#Deserve better than being shelved under the genre that is | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

myelocin · 4 years ago

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ij(y)&m | miya a., akaashi k.

synopsis: love is enough, until you think that it isn’t. to love and to lose; then whether to dive into the sea of ocean eyes or look into the skies in search of the sun.

genre: hurt/comfort, slice of life, longfic, happy ending, love triangle

wc: 17,500+

characters: miya atsumu, akaashi keiji

a/n: this is a commissioned piece by @23soong | i still can’t believe u trusted me w this giant fic but ilu i guezz

commissions | ko-fi

(April 16, 2021 | New York City.)

You like to eat cake.

The color lilac, ocean eyes, and the sky. The lyrics to Ayahuasca, and the hidden metaphors where the poem you uncover always looks like a different scenario than the next person. You know what you like, and it’s only this and that. Other days, when your reasoning is a little swayed, you suppose you can afford to think that you like this plus that.

It was a difference only you understood.

(—understand, you mean.)

(You always know what you understand.)

You like cake because you enjoy sweets, and that one shade of violet that borders right in between periwinkle and lilac, because it never looked like it was too much. It didn’t blend into the background like some of the warmer colors, nor make too much of a bold presence like the depth of scarlet. You suppose you like where you’ve always been, after all.

Being content with your own security had always been one of your stronger suits. There wasn’t a wall, nor a fortress around you, but even when you’re out in the open you felt okay. The shade in between lilac and periwinkle was enough because it was you.

Chocolate over cheesecake, because you’ve never been much of a fan, and that bakery down the end of street fifteen minutes away instead of the one right across where you lived. The windows were always tinted in the shade that gave away its age, but you suppose it was its charm. The old auntie who sits by the counter always wears her apron, even if all the pastries to be sold for the day were already prebaked and arranged on the front for display.

There’s an old comfort found in that auntie’s bakery, you think. You still don’t know her name, and you know she only smiles at you because you’re probably a regular by now. You know the pen she’d had clipped to her apron is the same one from eight months ago, probably never used, because the seal’s still intact by the cap. There wasn’t a table that you could call yours, nor a spot in the fall you would stare at and daydream on your rougher days. There was no music, to dull out the sounds of the world outside—but now that you actually give it a little more thought—that’s what gave you the most comfort.

It’s a known fact that when people tend to slip into a state of reclusion, they would search for a space in a world that they can cocoon themselves in. External factors, there, but ignored. Phone often switched to silent, where the spot they stared at along the cracks of the wall would show them a world they could live in—momentarily.

(And that was the problem—at least you think.)

A safe space, they say. And it had always been valid. When your sister would talk about the boy in her dreams who loved her under the rain, you can tell that she felt safe. Sometimes she looked a little farther away despite physically being with you in the moment, but she always looked warm—so you would just choose to sit shoulder to shoulder beside her, and let her be.

People worked differently; a simple this or that situation, and it’s always going to be like that.

Your comfort is just this.

Auntie’s bakery fifteen minutes away, where you’re some random seat inside because in all the years you’ve been coming here, you could never really pick a spot. The table by the window was nice, as was the one by the shelves. The AC hit you in the way you appreciate the most wherever you chose to settle, anyway.

A slice of chocolate cake on Mondays, then maybe again on Wednesdays, but Saturdays could also mean red velvet if you were feeling like it. The bells by the door sound out your entrance every time too, but even if one day there were gone, it wouldn’t make much of a difference. Having a constant was okay, but not necessary. You’re here because you liked their selection better than the one closer to your place, and that was that.

Auntie’s bakery wasn’t your cocoon that kept you away from the world, but you liked it that way.

You found comfort in taking a seat in one of the ten tables inside, and setting your bag on the chair beside you as you got comfortable. You liked moving your hair to the other side, and slumping your shoulders because you know you'd enjoy this little break you decided to give yourself.

You had chocolate two days ago, and even if there was a new option for carrot cake today, you still bought chocolate again. You can hear the conversation from the group of teenagers outside the window every time the doors would open and the sounds of the world outside would filter in. The sound of traffic and life was dulled by the walls, but not muted. There’s still no music in the bakery, and you can sometimes hear every time the auntie behind the counter would shift and tap away at her phone.

This was your slice of comfort.

You didn’t escape the world, but you find yourself still. There was an underlying of connection that you found with the world when you’d have your one slice of cake after a job well done.

So you like to eat cake, because you deserve cake.

You finish the schedule you’d set for yourself, written in bullet points from top to bottom—additional notes scribbled in the margins so you wouldn’t forget, and spreadsheets written so that you keep yourself in line.

You like to eat cake, because it’s a reminder that you’re doing your part as a little cog in the machine that is this world. It’s not escaping that gives you comfort, but rather, the reminder that you’re still in this world, and you’re doing just fine.

(So you deserve your cake.)

Until some days where you feel like you don’t.

Your childhood looked something like this:

Air conditioned rooms, sniffling instead of crying, and the lilac blooms outside your window. There’s a sky, infinite as she’s always been, that watches. Sometimes she cries, but in your corner of the world, it’s more common to see her smile. Sometimes you wonder what she smiles about, but 7 year old you liked to think that she smiled for the same reasons you do.

A cool breeze in the summer, and paper kites folded every sunset. Your dreams of ocean eyes every time you’re close to the shore, as if it’s a foreshadow to the future still to come, but you’d always only stand by the edge and watch—never wading too far in.

It wasn’t a fear of the water, nor the depth, but you just always had a nagging thought behind your head that the waves would never truly be for you. You loved the sun, and the sky too much to give in to the waves.

Perhaps it’s a metaphor for something later on in life; perhaps it isn’t. You’ve never been curious enough to try to think much about it.

Ever since you were young, your idea of love never changed much from your initial thoughts.

Love felt like it should just be what’s written under the bullet points of your life schedule. Love, supposedly, looked like ocean eyes and dark roots for hair. He’d be a little more on the reserved side, and would conquer the world with you.

People always tell you that love should conquer the world for you, but it felt like too much of a selfish dream. Your whole life, you moved with a sense of purpose in mind. You buy cake after a job well done, because you know you’ll only deserve it by then. You do things only because you’ve done certain things, and it’s always been as black and white as that.

(It works.)

You’re in high school and you sit next to your best friend’s boyfriend from seven to five. You have a circle that loves you as much as you do them, and you still treat yourself to slices of chocolate cake from a bakery down the street. Their cake has a generic taste, you think, but it could be better.

Still, you settle. Settling is okay.

The idea that things would always be just okay in the black and white was okay. Your everyday life, and routine, looked like this. The people around you act like this, and you—in return, feel like this.

You laugh when things are funny, then cry when they aren’t. You appreciate the notes you’d find in your locker: the doodles and scribbled reminders alike. The difference in the handwriting and color choice of the sticky notes only reminds you that you’re part of something that isn’t just you.

You will always love your shade of lavender, or lilac, or periwinkle, but you found sentimentality and love in shades of peaches, scarlet, greys, and serenity blue too.

Routine is the kind that looks more lax than rigid, because bursts of serendipity still find you anyway.

(March 13, 2015) Hyogo

Because it’s in your final year of highschool, where the idea of what it initially was is thrown right out the window.

Miya Atsumu.

Brown eyes that are the complete opposite of every hue of the ocean, and his god awful piss yellow hair.

When you meet him, there’s not much to romanticize about it. He sat a few seats away from where you are, and parked his bike purposely close to your sister’s by the gate. He raised his hand to the questions he didn’t know the answer to and would drag his chair beside your desk to say hello even when you’d turn away to focus on your paper during breaks.

Love was an abstract sort of thing, so you could guess that his peculiarity fits.

You were all the shades of lilac while he offered you the pale yellow of every sunshine you found solace in ever since you were young. The color on the opposite end of the color wheel, Miya Atsumu truly was your contrast.

He ate cheesecake and didn’t hide his face when he sneezed. He’d roll up his sleeves and fight the next person without thinking to talk it out first and scribbled his ideas from the center of the paper instead of listing them out from top to bottom, or left to right like you always did.

But he was the start.

“Hi, Len.” he said instead of the standard “hi, hello; what’s your name?” greeting, and it even if it baffles you how he got your name before you even had the chance to introduce yourself—you didn’t think you had it in you to be mad about it.

Third year highschool Miya Atsumu with the god awful piss yellow hair and black undercut smiled in the way that had the left corner of his mouth rising just a little higher than the right, and you were fucking hooked.

You didn’t show it at first, but you were hooked. He had the kind of lilt in his voice that you always thought was more endearing than attractive, and would often lean back in his seat with one arm slung over the back of his chair as he waited for you to finish up with your review for the day. He liked all the things you thought were okay at best, but he was who stayed.

Libraries were for those who found a little comfort and familiarity in the silence, and he was a wildfire. He fell asleep waiting for you as you studied, but would always have a whole lunchbox of soft snacks for you to munch on while you did your thing, checking off the bullet points of your list.

On Saturdays, he was the person waiting for you at the bleachers by the track field with a towel and water bottle, cheering you on as if he understood the sport. When you’d pass him, he’d wave, and holler at you like you just won even if you’ve just been running laps for warmup.

He was never a hello, because he was a whirlwind that caught you off guard straight from the start. Some would say this is like serendipity, and perhaps it is—he is—but you like to think that maybe he’s just part of the black and white of your life. You liked what you liked, whether it correlated with your plans or not, and it really was as simple as just that.

In high school you always liked to eat cake after exams. You liked chocolate because it was sweet, and you’ve always been the person who had a sweet tooth.

You write left to right, from top to bottom and keep your letters beside to eachother in print, because it makes sense.

Miya Atsumu, the boy who was the pale yellow to your lilac, was the one who offered you a pen when you’d misplace yours, even if he only had one with him in his bag.

And you liked him, you suppose, because you just do.

(March 13, 2020) | Tokyo

Miya Atsumu was blunt, and freeing.

He was the sky, and not the sea, but love—later on, became the realization that you’re just freefalling.

After the initial introductions, there wasn’t a point where either of you felt like you were still supposed to be somewhere else. Like something you didn’t know had even been out of place sliding into it, instead of clicking. The skies would open, not just for you but for him as well.

While you saw all the colors of the sun and of the golden hour, Atsumu saw the shades of lilac in the earth.

What becomes is the love that’s felt in the silence, and on the way home.

It’s your voice that he hears chastise him to put down the donut and share it with Osamu when he’d been planning to leave him a third of the last at best. It’s the four letters of your name that he scribbles in the corners of receipts mindlessly, but would still fucking deny it every time he’d get caught.

Atsumu and his bike rides to school, along with his habit of catching up to you just to get off and walk beside you if he sees you nearing the gates.

A silent sort of company in the morning beside someone who was basically known at the most perfect personification of what noise would look like if it were to be redesigned into human form.

True love, and serendipity he thinks, is this. It’s you and all the witty remarks you’d make towards him, telling him to go away, that he never ends up taking seriously because you’d be blushing red before he even gets a chance to react.

The reaction he comes is delayed, but the epiphany that it’s you who becomes the face to love, isn’t.

You were the who when it came to answering the who, what, when, where, why, and how of love.

The what was answered love. The when, is yesterday, when you spilled a little bit of your chocolate milk on your desk and cursed in the way he never would have figured you saying, and today, when you looked out at the skies and smiled your private sort of smile towards the palette of the sunset.

The where was everywhere. Love, as you, in the sidewalks leading up to the gates, and on that desk on the row ahead, diagonal to him.

The why, was this. (It was everything.) (Running, then leaping. Flying, then soaring.) (Everything.)

He finally finds truth to the poems he usually tended to ignore in love songs, but it was great.

And the how, finally, was answered with a shrug.

How did he love you? Atsumu would always shrug because he just does.

Always, always does.

Along with the high, comes facing the reality that you must also fall. For the longest while, you’re climbing, climbing, climbing¸ until eventually, there’s nowhere else to go but down. The real face of love looked somewhat like that.

It’s one foot after the other, and steps towards the sky. There’s no staircase with a solid ground leading up, nor wings clasped behind you to lift you up even with through the absence of a breeze. (But love had you flying.)

It’s seeing the sights you’ve seen your whole life not with a new set of eyes, but a new vantage point. Atsumu’s the sun, all the while you still felt as if you were the child forever glancing up towards it. They tell you to never look at light straight on, but his glow never had you blinded.

Atsumu gave you clarity, showcased on a silver platter.

You understood all the priorly misunderstood parts of your life, where it felt like a new kind of exhilarating. Like having knowledge at the palm of your head, the world became as infinite as it became yours.

(And yours alone.)

Your hands that only grabbed just what was yours were suddenly reaching too far in the cookie jar. Greediness has never really been you, but eventually the fall—your fall—from the high looked like crumbs on your hands and shirt, and the absence of what once was where it should still be.

Atsumu never said a word, because it never was that way.

Still, you closed your eyes while still in the air. The view was right there, and Atsumu was beside you through the climb, the high, and the period where you just glide, telling you to open your eyes and look but you only did—for just a fraction of a second.

It’s the heaven that sits above the clouds that terrify you, you think. The unspoken truth that was kept as a hush is suddenly right in your ear screaming.

“He’s holding you to the clouds,” it taunts, then continues, “—But what have you given him in return?”

Atsumu’s never heard the demons in your head, nor was aware of its presence in the first place, but he always seemed to just have a way of knowing what to say, exactly when to say it.

Like now.

He’s sat in the bleachers, high on life, while you’re high on adrenaline. Six thirty in the summers meant the sun was just beginning to set, so he smiles, knowing that you’ve always thought of this moment as yours.

(And his, he adds mentally, a whisper to himself—a validation that you are his as much as he is yours.)

Truly.

“Hi Lena,” he grins; one side quirked up higher than the other, and under the bloom of scarlet and amber, he’s beautiful. “What’s your name?”

You’re laughing, as if you don’t carry the weight of all your demons on your shoulders. Amber against your deep brown eyes, and he’s caught. Like always. Fucking entranced, like always.

“Hi ‘Tsumu,” you voice back, leaning close and laughing at the way he scrunches his eyes close at your sudden display of brevity. It catches him off guard every time. He loves it, as much as he does you—but he’s still a boy inside.

You laugh anyway, pressing a kiss on his eyelids when he keeps his eyes closed, and you smile, softly, when you notice the way his shoulders relax.

“What’s your name?” you echo, then you’re both laughing at the inside jokes that you admittedly could never get sick of.

“I really don’t know,” he stretches further, enjoying the ay the moment became not just yours, but also truly his, with just a couple of words and some laughs. “I just can’t remember, Lena, but what’s your name?”

You laugh, throwing your hair up in a quick bun, before taking the seat beside him.”Atsumu we sound stupid.”

You don’t turn to return his stare, but you feel his eyes on your profile before he even tries to make something off of it. He smiles, and you feel that too.

You’re beautiful, he thinks to himself. A thought that comes to him more frequent than remembering the kanji for his own name, and Atsumu knows he’s rooted himself way too deep to even try to think of letting go.

“Fuck the status quo or whatever that shit says babe,” you hear him laugh in return.

You’re both sat shoulder to shoulder, eyes towards the sun, and the world feels like it only exists to be yours. (and his.)

A moment, where in your eyes, it feels like it’s just (him) and you.

Just him.

Love, as just Atsumu, because he has a way of being your forever anything and everything. A whirlwind of some sorts; a spontaneous wildfire wrapped with the pretty shades of serendipity, and it feels so right.

It’s quiet, but it’s the nice kind of quiet. The demons in your head are hushed, but if you know they’re probably just slumbering, you’re still overwhelmed with a newfound sense of comfort. The source feels like it’s meant to flow infinitely, and you smile��until you don’t. You remind yourself the virtue of never taking more than you can bother to use, so as you turn your head, watching him soak in the light once again, it takes so much inside you to remember that and fight back the urge.

“Don’t you have practice tonight?” you ask, curious.

His sports bag was placed beside him, and it takes you a little while to notice that he’s decked out in his training gear. The time on your clock tells you it’s six forty five, and you’ve always known that practice started at five.

“I do,” he hums.

You turn in response, poking his cheek before pinching it. “Then go.”

Atsumu sighs, in a too-dramatic-voice for a man who was well beyond those years, but you suppose that that was just one of his charms. “Wanna stay actually,” he pouts leaning his weight against yours, to which you’re quick to groan at, nudging your shoulder to try to get him away.

His chin settles on your shoulder anyway, but his other arm is quick to anchor you around the other side, making sure that he’s still holding you up, more than you holding him up. Atsumu’s face is close to yours, as is yours. It’s a position he’s always liked. When he looks at you, he can see the little dots on your face that other people never could get to see unless they were this close. When you blink, you do it slow, like you’re savoring the sight in front of you, and his heart thrums in a tender sort of happiness because even if you never looked much like the sentimental type, he knows you well enough to know that you really are that.

Atsumu juts his bottom lip, like he’s tired, and you laugh.

“Tsumu, go.”

“Tsumu,” he counters. “—stay.”

“Actually,” he corrects himself, shaking his head. “Lena,” he smiles. “Stay.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” he adds. “Just stay.”

His words hit you before you could even try to pull your walls back up, knowing that it’ll hit a spot you aren’t exactly keen on confronting just yet.

Just stay, his words echo in your ear, and you suppose that that’s really all you could do. Moments like this where love overwhelm you the most has you fearing love the most, if you were being honest with yourself. There was a fear that comes with love, because at the root of it all, love will always just be a risk.

The higher the climb, the harder the fall they say. The more you give, the more the world will take. You look at Atsumu, who faces you with his pouted lips and sunset painted across two pools of baby brown. He closes his eyes and leans forward, knowing that you’ll kiss his eyelids before you even say it. Like the earth letting itself pulled by gravity, you’re beckoned towards the sun, falling into orbit as time—the human concept of it anyway—begins to move slow and all you can do is spin in circles and marvel at the being that is the light.

“I love you,” he says, and he’s honest.

What terrifies you is the honesty in your voice too, when you reply with an “I love you,” of your own.

The higher the climb, the more painful the fall, you think. When Atsumu opens his eyes and allows for the silence to remain and blanket the piece of the world that is yours and his, you see that you’ve already made it to the highest summit.

The more you give, the more the world will take.

But the thing is, you don’t know what you’ve given him. Your hands are empty beside his, but he holds them anyway. You’re so fucking in love and it terrifies you because what is the earth next to the sun? It stays in a distance so it doesn’t burn, but now, even as you’re face to face with the being that embodies the essence of the light and life itself—you aren’t burning.

Then it hits you.

He is your everything.

You gave yours, so what else could the world take other than him?

And because love also wields the power to make you more fearful than you are in love, you admit to yourself that you’re fucking scared. Atsumu says “I love you,” again, and holds your empty hands in his that holds nothing but still feels all the ways full at the same time. It’s suddenly hard to swallow, and you’re cold.

The summit is beautiful, but you are cold.

You close your eyes, walk forward, lose your footing, then just freefall.

The scary part is, even if you do that, you know Atsumu will just think of it as an adventure and jump right after you—riding the current with you, even though you’re venturing into what’s unknown.

Still, you close your eyes.

You pull the parachute first, imagining that you’ve hit the ground before the winds would even get to you.

(March 13, 2021)

The funny thing about heartbreak is, Atsumu thinks, is that you recognize its presence before you see its face.

He felt you fading.

Fading from something, but it never fathomed to him that it was from him. You never pulled away when he held his hands, because he made it a point to consciously remind himself to wipe them clean beforehand every time so he supposes it wasn’t that.

“Are we okay?” he asks anyway, when you’re in his car, staring out the street that’s a couple ways from your house. Six-thirty’s already passed, and the skies are in shades of grey instead of the marmalade and amber the sunset always brings.

Atsumu’s voice is a break in the atmosphere, that you think wasn’t tense, but the way his voice quivers in the way only you can point out has you thinking otherwise.

You swallow.

“We are.”

Atsumu exhales, and at the way his voice seems to sound a little more amplified than usual, you realize that the engine’s turned off. Regardless of the nagging voice in your head to stop dragging this out, you turn away anyway.

You love him, and love to love him. You love kissing his eyelids when he naps on your thighs and associating him with the little things just because.

(You turn away, prolonging the inevitable, because you don’t want to associate him with the end—just yet.)

You think to yourself that you don’t deserve this—him—because he deserves better, but you want to have just one more bite. Fists clenched in the pocket of his hoodie you wear that still smells like him, and you want to cry.

Atsumu sighs again, tired. When you look at him, he’s already staring at you, for god knows how long now, and you wince because he looks exhausted.

“Are we?” he asks again, and when you open your mouth to try to find a couple words to string together as a reply, nothing comes out.

“Lena,” he says, and his voice is loud.

He’s only been whispering this whole time, and you’re aware of that, but it’s still loud. His car’s in park; the engine’s off, and when you shift your position from side to side to try to find your place, you can hear the fabric ruffle against each other.

“Len,” you hear again. “Lena.”

“Talk to me,” Atsumu says, and you’re baffled at the way that his voice sounds like a plea.

“I am talking to you,” you mumble. You shift again, but you’re still not comfortable; you don’t want to look at him. You don’t think that you deserve to look at him.

But his voice still comes to you, soft. He’s saying your name; again and again, but it still sounds like a fucking plea. Your shoulders shake, but you still it before he notices. The bullet points that come after the list you write left to right, from the top going to the bottom doesn’t give you an answer as to why he’s fucking pleading.

“Please look at me,” he’s whispering now. (Still loud.)

What is there to plead for?

“What’s wrong, Tsumu?”

“Babe, you gotta talk to me.”

The zipper drags across the plastic of the door, and makes a sound. Internally, you flinch right as you shift your position again because you’re still not fucking comfortable.

You look at him, then blink. He’s staring at you, desperate for words you don’t have, and suddenly your hands feel so empty.

What do I give you?

He shivers when a breeze floats in through the window, while you don’t. Then you blink again. Right, you think. This is his jacket that he gave you. He’s sitting beside you, at 23:10, half an hour away from his apartment, knowing full well there’s traffic in Tokyo regardless of the fucking hour.

Your thoughts, a battle between what can I even give you? and look at what you’ve given me.

“Tsumu I think this is it,” you suddenly whisper, the feeling of being so out of place finally dawning on you.

You keep shifting, uncomfortable in your position, because you’re not supposed to be here. You buy yourself a slice of cake after a job well done, but when you look at Atsumu—what have you done?

What have you given for you to receive so much?

His hoodie’s still warm, and your fingers clutch onto the fabric.

Atsumu stares at you, and even if you want to look away, you can’t. He holds your gaze like he’s held your heart for years now, and you know this won’t be a situation easy to break out of. His grip had always been solid despite the lack of bruises that tell the world of its presence.

“I think,” you sigh, swallowing down the urge to say it’s a joke, to take back your words.

“I think—“ you say again, but hesitate. Atsumu watches you nod your head, the look in your eye so far he doesn’t know if he can catch up by now. You’re whispering your words, the most of what you say phrases he can barely even understand, but he listens to you anyway.

You want to cry again, the tightness in your chest increasing tenfold, and the feeling of discomfort reminding you that you’re not supposed to be here. You don’t deserve this slice of cake, but you’re greedy.

Balled fists, hazy thoughts, and you’re cracking. You aren’t breaking, but you’re cracking.

The fallout is the same.

You nod your head again, and Atsumu watches, his eyebrows scrunched up and drawn together, as you seem to arrive at a conclusion without even letting him in the conversation. The haze clears from your eyes, and by the looks of it you’ve already rooted yourself someplace you don’t even want to stand in.

He tries to say your name, but you’re still shaking your head.

Then you’re shrugging off his jacket. Atsumu opens his mouth, still fucking confused because what are you doing?

You held his hand yesterday and kissed his eyelids goodnight three fucking hours ago.

“What are you doing?”

You hear him, but that’s all there is to it. You know you should be listening to him, but only the definition of the words register in your head. The meaning to be deciphered in the situation remains unseen, when the only thoughts in your head revolve around the fact that your hands are still so empty.

You think about what he says, though.

What are you doing, Lena?

He watches you unzip the zipper from the front, and hear the audible click when you unbuckle your seatbelt. He’s still watching, mouth parted in the silence in disbelief at what he thinks is the goodbye scenario he’s always avoided thinking about. You’re leaning forward, then it’s the left arm out before the right.

A breeze comes again, and even if your eyes are elsewhere, you catch a glimpse at him from your peripherals as he’s shivering—again. Frustration bubbles up in your chest, welling up into tears, but you don’t cry.

You remind yourself that you shouldn’t cry.

Balance was what kept the world in orbit, so therefore, you must only take, if you give.

Rewards are reserved for accomplishments, but what have you fucking offered?

Atsumu’s given you the world, but you still face him with empty hands and just an I love you.

Love was your certainty and your lifetime kind of truth, but what else is there? When Atsumu tells you he’s all yours, it’s enough, but when you do—why does it feel so little?

You take the risk, then the plunge, and look at him. When he blinks, and keeps his eyes shut just that while longer, you have to fight the urge to kiss his eyelids like you’ve always done. His hoodie’s folded on your lap now, but you still smell your honeydew on it.

How many times does he have to wash it to get the smell out? you think.

Atsumu swallows his words, his retaliations, because he knows you’ve anchored yourself before you even hit the water. If you had always been anything—other than the fact that you are always his everything—it was the fact that you are resolute.

So he lets you speak.

He already offers you his love even though he looks at heartbreak in the face.

And it’s your face he sees. Faraway eyes, your shoulders tense, and a shiver that makes your fingers tremble in the slightest. He sees every detail play out in slow motion, and even if his heart is hammering in his chest, just as yours probably is, he thinks to himself—you’re beautiful.

You, as the face of love from the hello, and still you, the face he puts to heartbreak as he listens to you say, “I think I have to let you go.”

‘Let what go?’ he thinks. When you let go of something, it’s to get rid of the bad—the dead weight.

Was he the dead weight?

“It’s for the best,” you say. (For your best, you think.)

“I don’t think we can keep doing this anymore.” (I don’t think I can keep doing this to you anymore.)

“I think this is the best for us.” (For you.)

“What—“

“Tsumu,” you say, cutting him off. Your voice doesn’t quiver but your hands hidden from his point of view clench then unclench.

“Atsumu,” you say again, this time with a smile. It isn’t forced, because you don’t think that you ever had to force a smile for him, but at the sight of him watching you, heartbreak written across his face, your heart can’t help but crack in the same pattern.

It runs a little deeper, you think. The kind of deep where you aren’t sure if even the scars will fade overtime.

“Lena—wait—“ he tries to interject, but you’re already opening the door and walking outside.

He knows your look when you’ve decided, and he knows that it looks something just like this. Still, he bites his lip, hoping that this would just blow off come daylight. He knew you had always been the type to feel the things that come, but never really dwell on it enough to process it. There was hesitance when you accepted things from others, and it never escapes his line of vision when you’d just duck your head a little lower when you didn’t have anything to offer back.

When he says I love you, he means it in both the verbal and in the silent way he tries to communicate with you.

Like leaving traces of himself in every little piece of everything, so that it’s there for you to have and just know.

“I love you,” he says again, and again.

In the silence, but you don’t hear it. On the walk home, you feel it but you turn away.

This is the painful part of love, you think. You know that you’re frustrated, and that everything you hate which unfortunately comes with love is brewing so strong in your chest, that no words come out.

You tell yourself that you’re mad, but when you look at the mirror you turn away.

“My name is Lena,” you say, and you begin. In the world—or your world at least—chaos is swirling so in order to find organization for it, you close your eyes and center your thoughts on the first fact to keep you grounded.

“I like to eat cake, when I deserve it, because I still am victorious,” you say, then add, when a flash of pale yellow comes to mind, “—sometimes.”

“Yeah,” you say, then turn the corner to walk into the kitchen so sit at the table. You remember the slice of cake you bought this morning, meaning to save it for tonight, remembering that you just finished your exams after cramming for nearly two weeks.

In hindsight, you really should have expected it though. Your sister did mention that she just started her period the day before, and usually you never minded when she ate a couple of stuff that wasn’t yours—and you know this is isn’t the reason why you’re crumpled down on the kitchen floor with one fork in hand and no cake in the fridge, but you are.

You’re crying, and flustered, and the words that come out of your mouth sound more gibberish than coherent. You think that you’re saying Atsumu’s name, beside an apology, but truth be told you’re letting yourself go and blank out.

The cold air from the opened fridge hits you on your knees, and you really should be getting up by now to shut it close before your sister comes home and pokes at you for it, but you really can’t be bothered to think about caring.

This is the fall that comes with love, and what was taken was what you were given.

It’s you who gave him back, because the thoughts in your head are busy telling you that even if love was enough—was it really?

Were you enough was the ugly question you don’t face, so you close your eyes and convince yourself that you’re crying because of a fucking slice of cake and not because of the sun.

You ignore the memory of walking home, and still feeling Atsumu’s presence watch you with eagle eyes as he slowly drove with you down the sidewalk – “just so I know you’re home safe, at least give me that.”

Give, you think.

There was nothing that you had given him, and Atsumu had deserved something even greater than eternity itself.

It’s in the same hour of that same night where Miya Atsumu, who wore red eyes and slumped shoulders, that was standing outside the bakery an hour and fifteen minutes away from his place, wondering which kind of cake you’d like the most out of the thirteen in the display.

(September 13, 2021)

Time moves at a weird pace.

Yesterday feels like yesterday, and today feels just like today. It doesn’t move slow, because you know the clock keeps ticking, but still you move. Sunrise comes before sunset, but you stopped looking up and watching the in-betweens colors before that final stroke of marmalade, or even five thirty’s golden hour.

Gold reminded you of the sun, so you looked away. Love had you blinded, and you wanted to look at the world with the lens of practicality instead of the colored ones this time around.

Atsumu was still around, for the most part of it.

Graduation came, then summer, and you know even without you he kept blooming. Towards the end of the year, right before graduation, you still saw the posters on the wall, and heard his name in the announcements. There was always a congratulations right before, followed by a “we’re proud of you,” that never flew past your line of attention.

He deserved it, you think.

Miya Atsumu deserves the whole cake, and not just a slice, because he continuously still gives—his good deeds going well past just the title of a job well done.

You, on the other hand, both kept your distance and thoughts in order in the beginning.

He still said hello when you passed by him in the halls. The awkward timeframe right after a breakup didn’t spare either of you too. With you, opening your inbox and rereading the old messages; debating whether you should just archive the whole conversation or delete it altogether, then seeing Atsumu typing something for a whole five minutes before the indication stops and a message is never sent.

Where you’re stuck wondering what he could have said, because you know Atsumu’s always been the type to not only wear his heart on his sleeve, but rather, shout it out instead.

You never fit that bill, but you (love)d him anyway.

If you were being honest—at least to yourself—it took long, before Miya Atsumu became just the name of a contact in your phone, the text history buried at the bottom. Seven months’ worth of texts piled above his last, “hey, i’m outside,” that you never could bring yourself to delete.

For a while, you think, you deserved that slice of cake.

Just a slice, and not the whole thing, but for that while—it was all yours.

(December 2021)

Akaashi Keiji didn’t come into your life until another three months after you shut the book and pretended you never read its contents. You say you know the end, but really, you never flipped past page 223 despite the book ending at 416.

The end was a page that was skimmed over, and never really read through. A dog eared fold on the corner, instead of a bookmark, for the sake of it sitting on the shelf, looking finished. In the moment, you know it isn’t finished, and you’ll probably stumble upon the book again at some point, later down in time, but perhaps if you give yourself enough patience, you’ll forget that it was left to be unfinished in the first place.

