Your answer comes without hesitation; whatever timidity he elicited a moment ago slowly fades again. You clear your throat, back to who you are, and dauntlessly admit, “It was sweet. How you took care of me, I mean. I didn’t think you ever would.”
“But you could’ve at least worn them sooner and avoided the hurt?!”
“Well, it didn’t hurt then…”
“You’re…”
Jungkook uprights himself, towering above you. You put a flat palm onto the pavement, wanting to heave yourself up, but soon see a hand in front of your face. He’s offering it; and you’re quick to take it.
Warm and soft; gentle.
As he pulls you up, you land closer to his body than calculated; his face isn’t too far from yours… much nearer than it has ever been. He leans back; looks to the side; blinks. Clears his throat. Lets go off your hand way too late.
The breath you held escapes in a sudden blow. You swallow.
And when you’ve processed the strange moment, you feel the change in your stance. You’re standing taller now; your feet feel heavenly in your Nikes. Dusting off the front of your dress and your ass, you wait for him to say something.
But he keeps standing there on the road, in the middle of a parking space, hands on his hips. He’s judging you; you understand. Your mindset isn’t for everybody. You might seem crazy, alright.
Yet, he doesn’t scold you again. The up and down of his irked voice doesn’t appear this time when he speaks again; instead, his chin nods towards your legs, and he questions, “So you just carry around shoes with you?”
“I need to,” you say, matter-of-factly, “I can’t ride the motorcycle in heels. And!” Jungkook’s mouth opens, but you’re quick to explain. “Before you ask. No, I didn’t hide my bike anywhere. It needs some fixing, so my co-worker took it because he knows someone who’ll do it. And because he owes me a favour.”
“Right… how unfortunate.” He pauses; runs his tatted digits through the hair you longed to touch minutes ago. They look so silky, it makes you sick. His eyes settle on you, intrigued before he adds, “So, you have a bike, huh?”
“Yeah… why?”
“No reason. I do, too.”
“Mmmh,” you voice, nodding to the road ahead to suggest moving. He follows, trudging next to you again. “You didn’t use it today?”
“No…” He pats the camera bag. “Didn’t want to harm my equipment.”
You hum approvingly, fingers entangling in front of your body. You inch closer to his arm, nudging his shoulder with yours before you flash a sugary smile and say, “Thank you. For caring even a little, you know? Even if you’re always like that, it’s nice to see you like this for once.”
“I’m usually like this,” is what he, however, merely answers, accompanied by air quotes.
But you know you’ve gotten through to him at least a little. Melted bits of the frozen parts of his heart that feel so vexed by you on other nights. In truth, you think, there’s nothing but a delicate organ pumping behind his ribcage.
He’s not a robot; Jeon Jungkook is undeniably humane. If anything, then more than most people you have ever met.
And it shows when he looks away, barely able to hide his smile. You see it even from here — that the gesture does something to his eyes. Nearly squints them shut, makes them smaller, more joyful.
You inhale, proud of yourself. Watch as he toys with his lip rings before he asks eventually, “What do you mean owing you a favour, by the way?”
He sounds almost offended. You think he’ll ask about that favour, reprimand you for giving away your bike tonight of all nights. Tell you off for dragging him here, doing something big enough to entrust an entire motorcycle to somebody.
But instead, he continues with a question you never foresaw, “Are you in a quarrel with them? Am I not your arch-enemy?”
You burst into laughter immediately, covering your mouth as the other palm touches his arm. There’s a bulging bicep under his blazer, but you’ll focus on that later.
Right now, you’re fairly occupied by the satisfied eyes; he doesn’t really expect an answer. He wanted to make you laugh… Why does that set something loose in your brain?
“Oh… are you jealous? What if I told you it’s somebody else who occupies my mind at night and not you?” you wonder, wiggling your eyebrows.
“Don’t do this to me. I’ll find your co-worker and fight them for your enemyship. Word of honour.”
“It’s enmity. And stop flirting with me,” you tell him, moving towards him again, shoulder hitting shoulder. “Or is it something else with arch-enemies?”
This time, he doesn’t veil his grin. It’s bright, pretty, reminiscent of the light shed on you underneath the lampposts. And his pupils; whenever you see them clearly enough, you recognise the sky in them. Borrowed stars inside.
You shake your head a second later, winding down from your fit of laughter, and tell him, “You’re not my arch-enemy. Arch-enemies don’t exist, and you know you aren’t one. You just…” You stall, your voice quieter now. “You just regard me as one.”
He throws you an indecipherable look. Hints of joking, shreds of seriousness, you think. His gaze drifts back to the path again, regarding a passing group of three friends briefly. His hands slide into the pockets of his jacket, and he sniffles once before he utters—
“No, I don't.”
Ah. Ah.
Why do your eyebrows relax the way they do? And your shoulders; already in ease, yet they seem to fall in relief. You peer at him wordlessly; he doesn’t demand an answer, fully aware you’re looking at him.
And you don’t ask what you’ve been to him ever since he saw you at the first party probably a year ago; what irked him, what delighted him. If he thought about you at all.
Instead, you look at the neon words in the next street, asking, “Are you hungry?”
2:19AM, Him
You’re irritating to the core.
You always have been. But he’d be lying if he didn’t admit you amused him a little. No matter how much you’ve been wasting his time, you allowed a smile in this ill-lit night. Nobody else at the party did — so in some sense, you’ve already won, and somehow, he’s even grateful.
Grateful that you’re optimistic about the world at least. Glad that you suggested fetching food. Endeared by the way you thanked him for his care. Surprised that you ride a motorcycle! Relieved that you have good humour.
Even though his own humour and smile dissipate after you enter one of the few open stores still providing late night snacks. The girl behind the counter looks tired, but straightens a little when the two of you flash a polite smile.
She greets with a sweet, “Hi!” but Jungkook sees the lethargy in her drooping eyes immediately. Poor girl.
But you’re as enthusiastic as ever; maybe a little more now, maybe observing the same as him. You put your hands on the counter like a child — the image is somewhat cute. But what comes out of your mouth is not.
“Uhm… Could I have a portion of cheese tteokbokki, please? And then… A half and half corndog for my husband.”
Your… what now?
Excuse me?
Jungkook throws an immediate and scorching look your way, utterly surprised. When you meet his eyes, his thick eyebrows are closer than anybody’s ever seen. He huffs your suggestion away, and then corrects, “I’m not her husband. And I’ll take the chicken wrap.”
You chuckle, leaning into him, shielding your mouth with a hand as you warn, “They’re not usually very good at this store. Trust me.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
Right. He does. After the disaster of finding the damn bus and the deception caused by your shoes, he won’t trust you very easily anymore. His opinion clearly differs from yours, so he’ll bank on his gut feeling.
Satisfied when you shrug, as if to indicate, “If you say so,” he walks over to the window seats with you in tow, looking out to the peaceful streets. Once seated, he turns towards you, peering until you notice and ask far too purely, “What?”
“Not even your boyfriend, no… Jumped straight to making me your husband, huh?”
The lift of your shoulders brushes his concerns aside; your eyes are incredibly innocent and even somehow playful when you say, “I thought it’d be fun.”
“Was it really?”
“Well, your reaction was funny, at least.”
Jungkook rolls his eyes in disbelief. You’re courageous, he must admit. Social anxiety must fear you — is that how you live life? Unabashed, spirited, not a sheer care for anything that won’t actually hurt you.
He doesn’t know if you’re insane or if he’s jealous.
But he still reiterates, “You’re crazy. And it was embarrassing.”
“I mean,” you say, moving on your chair, folding your fingers on top of the counter but still looking at him, “it was embarrassing because you made it. It’s honestly whatever.” You blow a raspberry, and then take a swing again, “Why is it awkward anyway? We’ll never be here together again.”
He whispers a hushed, “Thankfully,” and you tap the counter with a click of your tongue. He gets it; you live differently. That’s fine. As long as you don’t pull him into your mischief, it’s fine.
Right?
He’s right, isn’t he? He knows that in his personal opinion he is; yet, he can’t help but feel that sting, suddenly deeming himself as boring. You’re never bored, are you?
Anyway…
“Even if you do something like this again,” he tells you, “at least tell me.”
“I mean, that would kinda prevent your genuine reactions from happening, but… if it makes you happy.” You grin at him, and he scoffs; wants to say something before the girl calls for you. “Food is ready.”
A couple seconds later, the two of you have settled back into place; at the sight of the snack, Jungkook salivates. He didn’t realise how hungry he actually was. The buzz and fuzz of a party makes one forget such an essential thing fast.
Or maybe, he was just immersed in his work.
The chicken smells good, at least. Or are these your tteokbokki? He can’t quite discern the scent right now; his mind is fogged by his appetite. Silently, he unwraps his food, swallowing before he digs into the wrap.
So far, so good… seems edible. He keeps chewing; swallows some more. But as the taste starts to sink in and he realises the sogginess of the wrap, the lack of proper sauces and the dryness as well as the blandness of the chicken…
He pauses. Where… are the flavours?
Slowing down, he glances at his meal. Inspects it as if he’s holding an entirely new recipe in his hands. A look of realisation creeps upon his face, unaware of your gaze, and he soon hears an amused snicker from the side.
You don’t say much when your eyes align. Only, “And?”
He knows he’s already lost when his expression changes, cringing; when he can’t answer right away, only gaping at you in confusion. Still thinking about where this recipe went wrong.
He answers, “It’s fine…”
But you catch his obvious lie; he sees it in the way you smile so devilishly. Cocking an eyebrow, enjoying another bite of your snack without ever averting your eyes. Then, you put the tiny wooden fork back into the dish, propping your cheek on your fist.
You wait; he doesn’t know what for. For him to eat again? Maybe; because you soon ask, “Do you want something else?”
“Nah.” His answer is instant this time. “I can do this. I’m an omnivore.”
“Ah, yeah. An omnivore friend right here.” You laugh, curious when he takes another bite. And then, “Jungkook, it’s okay to admit…”
But he won’t listen. Only makes a disapproving sound, stuffing his mouth with another horrendous bite. Shit; he can’t confess that you were right. That you were actually right this time.
Suddenly, he’s craving a cup of ramyeon.
But he should keep eating. Wash it down with his drink, empty the soda. And he’s almost halfway through when he notices a movement from your direction, like you’re playing with your food.
Only, he realises that you are not; rather separating the tteokbokki in two halves before shoving the porcelain dish towards him. He shakes his head, but you persist, “Take it, man.”
It does look good…
But… are you going to use the satisfaction his defeat may give you? Probably. But fuck… Fuck it.
Reluctantly, he lets the wrap fall onto the small plate, gulping down the remainder of what he just bit off, and then, accepts your generosity with a nod. And… whether it’s because of the disappointment the wrap brought or the late hunger…
Jungkook thinks he’s levitating above clouds, floating towards the sun.
It’s good. Very damn good.
And when you ask again this time, “Should we get another?” his nod comes promptly, chest risen in satisfaction as he states, “That’d be great.”
“Alright. Be right back.”
“Nah,” he says, lifting an arm as if to protect you. Mid-action, you halt, sliding back up onto your seat. “Stay here. I’ll get it… All good.”
So he does; enjoys the look of surprise when his other hand even carries dessert, four pieces of matcha mochi ice cream. He says, “This is for you.”
You gasp. He can’t deny that it’s sweet — the elation, the big eyes, the palms coming together in delight. How you look between the food and him, suddenly wiggling your feet.
“You seem to like it,” he notes, and you nod feverishly, telling him that, “Yes! Been craving it since we came in. Thank you!”
“Oh. You should’ve told me earlier! We could’ve gotten it. No worries.”
“It’s okay. I wanted to see if my dessert stomach still allowed anything. Didn’t disappoint me today.”
Jungkook gets to his own tteokbokki, halving it in the middle the way you did, pushing it towards you. It’s weird to think about it like this, but — considering how long the two of you have known each other, you might almost look like… friends.
And you don’t feel quite like an enemy either. You’re even… kind of nice. Friendly; harmless.
“I’m glad,” Jungkook responds, only looking towards the entrance when another group of three friends, two girls, a guy, enter. Then back to you, “Sorry. You were right. This,” he points to the poor, sad wrap, “was shit.”
“See? My first instinct almost never lies. And I know this store from other places… the wraps are never good.”
“Sure, but… your first instinct isn’t always right, though, is it? You did get us lost, so it was wrong at least once.”
“Hm… was it, though?”
Jungkook regards you in confusion as you put another piece on your tongue, working on the chewy thing as he asks, “What do you mean? We had no clue where we w—”
“Yeah, I mean. I agree. But… I don’t think it was that wrong. Because—”
You lick your lips clean off the tteokbokki sauce, smacking them. You look child-like, but pretty when you indulge in your element, uncaring about everything, just living. Maybe it’s not that bad that you’re bold.
And maybe, just maybe, he can power through this night easily after all; especially if you keep saying things that soothe his chest, things like—
“Because my first instinct brought me to you.”
2:49AM, Him
The temperatures are falling as the night proceeds, and the second portion of the mochi ice cream adds to the pleasant chill.
Jungkook wonders how you’re doing; your dress is skimpier than his jeans, and your arms bare. But your stance and your speech are still inconspicuous, skin free of goosebumps, your walk elegant, leisurely.
Judging from your occasional hums and your ceaseless optimism, you’re enjoying this journey. It almost makes him feel bad; guilty about how adamantly he refused all this just an hour ago.
It hasn’t been too bad. Sure, you’re bold and intrepid, and yeah, in some ways he is, too — but his courage stems from other motivations. From adrenaline-loaded activities or joyful, temporary pains. Like his tattoos; his motorcycle; the summer he bungee-jumped for the first time.
You’re a different kind of daring; you challenge your limits in crowds and consider life a respectful joke. You don’t ever hurt anyone, he doesn’t think — you just go and see how far you can push yourself.
Perhaps in some sense, the two of you complement each other while simultaneously seeming to be cut from the same wood. Perhaps you’re different, but then again, not so much.
You’re quiet; you weren’t until you left the snack bar. As for now, however, you seem distracted, swallowing heaps of your dessert as you scan the surroundings you’ve led the two into. You’re somewhat unfazed by it, yet peering as though you’ve been here before.
Which, in retrospect, makes sense. You’ve been wanting to show him places you enjoy after all.
When the silence extends, Jungkook, along with the chirping of the nightlife, breaks it with a, “You know what?”
Your head swerves to his side, the wooden fork in your mouth. The pure gaze you give him throws him off guard for a moment — it’s somewhat sweet. But as he regains himself, he says, “I didn’t think we’d get to a housing scheme here. The main street is super close, but the vibe is so different.”
“I know. It’s a little scary at night when you’re alone. Gives very Desperate Housewives, doesn’t it? Secrets veiled behind shut curtains.” You draw closer, imitating a spooky gesture. “But I liked coming here when I was younger.”
Bingo. He thought so.
“Ah… why?”
“My friend lived here,” you explain with a tilt towards a random direction; he doubts the friend lived in just the house you gestured to, “she’s long moved out of course, but we’d play on these streets back then. Most of the neighbours knew me, too!”
Jungkook tsks, hauling his own bite out of the cup, and you add, “No, seriously! We could just knock at anybody’s door here, and they’d let me in.”
“Not if they moved out, too. A lot of time has passed.”
You bob your head. “Time has passed indeed. It does so pretty fast.”
“Doesn’t it?”
You seem to get into overdrive, gearing up; he didn’t think this topic would rev you up like this, but it appears you have a somewhat firm and fond opinion about the passing of time. Jungkook recognises the sentiment before you speak — the light of the lampposts reflects in your eyes like glitter.
Only, he doesn’t foresee what you say next, your tone teasing through the joy you display—
“Yeah! Like. Do you remember when I told you to not get the wrap and you still di—”
“Shut up.”
The roll of his eyes isn’t anything new; but the faint feeling that accompanies it, something akin to amusement, certainly is.
“Okay, but. Seriously,” you start again, sly smirk falling, voice neutralising the mock, “it felt different here. Because like, you know, where I live, it gets crowded. I’m not too far from the city centre, so… this place always felt really peaceful to me. Jieun and I played together a lot.”
Jungkook frowns.
“Jieun?”
“Hm? Oh. The friend I spoke about? She’s pretty cool.”
“Ah… Right, right.”
“Mhmm,” you hum, the end of your small fork tapping the bottom of the nearly finished cup, “you know another way to know that time passes really fast?” You pause for effect, then add, “It’s been ages since we saw each other for the first time.”
“Right. At a party, too, right? When was that anyway?”
“Hmm… Like.” You ponder, blinking, looking up to the sky. “Like two years ago?”
Jungkook’s eyes widen; if you’d asked him, he would’ve estimated a year tops. If he digs in his memory thoroughly enough, he could probably even remember what you wore that day; what you looked like.
It doesn’t feel like two years. You’re right — time truly does pass like the wind.
“Wow,” he exclaims, “it’s been this long since you started pestering me?”
“Shut up,” it’s your turn to blurt, your body swaying towards him until you push him to the side of the vacant road. “I didn’t even come near you most of the time.”
“I know, I know. You were fun to look at, though. Seemed to enjoy yourself every single time.”
Shit, why did he say that? Shouldn’t he hold onto the image he fostered; the one that’s permanently irked by you, throwing snarky remarks throughout the night?
And…
Didn’t this just break the banter, the frenemyship — frenmity? — the two of you have going on? Was it too nice? It’ll probably surprise you. Then again, is he a damn child? Why would he worry about such things? Question his own kindness?
Why would he hold onto his ego and deny you his humane side when you’ve been nothing but lovely to him all night?
The young adult rivalry is over, Jeon Jungkook. Look at her and fucking admit that you’re the arrogant one.
But funnily enough, you don’t seem to notice anyway.
“Hmmm, I do love my job,” you answer, “I have a lot of fun organising stuff. Doing something good for other people, right? See them enjoy it. I mean, of course there are days when things don’t go as planned, but.”
You lift a shoulder, indulging in the final remnants of your chewy mochi and the melted matcha ice cream inside.
“I know. It happens to me, too.”
“Really? How?”
Jungkook waves towards the sky, lists, “Heavy rain, lots of traffic, too spontaneous, issues with the camera… etcetera. Anything can happen.”
“Yeah — I get it. But yeah, I do love doing this. I meet a lot of nice people, too. And I guess that makes me feel very… blessed? It puts things into perspective.”
“How so?”
“Like, it makes you see that most people aren’t bad.”
Huh. Odd. Not that he’d ever deem the entire globe vile, putting a standardised label that he can impossibly prove. But as far as he has seen… too many people aren’t good either.
“Really?” he asks. “That’s a lucky thing to experience.”
You look genuinely surprised, turning towards him when you ask, “You don’t?”
“Uhm — rarely. I do enjoy photography. Always have.” His mind zooms into a glinting memory from the past, and his shoulders and voice rise when he recalls, “Y’know… My dad got me one of those yellow disposable Kodak cameras when I was a kid. I loved it so much.”
You nod; if he didn’t know better, he’d almost say you look… delighted. Actually interested.
“And events and weddings,” he continues, “they’re beautiful to capture. It’s probably the lights and the pretty people. And just… the memories?”
This time, he looks away, straight to the road; if he hadn’t, he’d know that your gaze is definitely fond now. No doubt about it. You listen in closely.
It’s the first time he’s talking to you like this, or to anyone — or for this long, for that matter. Most of your conversations were fleeting, fiery, a petulant back and forth that — he now realises — could’ve been something else, something better, too.
“But then it just sucks when so many of them can’t appreciate it properly,” he explains, raising his hands to emphasise, tone galled. “I mean, I look at my camera and I see a tool to create art. It’s… nothing I take for granted. Just think about it.”
The ball of fire in his chest grows; he feels it warm up, gassed-up. “A thing that can hold onto moments in absolute high definition, so that you can still remember them years later? The 18th century couldn’t have imagined. They needed to commit everything to memory just like that.”
“Wow, Jungkook… You really do love this, too.”
His arms fall to the side. He inhales the fresh flurry of air. Rethinks his passion for his job and says, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do.”
“…But?”
He knows what’s missing.
“I love the art, but I hate the clients. The event hosts. Not you, but the one even above you.”
Jungkook reckons this was a confession that long sat on his tongue unmentioned. Of course he thought about it; is always reminded when he attends these functions, standing at the back, at the front, left and right, unnoticed and taken for granted.
But now that it’s out and that he’s finally verbalised it to somebody… it definitely liberates something in his head.
You see his issue with these gatherings; he knows you do because he’s figured out this much. You’re filled with enough empathy, sympathy, every grand word ending on the same syllable to acknowledge his disappointment.
But you’re filled with humour and absurdity, too, evident in the answer you provide to diffuse the tension.
“So, that’s why you’re always in a foul mood.”
“Shu—”
“Shut up, yeah, yeah.” You giggle, but then halt for a moment, toying with the rim of your paper cup, “But you know, I think art is worth something even if just one person appreciates it. If it helps in any way… I’m always impressed. And I always appreciate it when I call you and you come despite finding me so annoying.”
One corner of your lips lifts, the smile humble and light; sends a pang of guilt through him. Have you always been so nice?
“Also, I do see the pictures almost every single time,” you add, “and you’re so good at this. At the job itself and the editing afterwards. Honestly.”
“…You think?”
Damn.
Jungkook would probably not bask in this hobby, continue his job if he wasn’t proficient in what he does. He’s known about his prowess ever since he was young.
But praises do offer a sense of magical warmth, don’t they? He doesn’t think any creative mind ever sickens of such unexpected support. And the way you say it… makes him want to never lay down his camera.