Miya Atsumu was a story you started, where you read the start in a third person POV, then left it midway when you took the reins and rewrote what you think the ending would be from a first person perspective.

I am not enough for you, you said. I will take off this jacket and leave it here, because I haven’t offered you anything.

I will leave, and let you go because you deserve more.

(But it’s I love you, as the thought, that still will always remain.)

You have your books and bullet point notes, the days after today written in a list: from top to bottom with just a couple of scribbles along the margins. Akaashi met you like serendipity used to dictate, and this new book started like how it should have.

“Hello,” because that’s how it should start. Followed by a “how are you?” because that’s usually the next thing to say.

The conversation’s light before it dives deeper, and you think to yourself that you like it like that because it follows order. Atsumu gave you half his bento box two hours after you first met, while Akaashi offered you a napkin and his extra fork when yours fell.

Often, your friends would tell you that it probably wasn’t a good idea to compare the dynamic of the two, and you agree because if you were outside this situation you would be advising the exact same, but when you do things from first person, a lot of things become that much harder just because.

This wasn’t love, nor was this the replacement of love, but you can’t help but admit that Akaashi Keiji was the prince charming you wrote about in your diary when you were a kid. He was the ocean eyed prince charming every teenager dreamt of, and this was the slowburn kind of pace that love should be.

Atsumu barreled into you and made himself be known as the yellow in the color wheel opposite of your purple, and even if it didn’t clash, nor blend, it had a presence.

You think to yourself that Akaashi was all the shades of ocean blue, while you were that kind of purple right in between lavender and periwinkle. You could stand next to him at the train station, or be squished next to eachother in the train during rush hour, and people would take one glance and assume you’re together.

Situating yourself beside the shade next to yours in the color wheel felt right. Blue to purple, or purple to blue. It worked. Neither of you had to jump far, or take a leap across the wheel, but only take a step and you’re right there.

He wasn’t love, but you didn’t let yourself think that he could be.

It’s two more years of this until your master’s is done, so you suppose reading a side story wouldn’t hurt much.

Only that this side story was getting a little more complicated than you initially just planned out. You jumped into this story without the thought of grabbing a bookmark, and Akaashi Keiji had been the type of person you knew hated dog eared bookmarks.

“What are your thoughts about this?” he asks you one day though, so completely out of the blue that it has you whipping your head to the side to stare at him, wide eyed. You’ve known him for a while now, and he was okay. Perhaps just the word great, at best, because whether you looked at this from a first person point of view or a third, your words would still be the same. Objective thoughts led you to thinking of coming to a conclusion based on the rubric of your childhood, and Akaashi fit the bill.

Maybe not your bill now, but he still fit it.

Akaashi Keiji was who your should have been prince charming looked like, with the ocean blue eyes and poetry for words.

Even though he asks you that now, when you’re seated in the passenger seat of his car parked outside your apartment building, you still can only bring yourself to just blink. You stay true to the fact that you are surprised, and you do admit that, but that’s all there is to it. Nothing feels like it’s leaping out of your chest, and there’s no flutter of anything in your stomach.

His words register in your head, but so does confusion.

“This?” you parrot, trying to find meaning through the limited context he provides.

Akaashi nods, hands still at 10 and 2 on the wheel, while his foot hovers over the brakes. You can see that the car’s in park, but he’s tense. He lets a couple more seconds pass—that felt like it was stretching a lot longer than what it really is—before inhaling and turning to face you.

“Yeah,” he nods, looking like he’s saying it to himself rather than towards you. “This,” he confirms, then after it looks like he convinced himself, he looks at you, and nods again.

You stare at two pools of the sea, that immediately has you wondering if it’s either the Atlantic or the Pacific. Your feet that had long been digging into the warmth of the sand on the shore are suddenly hit with the first cold kisses of the water, and you’re caught.

“This,” you sound out, and by now you’re already well aware of where the conversation’s headed. The both of you still skirt around the words anyway, the silence quickly settling in.

He’s breathing in and out, steady, and tapping his finger against the steering wheel—steady. You’re sat beside him wearing a jacket that’s always been yours, and the AC in his car is just the right kind of cold. When you shift, you’re not exactly comfortable enough to want to stay, but you aren’t uncomfortable to the point of wanting to leave right away either. The space between the both of you feel appropriate, and you know even if he leaves later, his place is only a ten minute drive away.

Convenience, you think; it’s an appropriate word to describe this.

So you turn to face him.

Ocean meets earth, and you’re aware of the cold waves touching your ankle now. You’re nodding your head when you hear the click of his seatbelt unbuckle, then keep your eyes on him when he leans close.

It’s like staying on the edge of the shore, hesitant for the long while, before the moon beyond the daylight loses patience and calls for the tide to favor the yearning of the sea as it grants the tips of its waves to reach further inland.

From your seat, you watch as the ocean comes to you.

Your hands are empty, still, but you did finish that paper two days early so you suppose a slice of something is okay.

“This is convenient,” he finally hears you say, and Akaashi wants to say something else, but he shuts himself up when he sees you finally look at him, like you found an answer to a question that’s boggled with your head for a while now.

He knows there was always something unanswered that bothered you, but he never had it in himself to breach past the boundary the both of you had situated right in the middle just for the sake of asking.

He was curious, but they did say that curiosity had its ways of killing the cat.

Akaashi doesn’t want to be killed—and because he didn’t want this to be killed either—he chose to keep his silence.

Still, he still has it in him to hesitate. The moon can only push the tides so much, and the water will only go so far to where it rarely ventures before it must recede back to where it should be come daylight.

It’s daylight that you yearn, and he sees that.

A faceless kind of sun—that he can only guess is the answer to all the questions he knows you still have.

What’s above the both of you is the gleam of moonlight now, he reasons, so he goes as far as he can and waits. You’re still standing by the shore—still sitting completely still—until he watches you break out of the hesitation laced with your thoughts, right as you move.

“What are we doing?” he hears you whisper, so Akaashi begs for the moon to push him forward just a little closer.

(He hopes you don’t pull away.)

“We’re doing what’s convenient,” he offers, a set of words strung together at the very last second that he knows is just a crafted lie, then prays for the best.

You’re nodding your head, and you give yourself just those few more seconds as you weigh your thoughts, deciding what’s still okay and what isn’t.

You think back to the bullet points of your journal, and mentally recite the facts written in an organized list.

You like to eat cake, and treat yourself a slice after a job well done, because that’s only when you deserve it. You (love)d Miya Atsumu for a whole novel of your life where the reason fell under just because instead of the specifics you try to fit in places for the sake of accuracy and detail. Miya Atsumu was the sun that was always with the sky, and you were never blinded even if you did always stare at him directly in the eye. (Next to that part is always a quickly scribbled why—but you don’t know the answer to it just yet.)

(You say you should really be getting back to it later, to fill in the blanks, and give it some closure—but you aren’t ready for a closure.)

(You aren’t ready to open page 223.)

Then next on the list is Akaashi Keiji. You had two classes with him and went to the same university for your masters and the most you know about him is that he likes his coffee with just a splash of caramel. He lives just a ten minute drive away from you, and he’s okay enough to share a laugh with on weekdays and breakfast with on weekends if you had class together that day. He’s okay with 7am lectures, even if he did have bags under his eyes, and he’s the type to always carry a bookmark with him or at least just a scrap of paper to fit in between the pages because he hated the idea of just folding the corners as substitute instead.

It’s not that he’s convenient, but rather this is convenient.

You got along well, and you suppose that you’re comfortable enough with the ocean to wade deep within it and still not drown.

“I won’t do anything you don’t want me to,” you hear him murmur, so you take a step and wade in a little deeper.

Ankle deep, and you’re unbuckling your seatbelt as you shift and fully face him.

Ocean blue, and the waves are swirling, swirling, swirling—you’re pulled in. Waist deep, and the water’s cold enough to wake you up and remind you that it’s fine. You’re fine, and you can breathe; you aren’t overwhelmed, and when you stretch your fingers and try to feel for the sand beneath the waves, you can still feel it. There’s a certain security found in being grounded, then you’re thinking to yourself that whatever this is, is okay.

You try to stare down, and face the waves, and will yourself to not think of the sky.

There’s no daylight, and the sun slumbers, so the waves around you heed to the call of the moon and move back and forth, in motion, but still, around your waist.

So it’s you who buckles your knees in waist deep water and pull yourself under.

It’s the feel of the water, cool and not exactly cold that greets you, as you push yourself forward, grabbing the collar of his shirt before pressing your lips against his.

Akaashi sighs against your lips, as if he’s already discovered the ending to a story he conceptualized himself but never really had the courage of writing out.

He’s kissing you right back, and it feels good—for the moment.

You try not to think of the nagging feeling that pokes at you again and again, saying that the warmth of the sand under the sun in daylight feels much more like home than the cool feel of the water.

You’ve always known to yourself that there was the undeniable contrast between Akaashi and Atsumu.

Comparing the two wasn’t a bright idea—it was stupid, if anything, and didn’t help with shit, honestly speaking. (You always were honest to yourself.)

Akaashi hummed his praises, and never was the type to really shout them out. He called you when he’d pull up to your building, instead of wait outside the door and surprise you with a couple pieces of chocolate and a cheesy grin that you swore to hell and back you hated to boot.

Atsumu was everything unpredictable and freeing, but Akaashi was predictable in the way that eventually grew sentimental. He, alone, had forever been great. You knew well that there was so many things he could take pride in, and never bothered to hide your compliments when it came to his achievements, because you knew he deserved the recognition.

Akaashi spoke to you in metaphors, while Atsumu told you like how it is. You admit to yourself, that even if there were some days where you liked the challenge of trying to understand what was written underneath the underneath—the days where you just wanted to hear it as it just is were just as equal.

For the next few months after the first, time still moved okay. Sixty minutes was still an hour, while twenty four hours was still one whole day. Whether Akaashi’s hand was on yours, or if his lips were on your neck in the car, time still just moved.

Your heart skipped a couple beats, when his thumb would always caress the corners of your lips before and after he kissed you, and your cheeks would bloom into all the shades of scarlet when he’d whisper your name in between the kisses that never felt rushed.

But it was just that.

You felt the rush of what love was supposed to be—the hype that it never failed to bring—in the car.

At 11PM, in the parking lot of your apartment building, the height of love thrived on the fumes of serendipity for an hour or two every couple of nights, and would trickle fast when you’d open the door and tell him goodnight.

Atsumu was goodnight, my love, with the cheesy smile and your montage of eye rolls but secret blushes when you’d turn your back and make your way inside your house. Akaashi, on the other hand, you think is just your goodnight, then go, because at the end of the day—because of convenience—the both of you are somehow dragging out the goodbye.

So you part from him, wipe your lips, and try to ignore the way his thumb lingers just a little longer on the corner of your lips. You turn away when the look in his eye turns softer, because it shouldn’t, and pretend like you didn’t just see the shift the both of you have been trying to get away from.

Just two years, then goodbye, you tell yourself.

This isn’t love, Akaashi thinks to himself, hand on the wheel and foot on the gas pedal instead of the brakes. He watches you walk past the hood of his car, the hand that was just balling up the collar of his shirt only moments ago raised to give him a goodnight wave as you walk past, and shit, he thinks.

He still smells honeydew even after you’ve shut the door, and he can’t help but notice how silent the car feels despite the low hum of the air conditioner blasting inside his car.

Akaashi sinks into his seat, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, before he sighs his deep exhale.

“Ah,” he mumbles. “Shit.”

This wasn’t supposed to be love.

If there was one thing he excelled at above the rest, and kept as a constant since day one, for Akaashi it was playing it safe.

This route was set to be the one he’d take when he’d drive home, because it was safe. Traffic was inevitable in the city, but this on had the least turns. A couple stoplights, and some convenience stores would be in every corner as well as a gas station at every couple of miles was convenient.

Safe, like choosing just plain vanilla for his cake flavors ever since he turned old enough to pick out his own cake, and safe, like just a splash of caramel in his coffee to lessen the bite of espresso.

You were what challenged him to walk a little ways outside the circle he’d always deemed as safe.

He didn’t run away from it, on the other hand, because he realizes that it’s curiosity that made him take the bait. You weren’t just the girl who shared a couple subjects with him and wrote her notes in the same order, the letters written in print instead of scribbled with questionable cursive.

Truth be told, it was before he even took the risk that night and begged for the moon to let him reach just a little further in the shore for him to unconsciously begin redesigning the face of love into the contours of your face.

You looked like love.

What it could just possibly be at the start, until he waded too far into the shore for that thought to turn into the beginnings of certainty.

And when Akaashi Keiji was certain, he took no time in looking for somewhere to bury his roots as deep as he can possibly go in.

It started with noticing that some weeks you prefer red velvet over chocolate mousse, then making a mental note to himself that you prefer the bakery on the east side of campus than the one on the west. You never made too much conversation with the teenagers that worked there part time, because he understands that there’s never really a point in doing that when you could just be on your way, but he took note of how you’d smile a little more towards the uncles that trimmed the hedges on the garden outside.

In his eyes, not only did you look like the textbook definition of love, but you also looked like his dream of what love is supposed to be.

It’s supposed to be looking at someone, doing something so mundane, and realizing that having a name beside you written in a book that was supposed to just tell your journey wasn’t all that bad—at all.

And all it took was a Sunday morning, on the twenty first of some month he can’t quite recall in the moment, for him to catch a glimpse of you making your way to the library with a cup of what he knows is just boba in a coffee mug in hand. The sky behind you looks like it opens, as if there’s something with it that’s always been with you, and even though you’re at a distance—in his eyes, you’re glowing.

You smile at the uncle who’s trimming away at the hedges to your right, then right before you make a turn, you’re raising your hand as a good morning and giving him a smile.

And fuck, Akaashi thinks.

He holds a heart that beats, where for the moment it’s not because of the fact that he still needs to breathe.

He’s okay, and this is okay.

He thinks to himself that there’s a chance, because the both of you work. So it just means to say that this, can too.

“Okay,” he exhales, the whisper more as a reassurance to himself than to anyone else. The world covered in daylight slumbers at his words, and as he stands, his own schedule in place, he wishes for the blessing of the moon to push him with the tides back into the shore again.

“Tonight,” he texts you, instead.

“I’ll pick you up tonight.”

(March 13 2022)

In shades of grey, Akaashi Keiji loves you.

Grey car, oceanic yes that look grey under the stormy nights you’d always meet him in, and the rainclouds of tonight blending the skies into the muddled shades of one palette. Making out in his car, a couple times a week, because even if he wanted to hold your hand and kiss you out in the world—you always did pull back.

But he has this, and for an hour and some minutes, has you.

Your palms on his chest, where his breaths are huffed out and fucking heavy. There’s smoke out the engine, the air conditioner’s blasted in just the way he knows you like, but it’s those hazy eyes of yours he could never read that stare at him.

Or towards him, rather.

Akaashi thinks to himself that it’s always looked as if you mean to be staring at someone else other than him, living through the moment that was somewhere else but here. He knows love is meant to be screamed at the top of his lungs, so he tries to at least do that.

He’s never really thought the rest of the world should know, because all he really wants is for you to know.

Words don’t come out, and his hands are under your shirt before they even try to run through the skin of your neck like he usually does. Cold palms flat against the curve of your back, and you’re confused. Akaashi’s staring at you, breath held as he holds onto your smell of honeydew for as long as he can like it’s the lifeline he needs. Your eyes are even hazier, looking like you’re even more lost, and he’s frustrated.

He kisses you again, pulling you flush against him, until eventually you’re pushing at his chest when the center console begins to dig into your skin a little too much.

“We can go upstairs?” he usually tries to suggest, and now, looking at your red lips and mused hair, he wants to ask the same question again, but because he thinks he knows you like the back of his hand, he also knosws that you’ll just wave him off with a half hearted no chuckled out instead.

This is just a pit stop, and he knows. He is just your pit stop, and even if the agreement was the same on the flip side, it bothers him that he fucking knows.

“Someone will see us,” a thing you say, because he’s just your for now.

Akaashi Keiji, in your head, is going to be your almost mistake, almost enemy.

(And you don’t want to hate him. It’s not that his limbs have been too entangled with yours for you to come up with that decision, but rather, it was just how you just didn’t want to hate someone you shared slices of your truest you with.)

“Someone will see us, Keiji,” you warn again, ducking a little when a group of people make their way out of a building and head in the general direction of their car.

Akaashi knows that you’re aware of the tinted windows he had installed just two weeks before, and that they fucking worked, so why were you still hiding?

What is there to hide?

So it’s him saying, “I don’t care,” that lights a kind of flame in his gut. They travel up to the veins, reminding him of their existence.

It’s a risk, he thinks. He holds your face in between his hands, shaking. You allow yourself to finally tremble with him, because broken has been the only side of you that he’s ever known.

Akaashi’s frustrated, again, because watching you watch him in the dim—despite the haze of your dark brown, he still tries to jump at the chance that perhaps this could be love.

He wants to know what you look like in every shade in between black and white. There’s a lot of pastels and violet blended in with your choice of wardrobe, so it fits.

Akaashi wants to hear the sound of your voice at twenty three, and not just at a zero or a hundred. He knows your heart breaks a little more when October 5 around the calendar, but he wants to know why.

“Someone is going to fucking see,” you’re hissing now, but you still don’t pull away.

Akaashi knows he’s just the getaway car, but he still keeps his foot on the pedal, always ready to go when you are.

He sees the look in your eye and recognizes the tendrils of goodbye before it’s even completely thought out from your end, but he shuts his mouth, swallows his own doubts, and kisses you like you’re his.

(For tonight, you are.)

(Under the moonlight; away from daylight; within the waters, ever drowning in the depths—you’re his.)

So Akaashi locks his doors, starts the engine, and kisses you again and again and again and again like the world within this little space is all the world will ever be. He drowns out the voice in his head that tells him to pull away; to push you and himself away, because this isn’t okay—but tonight he is selfish.

“I don’t fucking care,” he repeats; in between the kisses and the façade.

“Lena I don’t care.”

You don’t understand, but at the same time you do.

You’re still kissing him anyway, and leaning into his touch. You only look at him when he opens his eyes, to pull yourself back into the water and away from the memory of daylight and sun and fucking sand because not yet—you think. You don’t want to think about the word deserve, just yet. There’s a fire that’s been lit in your veins, and the world feels like it’s kicking you off of somewhere again so you could just soar.

It’s not the same, the voice in your head cries.

And it’s not.

Love, is Miya Atsumu and daylight. He’s the whole tier of cake always put on display that you mean to buy, but never do because you feel like what you carry with you would never be enough. He’s the masterpiece against the skies, against the backdrop of your world, and he deserved nothing short of the greatness that he is too.

Akaashi’s lips are on your neck, where he mumbles your name, once, then twice, but never enough to feel like he’s endgame. There will never be a number to match to that what could be enough, you think, so you let it be and leave it at that.

Akaashi Keiji isn’t a secret, but you still shield whatever you have from something. You think you shield it from the sky, but some days has you feeling like it’s really meant to be understood as working like the other way around. He’s kissing you, still, then when his lips move to kiss the side of your forehead you still.

You know he means to leave a kiss on your eyelids, but you keep your eyes wide open—staring at him. It’s the ocean blue, but you’re not being pulled away, swept out to sea this time, because there’s no current. Within the depths, you see a reflection of the skies that always watch, and the clouds above look like they mean to weep.

Your toes hit the sand underneath the waves, and you take one step back—closer to the shore.

You’re not there, yet, but you’re headed there. Akaashi looks at you, looking a little more broken than whole, and while there’s an apology at the tips of your tongue, he beats you to the punch by saying “What’s wrong?”

He knows he’s asking a question he knows the answer to, and he probably shouldn’t be doing that, because it will only bring more harm than good at this point, but he says it anyway. At every chance that falls on his hands here he can at least try to make his presence be known, to root his name and him into the grounds of your earth, he’ll do it.

Pinpricks that poke and prod at his chest before they dig a little deeper, and a whole lot fucking deeper when you turn away from him and pull away, taking with you your traces of honeydew and love.

“Nothing,” you answer. A lie. You both know, but neither of you confront the clear sins of the other. “Nothing,” you say again, solidifying your answer.

The list comes reappears in your head, and the facts that you’ve been gathering lay themselves side by side beside you in the most cohesive order.

You like to eat cake when you did something worth celebrating for. Fact.

Your name is Lena, and there’s a lot about the lyrics to Ayahuasca that sends you spiraling. Fact.

Fruit tarts over cheesecake, because even if you didn’t mind cheese all that much, cheesecake felt weird. Fact.

Miya Atsumu, forever and always; spring to winter, will always be love. Fact.

You let him go because he deserved better. Fact.

You mark the pages of a book you haven’t finished reading by folding the corners of the pages into the little triangles resembling dog ears instead of buying an actual bookmark, while Akaashi Keiji, does the same. Fact.

Your truth is that even if he stares at you right now, with the eyes of a man in love, you know that the sinking feeling in your stomach is the fact that you think as if he’s just meant to be with you in the moment, but not after it passes.

“Keiji, I’m sorry.”

It’s the way you looked as you said the words instead of the words itself that sticks in Akaashi’s head the most. He’s up, awake at 2 in the morning, tossing and turning in bed, frustrated. There’s a misplaced sense of anger inside, but he knows it isn’t towards you.

He isn’t angry at himself, nor you, nor the two fucking words that sounds like a consolation prize if anything.

Akaashi sits up, back against the headboard and ponders to himself if this is the kind of extremity Bokuto had to face whenever he was going through the motions. It’s the kind of fire that bubbles up but never explodes. First, he remembers. Then, he’s angry. Next, he’s swallowing down the words he wants to say because the problem is—he doesn’t know who to say them to.

He could call you and ask what your fucking deal was, but he knows that’s out of pocket. Your deal had always been the black and the white. He knew you as someone who appreciated it most when things fell into what was in accordance to the list you always write in order. It’s always been either this, or that, and he should have drilled it into his head at the very least.

Then after those thoughts eventually settle into his head and accumulate into a pile in front of him, the anger that already had rose to the neck area suddenly simmers down.

Then, finally, Akaashi realizes, as the exact moment settles in—he’s just tired.

He’s a little sad, and tired. Slumped shoulders, tired eyes, and thoughts a whirlwind of just you, you, and you.

This wasn’t part of his norm, he thinks, but he thought you were. He thought all there was to you were boba or juice shoved in a coffee mug and friendly hellos to the uncles who trimmed the hedges. You were the color lilac despite having a love for all the shades found in the rainbow. There was probably a semblance of love, in your life, before him, but he knows that inn this part of your life—he was bound to meet someone who’ve had endings of their own.

He sighs again, realizing the truth that he doesn’t want you to be just an ending for him to reminisce over with a group of strangers some time later.

And of course, Akaashi Keiji was the type to demand answers, because it’s only minutes later here he finally makes up his mind, standing up in a rush and picking up his phone as he dials your number, the digits memorized despite your contact having been long saved.

You don’t pick up after the first ring, but it’s only two am and he sees your game activity on discord so he knows you’re up. He’s tapping his foot, a little impatient, but because tonight he made the abrupt decision to suddenly be selfish—just this once—he didn’t care.

The second ring still rings, but there’s silence. Your status changes from online to do not disturb, and by the third ring, he hangs up, and grabs his keys.

To be fair, you did count down from ten to one.

Akaashi’s at your door before you can even say hello. He doesn’t look like he’s lost much sleep, taking into consideration the fact that you already are well aware of how little he even sleeps, but it’s you who leans by your door and says hello anyway.

He shifts in his place, left leg supporting his whole weight before the other. You watch, somewhere between amused and indifferent as he parts his lips once or twice, shutting them close each time before he eventually just settles with looking away and murmuring, “Wanna go for a ride?”

“To make out?”

He looks at you, then sighs. “Just wanna talk.”

And to be fair on your end, even if he did say that, there really isn’t much talking going on. The both of you are only wearing your pyjamas, just a couple hops away from going to bed—until this—obviously. He’s driving around the street of the neighborhood park nearby in circles; the one with the two stoplights on either ends, and just one corner as the only way that lead to your house, while his route was the turn a couple more ways ahead.

He misses the turn to your home every time. It’s a fifteen minute walk at best, and truth be told, if you were already sick of this, you would have long gotten off and started walking already, but you suppose that tonight you were a little more patient.

There’s a lot of factors that have to deal with Akaashi being patient with you too, so you could guess that it’s safe to assume that this was just a give and take situation.

You give him your words, while he gives you his.

He gives you his time, then you give him his.

There’s a balance that needs to be maintained, so while he gives you silence, in return, you do the same.

Until he breaks it, saying, “What happened back there?”

“It is what is is, Keiji,” you hum, head turned to face the window to your right.

“We were working out,” he reasons, and you widen your eyes, looking at him, baffled. “What are you talking about?”

“I thought we had an agreement, Ji,” you retaliate.

“We didn’t say anything, Lena,” he scoffs.

Scoffs, you think. Then it fucking dawns on you that he was actually already wading in the deep end, too fast, too hard.

You shake your head, always having been resolute with your decisions, as you were transparent with your intentions. Akaashi, on the other hand, seemed to just squint right through it and look at the mirage instead of the actual desert that was right there.

“But it was still said,” you tell him, and when he stops the car near the sidewalk just to gawk at you, it really fucking hits you that he was way too deep in something that was only waist deep in hindsight.

“That’s what you think,” Akaashi tells you, but he doesn’t sound angry. He doesn’t sound tired either, so it messes with you in a weird way to realize that this is just his truth.

“I can’t tell you what you can and can’t think just like how you can’t be putting words in my mouth that I never even said, Keiji,” you bite back, flustered and frankly a little appalled at the bluntness off his words. When you stare at him, you try to give it some reason that maybe he’s just tired, or maybe he just had a bad day and was spewing shit out of his mouth at best, because at the moment, absolutely nothing is making any fucking sense.

But then he’s sighing, tired. The back of his head thumps the car seat headrest when he leans back and loosens his grip on the wheel. The streetlights flicker, but stay, while the stoplight with the corner that has your turn on it signals yellow.

You bite the bullet and turn to him, but still slow yourself down.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean—“

From his peripherals, Akaashi sees the stoplight further up ahead that leads to his turn blink from green to red.

He pauses.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m—fuck. Fuck, okay,” he continues, pausing to rub his face with his hands. “I’m sorry, Len, I didn’t mean to go off like that.”

“I think,” you begin, exhaling, and frankly feeling a little more worn out. “I think we were looking at different stoplights this whole time.”

Akaashi laughs, finding it a little out of your character to be speaking in metaphors, especially knowing that that was always his sort of thing. He nods, anyway, a little past worn out, and just fucking tired at this point. It dawns on him that it is three in the morning, and he’s pulled you out of your apartment just to try to find a common ground in something that had been completely one sided from the start.

You’re yawning, in your spot just beside him, but you still look at him anyway with blinking eyes that look more sleepy than anything, but he supposes he’d rather take that kind of look over frustration or sadness.

He fights the urge to tuck in the strand of hair behind your ear, looking away when you blink a little too long, because he knows that his lips will never find a home against the skin of your eyelids he knows he’ll still periodically think about from time to time when nostalgia decides to visit him a little later down the road.

He remembers his stoplight’s at red.

“This kinda feels like a breakup,” he laughs anyway, giving himself this little bit to stay in the moment and pretend like car rides with him, and you, will still be an okay thing for tomorrow.

“Does it?” you smile, slowing down, and thinking of yellow.

Yellow.

He smiles, but doesn’t say a word, and the conversation ends just like that.

“Let me drop you off at least,” he says, and you shake your head, eyes cast towards your stop light as the countdown to green begins to tick.

“I think I wanna take a walk.”

“At three AM?” he prods. “Alone? In Tokyo?”

It hits green, and you stifle a laugh, a little drunk on the kind of adrenaline that doesn’t make you feel like running, but rather, soaring, instead.

“Yeah,” you snort. “At three AM, alone, in Tokyo.”

He knows he probably should have said something to at least get you close enough so that your building can be seen, but by the looks of it, your mind’s already long made up as you open your door, and walk out, shutting the same door softly behind you. Akaashi’s quick to lower the windows on that side, tilting his head as you do the same, leaning down give him a little smile.

“I really don’t mind dropping you off just so that I know you’re safe,” he says.

“And I really am okay,” you laugh, waving him off. “No need to be so nice, I just probably broke your heart.”

“Probably’s an understatement,” he laughs, but waves you off when you look like you’re about to say something.

“Why are you being nice to me? I didn’t do anything to you,” you laugh again.

Then you watch as Akaashi shrugs, smiling the kind of smile that you think he does when he’s alone as he looks at your stoplight turning to green ahead instead of the one on his. “You don’t need to do anything for anyone to get stuff, Len.”

“—You really don’t.”

It isn’t as much as looking at heartbreak straight in the face, Akaashi thinks to himself. It was really just a matter of pulling his head out of his own ass and realizing that the first look of a break of his mundane isn’t what fate has in store. Serendipity works weird, he realizes. People say it’s the happily ever after you’re supposed to be craving for, but he realizes it’s a lesson.

You were a lesson, to which the exact words he can’t exactly have a solid grasp of as of now, but he knows in time he’ll find them.

The reality of heartbreak is that it just comes, for the sake of being there. It doesn’t trickle slow, or give a warning. In his case, Akaashi realizes that it’s just there because it’s the result of something.

He’s driving down a street, passing your turn, where he has to peel his eyes away at the sight of you walking past a no U-Turn sign, because it just hits him that you were never for his to cradle to begin with.

There’s not much about you, but he can just about tell that you look like the kind of woman who holds on to the best kind of book, shoving it away during the best part, because you’re afraid of the inevitable that the story will still end.

He taps at his steering wheel, coming to another stop at the red light of his street, where he turns on his signal to turn to the right when he’s given a go. For a moment, his eyes flicker towards the passenger seat, where you were just hours ago, in the exact same moment where he was high on something and thinking that the world was just made of 2.

Akaashi looks at heartbreak in the face, but it’s just fragments of you, and a couple sentences he can’t connect to each other, and just like that he knows that this little slice of your life will just be a piece of a puzzle he isn’t a part of.

It’s okay.

It will be okay.

But right now the light’s red, and he allows himself to feel that it isn’t. He tells himself that it’s not because he isn’t enough, but rather, he’s not enough for the kind of fulfillment you were looking for. Perhaps love and happiness looked like the skies, and not the seas, because that would explain why most of his memories with you always involved you facing the clouds, as if caught in a daydream.

Akaashi laughs to himself, a little dryly, when the lights turn green and he’s easing off of the brakes. His world will always be in motion, and he’ll always be headed towards something—but right now he thinks of the moment as a metaphor that he’s heading out of something.

Out of the first phase of love; where it’s just an idea and not exactly it.

He was the getaway car, but it was okay. In shades of grey he supposes he’ll always see you, but perhaps one day he’ll find the perfect shade of orange to let the blue in his eyes finally come into a full bloom.

It’s in the exact same moment that you pass by the no U-Turn sign that you’ve always just ignored on your street, where a lot of things hit you.

First is the memory of Atsumu.

At first, you feel bad, because you know you probably just walked out of a situation that had to deal with you breaking a heart instead of healing it, but your truth had always been your truth and there was no point in sugar coating something whose end was prewritten right from the start.

So you shake away the thoughts, and remember Atsumu again.

It’s undeniable, that who he was had always been your truth regarding what love would always be. Miya Atsumu as the gold to your lavender, and even if the color wasn’t just your neighbor in the palette, standing beside him fit.

It fit, but just saying that it does doesn’t feel like it’s enough.

The No U-Turn sign stares at you in the face, so you stop.

You’re standing in the sidewalk again, like all those years ago, and even if you’re pretty sure that you just broke a heart only some moments ago, the only name running through your head in the moment was Atsumu’s.

Love was as ugly as it was beautiful. Selfish as it was selfless.

No U-Turn, so you keep walking.

You pull back from the waters, and ignore the moon, and stare at the skies, pretending that you’re in the presence of the sun where the sky that blankets your side of the world is bathed in the colors of daylight. Every shade of the sky saturated, where the sun looks more of a gold than a blinding yellow.

You laugh, briefly recalling the time when he decided to let you be with the spiral of your thoughts, and it’s tonight where you come into a full realization that he only did that because he knew this was the something you needed to go through yourself before even letting him in.

Your thoughts drift, and you look up to the sky, searching for the big ball of light, because in your heart, you’re calling for love. You’re alone in the streets, at three in the morning just loitering around in your pyjamas that don’t match in any angle, but love is what drives you to keep walking home.

No fucking U-Turn, and it hits you like a damn truck.

Miya Atsumu will always be the love that you’ll still find in the silence. In every shade of yellow and gold, and every walk home. He’s the presence—or a fucking entity, you laugh to yourself—that drives slow next to you who decides to take it slow and just walk home, talking the long route on the sidewalk.

There are streetlights that glow in the distance like fireflies, and you’re suddenly thankful for the burst of light.

Light, like your Atsumu, who will always be the face of your love.

You don’t know if you deserve it, but it truly had to take reading a damn side story and coming into terms that the most you could ever give the rest of the world was an honest I’m sorry.

“You don’t need to do stuff for anyone to get stuff,” you hear Akaashi’s voice chorus in your ear again, so you smile to yourself, not exactly changed, but a little enlightened at most.

Change and acceptance doesn’t happen overnight, but like love, who came into your life like a rush, epiphanies also held the nature of just arriving without warning.

The tears that begin to dribble down your face afterwards worked sort of like that. You recall sitting on the floor of your kitchen, tears on your hands, down your cheeks, on the floor, and on your shirts. You told yourself again and again that you were crying because of the cake and not because of how unkind you were to yourself, because even if your hands were empty—you know that word is only subjective at best.

You’re walking down the streets now, along the streets with the lights that look like fireflies at three am and you could just feel Atsumu smirking beside you if he was here.

Tears that feel warm, but it’s liberating.

Nothing strikes you one minute, only to change you a whole 180 in the very next because it just doesn’t work like that, but what does stay is Akaashi’s words. They swirl in your head again and again, like a broken record that has you realizing isn’t playing such a bad song at all.

Love is as selfish as it is selfless.

You loved Atsumu selflessly, but now you want to hold on to a semblance of him again—albeit it just being a memory, for now, and love with the intention to take.

It’s to accept, he would correct you, if he was there, but then again, those will always just be the words that you are yet to hear.

But for now you walk along the sidewalks and reminisce. You reminisce the view of the summit, and the feeling of being so high up. You think of Akaashi and the ocean blue eyes you thought were just great at best, and whisper another apology into the universe you pray will deliver your words to the rightful ears, because right now, you just want to love selfishly.

There’s a book on your shelf with a dog eared bookmark on page 223, and you think that tonight you’ll pull it out and at least dust the cover.

When you look in the mirror, you know that you’re in love and that fact alone is as undeniable as the truth that your name is Lena.

It’s okay to be in love, and a little broken, and it’s okay to eat a slice of cake just because.

You’re crying still, when you stumble out your door again, Atsumu’s hoodie around your frame, as you drive to that only bakery in town, forty five minutes away, because you know that they sell the best kind of red velvet.

The funny thing about epiphany is that once the smallest bit of it strikes you, it keeps coming. Reality is messy, you think, and your eye opening moment doesn’t happen like how it does in the books where every moment plays out one before the other in perfect order.

There’s a method to the madness that is life, where the order is called spontaneity because the very nature of it is to defy just that.

Serendipity that’s always found you through the face of Miya Atsumu and the amber skies that were yours and his every six thirty. Eyelid kisses and I love you, just because. Climbing from one straight to a hundred, and even a fucking thousand that quick because love is as much of a whirlwind as it is a slow burn.

You tell yourself time and time again that all you do is take without giving, but at this point it’s the universe that wishes for you to understand that there is no such thing as ever giving too little.

Love, as selflessness and purity will keep giving because even if you open your hands and offer it nothing, it will only smile back fondly, telling you that you are always deserving—as you are.

You surpass the word enough—as you are.

You are loved—as you are.

There will always be someone who will sit behind the door and eat cake with you in the silence.

Right now, it’s just you, but you make do anyway.

You’re in the driver’s seat of your car, frankly a mess, primarily because of three things.

The first, you’re finally feeling everything you’ve told yourself you shouldn’t be feeling—all at once. Second, the cake is really good, and you don’t feel guilty about eating it this time around.

And third, the auntie selling you cake commented that there was a gentleman just last week who wore the exact same kind of jacket that you’re wearing, buying all thirteen flavors of cake and taste tested each one on the table by the window. She asked him if he was waiting for someone, and apparently he’d always say that he is, but she was just taking her time getting caught up in a little something, but “she’s worth the wait,” he’d repeat.

“She’s worth a lot of things, so waiting a little bit is okay.”

Apparently he would buy everything but cheesecake, even if he did stare at the piece a little longer, looking like he wanted to try.

You’re crying at the thought that there was still a piece of him that was all you, even after all the one sided conclusions you didn’t even talk him through with.

“Okay,” you say, whispering to no one but yourself in particular. The container with your one slice of red velvet is on your lap, while there’s an unopened one that’s the mango cheesecake you would never in a million years order, in the passenger seat of your car.

“What do we do now?” you say again, looking at the reflection of yourself in the reflection of your windshield.

You’re nodding your head, the words to write beside the bullet points in your head already listing themselves out in a neat line, written in print. You shake your head afterwards, for the first time without the presence of anyone really, overwhelmed with all the things you thought would be your end, showing you all the epiphanies you’ve been pretending you never saw all this time.

There’s a comfort found in listening to the sound of your own sniffles in the car, your own arms around you like the anchor Atsumu’s have always been, and just like that you break down again because not only are you in love with him, you’re also giving yourself the kindness your soul has been needing to realize that you need to love yourself just as much too.

It’s not easy, but it’s tangible.

Accepting love, as the selfless something, and not just a factor that worked like the give and take system was also not right here, but in time you’ll be right there with it where it’s tangible.

“I’ll eat cake today, just because,” you finally say, and at your first bite of red velvet, the weight of your demons lessen just a little bit.

April 16, 2024 | New York City, USA

Miya Atsumu has always thought to himself that love worked in an oddly sadistic way. It came without explanation, stayed without boundaries, then would just fucking up and leave like it didn’t just build a whole world and there would be no consequences.

Thankfully for him, love was the one thing that never left.

He saw you through a myriad of what you think are your lessons, and Atsumu smiles at every candid memory of you.

He saw you think to yourself that you were falling for ocean eyes, then saw you again, a few months after what he assumes was the fall out, at your graduation.

You wore your cap the other way the first time, and he chuckles, snapping a photo from the distance—to which you rapidly turn your head towards his direction at—a feat of yours that he can never guess how it was made possible. He was there, from a distance, cheering when your name was called, and you walked to the stage. Lilac flowers and every slice of chocolate was something he dedicated forever to you, and every time he’d close his eyes before a serve he would lightly tap at his eyelids reminding himself that that will always be yours and his.

The future is where time moves slow, and then it doesn’t.

The demons are there, but you suppose that it’s because they’re sort of a lifetime deal. Somedays you’ll still look away from the slice of cake you’ve been meaning to eat after a job well done, but the better days also come right after the plunge where you’ll drive yourself to the auntie’s bakery located in the OK part of New York at three in the morning just because.

You were connected to the world, despite your demons, and it was okay.

New York had went from just a postcard on your wall to the skyline that greeted you every morning before you went to work.

The smell of coffee and the feel of sunlight at 9am. Love, as the something you can still hear in the silence, because it works just like that.

Silence, as the word that’s nothing more than the absolute contrast to what New York is, but it was you dulling even the noise that comes with Time’s Square to realize that this is the kind of atmosphere good for you.

And because serendipity works like a bitch, it really shouldn’t have surprised you when through the crowd, it’s still Miya fucking Atsumu who you see staring back at you like he’s found you far longer than you found him.

(Perhaps there’s more than just truth to that.)

You don’t think you want to cry, because the love that’s always been there still feels the same, and when you walk towards him, a pace like your usual, you feel weightless.

There’s a comfort about meeting smack in the middle, and you think that this is it. You gave your twenty steps while he gave his. Maybe some days he gives you a little more than just twenty, and maybe some days you’ll find yourself in bed, taking zero steps while he’ll go as far as flying some thousands of kilometers just to be with you.

You let serendipity be, as you stand before him, feeling like no time has passed.

A little over three years has passed, but see the same streaks of amber in his eyes of earth, and you think that love, also has a face that looks timeless.

And it’s this.

It’s you, and it’s him—in a city that uses noise that works like silence.

It’s New York and the sea of lights. Miya Atsumu and his dopey smile, that somehow still crossed more than just a couple oceans to a land foreign to him, and he still managed to come to you halfway, like a whirlwind.

An unprecedented presence that you welcome anyway, because love, you suppose, will forever be so many things.

It’s one face that one name that holds all of that though, Atsumu thinks.

He’s looking at you, where in his head he’s already laughing because your lipstick’s smudged on the left side, the culprit obviously being the piece of croissant looking a little lame in your hand.

“I love you, still, but I think you know that,” he says immediately, as if he’s just continuing a conversation.

(In a way he is; the last you talked to him, you never really heard a reply. You said goodbye and then you left, and Atsumu never got a chance to get a word in.)

And as if he read your expression, he laughs, hands low on his waist as he stands in front of you, present. “I wanted to tell you that then so I’ll say it now too I guess. My voice has got a little deeper so it probably has more effect now.”

You shake your head, already past the state of disbelief considering the rollercoaster that is your life. “It still has the same effect,” you mumble, croissant long forgotten.

You think that you want to cry again, but Atsumu’s grinning and you feel breathless.

It’s like mercy that greets you after you think you’ve done nothing but sin—you’re breathless but your lungs feel full.

So it’s Atsumu walking up to you, looking at you like you’re his daydream, saying “Hi Lena, what’s your name?” that grounds you back to the earth after freefalling from the summit.

The world has always looked different from the view at the very top, and even if you closed your eyes throughout the fall, there was a certain comfort you realize only now and that’s the fact that the whole time you were falling—it was the sky that held on to you and never let you go since.

“Hi ‘Tsumu,” you say back, closing your eyes when you lean in halfway as he reaches forward and pulls you the rest of the way, towards him—towards love, and towards home.

“I’m sorry I don’t have something with me right now to give you,” you mumble out anyway, and your heart bursts at the feel of his hand stroking the back of your hair, as his voice anchors you down again to keep you from floating right by your ear.

He kisses your eyelids, then your forehead, and the white noise of New York has you feeling both connected and safe.

“You’re okay,” he says. “You’ve always got me like how I’ve got you, and I’ve never thought there was anything more that I could try to ask for other than that.”

“You are everything that love will always ever be and that’s it for me, Len.”

He smiles, and while things still don’t fully click into place because healing has a habit of doing just that—you also let yourself feel the lightness of just this.

“You don’t need to do anything. I got you,” he says. “You got me too,” he reassures, and you believe him.

208 notes · View notes

hobidreams · 4 years ago

Text

may 1861.

here, the world vanishes and you are unafraid to dream, to want.

pairing: joseon king!yoongi x reader genre: fluff! words: 1.2k contains: historical au, teenage!yoongi, literally just cute stuff

moonlit throne index. this is drabble ten. start from the beginning?

You knock three times, three short raps, then push open the door to the crown prince’s private library. Sunlight invades the room unabashedly through the intricate window design, bathing the entire space in the warmth of a spring pleasantly acquiescing to summer. You inhale the scent of the aged wooden bookshelves and the worn paper they house. You feel yourself finally relax, having worked all the morning away.

At first, with the silence, you think you’re alone. You try to brush off the disappointment as you wander among the shelving, trying to decide what you will study today. You’ve just pulled a collection of herb properties off the rack when there’s a rustling, a crisp page turned with a careful hand.

“You’re back again?”

The drawl is only reserved for especially lazy times and it seems today is one of them as you peer through the newly-made book hole to find the prince lounging comfortably on the seat beneath the window. He shifts back when you make brief eye contact, drawing in the socked feet on the bench to make room.

“Yes, seja-jeonha. I’m back.”

It’s been three months since he gave you permission to access this normally off-limits space, as you mentioned needing more books to study with in conversation with Eunuch Kim. The first time you came had been profusely awkward: two bodies sitting stiffly across the room, too acutely aware of possibly being scrutinized by the other person to get anything done. But you tried again. And again. Soon, you were stealing away to the library whenever it was possible, if only for half an hour. It gradually became natural for you to share the widest seat, where the most sunshine reached (to ease the strain on your eyes, he reasoned). It didn’t take long after that before you were both ditching your rigid shoes, facing each other while he brought his knees up and you crossed your ankles, taking care that your chima skirt covered anything inappropriate.

Why he still insists on acting as if he’s surprised that you’re here, you don’t know. But you’re happy to play along if it means these afternoons keep going.

“Table,” he says, not even looking up from his book.

“Pardon?”

“Table.”

Okay… Still holding the text you picked up earlier, you shuffle to the desk on the other side of the room and gasp.

“Oh, this is— No…!” You abandon the herbs tome. You struggle to keep your fingers delicate through the excitement as you reach for the new book next to it, one you’ve been wanting to read for so long but could never find for its scarcity. You’d gushed about it to the prince just last week, about how it combines folk stories and myths with factual information of flower species from all across the country. “Seja-jeonha! Did you find this? How did you manage such a thing!”

“No, I didn’t. It arrived with the other books yesterday by chance.”

You don’t quite believe him as you clutch the book close to your chest in glee, practically dancing on your way to the bench. “Thank you,” you say, taking a seat on the spot you’ve started considering yours.

“It was not me,” he insists.

“Thank you so much.” You wiggle slightly, settling in with a wide smile as you watch him refocus on his reading harder, even though you both know he hasn’t turned the page in quite a few minutes.

Even as you peel open the cover of the precious text though, there’s something that captures your attention a bit more. It’s the way the sun has shifted, rays falling differently onto Yoongi’s face to kiss the pale skin beneath his sleepy eyes before scattering out across his cheeks. How the light dapples across the nose that occasionally scrunches in irritation at the countless dust particles floating around, haloing him in a golden glow that you wish you could capture in your memory for safekeeping (and later revisiting, when you inevitably feel the twinge of yearning).

Seeing this view... you think. You want. You wish for this moment to go on for a lifetime. Such desires have never been so startlingly intense and the thought alone is a terrifying one as soon as it slips into your mind but the feeling, the feeling settles in your heart like it has always been there, steadily beating away just beneath your skin.

Yoongi looks up and you snap your head away to the side so hard your neck cracks.

Your face heats with the embarrassment at being caught and you insist on pretending you were looking out the window at the garden, the multicolors bursting into vivacity. You hadn’t noticed the violet flowers coming in but now they seem to be on their way to full blossom, and the sight tugs a smile to your lips. The lotus too, beginning their cycle to beautify the pavilion even more. You’ll ask mother to take you on a walk through the garden soon, under guise of plant care.

“Books are for reading, you know.”

“Huh? Oh. I’m sorry.” It’s an automatic apology, but you know he doesn’t mean it by the gentle half-smile, half-scowl on his face. “It’s just that the pavilion is my favorite. I can’t help admiring it.”

“Why? It’s practically falling apart.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not beautiful.”

He hums a noncommittal noise.

You let the subject drop, finally turning to your reading. It’s usually how these days go. Part of you has always wondered if he remembers these brief, but precious words you exchange before the silence takes over; the weighted book sitting in your lap seems to be all the proof you need. So, you sit back. Enjoy this brief respite from reality with dreams quietly blooming in your chest.

“What are you thinking so hard about? You’ll get wrinkles that way.” Later that night, facing you beneath her blankets, mother shakes a hand free to tap you on the forehead.

“Nothing much…” But you can’t stop the sliver of giddiness that runs through you when you think of today and that wonderful book. “I just… I think that I might like someone a lot.” The other L-word feels too big, too heavy to be used right now, even if it’s the right one.

“Oh?” To your great relief, mother knows better than to ask the identity of this mystery person. Just smiles with a fondness that makes you feel even more fuzzy inside. “Are you going to tell them?”

“I don’t think so. But that’s fine. It wouldn’t make a difference either way.” From the very beginning, you’ve known that the distance between you is too vast to ever be breached. To not fall would have been the most painless, but in hindsight, impossible. If concealing the truth will allow you to be close to him, then maybe that will be enough for someone like you.

Mother rolls onto her back. “It’s your choice.” She shuts her eyes. Just as you think she’s drifted off, she says, “just remember that you are always deserving of love. No matter what.”

You think about those words for a long time until you finally fall asleep.

a/n: we’ve made it to drabble 10! phew. & there is so much more to come. if you’re enjoying the series, i’d love to hear your thoughts on it so far ♡♡ your support keeps me going!

#ficswithluv #bts fluff #yoongi fluff #yoongi x reader #bts imagines #min yoongi #historical au #moonlit throne #rain writes #*clenches fist* he's so mfing cute

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ubemango · 4 years ago

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delicacies of the season (m)

part 3: days apart

note: hey!! What’s up!! first, I officially have named this series!! it’s right up there for ur viewing glory! ok anyway here’s something before I disappear for the next four weeks because I am drowning in school!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! also just a side thingie for this story: I’ve already established that oc isn’t on birth control but here I’m implying that they’re doing natural planning (i.e. fertility awareness where the person who menstruates keeps up with their cycle and thus only has sex when their cycles allows for it). PLEASE DO NOT DO THIS UNLESS YOU KNOW THE RISKS!!!!!!!! Oh Lord putting your impregnation chances up to God?! I couldn’t do it. But also this is fanfiction and nothing bad will happen to this couple so let’s all just... suspend disbelief for a second ok

PAIRING. taehyung/reader GENRE. romance, farmer au RATED. M WORD COUNT. 2.5k WARNINGS. kitchen sex, unprotected sex, dirty talk, a good ol’ creampie bc wot is the ubemango experience without one :/ SUMMARY. Taehyung missed you.

Auntie Gaeul comes over when the rooster crows to tell you to check out the passion fruits today. They’re ripe not because she’s seen them but because she just knows. Call it the Elder Instinct for Ripened Foods. You tell her you’ll give her half the harvest, and she swats at you before she leaves.

“Stop being so polite, I’m not that old,” she spits in jest. “And make some of that honey iced tea your grandma makes. If there’s extra, then I’ll have some.”

Taehyung would probably like some, too; he chugs down anything with passion fruit like he’s about to go into hibernation. And when you come back home from the fields with a basket-full perched heavy on your back, you resolve to make some tea right away to bring over to his house to see if he’s there. You haven’t seen him in five days—his cousin had the stomach flu, and his aunt needed the extra help with tending to the livestock. Being the eldest nephew (and the only one who can drive a motorcycle) had him obligated right from the get-go.

“Grandma! Can you show me where you put the honey jars, I can’t remember where they are. And can you help me peel these—um. You’re not Grandma,” you stop.

Taehyung looks up from where he’s perched on the stairs of your awning, flicking bits of strawberries to the ground for Danbi to eat. Your little puppy scrounges it up so fast she nearly falls over on her fluffy bum.

“I told her to go play bingo with the rest of the granny crew, someone’s betting chicken feet,” he says. You smile wide when he trods over to you for a short kiss, slipping the strap of the basket off your shoulder to put on his. The hand he keeps low on your back is as warm as the ten AM sun. “Hi. I missed you.”

“I was just gonna go see if you were home,” you say. He smells like the wind. Something you’d scrunch your nose at but he makes it work. “When d’you come back? How’s Daeshim now?”

“An hour ago. And he’s better. He ate up all your ice cream, only thing he could keep down.”

You frown. “Poor baby.”

“I know. You gonna clean these now?” He nods his head toward the water basin, carved rock he’d installed for you on your third anniversary.

“Yeah. Can you start? I’ll just wash up quick,” you offer. Suddenly you’re aware you’ve got an ugly shirt with oil stains and holes in random places—nothing Taehyung minds, but the occasion probably deserves better.

“Got it, boss,” Taehyung says. He slaps your ass before you run to the bathroom. A familiar signal of his intentions but he’s too polite to bring it up so quickly.

“Hey!”

“Hurry up,” he calls. As if you’re going to take another five days to get back to him but you get it. You missed him, too; a little more than you’d like to let on. Your grandma is great company but she watches her TV too loud and she hates when you’re not there to sit with her because she might need your help switching channels. It’s a miracle you didn’t jump Taehyung the second your eyes landed on him.

You change into whatever shirt you’ve tossed on the floor that looks semi-presentable. It’s too early for your sweat to reek like it does under the afternoon heat, but you spritz some perfume on your neck anyway. Just for upkeep, because you’d be lying if you said you weren’t anticipating sex, a sloppy makeout session at the least. Danbi’s too hyper to be left alone, plus your grandma likes making surprise visits at your house because she’s a forgetful woman.

By the time you’ve come back from scrubbing the dirt and dead ant bits caked under your nails, Taehyung’s a third of the way through the basket, tossing the clean passion fruit into a bucket Danbi is trying so hard to climb into. She yelps when her fat paws slip at the edges.

“Danbi! Mama’s gonna be mad if you get hurt. I’ll give you some later.”

“Go play with your toy,” you call out to her. “Danbi! Go!”

Her ears perk up at your command, and she pants and pants till she decides to go in the complete opposite direction of the ball and into the patch where all the potatoes are. She hasn’t hit her teething phase so you’re safe from her snuffing anything out with her mouth. It’s her fur you worry about. She’s such a nice shade of white amongst the semi-wet dirt, it almost hurts seeing her get soiled.

“Like a little cotton ball,” Taehyung says. He points to the bucket. “This good?”

You nod—it’s enough to have extra for Auntie Gaeul. “Yeah. Wanna carry it to the kitchen like a good man?”

“As if I’m not one already,” he snorts, grabbing the handle. “Danbi, come!”

This is how it always goes. Taehyung ogles from over your shoulder (usually he’s off to the side but he’s a lot clingier, not that you mind) while you do your business because you don’t trust him with a knife. Not since the time you’d tasked him with chopping garlic and he’d nearly sliced his palm open when he tried crushing them first.

And now you’ve got a new addition to the routine: Danbi sniffs around the dried leaves for the fire, sneezing when she breathes the ash in too hard. You hear her collar jiggle as she explores the earthenware stacked on the side. You made sure Taehyung left the door open because she gets antsy fast.

“Can I just say that I have a thing for seeing you use a knife,” Taehyung says, hands stroking your tummy because he’s got nothing better to do.

“You’re really bad at hiding how turned on you are.”

“Who said I was trying to hide?”

You laugh. “What are you trying to get at, mister?”

“I’m saying I missed you,” he says simply.

“So that’s why you kicked Grandma out the house,” you tease. Taehyung splutters in your ear.

“No! They really are betting chicken feet. What do you think I am?”

“Horny.”

“Ugh.”

You turn your focus back to the chopping board. Taehyung lets the sound of the knife smooth down the goop of the insides fill the space.

“...Are you mad if I am?” He whispers tentatively.

“Oh my god. It’s ten in the morning.”

“You think my dick cares?”

“You think I care?” you joke.

Taehyung gasps. Like his heart just shattered from your vitriol, but all you want is to finish cutting up these damn fruits before you’ll allow his hands to touch you. “Wow. You—? Okay, fine.”

“Wha—”

“I appreciate your hard work,” he coos. He wraps himself around you even tighter, traces a slow kiss on your neck. “Really. But don’t pretend you didn’t miss me too.”

“I never said I didn’t.”

“You’ve got a fucking mouth on you.”

And that gets you to shut up. Taehyung only swears when he wants you to stop talking. Not for the sake of real anger but to show you he’s got something brewing, and you’re here to take whatever it is he’s about to give you.

“I just wanted to be a good fiance and visit the one I love the most after five days because I missed them so much.”

His teeth catch the lobe of your ear. Biting down softly because he’s still aware you’ve got the knife in your hand, but you’ve lost all motor skills the second he started his little bit. You drop the handle slowly. At the last second you push all the shit you’ve laid out on the counter to the farthest corner. Something tells you this space is being defiled this morning.

“Good. Are you wet?”

“N-No.”

“Then we’ll have to do something about that, huh.”

You watch his hands glide up, and you’re half-expecting him to fondle you gently, the way he teases you when you think he’s taking it slow. But instead he goes right for the kill: using those long fingers to pinch right at your tits just to get you to gasp into the feeling. You roll your eyes shut, let your head fall back on his shoulder.

“You like that?”

“Mhm,” you whine.

“Take your shirt off for me.”

You’ve never exposed yourself to kitchen utensils and rice wine on the pantry shelves before but Taehyung makes you want it. He shows his appreciation for your compliance with another hard grope of his hands, this time with his mouth sucking on your neck too. Craving your skin like he’s been absolutely deprived. The calluses on his fingertips rub your nipples raw.

“You smell good,” he croons. “Come here.”

You nearly tip over from how fast he spins you around, but he catches you easy, tongue on yours in the next second. The desperate tug of his lips on yours, the smack of your spit when he pulls you in deeper, all the intricacies of needing someone else to save your own sanity—it culminates here, and now your ass is up on the cold of the counter, Taehyung pulling back from one last kiss to drag that same heat down your body.

“Please let me eat you out here, holy shit.” He tugs at your pants, slides your underwear down with it. Mouthing hungry at your mound because you haven’t answered him yet, so you just groan a quick please, yes and he doesn’t even look at you before he presses his tongue inside you.

Somewhere in the back of your mind, the guilt of ruining this space with your (embarrassingly) uncontrolled libido is raging. But you could care less with the way Taehyung swipes his tongue around your clit, gets you clawing at his hair for brief respite. You’ve most definitely exceeded wet boundaries. His chin practically shines.

And he knows it’s because of him. Not just from his mouth but the knowledge that he wants you trembling towards a heady orgasm, the kind that consumes you whole. His laving gets bolder with every stroke, every moan you try to keep stifled but it’s useless. “Taehyung. Oh my g-od, fuck—no d-don’t use your fingers, I’ll come.”

He laughs, adjusts your thighs so you’re not cramping. “Think you’ll tap out?”

“I wanna come on your dick,” you pants.

“Oh my god,” he groans. “You’re perfect. Oh my god. I’m so fucking hard. Can I come inside you?”

“Yes yes yes yes, just get inside me already.”

Taehyung’s foot gets caught on his pants when he shoves them off, nearly crashing face first into your pussy again. And he laughs and you snort and when he’s naked waist-down he kisses you again, a little slower this time, a breather for just a moment.

“I know it’s only been five days but I missed you. A lot.”

You trap his hips with locked ankles on his back. “I know.”

“It’s just—I had to shovel so much horse shit—”

“Oh don’t say that!” You bat at his chest.

Taehyung snickers. “Sorry. Ahh, I don’t know what to do with myself.”

“You can stick your dick inside me and we can go from there,” you suggest.

“I like the way you think, missus.”

It’s almost laughable when he sinks right in. No resistance, just the slick of your arousal and his spit, an unholy mixture for this thick sacrilege. Taehyung’s eyes stay locked on the sight.

“Fuck yeah. Oh baby…”

If it’s got him uttering curses this early in the round then you’re definitely worse off. You’ve got one profanity for every inch he’s claimed inside you, all lined up behind your teeth but you don’t have the brain capacity to get them out. He fucks you straight to incoherence.

Your delirium keeps you mum. Taehyung will make up for it. He slots his hand up the back of your thighs, hits deeper when you arch through the pleasure. “Holy fuck that’s so good,” you whine. “Taehyung—oh god.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just pants hard with every moan you’ll give him, and you watch the sweat glow on his collarbone, the thick of his neck. Places you claim with your mouth when you lean forward because it’s too hard to keep balance without his gravity.

Taehyung breaks when you bite. “Sh-it. Oh fuck you’re so hot. ‘M not gonna last, shit.”

“You’ll fuck me when you come?” you plead, hold his gaze. He’s just as gone as you are. “You’ll fuck your cum inside me?”

“Yeah baby. I’ll give it to you. So fuckin’ good.”

He never lets up. Just keeps that steady fucking, stiff with every drive into your slick till he adjusts your knees with one push. Pussy open to the angle that gets you begging for his thumb on your clit because it’s right there. You fall back on your hands, no steady grip because Taehyung’s faltering too.

“Oh—!” You flutter your eyes shut to pending ecstasy. “Tae—please—harder—right there right there don’t stop!”

“You gonna come for me?”

It’s a rhetorical question. You know he sees the way your chest collapses, the rub of your clit in quick gestures for your high. He’s got you right in his hand.

“Fuck—ohhh yes!”

“Ugh,” he whines. It’s nearly lost to the ringing in your ears, the clench of your pussy from his pounding. You cream him so good when the orgasm’s strong enough, pulsing hot, the rough intensity. And that’s not lost on him when he cries: “God your pussy’s so wet. Holy shit.”

Usually you’re spent by the time your vision’s cleared to the sight of Taehyung fucking you through it. But he’s promised you something, and you’re greedy for it.

“Come inside me,” you urge, guiding a hand through his hair, pulling hard at his nape. He keeps his eyes on his dick priming you for those final strokes.

“I’ll fucking come,” he snaps. “You ready? I’ll come so good for you baby. Come so fucking—good—!”

He stiffens with a shout, grinds his teeth, lets his orgasm splash inside with so much heat you mewl. And he keeps minimal movement, thrust for soft thrust because it’s too much with the squeezing you tease him with.

“I.” Taehyung clears his throat, panting to a stop. “I… wow.”

Your ass is rubbed raw against the counter. But you’ll risk it again to see the glint in his eye when he pulls out and watches his cum drip down your hole, onto the floor for you to clean when your legs aren’t jelly.

“Wow,” you repeat.

“Do… Am I… Am I ovulating?” He looks genuinely confused. “I don’t… I’ve never been that horny before.”

You snort. “Five days felt like forever, huh.”

Taehyung kisses you slow. “If it means we get to fuck like that again then I’m going to the city for a month.”

“Hey!” You pinch his arm, using his bicep to stand up, tiptoeing around the mess on the floor. “God. Help me clean up here, please. And where’s the dog?”

(Danbi sleeps peacefully in the wicker basket, head lolled on one of the passion fruits. You make sure to bring her over to Auntie Gaeul’s for extra snacks.)

#bts smut #taehyung smut #v smut #bts scenarios #taehyung scenarios #v scenarios #ubemango fic #f: farmer!tae series #f: delicacies of the season

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sukiglycerin · 4 years ago

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starless fairy tales || keigo takami, katsuki bakugou.

* pairing: keigo takami (hawks) x reader x katsuki bakugou (gender neutral!)