“Of course, yes,” you confirm, “not to shoot up your ego, but… you once sent a set of pictures where I found one of me. Don’t know if you even noticed? I was wearing that lilac dress and curls, I still remember — and—”
Stuck on the mention of your clothing, he immediately attaches a detail to the memory, “Sleeveless dress. Long silver earrings, right?”
“Oh… right…”
Right.
He won’t mention that he looked at that picture for just a second longer than at the others that night. Noticed for the first time how pretty you were. Not too deep of a thought, a twelve second stare, but… you wore this vibrant smile on that picture, and in some way, he did hope you’d see it, too.
It seems you did. He feels satisfied, proud even.
“Right,” you repeat, your defences somehow down, “uhm. I printed the picture. Still have it somewhere.”
Jungkook has already often wondered what people do with the pictures; put them in albums? Frame them and pin them over their couch? Right now, he also wonders — do you look at it a lot?
And this again begs the question — when you do, does your decision to book a vendor like him fill you with pride? Like your choice was right?
“That’s so nice,” he says.
“All that to say,” you inhale, “that I think you’re really fucking skilled.”
Woah. You weren’t quite certain if your consolation would bring him any solace, but you’ve done far more than that. You’ve shown him that you see what he does — and isn’t this what every artist craves? To be seen?
The tension buzzes between him and you like electricity; he doesn’t know if it’s just him lighting up or if you’re feeling a kindred link, too. But it’s somewhat intense in this moment of walking under the stars, surrounded by quietude and absolute pose.
So much so that he’s soon submerged by an odd urge to make the intensity wane, “Hey, does this feel to you like… a cliché chick flick kinda dialogue?”
You know…
The moment when two find an empty street in the middle of the night, realising that a conversation with each other isn’t the end of the world after all?
That type of thing?
But he doesn’t say any of it.
“Yeah? Maybe. But it’s also true,” you argue, “I’m an honest person and I don’t think I’d say anything I didn’t mean.”
“Ah, yeah?” Jungkook voices, taking the emptied out ice cream cup and throwing it into the bin on the side of the road, along with his own.
“Mhm, one hundred percent,” he hears you say, followed by a light, quiet smacking noise.
He doesn’t see what you’re doing until he arrives back where you stand; watches you lick the sticky rest off the pad of your thumb, smiling when you stare up at him again. It’s a mundane gesture; he’s done it ever since he was a kid.
But somehow, he can’t stop looking.
Might be the way your lips curve when you do it, or how your eyes smile when your mouth does. The authenticity you portray is rare; perhaps he just confused it with madness until now.
Seconds pass, and with that, your smile does, too. As it fades and drops, replaced by a curious expression and big eyes, you soon mutter, “What?”
There’s no response to that, really. He doesn’t know either.
He doesn’t understand how you turned out to be so right. How it’s such an ultimate truth that a serene night brings out a dreamy alter ego, hitherto undetected. Jungkook has never felt like much of a romantic, but right now, he thinks he’s on a different plane of reality.
This doesn’t feel like Earth; and the town doesn’t feel like the one he struts through during the day.
So maybe it’s not that wayward or groundless for him to lean in. To bend a bit more. Further and further until you laugh nervously; he knows you’re preparing to crack another joke, but you remain silent as he approaches.
Gauges your reaction. Will you run? You aren’t.
Instead, you gulp; let your pupils fall to his piercings, just when his own gaze moves to your lips. His right hand, tattooed, led by its own will, reaches for your cheek until he’s cupping it; and suddenly, his mouth parts — what’s happening? — and then—
And then, a vehicle roars from afar.
Both of you hear the motorcycle before you even see the blinding white light; he grips your arm, probably too harshly, dodging the street with you and jumping onto the pedestrian walk.
One must be crazy to still drive through the city at this hour. Right?
You pant, mixed with insane chuckles of relief, “Shit. We almost died.”
“We didn’t,” he refutes, “we had plenty of time.”
“Oh no,” you stretch the last word, eyes squinting. An accusing forefinger points at him before you deduce, “We almost died because you like me. Of all things!”
“I do not. You just looked kinda cute.”
Jungkook might’ve attempted an indifferent answer, but instead, he steered into an excuse that you do not accept at all. Your smirk is telling and satisfied, and if he wasn’t trying to prove a point, your Cheshire Cat grin would’ve made him laugh, too.
“But you did almost kiss me,” you persist.
Ugh, you’re bold. Laughing like it means nothing; no embarrassment, no shy restraint in you. Which is probably not too bad; somehow even charming. Explains the rosy dust on his cheeks at least. He feels it in the heat, can’t believe he almost kissed you just now.
Why does he feel like a hormonal adolescent? It’s not like he’s never kissed anybody.
You’re still enclosed by pure delight, nudging his arm repeatedly, annoyingly. And when he doesn’t answer, choosing reticence instead, you nearly shriek, as if he confirmed all you just said.
His instinctive hand slaps up to your mouth, covering it, shushing you. You’re still smiling, working on removing his palm, but before your nonsense can proceed, a sudden light flickers in the corner of Jungkook’s eye.
Immediately, he seeks out the source, soon finding a room in the house left to him lighting up. You woke somebody, it seems. A silhouette becomes clearer, its edges more refined with every second, and just before the owner of the place can shove the curtains aside, you grip Jungkook’s hand.
Within a moment, he finds himself tugged away by you, running, nearly stumbling over his own feet. You blurt, “Better get away before they kill us.”
As you leave the tranquil settlement behind, Jungkook still hears a voice from an open window, cursing the younger generation as they do; and then, out of the damn blue, a fucking dog barks.
When you turn over your shoulder, mouth dropping open, Jungkook knows you’re thinking the same as him — this happens outside of cinematic universes, too?
It takes a minute until you’ve reached another road again; one of the kind he’s more familiar with. The city type. The two of you come to a halt near some pole, and you let his hand go, leaning against it.
For a moment, you work on catching your breath, Jungkook’s hands settling on his thighs. And then, when your eyes meet, you burst into a fit of laughter, followed by a playful wiggle of his eyebrows to which you respond, “Don’t act innocent. This is your fault.”
“What? You were lau—”
“Because of you! Oh, I know you want me so bad.”
You’re jesting, of course. Swaying your head, poking his chest, a brat straight out of some TV show. But what you can do, he’s been perfecting for years.
So he answers in kind, “And if I did?”
Only for you to utter something that not even his brain can compute.
“If you did? Then… I think I’d let you.”
“Ah… Yeah? Why?”
“Because— I think you’re just half as bad.”
His snicker is half amused, half flattered. He purses his lips, nodding, and then declares, “You’re just a quarter as bad. But guess I’ve gotten so tired that I’ve started doing weird shit.”
You click your tongue, puffing out a breath, instantly reacting when he only flicks your chin and then walks away. Your startled expression prevails, a distance between him and you established, but just as he puts his hands in his jeans, he hears you finally follow.
“Hey,” you voice from behind, tapping his arm, “are you really tired?”
“I was kidding, but. Honestly? A little.”
“…Hmm. You know, my friend lives in an apartment nearby. Jieun? Didn’t move too far from her old home. We could stop there.”
Jungkook’s left eyebrow leaps up, surprised by the suggestion; the idea doesn’t sound too bad. But…
“Wasn’t the deal to go around for a whole night, though?”
“Ohhh. Are you starting to like it?”
You’re observant, he’ll give you that.
“I’m just saying,” he adds, “and also, would she just let a stranger in?”
“Oh, she’s very civilised and hospitable. She wouldn’t mind, and she’s known me for ages. She trusts me.” Maybe you detect the hesitation in his eyes and the twitch of the corner of his lips, because you immediately carry on, “We can just stay for an hour and then go.”
“Would she be awake, even?”
“She’s a night owl. I know that.”
“Uhm…”
He ponders. In some way, he’s kind of liking the breeze, the quiet side of this town. But… would Jieun find that weird? Then again, can he say no? You’re ogling at him with these hopeful eyes; maybe you need the rest, after all.
“Okay,” he says; he even thinks you jump a bit in joy, nodding.
“Okay! You’ll like her. We can leave with newfound energy afterwards. Okay, cool.”
That’s all you need to lead the way. You look around a little, making sure you’re approaching the right direction, and when you find your confidence again, you march ahead.
Your walk is energetic, not too idle anymore, your beam as dashing and fervid as ever. Jungkook knows his way around editing programs; he’s added wings to pictures before or removed unwelcome passersby on an otherwise great photo.
He even understands how to surround a body or silhouette with a glow; but he’s never seen it around an actual person outside of all these graphics editors before.
Your body is so clearly encircled by it.
Bedazzling.
Screw the 18th century. Even in these modern times of advancement, Jungkook doesn’t think he needs a camera to commit you to memory.
3:25AM, Her
You avert your eyes from the phone and turn towards Jungkook, reaching him where he’s planted firmly in front of the apartment complex. He’s been waiting, back settled against the wall, and as you near, his eyebrows rise in question.
Your friend didn’t respond until now — but just as you foretold, she’s still awake at this ungodly hour.
“Okay. She’s home, but,” you explain, already ringing the bell to her apartment, “she said she’d be leaving soon. Sounds like she’s in a rush. Typos and all.”
Jungkook waits until the buzzing sound of the opening door ceases and you’ve stepped inside, leading him up the stairs, and then wonders again with big eyes, “And she’ll just let us stay? Alone at her apartment?”
You wave his concerns off with a hand’s gesture, “She trusts me, dude. I’ve done this a couple times.”
“What for?”
Hm… you dive back into the old days. Some new, some old. What were they again? They’re mostly blurred, but some of them are carved in your core memory.
“Oh, just…” you reminisce. “If I wanted to meet guys and wouldn’t want to bring them home back when I was still with my parents? Or when I’d need a night to sober up. They would’ve killed me if I’d come home drunk. And Jieun moved out early.”
“How old is… Jieun anyway?”
Old. Not really, but you like to vex her to the point of a pout. She’s patient, but she’s also an incredibly close friend — you allow yourself to be a brat with her and she allows herself to roll her eyes.
“Early 90s kid?” you guess. “A little older than us.”
‘93, as far as you remember.
“Ah. Damn,” he voices; you don’t know why.
“Okay.” You climb the last steps to the second floor, halting in front of a white door with a copper number six on top of it. Knock thrice. “Here goes.”
She might’ve been getting ready close to the door, working on her shoes or questing for her keys. Because she opens mere three seconds later, with a radiant smile on her face able to melt hearts, and a comfortable attire that’s, however, not comfortable enough to wear at home.
A thin sweatshirt and a bun, loose strands framing her pretty face, and shorts that are definitely meant to be worn outside. She won’t be here for long. And you’re focused on this very fact and her hurry so much that you nearly don’t register how shy Jungkook gets.
His voice is somewhat smaller than before when he looks at her; your eyes shift to him, and he’s blinking before he finally breaks and mutters, “Oh. Hi.”
“Hey!” she retorts; she looks so sweet saying it. You understand his perplexity. “Date?”
“Nah. Just a friend,” you answer, which, yet again — very confusing — makes him hum in question. If he started regarding himself as your date all of a sudden, you swear…
You smile.
“Just a friend,” you repeat.
“Fabulous. So you’re not walking around alone, at least,” Jieun concludes, letting you in. In the living room, a hand on her kitchen island, she points through an open door, “Okay, so, the guest room bed is made. Use blankets on it, if you want to rest.”
Her finger shifts to signal to the entrance you came through, imitates a pulling motion, “Don’t worry about locking the door whenever you leave. Also got some leftover food in the fridge, but there’s also cup ramyeon and some frozen pizza in the freezer. Sorry… I need to go shop—”
But you interrupt, shaking your head, “Oh, no worries, really. We just ate, so we’ll just stay here for a little, work off the food coma and leave. Won’t damage anything.”
“I know you won’t, baby.”
She moves to fetch her purse from the couch, and Jungkook uses the moment to whisper in your ear, “Where is she going anyway?”
You don’t know; you shrug your shoulders, pursing your lower lip, but echo his question a moment later, louder than him, “Where are you going anyway?”
Previously cramming in her purse, checking it for content, she looks at you again, telling you, “Ah… Jongsuk is having a bad night and wants me to come over.” Regarding Jungkook, she adds, “My boyfriend. He’s an insomniac and got stoned tonight, too, and just—”
Jieun blows a raspberry, raising a hand for a whatever gesture, and Jungkook mumbles, “Oof. Sounds…”
“Yeah… I know. In any case. Make yourself comfortable, okay?”
“Yes. Thank you so much.”
“Thanks, Jieun,” you repeat.
She nods once more, waving her tiny hand and flashes one last smile before she’s out the door and has left you in full silence. You shuffle your feet for just a second before you look at him again; he still looks somewhat in a daze.
So you ask, “What’s wrong?”
“Hm? Nothing.”
Nothing, right… that’s what they all say after seeing Lee Jieun for the first time. You try not to think too hard about the teeny tiny sting in your enormous, delicate heart. Only let him know, “Don’t worry too much. What could happen? She does trust me.”
You take a couple steps towards the bedroom she offered you, and you hear him follow. Look at the neatly made bed, a thought occurring; but you don’t entertain it yet. Only add, “Besides, she owes me.”
He chuckles. “That’s how you live your life, huh?”
“It’s alright. We’ll just be here for an hour. She’s known me all her life, so nothing to doubt here. And also, think about it,” the tip of your forefinger taps against your temple, “even if something did happen or went missing, she’d know where to find me and whom to report.”
He waits, ogles at you. Then presses his lips together, nods as if you made all the sense in the world, and lifts a shoulder — agreeing, “If you say so. Then uhm — let’s lay down for a bit?”
“Sure! I’ll just sleep in her room, so you can have your privacy here.”
“Mhm. Okay.”
You stand at the door frame for a moment, feet unmoving.
He’s already turned away. And you regret not walking away when you watch him unabashedly take off the blazer and provide a glimpse to his snatched waist as inked fingers scratch his back briefly, shirt moving up. But then it’s covering his skin again.
Flawless back; pretty golden. A little further up, and you’re sure you would’ve seen strong shoulder blades, too. He’s worn fancy dress shirts at luxurious events before — you know many would kill for his built, because you’ve seen his bicep flex before.
You forget where you are for a second, but when he opts to turn, eyes on you for just a heartbeat, you stir. Blurt out an awkward apology, and then leave. Wish him a good night, barely waiting for one back before you close the door.
You laugh quietly at yourself.
Her room is just next door; you already mentally prepare for a nap. Meanwhile, Jungkook plumps onto the bed, groaning when the comfort hits, and works on getting used to the ceiling, if only briskly.
He only notices how much his head is spinning when he closes his eyes, ready to doze off. Should he set an alarm? He doesn’t want to still be here by the time Jieun returns. Maybe he should tell you, too.
But his body won’t move.
Yet, in the time he’s failed to make up his mind, he suddenly hears a knock at the door again. Must be you — must be telepathy.
He tells you to enter, and you do with a shy demeanour; only thirty seconds must have passed, right? A minute, tops. He looks at you in wonder, and you explain, “She uh— locked her room. No clue where the keys are. Guess that’s why she specifically pointed out the guest room.”
You nibble your lip, getting no answer back. He looks just as much out of ideas as you, and you still refuse to bring back the thought from before; yet, you ask, “What do we do now?”
“Well…” He looks around, though there is not much to take in. “I can sleep on the couch?”
“…The couch is too small.”
“Okay. Then I’ll just sleep on the floor.” He’s already working on getting up, no hesitation, scratching through his now messy hair, feet moving on the fluffy carpet. “I’ll take one of those pillows, though. Carpet should be good eno— what are you doing?”
You’ve charged towards the bed, climbed past him until you’re sitting behind him, facing his back and his craning neck. You say, “I’m not giving you that pillow.”
“Why?”
“You can’t sleep on the floor.”
“…Why not?”
You throw an unbelieving look, as if it’s obvious. Your flat hand gestures towards the carpet vaguely, and you argue, “It’s uncomfortable.”
“Listen, I should. This or the couch, nothing else left.” It’s crazy to you how he doesn’t even consider the bed instead of giving it up for you. “It’s just an hour. Don’t worry about it.” He stretches a hand towards you, curling his fingers in a grabby motion. “Come on. Gimme that.”
You’re astonished — beyond pleased about the fact that he cares like this. That he’s so… mindful and humble. You give up; he won’t falter and you know.
“Okay… then take this blanket, too.”
He grabs the second one that Jieun provided, head bowing a little as he says, “Thank you.”
The proceeding minutes you spend preparing for bed, slightly discomforted by your dress, pass in half-awkward, half-comfortable silence. He lays down on his unusual spot, and you cuddle into the blanket on your light, soft side.
As the rustling of blankets and sheets subsides, it gives way to the sound of the ticking clock; you focus on it, count the clicks like sheep.
But sleep doesn’t quite fall upon you yet, and you guess Jungkook feels similar when he calls your name and asks, “What does she owe you?”
Your head moves towards his voice, even though he can’t see you. “Huh?”
“Jieun. What does she owe you? And your coworker.”
“Oh. Uh. Honestly, just kindness.”
You can already see it — doe eyes rolling at another one of your cryptic answers. You know people don’t fathom your thoughts very well, and some feel annoyed by your dreamy outlook of the world. You don’t mind, but you wonder what he’s thinking.
But all he responds with is, “What?”
“Well, just. They’ve known me for ages. I’ve been there for Jieun for so long, and Jongin has always been so incredibly nice to me. Picked me up when I was dead drunk once and brought me home. Got me medicine and everything. And I’ve lent him some comfort over the years, too.”
It hasn’t been too long, so you remember. You’ve been good friends with him ever since you started your job; a steady part of your team. He and you have got each other’s back.
“These two are friends,” you say, “and I think kindness is the most we can give our loved ones.”
Jungkook hesitates. Have you bored him to sleep? Or is he pondering your words, thinking of you as weird? Maybe not—
Because he actually converses, asking, “You think? Doesn’t that mean we’re just kind to them then, so they can be kind to you in return?”
“I mean… yes and no. Owing might be the wrong word. I’m not nice to others to get something back. I’m like this because I want to be and because the world can be shitty and it’s important to be nice, and in return, I want people to be nice to me, too. It’s not an eye to eye kind of thing, it’s just about. Spreading affection in relationships. It’s what they’re here for.”
“…Hm. Is this why you’re never rude to me? Even when I deserve it,” he asks, registering a hum. “You know… you think really… uniquely.”
This is a nice way to phrase it at least. People like you; you’re good with them. But sometimes, they can be mean, too. Not that you mind. It’s natural — people occur in all types and shapes.
“But is it unique, though? Isn’t it a given?” you question.
“Yeah, probably, I just— never thought of it this deeply.”
“Mmmh. So is me thinking uniquely a compliment? I can’t say.”
He laughs, and you join immediately, exclaiming an, “I’m serious!” in the middle of it all. Jungkook’s snicker is authentic, so you enjoy hearing it; but you like his answer even better.
“Maybe. I just… I feel like a lot of people try to be different these days. Or play a role to be perceived a certain way? But I think you’re genuine — you actually mean the things you say without any hidden intention to make people forcefully like you, right?”
An intention? Oddly phrased. You think, though… that what he said was nice.
Still, you confirm, “I don’t try to be anyone for people to like me.”
“I didn’t say otherwise! This is actually just what I meant. Besides, people like you anyway because you’re you.” As if he’s reading your mind. “That’s what I was saying.”
You hum, blinking at the ceiling and the little modern light hanging there, the beam off. The darkness pleasant. You conjure another question and ask, “So you think me being me is a good thing?”
You always considered it was. You like being you. But Jungkook didn’t like whatever makes up your personality — has this changed? Apparently.
“Of course,” he surprisingly answers, “it’s always a good thing. And just because I disagree with some of your characteristics, it doesn’t mean everybody will.” Oh. Well. But wait— “Or maybe, I’m just a moaner.”
Well.
“That you are,” you verify.
“Damn.”
“But, but— you’re kind, too, you know? Not everyone says the things you just said.”
“Maybe.”
“So…” you stall, rethinking his prior words. “Do you still disagree with all those characteristics of mine?”
Another joyous sound tumbles out of him, much in the form of a breather than a laugh; hushed, but you still hear it clearly. Perhaps you’re being a little awkward; but in all honesty, you hope he’s just finding it amusing, somewhat cute.
“I mean — you’re too blunt. But brave, like, I could never. The thing you did at the shop? Never. But this isn’t bad. And you aren’t bad.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His voice is a whisper. Reminds you of a feeling akin to temptation; your mind automatically imagines the susurrating sound near your ear, exhaling the very syllable he just did. Frankly, you’re absolutely tortured by the knowledge of him being this close.
That you could probably touch his face if you rolled over to the edge of the bed, letting your arm dangle, seeking his skin. That he’s in the same room, talking to you this gently, saying things that a girl doesn’t hear too often these days anymore.
There it is. The intrusive thought from before… prevailing.
And you’re tortured by it. But mostly, by the image of him standing in front of you between the houses just a little time ago, staring at you, pupils flitting back and forth between your eyes and your lips. How he neared you. How he almost kissed you.
You might’ve joked about it then, but deep down, and especially now, you’re intrigued by the idea. Of the fantasy of a what if — what if he’d actually kissed you?
Taking a deep breath, you look to the side, staring at the door and call, “Hey, Jungkook.”
“Hm?”
“Is it uncomfortable down there?”
“Uh… a little.”
You shuffle at your spot, turning to the side. “Just thinking. What good does it do if we don’t rest well? What are we here for?”
“…What are you talking about?”
Pause. Quietude. You close your eyes, then open them again.
You’re never shy; so you don’t deem it an advantage for yourself to turn timid now either. You tell him, “Come up. I know you want to. I know I want you to.”