* genre: it’s a sandwich: angst on the top, fluff in the middle, and angst at the end :) not fantasy DLKFSF IM SORRY

* words: 5.2k, somehow

* warnings: angsty, reader is wary of hawks at first, tokyo skytree!! so don’t read if you’re terribly afraid of heights, a reference to blood for a small metaphor, a reference to the league of villains ;P, cliffhanger ending that i’m not sure i’ll resolve

* original request from @bien-sur: hey, saw you wanted requests and I read through some of your work, really loved the Hawks one shot!! i’m a sucker for enemies who make out. i’m feeling angsty so uh maybe, if you want, a bakugo one-shot where he kind of uh cheats on the reader...? or maybe just hurts her feelings very badly? maybe the reader feels numb for a while but is comforted by Keigo, and the reader realizes they deserve better? so sorry if this is out of your comfort zone or it’s dark content(?) anyways I like your writing so i’ll read a few more of your works before going to bed :)) thank you, i appreciate u taking the time to do requests regardless of whether you do mine :)

* a/n: ENEMIES TO LOVERS IS SUPERIOR!! i was so excited to write an enemies piece with hawks. this showcases the soft, kind side of hawks so i hope you enjoy it !! thank you sooo much for being so kind in your request! this request is completely fine. i added much more plot than i’d expected, and learned sooo much about tokyo skytree. i couldn’t do infidelity because it hurts me too much and i love bakugou too much. i tried to keep the angst.,., but happy birb..,., this might become a multi-chap fic, as i do have a plot jumbled in my head because of the cliffhanger, and i’d like to develop more aspects of your request! for now, it’s up to your interpretation! biggest thing i got out of this: i now really, really want to go to tokyo skytree.

* synopsis: you had a fairy tale love with bakugou until your prince became the villain for vague reasons. in a moment of serendipity, you find a new prince, hawks, who just might take you high enough to reach the stars you’d so longed for. sometimes your dreams are only a train ride and a couple elevator trips away.

love was like a fairy tale. at least, that’s what you’d believed. love, with its ornate leather cover and soft golden embellishments. the pages would be worn but so cherished; the black ink printed in a pretty font, telling of charming words and whispered promises under the shining moonlight and twinkling stars. it was supposed to be your security, a castle hidden in the lush forest away from the horrors of the world. your castle would hold you and bakugou for an eternity, kept away in the pages of a pretty love story.

alas, even the strongest of castles fall, and the most beautiful of forests mangle. yours just happened to be a bit quicker. contrary to the illusion bakugou had painted in your fairy tale, your castle was not of stone nor brick nor iron. it was not of anything but sand, waiting for its turn to be washed away by the sea. your castle slipped through your fingers; the once elaborate stronghold now swept into the depths of the cerulean sea. what had once been painted seashells of wondrous hues and crystals that illuminated the night were now pebbles and corroded versions of things that had once been. it had slipped through your fingers so easily without a passing thought; now here you were, in your deserted kingdom, playing the fool.

like the sand past your fingers, love had once come easy for you and bakugou. it was always there, drifting in the air as you walked or swirling above your heads while you bickered. love was supposed to be easy, like how your hand just fit in bakugou's as if sculpted after many lives with him. love was supposed to be easy, like how bakugou aced his tests in school and nonchalantly taught you math so you wouldn't have to attend cram school. love was supposed to be easy, like how it had been for forever with bakugou. but your fairy tale was now coming to a close, velvet curtains falling and pages turning to dust.

you wondered if there were any fairy tales on the shelves of books bakugou had. contrary to popular belief at ua, bakugou was an avid reader. it was clear by the shelves that lined the wall in his dorm and the stacks of unread books on his nightstand. you never touched them, though bakugou had said you were free to pick them up whenever you wanted. the only time you’d touched a book from his bookshelf was when he pushed a book of yosano akiko’s to you.

the colored spines of the books on his shelf in your shared apartment all blurred like paint on a palette as you stared at them, bakugou’s voice becoming a fading afterthought.

“y/n? y/n, please…” the voice which had so held you in its tight warmth went cold and unfamiliar. a light flickered out in your castle, and so started the crumbling.

“say…” you started, your throat clogged with disbelief, “it again.”

“please, don’t make me…” his voice trailed off. you could feel his deep scarlet eyes trained on you. “i just…. i’m not in love with you anymore, y/n.” his voice cracked. “you’ve got to understand. please.”

your hand trembled in your lap, your vision shifting out of focus like a faulty camera.

“i tried to feel something, i really did. but…. i can’t.”

“how- how long?” your voice shook.

he paused. “a month… or two, by now?” he reached out to take your hand in his, but it no longer felt right. it was as if his hand was no longer yours to hold. you tensed, moving your hand away.

a light went out in his eyes as he understood and receded his hand. a tower fell in your castle.

“okay,” you said, turning away from him. tears dripped down your face silently and you quickly wiped them away with your sleeve. you stood up from the couch. “i’ll get my things,” you hollowly said, walking toward your shared room with him.

“you don’t need to,” bakugou said. the voice emitted from his throat was no longer his, but the shadow of a stranger’s. “not this fast, at least. don’t force yourself.”

“what makes you say that?” you snapped a bit too harshly. “sorry,” you added quietly.

packing your things was a numbing process. you left the photos of him and you on his nightstand, on top of his pile of unread books. you shoved it all in a backpack you had lying around; your clothes, your phone, your books. you took one last glance around the room and left. bakugou was still sitting on the couch wordlessly, not bothering to say farewell to you as you opened the door and walked out. not that you would’ve responded anyway.

you realized you may have made a miscalculation as you stood cluelessly in the lobby of the apartment building. you had nowhere to go. you fumbled with your phone in your backpack and pulled up your contacts. you knew of no one in your contacts who’d let you stay; they were either on vacation or far away. in truth, bakugou was your closest friend since childhood. he was your map, your guide, your destination; where were you without him?

the wind brushed your cheek as you stood outside the entrance, watching cars pass. the world felt so big compared to the mere side character of you, who buildings loomed over like menacing shadows. it was a somewhat comforting moment, being an alone speck in the grand scheme of things. like this, it was for only a moment you’d forgotten why you were out here in the first place. you’d forgotten the warm feeling that once nestled itself in your heart, instead enraptured by the freeing breeze that rustled in it.

red. then a breeze. that’s all you saw, eyes widening and stepping back. a man no older than you stood in front of you, hands in his pockets. vermillion wings protruded from somewhere on his back, arcing slightly over the man.

“heyyy….” he said lazily, shadows falling on his face. you started walking backward, hands discreetly feeling for the door behind you. “wait! i’m a pro-hero, i swear! i’m hawks, look it up!” he lifted his hands up in surrender, backing away from you.

“who…. what do you want?” you asked cautiously, hand on the doorknob behind you.

he sheepishly scratched the back of his head, laughing nervously. “i, uh…. got lost…. tokyo’s such a big place, y’know?”

“where are you from?” you couldn’t really discern anything of an accent on him, other than a slightly rougher tone of speaking.

“kyushu, fukuoka…” he gestured vaguely. that explained the slight accent. “i’m in tokyo for a bit of work. business trip, y’know how it goes. haven’t visited tokyo in a while, honestly. what’s a good place for a bite? a bird is starving.”

“uh… there’s a place down the street to the right…” off the top of your head, you pointed out a cafe you and bakugou had frequented.

“it doesn’t have chicken wings, does it?” hawks asked.

“chicken…?” you looked from him to his wings. “no, sorry.”

“don’t sweat it! ‘s fine. hey, i might as well treat you for wasting your time. where’re you heading off to? i could pay for a cab, if you gotta go.”

“ah, thank you....” you said bashfully. “i’m not really in a rush anywhere.”

“really?” he looked excited, innocently so, almost like a puppy. “can i treat you to something?”

“uh… sure,” you replied, strengthening your grip on your backpack. “sure.”

“great! off we go, m’liege!” he pointed toward the cafe and started marching. he was a sight to behold on the street, red wings standing out a mile away. you followed somewhat reluctantly, grabbing your phone to google exactly who the pro-hero “hawks” was. the name sounded vaguely familiar, but you weren’t one who knew their heroes. yeah, it was definitely him; what was your luck, meeting such a famous pro-hero on the street after being dumped by the love of your life?

he hummed a tuneless melody, turning to the cafe. he held the doorknob waiting for you, opening the door for you first. the homey cafe was decently packed for lunchtime, the quiet chatter of people filling the atmosphere. the scene reminded you of so many other times you'd gone here with bakugou; it gave you chills as you stood next to hawks.

"hey," hawks said quietly. "you okay? you seem tense."

you gulped and shook your head. "nah, i'm fine. just thinking about what to eat," you lied.

he nodded, seeming to buy into the lie. stepping toward the menu, he said, "the toasted sandwiches look good."

"uh huh," you agreed absentmindedly. your attention was on the bout of people who'd turned to look at hawks, some snapping pictures on their phones. he did stand out pretty well with his wings.

"'scuse me-!" a little girl, no more than 6 or 7, approached the hero. she had a distinctive accent; it was slightly hard to understand her. "can i 'ave a photo with ya?" her eyes got all round. "yer my big brother's favorite hero!"

"'course, darlin'," hawks smiled. his voice somewhat mimicked hers, his dialect becoming apparent.

once he'd taken a photo with her, more and more people started following suit, crowding him. you stood awkwardly to the side. some people didn't even know who he was, from what you could tell. you debated ordering a latte and leaving, but decided it'd be unfair to hawks. he was kind to everyone he interacted with, unlike most celebrities who just wanted fame and disregarded others.

after some time, the crowd finally dispersed, leaving you and hawks together.

he glanced at his watch. “ah, sorry, that took a while…” he apologized. “do you have somewhere to be? i must’ve held you up…”

“nah, don’t worry about it.” you waved him off. “i, uh, actually… was just dumped by my boyfriend…” you nervously shuffled your feet. “i don’t really have a place to stay at the moment… so i’m free the entire day, i guess.” you laughed nervously.

he blinked at you, bird-like eyes wide. “you must be starving.”

you felt your face warm and you laughed - this time, a real, genuine laugh that was a missed sensation against your tongue. “yeah. yeah, i am.”

“hey, dove.” his voice suddenly got close to you, gentler. “you’re crying.”

“oh…?” you felt your cheek with the pad of your thumb. “sorry. i have tissues in my backpack, hang on…” you unzipped the front pocket and started to rummage blindly through your belongings, groping for something vaguely feeling like a packet of tissues.

“here,” he said, handing you a tissue. you turned to him gratefully, accepting the tissue and wiping your face.

“it’s just… weird,” you said after a pause. “he’s been there all my life - my ex, i mean.” ex. such a strange name for the man you so adored; ex, crossing off the relationship you thought you’d built with him.

hawks nodded, guiding you to a booth in the cafe.

you continued, “sorry. you probably didn’t want to hear this today… you’re busy with your hero duties and whatnot.”

“don’t worry ‘bout it, feather,” he reassured you. “he didn’t kick you out, did he?”

“oh, no,” you clarified quickly. “i… left,” you said, abashed. “i shouldn’t’ve been so sudden, but… it was an instinct thing.”

“why’d he do it so suddenly?” hawks asked. “you didn’t see it coming, right?”

“no, i didn’t… but maybe i should’ve…” you think about the part couple months with bakugou. nothing seemed different - you’d gone on dates like normal and spent time together like a couple that loved each other. his interest in you never faltered and nor did the sparkle in his eyes dull; what had happened? what had gone so wrong?

you realize the silence that’s fallen between you and hawks. the hero was looking at the menu behind you intently.

“ham and cheese…” he muttered to himself. “no, teriyaki… so yummy… with coffee…” he suddenly seemed aware of your eyes staring at him. “oh, what did you want to eat?”

“i’ll probably have the teriyaki,” you said. it was your go-to sandwich choice at the cafe. you reached for your backpack to retrieve your wallet, but hawks stopped you.

“let me,” he said. “i already caused you so much inconvenience.”

“ah, okay…” you said meekly. “thank you.”

he shrugged. “what wouldja like to drink?”

“uh… orange juice,” you said.

“alright!” he saluted you. “your wish is my command.” he got up to order, pulling out his wallet from his pocket. the cashier was particularly animated talking to him, initiating a conversation about aerodynamics with the pro-hero from what you could hear.

he returned with the sandwiches (made at the fastest time you swore you’d seen them prepare food) and set yours in front of you.

“let’s dig in!” hawks said, biting into his sandwich. you agreed, taking a bite of yours as well.

“what’s your name, by the way?” he said in between bites. “i don’t think i ever asked.”

“y/n,” you said.

“pretty,” he commented. “i’m hawks.”

“i know,” you blurted. “i googled it.”

“you did?” his pupils widened. “what’d it say??”

“uhh…” you pulled out your phone, finding the tab you used to google hawks. you turned your screen to him.

he studied the screen. “not fond of that angle,” he mused to himself. “so, why’d your boyfriend dump you?”

you were taken aback by his candor. “he… said he didn’t love me anymore,” you admitted.

“all of a sudden? out of the blue?”

you shook your head. “he said he’d tried to endure it for a while.”

“how long?”

“a month or two,” you sighed, thinking about the sight of him sitting dejectedly on the couch this morning.

“he didn’t say anything before that?” hawks gasped. “the nerve. how long have you been together?”

“four… or five years now?” you’d been dating him since your days at ua, even when most high school romances - between childhood friends, no less - were especially rocky. he was your promised forever.

“and he gives up after two months?” hawks set his sandwich down. “wow. some boyfriend.”

“i think there was something more to it,” you said thoughtfully. “we’ve known each other for a long…”

“you still love him, don’t you?”

“i mean… yeah….” you hadn’t given it much thought; bakugou was a habit your heart couldn’t stop thinking about. it was like depriving your heart of oxygen: foreign and wrong. “i do.”

“i’m sorry, dove,” he said.

“your sandwich will get cold,” you said in an attempt to divert the conversation topic.

“you’re right.” he picked up his sandwich and started eating again, eyes still on you. “this place has good food.”

you hummed in agreement, distracted by the cars going by outside the window.

“where will you stay?” he asked, halfway done with his sandwich.

hawks voiced the concern plaguing your subconscious from the moment you stepped out of bakugou’s apartment building. it was definitely not the most thoroughly well-thought out plan, and you didn’t want to come back knocking on his door in the night. besides, you weren’t sure if you could stand being there again, in the presence of a liar and someone who felt so foreign to you. you wondered how much you truly didn’t know about bakugou; were there any other lies he’d blossomed behind your back?

you knew you might be able to stay at a hotel for a couple nights, but not for long. going back to bakugou’s place… as much as you so dreaded the mere thought, you knew it might be your absolute last resort.

“i’m not sure,” you finally replied truthfully. hawks appeared to have come to a conclusion of sorts.

“tell ya what,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “explore tokyo with me.” he took a bite of his sandwich. continuing, he said, “‘s not often the commission puts me in the big city. i’m off today, so…”

the offer was somewhat bizarre, but what did you have to lose? you agreed, under the terms you wouldn’t be out too late. as you walked out the door, you greeted the cool outside breeze with the hope this would help you put the past behind you.

walking through tokyo with a pro-hero proved harder than it sounded. for one, people kept approaching hawks; after all, he was like a walking light-up sign that said “LOOK AT ME!” with the size and color of his wings. after every time a fan asked hawks for an autograph, he sheepishly apologized to you, and offered two autographs to you. you always laughed and declined; the trip was a reward in itself, you supposed. each acquaintance made you appreciate all the responsibilities of a pro-hero. he was charming, though. he really was, so you didn’t mind.

“skytree! let’s go there!” was the first thing hawks had said walking out of the cafe. you’d been to the skytree a couple of times in your childhood, and it was a nice memory; the tall building stretching, touching the tip of the sky. your parents had told you that stardust flecked the very top of the skytree, for it was so tall. you’d never actually reached the highest floor; it felt like a distant fantasy, as you’d always get tired before reaching the top or circumstance would interfere.

it was a five minute walk to the nearest station, and it’d be another forty or so to skytree. hawks didn’t seem to mind, though, happily promenading down the street like a kid in a candy shop. he pointed excitedly to random buildings that you hadn’t given a second thought about and rambled about the facts he knew about skytree with an accent tingeing his words more than usual. he reminded you very much so of a child going on a field trip, and his giddiness only boosted yours.

“we’re here!” his eyes glistened with anticipation when you reached the station. you’d visited the station dozens of times, but looked at it with a new light when you realized how excited hawks was. “i’ll pay; i dragged you here,” he said immediately when you started to pay for tickets.

“really, i can’t-” you started, but he cut you off.

“let me. it’s my off day! please.” he took the two tickets he paid for. “here.”

“i don’t really have a choice, do i?”

“nope!” he was already walking away, smiling back at you and waving his ticket.

“hey- wait!” you started running after him. “wrong way!”

forty minutes later, two transfers, and one circle around the station in pursuit of skytree, you stood at the entrance of the tokyo skytree. hawks’ mouth watered at the sight of the line of restaurants in the breezeway you’d passed prior, and you had to stop him from ordering the seasonal special from mcdonald’s before turning to skytree.

“but you just ate!” you exclaimed as he stared longingly at the ice cream being advertised on a poster.

he pouted. “but i’m hungry…”

you took his hand (which momentarily shocked him) and guided him to the entrance. it was a bit crowded, but not overtly so. hawks was looking everywhere once you’d entered; darting from here to there, sometimes carrying small souvenirs or drinks when returning to you. you were out of energy by the time you’d reached floor 340, though hawks told you there were only 29 floors total and the name was referencing the height. it certainly didn’t feel like an exaggeration, your feet dragging on the ground as you stepped out of the oddly fast elevator.

you begged hawks to let you rest at the cafe you saw. the cafe felt like a little oasis of tranquility, uncrowded on contrary to the other floors. it was relaxing as you stared outside the window and up at the sky. it brought you to your parents words of stars and magic, though something as modern as the skytree must be strange to intermingle with magic. in the moment you were suspended; the still sky surrounding you and the ever-moving cars below. you swore you could just reach the clouds in front of you and float, so serenely in an eternal bubble of quietude to yourself. everything else was forgotten in that moment; things were the way they always were. it was always you, in the end.

after leaving the cafe, you watched people stand on glass flooring overlooking everything below. some jumped on the glass, while some frightenedly stuck a foot on the glass and jumped back.

“quite the view, huh?” hawks mumbled with a mouth stuffed full with chocolate cake. “i usually have to fly so far to get this view.”

you nodded. “it’s amazing...”

“so… where d’you wanna go after this?” he asked you.

“actually…” your thoughts went back to the stories your parents told you. “can we go up to floor 455?”

he showed a hint of surprise on his face. “really? i know we bought the tickets to do it, but if you’re tired, we can just go down.”

“no…” you cleared your throat. “it’s been something i really wanted to do.”

he took this answer and smiled, grasping your hand. “let’s walk into the sky!”

the train ride back did not go as smoothly as you hoped. the adrenaline of being 450 meters in the air had worn itself out, and the pitting realization that bakugou was no longer yours dawned on you. the sapphire sky in your fairy tale story seemed so far now, stars shattering and crumbling. you reached for a piece of a star, but each piece dissolved above your head, light that would never reach you.

“feather,” hawks said quietly. the intense look in his eyes looked like he was building up to something important.

“yeah?” you asked. you fixated on him.

“do you want… a badtz-maru eraser?”

you stared at the spiky-haired penguin in the palm of hawks’ hand.

“sure…?” you said. hawks happily plopped the eraser into your hand.

“feather,” he said again in the same tone. “you should visit bakugou, you know. tonight, to make things straight with him.”

that was what he was building up to. bakugou. you hadn’t dwelled much on the thought of the man; the skytree filling most of your thoughts for the day. but it was still light out.

“i know,” you replied softly, looking down at your fingers. these were the hands that held your heart as you gave it to bakugou, the hands that bakugou held tenderly for so many days and nights. they were the same hands that held your heart now, returned by bakugou shattered and clinking to the ground. the rest of the train ride was silent.

you could now hear your thoughts echoing around the train compartment, deflecting off walls and still making their way to your heart. you wondered what words were left unsaid by bakugou, painful truths untold hidden in the recesses of his heart. you wondered if he remembered how he’d first nervously asked you on a date in high school, words rough but fingers softly fidgeting with each other. it was in may, near the end of the day. he shoved a small box of chocolates towards you, muttering something about “weird hair” making him do it. he’d aggressively stuttered his way through a confession, barely making eye contact with you. the memory brought a fluttering to your heart, but with it came a sore pain for the first time. you wondered if he felt the same or if he was just numb, like how he now felt about you. what did it feel like to fall out of love?

you wondered if he remembered the many times he’d walked you home (only for your sake, of course, not anything else). you wondered if he remembered how fondly he looked at you then. his heart was on his sleeve during those times, the perpetual blush on his cheeks disclosing his very vulnerable feelings towards you.

even on the most draining of days, bakugou would always be there for you. even if his eyelids were closing upon their own accord and legs were sore from a day’s work, he made it a point to be there for you. while children might’ve had their security blankets, you had bakugou. your heart dropped realizing those days of coming home to bakugou were gone.

what had happened? now, you were alone on a train that felt so cold and without the love that had so warmed your heart. why had things ended up like this? why did you numb bakugou’s feelings so? the wave was slow at first, but once it had reached the shore, your tears fell hot and unyielding as you toppled off the edge of being okay.

hawks was by your side wordlessly, a wing around you and leaning you close to him. the feathers were soft. you cried unabashedly in his embrace, sniffling as he soothed you. you tried to say thank you, but all that came out was another sob.

your feet, on instinct, took you to bakugou's apartment without any problem. it could’ve been any other day; you, coming back to the apartment after running errands. it was your hand that hesitated as it hovered an inch away from the wood of the door, the only sign that something had changed. you liked to pretend it hadn’t. you wished that when you’d open the door, you’d hear a light chatter from the tv and a familiar voice saying, “welcome home, idiot.” you wished that the air that enveloped you as soon as you opened the door was that of liveliness and comfort, of warm orange and yellow hues. you wished that the atmosphere didn’t feel so dead, dull, and musty; you wish it hadn’t drowned in shades of blue and gray. you wished you didn’t have the key to the apartment still.

you wished that bakugou would say something, anything, rather than sit on the couch with his head bowed. you wished that you didn’t miss him so much and that you had him, all at the same time. you wished you turned back as soon as you heard the knob click and pushed open the door; you wished not to see all that you had in what was once your apartment.

you wished you didn’t revel in his presence next to you on the couch. you wished you didn’t almost lean into his touch because he was your home, and you wished your eyes didn’t well up the way they had. you wished to have sat in that silence for a while then up and gone; you wished he hadn’t said anything at all.

“hey, idiot,” was a cracky and raspy thing coming out of his mouth, words familiar but so foreign at the same time.

“hey,” was what you whispered back, quiet enough for only you to hear.

“where’d you go?” but it wasn’t a question, just a fragile plea devoid of hope.

“skytree,” and you felt you’d break the mood.

“did you reach the top?” his response surprised and killed you at the same time.

“yeah,” you said quietly. “i did.”

“alone?”

“i could never alone.”

“who…?”

“met a pro-hero by chance.”

“your true hero, huh?” it was a bitter tone, venom biting you.

“no,” and your heart sunk because it was the truth.

he scoffed. getting up from the couch, he said, “you forgot something.”

your eyes followed him as he disappeared into your once shared room. he returned quite fast, as if you’d left it on the dresser, carrying a decorated shoebox. you’d almost forgotten about it entirely, eyes wide as nostalgia hit you.

it was a memory box you’d made the last year of high school. it was supposed to be for school memories, but it really just became a box of mementos of bakugou. you could barely see the contents inside, too busy trying to hold back the tears in your eyes. you thumbed through photos and polaroids of you and him, some with his friends and some with yours. oh, what you’d give to have those times back. though it was all blurred, you could feel the moments so vividly: feel the cool summer breeze and hear the sound of people conversing with each other at a festival; hear mina’s excited ramblings and bakugou’s grumbling at the supermarket; smell caramel and vanilla at a movie night, pressed against bakugou’s body warmth. you dropped the photos back into the box and picked up a scorched pencil. a pressed rose. a neatly folded sheet of notes you’d sent back and forth with bakugou during class.

and then it was all gone, shutting the box.

“keep it.” you regretted the words as soon as they left your lips, but you wouldn’t take them back. you handed him the box, staring at the floor and wiping your wet eyes. the memories were no longer yours to keep.

bakugou was silent, taking the box and leaving to his room to put it away.

“is that all?” you tried to make your voice sound strong, impatient. like you had better places to be without him. you hoped he couldn’t tell how it was more of a beg to stay.

“yeah.” cold. emotionless.

you stood for another second, looking around. everything seemed different, as if the glass which surrounded your universe had shattered. “bye, katsuki.”

“bye.”

your footsteps were light, but each step felt weighed by metal weights. you wished he stopped you from leaving. you wished you looked back at him. you wished you weren’t crying.

you shut the door quietly, weakly, behind you. it all came out in the hallway, tears and desperate sobs. you prayed he couldn’t hear you; but you knew, even if he did, he wouldn’t care anymore. he was numbed, no longer the firework you’d known.

“hawks,” it came as a quiet plea as you felt for your phone and dialed his number. he gave it to you right before you walked into bakugou’s apartment.

“please pick up, please pick up,” you muttered, trying to wipe the tears from your cheeks as quickly as they came.

“hey, birdie? are you okay?”

“hawks,” you sobbed. “hawks, no, i’m not.”

“hey, are you still at the apartment building? i’ll be right there, chickadee, alright?”

you nodded, sniffed, then said meekly, “yeah.”

“stay on the line. talk to me, birdie.” his voice was soothing.

“hawks, it hurts, everything.” you felt as though you were pouring out your heart, spilling scarlet on the carpet. “hawks.” tears dropped onto the carpet. “hawks.” your knees almost gave in.

“what floor are you on, dove?”

“third,” you hiccupped.

“i’m right there, feather.” you saw hawks emerge from the stairwell. his hair looked windblown. he looked relieved to see you at first, then his face fell to that of sympathy. “oh, birdie,” he said softly, running up to you. “i’m here now.’

you weren’t aware bakugou was listening to you cry on the other side of the door as you sobbed into someone else’s shoulder, not his. with dark eyes and trembling hands he couldn’t calm, he dialed a number on his phone.

“well, tomura? i did it.”

#hawks x reader #keigo takami x reader #bakugou x reader #bnha x reader #bakugou angst #bnha angst #hawks fluff #bnha fluff #hawks imagines #hawks scenarios #keigo takami fluff #keigo takami imagines #keigo takami scenarios #katsuki bakugou #keigo takami #luna's writing

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joyfulhopelox · 4 years ago

Text

Right now i don’t know if i want to kiss you or shove you off this building

Part 1 | Part 2(end)

A/N: I have no words really, just i needed to get this off my chest and i wrote it so quickly that part 2 is probably going to be out by the end of the week.

genre: fluff (x100), University! au/ College!au

Copyrights @joyfulhopelox do NOT repost or reblog

Stealing is a crime please do not steal, i do not cross post anywhere else only Tumblr

Pairing: J-Hope x reader (College!AU/ University!AU)

Word count: 4,000 words

Warnings: i'm still bad at writing fluff but here we go (i cried a lot inside whilst writing it)

There are few times in someone’s life when they would have to rush out of the house in the middle of the night. Most times, it involved an emergency of some sorts.The usual A&E rush, the cravings rush and most important of them all, the all nighter in the library rush.

You have been debating for over an hour now if you should make a dash to the library. Your exhausted body screaming at you to just curl up into a ball and sleep- or cry, whichever came first. However your consciousness, and the fact that your anxiety was at an all time high, was telling you to just suck it up and go get your books from the library. That coupled with your approaching deadline. And to be honest you knew exactly what you would end up doing. After all, your grades could not afford to take a fall. Not worse than what they’ve dropped to now. Anymore and you would flunk the year completely.

But do you really need that book? Your brain tried it’s last card on you. You could technically just stay in, bury yourself in your blankets like the Michelin man, and write your essay that way. Sighing, you rubbed your tired eyes and got up grabbing your prized pen, the one that got you through your first and second year of exams, a couple of pieces of paper just in case, and your laptop. A trek to the library it is.

The spring air was doing a good job of waking you up. The light breeze, warm enough to not make you die of cold, but cold enough to cool down your tired flushed face. The 10 minutes it took to walk from your accommodation to the library was enough for you to steel yourself against an all nighter of studying.

What you had expected when you went in was anything but a packed library with students quietly studying. The noises of scratching pens and the rhythmic click-clacking of keyboards creating a mellow background noise. Some were dozing off, and you could not blame them, but holy hell could they not have done that at home? Okay, maybe you were judging, but could anyone blame you? You were desperate for a space and by the looks of the rows of heads between the shelves, there was a slim chance you would actually get a seat somewhere. If needed, you knew you could just crouch in between the shelves near the section that housed the maps, but you did not feel like inhaling dust and sporting a cramped leg for the rest of the night.

“Oh come on! This is a big library, there must be a seat somewhere” you whispered to yourself quietly, your eyes scanning the 3rd floor of the library. Aha! There. By the will of the gods, there was a seat, a lone corner at a table that was packed to the brim. You hastily made your way before anyone could spring out of nowhere and claim it, and slammed your butt down on the seat sighing in satisfaction. You’d made it. The first task done. Proud of yourself, you opened up your laptop and pulled the document you had been writing on. The bold letters at the top stating you NEEDED to get that specific book. A harsh reminder that the second task now would be even more difficult. Hunting for a book in this mammoth of a place. But what if you lost your spot? You needed your laptop to search for the book and to be honest you did not trust your laptop to not be stolen. You groaned to yourself, once again debating whether or not you needed the book

You finally decided that the book was non-negotiable and so you quickly grabbed your pen, with the promise to yourself that you would not get lost in the maze of shelves and interesting literature. Hastily writing a ‘will be back’ note, you slammed the pen down on top of the paper and rushed out of your seat.

The library atmosphere was quiet, despite the space being full of poor students who were rushing to meet a deadline or had exams coming up soon. Perusing the shelves, taking note of names that may interest you further on in your degree or even just as personal pleasure, you basked in the quietness and the dimness of the space. You loved the library at night, sure, but not when you were in a rush to finish a paper and not when exam and deadlines season pushed everyone and their mother to cram themselves in the space like sardines. Overall though, the space was dark and quiet just as you liked it.

Finally arriving at the area that was of interest to you, you stood in front of the row of shelves, a slow grin forming on your face. It was perfect, 4 rows of untouched literature. And you had all the time in the world.

Except...you didn’t. “Fuck” you cursed to yourself. You knew you did not have the time and you promised yourself you would not do this. Looking down at your watch, you let out another curse. “Fuck”. It had taken you half an hour to get here, the digital face of your watch showing 12.30am. “Oh man, I did it again” muttering to yourself, you turned your back towards the interesting titles that were calling your name and focused on the one book you actually needed.

Only to not find it on the shelf. Just your luck. “What am i supposed to do now?” dejectedly sighing you slowly made your way back to your seat. All you could think about was the missing book on the shelf.

How were you supposed to be finishing your paper now? Suddenly the quiet and calm atmosphere became gloomy and dark, this was not going very well for you. So lost in your thought you almost walked by your spot. Stopping right on time you looked to the side only to do a double take. It was not your spot anymore, the leather jacket as well as the mop of dark hair that could be seen occupying the seat was definitely not you. You double checked the area making sure you did not stray away again and somehow landed in the wrong spot but no. That was definitely the desk you had placed your note on.

It was just missing the note and seating another person now. Today was definitely not your day. The last thing you wanted to do at this time of the night, especially when you were in a hurry to finish and hand in your paper, was to be civil. But that was your seat. You refused to slouch in between the shelves and cram a seven thousand word paper tonight. You’ve done it enough times in the past for your bum and back to already be screaming at you in protest. Taking a deep breath in, you steeled yourself and approached the seat stealer.

The closer you got, the better the view of the seat stealer. Goddamn they were handsome. At least the side profile was something to enjoy looking at, but that did not change the fact that they had stolen your seat and were comfortably spread out onto the desk casually typing away at their laptop.

To top it all off, as if the scene was not enough to taunt your nerves, they were humming quietly to the beat that you could faintly hear coming from their headphones. And if you were to admit it to yourself, which you would not, they were very good at said humming.

“Uhm...excuse me” your voice cracked, having not been used for a couple of hours. You could not afford to seem meek in front of them, cute as hell and a great hummer be damned, they would not get the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. Truth be told, you hated confrontation. It was the last thing you resorted to under normal circumstances, let alone now when you were tired and stressed. Standing up straighter you tried again, “Excuse me!”

They made no move to acknowledge you or your shadow that cast now over the desk, as if you were both one and the same. Frustrated, you let out a huff and reached out to tap their shoulder. However, as if the fates had it out for you today, the humming seat stealer also came to life, moving his head towards your outstretched hand as they went to grab for their notebook and pen. That motion combined with yours caused a painful collision for the both of you. As it had not gotten a chance to change trajectory towards their shoulder, your unprepared hand bent awkwardly as it made contact with the side of the person’s head. A loud “oh fuck” chorused from the both of you, as both parties retracted as if burnt. Had you mentioned it was not your day?

“Is there a reason why I’m being assaulted at...1am on a Tuesday in the library?”. the seat stealer asked as he turned around to face you completely. He finally had a voice as well, and it was just as nice as the humming. Scrunching your nose in annoyance, you took a deep breath in prepared to tell him off. Not only was HE the one assaulting your hand but also your well deserved seat. Only to do the stereotypical double take. The mop of hair hid a very handsome face. High cheekbones and a pointed nose, your eyes trailed further down to his long neck and toned body. “Uh…” the stranger, seat stealer muttered, his hand going to scratch awkwardly at his long neck. Your brain agreed, “Uh…” you smartly copied snapping your eyes back at the face. You had clearly been caught staring judging by the smug smirk the person had on their face. Not only that but you had managed in a few minutes to smack a total stranger and display copious amounts of intelligence whilst trying your hand at a smart rebuttal to their question.

“So, now that I have your attention. Care to tell me why you are assaulting me at 1am on a Tuesday?” The tone of voice was less alarmed, more amused now. As if he clearly found your embarrassment entertaining.

“Assault? I have not assaulted you….you seat stealer!” You furiously exclaimed only to be interrupted by an equally stressed out fellow student“, Keep it down”. Only then did you become aware of the situation you are in. Three other rows of desks near the one you were currently at, and each of them seated a student who, like you, probably either had exams or deadlines. They were sleep deprived, hungry, and probably had too much caffeine running through their blood for their own good. And they were all focused on your form. To embarrass you further, the seat stealer even had the audacity to smugly smile and whisper “yeah, shhhhh.”

Getting redder by the minute, whether in mortification at being told off by the student a few rows away from you or from increasing anger at the seat stealer, you bent down, eyes narrowed “you….you...shush, and whilst you are at it, get out of my seat, you seat stealer”. You were unsure whether your shouted whisper would sound menacing enough to convey the mixture of emotions running through your veins at the moment. The stranger’s smug smile dropped instantly, a look of confusion replacing it, “seat stealer? What is that about?”

“You stole my seat!”

“I did not. The seat was free. If you passed by it, it was free and you didn’t sit down or leave your stuff on the chair; it doesn't automatically make it yours.” The stranger shrugged carefully, studying your expressions. What he saw must have really amused him because he started snickering to himself. Getting redder by the minute your rebuttal was weak, if only you’d have thought about it beforehand.

“I only have my laptop on me! And I left a note and my precious pen on the desk! A note which you have thrown out to steal my seat.” That is when it all went downhill. “you ‘strange seat stealer’!” the snickers coming from the handsome man got even more violent, to the point of you worrying about him choking- had you not been angry at him you would have asked if he was ok. Unfortunately, you were angry and nothing he did could have solved that.

The stranger abruptly stood up, so close to your face that you could see the numerous lashes that shadowed his dark eyes, amusement still plastered onto his face. He grabbed your elbow lightly, giving you a chance to break free if needed, but you were so stunned by his actions that all you could do was question how handsome his angular face was. “You’re cute, and that was a smart, if odd, alliteration you made there” He breathed, the action making a stray strand of hair blow away from your face, “but we’re making a scene”.

“Wh-” before you could process what he’d said, he trailed his hand from your elbow to your own hand and lightly gripped it with the intention of moving you away. The sudden jolt sprung your brain back to life and you tried fruitlessly to pull your hand away from his grip. Unfortunately, your brain decided to work a bit too late, as you were already past the rows of desks and shelves of books, closer to the lift lobby on that floor. “I am not making a scene, you are making a scene. Who are you to get me away from my seat not only once, but twice?!” Your feet firmly planted on the ground and finally got the stranger to stop. “I don’t know who you are” as he made a move to talk, you interrupted “and I don’t care, I saw that seat first, left a note on it to say I was going to be back and you stole it! I need the space!”

“Why?” The stranger calmly asked. His face showed no signs of anger or frustration, and it seemed like it belonged like that, serene and peaceful. And it made you wonder if anything could ever anger this man. Sure, you did not know him but you had been yelling in his face for the past minute. His demeanour and question threw you off so much so that your brain once again hiccuped.

“What do you mean why?”

“I mean why do you NEED the space, it’s clear that you do not have a bag or any belongings for that matter.” He gave you a once over to emphasize his words, his calm eyes lingering a bit too long on your form for your anger to continue overriding the flustered mess that you had become. “I- I do!” You don’t know why you needed to prove yourself to him, but it was a valid question he’d asked. So, you showed him the arm he was not holding, that carried a laptop. Realising he was still holding onto your hand, the sudden thought made you suddenly hot and clammy and before he could do anything about it you pulled it out of his warm hold.

Trying to ignore the loss of warmth the contact brought you, you looked away flustered.

“This cannot be happening. Look, I sat down there first, I put a note down because I needed to go find a book for my essay and….oh god...it’s due in like…..five hours”. Not looking at him the entire time you explained your situation to him, frustration and anxiety taking over your anger you missed the worried look he threw at your red face and the slight movement he made with his hands as if to grab your fretting ones. Instead when you looked back at him after a couple of moments of silence, what you saw was him studying the space behind you closely. “Hey! Are you even listening?” You got over your anger and tried to explain, (not that you needed to) somewhat logically to make this person understand why you needed the seat back and all they did was ignore you.

“Have you found the book that you needed?” He turned his attention back to you, a small smile forming onto his face. You did not know whether it was the fact that he completely ignored what you had said earlier, the untimely smile he gave you, or the fact that your heart sped up at the said smile, but your anger went through the roof once again.

“No! Now excuse me whilst I go reclaim my seat. If you want to waste time out here just staring at the walls, that is your issue, some of us have problems they need to fix.” Making a move to turn around you halted, realising you were going the wrong way. Mumbling to yourself you brushed past the guy and headed for the lifts. Calling the lift you tapped your foot impatiently. You could find another seat somewhere else, and if not, you were desperate enough to finish the paper that you would risk your own bottom and sit in between shelves. It felt like an eternity until the lift arrived and as soon as you got in you pressed the button for the floor above you thinking you may have some luck there. Surveying the corridor you noticed that the guy had left, and surprisingly a twinge of disappointment made you sigh. You just wanted to continue the argument, nothing else.

Right before the doors to the lift could close though a running form made its way to the lift sliding in between the door with swift grace, almost barreling into you. It took you a moment to realise it was the seat stealer with his bags packed up and his laptop in his hands. “What are you doing?” you hissed as you noticed he cancelled your floor and pressed the tower one instead. “Making up for stealing your seat”, he casually replied as he observed the numbers in the lift change.

“By not letting me go find another seat?” you huffed, “you could have just vacated the seat earlier and it would have all been fine.”

“But it wouldn’t have given me an excuse to talk to you for longer than three seconds would it? I’m Hoseok by the way.” He turned and smiled at you, the dimples in his cheeks becoming prominent. Rendered speechless by his forwardness, you did not know how to respond. So you settled onto clearing your throat and willing the blush that was taking over the apples of your cheeks away. Not meeting his eyes and refusing to grant him with the same grace and give him your name, you chose instead to ask where he was planning to take you. His response was just as cryptic as his previous one, “you will see”.

The rest of the way had been spent in silence, you having given up on trying to argue with the seat stealer...Hoseok. You repeated the name in your head multiple times, it suited him. For a brief second you wondered how it would sound if you said it out loud, but you squashed that thought away very quickly. You weren’t friends or even acquaintances so there was no reason for you to do so.

Whilst your brain was running a hundred miles an hour, throughout this time Hoseok took the time to observe you. Undeniably pretty, a smile made its way onto his face as he watched the different faces that you were pulling clearly lost deep in thought. You are cute. He knew that your argument couldn’t even be called as such. To his defense, the seat he had occupied had nothing on it. It was only when he ran back to gather his things and rush back to you that he noticed the note and the pen that were lying on the floor near the foot of the desk. In his haste he had grabbed both of them hoping that if his plan did not work he would have another excuse to approach you at some point. Now, those two items were weighing down in his pocket. Your name, which you had not freely given to him but it was written on the note, burnt into his mind. Maybe he did not need them after all. He would give you your pen back of course, but he would keep the note. It would be good memorabilia in the future.

The lift came to a halt and the doors opened .This time Hoseok did not even hesitate to grab your hand and lead you to your destination as he was afraid you would run away from him. Your heart thumping again at the gesture you let yourself be led by him too astonished to say anything. Who was this human being and why was he so friendly after you’d argued for the good part of an hour. Before you could panic about the time you had lost, Hoseok stopped abruptly.

‘We’re here’ he motioned with his free hand. The one that did not occupy yours.

Realising so you tried to inconspicuously free your hand from his, the astonishment at his behaviour quickly turned into amazement at the choice of space he was presenting you with. You were not a fan of the tower as heights were a bit of a stretch for you but the cosy alcove with window seats and the view of the night time sky it provided were enough to make you forget that. “Woah, how did you find this place?”’ You mumbled and quickly went to the window observing the lights of the city behind you. For how late it was, the scenery down below was surprisingly animated. Not getting a response you turned around thinking he had abandoned you there. What you were not expecting was the bashful look he was giving you whilst rubbing the back of his neck. “Uhm, by mistake really, I just happened to wander here one day and yeah...thought it was quiet enough and...well, I needed to make up for the fact that you did not have a seat in the end and you said you needed to finish your paper and…yeah’

Him reminding you of the paper that was now due in less than three hours made you jump in panic. Without thinking you threw your laptop onto the little table space that the alcove offered and sat down. Typing your password you opened the document you were working on. Whilst waiting for it to load you hesitated, bit your lip and looked up.

“Are you not going to sit down? I assume you also have work to do since you are here?” Without looking, you motioned to the seat directly across from you. This could end up being the best decision of your life or your worst... but you came to the conclusion you wouldn’t know unless you took a chance. Hearing him shift his feet and the feel of his knees close to yours as he sat down was enough to make you blush again. Here it goes, now or never.

‘I’m Y/N by the way’ you looked up in time to see him smile.

‘I know’

#jhope x reader #jhope x you #jhope x y/n #bts jhope #kpop scenarios #bts scenarios #i lowkey wrote this whilst not having slept for a week so i'm sorry #bts x you #bts x reader scenario

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yuzukult · 4 years ago

Text

under the moonlight || junmyeon & reader

title: under the moonlight pairing: junmyeon/suho x reader genre: ceo!reader, hint of soulmate!au, slow-burn words: 8.4k notes: continuation to [city lights]’s junmyeon, journey to him healing his own heart after letting go of his first love for her to be with his best friend who so happens to be her soulmate (chanyeol) // did this because junmyeon deserves some love & also may be a second part + will profread when i get the chance!!

part one || final

Though the living room was filled with laughter and yelling from drinking games, Junmyeon’s attention was locked on the girl of his dreams who stands in the kitchen in the arms of her soulmate, face snuggled into his chest while mumbling a ‘thank you’ for the surprise birthday party that he’d planned for her. In response, he lets out a chuckle as he places a delicate kiss onto her forehead.

Junmyeon knew it would’ve been selfish if he neglected Chanyeol’s wishes when he barged into his bedroom of their shared apartment, hair disheveled with a stressed look washed over his face. “I can’t do this anymore, I need to be with her. She’s all I think about, night and day. I haven’t even had a real conversation with her yet I know everything about her... and I love but hate everything about her because she makes me feel like I can’t live unless it’s with her.” He was aware that the younger male was going through the side-effects of refusing a relationship with his designated soulmate, evidently on the brink of detonation. It was time to let her go, no matter how much he loved her. She belonged to Chanyeol.

The moment Junmyeon picked up the phone to ask Chanyeol to check up on her while on his business trip, he sensed over the phone Chanyeol’s wariness at the sight of the girl’s frame in bed, shivering from a fever. It was that very second it became clear to him that Chanyeol was biologically her soulmate, someone she could never let go even if she tried. Both of their dreams would be flooded with the thoughts of each other, sleepwalking mid-day to meet unconsciously, and yearning for the embrace of one another though far apart.

Goodbyes were rough. But the goodbye with her especially was the worst.

Telling her that she wasn’t made for him and that they couldn’t be together while her eyes were brimming with tears was the hardest moment of his life. Breaking the heart of the woman he still loved was never in his plans. But Chanyeol was his best friend and watching him deteriorate day by day was just as painful for himself.

So he sacrificed his love so that they could be together.

“Junmyeon, you don’t know how much it means to me that you came.” She says, voice soft. They’re standing in the corner of the living room, separated from the group just enough to hear the other speak. “I know how uncomfortable it must be for—”

“Don’t say that.” He interjects, adjusting the black beanie that sits on his head. “I meant what I said that day months ago. Just because we aren’t together like that doesn’t mean I won’t be in your life anymore. You were more than just a girl I dated, I loved you.”

He lied. He still loves her. But he’d never say that.

She’s chewing on her bottom lip, hair cut shorter from their last exchange that strays fall out from the hair-tie and over her face. He wishes he could push it away and behind her ear but that’s crossing the line.

“I loved you too, Junmyeon. You know that.”

“But you love Chanyeol now.” He adds, grabbing his jacket off the coat rack. Junmyeon was ending his night earlier than the rest, claiming that he wasn’t feeling too well from having to wake up early and sleeping later for an assignment at work when really he couldn’t bear to watch the two of them together for long, his heart still healing. “And I’m happy that it’s working out.”

His first love stands there for a moment, silent, despite the sounds coming from the main area as she walks him toward the front door. “Why are you so quiet?” Junmyeon questions, raising a brow.

“Chanyeol and I talked about the topic of marriage.”

Marriage. He hasn’t even fully recovered from the break-up yet and she’s already moved on entirely.

“But... I’m not ready. I still think of you.” The words would have been more comforting if it resulted with her in his arms instead.

“We both need to move on.” He sighs, one hand on the doorknob and his heart still in hers. “It’s going to take some time but it’ll be worth it in the end. The torture from being without him will stop.”

“How did you know?”

“Know about what?”

“That I had those side effects. I never told you about it.”

Junmyeon sighs, finally turning the handle to open the door. “You started looking more and more tired each day and you complained about it often. So I did some research to see what was wrong. It’s a side effect from denying your soulmate.”

Forcing himself into work everyday was hard.

After spending so much time with his first love, she was close to convincing him to drop his day job for a career in music. Working in a corporate office was gnawing on him alive, not to mention how unbearably stiff the suits were while he sat at his office for over 8 hours a day.

“Hey,” Someone says. Her voice is tender and calm, capturing his attention. “Junmyeon, right?” You were peeking your head into his cubicle, too short to completely reach over the walls.

You were the CEO of the company he worked at, the founder of a skincare line that you developed the formulas on your own with hands-on operations and testing, utilizing your degree received after University where you studied in the States. He’d only been part of the business team for a short period of time and hadn’t even gotten to meet you yet, despite how heavily involved you were on the floor.

“Yes, I’m Junmyeon,” He says quickly, breaking his gaze before standing up, bowing and extending his hand for a shake. “Sorry about that. Wasn’t expecting to see you.” You repeat his actions and if he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were mocking him.

“Sorry, it’s okay. I came unannounced. Should’ve probably called or something right?” You ask, scratching the back of your head agonizingly, slightly unsure how to act in social situations. “I just thought I could stop by to talk to you.”

“I’m available to talk. Something wrong?”

Straightening the pencil skirt that hugs your lower half, you grin cheekily at him. “I’ve been going around lately, trying to understand the jobs of the people who work here. We’ve been doing so well that I wanted to meet the people who were extremely involved in the impact. Would you like to go out for lunch with me?”

Blinking blankly, Junmyeon is taken aback. You— the woman ran an entire company with products on the shelves of huge department stores to high end private shops just for the elite to take him out to lunch?

He glances over at his lunch bag that sits on the corner of the desk, pausing for a moment. And almost as if you read his mind, you say, “We could always put it in the fridge for tomorrow. Come. Let me take you out for lunch, Junmyeon. Company’s treat!”

Dropping by your office before making way out, you snatch the jacket off the back of your office chair, slinging it over your shoulders.

Junmyeon just stands in the doorway entering in, leery about coming in any further. Despite you being the one asking him to tag along, he still felt the invisible wall between the two of you, a CEO and just some guy in the business department.

Your office was massive— the windows were stretched from corner to corner, ceiling to floor, with a view of the city that was breathtaking. On the opposite side had a glass wall, seeing out to the rest of the floor where employees work, but oddly enough you never had the blinds of it opened.

“Why are you standing there so awkwardly?” You chuckle, grabbing your wallet, phone and keys from the top of your desk. “You know that you can come in here, right? I don’t bite.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, rubbing his nape anxiously. “Just kind of feels like I don’t belong here.”

You roll your eyes, walking toward him and out the room as he follows, closing the door behind. “Junmyeon, you’re always welcomed in my office. Any problems you have are mine as well. Don’t hesitate to talk to me about anything, I own an entire company for God’s sake! I would do anything I can to help a fellow employee.”

In his department, you had a reputation. Men thought you were hot— so attractive that whenever you’d walk by and greet everyone on your way to your office, they’d drool, eyes never leaving your bare legs or bottom. Women were more of a split category; some resented you for gaining the attention of men so easily, others admire your hard work and ambitions, yet trying very hard to accommodate any of the employees’ issues personally. It was hard to please everyone.

“Johnny,” You call out your assistant, his desk sitting several feet outside of your office. “I’m having lunch with Junmyeon today.”

Johnny is a skyscraper. But when he’s sitting down, he seems so small next to you, almost like a little grocery store in the corner of the block of a big city while at his desk.

“So you’re ditching Eunwoo today?”

“Never said I agreed to having lunch with him. If he comes, just say I left. I’m having lunch with Junmyeon.”

Leaning back in his seat, he has his arms crossed against his chest, squinting at you. Junmyeon always questioned the relations between you and Johnny, but after observing the entire conversation, it seems like he’s just a concerned friend. Most likely why you keep him around.

“Should I say you’re having lunch with Junmyeon? Might piss Eunwoo off.” He says, gesturing toward Junmyeon when he says his name.

“Why are you trying to piss him off? I said I was over it.” You click your tongue, waving off Johnny in dismissal afterwards. “Whatever, I said I’m leaving. See you after lunch.”

“You’re probably wondering who Eunwoo is,” You unlock the doors of your car, opening the drivers side when Junmyeon stops in his tracks. “He’s my ex.”

“Wait— you’re driving?”

“Yeah, how else would we get there?” Sliding into the driver’s seat, he hesitates for a moment before following into the passenger side.

“Just didn’t think you’d be driving.” Junmyeon responds, putting on his seatbelt over his body. “Were you supposed to meet with your ex today?”

“He assumed.” Pressing the start button, the engine of the Audi roars, a sweet sound to any car enthusiast’s ears.

“You don’t think I drive?”

“More like... I thought you had a driver.”

You shake your head, pulling out of the garage of the company’s building, driving in the direction of a restaurant he’s not familiar with.

“Where are we going?”

“Pick: a five star restaurant or a restaurant that deserves it?”

“The latter.”

“A man after my own heart,” You joke, glancing over his direction with a sweet smile. “My favorite spot. It won’t take long.”

It’s a ramyun restaurant hidden within a large city without much foot traffic, but he wasn’t going to doubt your plans.

After handing the waiter back your menus with your orders, you rub your hands on your skirt sheepishly. “Uh, do you have a girlfriend?”

Shocked by the sudden question, Junmyeon’s jaw slacks.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, have you met your soulmate yet?” Once the words leave your mouth again, you groan at your lack of execution of holding small talk. “Sorry again, ignore that. Didn’t mean it like that.”

“I don’t have a girlfriend and no, I haven’t yet.” He thought your reaction was cute. It was understandable how people were so easily smitten by you. “Do you?”

“No,” You say, voice a bit disappointed but your face doesn’t show it. “But I’m too busy anyway. I meant to ask because you’ve been working endless hours and I was afraid it was taking you away from someone at home.”

You were worried about him. It was different from the way his first love showed that she cared, she was more of a person who showed that she was worried, less vocal than you.

“No,” He chuckles light heartedly. Coming into your car, he was tensed and intimidated by your presence, but seeing the way you stuttered your words made you seem more human than how the employees made you out to be. “I’m alone. No one is nagging at me at home.”

“Ah,” You say, tapping your fingers onto the wooden table. “I see. I’m really impressed with your work, Junmyeon. How did you get into your career field?”

“Just seemed simpler at the time,” He admits, leaning back into his chair. “It was an easy major that my group of friends were considering, and although I really wanted to pursue music, I knew I needed some stability.”

“Music?” You ask as the waitress comes by with glasses full of water as you bow your head in appreciation. “Are you still interested in it?”

“Mm, sometimes. I’ve produced some songs here and there, I enjoy working with my creative side.”

“Would you venture out of your comfort zone?”

“I mean, if I could I would. But I have bills to pay, so I stay where I am now and do the best I can at it.”

You’re quiet for a moment as the server comes by, delivering your bowls of ramyun to the table. The aroma coming from the food made your mouths water, and your stomach growling in hunger in the process. “Sorry,” Your cheeks flush pink. “I’m kinda hungry.”

“Don’t apologize,” A smile tugs on the edges of his mouth softly. “It’s natural.”

Your stomach tightens at his smile but you brush it off as just a reaction from starving yourself from yesterday’s lunch. Business has been blooming, taking time away from your everyday from actually taking care of yourself. Taking Junmyeon here was supposed to be a learning experience about him, something you said you’d try doing frequently with your employees, but getting to eat at your favorite restaurant was your own version of self-care.

“How would you consider working in my marketing department? Well, more of the design or creative team. I have commercials and clips they play in stores to produce, and if you’re interested, maybe you can dip your toes in that. Both working with music and filmography?”

Junmyeon stops in the midst of blowing the steam from his raging hot noodles, lips pursed. “Wait, what?”

After chewing a mouthful of the delicious ramyun that awakens both you and your tastebuds, you blissfully lean back in your seat. “Jesus, just one bite takes me away.” You compliment before sitting back up, preparing yourself for another spoonful. “What I’m trying to say is, if you’re interested, you should consider working in the marketing department. I can’t offer you a record deal, but I can get your foot in the door somewhere.”

“I haven’t shown you a portfolio or anything.” He says, sweat beads forming on his forehead, and he’s not sure if it’s from anxiety or the temperature of the noodles.

“You don’t need to. It’s a learning experience and you grow and improve as you go. I trust that if you enjoy it enough, you’d get better with it. If you don’t, that’s okay. Feel free to tell me and I’d be more than happy to put you back in the business department, hauling away with meetings and conversations with both men and women that you probably hate with a fiery passion.”

“You’re not serious, are you?”

“Do you want it or not, Junmyeon? I’m a busy woman, I’m trying to eat my noodles.”

Knocking on the tall wooden doors that lead into your office, he discreetly opens it slightly, peering before completely entering. He calls out your name, the gentlest sound you’ve ever heard as your head snaps in his direction. “You asked for me?”

“I did!” You point to the seat across from your desk, gesturing for him to get comfortable.

“What could I do for you?”

You’re finishing up an email, eyes glued on the monitor before hitting the ‘send’ button before fully giving your whole attention to the male in front of you. “It’s been a week since you’ve started in your new department. How is it?”

You were right, it had been an entire week since you’ve last spoken, occasionally exchanging glances in the office, and Junmyeon can’t believe how quickly time had passed by. You had transitioned him in the marketing department, with hopes that he could get some more exposure to a different part of the industry since his dreams fit more with dipping into his artistic skills. He was enjoying the new experience so much that he had forgotten how much time had passed, assuming he’d only seen you several days go.

“It’s been a week already?” He says without thought, running his fingers through his lightly styled hair. You can’t help but notice the way he makes your breath hitch but you dismiss the feeling by clearing your throat. “I guess I’ve been enjoying it so much I haven’t even noticed how quickly time has passed.”

“That’s good to hear!” He actually seemed delighted with his new job. One of the perks of being in your position was being able to do things like this and see people change, see people be happy. If it fit your means to do it, you’d make it happen. “I’m glad. Please feel free to tell me if you’re having any issues. I’m flexible, if you’re not content with what you’re doing, I can always transfer you somewhere else within the company, or even back to where you were.”

“Can I ask something?”

“Sure, shoot. What is it?” You rest your arms on your large glass desk that seemed so tiny in your spacious office.

He’s quiet for a moment, licking his lips in thought. “Why are you doing this? I didn’t think it was possible for me to... just switch out of my department and do something entirely new. I don’t have the skillset for it, nor a degree or anything.”

Shrugging, you purse your lips, eyes circling the room. “Because life isn’t easy. Not everyone is going to find what they enjoy in their high school years when they’re applying for colleges. Hell, college isn’t necessarily the place you’re guaranteed to find what you like anyway.”

“But you did?”

“I did, but I got lucky. I’ve witnessed enough people go through those feelings. Graduating from a university with a degree you worked hard to obtain in four years, only to realize that this isn’t what you want?” Taking a brief moment to organize your thoughts, you continue. “I want the people who work for me to be happy, Junmyeon. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for them, if it weren’t for people like you. In actuality, I think I work for everyone here since everyone is working to make my dreams come true. It’s only fair if I try to do the same.”

Junmyeon wasn’t quite sure why, but he was comparing you to his first love again.

There was a huge difference between the both—few similarities like how independent the two of you were, how immersed in your careers you’d been, and how much you cared for other people. It’d been the first time in a while since he’d been so observant and drawn someone, so distracted from his ex that he found himself wanting to know more about you.

“That’s... selfless.”

“Just a thought.” You grin, tapping the pads of your fingertips against your desk again. It’s a habit of yours when you’re dubious about your next action, he picks up. “Do you think you can show me some of the things you’re working on before they air?”

“I heard you got a new job,” Chanyeol says from beside, startling Junmyeon as he’s grabbing a couple pieces of pork onto his plate. “How’d you land such a great deal? You’re producing the commercial for that skincare line you used to work for, right?”

“Somewhat right,” Junmyeon responds, a bit distracted by cooking the raw meat, placing the completed ones on Chanyeol’s plate. “I still work for that company. They just transferred me out the department to try something new.”

“No way.” Chanyeol’s eyes are huge, but they’re bulging out his head from surprise. “How did that happen?”

Junmyeon shrugs however a smile sits brightly in his face. “CEO asked what I wanted to do, I told her, and here we are.”

“Sounds like she likes you.” Minseok interjects into the conversation, popping open another bottle of cold beer. “You won the heart of the big CEO lady already? Sounds like a Korean drama,” He says, wriggling his brows suggestively.

Junmyeon denies. “Honestly, she does this thing where she has lunch with several employees to get to know what they do everyday since there has been growth in the company.”

“So you’ve had lunch with her?” Jongin is in on the conversation now, eyes from all the men at the table glued into Junmyeon.

“Uh, yes?”

“So, it was a lunch date.” Sehun invites himself in.

“No, it was just a boss and employee lunch. What’s up with you guys?”

“You’ve never really... talked about a girl lately.” Jongdae points out faintly, almost like he’s scared to pull a nerve. “At least, not for this long.”

“She’s nice... I just don’t think someone like her would ever like someone like me, though. She’s attractive, nice, and caring— but guys, come on. She owns an entire skincare line that are on the shelves of every store.”

“Stop talking down on yourself,” Chanyeol’s speaking now, and his warm orbs are comforting when they meet with Junmyeon’s. “There’s no guarantee that you’ll meet your soulmate, especially since the age is coming up. Doesn’t hurt to try shooting your shot with her, right?”

The age. The age where once you turn thirty, your chances of ever meeting your soulmate declines almost to 2%. Junmyeon has already hit the ripe age of 29 with only a year left before his probability descends into the abyss.

“I can’t hit on her.” He furrows his brows, stuffing his cheeks with a bite of kimchi. “She’s my boss.”

“Be discreet. Give her some subtle hints. If she doesn’t reciprocate, then abort mission and pretend you were just being nice.”

Junmyeon rolls his eyes at his friends’ advices. They were constantly interrupting each other with new ideas after another before someone taps his shoulder. “Junmyeon?”

“Oh— hey. Hey!” He says your name; he always says it the same way, the way that it warms your heart to the point you just wish you could grab his arms to wrap around you so you could doused yourself in his scent. He had an impact on you but you held your composure. Maybe you were starting to crush on him, if you haven’t already, because he was just so kind but he’s the type to be kind to everyone.

“Uh, guys. This is my boss...” He introduces, scratching his head. He continues on naming the rest of his group, hesitant about the whole ordeal as you wave cheekily to them all.

“You guys can just call me by my name, I’m not Junmyeon’s boss outside of the office.” You turn to look at the older male, hands stuffed into the front pockets of your jeans.

Even in the horrible brightness of fluorescent lighting, you managed to still look seamlessly beautiful in Junmyeon’s eyes. Your attire was distinct from the everyday work apparel yet you still appeared put together. Maybe Junmyeon was the one crushing.

“Come join us!” Chanyeol says quickly, gesturing the seat on the other side of Junmyeon as Jongdae slides over to give you enough room.

Junmyeon clicks his tongue, feigning a hit to Chanyeol before looking over at you. “I’m sorry, are you here with someone? I don’t want to take you away from them or force you to sit with us if you don’t want to.”

“Ah, honestly, I was just going to order something off the menu and take it home to eat. Unless you don’t want me here?”

“Oh, no, of course I want you here, come,” Junmyeon responds, tapping the empty seat beside him. Timidly, you shrug your shoulders before taking up the offer and settle at the side of Junmyeon.