He doesn’t say anything; you bite your tongue. Maybe it was a mistake. But then his voice chimes again, wondering, “Are you sure?”
Your answer is immediate.
“Of course. Yes, I’m sure.”
“Okay… okay.”
As he starts to move, you gulp. You make place on the bed, moving to your previous side, pushing the blanket aside in case he wants to slip under it, too. The motions of his silhouette seem uncertain as he makes his way up to you, as if he’s uncomfortable with it.
“I… Was I wrong…? Do you not want to?” you make sure.
“What?” you hear him say; see his head shake. “Ah, that’s not it. Just want to make sure you’re really okay with it. I’m not the type of guy to…”
“I know. It’s fine. I don’t think you are.”
“Okay.” The mattress bulges where he lays down before it evens out again. He emits a couple groaning sounds, probably glad to give his back something proper. You turn to him just when he says, “Honestly… that’s a little better, yeah.”
“Thought so. Are you tired?”
“Definitely.”
“But you’re not sleeping.”
“Because you’re talking.”
Wrong. There was enough silence for him to nod off before. He was the one who started the conversation at all; you were ready to turn and toss and rest eventually.
When you don’t respond, his head turns on his pillow, too; in the darkness that you got used to, you see his eyes twinkle. Both of you know that you’re looking at each other. And he’s kind of close — closer than you thought.
And… if you’re not wrong, he just inched nearer only a nanomoment ago. He repeats in a whisper, once more accusing, “You’re talking, that’s why.”
“That’s really why, huh?”
“Mhm.”
“The only reason there really is?”
“What else could there be?”
You smile, brazen, letting out the courage you’ve gathered, “Well, I know what else it is for me.”
“Yeah?”
Daring a step further, you graze his shirt featherlightly; you don’t know whether he notices. Not until he moves his hand, fingers ghosting near yours.
Waiting until you reveal with sheer, sudden heart palpitations, “I… I want you to kiss me. You do, too, don’t you?”
He inhales, but doesn’t exhale. What does it mean? You don’t know.
You don’t know what it is until you hear the smile in his words, gentle yet tantalising when he says, “…I do.”
“Good. Good. Then kiss me.”
And the rest proceeds without hesitation and without another plea.
His body moves as if on its own accord; he seems possessed, or controlled by a puppeteer. Warm lips lock with yours before you can draw another breath.
They feel soft, full, like tiny pillows, a contrast to the metal of his piercings. And they move gently, so carefully, like he’s still scared of crossing a line despite your permission. But when you lean into him, hoping for more proximity, he blossoms a little. Initiates more.
Oh, he, too, has been waiting for this, hasn't he?
A hand, nearly as warm as his kiss, slithers up to your face, holding you closer to him. The bangs that so often cover his forehead are tickling yours now, his head tilting to give his cute nose more space.
And with that, he deepens the kiss, too. Dares a step further, separating your lips with his, trying things out. He gauges your reaction as the tip of his tongue sneaks its way into the mix, and the moment you do the same, he dives in properly.
Kisses you just a little harder, tasting you, sighing into the movements as if all the weight of the world has dropped off his shoulders. As if he’s relieved, calmed down, resting for the first time tonight.
Yet, at the same time, he’s firing himself up — moving over your body slowly, holding onto your mouth to his best abilities, as if you’d disperse if he let go for too long. As if you’d change your mind.
He cages you in to keep you underneath, not touching your face anymore but shoving his fingers into your already tousled hair. If you were still in your right mind, you’d recognise how insane this situation is. Your younger self would’ve never predicted such a moment to ever become part of your life.
But it is… it is so clearly being played into your hard drive; somehow, you already know it’ll remain stuck in your memory: the way he’s kissing you, so thirsty, so insatiable. How he’s sighing, relaxed, yet sporting an audible heartbeat against your chest.
He uses moments of switching sides to breathe but continues right away; the keenness drives you crazy. You touch his shoulders and then wrap your arms around him firmly, making him hasten closer until he’s nearly falling onto you.
What in the heavenly make out sessions is this…
It’s nasty, yet sweet. Followed by quick breaths; it takes merely a minute until you feel his lower body grinding into you, his jeans tight around his crotch all of a sudden. And the second you realise he’s hardening beneath them, your body reacts.
Reacts so effectively.
Your lower tummy tickles, dampness pooling below as he pushes into you again, harder this time. You moan, enticed by your goosebumps and the heavy bulge. Solid enough for you to crave him within a moment’s notice.
And it only worsens threefold when he whispers, “Fuck… Somebody really knows how to kiss, huh?”
“You’re talking. What was this—” He so rudely interrupts with another peck, and you laugh into it. “Yeah, this…”
Your last word dissipates like candle smoke; you don’t even know why you bother to speak. Your voice is barely perceptible when his teeth remove the short sleeve of your dress, kissing your shoulder and then down to your cleavage.
It’s easy to remove your dress; it’s light, summer-y — but he doesn’t bare you just yet. Plays around at the mounds of your tits until he pushes the neck of the dress down a bit, asking, “May I take it off?”
Oh, if you could count the times you’ve imagined his veiny hands removing this damn dress just in the last fifteen minutes…
“Of course,” you permit, “do I look like I’d reject you?”
“Mmmh.” The hum is proud, satisfied, vocalised amidst another kiss to your clavicles. “Just making sure.”
Soft, warm hands trail up your leg, leaving a path of another set of goosebumps. You want him to stay right there on your thigh, knead the flesh, press into it, showcase the lust he feels in the beguiling pain.
But instead, he pushes up your dress, fingers ghosting over your ass — and when he doesn’t find your panties but only bare skin, he stops kissing you. Looks at you. Makes out the string of your thong a second later — in the dark, you discern the way his lips round in captivation.
He’s loving this.
He tugs at the string and lets it snap back into place; you gasp even though it doesn’t hurt, but it drives you mad when he states, “Wow. Very intriguing.”
Leaving it at this for just now, he kisses you again, tongues mingling once more before he releases a sharp, nearly aggressive hiss and mumbles, “Holy fuck. I can’t stop.”
“I didn’t tell you to stop,” you guarantee.
“Good. Good, good, good.”
The dress surrounds your waist now, stopping below your breasts, and Jungkook journeys down to drag his lips around the spots he hasn’t touched yet. As if he’s trying to familiarise himself with all of you, working towards the goal of memorising you entirely.
His teeth scrape at your pelvis just lightly, seemingly contemplating whether he wants to destroy these panties or not — but then decides against it. You wouldn’t mind; you’re not showing anybody anything of you tonight but him.
And you’re already such a mess; breathing so irregularly, letting out his name and quiet sighs. He should know he could do basically anything. That you’re ready for him.
But instead, he only curses again, sucking at your skin harshly, nails digging into your hips. And then, from below, you hear him say, “Want you to suck my dick so bad.” He moves up, fingertips on your cheek, rubbing himself against your underwear, and questions, “Will you suck my dick, baby?”
Oh, he didn’t just…
Oh, the way the pet name screws with your head is irreversible. You feel sick at the mention, breathing out hard, about to get up at the speed of light to swallow him fully; to the hilt.
But you won’t give him the satisfaction yet; you’ve gotten used to the darkness, and seeing the hazy insanity in his eyes spurs you on to play with him a bit more. So you lift your body, giving him hope, but then say, “I have a better idea.”
“Ah? Where are you going?”
“Wait.”
He quietens. Falls to the side and onto his back as he watches whatever you’re trying to do unfold. You look back at him for just a blink of an eye, but you immediately perceive the hand cupping his clothed dick, moving a bit, up and down.
“Okay. Should work on this first,” you say, straddling him backwards.
You hike up your dress more, baring your back to him, and you instantly hear the breath he releases. Feel the palm touching your spine, grazing it; you imagine huge eyes ogling at you like he’s reached nirvana. You so hope he’s looking at you like this.
“My God…” he only mutters, however, proving your point when he opts to get up. But you turn as much as you can, a flat hand pushing him down again, to which he complains, “What?”
“I told you to wait, silly. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You sure? You’re being pretty mean right now.”
“I’m not being mean. You’re just not patient,” you laugh. “Give me a second and I’ll wreck your world, ‘kay?”
“Ah?”
“Mhm.”
“That I wanna se— oh. Oh.”
Exactly.
Once you’re done pulling off the dress, you shift back, enough for your pussy to align with his gorgeous face. Jungkook instinctively grabs your ass to pull you lower, and you chuckle at the restless gesture.
But you need to focus; and as best and tidily as you can, you unbutton his jeans, zipping them open until you detect his shorts. He raises his hips to help you, and you bite your lower lip, crazed by the sight that awaits you once the jeans are halfway down.
The bulge is big indeed. The imprint is insane; the light from outside allows glimpses, and you salivate, bowing your head to kiss him above his underwear, feeling him stir. And he imitates, blowing against your wetness, his finger — middle one? — curling around the string digging between your ass cheeks.
When he frees your pussy, you feel it. It hits the air in the room coldly, a contrast to his hot breath. A second more and you might drip into his tantalising mouth, just how you’re drooling over the cock you finally set free.
It springs out, veiny under your touch. Hard. Thick and long. Everything good, a fucking ideal package. You scold him, “You’ve been hiding this from me?”
“Huh? I wasn’t hiding.”
“Now I realise just how mean you are, man,” you say, shaking your head, spitting onto the slit before wiping it off again with the tip of your tongue. He swears again. “Could’ve had this make me hoarse so long ago.”
“Fuck,” he replicates, “stop talking, or I’ll fuck this mouth of yours. You want to be hoarse so bad, then try me.”
“Is this a threat? You really think I won’t let you? Stay right there, little—” You look again. “Big man. You can do whatever you want, but wait a second, alright?”
“Nah. You’re not the only one teasing. You brat,” Jungkook whispers sharply, delivering a smack to your ass; you gasp. “I just…”
You don’t know what he just — you only know that he’s attaching his mouth to your cunt right away, thong pushed aside, diving in with a tongue so eager. You squint your eyes shut, lips parting, calling his name as he holds you there roughly.
He soon wraps his arms around your hips, like a belt, lips intense as he kisses you even wetter. The sounds he eludes are dirty, sinful; and the feeling of his piercings doesn’t add to your sanity.
You decide to not let this distract you; he’s competitive, you realised, but you are, too. So you lean in, lips wrapping around the tip. Your right hand enfolds his cock, pumping him, tracing every firm vein that protrudes. He’s so pretty all around.
“Shit,” you whisper, hoping he doesn’t hear; only continue to work your tongue around the head, setting the nerves alight as he’s doing for you.
You kiss down the shaft, licking and humming to create a sort of vibration. And then, you take him in as much as you can. Despite being large, barely fitting, soon hitting your throat, you try. Hollow your cheeks, bop your head, gifting him your attention.
But it’s hard. So hard because—
God, he’s lapping you up so good.
So hungry. Out to kill you as he releases the prior belt, bringing two fingers to your pussy and thrusting them into you slowly. Mouth and digits; both at once. Thumb against the clenching hole between your ass.
He’s distracted every now and then, much like you, but he still maintains a steady pace. Cruel… so cruel. Those damn fingers propelling into you, harder sometimes before they slow down again. Curling to hit you just right, massaging the rough, walnutty spot.
Oh, Jungkook knows… knows exactly what to do.
They don’t make men like him anymore.
Your ass clenches when his skills exceed your expectations and he rubs your insides particularly well, mouth just right above your clit as the tongue circles around it. It’s nearly overwhelming; you could cry with this mouthful of dick impaling your throat.
He feels so good on you. So good in you. You want all of you filled, not just your mouth. So you soon let go with a plop, a string of saliva so lewdly connecting your mouth and his member, and you wipe your mouth.
Tell him, “This should be enough.”
And he agrees immediately, smacking his lips, as if licking up the remnants of his food, “Fuck yes. Enough.”
You want to get into the next position, put in some work, but what you don’t expect is that Jungkook is already planning a step ahead. Tapping your ass with his big manly palm, pushing you off of him until you’re crawling on all fours.
Submitted to him. And you don’t mind a bit — just for now, just for him, you’ll give into this because you’ve been craving it. It’s okay; you vow to yourself that in a while, you’ll wreck his shit just as much.
On your elbows and knees, you hear him shifting, the mattress dipping, his knees nearing you and closing your legs in. The palm covering the right side of your ass causes it to jiggle, and when you push your butt towards his pelvis, he praises, “The way you know what to do without me needing to tell you. How convenient.”
“Well,” you breathe out, “it’s not my first rodeo. But do make it the best… okay?”
“No pressure at all, huh? I’ll try my best.”
You want to react, bring a laugh straight out of your throat, but Jungkook is faster. The reaction comes alright, but not as you wanted it to. But rather in a high-pitched moan, arms quivering when he fists his cock, guiding it to your leaking cunt, and rubs the tip between your pussy folds.
You reckon he’s testing out how eager you already are; you contemplate on telling him. On pleading, on saying something that might drive him to action. You don’t mention a single word, though; only let your ass speak once more, steering towards him until he gets the message.
He must have.
Because he clicks his tongue as if to admonish you for your shortage of patience, though only briefly before he surrenders to the itch you cause. Scratching without hesitation now, he finally helps you lose your damn panties and then dips himself into you slowly.
Of course; with a length like his, there’s no way you’d be able to survive a quick push. Jungkook knows to be cautious, penetrating you sweetly; an oxymoron in a moment like this. Your fingers digging into the sheets reveal as much; there’s not much going on yet, but you’re already holding onto the soundness of your mind so desperately.
“Shit, what the fuck,” you murmur, your turn to let out profanities; you’re sure this isn’t your last. “You scared of something, Jeon? I’m… I have an IUD.”
“Scared? No. You’re not an idiot, right?” he whispers. “You would’ve told me if you couldn’t do it like this. Much rather…” He breathes heavily between his words. “I’m taking you in, y’know? Enjoying — fuck — how wet and warm you are… Gonna wreck you raw, though, no p-problem.”
No, your foul words were certainly not the last for tonight; his dick is just halfway through when he stops and another tumbles out of you. He drags the thickness back, then inside again.
Your walls are occupied to their last inch, and you know you could take all of him if you just gave yourself some time — but somehow, his care turns you on even more.
Goddamn, he’s good. All of him — his dick, his voice, his mouth, his touch. He’s so— nnghh…
You have never witnessed his fingers do much more than take the pictures you love. Whenever he operates the button with his forefinger, flexing the inked crown above his knuckle, you already know the man has a talent unmatched.
But right now… right now you have an entirely different perception of these same digits.
Like, when he leans in a bit, still deep inside you, undoing your bra in a smooth motion. Or when he caresses your back, along your spine, contradicting the touch with a harsher, harder jab now.
And shit, when he pulls your ass cheeks apart, digging in further, fucking through your seeping hole until he’s covered in slick, too. It must look so good to him; incredibly memorable.
Your whimpers are quiet and gentle, matching the way he fucks you, only rising in volume when he decides to push another inch in. You behave; you whine softly; that is until all of a sudden, he pulls back most of his cock and shoots back in, colliding with your ass with a slapping sound.
Yelping, you hold the sheets until your fingers hurt, and he bolts forwards, a hand slamming your mouth shut and muffling your mewls. Way too close to your ear, he says, “Sh sh sh… my God. Jieun has neighbours, babe — don’t spoil her reputation.”
He proceeds to kiss the skin under your ear, taking your arms captive until they’re pinned to your back. Fingers intertwine messily, holding your limbs in place, and as he frees your mouth again, you laugh — it’s all you can do to not feel too weirded out by the mention of Jieun’s name right now.
You tell him, “Use my panties then.”
“Your panties, huh? Do you want me to?” You nod, but he’s not obliging enough to give into your wishes. Teasing you to no end. “Nah. I’ll just…”
Jungkook doesn’t finish the sentence; what he does is much more alluring, nearly forcing tears of lust to your waterline. He grabs the back of your neck, urging you to look at him, and just as you register his face close to yours, he kisses you again.
Your body immediately blossoms. You breathe as much as the kiss allows, yielding to his tongue. Let him push you down and into the mattress, imprisoning you under him. And he kisses you… kisses you… kisses you more…
Basks in your dimmed moans as he hits from behind again, hard. Sheathes himself inside you thoroughly and with impact; he’s enjoying the fact that you want to yell, but need to restrain yourself at this time of the night.
Because he’s right. You don’t want Lee Jieun to earn looks in the morning because of you.
As if provoking you, he blatantly asks, “You good?”
“Yes— yes!”
“Mhm…”
He’s out of breath; can barely emit another word. But he doesn’t waste any moment at all; kisses your neck, bites your earlobe. Pushes his hands under your body to get ahold of your tits. Fucks you into space, lifting one of your hands to your face, entangling his fingers with yours.
You shift up and down the mattress, just a little; the position, with him on you, doesn’t allow too many extreme movements, and you’re more than fine with it. There’s something about him going unhinged on you like this.
But… it does awaken the need to retaliate, too.
So you use the opportunity when he decides to pause, running out of energy, gasping for breath. He leaves you empty and yearning, pulling back and sitting up, and judging from the touch on your tummy, you assume he wants to flip you on your spot.
Instead, however, you turn on your own accord, both palms that he held captive minutes ago shoving at him. He produces a strange sound as he falls backwards, landing on the mattress and onto the pillow with big eyes that almost don’t fit his Greek God-esque physique.
Goodness, the damp dark hair. The abs. The pecs. The nipples…
You might dribble onto his sweaty, shiny skin. And you don’t veil your innermost thoughts this time, straddling him as you say, “My turn. Need to ride you so bad.”
He visibly relaxes; leads his fingers to your hips, thumb drawing patterns on them. His tongue darts out to play with the lip rings, and he eyes you up and down. He’s taking you in for the first time properly, just as you are him.
Just as your eyes drifted over his muscular body, he now makes stops along the journey — your pussy on the length of his cock. The tits and the perked nipples. The ruined hair, sticking to your collarbones.
You wonder how he likes what he sees.
Probably enough if he can respond with something like, “I won’t stop you.”
Good to know.
So you take a comfortable seat on top of him, still keeping him down, lining up your sex with his. When you welcome him in again this time, you do so fully. No slow torture, no waiting. You claim your throne until your ass hits his hardened balls.
He says, not quite expecting an answer, so you don’t give one, “You’ll kill me today, right?”
And then you start. Put in all the effort you can gather. He feels heavenly inside you, the perfectly curved length moving just the way it needs to. His groans and calls of your names sound promising, telling; you suppose you’re doing a good enough job if his eyes roll back like this.
The hands on your hips push into your flesh more, and when you remove one and bring it to your mouth, sucking his forefinger with your eyes set on him, he loses his shit. Starts pumping up from below, meeting your up-and-down ministrations.
“Shi— what— do you think,” he attempts, stagnant breathing, “you’re doing…”
But he’s grunting in ardour, so you don’t stop; don’t let him take over fully just yet. No — you roll your hips, bend your back, catch a patch of his hair and then angle your body to crash your lips onto his.
The kiss weakens his defences. For a moment, you do feel his nails bruising your skin, but another second later, his touch is as soft as a feather. He’s so ultimately at your mercy that he lets you trace his abs and kiss his pecs.
Lets you get into a crouch, your palms settling below his chest for support. And then… then you navigate north and south, repeatedly, fucking him into you with vigour. He throws his head back, but then looks at you again, blinking fast before his eyes squint shut once more.
“The fuck are you—” he tries, but you start circling his cock again, moving in eight-curves, seeking support in his biceps.
“What?” you voice. “Not good?”
“You fucking— kidding me?” His lower lip trembles when he parts his mouth. You see it even with the lights dimmed. “This is such… a good fucking pussy. I was an idiot to push you aside.”
You’re too dazed to really pout, but you do hear the undertone; ask to clarify, “You’re just saying that f-for… getting my pussy, huh?”
“What— no. Fuck no. Look at me.” His hand reaches out, fingers poking into your cheeks, and he pulls you down to him, makes you meet his eyes. You slow down. “I wouldn’t just do this for any pussy— I… not with you. I don’t just. I don’t just go home with anybody. ‘Kay?”
His words bloom in your chest like a bouquet of flowers. In such a vulgar moment, you shouldn’t be feeling like this, but you can’t help but acknowledge the warmth spreading throughout your body. Burning up your already aflame muscles.
You want to know more; so you query sneakily, “What does this mean?”
“What it means?” he echoes, words blurry, as if drunk. “That you’re beautiful. And… honestly, kind of cool. So annoying but so fucking funny and— hot—”
“I am? Look at this,” you say, still moving but tired; touching his face, his cheeks, his sweet nose, “look at you…”
“No.” He grits his teeth. You don’t know what comes over him, but he’s inhaling way too deeply, lightly aggressive again as he retorts, “Look at fucking you.”
And with that, he gets what he desired earlier; flips you over, climbing over you. With your shield lowered, you didn’t expect this, and now you’re right where you began. And for some reason, the sharp jaw, the furrowed eyebrows, the starved look hits you even harder than before.
The many inches he sports fell out as he took over, but as he plunges into you again with embarrassing ease, something feels different. How he looks at you. How he touches you, pushing your hair back, kissing your lips with such softness.
And how he holds you when you finally see the stars you waited for, his face in your neck, his thumb on your cheek, his palm on your jaw. Kissing your shoulder, delighted as you seek an anchor in his back, tightening around him impossibly as he fucks you through your high and your broken moans.
“Jungkook—” you repeat over and over, and in return, he mutters constant, “I know, I know.”
Again and again and again until his sounds become more uncurbed. Only syllables, rumbling, his chest vibrating against yours until he lifts himself up and retracts his cock.
His pupils shake as he jerks himself off, and you know what he’s seeking, quickly getting to your knees, helping out. You replace his hand with yours, sticking out your tongue before you engulf his dick rapidly.