Throughout the night, being with Junmyeon and his friends let you discover a completely new side of him. With them, he was considered the ‘mother’ of the group, nurturing and looking out for the rest of them, despite not being the eldest. He’s admirable, so Yixing remarks, but also selfless because he never has himself on his mind other than his friends and family.

When Junmyeon excuses himself to the bathroom, you learn that he sacrificed his relationship with the girl of his dreams so she could be with her soulmate regardless of the fact that she didn’t want to be with him because he rejected her. You find out that Chanyeol was the friend, and that he wants nothing more than to help find happiness for him as well.

You pay for dinner. Junmyeon argues with you about it for a brief moment before you jokingly threaten that his job was on the line and he pouts in return. You’re almost bold enough to tell him that if he lets you kiss his pout that he could pay.

“Uh... Why are you in my office?”

“You cancelled on lunch last time. And a few times before that. I wanted to come so I can spontaneously take you out for dinner instead.”

You squint your eyes at the male in front of you, throwing the pen in your hand on your desk heatedly. “Catch the hint? I’m not very interested in the idea of having lunch with you. Or anything, really.”

“The idea, but you haven’t done it yet.”

Eunwoo is probably the cutest guy you’ve laid your eyes on but after dating for three years, it became evidently clear that the two of you didn’t click at all. Girls were at his beck and call, and you were growing tired of having to tell him which girls had bad intentions. You felt like his mom. He’s too sweet but it was starting to hurt your pride a bit when rumors were going around that he was flirting with others so you immediately put a stop to the relationship.

“Eunwoo,” You sigh heavily, leaning back in your swivel chair. It’s around 5:00PM at this point, your day filled with meetings and tasks regarding a new launch approaching soon. “This... is really sweet of you. But we broke up.”

“I’m obviously here to try again.”

“You’re so oblivious about women all the time! I’m tired of teaching you, I need someone who doesn’t need to be groomed to fit me.”

There’s a knock on the door, and both your heads snap toward the direction to only see Junmyeon’s head peeking into the room. “Uh, sorry, am I interrupting something? Johnny said I could come in.”

You wanted to call Junmyeon your own personal superhero because he’s standing there in what seems like his best work outfit, and you’re almost drooling at the sight of him. Maybe it was because it was already so late in the day, and he looks like he’s been at his desk for a long time since his tie is loosened around his neck, and a button is undone.

“No, please, come in.” Eunwoo’s glare could pierce through you right now but you keep your gaze away.

“Sorry,” Junmyeon bows at the other male before Eunwoo takes a seat in the corner of the room where the black leather couches were. He wasn’t backing down any time soon. “I... finished the video.”

“Oh?” He’s handing you a small flashdrive that you take willingly, inserting it into your computer before clicking around on your desktop before you reach your destination.

“Do you have headphones or something?”

Your brows crinkle in confusion. “What?”

He pulls out his keys, flipping open a case that holds his AirPods, placing it into the palm of your hand as you tilt your head when he rounds your desk, helping you bluetooth the device in. “Why are we doing this again?”

“Just a bit embarrassed about my first project. I don’t actually want to see you watch it.”

Eunwoo has his legs crossed, eyes shooting darts in the direction of you. He must be bursting with jealousy with how Junmyeon is seemingly close to you, making his way back to the seat in front of your desk, settling comfortably. Eunwoo observes that this is definitely not the first time the other male has been in your office.

After a few moments, you pull the buds out from your ears, placing it back into the white case and returning it to Junmyeon. “Wow... I--... Honestly, Jun, that was one of the greatest things I’ve ever seen. I mean I have some notes, don’t take it the wrong way, but... this is different.”

“I hope you mean a good kind of different?”

“Of course.”

He’s gifting you that warm smile again. “Send them over. I’ll take a look and send you an updated version.”

“You like him.”

“Hm?” You hum heedlessly, typing away on the computer with your comments still fresh in your mind. Junmyeon had left your office moments before, taking his leave home.

“You have a crush on that guy. I just saw you give him that look.” Agilely turning your head to face your ex-lover, you heave out a sigh. “What look, Eunwoo?”

“You used to look at me like that. I remember it because it’s when I knew that you returned those feelings for me and I went for it.”

Frustrated, you push your keyboard away. “What? I can’t just look at a guy now? All of the sudden you’re an expert at these things? And why does it even matter? We’re not together anymore.”

“Because he’s competition? What else?”

“Eunwoo, get the fuck out please.” You say through your gritted teeth before throwing a post-it note stack at him as he makes his way out your office. “Okay, okay! I’ll be back though!”

There’s another knock at your door. Glancing at the clock that hangs above your desk, it reads 8:30PM and you could have sworn you told Johnny to go home hours ago. If it wasn’t Johnny, then...

Getting up from the couch full of loose papers and your laptop, you walk up toward the door, swinging it open. “Eunwoo, didn’t I tell you to fuck off—”

“Uh, I take it that the guy in the room earlier was Eunwoo then?”

In a pair of grey sweats and a T-shirt, Junmyeon is standing in your doorframe underneath a baseball cap. In his hands are bags of takeout, raising it up for your viewing once your eyes laid on it.

“What’s this?” You step aside to let him in, watching as he reorganizes the papers on your coffee table and places them onto another part of the couch, setting up the food. “You didn’t seem like you were going to cave into having dinner with that guy, and the launch is happening soon. I figured you’d still be here and skip dinner.”

In all honesty, this is what you would’ve wanted Eunwoo to do. Back when the two of you were dating, you had been stuck in the same scenario— couped up in your office, drowning yourself in paperwork without any time to make back home until the night before the launch day to get ready for the event. You wanted Eunwoo to take notice, doing something similar as to this, bringing food to you instead of forcing you to go out when you didn’t have much time to spare.

“I— I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Junmyeon, really. I was starving, but with how security is at the door at this time of night, delivery would’ve been a bit of a hassle.”

“Don’t sweat it, boss.” He jokes as you sit on the couch and he plops himself onto a seat across from you. “I got you the ramyun you had last time from that place you took me.”

“You did? How’d you remember what I ordered?”

“It was so spicy, I smelt it and sneezed a couple times.” Snapping the disposable chopsticks, he hands you the pair. “Plus, who would forget a name like ‘the Diablo Ramyun’? There’s a picture of a dragon breathing fire right next to the name on the menu.”

Junmyeon kept you company that night. He eventually started reading Webtoon comics on his phone after having dinner, laying on the couch before falling into a deep slumber, mouth agape. Grabbing a spare blanket you kept for nights you spent in your office, you drape it over his body, and pulled off his hat.

He looks angelic like this— albeit he has drool streaming from the sides of his mouth. Not obligated to stay, but nonetheless he did, all because he didn’t want you to be alone or feel lonely. Although you insisted he should go home, he contends, eventually winning the argument by comfortably designating the spot on the couch to himself.

You don’t miss those soundless nights in your office anymore. Junmyeon’s snoring along with your tumultuous typing sets a new standard of bliss.

It’s been about two months since that night and Junmyeon is frequent in your life.

He’s on speed-dial when you want to try new restaurants or go to events that are in the city, and he never fails to come by your side to keep you company. Sometimes, his smile catches you off guard, fluttering your heart, but other times, you think he feels as though his presence is necessary because you gave him his dream job.

“So, rumor has it: Junmyeon sleeps over at the office.”

“What makes you say that?”

Johnny eyes you suspiciously. “Other than the fact that he leaves your office bright and early in the morning with slightly damp hair with an outfit that’s just barely different from the day before?”

Your breath stops, but your fingers continue to tap away at an email. “Does he?”

“So, you sleeping with him?” You stiffen, scowling at your assistant. “No, I am not.”

“What’s he doing in here then?”

“He just... sleeps over whenever I’m having a late night session.”

“Oh, so you are sleeping with him.”

“Johnny.” You say firmly. “I am not. He just keeps me company ‘cause I’m all by myself here and it’s dark out.”

He’s reclining in the armchair in front of your desk, toes pushing off the ground while rocking the seat. “Why don’t you just ask him out if you like him that much? Why are you wasting your time just... ‘keeping company’ instead of... being his companion.”

“I’m his boss.”

“And? That’s a sexy thing. He might like a strong, self-sufficient woman. Hell—I know I do. But you’re not into me, so I’m gonna help Junmyeon if I can’t help myself.”

Ears now crimson, you admit defeat and lounge in your large work chair with a cumbersome sigh, playing along with his game. “I don’t have time to date.”

“He’s here at least once a week spending the night with you. You have time, and if you don’t, he’ll make the time to be with you.”

Pausing a moment in thought with a hum, you hit the tip of your fingers against the glass desk. “I’m not his type.”

“Oh hush, I see the way he looks at you. He thinks you’re gorgeous.”

Pursing up your lips, you assert, “I don’t believe that. What if I meet my soulmate?”

“Stop doubting your looks, he practically salivates at the sight of you that it’s all over the floor. Also, that soulmate thing? That never stopped you from dating Eunwoo, so why is Junmyeon any different?”

You shrug, playing with the pen in front of you. “His ex dated him and ended up being with her soulmate.”

“You honestly think you’re going to meet your soulmate? Tell me. You were in that research group for a couple years, what’d you gather from that?” If it wasn’t for HR, you’d probably have you hands wrapped around Johnny’s giraffe neck by now.

Back in University, you decided to partake in the Soulmate Research Group for your co-op program, rationalizing that this could help you find your ‘the one.’ The group resulted in slapping you into reality, educating you the chances of finding your soulmate had declined to almost none when considering the probability. It was the worst year of your life, having to come to terms that this fairy-tale that everyone in your life had made love seem was just something that only lucky people got to cooperate in.

“I... yeah, I know. It’s just so many goddamn people met their soulmate already, what about me? What makes me so different from the bunch?”

Johnny says your name, this time sweetly with a tone he never uses. “I never met my soulmate either. But Junmyeon is almost hitting 30, right? Imagine how he’s feeling. He can’t even get laid by a pretty girl that he sleeps in her office for on the most uncomfortable couch, let alone find his soulmate.”

“Do you like me?”

“What kind of question is that?” He glances at you quizzically, fixating his attention back under the hood of your car, twisting off the cap of your car sump, checking the oil levels. An oil light had popped onto the dashboard a couple days ago and you texted Junmyeon what he recommended to do, only for him to dispute that he’d check it himself.

“I don’t know, just answer it. Do you like me?”

He chuckles, shaking his head in disbelief as he wipes the oil rod with a rag. “Of course I like you. Why else would I hang out with you and change your oil?”

“No,” You groan, leaning against your front headlights, slouching in annoyance. “Like... not as a friend. As a woman. More than a friend, someone you want to date.”

He stands, slack-jawed.

“Listen— I totally get if you don’t see me in that way, but Johnny said he saw the way you looked at me, and I figured, ‘hey, why not try to ask him out’ so—“

“Of course I see you that way. Who doesn’t? I kind of just assumed you weren’t into me since you were always rejecting my advances.”

“Advances?”

Lifting up the dirty rag in his greasy, stained hands, the sides of his mouth twitches upwards. “Like I said, why would I change your oil? Plus, how many nights have I slept in your office on that god awful couch? I also have a toothbrush in your bathroom. And spare underwear. Need I say more?”

Chewing on your bottom lip and watching as he finishes up, closing the hood of your car, you tap your shoes anxiously against the concrete ground. “Can I ask you something else?”

“What is it?”

“Can I kiss you?”

You can already imagine how difficult showering is going to be later, but with Junmyeon’s plush lips pressed against yours, how could you complain about his tarnished hands underneath the fabric of your shirt, caressing the skin of your waist?

Guiding your hips to sit onto the hood of your car, your arms snake around his neck, playing with the longer strands of his hair that brush against his nape. The way he kisses feels like he’s going to suck the air out of your lungs but you couldn’t care less— you finally had him in your embrace and you weren’t going to let go.

He’s amiable, even though it’s contradicting that he’s tugging on your lower lip between his teeth, your lips swollen and plump from the aggressive make-out session. He doesn’t push too far, just right where you’re comfortable, especially when you’re in your opened garage out for your neighbors to see.

You’re not sure how much time has passed but he’s already claimed the territory in the middle of your legs, towing you close with a grip on your thighs. Placing the palm of his hands on either side of you on the car, he grins cheekily after pulling out of the kiss, heavy pants against each other’s face.

“Did my boss just make-out with me?” You slap his chest, rolling your eyes in unison. “Stop it. I know you’re enjoying this, I feel it.” Wrapping your arms around his lower frame, you pull him close, pressing your crotch against his as his groans. “Now you stop it. I’m not taking you here.”

Junmyeon is a gentleman. He declares that he wouldn’t be taking you anywhere near the bedroom until he takes you out on a proper date, in spite of the fact that you both had broken his rule of no kissing and no sex before a date.

If you thought that you had everything you wanted before, you were wrong. Not until you met him.

“I met my soulmate.”

Straightening the paperwork on your desk, pretending to preoccupy yourself from this conversation and stay cool, you place the manila envelopes flat back on your desk, eyes eventually locked on the figure in your office. “Okay?”

“This means we can’t go back to what we ever were again...”

Feelings of uncertainty arise in your stomach—it’s obvious it’s jealousy. Was it because he found his soulmate and he was never coming back or that you haven’t even met yours?

Eunwoo stands in the middle of the room, hands in the pockets of his dress pants, contemplating what to say next.

“We’re not together anymore.”

He knows this—he knows this so well with the amount of times you remind him that it’s embedded in his brain, nonetheless in the general picture of things, Eunwoo always thought that you’d find your way back home and into his arms. He’d tell you this, despite the amount of times you’ve rejected him, but hearing now that he really won’t come back because he has a soulmate hits different.

Maybe Eunwoo had been a back-up plan. There’s never 100% bliss in a relationship, and you never saw yourself getting married to him and having kids but the thought of having Eunwoo in the back of your head meant that even if you didn’t find ‘the one,’ Eunwoo would be the replacement. It sounds fuck-up, it all sounded fucked-up but who would love a woman who ran an entire company by herself and barely have time for anyone else in her life?

“It means... I officially can’t come back to you anymore and you can’t expect for me to fall back into your hands like putty. I’m done... but it doesn’t mean I don’t love you anymore.”

“I know, Eunwoo.”

“It’s just— it’s my soulmate.”

“Don’t miss out on that opportunity.” You say sternly.

Thwarted by your reaction, he snaps. “I’m so sick of this. I should’ve just given up sooner—I’ve been in your life for 6 years, we dated for 3, and you can’t even be happy for me? You can’t even tell me that you still love me although you’re the one who left me?”

Head dropping onto the back of your chair, you close your eyes for a moment. “Eunwoo, I’ll always love you, I never thought I had to remind you of that. But we never worked out, we stopped clicking after a year in. We’re on different pages, we’re doing different things, and I never had the time to spend with you anymore.”

“It wasn’t that you never had the time, you never made time.”

“Don’t say that. I didn’t have time. You never made the effort to spend it with me.”

“What?” He says sharply. “Tell me, what could I have done differently? I want to hear it?”

Running your fingers through your strands of hair frustratedly, you grumble in discontent. “I wanted you to be here with me on those nights I spent in the office. I wanted to have dinner with you here, but you always insisted we go out. I wanted you to be part of my projects, do things with me because we’re in the same field, yet you couldn’t even do that. I wanted you to be around and try in other ways even if it was hard to spend time with each other.”

“You’re the one who stopped trying!”

“I stopped trying when I saw how much effort you were putting into meeting these girls instead of me! How do you think I feel when you’re out buying coffee and delivering it to your co-worker? You couldn’t even do that for me.”

Clenching his jaw, he gives you a look before saying his last words. “You’re right. Maybe we weren’t right for each other.” As he’s walking toward the doors existing your office, you silently say, “She was your soulmate, wasn’t she? The co-worker.”

He turns to look at you, eyes sudden soft compared to moments ago. You were right. You’re always right.

Junmyeon is handsome in this lighting but it’s difficult to focus on the date with your argument with your ex from earlier.

He planned everything for the night—the lights, the picnic blanket, and wicker basket filled with delicious foods that he had cooked himself, a skill that he had been trying to improve lately since his roommate, Kyungsoo, had left for the military, and Chanyeol moved out to live with his soulmate.

Pulling out two wine glasses, following with a bottle, he pops the cork out before pouring some into yours. “So, what’s on your mind?” Snapping back into reality, you laugh awkwardly, rubbing your arm.

“I’m sorry? Did you say something and I missed it? Nothing’s on my mind.”

“No, something is definitely up in there. I can see it in your face.” Handing the glass to you, he’s taking out the rest of the food from the basket; he’d packed everything from kimchi to kimbap, even cheese and deli meats. There was also pie— jesus, did he have to try so hard to get to your heart? You would be melting in his affection at this point if your head wasn’t so occupied.

“Uh... honestly, there’s something. But I’m not really in the mood to talk about it because it might ruin our date.”

“I’m afraid it would ruin our date if you don’t say anything.” He raises a brow.

Shoulders dropping in defeat, you take a sip of your wine for a boost of confidence. “Fine, fine. Eunwoo met his soulmate.”

Junmyeon nods, lips pursed. “Ah, I see. And you always thought that if it didn’t work out with someone else, you’d at least have Eunwoo?”

You freeze.

How’d he know that?

Almost like he read your thoughts, he’s speaking as he’s unraveling the plastic off the plates and containers. “I can kind of tell. You never fully pushed him away. If you didn’t want him in your life at all, you would’ve asked Johnny and the building to kick him out once he went through the lobby doors. Never happened— he’s even on your calendar for lunch, even if you don’t go.”

“You’re rather observant, aren’t you?”

“So I’ve been told.” He grins, taking your hand and giving it a light kiss. “Listen, I understand. Does it have to do with the soulmate thing?”

“A bit...”

He shakes his head in condemnation, gaze drifting off at the sun that slowly begins to set in the horizon. “I hope you’re not upset because of me just because my ex left me for her soulmate. Not everyone meets their soulmate, you know? So if you met whomever it is, I’d want you to be with them.”

Ugh, Junmyeon is the epitome of a perfect man. It had been a thought that was on your mind recently, although you knew your chances of meeting your soulmate was slim, there was always that chance.

“Thank you, Junmyeon. I feel the same way about you, you know.” With that, he nods in agreement before sticking a fork into the cheese, lifting it up to your lips. “Less talking about sad stuff now. Cheese?” With a smile, you comply with his offer and open your mouth.

The sun has long disappeared for the night and his friend, the moon, makes an appearance. Junmyeon is even more beautiful under the moonlight, if possible, laying on the blanket with his head resting on his arm as he admires the stars in the sky.

Dinner was amazing— Junmyeon never fails to impress. You have to thank Chanyeol’s soulmate later on for going back to him because if it wasn’t for their bonding, you would’ve never actually met him. The previous year had taken a toll on you; the constant traveling from Japan, China, and Korea was deteriorating your health that you’d spend most of time in your office. Junmyeon didn’t even meet you until about two months ago.

Your mind wanders off. Questions like: ‘how did Chanyeol meet his soulmate’ and ‘what stopped him from wanting to get to know the girl’ or ‘did any of your other friends meet their soulmate’ all flooded your head. You figured the night had been going so well you’d avoid the topic of soulmate and save those questions for another time. After what seemed like a moment, another inquiry lights a bulb over your head.

“Wait... we never talked about this before, but do you have a marking?”

“Of course,” He looks at you confusingly. “We all have markings.”

“But I never saw yours, and you never saw mine.” You clarify, and he nods at your statement. “Well, okay, yes, that’s true. Did you want to see it? Where’s yours?”

“On my hip-bone.” You respond, tugging down on the fabric at the hem of your shirt gingerly. Eyes bulging at your response, his body tenses. “What?”

Meticulously lifting the end of his shirt up, there’s a daisy that sits on his hip-bone and you finally understand why he’s giving you such a strange reaction. Mimicking his actions, you show him yours— a daisy.

#junmyeon #suho #junmyeon x reader #junmyeonxreader #suhoxreader #suho x reader #exofics #exo fic #exofanfic #exo fanfic #what else do i tag here hmmmmmmm....#gyukultfics #exo #kim junmyeon

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glittergummicandypeach · 4 years ago

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Fake Hafez: How a supreme Persian poet of love was erased | Religion | Al Jazeera

This is the time of the year where every day I get a handful of requests to track down the original, authentic versions of some famed Muslim poet, usually Hafez or Rumi. The requests start off the same way: "I am getting married next month, and my fiance and I wanted to celebrate our Muslim background, and we have always loved this poem by Hafez. Could you send us the original?" Or, "My daughter is graduating this month, and I know she loves this quote from Hafez. Can you send me the original so I can recite it to her at the ceremony we are holding for her?"

It is heartbreaking to have to write back time after time and say the words that bring disappointment: The poems that they have come to love so much and that are ubiquitous on the internet are forgeries. Fake. Made up. No relationship to the original poetry of the beloved and popular Hafez of Shiraz.

How did this come to be? How can it be that about 99.9 percent of the quotes and poems attributed to one the most popular and influential of all the Persian poets and Muslim sages ever, one who is seen as a member of the pantheon of "universal" spirituality on the internet are ... fake? It turns out that it is a fascinating story of Western exotification and appropriation of Muslim spirituality.

Let us take a look at some of these quotes attributed to Hafez:

Even after all this time, the sun never says to the earth, 'you owe me.' Look what happens with a love like that! It lights up the whole sky.

You like that one from Hafez? Too bad. Fake Hafez.

Your heart and my heart Are very very old friends.

Like that one from Hafez too? Also Fake Hafez.

Fear is the cheapest room in the house. I would like to see you living in better conditions.

Beautiful. Again, not Hafez.

And the next one you were going to ask about? Also fake. So where do all these fake Hafez quotes come from?

An American poet, named Daniel Ladinsky, has been publishing books under the name of the famed Persian poet Hafez for more than 20 years. These books have become bestsellers. You are likely to find them on the shelves of your local bookstore under the "Sufism" section, alongside books of Rumi, Khalil Gibran, Idries Shah, etc.

It hurts me to say this, because I know so many people love these "Hafez" translations. They are beautiful poetry in English, and do contain some profound wisdom. Yet if you love a tradition, you have to speak the truth: Ladinsky's translations have no earthly connection to what the historical Hafez of Shiraz, the 14th-century Persian sage, ever said.

He is making it up. Ladinsky himself admitted that they are not "translations", or "accurate", and in fact denied having any knowledge of Persian in his 1996 best-selling book, I Heard God Laughing. Ladinsky has another bestseller, The Subject Tonight Is Love.

Persians take poetry seriously. For many, it is their singular contribution to world civilisation: What the Greeks are to philosophy, Persians are to poetry. And in the great pantheon of Persian poetry where Hafez, Rumi, Saadi, 'Attar, Nezami, and Ferdowsi might be the immortals, there is perhaps none whose mastery of the Persian language is as refined as that of Hafez.

In the introduction to a recent book on Hafez, I said that Rumi (whose poetic output is in the tens of thousands) comes at you like you an ocean, pulling you in until you surrender to his mystical wave and are washed back to the ocean. Hafez, on the other hand, is like a luminous diamond, with each facet being a perfect cut. You cannot add or take away a word from his sonnets. So, pray tell, how is someone who admits that they do not know the language going to be translating the language?

Ladinsky is not translating from the Persian original of Hafez. And unlike some "versioners" (Coleman Barks is by far the most gifted here) who translate Rumi by taking the Victorian literal translations and rendering them into American free verse, Ladinsky's relationship with the text of Hafez's poetry is nonexistent. Ladinsky claims that Hafez appeared to him in a dream and handed him the English "translations" he is publishing:

"About six months into this work I had an astounding dream in which I saw Hafiz as an Infinite Fountaining Sun (I saw him as God), who sang hundreds of lines of his poetry to me in English, asking me to give that message to 'my artists and seekers'."

It is not my place to argue with people and their dreams, but I am fairly certain that this is not how translation works. A great scholar of Persian and Urdu literature, Christopher Shackle, describes Ladinsky's output as "not so much a paraphrase as a parody of the wondrously wrought style of the greatest master of Persian art-poetry." Another critic, Murat Nemet-Nejat, described Ladinsky's poems as what they are: original poems of Ladinsky masquerading as a "translation."

I want to give credit where credit is due: I do like Ladinsky's poetry. And they do contain mystical insights. Some of the statements that Ladinsky attributes to Hafez are, in fact, mystical truths that we hear from many different mystics. And he is indeed a gifted poet. See this line, for example:

I wish I could show you when you are lonely or in darkness the astonishing light of your own being.

That is good stuff. Powerful. And many mystics, including the 20th-century Sufi master Pir Vilayat, would cast his powerful glance at his students, stating that he would long for them to be able to see themselves and their own worth as he sees them. So yes, Ladinsky's poetry is mystical. And it is great poetry. So good that it is listed on Good Reads as the wisdom of "Hafez of Shiraz." The problem is, Hafez of Shiraz said nothing like that. Daniel Ladinsky of St Louis did.

The poems are indeed beautiful. They are just not ... Hafez. They are ... Hafez-ish? Hafez-esque? So many of us wish that Ladinsky had just published his work under his own name, rather than appropriating Hafez's.

Ladinsky's "translations" have been passed on by Oprah, the BBC, and others. Government officials have used them on occasions where they have wanted to include Persian speakers and Iranians. It is now part of the spiritual wisdom of the East shared in Western circles. Which is great for Ladinsky, but we are missing the chance to hear from the actual, real Hafez. And that is a shame.

So, who was the real Hafez (1315-1390)?

He was a Muslim, Persian-speaking sage whose collection of love poetry rivals only Mawlana Rumi in terms of its popularity and influence. Hafez's given name was Muhammad, and he was called Shams al-Din (The Sun of Religion). Hafez was his honorific because he had memorised the whole of the Quran. His poetry collection, the Divan, was referred to as Lesan al-Ghayb (the Tongue of the Unseen Realms).

A great scholar of Islam, the late Shahab Ahmed, referred to Hafez's Divan as: "the most widely-copied, widely-circulated, widely-read, widely-memorized, widely-recited, widely-invoked, and widely-proverbialized book of poetry in Islamic history." Even accounting for a slight debate, that gives some indication of his immense following. Hafez's poetry is considered the very epitome of Persian in the Ghazal tradition.

Hafez's worldview is inseparable from the world of Medieval Islam, the genre of Persian love poetry, and more. And yet he is deliciously impossible to pin down. He is a mystic, though he pokes fun at ostentatious mystics. His own name is "he who has committed the Quran to heart", yet he loathes religious hypocrisy. He shows his own piety while his poetry is filled with references to intoxication and wine that may be literal or may be symbolic.

The most sublime part of Hafez's poetry is its ambiguity. It is like a Rorschach psychological test in poetry. The mystics see it as a sign of their own yearning, and so do the wine-drinkers, and the anti-religious types. It is perhaps a futile exercise to impose one definitive meaning on Hafez. It would rob him of what makes him ... Hafez.

The tomb of Hafez in Shiraz, a magnificent city in Iran, is a popular pilgrimage site and the honeymoon destination of choice for many Iranian newlyweds. His poetry, alongside that of Rumi and Saadi, are main staples of vocalists in Iran to this day, including beautiful covers by leading maestros like Shahram Nazeri and Mohammadreza Shajarian.

Like many other Persian poets and mystics, the influence of Hafez extended far beyond contemporary Iran and can be felt wherever Persianate culture was a presence, including India and Pakistan, Central Asia, Afghanistan, and the Ottoman realms. Persian was the literary language par excellence from Bengal to Bosnia for almost a millennium, a reality that sadly has been buried under more recent nationalistic and linguistic barrages.

Part of what is going on here is what we also see, to a lesser extent, with Rumi: the voice and genius of the Persian speaking, Muslim, mystical, sensual sage of Shiraz are usurped and erased, and taken over by a white American with no connection to Hafez's Islam or Persian tradition. This is erasure and spiritual colonialism. Which is a shame, because Hafez's poetry deserves to be read worldwide alongside Shakespeare and Toni Morrison, Tagore and Whitman, Pablo Neruda and the real Rumi, Tao Te Ching and the Gita, Mahmoud Darwish, and the like.

In a 2013 interview, Ladinsky said of his poems published under the name of Hafez: "Is it Hafez or Danny? I don't know. Does it really matter?" I think it matters a great deal. There are larger issues of language, community, and power involved here.

It is not simply a matter of a translation dispute, nor of alternate models of translations. This is a matter of power, privilege and erasure. There is limited shelf space in any bookstore. Will we see the real Rumi, the real Hafez, or something appropriating their name? How did publishers publish books under the name of Hafez without having someone, anyone, with a modicum of familiarity check these purported translations against the original to see if there is a relationship? Was there anyone in the room when these decisions were made who was connected in a meaningful way to the communities who have lived through Hafez for centuries?

Hafez's poetry has not been sitting idly on a shelf gathering dust. It has been, and continues to be, the lifeline of the poetic and religious imagination of tens of millions of human beings. Hafez has something to say, and to sing, to the whole world, but bypassing these tens of millions who have kept Hafez in their heart as Hafez kept the Quran in his heart is tantamount to erasure and appropriation.

We live in an age where the president of the United States ran on an Islamophobic campaign of "Islam hates us" and establishing a cruel Muslim ban immediately upon taking office. As Edward Said and other theorists have reminded us, the world of culture is inseparable from the world of politics. So there is something sinister about keeping Muslims out of our borders while stealing their crown jewels and appropriating them not by translating them but simply as decor for poetry that bears no relationship to the original. Without equating the two, the dynamic here is reminiscent of white America's endless fascination with Black culture and music while continuing to perpetuate systems and institutions that leave Black folk unable to breathe.

There is one last element: It is indeed an act of violence to take the Islam out of Rumi and Hafez, as Ladinsky has done. It is another thing to take Rumi and Hafez out of Islam. That is a separate matter, and a mandate for Muslims to reimagine a faith that is steeped in the world of poetry, nuance, mercy, love, spirit, and beauty. Far from merely being content to criticise those who appropriate Muslim sages and erase Muslims' own presence in their legacy, it is also up to us to reimagine Islam where figures like Rumi and Hafez are central voices. This has been part of what many of feel called to, and are pursuing through initiatives like Illuminated Courses.

Oh, and one last thing: It is Haaaaafez, not Hafeeeeez. Please.

The views expressed in this article are the author's own and do not necessarily reflect Al Jazeera's editorial stance.

This content was originally published here.

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jeonggukookies · 5 years ago

Text

too young || four

summary: you have a chaotic and very interesting dinner when you meet the boys

word count: 3,830

genre: parent!au, single dad!jungkook fluff/slow burn

one || two || three || four

“Do you really think that’s a good idea, Jungkook?” You two were at the grocery store, buying groceries for tonight’s dinner with his friends and their kids at his house. “I don’t have to meet them today.”

“I want you to,” he said, slowly pushing the cart in the direction you were walking in. “What’s first on the list?”

“Radish.” Looking up from the shopping list, you stopped and stared at Jungkook. He stopped rolling the cart and stood next to you. “Do you think your friends will like me?”

“Don’t ask me no dumb question,” he teased, kissing your cheek. “Trust me, they’re going to adore you once they see you.”

“I hope so.”

Ever since the your first date with Jungkook, he remembered to pick up Jules from school everyday. He would come in the school and go to your office to talk to you for a couple minutes. Once Jules came to your office, he would then take her home.

There were some days where he ran late, but he would always let you know ahead of time and allowed you to take Jules home on those days. Now with his new position and more time on his hands, he was starting to become the parent he wanted to be: the kind of parent that loves his child unconditionally and takes responsibility for them.