In surprise, he lets out, “Oh, fff—”
Shit, how he sounds. And how wicked he feels in your mouth, tasting like you, tasting like him. Wet and slippery, his balls hard when you cup them. And then— a mere moment later, he’s shooting ropes of white down your throat.
You’ll never get used to the feeling. You didn’t with your exes, didn’t with any other guy you’ve been with. It’s sudden, your gag reflex kicking, but you don’t want to stop until he has.
Sticky and hot, you let him; look up to him. His jaw glimmers due to the sheen of sweat, and he holds your hand to keep himself upright. Nearly growls when he’s done, and then calms down bit by bit. Pulls out of you. Plumps back onto his ass.
Catches his breath; and once the two of you have relieved your burning lungs, you with your legs under your butt, you look at each other again. A sudden laugh. He lets his head drop onto his shoulder, and then shakes it before getting back on his knees, nearing your joyous form.
The last kiss of the night is endlessly more chaste. No tongue, no making out. Just a couple pecks, a hand around the nape of your neck, noses grazing. Once, twice. And then, he’s smiling again.
You tell him, “Can’t believe this actually happened.”
“Crazy… right?”
“Crazy, yeah. We…” You gulp. “We can leave it right here, though. Guess we were both riled up.”
He nods, humming, looking to the side. “We could. But we don’t have to. It felt too good to forget, you know?”
You gleam and glow; if you could, you’d curl your fingers into fists, screeching like an excited high schooler in her room, acknowledged by a crush. But you only press your lips together, corners twitching up, cheeks hot.
Then, you say, “You know what… I might just agree.”
“Good.” Another one of his stares to the side, through the door of the room. “You think we should very quickly and very harmlessly use Jieun’s shower? She probably wouldn’t mind.”
“I don’t think she would. But she’d certainly know what happened.”
“Least of our concerns,” he argues, getting up stark naked. He pats your thigh and then tugs at your arm, adding, “We’ll be tidy. And then we can rest a bit and leave. Am too fired up anyway.”
You know things might change again once you’ve slipped into your clothes and walked out into the night air. Perhaps the passion was reserved for this very room, actually a result of unbridled lust and tension.
But you think it’s okay. It’s okay as you giggle in the shower, flirting and bantering.
Because even if you part from Jeon Jungkook and all this as just a saccharine memory, you’re ready to seize just a little more of this stolen moment before reality sets back in.
5:12AM, Him
Whether it’s the numbers glowing on his digital watch or the fact that the two of you didn’t rest as much as you’d anticipated after all, he doesn’t know.
The residual heat of the past hour has warmed his body and relaxed his muscles; your touches still haunt him, crawling over his skin and sitting on his knees, tempting them to buckle. And your voice, your sounds… like a ghost in his mind.
And you urging him to climb the nearby hill with you, surprisingly steep, doesn’t help. He doesn’t know why you’d choose such a place at such an hour. The occasional forest around you is dark, chirping, and the road is empty.
Perhaps you feel secure in the presence of another; in this sense, it’s even flattering that you trust him this much.
But he’ll admit that his still wobbly condition and this stop of the night are slowly bringing him to his limits. The blazer, at least, is already hanging over his arm, giving him more space to breathe.
You’re piloting the way, careful, navigating with the help of the light beaming from the occasional street lamps. Jungkook sighs in a half-complaint when the road doesn’t end, nobody around far and wide.
You’re similarly out of breath when you turn to look over your shoulder, barely for a moment before you continue to escort him further up. Then, you encourage, “Come on! We just rested. How are you already tired?”
“Woman. We’ve been walking for a pretty long time.”
“Uhmmm,” you exclaim, swaying when you pull your hair over your left shoulder, “tell me something. What’s your sleep schedule usually like?”
Well, shit.
Jungkook can already tell what you’re referring to, but the counterargument already sits ready in his brain, just in case. Yet, he hesitates. Studies his surroundings to make sure he knows the way back, stalling on purpose, and when you ask, “And?”
He answers, “Uh. Late. I slept at 7AM just last week.”
“What?!” Your voice is high-pitched, in disbelief, and whatever point you wanted to make is stuck in your throat upon the revelation he divulged. “Holy shit, Jungkook.”
“Yeah, but like,” he immediately works on justifying, making use of the comeback he’d already thought out, “I don’t walk around town, you know? I spend these nights eating or singing or—”
“Woah. You sing?”
“Yes, but. I will not sing to you now.”
He catches up with you in one long step, regarding your countenance. Even in the dim light and the pitch dark, he recognises the roll of your eyes, as if to say, “I wasn’t even going to ask.”
But instead of vocalising that very overt thought, your answer comes as smoothly as silk, “It’s fine. You sang to me plenty tonight.”
Jungkook nearly chokes on his spit, disguising his surprise as in the hike reasoned exhaustion. His mind needs a moment to fix itself, but when the balance is restored again, he wisecracks, “You’re one to talk. May I remind you of what you sounded like earlier?”
“You can. But I do remember myself, thank you.”
Damn it. You’re a step ahead all the time. He can’t even outsmart you the way he wants to.
“Way to diss me. You’re hardcore,” he complains, “and here I thought you were kind and sweet and all of that.”
Jungkook nearly retracts his statement, because you throw such a perplexed and disbelieving stare back that he shrinks, reprimanded, “Can’t I be both? A woman can certainly be both, man.”
“Of course,” he agrees, hands up as if he’s being arrested, “of course. You’re both, for sure.”
He anticipates more scolding and scowls, but it seems you’re satisfied with the response he gives. You grant him a pleased, lopsided smirk that resembles his own, and then sigh into the night air, long and deep before your breath morphs into—
A mixture of a gasp and a shriek.
“Wh—” Jungkook blurts, barely registering the movement scurrying from the left side of the forest into the trees right of him. “The fuck.”
And just as fast as your gasp appeared, it diminishes, too, turning into a throaty laugh. Jungkook listens in to the echo of the rustles, still seeing the bushes move; whether because of the animal that just flit past or the breeze, he can’t say.
His eyebrows shoot up when he looks at you, coming down from the quiet chuckle, and he only realises that your elated joy stems from the way he’s standing right now.
He must’ve instinctively dashed forward, an arm in front of your body, shielding it with his. It was just a squirrel, and in all honesty, it is the two of you who are trespassing, disturbing the forest life with your presence at such a time.
Yet, his reaction must’ve been immediate enough to protect you from whatever loomed in the dark, and you seem to like it for some reason. Because as he clears his throat and lets his arm sink, all you comment is a fascinated, content, “Wow.”
“Uh… all good.”
“Yes. All good indeed.”
Your voice is tinged with a combination of gratification and tease, as if you’re one utterance away from adding a little, “My knight in shining armour.”
Instead, you bite your tongue and look around; Jungkook sees what you perceive a mere moment later. The surroundings clear, the forest less dense; on the left side, a vast opening appears, a wide path ending in a… cliff?
And behind that, the town.
If there was a soundtrack to his life, he’d probably hear violins playing right now. Reminiscent of the wind, perhaps accompanied by piano keys that sound like the softly glimmering stars above.
The picture is breathtaking. Not that he hasn’t been at such a spot before — he grew up in a big, mountainous city.
But since he didn’t expect for the hill’s peak to allow such art, he’s a little more overwhelmed than he expected to be.
From behind, he hears you say, “In any case. Let’s rest here?”
“Uh-huh.”
It’s hard to avert his eyes. All night long, he’s only felt like this once; this marks the second time.
Gratefully, he walks up to where you’re making yourself comfortable, flattening your dress and settling your bag on your lap. You pull a thin, short cardigan out of it, slipping into it. It’s certainly cooler up here.
And then, you pat the spot next to you, and he lets himself fall with a sigh; it’s been a long night, and despite the restful-not-restful hour you spent at Jieun’s, it feels as though he’s truly easing up just now.
Jungkook puffs out a breath and takes another look. Properly this time, blinking as if this could help his eyes focus better. Gorgeous. He can see the river from here, flowing through the town in curves, like a snake.
He can’t see the entire city, but most of it; it goes up and down. Skyscrapers and then cosy houses like the ones before again. Mountains far away and the lights of the amusement park somewhere in the east. They’re the brightest of them all.
“Wait,” he says; you oblige, waiting, watching as he heaves the camera out of his bag.
He only registers you from his side vision, but he thinks you’re wearing a smile; confirmed when you breathe to speak again, and his eyes drift to you, immediately decoding the pride in your sparkling pupils.
Why do you look proud? Then again, he guesses he would, too, if he showed you something that he loved and you enjoyed it, too.
Thinking about it, he kind of wants to do it someday.
He pulls at his lower lip, releasing it soon, blinking again as if to release the thought. Instead, he listens as you ask, “You’ve never been here before?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Hidden spot then.”
“It’s beautiful. Look there,” he points to a spot that you carefully follow, even squinting an eye shut; it makes him smile. “That’s the ferris wheel in the amusement park. Can you see? Wait.”
The camera comes to use when he points the lens at the direction he signalled towards, nimble hands working on zooming in. The picture unfocuses before the lights of the amusement park flicker again.
It’s late, he thinks; then again, the summer is coming to an end, the last nights used to keep such attractions open late. September will bring forth grey clouds again, leaving behind the prior season’s heat. Raining down on him, forcing the leather jacket out of his closet.
He likes it that way.
No offence to the summer whatsoever; but he likes the fresh gust dishevelling his soft hair. Likes it when the rain patters against the window glass so softly. He sleeps better that way, too.
Barely sitting for a moment, Jungkook already gets to his feet, nearing the edge until he’s kneeling on the ground. The distance has only faded by a couple feet, not much of a difference. But the feeling of the city nearing still persists somehow, tickling his mind just right.
He doesn’t know how long he squats there against the backdrop of the luminescent sea, but when he comes back to you, you’re still sporting that excited smile, eyebrows high. Your eyes fall to the camera, humming when he says, “Look. There.”
He magnifies the picture, every spot of it good enough to pin against the living room wall. Carefully, he hands you the camera; surprising, because he regards this pricey piece of plastic as sacred. You probably don’t know how big of a deal it is that he lets you handle it.
If you did, you’d never let him live it down.
You scoot closer, your temple now nearly touching his. You stare with an interest he hasn’t witnessed too often before. People do not care much about pictures of scenery; in the age of media, how could they anyway? When every stock picture is already memorised and used to the point of insignificance?
But you — your mouth parts as you switch around, taking in details.
“Good?” he asks.
“Beautiful,” you sincerely mutter, returning the camera to him. You hold it like a kitten; perhaps you do know what the gesture meant. “This is exactly why I wanted us to come here.”
The moment is so serene, like balm, and he nods along with your words, calmly conversing. So it takes a heartbeat to truly untangle your words in his mind and tie them with the meaning your intention conveys.
He assumed you were just showing him random spots of the town, to allow him a glimpse into your mind and to crack your true nature. All this time, he thought you wanted to lead him to bright spaces to lighten up his perception of you.
But what you’re doing instead is turn the spotlight towards him and what he loves.
“You… did it for me?” he asks.
You, casually, as if the thoughtful act doesn’t flood him with serotonin, reply, “Yeah. To capture a couple pretty pictures. You really do love it, so.”
“I do… wow, thanks.” He pauses. Looks down to the buttons on his camera, to his hands; then back to you. “You thought of it all, right? The nice places and the short rest at Jieun’s. Now this.”
“Hmm, tried as much as possible so spontaneously.”
“Thank you. Really.”
You return his gratitude with a polite nod, leaning away until you touch the backrest of the bench. Jungkook indulges in some more that nature offers, toying with the settings, zooming in just to observe sights from a closer point.
He doesn’t notice when you sigh or when you zone off; or when your thoughts shift back to the minutes and hours of the night. He doesn’t notice; and in return, you don’t know that he’s still thinking about the intention that brought him here; that you were attentive enough to truly show that some people appreciate art.
There aren’t only fleeting nights and then forgotten memories. Because this… this right here is a core memory.
Because of you.
Are you thinking the same? Are you proud that his enmity has faded, replaced by a tender smile? Satisfied that your efforts were worth it after all — a goal reached that you set for yourself earlier tonight.
Let me show you pretty places until the sun comes up, and if you still hate me by then, I will never talk to you again.
But…
He’d love to talk to you again.
However, your mind hasn’t quite drifted in this direction; in truth, he honestly can’t analyse or interpret you at all, because the question you pose next is far from what he’d been thinking about.
“Talking about pretty… uhm. Did you think Jieun was pretty?”
Jungkook blinks. One eyebrow cocks up; the camera drops back onto his lap. He flashes you a squinted look, a confused laugh erupting before he asks back, “What?”
“Ah, don’t lie. She’s very pretty.”
“Sure? She is.”
He’s nearly forgotten what she looked like. But beauty is still perceived and remembered — he guesses he found her good-looking.
“And she’s everyone’s type,” you prod, “what do you think, though? If she didn’t have a boyfriend, could you imagine liking her?”
Jungkook thinks about it. Not because he wants to, but because you seem to have found an odd interest in whatever attracts him; maybe your questions are leading up to something. So he’ll play along.
“Hmm… Maybe,” he answers.
“So she is your type.”
Or maybe, you’re trying to get something out of him that you want to hear specifically. You seem so shy about it all of a sudden; not necessarily an adjective he’d assign to you.
And coming from you of all people, he somehow does not find the topic interesting. It’s weird; he doesn’t want to talk about it; he doesn’t care about Jieun, either.
So he shrugs his shoulders indifferently, lifting his camera up again. He points it at you, eternalising your surprised expression just when you open your mouth to leave out a shocked, “Hey!”
“That’s what you get for asking such strange stuff.”
“It’s not strange! I’m just small-talking.”
“You do not small-talk.”
“It could be a deeper conversation if you just admitted it.”
He chuckles, turning his body towards you, half his leg on the bench, “Admit what?”
“The type thing!”
“Sure. I don’t just have one type, though, you know?”
The dispute brought your bodies a little closer, your face far enough for him to still identify his surroundings, but near enough for him to see your eyes twinkling. The light is dancing in them. And it’s much easier to focus on it when you silence like this.
Just for a second.
Because you breathe in again ten seconds later, lightly slapping the thigh resting on the bench. The touch is cursory, tiny, nothing to overthink about — but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want it to linger.
In some way, it still does.
You ask, “Okay? What are your types then?”
“Different girls.” This time, only one shoulder shoots up. His eyes match his pensive hum. “Whoever suits me. Pretty girls but also nice girls. Especially nice girls.”
“Alright, be honest,” you begin, mimicking his position until your leg lifts onto the bench, knee nearly touching his. You’re warming up now. Finally spitting the true question soon, “Do you think I’m pretty?”
Cute.
But he’s not giving in this easily.
He smirks; he feels the dimple on one side of his lopsided smile the moment you look at it. You’re distracted enough — so he uses the mental absence to attack you with yet another picture.
For a couple blinks, you’re startled — but as he reacts to his own nonsense with a content chortle, proud of his prank, you sigh. His shoulders rise with his sneering joy, head low as he inspects the picture just taken on his camera.
He zooms into your face, mouth open and eyes wide. You do look so pretty, he thinks — better even since you washed most of your make up off. Yet, he can’t contain himself when he shows you the screen, telling you, “You look alright.”
You laugh, rolling your eyes and your gaze to the view; your giggles start quietly, and then mix with his. Before—
They soon become part of a bad harmony as more voices join your very own night. Somebody is nearing. Jungkook hears the laughter already, but the road is curved and dark; so he can’t see them yet.
You might not have expected this, because you push closer to Jungkook on reflex; just at the same time as him. He didn’t know he had it in him to always stay so alert around you. Ready to throw himself at intruders.
Crazy.
But once the voices grow in volume, the two of you are soon met with a couple walking past. They’re in love, because amidst their titter, there’s another lewd sound. Or maybe, not too bad; playful kisses?
Yes.
The guy — he’s smooching his girl’s cheek, releasing with a, “Mwah” each time. Your initial surprise soon fades and turns into delight; Jungkook sees it in the way your smile returns. And in the furrowed yet amused eyebrows…
When the couple spots the two of you, they gasp; the girl’s hand immediately bolts to her chest, as if she just encountered a wild boar. But she catches herself soon, apologising, “Oh. Sorry. We’re sorry.”
You respond with an, “It’s okay!” Jungkook shakes his head politely to shrink their worries. They’ve walked away as soon as they came, but he still hears the woman’s scolding, effect lessened by the still occurring belly laugh, “I told you to calm yourself—”
As the world quietens again, Jungkook huffs, tilting his head as he deduces, “So late and yet… Not much of a hidden spot after all.”
“It feels like an ancient hill to me. I don’t often meet others here.” You breathe in the wind, then tongue your cheek. “They probably didn’t even notice where they were going. People in love never do.”
“I guess so.”
He guesses so.
It’s been a while since he fell in love.
Your head bobs once more before you lose yourself in the skyline, sucking in more of the crisp air that’ll grace you in the upcoming months. Fall is upon the town. He inbreathes the peace, too.
His hands operate on their own; one last time, he lifts it towards you, peeks through the lens again, adjusting the focus until the object clicks again. You’re not looking at him; he caught your side profile, this time not out of mock or tease.
He means it. And you seem to know.
Because when you look at him this time, you’re not mad or irritated.
Only look at him softly, a smile that truly matches the heights you took him to.
READ BELOW!!
the fic isn't over yet – as always, tumblr has a 1k block limit that makes our lives harder than necessary lmao. read the last scene and the remaining 3k words of meraki here 🥰 (refresh if the link's not there yet)
-Just once, let him rewrite the story; Just once, he promises you will never have to watch the same ending again.
Paring◦ felix x mommy issues!reader
Genre ◦ smut with pain
Warnings ◦ The reader is described as having mommy issues though the argument is very brief so it can connect with more people, angst, talk about knives, PIV sex, CONSENT, ngl this is just some passionate lovemaking, tears during sex, references to the princess bride the greatest love story of all time I will die on this hill,
A/N ◦ This is literally a story solely based on an experience I just had with my mother and needed something to comfort me while I have a mental breakdown 😃 also if you liked this man I have mommy issues I severely need reassurance 😭
can somebody please tell me if this is convoluted because I tried to make it poetic but I don't know if I just made it messy. THANK YOU.
Soundtrack ◦ Family Line by Conan Grey, Cover me by Stray Kids
~cookiecreates 🍪
The screen flickers off.
The velvet curtains close.
The world fades to black.
The End
Your ribs crack open, heavy sobs echoing through the gaps of your unfolded bones. Your hands make purchase around your shredded soul, the warm liquid of your sorrows trickling through your splayed fingers like the shadow's phantom finger tracing the lines of your melancholy, dusting over the hill of your cheeks.
One more time.
Just one more time.
You rewind the tape-
The velvet curtains stutter open.
The screen flashes white.
Just one more time.
How many times could you watch the same movie before you realized the ending would never change?
You rewind the tape-
How many times could you lick her love off the edge of a knife before you realize the blade will never dull?
You slide the tip across your tongue-
Just one more time.
Please.
Just pretend to love me one more time.
"For once, can you admit that you're wrong?" you snap, attempting to steady your rising voice.
You've been arguing with your mother for centuries, your breath grating across your throat like grains of sharpened sand. Talking to her was like bouncing wisdom off a wall; it will only ever come to bite you in the ass-
"I did what I had to do to teach you discipline; you were unruly-"
or punch you in the face.
"I was nine!" you shout, a weak and wounded cry. "Nine!"
How could she not see that?
"I did it because I loved you."
She rips your heart out of your chest, only to dust a gentle finger underneath the curve of your jaw; her sweet smile coaxes your lips open; she was your mother, and yet, with a wicked gaze, she draws her fingers together—you choke, a thick river of blood flows onto your tongue like a bitter stream of a thousand broken promises.
There was so much you wanted to say to her.
"Maybe you should reevaluate your definition of love."
"Maybe you should have just been a better daughter."
"Only she could spread sugar across your skin before feeding your soul to the ants."
The signal of an ended call rings through your ears as the world fades to black.
The velvet curtains close.
The screen flickers off.
The movie sputters to a stop.
The End
All you wanted to hear was I'm sorry.
All you have ever wanted to hear was I'm sorry.
You are far too entranced with the stillness of your spine to hear the door creak open, Felix’s hesitant footsteps carefully creep closer. It is only when he mumbles a soft, saturnine "sweetheart" that you finally feel something-
"How did it go?" Felix believed the strings of your souls were so intertwined, the two of you experienced emotions the way an instrument feels the thrum of a cord; but as your heart pumps with an intangible amount of anguish, maybe even for you, some feelings were simply too subjective to share.
It is only when your heart has been crushed by fingers made of feathers do you start caring a lot less about the hands made of knives.
How desperately he wishes he was a human with hinges, where he may unscrew his soul and allow your eyes to gaze upon his walls, with the knowledge that they were only ever painted with the thought of you.
He would not hurt you-
Please, collapse into him, just once-
Let him prove that you will never have to fall again-
Wordlessly, thoughtlessly, your hand chases his touch, a million different uncompleted sentences dissipating as soon as your skin connects; your fingers beg, hold me, even as your mouth shutters shut, dusty rivulets cascading across your cheeks like the desert's silky sand.
You were empty.
so, so, very empty-
Felix's soothing hands lock underneath the bend of your knees, pulling you into his warm embrace with a rush of unregistered movements.
You rewind the tape.
Just one more time.
You needed to be reminded of what it was like to not constantly live with the echo of a hollow soul.
Just one more time.
You needed to be reminded of what it was like to hear something other than a deafening crescendo of pure contempt.
Just one more time.
"Please," you have lived so much of your life caught in a perpetual state of emptiness, for once, you wanted to remember what your body was like before your mother bore you with the heavy burden of broken wings.
"Touch me," you shove the palm of his hand into your core, pleading with so much of your soul none left to protest. He gasps into your mouth, his face scrawled with worry, the etch of a million different fears drawn into the deep lines of his forehead.
Just once
Let him rewind the film
Just once
You will never have to watch the same ending again.
"Are you sure this is what you want?" Though his words are unsure, his actions tell a different story; tender hands massage the length of your thighs, reluctantly begging you to open up, to unfold your deformed ribs, where he will fill your hollow bones with the type of love you have only ever yearned for.
Just once.
"I need you."
You need him more than you need your heart to beat, your lungs to breathe; you need him more than you need the birds, the bees, the ground, the trees—
He lays you upon the silken sheets with such soulful kindness that your glassy eyes almost break; his heart thrums with the promise of I love you and the vow of I'll make you fly. His hand dips into the band of your shorts, pleasure peeking out from the shadows of your mind, only ever bobbing its head long enough to fill your skin with a minute tingling sensation—like running your hands under hot water after a long day in the snow, but it was not enough.
"I need you," you gasp into his mouth, his throat desperately sucking the sound in. His eyes widen ever so slightly, his features stricken with a sudden tightness, a burdened tonnage; you were handing him your heart with the hope his hands weren't made of blades, and the idea of the utter trust you have put in him to do that makes his stomach flip.
Just once—
He will prove it all to you.
"As you wish," nostalgia flutters in your veins as you reminisce the sentence pulled straight from the greatest love story ever told. His nose nudges the column of your throat as he presses a peck on your flesh, drifting his arms down to unceremoniously pull off his pants.
Even with such a simple act, he makes the effort to remind you that he is here.
He takes his time removing your clothes, fingers sliding across your skin with a delicate intimacy, a tender reverence; his lips trace the lines of your seams until your very atoms are etched with his name.
I hate her
I love you
I love you
I love you
He coupled every leak of anger with a river of love, kissing your limbs until all your body could remember was the pureness of his ardor.
"Are you ready?" he whispers against your skin, lining himself with your entrance, all he needs is a word to finally sink himself in. Your eyes are glassy, gazing up at him with such an unadulterated passion, a pure amount of pain—this will tear you apart, and he promises with every fiber of his being, he will put you back together.
"Yes." You have lived most of your life with the heavy burden of a body’s broken wings, and it isn't until Felix’s crafted hands finally crease your ribs that you realize origami can only emerge when you fold it up, the way a bird can only fly when it falls.
You are an amalgamation; so much of your soul is lost in his lips you don't know where he begins and you end, but when a rush of pleasure tingles up your spine, you don't care.
The world is tangled somewhere on the edge of in-between space and time, melding together into a mushy, gushy substance that slips through your fingers as they lace in his raven locks. You pour all your pain into the slit of his lips, where he sucks in every drop, leaving no room for your protests.
You were both overcome with a flood of delicate feelings—the passion that surged with the twists of your heartbeats began to be too much to bear; as his hips ruthlessly rut into yours, you cry out, chasing the edge of a daydream. So close, so close, so—his lips taste like I love you and his tears like I'm here. You can only hear the crash of your soul shattering before his ginger fingers sew you back together.
The juxtaposition of that orgasm was astounding.
You both slam down into the earth at the same time, holding each other's tired bodies as the ground swallows you up.
His arms lock around your head, quivering as he struggles to hold himself up, droplets of tears land on your cheeks as they dip down the slope of his nose. He was so perfect-
so, so, very perfect.
Your mouth raises to kiss a tear clinging to the tip of his nose. He chokes, squeezing his eyes shut. You both are thrumming with tension, overflowing with emotion; before you can even blink, he is pulling you to his chest, naked and sticky, he holds you closer than you have ever been.
It is through the tears of others that we remember we are alive.
Just one more time.
Rewind the tape and let him kiss your shattering soul with the knowledge that has already rewritten the ending.
Summary: When you, down on your luck and looking for a place to live, see the Sigma Kappa Zeta fraternity ad for an "In-House Stay", you apply and are accepted. Your duties? Cooking...cleaning...oh, and pleasing your assigned members: Hwang Hyunjin and Bang Chan.
Chapter One: Of Breakups & New Housing
Chapter Two: Of Ex's & Tesla's
Chapter Three: Of Blowjobs & Birthdays
Chapter Four: Of Pineapples & Punishment
Chapter Five: Of Mirrors & Lessons
Chapter Six: Of Joy Rides & Hot Tubs
Chapter Seven: Of Watching & Submiting
Chapter Eight: Of Drive-Ins & Wishes
Chapter Nine: Of Halloween & Hallways
Chapter Ten: Of Yin & Yan
Chapter Eleven: Of Triple N's & Multiple O's
Chapter Twelve: Of Delays & Professor Bang
Chapter Thirteen: Of Girl Talk & Berry
Chapter Fourteen: Of Surprises & Closets
Chapter Fifteen: Of Showers & Cabins
Chapter Sixteen: Of Chan & Cuffs
Chapter Seventeen: Of Futures & Flights
Chapter Eighteen: Of Beaches & Baclonies
Chapter Nineteen: Of Chokers & Christmas
Chapter Twenty: Of Father's & Basements
Chapter Twenty-One: Of Change & Reluctance (7/18)
Chapter Twenty-Two: Of Rotations and Karaoke (Coming Soon)
Chapter Twenty-Three: Of You (Coming Soon)
References:
SKZ House Photo Book (to help you picture certain scenes)
✒ Summary: Three years of being Seoul's power couple earns you nothing but a big fat divorce settlement and your face plaster on every gossip column around town. You're angry, hurt, and desperately want to move on, but worst of all? You're still in love with the man who started the whole mess, even though the most he can ever see you as is a friend. The renowned actor you've hired to be your company's new endorser seems to have a soft spot for you though. He's easy on the eyes, you'll admit, but who actually wants a divorcee like yourself? It's unrealistic really.
pairing: ex-husband ceo!jungkook x ceo!reader, actor!taehyung x ceo!reader (not poly!)
genre/AU: angst, smut, fluff, loverstoexesto ?, coworkers2?, unrequited love
word count: tbd
Warnings: oc and jk are both 30, Taehyung is 32, swearing, alcohol consumption, sexism in the media and business world, morally grey characters, toxic relationships, mentions of therapy, abandonment issues, and explicit sexual content (specified per chapter)
playing: Unkiss Me, Apologize, Hate That I Love You, etc.
a/n: ik what you're thinking! This header is low effort but it's what i got for now 😫 forgive me pls! Also yeah its another fricken taekook love triangle-ish bc I can't let this scenario go. Was supposed to be a oneshot but here we are...i hope you enjoy! 🌹❤
Chapters
༓ chapter i —
"I lie to my heart 'cause I thought you felt it" [3.3k]
༓ chapter ii —
"You can't light a fire, if the candle's melted" [4.5k]
･ masterlist ･
{ This work is intended for adult audiences only. Minors DNI. }
pairing: weed dealer!hyunjin x (afab) reader | genre: non-idol au, college au, suggestive themes/smut | warnings: Hyunjin is a weed dealer, drug use (recreational), partying/drinking, fwb kind of vibes but with mutual pining, light angst, some fluff. Light-hearted little series. Explicit sexual content and smut.
(18+ only)
Summary: He's the guy everybody has seen around but nobody actually knows anything about except that he's an art major and sells weed...
— Chapter 1: Wanna see something cool?
— Chapter 2: Who knows what goes on in a frog's mind?
— Chapter 3: Do you know what your heart wants?
Summary: Starting your second semester at one of South Korea’s most prestigious universities should be stressful enough. Between juggling classes, good grades and a social life, your plate was full. Hoping to spice up your academic career, you thought it was a good idea to enroll as an assistant for your literature professor, whom you've held a very secret and very forbidden crush on for the past several months. What will happen now that you’re forced to work closely together? And what if your crush isn’t as one sided as you thought?
Genre: Series, fluff, angst, smut, non idol au, university au.
Chapter Warnings: Smut, more feelings, angstttttttt, softness, confessions. ONLY THREE CHAPTERS LEFT YALL.
WC: 11k
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APRIL 14TH | 10:09
When you made it to Professor Min’s office on that Thursday morning, you found his door wide open, which meant he either had a visitor already in there, or he was simply waiting for your arrival.
All you could hope as you walked down the big hall filled with professor’s offices was that it wasn’t Professor Cho. Not only was she really in a bad mood this week –which was noticed by some of your colleagues too–, you knew she was nitpicking your screenplay with unfounded criticism.
So you really didn’t want to see the woman, when you were only trying to steal an hour or so with your boyfriend.
You had barely seen Yoongi this week yet, ever since he dropped you off at Jimin’s apartment after your flight home. You both fell back into your busy schedules, as you had exams coming up that you needed to study for, and Yoongi had some of his own to formulate, not to mention writing his book.
It made you happy to see that your boyfriend was so inspired about his new chapters lately, but it made you a little sad that you couldn’t help take the load off his shoulders as much when you had mid-term projects to focus on.
As you approached the door of Yoongi’s office, with two to-go coffee cups and a small paper bag in hand and your backpack thrown over your shoulder, you could breathe a breath of relief as you didn’t find a cloud of red hair leaning over your boyfriend’s expensive wooden desk.
Professor So-won was a man quite a few years older than Yoongi, which wasn’t really all that rare for the faculty of your university. You hadn’t had classes with the man yet, but you’ve heard stories of him from your seniors, and especially Namjoon. He didn’t seem like the most strict teacher, but you weren’t particularly looking forward to being in his class either.
“Good morning.” you called softly, hitting the back of your knuckles on the opened door to announce your presence.
“Oh, hello there.” Professor So turned around from where he was sitting on one of the two chairs facing Yoongi’s desk.
You bowed respectfully to the man, and also to your boyfriend, sending him a look that was supposed to convey a question of whether or not you should come back later. He smiled softly, tight-lipped, and stood up from behind his desk.
“Come on in, miss Yn.” Yoongi called in his professional voice and you stepped into the office. “So-nim, this is Yn, she’s been working with me this semester as one of my volunteer monitors.”
“Yes, so nice to finally meet you. I have heard a lot about you from the other professors.” the older man smiled, front teeth a little crooked, offering a hand for you to shake.
You had to bend to place the small tray of drinks and paper bag on the center table next to the couch so you could accept the professor’s handshake, dropping your backpack on the stuffed cushion. You didn’t miss the way his eyes were peeking at your cleavage and you held the urge to pull your light cardigan to cover yourself.
Yoongi’s jaw was tense as he sucked his cheeks in, but it’s not like he could call the man out.
“It’s nice to meet you, too.” you forced an awkward smile. To be polite, you added: “I believe I’ll be your student next semester.”
“I’m looking forward to it.” Professor So held your hand a bit too long after the handshake, sly smile on his wrinkly face as he continued: “Hope you’ll volunteer to be my monitor as well, I can see you give your professors the special treatment.”
As he said those words your cheeks flushed and your stomach churned. You doubted Yoongi would have told this man about what was going on between the two of you, but his words were so filled with double meaning that you wondered if it was written in your face how attracted to Yoongi you were.
Seeing as you were about to panic, Yoongi stepped in and said: “Ah, that’s no special treatment, I asked her to pick up the coffee on the way.” he said, which was a lie, picking up one of the coffees and offering it to the man. “This one’s for you, So-nim. Now, I’m terribly sorry about cutting your visit short, but we have a lot of work to do?”
“Yes, yes, I’d want to be alone with her too if I was in your shoes.” Professor So said in a hush that he obviously didn’t mind if you heard. With the way he smiled at you, after receiving his –your– coffee, he wanted you to hear it. “I’ll look forward to seeing you around, Miss Yn.”
You wished you could say the same.
You bowed once more, only your head this time, lest you get your breasts stared at again. Yoongi patted the old man in the back, walking him to the door of his office and saying his goodbyes. You pretended to get busy while organizing the papers messed about on Yoongi’s desk, while not actually moving them as you knew your boyfriend had a very particular way he liked his things to be.
Your back was to the entrance of the office, so you didn’t see the man leave, but you heard the soft closing of the door and Yoongi’s audible sigh. When you turned around again, you saw the lines on Yoongi’s forehead and the slump in his shoulders.
“Hello, darling.” he greeted, soft smile on his lips as he approached you. “I’m sorry about him.”
“Not the first professor to have the hots for me, don’t worry.” you assured him, even if the mere thought of that man even thinking of you like that sent the bad kind of shivers through you. “You should know that.”
Your joke was supposed to lighten the mood, and it did push a tiny smile in the corner of his lips. Yoongi touched the side of your face and pressed his lips against yours in a gentle kiss that was followed by another sigh.
“Rough morning?” you offered, hands resting on his shoulders as you squeezed to try and get rid of some of the tension resting there.
“Hm.” he nodded, always the man of few words. “Rough week. Assignments are piling up, and Hoseok gave me not so great news about the novel.”
“Oh no, what is it?”
Yoongi pulled away from you to stand beside you instead, resting his body against his desk. He must really be tired, for the way he slumped backwards. His hand rested on the top of the wood, pinky threading through yours as if he needed at least the slightest of touches to breathe properly.
Albeit tired, he looked really good today, too. Black slacks that were clearly tailored, a light blue dress shirt with sleeves already rolled neatly to his elbows, and glasses on his pretty face, the ones you liked so much.
“They want to publish it around fall. Something about a market opening, or people buying more books when the weather gets colder.” he told you with a little shrug.
“Isn’t that good, though? Proof that they see potential in it?” you moved away from Yoongi to get the lonely cup of iced americano and bring it to him, along with the paper bag with the pastry you got for him.
“Supposedly, yes.” another sigh. You brought the straw of the coffee to his lips and held it for him to take a long sip. “But for it to be in bookstores by October, it needs to be done by August at the latest.”
“You have three months to finish it?!”
Yoongi nodded and you could understand why he was so tired and dejected. You felt bad for him, knowing that he unfortunately didn’t have the freedom to work on writing as much as he probably wished he had, not when he had a full time job in one of the most prestigious universities in all of South Korea.
“You’ll have summer vacation before that.” you tried to give him something positive to look at, holding back a smile as Yoongi parted his lips for you to bring the drink to his lips again; like a baby. “Then you’ll have two months to focus on it?”
“If I don’t go to Daegu to see my family, eomma might actually disown me.” Yoongi quipped. Then his cheeks turned slightly blushed as he added: “And I was hoping we could do something too. During summer.”
“Us?” it felt silly to ask, as that was obviously what he was hinting at, but you wanted to make sure.
“Maybe we could go to Jeju, just the two of us.” he voiced, eyes avoiding yours as he busied himself in taking a look inside the paper bag. “Thought you might like to just chill by the beach.”
“I’d like that very much, yes.” you grinned.
Yoongi knew you were from Busan, so you grew up by the beach and living in Seoul meant you hadn’t been to one in a while. He wasn’t particularly fond of the sun, or the water, or the salt, or the throngs of tourists that crowded the island during summer. But he’d go through all of that if it made you happy.
Besides, having you walking around in a bikini wasn’t the worst idea in the world. Not to mention, being so far away from Seoul, you could enjoy being a couple, like you did in Japan. For a little while longer than a weekend.
You were already smiling prettily at the idea, which made Yoongi push away the overthinking that tried to tell him you probably had plans for the summer already; maybe a roadtrip with friends, or even an extra class at SNU’s summer program. It made him feel better for the quick research he did last night, already having found a quiet little place at the south of the island, with a couple of campervans for rental instead of regular hotel rooms.
“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do,” you said in newfound determination. “You’re going to let me grade the assignments while you work on whatever chapter you’re writing for the novel.”
“Baby, no, you need to study.” he denied with a frown.
“That’s okay, I have more time than you do.” you shook your head, placing the coffee on the little cup holder on his desk and eyeing the pastry on his hands. “First you’re gonna eat, then you’ll work on your book.”
“You’re too good to me.”
Yoongi was very aware you were willing to let your own university work pile up in order to help him out. Not only that, but you brought him breakfast, when he forgot to eat anything all morning.
“I’m not doing this for you.” you pointed out with a cheeky smile as you grabbed the papers that needed grading from his desk. “I’m thinking about warm ocean water and tanning in the sand.”
“Sure, pretty girl.” Yoongi’s chuckle was a little lighter, a little more hopeful. “Thanks.”
You pressed another kiss to his lips on your way to the couch, which was quickly becoming dented with your shape from the many hours you spent there. You wondered if Chan, Yoongi’s other monitor, even ever stepped foot inside this office. If you weren’t already getting paid in kisses, you should really get extra extra-credits for all of your hard work.
The space fell into a quiet, comfortable silence that was only broken by the crumpling of the paper bag after Yoongi was done eating and the clinking of the melting ice whenever he sipped his coffee. Those little noises were quickly replaced by the all too familiar sound of your boyfriend’s keyboard and the scratch of pen on paper as you read through and graded his assignments.
Just like that night you first kissed –and totally fucked in the backseat of his car–, you kept glancing up at the man, catching him staring at you more often than not. Instead of pretending nothing happened, he’d either hold your gaze or send you a barely-there smile that made the butterflies in your stomach take flight.
When it happened for the fifth time, you called him out on it:
“Excuse me, Professor Min, but I don’t think staring at me is helping your book.”
Yoongi scoffed, Professor Min wasn’t something you called him often, especially not when it was just the two of you in a room. With a cocked eyebrow, he challenged: “You’re my muse. Staring at you actually helps quite a lot.”
“What scene are you even writing?”
You were squinting as you rested the papers on top of the coffee table in order to stretch your legs and walk to Yoongi; the pull you felt toward him didn’t allow you to stay away from him for very long. He pushed his rolling chair a little further away from the desk to allow you to stand in front of him and peek at his screen.
Most of his things were exactly where he left them this morning, before going out to question Mr. Lee about the call. But he knew something wasn’t right.
Maybe it was the faint smell of tobacco in the air, when he hadn’t held a cigar in years. Or maybe it was the carmine envelope resting atop his desk.
One that wasn’t addressed to him.
In fact, it didn’t have any addresses at all. Only a name.
Her name.
You let out a little gasp as you read the words on the screen, turning around to face Yoongi and his smug smirk as he knew his mystery novel was turning out great. You settled on top of his desk, knees dangling from the edge, as you asked:
“Please tell me you’re not killing her off.” you pleaded. “She’s a really cool character and I love how you’re making her a co-protagonist, not just the love interest you were reluctant to even add.”
“She is not dying.” he told you with that side smirk that showed just how powerful he felt over the lives, decisions and future of his characters. “They might just break up for a chapter or two, just to make things interesting.”
“What?!” you squealed, crossing your arms against your chest. “You can’t do that!”
“Yes I can, darling, I’m the author.”
There it was again, the infuriating side smirk of who had all the power in the world. At least his fictitious world. Yoongi rolled his chair closer to you, both hands landing on your knees as his thumbs dragged over your skin.
“Wow, power really changes people.” you tskd with a shake of your head as you watched his pale fingers dancing on your knees, gently prying them apart.
“You know what also changes people?” Yongi asked with a dark gaze behind his glasses. You answered with a hum as his hands caressed your naked calves. “Pretty girls.”
“Is that so?” you scoffed, pushing a strand of dark hair behind his ear.
“Oh, yeah.” Yoongi chuckled, leaning closer to your legs to kiss the inside of his knee. The moment his lips touched your skin, you sighed. “Before you, I only had books and work on my mind.”
“What’s on your mind now, baby?” you asked softly, fingers slipping into his long hair to hold the back of his head and keep him close.
Yoongi hummed as he left a trail of kisses from your knee to the inside of your thighs, pulling you closer and closer to the edge of his desk as you parted your legs wider, breathing growing heavy as your heart started to beat faster.
“Can’t stop thinking ‘bout you.” he told you with open mouthed kisses on the inside of your right leg, inching closer and closer to your core. “Right here, actually.”
“O-on your desk?” you cursed yourself for stuttering as you felt his smirk growing against your thigh.
“Mhm. Can’t tell you how many times I pictured bending you over and fucking you right on top of it.”
With a harsher pull, Yoongi forced your ass to slip off the edge of his desk, which sent you tumbling backwards, elbows hitting the wooden surface as you gasped and tried to find some balance. He took your feet by the ankles, making you drop your ballet flats to the floor, and placed your soles on the armrest of his chair.
“Oh my god, Yoongi.” you gasped as the position he put you in opened you up for his own enjoyment.
“I love the way you say my name.”
His hands were traveling freely, rubbing your skin. You laid your back on his desk, never so glad that it was so sturdy and wide. Yoongi’s hands hooked on the crook of your thighs and he leaned impossibly closer to your clothed pussy that you felt his warm breath as if there was nothing separating you from him.
“This okay, baby?” he still checked, which surprisingly made you clench.
“I’m yours, Yoon. Do what you want.”
That was all the consent he needed to push your panties out of the way and press his mouth against your pussy. You covered your lips with a hand, knowing you could be quite vocal when Yoongi went down on you and this wasn’t the safest setting for any of this.
Especially not with the way he licked you up and down with a strong tongue as skilled as his was. You were growing wetter and wetter with each slurp, flick and swirl of his tongue, movement and sucks of his lips. Your hand shot out to hold his hair and push him closer to your cunt, using the perch of your feet on the arms of the chair to swivel your hips against his face.
“Gonna use me, baby?” he grunted, lips latching onto your clit.
You were all gasps and soft moans as you nodded mindlessly, biting down on your palm as the tip of Yoongi’s tongue circled your bundle of nerves, then flicked it from side to side.