Not only was he a great parent, but he was a great boyfriend as well.

You and Jungkook had been dating for three months.

Although you two had the same 8 to 4 work schedule, the two of you were busy most nights. You spent your nights at meetings, children’s concerts and met with other parents. You were also working your way to another degree online.

Jungkook spent his nights, working on other songs at home, entertaining Jules and driving back and forth to take Jules to little league soccer practice.

Despite being busy and having hectic schedules, you two managed to make time for each other. The both of you spent time together on Wednesdays and Sundays.

On Wednesday nights, Jin, who wanted Jungkook to have some normality in his life, picked up Jules from school and had her sleep over at his house with his family. He understood that Jungkook was still new to everything and knew he was having a hard time as a single parent, so he insisted doing this for Jungkook to have some alone time. He also said it was the perfect way for him to spend more time with Jules. This way, Jules would know in her heart that she meant everything in her family and that Jungkook isn’t her only family.

After your weekly school board meetings on Wednesdays, you went over to Jungkook’s house and worked on your online college classes on the dinning table as Jungkook sat across from you, playing games on his computer. After you were done, the two of you watched movies, videos, and tv shows in the family room, talking about everything, anything and nothing. Wednesdays easily became your favorite day of the week, and Jungkook felt the same.

Sundays were also one of your favorite days too. It was the only day of the week Jungkook didn’t have to work, which was perfect for you and Jules. In the afternoon, you and Jungkook would go to Jules’s indoor soccer games, cheer and support for her and then the three of you would go to a restaurant for dinner.

Ever since you got your job position as principal, you suddenly didn’t feel alone anymore. You knew you had someone special in your life, and you felt so happy.

Although your relationship with Jungkook was going well, you started panicking after New Years.

“You know how I cancelled on the guys on New Years?” Jungkook had his arm wrapped around you as the two of you were in his bed, sitting up against the bed headboard. You were reading a book, and Jungkook was next to you playing with the tips of your hair, enjoying your presence. “Well, the boys freaked out on me, like, way more than expected.”

You looked up from your book and tilted your head in confusion. “Why? Did something happen?”

“It’s just very unusual for any of us to miss a family event,” he explained. “We’re just always together, and it isn’t the same when someone is missing.”

“I told you that you should have gone.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to spend time with you.”

Rolling your eyes, you scoffed at his comment. “How romantic.”

“I invited all of them to dinner next week on Sunday. Jules doesn’t have a game, and all of them don’t have plans either.” He paused. “I want you to be there, so you can meet all of them, and they can meet you.”

“What?” You didn’t have a problem with meeting them, but with how Jungkook described them, you didn’t think meeting them during dinner would be the best time or place. You would be too nervous. “Kook!”

“I know I’m sorry! But I promise you that you have nothing to worry about. They’ll might make you uncomfortable for five seconds, but after that, it’s all good. They’re good people, and you are a great person. It all works out.”

Now, after a week, you were finally going to meet his friends, and you were still nervous. You didn’t want them to tell you that you weren’t good enough for him or that Jungkook deserved better.

“Let’s go over everything for tonight again.” Jungkook groaned at your request. “Please.”

“Fine,” he said, putting the bag of radishes into the cart. “Jin.”

“Two daughters and one son. Danielle is the oldest and Katelyn is the same age as Jules. And his son, Jun-Ho was born a eight months ago.”

“Namjoon.” You started walking to the other produce shelves, grabbing a bundle broccoli, white onions, green bell peppers and zucchini. As you got all the vegetables, Jungkook then opened the plastic bag for you to put them in.

“He doesn’t have kids yet, but he’s expecting twins, two girls, next two months in March.”

“Wow look at you,” Jungkook praised. “Yoongi?”

“Two sons named Hyun-Joo and Jiwoo. Hyun-Joo is twelve while Jiwoo is the same age as Jules too.”

He nodded as the both of you grabbed a some romaine lettuce. “Hoseok.”

“One girl and one boy: Hanna and Hye. Hanna is two years younger than Danielle, and Hye is two years older than Jules.”

“Taehyung?” Jungkook then grabbed iceberg lettuce.

“He has Roman who was born the same day as Jiwoo.”

“Jimin?” Now, you and Jungkook were walking in the direction of the meat counter.

“Two little girls. Lia is the same age as Jules, and he had Mi-suk five months ago.”

“You got all twelve of them.”

You stopped in your tracks to look at Jungkook. “Wait does that mean all of them are coming tonight?”

“The oldest kids aren’t coming. Danielle and Hanna are getting ready for university to start again, and Hyun-Joo and Roman a piano competition.”

“So it’s just Lia, Hye, Jiwoo and Katelyn?”

“Don’t forget the two babies, Jun-Ho and Mi-suk.”

“Do we need more food then?”

He shook his head. “We’ll be fine. What’s next?”

_____

“Are you sure you don’t want me to help with dinner?” Jungkook asked once again for what seemed like the thousandth time. He kept insisting that he could help you with dinner, but his actions said otherwise as he watched the news on the tv. “I can totally help! As you know, I am a natural cook.”

“Actually, I wouldn’t know because we’ve only had take out,” you teased as you turned on the kitchen facet to soak the rice.

Pretending to be hurt, he gasped and put his hand on his heart. “I can’t believe you’re forgetting those nights where I made ramen.”

You shook your head and laughed. “It’s all under control. Thank you.”

When you heard the doorbell rang, you and Jungkook give each other a weird look. No one was supposed to come through the front door. He had specifically asked all the guys to text them when they had arrived and he would come through the back door, then leading them to the dinning room.

For some reason, he wanted to surprise them and didn’t want them to see you. He also thought it would be better to meet them all at once rather than one at a time.

Jungkook pressed a button on his remote, switching the channel. Now, on the screen was different areas of his house.

“You had security cameras? Since when?” You asked, turning off the facet. “Isn’t this a safe neighborhood?”

He shrugged. “It came with the house.”

At the front door, there was a man with dark brown hair and was wearing a light blue button up with white pants. He was just as tall as Jungkook. The man was rocking a child in his arms. The child looked about the same age as Jules and looked exactly like the man. Then, the child started waving at the camera, and the man smiled; you noticed that he had a smile in a shape of a little heart.

“Jules, come down!” Jungkook yelled out as he switched the channel back to the news. He got up off the couch and walked towards the front door. “Your uncle Hobi and Hye are here!”

“Did you not get my text?” Jungkook asked as soon as he opened the door.

Ignoring Jungkook’s question, Hoseok walked in and crouched down to put Hye down. As Hoseok unzipped the child’s jacket, you heard Jules’s heavy footsteps coming down the stairs.

“Uncle Hobi, you’re here!” Jules screamed and ran towards her uncle who greeted her with the same excitement. Still crouched down, he wrapped his arms around her and pecked her cheek a couple times, making Jules giggle. “Stop, it tickles!”

Jungkook gave Hye a tight hug and helped him take his jacket off. He booped Hye’s tiny nose. “Hey, buddy.”

“Why did you ask that by the way?” Hoseok asked, letting go of Jules. “That is such a weird request.”

“Who is that?” Hye pointed at you. “Who is in the kitchen?”

Not understanding what Hye was talking about, Hoseok stared at the direction he was pointing at. His brown eyes widened once he saw you, and his jaw dropped. He blinked a couple times before he started taking out his contacts just to put them back in. “I think I’m going crazy.”

“Let’s go play tag!” Jules took Hye’s hand and dragged him towards her bedroom upstairs. “Come on!”

With his mouth still open, Hoseok went towards you in the kitchen, and Jungkook laughed. “Hyung, you’re okay.”

“You must be Hoseok.” You put your hand out. “Jungkook has told me a lot about you. I’m Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.”

Once he shook your hand, he gasped at the contact. “You are real.”

Taken back from his comment, you let go of his hand. “Excuse me?”

"This is why I thought it would be better if you met them together rather than alone,” Jungkook explained. “Let’s go wait for everyone in the dinning room, Hobi.”

"The boys are going to freak when they see her,” Hoseok said as Jungkook and him walked towards the dinning room. His giggle echoed throughout the whole house. “My bet is on Jimin.”

______

The dinner for tonight was simple.

Everyone would choose a piece of meat and cook it along with vegetables on the griddle. The only reason why it was taking so long was because you were cutting all the meats and vegetables neatly.

Once you were done with cutting everything, you put it all onto two trays and started cooking the rice and ramen. You didn’t have to do anything; you just had to wait.

You went to the bathroom, and once you came back, you saw the back of Jungkook. Going up to him, you hugged Jungkook from behind and stood on your toes to rest your chin on his shoulder. “I thought you weren’t going to help.”

“I feel very uncomfortable right now,” the man you were hugging said.

It took a second, but you realized you had heard this voice before. You then realized the man in front of you was taller with broader shoulders.

Realizing that you were not hugging Jungkook, you pulled away, screaming and Jin started screaming too. He turned to fae you, and the both of you just stared at each other screaming.

In an instant, Hoseok came into the kitchen. “You guys! What is going on here?”

“I was going to make eggs for the ramen, but I didn’t know Y/N was here,” Jin said.

“Wait, you two know each other?” Hoseok asked with a confused look on his face.

“Hyung! I thought you said you were going to check up on the kids!” Jungkook said as he came into the kitchen. Seeing the horrified look on your face, he went to you and pulled you into a hug. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“Wait what?” Jin asked, pointing at the both of you. “Are you two...you know?”

“Yes, and I was going to announce it as soon as all the boys came,” Jungkook explained. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“Wait how do you know Jungkook’s girlfriend?” Hoseok asked again.

“She’s Jules’s principal,” Jin answered. “The one and Jimin I met when Jungkook had to step down.”

“Ahh, Jungkook-ah, you nasty little-” Hoseok started, causing your cheeks to redden.

“Hobi!” Jungkook cut his sentence off. “It’s not like that!”

Before anyone could say anything, the frying pan with the eggs on the stove was now on the fire. It wasn’t a big fire that could have burned the hose down, but it surprised everyone.

As Jungkook remained calm, you, Hoseok and Jin were screaming all at once again. Jin ran to the pantry, trying to find something while Jungkook let go of you and opened the bottom stove drawer to get a glass lid. Your youngest one then covered the pan with the lid and turned off the burner. The fire and flames died down.

“It’s okay!” Jungkook reassured everyone, but everyone kept screaming and didn’t hear what he had said.

Jin, not seeing the fire was already gone, came back with the fire extinguisher and started spraying the stove. He stopped screaming and spraying once he realized that he just spraying Jungkook’s shirt. “Are you okay?”

Hoseok couldn’t help but to laugh at what had just happened.

Jungkook took a deep breath. “I’m going to get dressed again. Y/N and I will come back and bring the food out once everyone is here.”

___

All the energy for tonight was officially gone, and the dinner hadn’t started yet. There was no way you could get through the actual eating part. You tried to take a small power nap on Jungkook’s bed as he showered, but you were still awake.

“How are you doing?” You turned your head to the master bathroom. The bathroom glass door was open, and you could barely see Jungkook adjusting his hair in the mirror. He was now wearing over sized plain black t-shirt and ripped blue jeans. “Tired?”

“Are you okay?” You asked. “You aren’t hurt or anything, right?”

“I’m okay. Jin practically used a water gun on me. It wasn’t the kind where it was acid and foamy.” He turned off the bathroom light, left the bathroom and propped on his elbow as he practically laid next to you on the bed. Raising his eyebrows, he asked, “Are you okay? Still nervous?”

Like a baby, you put your arms out and had a pouty look on your face. Jungkook laughed and wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. “I’m feeling much better now.”

You bit your lower lip to hold back a moan as Jungkook started planting gentle kisses on the side of your neck. He smiled and chuckled when you tilted your head to give him better access. “Does this make it better?”

“Mmm.” Your fingers were now tangled into his wet hair.

“Jungkook, Jimin is finally here! We’re ready.” You heard Jin shout from downstairs.

Your boyfriend pulled away and looked you in the eye. “Are you ready?”

You shook your head. “I don’t want to see Jin.”

He scrunched his nose in confusion. “Why?”

“Well, I thought he was you in the kitchen, so I hugged him. I don’t think I can show my face to him without feeling embarrassment for the rest of my life.” Jungkook burst into laughter, burying himself into your neck again. “It’s not funny!”

“Come on. Let’s go down.”

_____

As you and Jungkook were carrying the trays of meat and vegetables, you heard another familiar voice shout. “No way! You’re joking! Is this really true?!”

“Jimin, keep your voice down!” The oldest scolded. “Your five month old child is literally taking a nap in your lap right now. You’re going to wake her up. And yes, it is true, so let’s not scare her away for Jungkook’s sake. She’s already handled enough for today.”

“This is golden!” Jimin said, still shouting. “Is she pretty?”

“Breathtaking,” Hoseok responded without no hesitation. “It’s like she’s not even real. I even checked.”

You and Jungkook walked in the room, seeing everyone confused with what Hoseok meant. The room became silent as all eyes were on you, watching every move you make.

Jungkook put the first tray down and then took the tray out of your hands. “Hey guys.”

Right in front of you, there were two empty seats: Jungkook sat down first right next to Hosoek while you took the empty seat at the edge, beside Jungkook.

“Wait, aren’t you the principal from Jules’s school?” Jimin asked, raising his eyebrows. “Or am I thinking of someone different?”

“That’s me,” you responded. “I’m Y/N. I’m sure you heard from Jin and Hoseok that I’m dating Jungkook.”

“This is Yoongi.” Jungkook pointed at the tiniest person in the room. He was wearing a plaid shirt and a grey beanie, but you could see his black hair poke out of it.

“Hello.” Yoongi waved at you.

“This is Namjoon.” Junkgook pointed to the person right next to Jimin. He was wearing a short sleeve red button up and had his hair pushed back in a headband.

“Hi there.” Namjoon grinned; he had an angelic smile.

“And last but not least, Taehyung.” Jungkook pointed at the person next to Jin who had short wavy brown hair and was wearing a green long-sleeve shirt. Compared to the rest of the friends, his clothes seemed more comfortable and casual. You liked his style.

“Nice to meet you,” Taehyung said. “Jungkook didn’t pay you to be here, right?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Tae,” Yoongi said. “Of course she did.”

“Yeah, who would want to be here willingly? Especially with him?” Hoseok winked at you.

“I don’t think so, guys.” Jimin put his finger on his chin, making a concerntrated thinking face. “You really think Jungkook would pay someone to be here when he won’t even buy Jules light up shoes?”

“I can’t believe you guys are insulting me in my house.” Jungkook shook his head, but chuckled at his older friends. “Let’s get the kids and start eating. Shall we?”

_____

After everyone ate, the kids returned back upstairs, playing games while all the adults stayed in the dinning room. Everyone formally introduced themselves, told you what they did for a living and their kids. They all talked with passion and happiness in their voices. Anyone could tell they were content with their jobs and loved their family.

“What about you, Y/N? How are you liking the job and town?” Namjoon asked.

“It’s good.” You nodded. “All good.”

“Just good?” They all asked.

“Don’t be shy,” Jungkook encouraged. “It’s okay. They won’t judge.”

“I mean, I like my salary. I can’t complain about that at all.” Everyone laughed at your comment. “I really love seeing the kids and hope to help them with their learning. It’s really crucial for them to be able to like school at this age.”

“Do you want to be a elementary principal for the rest of your life?” Jimin asked. “Or do you think you’ll go back to being a teacher?”

“Y/N is actually working her way to another degree and is aiming to be a superintendent.”

“Wow!” Everyone was all impressed and were clapping. You couldn’t tell if they were just overhyped from the soju or they generally liked you.

“And the town?” You’re not from here, right?” Jin asked.

You shook your head and nervously tucked a strand of your behind your ear. “It’s a small town, but I like the sense of community here. Everyone knows everyone. I just wish I was able to make friends and talk to people.”

“You have no friends or family here?” Yoongi asked.

“They’re all back home,” you replied. “I really just have Jungkook, and I am thankful for that.”

“Why don’t you meet the girls?” Jimin suggested, rocking the baby in his arms.

“The girls?” Did he mean everyone’s wives? You barely could get through this dinner; you didn’t know if you could do another dinner with the girls too.

“I don’t think she’s ready for that yet,” Jungkook said.

“I don’t even think that’s a good idea either,” Jin concurred.

“That’s because it’s not a good idea to meet them,” Hoseok agreed.

“Why?” No one verbally answered your question. Instead, they all turned their head and looked at Taehyung, who was lost in his own world, making some origami with the napkins on the table.

He noticed the silence and looked up to find everyone staring at him. “Hm?”

“You don’t have the most friendliest wife, Hyung,” Jungkook said. He then looked at you to give some explanation. “It takes her a while to warm up to people. I was one of Taehyung’s best friend, and it took her a whole year after the wedding for her to finally warm up to me.”

“The girls are very talkative and not shy. They basically have no filter with each other,” Yoongi added. “And from what I see now, that’s very different from you.”

“They might be protective over Jungkook too and question you like a murderer,” Hoseok said so casually. “It’s out of pure love for him though. They want Jungkook’s first girlfriend not to break his heart.”

“First girlfriend?” Smiling, you turned your head to Jungkook. His cheeks were now a crimson color. “Didn’t you have other ones before?”

“Jungkook has had other girlfriends before,” Taehyung explained. “You’re just the first and only one we’ve met.”

“Wow that just definitely makes her feel special,” Jimin said.

Ignoring Jimin, you asked, “Why am I the first to meet everyone?”

Jungkook grinned. “I’ve never liked anyone as much as I liked you.”

#bangtanwriters-net #jeon jungkook #bts scenarios #jungkook scenarios #jungkook imagine #jungkook fluff #jeon jungkook scenarios #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfic #too young

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taendrils · 5 years ago

Text

fame & surrender (m.)

― ❝ever the curious cat, you can’t say no when notorious rockstar V extends an invitation to get to know him better after your televised interview. skin to skin, you become acquainted, and you end up discovering what really goes on behind the scenes in the forms of glistening bodies and alcohol stains on your curves.❞

• genre: smut with plot, 90′s setting • warnings: dom!tae, big dick!tae, alcohol mentions, sexual tension, exhibitionism, dirty talk, mentions of orgies, condescending praise, sensory play, cum play, unprotected sex, multiple orgasms, overstimulation • pairing: taehyung/female reader ft. jimin • wordcount: 18.4k words

ROCKSTAR AU.

The screams you hear are shrill, sounds that tighten into themselves and spread the growing anticipation for what is about to step on stage.

It wasn’t a matter of who, it was a matter of when, and one of power. A supposed distraction which crawls too deep and makes it uncomfortable either way–the stretch of pulling yourself out of it too empty and painful, the time spent discovering more too consuming and a notch more demanding. Word travels around in big cities if your name carries enough weight, even faster if its heaviness comes from pure metal instead of the alloy they shape in the industry. The words reflect the effect, however unassuming they might be, and with the heavy riffs of a guitar supporting his every claim, it’s possible even for atheists to catch their glimpse of God.

Of course it’s not a matter of who, you chuckle, since there’s only one person who can make everyone feel like this. With the weight of his name pressed against everybody’s lips, a contained sound which catches between them and gets free reign as it is released, it’s easy to pinpoint how their teeth want to grip into it again. The gospels he put out, the ink he splattered and swallowed to build the charm into who he was and stain the raw talent so the corrupted could lose themselves in it–they all served as contour for a distinct identity. His identity. Half boldness and half self-assurance, his rebellion is compelling to watch, since his mouth strictly speaks for his own and never caters. He sings for himself, never for you. But oh, do your loins catch fire when he puts on a show.

It’s entirely lucky for him and fundamentally damning for you that after the four years in the spotlight, he not only owns up to, but deserves every bit of cockiness that he has.

On screen, he has the allure of an idealistic presence, but face to face the same V is tough to get used to. You would be at ease if you were one of the faces who followed after the motion of his hand, who got lost in a stare from him and lived as a subject of fantasy for the rest of the night, but the knowledge of your reality punctures the tissue of your lungs. It overwhelms you beyond your composed façade, the fact that the breaths you let out would burn under the stage lights and the ones you took couldn’t offer you any stability, as each had to pass by his word. Constricted by the tips of his fingers and depth of his answers, the wait leaves you trapped and focused on nothing but him–and you have a feeling he’d love hearing all about it.

He said so himself, he’d always been a greedy man.

Even now, you are not doing anything, choosing to direct your focus on stifling your nerves; yet his presence leaves you intimidated. Lids closed, he rests on the guest chair, sitting alone before the artists rush to him, pampering his skin and blending dark shadow into his lashes. He still looks alone. A part of you wishes to speak to him, but you’re much too aware that at one wrong move, all eyes would be on you, his eyes would be on you. Despite the instructions you were given and how your head runs dizzy with filtering your thoughts, something deeper reaches and pulls at your essence: curiosity.

Curiosity in itself has been your rise and it won against the lack of both experience and exposure, which put you as a ‘fresh face’ in television. Many stories swayed you and tempted you to search for their hidden meaning, for the side others will not even dare think to look for. Solving the riddle didn’t satisfy you, finding its roots did. And Kim Taehyung, the man behind the notoriousness seemed to have buried his under a pile of personas he came to adapt in his life. The thing is, they all seem to contradict the man sitting a few feet away from you.

His silence is nostalgic.

It comes to you as a tender shock, since you’ve been watching him for weeks prior to receiving your schedule, listened well to his past interviews and kept a careful eye on his mannerisms. Almost a year ago, the past spring season caught him in the last interview he would give before the one with you, head tilted as he stared the interviewer down with raised brows and tongue prodding at his lips. His posture was relaxed, yet his gaze held a different story–the game changed, as it does on stage when he’s singing; or rather playing.

He doesn’t play with the honesty of those who lie behind closed doors but rather toys with it in a secret meant for your eyes, with the way he throws his head back and bends the way his microphone demands. Up close, his half-lidded gaze is unfocused yet untamed, and it moves towards an end only he knows. He grips all that is inanimate with the tightness of a viper’s fangs and reserves the delicacy of a lover for when he touches himself, fingers trailing from the ends of his mouth to his jaw and through his hair. More often than not, the actions make you wonder how it would feel if the nailbeds stained on his jawbone would be yours.

You need to know more, you realize in your haze, and despite your conscience, you straighten your top and push your shoulders back.

“V?” You approach him with mismatched steps, clipboard resting on your hip, over the high waist of your dress pants. “Ten minutes till the interview. They are giving us twenty and we’re closing the show.”

The audience around the two of you clears out as you stand before him, taller in your heels as he slumps in the chair. Gone is the melancholic air once you make eye-contact, drive fuelling into his grin as the chains of his dangly earring catch the vanity lights. He looks every bit the sin he claims to be, far overstepping the sinner title.“Got it. Thank you for telling me.”

His words have you nodding, easy enough to shake off some of your anxiety but not to the point of letting your guard down. You purse your lips, feeling like you’re missing something despite being the one to schedule things around for your segments. Everything is too calm, and from your position, with him standing down it is unsettling, like a game of chess with the kings sat on their opposite colour. Then it hits you: it’s too empty, too intimate for a backstage meeting. The band who was supposed to perform with him at the end of your interview is not here, and neither are any of the main instruments. An acoustic guitar which is nothing like the electric beauties he uses in his concerts lays against the shelves of the vanity, cream wood against pristine white next to all black.

Your head comes up empty in its search for a way to ask him about it. “Your staff…the band, they–”

V stares at you with his head tilted as if he’s about to eat you whole. The glint in his eye is dangerous and it makes you feel like a prey put on display; only this time you’re playing yourself in front of him and he doesn’t have to put a finger on it.

“Oh, them?” he grinned. “They had a little bit of a rough time last night, but I made sure to come and see you all face to face.”

From the rumours you’ve heard about his backstage persona, him taking pity leaves you taken aback. Entertaining a feeling and seeing it solidified before you hit differently, you come to phantom after his words, as you thought you were prepared by studying him so much and even rehearsed what you would say to him. The pressure of doing well in your first interview made you overthink and analyse every possibility of how it might go. And you’re prepared, you swear you are–the replies lie at the back of your throat–yet you can’t say anything.

“I’m surprised,” he says and studies you, careful to drift your attention back. His facial expression changes quickly, adapting to your current emotion but his stability never wavers.“There was no one to show me around here. In the other one they showed me the camera work, we sat and drank a bit…you guys must be busy here.”

You turn like a toy on arches yet he stops you, gentle. “I wasn’t asking you. Just making conversation, I won’t be here for long anyway.”

You bow your head, slumping your shoulders at his confession–like you’ve been taught to behave around the stars here. Conflicting emotions settle in the pit of your stomach, a simmer of anger closing down on a thread that’s stuck in your neck and prevents you from talking. His condescendingness is palpable, he is good at what he does–having you start to dread your current position. A desire for more morphs in the heavy rise of your chest. You want more status, more power, to be considered beyond your position so you wouldn’t have to bow to the likes of him or act as his entertainment.

“It’s such a shame, right? Not many people call me up for interviews nowadays. I can’t seem to figure out why…”

He doesn’t look at you, rather ponders on the questions–equally demanding and mischievous, innocent enough so when cherubic eyes shift to yours, you are compelled to answer.

“Why do you think that is?”

Your mouth closes on its own as you take him in, leather pants and dress coats, choker adorning his neck, caressed by the tips of his hair. Such a presence is the first to ask.

It startles you, since you were not paid for your opinions and they didn’t weigh much either. Despite being displayed on television, you had little influence over those in higher positions. To know your supervisors are choking on the chains this man tugs on for the moment as they roll your little strings between the creases in their fingers makes you bold.

“I think… they don’t know where to start with you,” you say, voice barely passing a whisper. Seeing how he doesn’t stop you, a part of you pushes you further, the taste of disobedience lingering on the tip of your tongue and frustrations coming out through its flavour. “It scares them that they don’t know how to handle you.”

“And you do?” he challenges, getting out of his seat in slow movements. The balance acquired through your distance is thrown off and it leaves you more vulnerable as his weight settles in your personal space.“Or do you need more practice? You can ask your questions here too.”

You’re pulled towards him with how his voice deepens and he plays with its inflexions. You’ve heard these in his concerts, how he dips into growling tones and tastes the ending syllables. Your eyes, captured by the metal resting on his collarbones switch to meet his, and so he switches to the gentleness of the whisper again. “I’ll sit pretty for you while you ask. But I can only promise that if we’re here.”

“There’s no camera here though,” you state, lost in the eye contact, lost in how your throat constricts when you watch how his mouth curves.

“What reason do I have to misbehave then?”

He is toying with you, mischief now clear in how he quirks his brow and smirks, the line of professionalism being pulled by its threads, and your heart thumps to the bass of his voice. The threat of a clock skims by since your heartbeat no longer follows its normal course, running erratically–over what, you don’t know. The disobedience through your interaction flares up and directs itself towards him, and it builds in your chest, top too tight for the heavy breaths your taking.

“How about me? What reason do I have to bother?” you throw, careless to how your words drown the established boundaries. You have no sense of repercussions. You wonder what he’s going to do next.

His lips purse as his eyes drift down before a chuckle leaves him, breathy sound meeting a restless tongue, as he runs it over his lip. Pause, break, exhale. Steps, composure, lungs–“You’re right. Who am I to demand this from you?”

“I’ve been getting too comfortable. I take from others like they do to me,” he says it with a nonchalance which almost tricks you into thinking it’s a fact. “It’s not your responsibility to give into a brat like me, mm?”

The way he’s coming close to you, head tilted so his soft breath falls upon your cheek, instead of asking, it’s rather tempting you. You had a responsibility to keep your eye on him, you had plenty others to ensure a smooth flow, to avoid being overwhelmed on air where your slip would be replayed again and again. Giving into him, however–it was a voluntary action. He was merely suggesting to proceed.

You slowly shake your head, indications forgotten but still rooted deep within you, regrets sinking in at your impulsivity. You should’ve been more careful, not get caught up in his presence since the stakes have already risen beyond your influence. So why are you still yearning to push further?

Always attentive and attuned, V seems to sense your hesitation, as he takes a step back. You can’t discern between lines of arrogance and satisfaction on his face with the ease he may do it to you–reading into the conflict on your face. The contrast between the impersonality of his stage name and his interaction with you, how he asked for privacy upon sight, how he came to you… Who were you speaking to? The man, or a character?

His baritone keeps you alert, yet there’s a tint of safety to it, of the privacy you’ve been given since the beginning. And once again gentle syllables surround and silence your doubts.

“There’s no reason to get involved. For you, I’ll behave.” He extends a hand for you to shake, and you take a moment to grasp his hand, to soak in how the long fingers engulf your own. “If you promise to do it slower.”

You look up to him in question, but his voice doesn’t waver.

“My name…” he trails off as his thumb swipes across from your palm to yours, “You should say it like you want me. That’s how it gets the charm.”

He winks and pulls away, teasing yet ever the unassuming in the way he claims the public’s attention and bites into it. You follow after him on set, mentally preparing for what’s to come when he plops on the couch, legs crossed and gaze ready to claim every inch of the gold in your veins. The cameras are set in front of you, on your left and right and above, though the most careful eye you want to catch is his.

“Welcome back to Late Night Blues!” you grin as the framework zooms out, catching more of the background and bringing light to the couch your guest was leaning on.“Now that we’ve covered the latest pop-sensation news, for our last segment, we’ll sit down with popular singing figure V and look back on his latest album–Chaos and Disorder.”

You ensure your voice slows down at the mention of his name. Your confidence returns as you spot how he further relaxes into his pose, thighs spread and elbows resting by his sides. He’s watching you with his head tilted, lashes fluttering as you continue your introduction. “Chaos and Disorder, the sixth album of his career and the fourth to be attributed to V has sold no less than four million copies, three months after its release. This is a huge step from the latest album, which neared a million in eight months and saw an additional five-month hiatus.” He nods at your mention of past achievements, brow rising to tease. “How does it feel to have such a reception not even half a decade into your career?”

V pauses, chest rising with the deliberate breath he’s taking and the joviality on his features melts in the slightest under the heat of your question. “Looking at the pictures and flashbacks over the years, it’s…it’s a little surreal, not gonna lie. I mean, my songs are received well, I’ve established my style and I have a clear direction of where I want to go from here. I’m not scared to experiment–I’m doing what I was born to do and I get paid for it, does it get better than that?”

You laugh, and it’s laced with genuineness once you catch his confident expression. “Sounds like the dream life. Are you any closer to it, or has anything changed with your most recent release?”

“Well, not much has changed–I’m keeping it like it’s been. I’m constantly evolving, trying to look on my whole being and reflect on what I want to do better for the next time.”

“It’s rare for a musician to be praised by media and be so loved by fans throughout the years. There have been other acts to approach the same subjects as you do in your music, but it’s a rare instance to get such a wave of support, especially as you continued on with your new stage name.” You can sense the waves of truth through your question’s blinds, your own curiosity having you lean in more–the effect of his presence is an internalized fact.

The industry in itself always seeks for profit, engagement and shock value, and the ways of achieving it are rarely held in moral qualms. Yet, despite its nature, it pushes against acts promoting too much deviation from the norms, though along with his arrival, the aesthetic gained more popularity. The tabloids like him a little too much and they exploit him with the same controlled vigour, praise every line he sings and every line of skin the leather doesn’t cover. It should have eaten him, should have manipulated his essence and disturbed the covalence of his atoms till this moment–if only he wouldn’t fight against it.