But then the door of Yoongi’s office was pushed open, followed by a surprised gasp and a squeak in a tone you didn’t recognize.
Yoongi heard everything at the same time you did, pulling his shiny lips away from your pussy as he had been burnt. You closed your legs shut and jumped off the desk, almost stumbling to the floor as your knees wobbled and your heart was in your throat. You almost didn’t want to look behind you, fearing who it might be.
Your boyfriend looked as pale as a the pieces of paper you were laying on top of, but instead of apologizing or rushing to explain, he breathed:
“Hyung.”
That’s when you turned around and not in a million years would you have guessed just who caught you in the middle of getting head on the desk of your professor.
Kim Seokjin, world superstar, actor with more awards than you could even recount.
You knew he was Yoongi’s older cousin, so you should be relieved that it wasn’t another teacher, or someone from the school board; hell, you were lucky it wasn’t a student either. Should you introduce yourself? Run away? Ask for his autograph?
It didn’t help that Seokjin was frozen in place, face completely red, lips parted.
“Shit, okay.” Yoongi broke the silence, getting up from his chair while wiping his mouth and cleaning that hand on his pant leg. “Can you, uhm, I’ll see you later?”
You realized Yoongi was talking to you when he touched the back of your arm gently, breaking you of your trance. He was giving you a way out of this embarrassing situation and you took in a stride, nodding while avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room. You pulled your skirt to the right place, ignoring your damp underwear that was uncomfortably crooked and searched for your shoes.
You never put them on this fast, proud of not getting left and right mixed up; you didn’t need any more reasons to be mortified right now. Kim Seokjin’s baffled expression was enough. And you had to walk past him on your way to grab your backpack, praying that a vortex would swallow you whole and throw you into another dimension.
The last thing you heard before the office door closed behind you was:
“Yoongi-ah. What the fuck?”
“Hyung, just–”
Yoongi sighed heavily as his cousin walked deeper into the room, willing his heart rate to settle lest he be sent into an early grave. He couldn’t look Seokjin in the face, but at least the scare made his boner fall limp instantly. Nothing would make this encounter even more awkward than having a hard one in front of the hyung.
All in all, Yoongi knew he should count his blessings that –the one time he forgot to lock his door– it was Seokjin that caught him with you, not another professor, not another authority figure. It was enough to send the looming danger away, as he knew Jin wouldn’t tell anybody about this, but he was still mortified.
Seeing as the younger man didn’t have anything to say for the time being, Seokjin pressed:
“What happened to the woman you were getting to know? The one you told me about during our lunch?” that question made Yoongi frown. Was that really the first thing he had to say about what he just walked into? “I thought you took her to Japan with you and Hobah?”
“I did.”
“Are you cheating on her with a student?!” Seokjin squealed, high pitched voice almost enough to break the glass on the windows.
“Hyung.”
“Your eomma raised you better than this. And after what Sana did to you, you're doing it to someone else–”
“Hyung, will you listen?” Yoongi hissed before the man could go on a tangent about all of his horrible life choices and his poor mother’s disappointment if she found out what her youngest son had been up to. “I'm not cheating on anybody, that's her. That's the woman I told you about, that's who I took to Japan.”
Seokjin seemed to settle after that, and when Yoongi looked at his face, he could read as the hyung analyzed and understood the weight of his words. A few emotions were present during his realization: Surprise, shock, disbelief.
And something akin to disappointment that Yoongi decided to ignore.
“She's a student.” Seokjin pressed, a little quieter this time, letting his weight fall on the couch.
“No shit.” Yoongi got up from behind his desk, walking to the little cupboard to the side where he kept a whisky bottle stashed and two glasses.
“She's your student.” the hyung repeated.
“Technically, no, she's not in my class anymore.” Yoongi sat down next to the hyung, filling one of the glasses with the bitter drink and handing it to the man.
“Don't come to me with technicalities. You know you could lose your job for this.” despite the accusing words, Seokjin wasn’t meaning to be rude, Yoongi knew that much. “What if it wasn’t me at the door, what if it was the dean?”
“He would knock, for one.” he laughed, a cringy sound that was more deprecating than fun. “And I know it's dangerous, I know I shouldn't have gotten involved with her, but it's a bit too late for that now.”
“What did you do? Did you knock her up?” Jin’s eyes went wide and he flipped the drink down his throat, offering Yoongi his glass to fill up again. Yoongi copied the idea, serving them both new doses.
“No, hyung, please. She's my girlfriend.”
“Your–” Seokjin was in the middle of taking a sip, falling into a coughing fit as it went down the wrong pipe. “Yoongi-ah!”
Yoongi placed the bottle of alcohol on the coffee table in front of the couch, next to the neat pile of assignments you had been looking over. Your pen was still there, blue ink on a velvet, lilac body. I looked smooth to the touch, with details in gold. Not something you’d find in a regular shop.
“She won't be a student forever, she'll graduate in a couple of years.” Yoongi spoke into his glass, wetting his tongue and lips with the rich flavor of the expensive drink, eyes stuck on your pen.
“Forever?” Jin repeated. “Do you seriously consider a future with this girl?”
“Yes, hyung.”
Jin was quiet for a while, until the couch creaked under his weight and he turned to stare at Yoongi’s profile. “Okay. Okay. I see what's going on.”
“Please, enlighten me.” Yoongi leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, sipping on the drink slowly.
“This happened to me in my early thirties too. Of course, I dealt with it differently, but–”
“What are you talking about?” he turned to the hyung then, with lines between his brows and a sneer on his lips.
“A midlife crisis. That's what this is, isn't it?” Seokjin deduced, as if the hints were all there and it was obvious. “You're scared that your youth is almost over, and when are you going to have another chance at having an affair with a– how old is he?”
“Twenty three.”
“She's a decade younger than you–”
With a slightly annoyed scoff, Yoongi cut him off: “That's not a problem for us.”
“Can you even keep up with her?”
“Yes, hyung, stop that.”
Yoongi grimaced. It was bad enough to have Hoseok asking things like that, Yoongi didn’t need his almost-brother to be concerned about his sexual affairs.
“What do you even talk about? I'm sure there are like, at least three generations between you?” the hyung continued, eyes getting lost somewhere behind Yoongi.
“She's– mature for her age.”
“That's what creeps say to justify their attraction to young girls.” Seokjin pointed out.
“Did you come here just to bust my ass about this?” Yoongi scoffed, more than done with this conversation, taking a gulp from his drink and letting it burn on the way down.
“No, I came here because I miss my dongsaeng and I was going to ask you to bring your lady over for drinks at my house so I could meet her, but I guess she's not old enough to drink.”
“If you're planning on keeping that up, I'm going to ask you to go.”
Yoongi knew this was crazy, he knew he could get in trouble, and he never planned on messing with a student. It didn’t matter if you were ten years younger than him, or even one year younger than him; your relationship was frowned upon and a lot was on the line to protect it.
Yoongi knew all of that.
But he wouldn’t let his cousin talk like that about you, he wouldn’t stand for the small jabs and the judgment, getting up from his seat to store his liquor back on its hiding spot and to get away from the hyung.
“Yoongi.” Jin called after a long sigh.
“Hm.”
“You know I love you like a brother, right?” he continued.
“Mhm.”
“I don't want to see you get hurt, 's all.” Seokjin spoke softly, stepping on eggshells, and Yoongi went back to his desk, leaning back against it, instead of walking back to the couch. “I know what that looks like, I was there when Sana left.”
Jin was actually a big part of Yoongi's process of getting over Sana. When the woman left, it absolutely wrecked him. Yoongi lived at his hyung’s house, staying in his guest bedroom for two months before he was brave enough to face the empty space Sana left behind.
Yoongi wasn't proud of the mess that he became, all the worry and trouble he gave his hyung and his friend, so he could understand where Jin was coming from.
However:
“She's not Sana, hyung. It's taken me a while to realize that, but I have.”
“She might not be, and happy for that.” the hyung was sitting sideways so he could place the empty glass of his drink on the coffee table, way too close to your purple pen and Yoongi felt weirdly protective over it. “And I’m happy to see you try again, give someone new a chance, I really am. But do you really see a future for you?”
“Why wouldn't I?” Yoongi was trying really hard not to sound so defensive.
“I don't wanna say the age thing, because it might not seem like a big difference right now, but when she's 30, you'll be 40.”
“And when she's 40 I'll be 50, what's your point?” Yoongi scoffed, hating how hearing that made his insides twist uncomfortably.
“The point is, I get why you're with her. She's pretty, I'll give you that.” Jin nodded, but all Yoongi could taste was sour. “And she seems nice enough. She might make you feel young again, like you get a new chance at life, to make up for the years you lost with Sana. A last adventure before settling in, starting a family–”
“She's not a last adventure.”
Ignoring the dongsaeng, Jin carried on: “But did you ever stop to wonder why she's with you?”
“Damn hyung, thanks.” Yoongi snapped with a scoff, rolling his eyes at the jab.
“That's not what I mean, you know that. You know you're a great guy, and any woman would be lucky to have you.” Seokjin raised a hand in the air to backtrack, getting up to walk toward Yoongi. “But at her age, are girls like her after what you have to offer? The stability, the long term commitments?”
Yoongi’s instinct was to say that yes, of course. But he knew that the fastest he answered, the more defensive he’d sound. And if he wanted to convince the hyung that he knew what he was doing, Yoongi had to keep his cool.
So he paused. And gave time for the words to make sense.
But the thought about letting the words make sense was exactly that. They did.
You never had a boyfriend before, Yoongi knew that much, always had multiple partners, always something casual. Before Yoongi, you didn't have any relationships or anything other than one night stands, you never wanted to settle.
In a way, that made him feel good about himself; he was the only one that managed to keep you.
And he never questioned it before, not like he was now that Jin brought it up so eloquently.
It also made him think about all of the ways that he needed you. How you took care of him, made sure he ate, helped him with his book and did a lot more than you had to when it came to your monitoring position.
But what did he do for you? What did he do that others couldn't? It suddenly hit him how replaceable he was for you, when you were quickly becoming someone Yoongi didn't see himself without.
APRIL 14TH | 12:15
You weren’t quite sure if you should feel humiliated after what just happened or laugh it off. You had no expectations of Yoongi introducing you to his hyung, not with the way you were caught, so you weren’t mad or remotely upset with him in that sense. You were a little annoyed he forgot to lock the door after walking professor So-won out, but you were sure he’d be cursing himself for it, too.
Having to step into a bathroom to clean yourself and put your underwear back into place was slightly awkward and embarrassing, but you were a big girl and it was hardly the first time you ever had to fix yourself in a public bathroom.
The feeling of your panties clinging to your folds, however, was really uncomfortable as you tried to walk normally when you crossed the patio outside of the Arts Department of your university, where you were supposed to meet up with your friends.
Finding Tae and Gguk was easy, as they were laughing way too loud amongst the older man’s peers who tried to chill before their afternoon classes. Your friends were sitting by one of the big, round stone tables with equally sturdy benches; nothing like you had on the Linguistics part of the campus.
In fact, the patio of Taehyung’s department of studies was made of green grass instead of cement flooring, filled with trees, plants and shade all around. From what you could see on top of the table, their cafeteria was a lot better too.
“Hey!” you chirped, pushing your concerns aside in order to steal a curly fry. “Have you been here long?”
Both men shook their heads, smiling at you with white teeth and a glint in their eyes that showed you just how much they had been laughing to themselves before you got there.
Jungkook pushed a tray closer to you, with the pack of curly fries you were already munching on and a burger. Both of them had the exact same food in front of them, just waiting for your arrival to start eating.
“Your monitoring with professor Min ended early today, noona.” Jungkook pointed out, staring at his burger as if it was the love of his life. “I don’t remember the last time you ate lunch with us.”
“Monitoring? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Taehyung snorted, which caused the both of them another fit of giggles.
“His cousin showed up, so we had to cut the work short.” you explained with a squint. “And the hell do you mean by that, Tae?”
“What do you think I mean?” the curly haired man wiggled his eyebrows exaggeratedly and you shrugged, stuffing your mouth with fries.
“I have absolutely no idea.”
Jungkook, through a full mouth of burger and an angry scowl from how good it was, stated: “Really, noona? It’s just us here, you can tell us. We won’t be upset.”
“Tell you what?” you weren’t trying to play dumb, more like find out what the dynamic duo over there was on about.
“That you have a massive crush on our teacher.” Jungkook finally spilled the beans and you choked, taking long sips of the Sprite in your plastic cup to make it go down.
“So what? Half of our class has a crush on professor Min.” you quipped, voice horace as you could still feel a piece of lettuce stuck to your throat.
“I didn’t say I was talking about Yoongi seonsaeng-nim.” Jungkook grinned with his bunny teeth and you internally slapped yourself. “And I don’t think half of our class is sleeping with–”
“Shhhhhhhhhhh.” you hissed, looking around with wide eyes, as if the stoners on the neighboring table were paying attention. “What the hell are you on about?!”
“Do you want us to pull out the powerpoint presentation?” Taehyung sent you a jutted out chin look, lips pursed as if it was obvious what they were hinting at.
“Of what–” the one bite you took of your burger was trying to come back up.
“All of the reasons why we think you and professor Min are sleeping together.” Jungkook stated, but spoke in a hush, as if it was the secret of the year.
And it kind of really was, so you started shaking your head: “Oh Jesus, no, no powerpoint!”
“Reason number one, you’re happier lately. Which means you’ve been getting consistent dick.” Taehyung started what you supposed was the resumed version of the powerpoint.
“Reason number two, you’ve always been a good student, but not enough to pull off all these extra hours with professor Min.” Jungkook lifted two fingers as if enumerating their guesses.
“Reason number three, I don’t even go to your class and I know professor Min has been glowing lately.” Taehyung said with a big nod that made his curls floof about. “It’s all the girls in my year were talking about this week. Something about shiny hair and earrings?”
“Oh my god, you two are insane.”
You tried to downplay it, focus on your food –careful not to choke this time around–, ignore their snickers and knowing eyes. But that duo was relentless, so it was only a matter of time until you caved.
“You’re not denying it.” Taehyung told you, a lot softer now, picking up his lunch to get back to eating.
“Just– keep it down, okay?” you sighed, resigned, forcing yourself to swallow the lump in your throat.
“Yes! I knew we were right!” the older boy offered his hand for Jungkook to high five it. “Why didn’t you tell us?”
“Yeah, do you not trust us, noona?” your cousin had the biggest doe eyes, ones you knew you had the exact copy on your face. If only that made you immune to it.
“Yes, I trust you.” you were nibbling on your bottom lip, resting your burger back on the tray as you looked down and your brows knitted. “I know you would never tell on us deliberately, but what if you’re talking about it between the two of you and you don’t think anyone is listening, but someone catches you? Or if you’re not careful about the teasing in class and someone notices it?”
Both boys looked at each other then, guilt obvious in their faces and you hoped to any god out there that this subject wasn’t the thing making them laugh so loud when you first saw them. Half of the students of the Arts department didn’t know Professor Min, but the other half most likely at least heard about SNU’s youngest –and daresay hottest– teacher.
“A lot is on the line here, guys.” you insisted. “We could both get in a lot of trouble.”
“Do you really like him, noona?” Jungkook asked in a tiny voice that you barely heard, which meant he at least was being careful. “Like– like him like him?”
“Yeah, I think I more than like him like him.” you nodded.
Taehyung grinned and cooed, making you blush and roll your eyes.
“We won’t tell!” We won’t even talk about it between ourselves.” Jungkook promised, and somehow you believed him.
“Zip it up!” Tae brought his thumb and pointer fingers to his lips, pretending to close a zipper across his mouth.
“Throw the key!” your cousin went along, taking the imaginary key from Tae’s lips and throwing it over his shoulder.
“Thanks, guys. I know you won’t.”
So that was six people who knew about your relationship with Min Yoongi.
Six people more than the number of people who should know about it.
At least you did really trust five of them, and you hoped Yoongi had talked to his hyung and made sure that Seokjin wasn’t about to tell anyone.
Tae and Gguk seemed to let go of the subject quite easily, after their curiosity had been satiated, which allowed you to eat your lunch in relative peace. The birds were chirping around you, the weather wasn’t too hot, nor too cold, the soda was cold and the burger was tasty. At least for a little bit, you allowed yourself to enjoy the day.
“Look who it is!” you were saying as the big, tall frame of your friend came into view.
Taehyung and Jungkook looked behind them at the same time, a chorus of ‘Namjoon hyung, Namjoon hyung!’ catching the attention of the man. He trotted to your table, dropping a kiss to the crown of your head as he sat down next to you.
“Hey, tiny.” he greeted you, turning to the other two: “Bros.”
“Bros?” you laughed so hard you almost choked on your lunch again.
“Eh, trying something new.” he shrugged, dimple poking at his cheek as he looked at you. “What’s up?”
“Just having lunch.” you offered him a bite of your burger, which Namjoon gladly chomped on. “Oh, I have your gifts in my backpack, hang on.”
You let Namjoon hold your burger, not minding that he might actually finish it off before you got back to it, in order to grab your bag from where it was resting beside you. You could have given it to them in the dorm, you were all door neighbors, and it would have been easier than to carry that weight around, but with exams coming up and your schedules being so different, you hadn’t run into them at home yet.
One by one you pulled the gifts you bought in Japan for your three friends: a set of Gansai Tambi –a traditional Japanese watercolor– for Tae; a nice action figure of a Spirited Away character for Jungkook, as you knew it was his favorite anime growing up; and a book on Japanese literature for Namjoon, the english volume, as you didn’t find a korean version, and a Pokemon bread pack.
The three of them were really happy about their gifts and Joon let you take the food back in order to not get sauce on his new book.
“Noona, the guy who took you to Japan… Is he really Jimin’s sugar daddy?” Jungkook asked you with a tiny pout, scared of what you might tell him.
And it broke your heart, but you couldn’t lie to him, or feed his hopeful little heart.
“Well, kinda? But I don’t think he’s just a sugar daddy anymore, Guk, I’m sorry.”
“Ah.” his bottom lip pushed out harder, shiny with grease from his lunch. “Guess I shouldn’t invite him to the fair this weekend?”
“Probably not.” you had a soft smile on your lips, tight lipped and sorrowful.
You were really happy that Jimin was giving Hoseok a chance, you knew in your heart that the two of them could be an item if they both tried. And it made you a little relieved that at least now your best friend would stop giving Jungkook false hope. Your heart still clenched for the boy, but it was a necessary evil for him to get over his crush and find someone who could actually give him what he deserved.
“I’ll take you to the fair.” Taehyung spoke in pout, while chewing the last piece of his burger.
“Thanks, hyung, but I meant it as my date.” Jungkook deflated.
You were about to tell him you could all go together as a big group as Taehyung beat you to it:
“I know.” the curly man wiped his mouth with a napkin and turned to face your cousin properly. “I’ll take you on a date.”
You were about to squeal when Namjoon covered your mouth with a big hand. The two of you were wide eyed, shocked as you stared at the men in front of you, scared that if you moved too much, their spell would break.
“I’ll pick you up, take you to a proper dinner after.” Taehyung continued and you grabbed Namjoon’s band from your face in order to squeeze it. “I’ll even get you flowers.”
As red as a ripe apple, Jungkook stuttered, lisp thick on his tongue: “I don’t– there’s no need for flowers, hyung–”
“Nonsense. You deserve flowers.” Tae smiled at the boy, a decided nod from his head as he stated: “Lilies are your favorite right?”
“Uh. Yeah.” Jungkook nodded, staring down at the table with a shy little smile.
“So what do you say?” Tae probed, tapping Gguk’s arm with his elbow.
“Okay.” Jungkook agreed.
“Great, it’s a date!” Taehyung chirped, going back to study his new watercolor set as if that didn’t take him any effort.
You were absolutely gobsmacked, a grin on your face as you were still holding onto Namjoon’s hand, laying your head on his shoulder as you watched the other two, wondering what they could become, hoping it wasn’t a one time thing, wondering if Tae had wanted to take Jungkook out on a date before.
And since you were so close to Namjoon, you watched it as he pulled out his phone after it pinged with a new notification. You didn’t mean to pry, really, but curiosity got the best of you sometimes.
It was a text, that much you could guess. You couldn’t see the face of a person on the contact picture, but a shot from the neck down, focusing on a woman's cleavage. You had to bite back a little tease, pretending not to be paying attention as you read their text conversation:
🌹 [13:09]: Joonie, I’d love to see you tonight. Can we make it happen?
Namjoon [13:10]: I thought you didn’t want to do this anymore…
🌹 [13:10]: You know I can’t resist you :(
🌹 [13:11]: Please? I kind of have a little favor to ask you, baby
Namjoon [13:11]: Fine, but it’s the last time.
APRIL 14TH | 21:06
When you arrived at Yoongi’s apartment, it was a little later than when you were supposed to.
You had plans of cooking dinner together and enjoying each other’s company after the busy week you both had, but the assignment due tomorrow you had to work on before leaving your dorm turned out to be a little more complicated than you were hoping for. Yoongi told you to bring it home, so he could help you finish it, but you knew that the two of you being alone in a room together, was too tempting for you to get any work done.
To make up for the time lost, as it was getting too late for you to start cooking when you reached his place, you stopped by a jajangmyeon place to pick up dinner instead. Well, you made Jungkook –your driver for the night– stop there on the way from dropping you off at your boyfriend’s apartment.
All of that in exchange for you going shopping with him tomorrow so you could help him pick a nice outfit for his date with Taehyung.
Before you even pressed the doorbell, Yoongi was already pulling the door open and engulfing you in his arms. You hugged him with one arm, as you had to hold the takeout with the other, and accepted the many kisses he placed on your lips.
“Hello, darling.” he greeted you with a tired smile.
“You… Look like you’ve been running around?” you smiled softly, hoping he wouldn’t take it the wrong way.
“Ah, yeah. You weren’t the only one busy with an assignment.” he sighed, taking the takeout bags from you so you could slip off your shoes and bag more comfortably than having to worry about balancing everything.
You followed Yoongi into his apartment, which was so surprisingly familiar to you that it really was starting to feel like home. You were definitely more comfortable here than you were at your dorm and it had nothing to do with how much more space it had, and everything to do with the man inhabiting this space.
The man that was wearing the same clothes from this morning still, one who had tired eyes behind his prescription glasses and smelled of fresh cookies.
When he led you into the kitchen, you noticed the timer on the oven was on, so you frowned.
“Did you cook?” you asked as Yoongi placed the takeout bags on top of the kitchen island.
“Ah, yeah, a little bit.” he chuckled, looking for bowls that he had already left out. “You said you were bringing dinner, so I made dessert.”
“Oh my god, Yoon.” you sighed, walking to him to stop him walking around like he was lost in his own kitchen, exhaustion clear on his posture. “You didn’t have to.”
“Yes I did, I know you always crave something sweet after a meal.” he huffed, but allowed you to hold him in place.
“I could just have a little bite of you.” you joked softly, and Yoongi cracked a tiny smile.
“I–” Yoongi took a deep breath, held it in, and exhaled. “Wanted to bake your favorite.”
“Brownies?”
“The chocolate fudge kind.” Yoongi nodded and you had to bite back a squeal.
“Still!” you said sternly, holding him by his face. “I would have preferred if you had rested instead.”
“Let me do things for you too.” it sounded like a plea, a tired confession, one you didn’t quite understand. “You do so much for me already.”
“Yoongi–”
You were about to tell him he already did so much for you; he made you laugh, he made you feel smart, wanted, appreciated. He sent you memes he thought you’d like, when you knew he didn’t understand most of them, he taught you so much about so many things. Because of him, and this relationship, so many fears of the future you didn’t even know you had were already gone.
But you didn’t have the chance to say any of that as he pulled away from you to serve the food into actual bowls, instead of eating from the styrofoam containers as you would normally do when you had meals in his office, then took the brownies out of the oven to let it cool on top of the marble.
You stayed out of his way, understanding that sometimes it was best for you to take a step back and let Yoongi do his thing. Whether it be writing his book until the wee hours of the morning, or pretending to watch a TV show while completely zoning out, Yoongi would get in a focused mood sometimes. Running on autopilot. Having to do this or that in order for his brain to let him rest.
And you desperately wanted him to rest.
“Are you sleeping over tonight?” he asked you while staring at the insides of his fridge.
“I brought extra clothes, just in case, but I don’t have to.” if you don’t want me to.
“Please stay.”
Those two words were loaded with meaning and you could tell it from the way the tips of Yoongi’s ears turned red.
“Of course I’ll stay, baby.”
“Okay.”
You got the wine glasses from the cabinet as you watched Yoongi take the bottle of white wine out of the fridge. You held both of them out and Yoongi poured just a little of it on each and you knew you should try it before committing.
Yoongi took his glass and you didn’t have to copy him this time around, bringing it to your nose to sniff the notes, then took it into your mouth and let it sit there for a while while you savored it.
“What do you think?” he asked, expectantly.
“I think it will go well with the food.” you nodded, offering the glass for your boyfriend to properly serve you. “I like that it’s peachy with a zest of nuttiness to it that will pair nicely with the noodles.”
“Damn, look at you.” Yoongi smiled, a real smile this time, pink gums on show.
“Plus, the alcohol in it will make me brave enough to ask about the visit of your cousin.”
You had stalled asking about Seokjin and whatever Yoongi had to go through after you ran away from his office this morning, cheeks instantly heating as you remembered the sheer embarrassment you felt.
Yoongi’s smile faltered, but it was still there as he let you take the wine glasses to the table, while he brought the jajangmyeon out.
Sitting at Yoongi’s table to eat a meal wasn’t a rare feature, even if more often than not he did go along with your whining and allowed the two of you to sit in front of the TV while eating. As long as it wasn’t one of your True Crime series or docs.
But you never felt so tense about it, he never avoided your eyes so much, the silence between you was never so heavy. Not even at the very start of your relationship. And you knew it had everything to do with what happened this morning.
“Sorry about earlier, I didn't really know what to do.” Yoongi started, pausing the slurping of his noodles.
“I’m a little embarrassed, I’ll tell you that.” you offered him a tiny chuckle that you hoped would make him understand you weren’t upset, nor did you expect another reaction from him. “I never met a celebrity before, but that was not how I ever thought I’d run into the first one.”
That had Yoongi laughing, which made you a little relieved. But you didn’t see his gums and his shoulders didn’t shake, but you’d count your wins. “Yeah, I can say you left an impression.”
“Oh god.”
You sighed, face flushed, and not because of the wine that you almost chugged down. Seeing your embarrassment, Yoongi continued:
“Hey, I didn’t say it was a bad impression.”
“You don't have to lie, come on.” you waved him off with a shake of your chopsticks. “Did he give you a hard time?”
“Just a bit.” he shrugged, taking a chunky piece of meat and placing it on your bowl.
“I'm sorry.” you half pouted.
“It wasn't that bad, I suppose. Hyung has been closer than my own brother for the past several years.” your boyfriend assured you, but you weren’t all that convinced. “He's seen me at my worst and seen me at my best. It's normal for him to be concerned about our situation.”
“What did he say?”
“Honestly?” the fact that Yoongi even had to ask, when he was always blunt and open in the first place, told you that you might not actually want to hear what he had to tell you.
But you still nodded, bracing yourself for whatever it was he would tell you. Only when the words left his mouth, you still frowned, and you still felt as if there was a cotton ball in your mouth:
“Hyung said he doesn't see why you're with me.”
“What?” your metal chopsticks clinking against the sides of the bowl were too loud in your buzzing ears.
“I mean, you're young, with your whole life ahead of you. We're from different generations–”
“Is that what your hyung thinks or what you think?” you interrupted him because those words weren’t his, you could tell that much. It was almost as if he was still trying to believe in them himself.
“He did paint a pretty good picture.” your boyfriend grumbled and you gave up on eating.
“Yoongi.”
Also giving up on his food, Yoongi declared: “I just think you're so great. You deserve better than me.”
You scoffed, because the statement was so preposterous that you didn’t even have time to let it settle. You had a list of things to prove him wrong and you could recite them all right now. But the way Yoongi was looking at you, the sadness in his dark eyes, told you he wouldn’t believe a word you said in the first place.
“This feels like a breakup.” was what you said.
“It should be. But I'm selfish enough to not want to let you go even when I know there's a lot more in this for me than for you.” Yoongi didn’t even sound pained, it was as if he had let whatever ideas Seokjin put in his head and let them create rotten roots in his brain.
“Please, don't talk like that, I don't like it.”
“I’m sorry, baby, I'm not trying to bring the mood down.” Yoongi chuckled, staring at his bowl of food and swirling his chopsticks around it, even if he didn’t move to eat. “Tonight was supposed to be a good night for you.”
“For me. You keep saying that.” you repeated, cogs in your brain reading the last several minutes, analyzing everything that happened ever since you stepped into the foyer. “You wanted to do something nice for me. Is that why you baked the brownies? Even while being clearly overworked?”
“I'll admit I didn't think I'd be so tired afterwards.” Yoongi said and your heart clenched. “I guess I just wanted to feel needed. Even if for something as stupid as baking a brownie–”
“Maybe you really should break up with me.”
You said, getting up from your chair just because you had too much energy to be sitting down. Yoongi let out a surprised gasp, but didn’t move from his spot. You were standing in the living room as you turned around to face him again, the distance between you bigger than the physical.
“If you don’t feel needed, I'm obviously failing at this being a girlfriend thing.” you explained. “Why would you want to stay in a relationship where you feel that way?”
“You're perfect.” Yoongi sighed.
You saw what he was doing, clear as day. Taking the blame of whatever bumps or fails in this relationship for himself. Letting you be the good one, the perfect one, while he wasn’t enough. Not for you, not for his ex-girlfriend. Maybe Yoongi had a lot more things to heal from then he even realized.
“I’m not.” you shook your head, hands in your pocket as you walked back to the table. “But I can try to start showing you how much you mean to me.”
“You don’t–” Yoongi was about to deny you, but stopped short when you took a small tape from your pocket and dragged it toward him on top of the dinner table. “What’s that?”
“I was hoping to give this to you later, but I guess you need it now.” you tapped the clear case of the mixtape you spent your every free hour this week putting together. “I hope you won’t end up burning this one.”
Yoongi was a little shocked at seeing the tape, lips opening and closing as he stared at it, scared it might burn him. You really hoped he had a cassette player, or this supposed grand gesture would completely fail. Not that you thought making him a mixtape would send away all of Yoongi’s insecurities, but you knew these little things meant a lot for him.
Maybe then he’d realize that he meant a lot to you too. No matter the years between you, no matter the challenges and other people’s opinions of it.
“I guess I’ll just go and you can give me a call if you want–” you were already taking a little step away from him and that’s when Yoongi snapped into action.
His hip bumped on the top of the table in his haste, making his curse as he grabbed the tape with one hand and reached to you with the other. “You said you would stay.”
“That was before I knew how you felt.” you were a little sad, but nothing would ever make you pull away from Yoongi’s grasp.
“I still want you to stay, I always do. We can talk about this.” Yoongi insisted and you could see the desperation behind his eyes.
Maybe this was triggering for him, maybe he was reliving the night Sana left him. Did he beg her to stay? Did he look this broken, or maybe more so? Truth is, you didn’t know if you should stay. Was this a couple’s fight? Should you be more upset about his words? Should you step away and give the two of you time to think?
It was at times like these that being so damn inexperienced when it came to real relationships made you mad. You didn’t know what you should do.
But as Yoongi’s arm circled your waist, gently tucking you into his body, face hiding on the crook of your neck as he tried to let the tension leave his body, there was only one thing you wanted to do.
“I’ll always stay if you want me to.” you promised, hugging him by the chest, kissing the side of his face.
“Thank you.” his shuddering breath was distressed, which made you hold him tighter. “I can’t believe you made me a mixtape.”
“It’s the vintage kind too, I could have just chucked songs onto a flashdrive.” you pointed out with a laugh, feeling his small shakes as he giggled quietly. “But you’re the kind of guy that should get mixtapes like this.”
“Old?” he scoffed, and you pulled away to hit him playfully on the chest.
“Ones that require dedication!” you huffed. “Who knew so much went into making that?”
“I’ll teach you tricks for the next time you want to make one.” Yoongi grinned and that was enough to calm your racing nerves. “Do you want to finish dinner?”
“I don’t think I can eat anything right now.” you grimace, which was a shame because the food was good. “I’ll just save room for the brownies later.”
“Okay, let’s go then.”
“Where are we going–”
Yoongi was already pulling you through the hallway of his home, in the direction of his bedroom. Again, not the first time he ever did that, but you didn’t think any of you was in the mood to roll around in his sheets after this semi-fight-but-not-really.
And you were right, as he sat you on the edge of his bed and went into his walk-in wardrobe to search for something until he joined you with a small cassette tape player in hands.
“Oh, no no no.” you were already shaking your head, trying to take the player from his hands.
“Why not?! You gave it to me so I can listen to it, right?” Yoongi laughed, but you wanted to slip under his bed and hide.
“Not in front of me!” you disagreed. “What if you hate the songs I chose? What if they make you think of your ex–”
“You could have added ten different versions of Baby Shark in there and I’d still like it.” he was already taking the cassette from its case, stopping to read the words you wrote with a sharpie.
‘Things I’ve been meaning to tell you’ was not the most creative title, but it was honest. And as Yoongi played the tape, much against your will, and joined you on his bed, with the little machine between the two of you, the songs filled the room, and your hearts.
It was only a twenty minute long tape, roughly six tracks, and starting with Daddy Issues by The Neighborhood seemed like a good idea at the time, followed by Sia’s Snowman, which you didn’t think he ever heard before this, but he was nodding his head along with it. Continuing with an acoustic version of Have We Met Before, from Sarah Barrios with Eric Nam, you were regretting all of your life choices. You knew most of these weren’t the usual songs Yoongi listened to, but the important thing was the message behind them.
“I really hate that you’re making me sit through this.” you were both sitting side by side, back resting against the headboard as the songs filled the room.
“It’s not that bad–”
“Thanks!” you huffed with an incredulous laugh, trying to go away, but he held you with a strong hand and gorgeous smile.
“That’s not what I mean.” Yoongi pulled you into his chest and you reluctantly laid there. “Just… There’s a lot of feelings behind these songs.”
“I have a lot of feelings for you.” you gumbled as you felt the kiss on the top of your head.
You fell into silence again, as LeeHi’s Only started to play and you dared to say you heard Yoongi humming along with it, which was surprising enough that he knew that one well enough.
To bring things more to a vibe Yoongi might actually like, you had added Catch, by Epik High ft. Hwasa. Yoongi’s laugh made you shake and you closed your eyes trying not to combust into flames.
“I need to use the bathroom–”
That was an excuse that Yoongi couldn’t really fight with, so as the last song came to an end, you slipped out of his bed and out of his room. He was shaking his head as you escaped him, heart beating so fast it was a miracle that you didn’t hear it when you were laying on his chest.
Yoongi was about to take the tape out of the player, to safely store it away, when he heard the familiar sound of your voice coming out of it.
“Hello? Is this working? I hope it is, or I’m giving up on this.” your voice was a little far away, a little scratchy from the noise clutter as you recorded yourself as the last track on his mixtape. Yoongi couldn’t help but chuckle, imagining the little frown on your head as you stressed yourself out when creating this gift for him. “Soooo. Hi. It’s me. Yn? I mean you know who it is, dammit–” you cut yourself off and Yoongi laughed harder, understanding why you had fled away from him during this part, but he wanted nothing more than to see the blush on your cheeks. “Guess I wanted to make this tape for you, to tell you what I think you should already know by now. But since I know you, and you’re a little overthinker at times, I thought I could just be really obvious about it, so.” there was a pause and Yoongi’s cheeks were hurting from smiling so much. He just thought you were so cute to even add a message at the end of the tape. “Yeah. I love you, Yoongi.”
It was at that moment, listening to the songs, and to your words, that he realized.
For the first time in his life, Yoongi didn't have to do anything for someone to want to be with him. He didn't have to cook a different meal every night, didn't have to lack on his work or his books to make more time for you, didn't have to settle for less than he deserved. All things he had done to keep Sana happy, when it wasn't even enough to really keep her at the end of their relationship.
Seokjin was wrong. Yoongi knew what was in it for you, what you were getting from this relationship.
You were getting him.
And that was enough for you.
“Darling, come back here.” came Yoongi’s voice from the inside of his room, after your own voice disappeared and you could stop hiding in the hallway.
“So, uhm. The brownie must be cool enough to cut–”
“I love you, too.” he said, making you bite your lips to stop the dopeyest smile to split your face.
“You do?!” you skipped your way back to the bed, jumping on it with your knees.
“Uh huh.” he smiled, all white teeth and pink gums. “A lot.”
“We’ll figure it out, yeah?” you said, throwing yourself on top of him, hearing his oof as he caught you. “I promise.”
Thinking about being so afraid of giving your virginity to someone who doesn't deserve it and confiding in your bff chan. Chan would be concerned. He offered to take it if you trusted him. Of course you did. He touched every part of you with love and adoration. You thought you be more nervous, but you felt so calm in his arms. He made sure you weren't in too much pain. The aftercare was perfect. He made sure you were comfortable. Chan was prepared to give you space if that's what you wanted, but you really needed him to be close to you. After this, you couldn't imagine being just friends. You both fell asleep to the sound of rain on your window. You woke to him smiling down at you, his curly hair messy with sleep. You stomach was filled with a million butterflies. Your friendship would never be the same.
Summary: Upon returning to your hometown after breaking off your engagement to your boyfriend of three years, you reconnect with your childhood bestfriend as you attempt to put the pieces of your life back togethe r. It seems like nothing has changed in the sleepy little town until your bestie's younger brother returns home from college - very, very grown. As the summer stretches on, the stakes get higher - can you play with fire without getting burned, or have you ignited a flame that won't be extinguished?
Chapter Warnings: All my fics are 18+ (minors, dni); allusions to an unhappy home environment/neglect; descriptive scenes of shared meals (the characters will eat together a lot in this fic, as it is part of a family dynamic); mentions of promiscuity made in jest; the accidentally-in-bed-together trope; brief panic attack symptoms; MC has some issues with guilt and feeling like a burden
Updates: When I can! Life has been crazy lately.
Author's note: This is so incredibly late in coming, and I really struggled with it for whatever reason (the initial inspo was there and then it just wasn't coming) but I am still excited to tell this story and thank you in advance to anyone who takes the time to read it!
*Inspired by "Blame Me" by Monsta X 💕
In case no one has told you yet today, you are loved and worthy of love! 🧜♀️ 💜
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You watched the shiny white Tesla that had been your Uber grow smaller and smaller down the long shady stretch of Foxglove Avenue. You stood on the sidewalk, behind you the warm asphalt of the road and long shadows of the tall, sprawling elms, and before you your childhood home. A little grey house with a blue door and white trim, kitchen windows like jovial eyes, curved at the top, staring out over a lawn overrun with crabgrass and lined with bushes of pale pink roses that grew flush with the unpainted picket fence. The porch swing was beginning to show signs of rust, but the two little hanging pots of azaleas that flanked it on either side were blooming and bright. The windows and flowers seemed to loudly stare out into the street, assuring neighbors and passersby of a happy home, but you knew better.
You shifted your duffel bag on your shoulder and sighed. You weren't ready to go in. The house into which your family had moved when you were in the third grade had never really been a home to you. In fact, it had been a place you had left. By choice. Granted you had paid the occasional visit, by choice. Because visits were temporary. This wasn't a visit. And the moment you walked through those doors, you would be shutting forever a chapter of your life in which, as stormy as it had been in recent days, had rescued you from the one before it. An ugly feeling that had been brewing in the pit of your stomach since the pilot had announced that your plane was starting its decent was making itself well known as you stood outside the gate of house number 9195. A voice snapped you out of your nauseated reverie, and as you turned to see its owner, new feelings washed over you. Better ones. In the lawn of 9197 Foxglove Ave stood a pretty, slim young woman with a sharply cut, silky black bob. Her catlike dark eyes were bright and intense, her face bare but lovely, and her clothes simple but strikingly presentable.
"Y/n!" she called again, her arms extended with open palms in a gesture of embrace and inquisition.
"Jiah!" you shouted, dropping your duffel with a thud and jogging into the ungated yard where she stood.
No sooner were you within arm's reach than she pulled you into a tight hug, swaying you from side to side as she pressed out of you, along with all the air in your lungs, a muffled laugh. Suddenly grasping you by the shoulders, she jerked you back so she could look at you. You grabbed her arms to steady yourself, continuing to gasp out bursts of laughter as you protested.
"Jiah, hold on! Woah! I'm gonna fall!"
"Who cares about that! I haven't seen you since...oh my god, since the summer we finished undergrad, I think? How are you? Are you going to be in town for a few days?" You looked back over your shoulder to where two bulging suitcases stood beside your abandoned duffel, then back to Jiah's inquisitive gaze.
"It's gonna be more than a few days, Ji."
She squeezed your shoulder as she cocked her head to the side.
"Wait, are you moving back?"
You mustered a weary, uncertain smile.
"Surprise!" you offered weakly. Her smile faded, lips drawing into a pensive purse.
"You haven't even been in there yet, have you?" she asked gravely, her eyes searching yours, hand still on your shoulder. You shook your head, lowering your gaze groundward. She sighed.
"Alright, c'mon," she said suddenly, marching toward your pile of luggage.
She grabbed the duffel and tossed it at you, wheeling the other two bags up the driveway behind her.
"You're coming with me for now. We have some catching up to do." You didn't protest as you followed her over the threshold of the Jeon household for the first time in a long while.
Linen. Every house has its very own unique scent - one that draws you into its aura, for good or ill, and wraps you in all of the memories and feelings it has afforded you; it can take you back to a moment in time, and who you were in that moment, unmistakable and fleeting - a smoke ring of a portal to a previous reality. Jiah's house smelled like linen. And lilacs? Something floral, but even more delicate. You inhaled deeply, closing your eyes as you stood just inside the door. The sick feeling in your stomach began to shrink. Every muscle in your body began to soften. You could hear the laughter of years ago. You could feel the bubbly schoolgirl giddiness of slumber parties under forts of sheets. Movie nights with cartons of takeout. Summer afternoons laying in the grass and tossing lazy wishes up at puffy white clouds.
"Y/n? Have you even been listening to me?" You opened your eyes and blinked at Jiah, who was standing in front of you with two bottles of grapefruit IPA and a look of mild annoyance.
"Sorry," you offered with a sheepish smile, slipping off your shoes, and traded the duffel in your right hand for one of the beers in answer to the question you had missed. You followed her into the living room and plopped down next to her on a pretty white couch you didn't recognize, taking a long, wheaty swig from your bottle. She folded her legs up under herself and turned toward you, fixing you with earnest, expectant eyes. You raised an eyebrow quizzically.
"Well, aren't you gonna tell me?" she pressed. You smiled to yourself. Always so direct, Jeon Jiah. Even with half a decade stretching between this moment and the last you spent together, things were the very same. You were the Libra - the dramatic, messy one. The one with a heart full of dreams and a head in the clouds. She was the Capricorn with the strong sense of direction and the practical perspective. You always seemed to be in a quandary and she never failed to have a hard take on the situation. You sighed, taking another long sip of beer.
"Have we really talked at all since freshman year of undergrad?" Jiah shook her head.
While you had fought like hell to get out of Bellpond, even if it meant chasing your father's dreams of law school instead of your own, Jiah, who desperately wanted to join you in New York, had set aside her own longings to attend a local college while helping the family store survive the recession. Telling her the truth of what happened was going to be painful. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, trying to transcend the assumption that what you were about to say would let her down.
"It was a guy, wasn't it?" You shot wide eyes up at her, mouth agape at her sudden interjection. "What?" she pressed with a shrug as she sipped her own beverage, "That's always what it is with you."
You blinked, trying to form some sort of protest while failing to find any evidence in memory to counter her claims. You settled for a rueful smile and a huff.
"I guess I always have had pretty terrible taste in men," you conceded.
"Pretty terrible?" she pushed, her face pinching into a comically overt censoriousness. "It's like your number one turn-on is red flags!"
"Hey!" you rebutted, launching yourself at her shoulder in a playful shove, and sloshing her beer in the process. You froze in panic as she glanced down at her dampened cardigan, and then at you.
"Oh, shit! I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry!" You jumped up and backed away, holding your hands outstretched in front of you as she stood up and slowly and menacingly advanced toward you.
"This is my favorite sweater," she hissed in a whisper.
"Jiah, I didn't mean too, I'm sorry!" you whined, manic laughter punctuating your words as you backed around the coffee table.
"It has little bees on the bottom," she hissed again, eyes narrowing as she raised the right hem to gesticulate at the embroidered insects in question.
"And they're very cute," you placated, hands still raised in self defense. "Look, I said I was - Aaahh!!"
She lunged at you mid-sentence, and you shrieked, tripping over your own feet in an attempt to flee and you toppled, one after the other, in a heap on the plush carpet. Before you could find out if your friend was in fact as strong as she had been in high school, the front door swung open and a familiar voice filled the room.
"Jeon Jiah, get up off the floor and help your imo with all these manghal gwail! I had to - AHHHH!"
You looked up at the figure in the door as she let out a high-pitched squeal of delight. She was a petite bombshell of a woman in her early fifties, who, had you not known otherwise, you wouldn't have pegged for a day over forty. Bright and expertly executed makeup adorned her features - softer and rounder than Jiah's. Her permed dark hair was pulled up in a colorful bohemian wrap, and she wore compression pants, neon orange Nike's, and a crop top with a print of Joan Jett flipping the bird. She had dropped the bags of citrus and apples she had been carrying, sending the fruits rolling across the floor.
"Aebeolle!" She shrieked, running forward, and bending down to pull you up by your armpits into a half-stand so she could crush you in a hug.
"Rosie!" You propped yourself up on your knees so that you could wrap your arms around the tiny woman's middle.
Imo to her niece and nephew, she was Rosie to everyone else. While Jiah's mother had been the responsible one, staying out of trouble, and working in the family store after school, Rosie had been the wild child. Smart as a whip but with no patience for the system, Rosie had dropped out of high school at seventeen and jumped on a tour bus the following summer as the groupie of a grunge band. She hadn't looked back until Christmas Eve of 1999, when her whole world was shattered by a phone call. She had taken the next flight back to the hometown she had promised to never set foot in again so that by Christmas morning she could have her niece and nephew in wrapped her arms. She left behind her life in the fast lane to take over running the Jeon's store and raise her sister's kids in their family home. She had been there for you, too. On those nights you climbed out of your window, a backpack slung over your shoulder stuffed with clothes and a toothbrush, to tap softly on their front door. On the following mornings when she had filled your stomach with warm, hearty dakjuk and fluffy slices of milk bread, and let you watch cartoons as she worked out the knots clinging to your neglected hair. She offered the warmest hugs and the softest words of direction and the loudest cheers of praise. She had always called you "aebeolle" which was Korean for "caterpillar", and she had always given you the nurture you needed to survive. If she hadn't, you weren't sure where you would have come by it.
"What are you doing here? You finally paying us a visit?" she asked, clapping her hands to your cheeks.
"She was about to tell me about how some guy wrecked her life. Again." Jiah interjected, earning herself a smack on the shoulder.
"Jiah, you brat!" Rosie chided, as she helped you to your feet. She glanced up at you through fake lashes. "You really do have the worst taste in men, though."
You sighed in defeat.
"Ugh, you two," you blustered, "Where is Jungkook when I need backup?"
"Headed this way, for the summer, actually," Rosie remarked as she collected the fruit strewn across the floor.
"So he decided to slum it, huh?" Jiah huffed, "I thought he was going to Ontario, or wherever the heck that last girl he met at that festival was from."
Rosie shrugged, shaking her head with a smile.
"I've lost track," she chuckled.
You blinked.
"Wait, wait, wait...are we talking about the same person?" You asked, holding a hand up in disbelief. "Jungkook. Your little brother. Tiny. Shy as hell. Looks like the weight of his head is gonna topple him over. Bunny rabbit teeth....is a lady's man?"
"Well, not strictly," Rosie hummed, hoisting a bag of produce onto the counter. "His sophomore year in Paris there was that one guy...what was his name?"
"Taehyung," Jiah offered, shedding her sweater and draining her beer.
"Right, right," Rosie nodded. "I liked him. Too bad."
Your mouth hung open. Jiah wrinkled her nose.
"You're gonna catch flies that way," she remarked sardonically.
"I...I just cannot believe what I'm hearing. Jungkook. In my mind he will forever be the tiny gremlin I have to keep bailing out of trouble."
Rosie smiled. Jiah scoffed.
"Well, he's still a gremlin, if you ask me," she sniffed, chucking the beer bottles in the recycling bin.
"When does he get back?" You asked. Rosie shook her head as she divided the groceries between the cupboards and the fridge.
"He's on his bike so, barring any unexpected stops - which are definitely not out of the picture - he should be here in the next couple of days. Probably by the weekend."
You nodded, still trying to wrap your head around the newly acquired image of you and Jiah's childhood tag-a-long. Rosie approached you with a picture pulled up on her phone.
"Look at him," she said with a smile, sliding the device into your hand.
You blinked at the picture on the screen. There he stood - much taller than you remembered - a girl under each arm, filling out a pair of ripped jeans, a black tank, and an ascot. A fringe brushed the tops of his eyes, while the top half of his dark waves were bound back in a little bun. His right arm was covered in tattoos. He was grinning from ear to ear, with that same toothy smile you had committed to memory.
"That's just crazy," you murmured, shaking your head, before handing Rosie's phone back to her.
"He's going to be thrilled to see you. I think he has a lot of happy memories from when you three were kids just banging around town together," Rosie remarked as she continued to sort the groceries.
You smiled to yourself. You certainly did. You glanced at your bags by the door.
"I guess I should get going," you murmured without conviction.
"Not yet, not until I've fed you," Rosie responded, not skipping a beat as she began to pile the ingredients for bibimbap on the kitchen island. You smiled to yourself. Rosie to the rescue, as always.
"Okay, if you're gonna twist my arm," you sighed dramatically as you pulled up a stool on the other side of the kitchen island, followed by Jiah who grabbed the carrots and a peeler.
You reached for a huge zucchini squash and knife. Jiah shot you some side-eye.
"You're not getting out of telling us about the big debacle, you know. Time to 'fess up."
"Yep, spill." Rosie concurred as she prepped the rice cooker.
You heaved another sigh. Might as well get it over with, you thought. But for some reason, the words stuck in your throat, unable to come out. You looked at your hands, shaking as they tried to steady the knife over the squash. You couldn't do this. Not right now. Not yet.
You let the knife clatter to the cutting board and scrubbed your hands over your face.
"Y/n?" Jiah asked, leaning over to look at you, "Are you okay?"
You drew your hands from your face and looked up at her with tired eyes. She and Rosie had traded their teasing glances for expressions of concern. You gripped the edge of the counter to stop your stupid hands from trembling.
"It's really not a fun story, you guys," you said slowly, trying your best to sound casual, "You're not missing out."
Rosie reached over the kitchen island to clasp your hands.
"No worries, aebeolle. We can talk about it some other time. For now, just stick to slicing up this zucchini and forget about that other one!"
She shot you a wink as she cracked open a tupperware of marinated beef.
"Imo! My god!" Jiah protested with a grimace as you and Rosie burst into a fit of giggles.
It was all laughter and shots of soju and teasing Jiah about being a prude until you were gathered around the table with steaming bowls of goodness in front of you. Rosie closed her eyes and threw up rock-on signs with both hands.
"May Stevie Nicks bless this food," she murmured before snapping up her chopsticks to snag a mandu and pop it into her mouth.
You took a heaping bite of bibimbap, your whole body relaxing as the flavors and warmth returned you to a simpler time. Another wave of nostalgia washed over you as images of three little hungry kids fighting over the last piece of fried chicken replaced the scene before you. Your eyes wandered to the empty chair beside Rosie. There was a missing piece in the picture of comfort you had always found in the Jeon residence - a missing piece in the shape of round head bearing a pair of giant doe eyes that would light up when he'd win and water-up when he'd lose, and little short legs that ran faster than the longer ones, and a bright smile that was all innocence and central incisors. You smiled fondly as long-dormant memories continued to appear like little spring flowers of the mind. Jungkook had perfectly completed your little trio, because though Jiah was your best friend, you and he had always understood each other in a way that came so easily. You didn't mind that everything brought him to tears, or that he invested himself so earnestly in even the smallest of his joys. You also didn't find it annoying that he wanted to tag along with the big kids, or that he hated being called a baby despite practically demanding to be treated as one. You knew in a way Jiah would only later realize that he was caught between wanting to grow up too quickly and not at all. It was the same battle between longings that waged war in your own heart, along with so many others who in some way had to raise themselves.
"How's the oi muchim?" Rosie's question roused you from your reverie.
"Amazing, like everything," you answered, waving your chopsticks over the spread of banchan.
"I made it a little spicier this time," the older woman said, sampling the cucumbers again herself. "Trying to get these staples just right before the new place opens."
"New place? Another store?" You asked, helping yourself to more sukju namul.
Rosie's eyes shone, a proud smile tugging at her lips as she gave her answer.
"A restaurant, actually."
Your jaw dropped.
"You're finally doing it!?"
Rosie leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, nodding at her niece.
"It's all Jiah's doing. She's taking care of all the logistics, I'm just figuring out the menu."
"Well, if you need help, I'm in between gigs at the moment," you added eagerly.
Rosie clapped her hands and wiggled in her chair.
"We would love the help! We've only just started hiring some staff. So far there's one person to wait tables and someone running the kitchen."
Jiah let out a huff. You quirked an eyebrow in her direction, and she appraised you with a look of wistful discouragement.
"Too bad you can't cook, or I'd boot him out tomorrow."
"Who?"
"The chef," she sneered.
"Speaking of, Jiah-ie," Rosie remarked over the food in her cheek, "How is Seokjin doing these days?" The older woman chewed back a poorly concealed smirk as she glanced up at her niece, whose lips curled scornfully.
"One day, I'll kill him, I swear," she grumbled, shoveling rice into her mouth as if she was punishing it with every bite.
You glanced over at your friend, then at Rosie, who wiggled her eyebrows as she took a sip from her glass.
"Seokjin...not Kim Seokjin?" you asked.
"Yeeeeep," Jiah affirmed bitterly.
"He's a cook?"
Rosie nodded.
"And darn good at it. The only thing he's better at is pissing off this one right here," she remarked with a smirk as she gestured toward her glowering niece.
You smiled to yourself as Jiah started off on what would likely be a lengthy rant at the young man's expense. Seokjin, or Jin, as he was more commonly known, had attended the same small high school as you and Jiah. In a body of four-hundred students, everyone had played a well-known role - and while she had been the straight-laced valedictorian, he was the class clown. Natural enemies who found the other beyond comprehension, the bulk of the ire had always been on Jiah's side, while Jin had seemed to find her as amusing as he did inexplicable. The concept of the two of them attempting to run a business together was the stuff of sitcoms. His ongoing feud with Jiah notwithstanding, it didn't really surprise you that he had tucked himself into the Jeons' life. His father owned most of the agricultural land in the surrounding area, and with his older brother having been slated since birth to take over the family empire, Jin had enjoyed a freedom of direction that found him often seeking out the phenomenon of being needed...and people always needed a laugh. But laughter is momentary, and Rosie, having the heart for strays that she did, always provided something more permanent.
"So now we're probably going to have to keep Jungkook at the store, because you know how they get when they're together," Jiah tiraded on.
"They don't get along anymore?" you asked, a bit crestfallen at the thought.
"The opposite," Rosie chuckled, "You put them in the same room and those dorks turn into a couple of puppies. They broke the back screen door roughhousing last Chuseok. Plowed right through it."
You snickered at the thought.
"But Jungkook is darn well gonna contribute while he's here," your friend asserted as she stood to clear the table, still on her agenda about the restaurant launch, "Not just cruise around finding pretty people to sketch between make-out sessions."
Rosie waved a hand dismissively.
"He's always willing to pitch in. But it's summer, and he's young, so don't you go all drill sergeant on him."
Jiah scoffed.
"Sure, it's summer, but there's a lot to get done between now and opening, and -"
"AND," Rosie interrupted, "I expect you to have some fun as well, young lady! Especially now that Y/n is back. You two better do a decent amount of carousing."
"Carousing?" Jiah asked with a grimace, directing horrified eyes in your direction.
You let out another laugh.
"She's got a point, Rosie. I don't think anyone has caroused in quite some time."
Rosie rolled her eyes, crossing to the sink and running the tap.
"Well," she rejoined, undeterred, "Whatever it is they're calling it these days, you two better be doing plenty of it! Give your imo some fun to live through vicariously, why don't you?"
Jiah shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest.
"And, you," she said, pointing a sudsy wooden spoon in your direction, "Should just stay here for the night. Take Jungkook's room. Then you can rest and be ready for...you know. Tomorrow."
You accepted the invitation with very little hesitation. It was a relief, and Rosie knew. She had always known. You shot a text to excuse your absence that you doubted was actually necessary and lugged your things down the hall and into the last bedroom on the left.
The rest of the night was spent stuffed onto the little couch with bowls of ice cream while the three of you shrieked and slap each other's arms and kick your feet watching reruns of The Golden Girls. It was nearly midnight by the time you slipped under the sheets of the full-sized mattress in the smallest bedroom.
Though your eyes were heavy with exhaustion, you couldn't help but glance around at the walls and shelves, filled with scented candles, and action figures, Polaroids, and an incredible number of charcoal and graphite sketches. There were drawings of buildings, trees, cars, and people. And though there was little variation in color, the vitality and emotion that sparked along each line drew you from piece to piece. Your eyes drifted over a particular drawing - a girl's lower face - the tip of a nose, lips slightly parted, and her chin tilting upward. It might have been the delirium of your tired mind, but something about it seemed familiar. You stretched for a recollection just out of reach as you slipped past memory and into slumber.
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Weight. The first thing you registered as your mind began to again become aware of its physical trappings was a heaviness. At first your hazy consciousness likened it to blankets, then to the heaviness of a sleep without dreams...safety...security...
And then something brushed the skin of your stomach under your shirt, drawing a hum out of you as your eyes fluttered open, and what they saw had you frozen in place. An arm. A large, muscular arm covered in dark ink was snaked around your waist, hand slipped under the hem of your sleep tee.
Fight or flight mode suddenly triggered, you snapped up and pushed yourself away from the body attached to the limb, letting out a shout as you kicked your legs, and only catching a glimpse of dark hair and grey sweatpants as the intruder rolled off the bed and hit the carpet with a loud thud. You jumped off the other side of the bed before you could think, tangling your legs in sheets that brought you tumbling down onto your ass. Before you could thrash free of the bedding, a groaning figure peered with large, dark eyes from the other side of the bed. Dark, wild waves framing his sleepy head like a halo, and wide, round eyes still bleary with sleep, the young man passed tattooed hand over his mouth to wipe the remnants of drool away as he blinked at you from across the room.
"J...Jungkook?!" you choked out in surprise and confusion, struggling to your feet.
"You kicked me..." he groaned, his features taking on an injured look as he stooped to rub his thigh.
"Why...when..."
"Imo told me to wake you up for breakfast," he pouted. You scrubbed your hands over your eyes. Same damn baby-faced expression. Huge, bulky man. With tattoos...and a lip ring? This Pokemon had leveled up. Maybe twice. And that was all your brain could register as your heart rate descended from two hundred beats per minute and the heavy fog of an interrupted sleep cycle began to dissipate. You tossed the sheet back onto the bed, and as your eyes flicked back to his face you noticed his had dropped a little lower. Registering with horror that you were in a thin cotton nightshirt with nothing underneath, you snatched up the sheet again, clutching it to your chest. What the fuck was happening?
"Rosie told you to wake me up, so you decided to spoon me?" You asked incredulously as your embarrassment quickly morphed into agitation.
Jungkook's eyes widened as they flew up to yours, seemingly caught off guard by edge in your tone.
"No, noona...it wasn't like that!" he said, standing to his full height, his brow creasing defensively.
He was pretty fucking tall. His white tee and grey sweats did little to hide the fact that he was also pretty fucking big. Exasperated by these unbidden acknowledgements that had your brain buffering, you snapped a little again.
"Then what was it like? You had your hand up my shirt, Kook!"
Your voice had unintentionally softened at his nickname, and he caught it, biting back a grin as you hugged the sheet over you just a little more snugly.
"It was kind of your fault, noona," he smirked, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
You shot him a quizzical and unamused look.
"I came in here to wake you up and you pulled me into bed. You kept calling me someone else's name...and..." he giggled, "'Baby', and you kept insisting we sleep for just five more minutes."
You gaped at him in horror.
"You pulled my arm over you," he continued, now a bit smugly, "And I had literally just woken up, so...being so comfy...well, I guess I fell back to sleep with you."
You could feel the heat in your face. You had a history of pretty intense sleep talking, but you hadn't experienced it to that extent in years. You considered that you must have slept deeply as you stammered your apology.
"Oh my god, Jungkook...I'm so sorry - that's horrifying - I didn't mean to..."
The younger man just laughed in response, breaking into his signature luminous smile. His eyes glimmered.
"Didn't mean to steal my bed, demand cuddles, and then beat the heck out of me?"
You let out a sigh.
"Sorry."
He nodded, a little smile still tugging at his lips.
"I accept your apology for the bruises...but not the cuddles. Those were nice."
He threw a wink over his shoulder as he headed for the door, and you tossed a pillow and a string of expletives after him as he jogged, giggling, toward the kitchen. Still flustered and a bit thrown, you changed into real clothes before joining the others in the breakfast table. Rosie was placing mayak eggs alongside the piles of bacon and pancakes as you pulled out a chair next to Jiah.
"You slept well! You must have been exhausted," Rosie remarked, handing you a mug of coffee.
"Yeah, must have," Jungkook quipped with a smirk as he snagged three strips of bacon.
You shot him a warning look as you stabbed demonstratively into a stack of pancakes, but his grin only deepened.
"I thought you weren't supposed to be back until the weekend," you addressed him coolly.
"Mm," he took a sip of orange juice. "I expected to stop and see a friend along the way but she ended up being out of town, so I just came straight back."
"A friend, huh?" Jiah crooned patronizingly, as she twirled a fork in his direction.
Her brother nodded.
"The same one you were talking to on the phone very loudly when you came in last night?"
Jungkook scrunched his nose, sticking out the tip of his tongue in her direction.
"Wow," she drawled, "How very adult of you. And for the record, friends don't call each other 'baby'."
Jungkook snickered, glancing at you again before he mumbled, "Some friends do..."
"So, Jiah," you practically shouted, as you turned toward her in a desperate bid to change the topic of conversation, "You gonna show me the new place today, or what?"
"The restaurant? If you let her drag you out there, she'll put you to work and you'll never be seen again," Jungkook hummed over an entire egg that he had pocketed in his cheek, casting teasing eyes up at his sister, who smiled back wickedly.
"You know, Kookie, it's just so good to have you home! We needed someone who puts in those gym hours to do some of the heavy lifting."
Jungkook flashed another smile, puffing his chest and massaging his pectorals as Jiah feigned a gag.
You chuckled, and Jungkook grinned as he tucked into his pancakes.
Watching the two of them bicker and catch up, you realized that things felt a bit more whole again - familiar, if different. You considered that maybe the three of you could all fall back into stride. Maybe this summer wouldn't be so bad after all.
After breakfast you gathered your things to head next door. You tried to slip out quietly, to avoid Rosie stalling you any further, but Jungkook caught you as he was coming around from the garage, an oil towel in his grease-stained hands.
"You leaving?" he asked with a tinge of disappointment.
"I can't over-stay my welcome," you shrugged, smiling wryly.
His face took on a serious expression.
"You know you're always welcome here, yeah? It's good to have you back," he pressed earnestly.
You nodded, touched because you knew he meant it and that the other two members of his family shared the same sentiment. Jungkook wiped his hands on the towel casting a look over at the house next door.
"You staying there?"
You nodded. His brow creased and the corners of his mouth turned down.
"Okay. You can come here whenever."
"I know," you said softly.
His eyes looked worried and uncertain. You dropped your bag and pulled him into a hug.
"It's so good to see you again, Jungkook-ah," you murmured, dropping your head against his chest.
His arms squeezed around you in return. He had always preferred to talk with his body instead of his words. Every playful punch, or little shove, or squeeze of his hand carried a message. This one meant it was good to see you too.
As you waved goodbye you counted the Jeons' welcome among your blessings - not everything you had left behind would be so welcome to recall. But, life hadn't left you with many choices. So you began the long walk to the house next door.
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