“I’m happy they like me for now, they–they’re very passionate. Instrumental does half my job though, if they keep praising me and my voice it’s gonna get to my head.” He chuckles, shaking his head as if he takes his time to bring the thought back onto the surface.“What are we gonna do when my pride gets too big for my body, when I start to think I really am special?”

“It could become a thing they’ll love you for,” you say as you shrug, slight pout crossing your features, and he nods in acknowledgement at your posture. Your shoulders are high, propelled by the reminder of your ability to stay in character after your backstage conversation. “The interest in going against the norms in different domains has even been documented by your fans through polaroids of their creations. They’re even mimicking your pose, and the choice seems to be popular–what made you take the step from your real name to this? Does it have a relation to the peace symbol?”

“Mm, so many questions…” he ponders, eyebrows furrowing yet there is no trace of malice in his words. “Peace is not a common theme in my songs though. I don’t know if it’s a good example, but it’s a nice juxtaposition, using such a symbol to say ‘fuck you’ to whatever you’re given, whether it’s on air or not.” He makes sure to match the emphasis with a grin which widens till it’s all teeth, glints of mischief reflecting as he strums the chords of permission with his words. He’s probably satisfied with your cracked composure when he sees you taking a deep breath at his cursing, already picturing your director’s face at his disrespect–and the fine about to follow.

You remember his last hiatus, how they milked his name until they ran out of news and ways to market his style. No new club appearances or ads, no encounter with the media that would soil his image, no proof to adhere to the rumours about his notorious behind the scenes life, followed by the silence that came in February. The layer of quietness shredded to pieces as the explosion of his last album ripped into the general public. A break again, no words to the media, until your interview which was losing track the more he spoke, the more he ripped into you too.

It must be natural for him to misbehave, to strive for a tight grip on the attention he’s given, and he’s working it however he wants to. Even as the brattiness he used to display is making itself visible in tight-lipped smiles and head tilts, it doesn’t hold much of a bite. Innocence sits pretty on his cheekbones and runs through a body that’s chiselled and polished from every angle–and his voice, his speech patterns never disappoint either. You’d let him talk as he pleases if this was any other situation, but you’re much too aware of the eyes following you, the neutral figures behind the scenes who don’t watch–they scrutinize.

“So yeah, feels good that guys like me are the backbone of our genre right now and I get the opportunity to tear the house down while still having people openly supporting my message,” he adds in response to your silence, and you suppose he means it as comfort.

Your eyes switch between him, the camera and the dark backstage background, fidgeting in your seat to process the rest of the lines you lost as his answer came. The loss of control has you vulnerable, and your muscles lock into themselves, constant pressure leaving your hands rooted on the cards. The idea of forgoing them entertains the rotten part of your conscience, and you choose to ignore the bullet points laid in the middle, jumping instead to the next section.

“With such a broad range of tracks with influences in R&B and funk, it’s hard to classify your music in one genre. You’re constantly experimenting with new sounds and vocals, is there any space left for reflecting yourself or who you want to be in your lyrics?” Despite being sudden, the transitions you use to fill the gap sound natural to your ears, and the thread of your story is steady, leading up to the more pressing questions assigned–that’s until it splits.

“I don’t know about that, you’ll have to tell me.” He shifts from his position, crossing his legs and redirecting his attention to you. The distance between you does not shift–it’s the implications which seep through his casual tone that make it so intimidating. “You know me well–you did your homework, right?”

The balance sways too much and ends up bending to his corner, down to its foundation. He is too relaxed, too confident, while you are too scared to breathe. You now understand why he accepted the interview instead of turning it down like he has done with those he received in the last months. You’re confident in your belief, yet his tone sets off a range of possibilities running through your head regarding what he might continue with. None of them are clear to discern between, but they can somehow prepare you for his next hit.

“Those of you in the media assume you know me best, no? I could play any tune and I’m sure one of you can spot what’s made up and what’s really me,” he tells with the same calamity and inflections from the sphere of truth, which would make one believe and comply. “You wouldn’t waste your time writing all those articles if you didn’t.”

“Are you thinking about if you were to play something for us?” You’re treading on thin ice, but he is nonchalant even as he is confronted with your question, though the glint in his eye says otherwise.

He’s caught on.

“Yeah, ‘course…if I were to play. Fine, I’ll play something for you.” Faster than you’d expect, he picks up the same acoustic guitar at his feet before settling it in his lap. “Any preference? Anything that you love?”

“I…I Rock, Therefore I am,” you say, and you’re surprised at how stable your voice comes out. Your choice could never reach his level of boldness and neither could it reach your previous one, but it has risen since you have started. You brought to light a track which is essential to him and his message, while still coming back to the album in question. You’re doing anything you can to give continuity to your interview, to constrain his deviation and criticism even though it doesn’t have to do with you, and it is more than transparent.

“Mmm, that’s a good one.” He nods, licking his lips as he pats the guitar in a similar rhythm. “I could accompany you, since nobody’s gonna focus on me with you here. Would you like to sing?”

You pause, looking at him with wide eyes. “But…but I’m not a singer.”

“Neither am I,” and the way he challenges you as he’s beaming sets your loins on fire.

“I–I don’t know what to do. I’m sitting with such a presence, and he’s the one telling me to sing,” you stutter as nervous laughter bubbles in your throat. The thought is so ridiculous you are even admitting to vulnerability, certain that he is toying with you again. You stare at him, bottom lip caught between your teeth as the hint of a smile plays on his own and gods, he is beautiful. All delicate features and sharp corners, tight grips and careful fingers, who could say no to him?

You shake your head, overwhelmed tears glossing over your eyes, structures tinted by admiration disbelief shaping your confession: “You’re killing me.”

“That’s the idea.” He chuckles, brightening up, and the creases near his eyes deepen as he urges you on. “Give me a little, come on.”

The melody starts, and the temptation to get lost in it thrums under your skin, sinking part of your doubts in a muted place. As of now, he is commanding your limitations, and his demand is too innocent to further cause you trouble. Previous instructions made you approach him with such hesitation, told you to comply with his wishes and not press him too much about them. But what were you supposed to do when he was telling you to take the spotlight from him in a set put together to serve an opposite purpose?

In a soft murmur, you begin the first verse after the chorus, foot tapping the floor cautiously as you fixate on him–waiting for his reaction.

“There we go. Let it out, sugar.” He continues strumming, bobbing his head to as you end the verse before you’re tongue-twisting your words as you near a faster part. “Good, good–this is way more fun than those stupid photoshoots.”

You giggle into your hand, beyond embarrassed at what you did, so much that it drowns your sense of the current reality. What comes next is allowed without much thinking. “How did you end up there?”

“My manager wanted the extra promo and hey, money is money.” He shrugs. “I need something to fall back on in case this whole singing thing ends up failing me. Might have to work a little on my body for photo shoots, but I think I have the face for it. What about you?”

From your peripheral vision, you see the main cameraman raise his hand, fingers splayed out and signalling the five-minute warning, and any intention to answer dies in your throat. The lightheartedness shared between the two of you vanishes without any trace and the previous pressure lays over the back of your head and bends your vertebras bit by bit.

You peek at the script, checking on what you already knew. Sure, you enjoy listening to him, he has cooperated for a majority of your time together, he’s answering your questions–just not in the way you anticipated. He starts off with your lead, yet he turns it around just as fast, reminding you of the rhythm and bass in his songs, the crescendo that he builds and drops at his own will.

One part of the flashcard you’re holding threatens to rip, you realise as your grip tightens more and more and the paper holds no real barrier against pain. The tips of your nails dig into your palm and the foundation for the smile you have built shatters the more you realise you could never reach a balance. None of it made sense with your current situation.

Pleasing the directors meant filled-out grins that were unmovable, thoughts already printed and the cover of undivided attention as you rehearse what you’re told. You had no real basis on your guesses of what pleasing V meant, but it came clear that he didn’t sit well with rehearsed ideas by how he eyes your mouth. More time is ticking away, counted with the beats of red in the camera lights. It’s ironic how before even considering him for an interview, you’ve pushed for more freedom in your interaction, and now that it came to you without meaning to, it forces you to reconsider your position. Your stomach sinks the more your grin lifts.

And at once, it drops. You nod to yourself, almost frantic, and you have no conscience of disturbing your hairstyle or the golden pins in your hair. You’re hyper-aware of everything that’s keeping parts of you in place, and instead of building composure, this time they have you hesitant and self-conscious. Even the way your heel sinks into the floor has your balance off–there’s nothing natural about how you’re sitting, back straight and chest pushed out. The imposing status which came with performing these acts leaves you bit by bit, and you sink with the weight in his stare. He’s expecting more.

You recall your next lines, you are supposed to ask him about future collaborations, you’re supposed to ask about him feeling threatened by rising stars, but the transition sounds wrong to your ears. Who out there is doing things like him? Who has a more distinct identity, who sits on top of the balance between brattiness and maturity? He would never feel threatened. You can’t find it in yourself to believe, so with the utmost care, you move your shaky hands from your lap and put the script down, ignoring the anxiety which flares up in your gut.

What about you?

“Of course you do,” you breathe out. “It would be a pity though, seeing how well you’re doing now.”

“Hey, I’m talking about you too. That’s a face you want to capture, I’m sure the audience agrees.”

His compliment stirs up the same simmering warmth, but you remain impassive, your goal now becoming clear in your mind. “My influence is nowhere near yours, I won't have a lot to give up. You're sharing a lot with this album, expressing your wishes and reprimanding current society. Is the title connected to your vision, to what you'd like to see as a future for us?”

“Partially? Chaos and disorder, fame and surrender…those are things you have to experience for yourself before daring to speak out. They’re ideals, fulfillments–well, in a sense.” His candour sets a new spiral of hope within you, glazed with uncertainty–you feel you should stop hoping as if you know him. These feelings would soon vanish, you recognise, but now they are your main influence, and all you feel a sense of is hurt at how easy you are for him.“When you want to reach any of these, you give too much of yourself, and there’s always the chance to feel empty once you did. And it's...it's one of those things you're wishing but you're also scared of.”

You don’t know him, you don’t–

“Did you have those thoughts when you released your first songs? Speaking from experience?” you ask as if you’re testing the syllables for the first time.“Your style changed over the course of the albums, even your instrumental, the–the sounds refer to different emotions…”

It is his turn to remain quiet, to gaze at you like he depends on you to give more so he has the courage to answer. His eagerness slips from him like sand and it pours on your fingertips, and you wish to pry further into the space he let you open.

“Did anything… did the inspiration arise from your lifestyle?”

“My lifestyle?” he grimaces. He grips his sheer shirt, pulling it to cover his sternum. “What do you mean?”

“Talking about your first release, Stigma. The feelings of resentment and not being worthy made your audience empathize and relate to it, a–”

“Did you?” He’s focused on you, any hint of the teasing he has been playing with gone. Confident demeanours evaporate, and you’re met with an image you’re seeing for the first time–he doesn’t match the image of a notorious rockstar, he looks like the song’s writer awaiting your verdict.

Stigma, such a personal piece, released as a studio version in his early twenties. The melody you listened to until the pieces of glass in his chest grew into yours and brought conflicting emotions, desires of forgiveness. The ode missing any rights to say sorry, for abandoning and being unable to protect, which is too far from the man in front of you. The one who a spotless image and has no care in the world about who he touches. If he was closer, you’d tell him all about it, explain in your best terms how it touched you. You’d further consider the possibility that he hasn’t changed much from the man he was then, emanating the same warmth. You’d soften your gaze and let your mouth fall open the way it should without time stopping cold.

Instead of pinning you with his stare, you imagine he’d smile and mirror your expression. He wouldn’t make your sphere this small, like he wants to take from you and only for himself. He’s not downplaying his intensity, almost pleading with you to answer, like it was a moment shared between the two of you and nothing else, like he needed your answer. He doesn’t budge. He waits and wants.

“What do you need forgiveness for?”

And when you’re too scared to give, he still speaks.

You don't want to break yourself apart from this moment, content with the tension and the constriction in your chest as it is allowing you to see bits of him not yet explored. Your silence makes you feel you went too far to keep him close, built the same hope to him, as your willingness to tell him about it scatters. There's not enough time to explore his true depth, no time for you to open up and bloom as he must have liked. Two fingers up serve as a reminder that your conversation is nearing its end, and you're hyper-aware of it, lips rubbing against each other and pulling bits of lipstick off their creases.

“It's a lot... a lot of responsibilities that I've neglected,” you say because you can't find it in yourself to leave him empty and he carefully follows your trail. “Do you think it’s a responsibility now? That you’re the face of a genre right now, are you pressured to put out songs that deliver strong messages?”

What you wished to avoid on your part manifests upon his, as his mouth opens in recognition and his body falls back on its ordinary, relaxed position, at the same distance it was in the beginning.

“Responsibility? It sure doesn’t feel like one. Freedom and responsibility–they’re not tied together. I have no sense to be a role model, but if the public takes my actions, my lyrics and makes them into something freeing, then all props to them. That doesn’t have to do with me personally.”

“What should we expect for this year? Is promotion going to continue with no televised appearances or are we looking at another possible hiatus?”

“You'll have to wait and see, but I…I wouldn’t call it a hiatus. I’m never far enough from music to say I’m taking a break from it. I’m still gonna sing, I’m still gonna write.” He looks away from the cameras, head leaning on his hand–“I just leave it for me sometimes.”

The last finger up rushes you to the written ending, gazing for one last time at V, but your previous excitement is replaced by something more demure whose rise blossoms from underneath your vocal cords.

“What a way to end this. Thank you to V for joining us here today, and thank you to everyone else at home watching. Make sure to tune in next Friday for more in-depth looks at our latest stars! Have a good night!”

He stares at you, forgetting any acknowledgement of your mention, and while you get up to bow, he remains seated. You don't stay and question, choosing to have this moment for yourself, to collect your breath before you walk backstage. As you reach your corner, you squeeze your eyes shut, wasting no time to take your blazer off and hug your shoulders, letting your head rest in that space. It doesn't erase the past hour in its entirety, but it silences your thoughts, and you're grateful for the moment of silence you get as the rest of the crew wraps up for the day.

The volume rises with your guest's voice again and you turn around to follow the sound, “PD! What a great choice you’ve made with this one!”

He says his congratulations as he grasps the man's hand and shakes it once, impassive. “Thank you for having me on your show, I look forward to working with you in the future,” His attention switches to you as he notices you staring back, and he makes a point to pat your director's shoulder before dropping it entirely, “If you’ll allow me, I’d like to congratulate our interviewer too. Don't want to keep all of you for too much.”

The same hand hovers over the small of your back as you lead him back to your vanity, and it only grips when you're under the safety of the lights and his body covers you from the rest of the scene.

“Before more pleasantries, I want to know whose idea was it to ask those questions? And don't lie to me.” His gaze is intense, yet his demeanour screams calm to the point where even his demand sounds gentle. “Was it you?”

“I…well…the writers are the ones responsible for my speech, but I was curious too,” you say as your eyes linger on the ground. “You gave me a hard time. I had to ask things of my own since none of the ones from before were working.”

He nods as if he takes it all in, and you switch back to him, wanting to grasp his expressions, understand his actions better.

“Curious too, huh...Did I satisfy?” He quirks an eyebrow at you, tongue prodding at his cheek. “Or would you like to know more?”

“I...of course I want to.”

“I’d like you to have dinner with me. Have more with me.” He’s testing your reaction more, next words slow and languid as they roll off his tongue, “Would you?”

“Are you… are y–…”

“If you’ll take me.”

You don’t register what comes first, your nod or how he grins before gripping your hands and bringing them to his lips, quick, grateful. No longer are you surprised at how your heart jumps, you find the feeling pleasing–after all, it's better not to worry about it. There are much more putrid thoughts eating at you.

You never know what to expect from him, and you guess it's one of the things that incited you the most about him. It left space for you to make your assumptions, to twist the narrative in any way you liked about his stare, his intentions. His contribution, the invitation he extended rose hopes for you to give new meanings to his actions and mould yourself from those pointers in the time you spent away.

You talked to him for such a short time, yet it was enough for you to wonder. You wondered why and where he would take you, if he would choose places which suited his fine taste or matched the raw core of his character. If he wanted his girls like he guided his grip, a little caught up and tight around the edges or loose and ready to move with his flow. If he left enough space for you to squeeze deeper within the cracks you have scratched across his surface.

An address and a time is all that has been given to you, and you should be more nervous, since you were left in obscurity for the most part of this meeting, but all you feel is a thrill that moves along your spine and makes your chest rise up and your smile widen. You had no qualms yet regarding what he needed from you, and you found that in moments where your face wasn't grazing his line of vision he wasn't too keen on revealing more. It did not bother you, since you’ve seen him more in passing, a word here, a promise and a thankful smile there. He mentioned how he would love for you to meet him soon since he'll be leaving town in the next two weeks to perform at the Arts Center. You can't blame him for his decisions, you really can't, because he needed the privacy, and hadn’t it been for his clear sincerity, the depth of his words would have risen and vanished like smoke later when you lost sight of him.

It was an interaction which needed you to be close, needed you to speak it into the existence in the rhythm of his exhales, or else the string would be broken and the linearity of him opening up further would lose its path. The invitation was there, no shame or misunderstandings: he knew he was the lock and you the key, and he dared for nothing else than you opening him up yourself.

That's how you chose to go for now, sure and easy to open, had everything loose on you as opposed to the constriction you felt in your first interaction, part from the clothing and part from him. You smooth over the material of your two piece as you step out of the taxi and into the lobby of a four-star hotel with the same uncertainty you felt upon approaching him; only that this time it diminishes when you catch sight of the same metallic choker, sat over the dip between his exposed collarbones.

Taehyung raises from his seat when he spots you, a tint of a smirk gracing his lips when his gaze follows the curve of your hip and falls into the nets of your stockings.

“I’ll have to apologise,” he muses as his hand hovers over your waist in the same way he did before, fingers brushing against it only serving to make you more alert. “A rundown bar full of beer and rowdy bikers is more my style, but all of them were closed. I hope this will do.”

“Disappointing indeed. I didn't take you for a man with such elegant tastes,” you say, yet your tone is teasing–he had all the ground to represent any style, class or level of luxury there was. And by the fine silk that gave peeks to the planes of his chest and his smooth stomach, there was no doubt he loved to be surrounded by the same delicacy that his voice gave into the world.

“But I'm standing with you, aren't I?” He slows his step as he leads you towards the elevator, pushing the button for the secluded area on the second floor. The gold of the chandeliers and dark of the night painted between the window frames accentuate the atmosphere, making his words sound all that more intimate. “And I still want to sit with you. I say I'd need a little taste for that.”

You cater to his wish with a smile and he lets you pick where the two of you will sit. The place is crowded for this hour, and you find yourself at ease within–there are not many faces paying attention to you, most who do choose to watch are glued on V. On Taehyung. The Taehyung who left his leather in his closet for a shirt opened at the first two buttons. Each wrist tinks with the gold he wears around it, complementary with the fine chain that starts at his cartilage and meets the diamond stud on his earlobe. The colours only serve to complement his tan skin, a portrait of holy aura which shifts its focal point when he takes a glass of champagne from the tray and returns in your proximity.

“Is this usual, or did you need a change of scenery for now?” Now. The moment where you're closer to him than before, where you sit on stools next to each other and wonder out loud, part confirmation, part you wanting to know more about him, to hear him talk and never stop.

“How much is this for another interview?” he retorts, fingers rubbing the glass surface of the counter as he leans his head into his left hand, eyes on you. Mischief suits him well and paints a splitting image of a poster problem child for all the right reasons. You lick your lips as you watch him, pondering on the right answer when he changes the game, plays you as he likes, “Then how much do you want to know me?”

“I...I told you already. I was curious too,” you pout, chest constricting for the same right reasons and this time you can't control it. You had an eagerness about you which you didn't explore till now, didn't know yourself how much it aches when you let it free and you’re met with the wrong reaction. Sure, you were young and starry-eyed and willing to be swayed, a dream for the producers out there–but too much eagerness also showed inexperience you wished to avoid.“I could ask the same about you.”

The pure that Taehyung saw in you comes and goes, and he hopes he can see it clear enough to cut through and sink his teeth into it. This game that you're playing, the bits of vulnerability that you give him, they all serve to tease him, to pull him in more. He knows how the rules work and does not mind bending to them as long as it meant more of you. He's looking to prompt you, get the things you want from him out of you, so he lets out a soft 'oh?' and waits for your reaction, waits for you to continue.

“You...you didn't invite me here for nothing,” you whisper, fiddling with your thumbs as you lean in more as if you're telling him a secret he sees as endearing. “You want to find something out as well.”

“And if I do?” He chuckles, tongue toying with the edge of his canine, making a show of the syllables that make his mouth gape. “Will you be nice and tell me what I need?”

Your career path has led you into being taught what to say, and your mind doesn't grasp all the meanings in his message and the speed at which he turns things around. Without a clear string, it's too easy to get lost in him, to say yes baby, I'll do what you ask. He doesn’t try much though, and you suppose it’s a trait quintessential to him since you haven’t seen anyone behave similarly in recent years.

Because of him starting at your current age, the four years of experience place him ahead of you in the search for answers. The bits and pieces you found about his private life, you discovered he’s never tried to flaunt his experience to anyone–but in the league he is in, you imagine he is not lead by his impulses with the ease that you are.

A fight for control from two different sides of you, that's what it is, in which imitating his game is too dangerous but letting him win is overwhelming to your senses.

“Words,” he reminds with sweetness pouring out with every hit of tongue on the roof of his mouth.

One beat, then another.

“I made the time,” is what he says when you remain quiet, “I wanted this. All I ask is for you to talk to me.”

“What would you like then?” You tiptoe on a high edge, one which gives him far more reign than you have wished for.

“I'll let you ask your questions, answer the best I can,” he suggests, the steps pleasant to your ears. “Then I'll ask mine. I only want your honesty. Can you do that for me?”

The intensity of his gaze, laced pretty in carefulness has your shyness taking over and your head dropping down to stare at how you continue to play with your hands that are grazed by his long fingers. Other times, his touch served to bring your focus back to him, but now you concentrate on the opportunity he offered as his fingertips linger on your skin.

“What made you take that step?” you make eye-contact when you're sure your voice doesn't waver. “You had a stable career, not the best. But how could you know breaking off from your label was the best option? You had enough there.”

Your breath leaves you at once in a mirror gesture of his, since you're aware you dipped into the curiosity of others before you, the one he was asked at his past interview. The one where he made sure the media didn't toy with his boundaries, answers echoing deep within the man who overstepped his status. V stared at him with a fire untamed, questioned about the other's worth to talk to him in such a way, and the same fire is reflecting against you, only that it burns in both his hazy eyes and your belly.

“That's a little personal,” he comments, and his fingers squeeze your own. “Are you sure it's worth it?”

You know you made a bold move, maybe even too bold for you, but the impulse does not care about the implication. The rough edges and insistence to never cater brought you to him, and in his way, he was an inspiration, a dream forbidden for ordinary people like you. In his way, he ended up laying a foundation where you’re free to live through him as you wish–and you needed to further your fantasy.

“I followed their ways,” he begins with a calamity uncharacteristic to how he's looking at you right now. “And I'm not saying that they're bad, but in time I realized my way was the best way. I got to that point where I was comfortable with them telling me what to do and what to write because I had a promise it'll be well.”

“And it was.”

“But it wasn't what I wanted to do. On stage, what you see, that's part of me. I didn't want to sell it, to act and be a character, and I...” His stare is blank as he ponders over his thoughts before the corners of his mouth rise on arches, and the core of his composure changes, lifted to his usual spirits once again. “What you see is what you get.”

It's a surprise to you how it hurts. Your past assumptions match his description and with the discovery, you feel like too much of a familiar for him, a place you were never supposed to reach in any daydream of yours. You couldn't have anticipated anything close to it, for him to speak to you with such candour, but, unlike you, boldness has always been a trait of his. Chains pull at your heart's desire and deep down you wish for him to stop, but the temptation, the stakes, they're all too high, and the possibility of him telling the truth, you can't–

You can't stop now.

You lean in, and your hand slithers under his so that yours is now half-covered by gentle fingers. “We saw a different side of you before that. We saw Taehyung, the music you made before, the vulnerability–”

He hisses at the mention of his real name but doesn't press it further, too caught up in you. “Those are me too. But it's not what the public wishes to see until way later. Why shouldn't I have fun then? I'm not stupid, I–”

“You didn't seem to care about it when you started out,” you interrupt, a habit unheard of from your part coming to light because of images of the man you admired, the one on stage and the one in front of you not matching.

“I didn't know a thing when I started out. I didn't care about implications or labels or processes, I wanted to sing. They sure were quick to tell what they thought about that.” Patience hasn't been a nice cloth for him, and now it wears him down, trying to hold down the revolt simmering under his skin. His tone remains gentle, but you pick up on how he is abstaining from saying more.

“I didn't know I'd make music on demand and that I'd be either ogled or treated like I'm loitering. The label didn't anticipate for me to be the teenage girl's dream or some rebellion the tabloids get to write articles about.”

“But the attention you get...do you hate it?” You're aware of the superficiality of your questions, but you don't have enough experience or knowledge about him to add anything of value. You hope for him to continue.

“I don't. I like that my word has worth. I don't like that I had to compromise and give up songs with emotional value. I hate that I can't have an actual impact unless I act upon this part of my personality.”

“I don't understand.” The assumptions you made and narrative you pushed for yourself make it impossible to wrap your head around him telling you he wanted to continue the way you did. The route he's taken is plausible by itself, but with his attitude and his image in mind, with what he is presenting, you'd associate it with anyone else but him.

“What is so hard? They don't care about my emotions for now. No one made a career out of feelings.” The air he takes tastes bitter, and it's obvious by how it filters through his clenched teeth. “They'll be happy to see me in a scandal, b...break down a little, and I can't stand for it. Better to let it out early than have it be my downfall later.”

The single word sounds foreign to your ears in the situation where you allow for the both of you and no one else. They, he says, but you have a feeling it's half meant for you as well. You have no time for offence, his guilt is your guilt–you spoke in plural too, when you were too scared to speak for your own person. When you wished to detach yourself from the situation, to take the blame and place it onto others, onto another evil which would minimize your own interest.

Thoughts of personal feelings mingling with those which said your curiosity rose from the media's obsession–just like the others. It makes the situation blurry. Maybe you were a copycat looking to get her entertainment, maybe your head was empty and you'd get your excitement from the exploitation of his emotions. Maybe you saw a distorted image of yourself in him, one who instead of wondering and searching attempted to act and not let herself be pushed around.

Your job, your status, your inferiority in media–none of those had to do with anything you were asking right now. You craved to know for yourself, and the realisation sets another ache in your chest. What made it such a thrill that at the slightest loss of composure you would do anything to keep pushing once the barriers were lost?

For what did you need to always go deeper, and why did it satisfy you so much, pushing his buttons further until he snapped?

“You can't know if that's true.”

“Humour me, how many people would have listened then? Two? Thirty at best?” He shrugs, reminiscing of his teasing aura, yet stiffness is palpable in his movements. “I don't take directions from anyone in what I say or the person I am. Beyond that...”

He sighs and leans into his free hand, and the action further brings him in your line of vision.

“I'll be kind and say it's up to the audience.” The grin he gives resembles the mannerisms of the puppet he makes himself seem as it is pulled up against his will. “My job? I talk back, I sing, I make my money. That's all.”

The lines supposed to differentiate you from the mass of his supporters blur, since there was comfort in anonymity, in making statements which cannot be traced back to you. Before you can ponder more over your decision, you find yourself speaking.

“No, that's not what the audience asks for. They want a model for those with attitude, a reason to justify their actions. They can watch you, grow with you and if you succeed, they'll think they're the ones who made it.”

“I'm not looking for that.”

“It's not about what you–” are looking for, but it dies on your lips. There is pain and truth in how the public doesn't care, each selfish in their own purposes, as it was what all of you were made of. Dreaming and chasing an industry that benefits off exploiting your being, for the illusion of spotlight. To assure you will not be forgotten.

That’s what you craved as well, why you are pursuing your career and why for the first months, your satisfaction with your job has been held constant. Seeds of doubt blossomed here and there, yet none of them grew enough to have you fully aware–until him. You felt it with him, what it means for the light to be on too long, for the things you meant to be private to burn under the watchful eye of hundreds.

You can’t say how much you have left, but with how he has been holding on, he still has a say in it.

“Guess I've been lucky then, huh?” In this position, luck was subjective. With the minor role you have, your actions will never be justified the same or thought of as your original intentions. For him, whether he plays nice or not, there will always be reasons to defend and despise him for, no matter if he’ll ever do it again. “Living with the idea that I get to decide what matters. That's not the case.”

His reaction is not entirely triggered by you, but also the obsession regarding ownership of his work, with releasing music on his terms and at the time he felt like it. Topics of money were mentioned, but you're sure there was no issue with money from his side, and your theory is validated by the lack of articles about royalty scandals in the last two years. Irony seeps through the cracks whose foundation crumbles more and more.

“You might be right. Did they tell you to say this for confirmation?”

“Nobody’s telling me what to do,” you huff in indignation before your body takes a more mellow stance, “It’s just… It’s how it works. Always about them.”

“You think you know what this is about?” he prompts, and panic settles in your gut, mixing with rotten curiosity when you spot how his jaw ticks.

Chaos and disorder, fame and surrender, you need to experience those for yourself before you speak out.

“I–I learned a thing or two.” Of course, it's nowhere near what he learned, but you have your pride, you have to fight to reach his level. Fame is the only thing that's missing from your list, as living in the sphere of disorder comes with the erratic hours of your job. It’s not about having similar experiences though, it’s about drowning another boundary, one for which you're purposefully provoking him.

“Is it enough for you to talk to me like that?” He furrows his brows as he speaks, and you'd take it for a display of superiority if it weren't for the desperate edge in his tone, one which tells you he is demanding the respect he deserves. “I don't get it. What do you want to see in me?”

He doesn't let you answer when he sees you hesitating, prompted by your lack of self-assurance, by how you can't own up to the things you ask.

“Are you not the same?” He continues, but instead of the rebellion he accustomed you to, he sounds defeated. “You're also in the public eye. Did you think it would be different for you? There you have it, what happens when you grow.”

Throat stuck with thorns, you struggle to get the words out. “I'll never be like you. Our fields, our personalities... they're different. There's no one to back me up if I don't move as they like.”

No one. Your face falls when you realise your mistake, realise how you denied it in front of him. He had the status to afford to mess with you and leave you the consequences to sink into. With time taken to reflect, you don't see him as the shadow of a persona. You're sure about who he is now, the one who challenged you and provided you with the safety to get out of the norms he kept breaking.

“Then why ask in the first place? Why go off track? I got the script beforehand, the dog got on his knees for me to be on his show,” he retorts, careless at how anger and disbelief pour out of his mouth with the loss of composure. He looks lost as he switches from you and returns, he is searching your eyes for an explanation. “Was it some sort of plan? I knew everything you were gonna ask, I thought there would be no more surprises, but–”

“But?” you press, newfound desperation making its way through you and pulling you towards Taehyung. V. You can't comprehend the single letter anymore, don't care about whatever peace symbol or the relations, part of your past which brought you here is erased. You care for now, for him, for Taehyung.

Taehyung. His name is so pretty. Taehyung, Taehyung, Taehyung.

“Why?”

“Because I–because they–” You babble, too lost into chasing more of him, elbow sliding on the counter as you lean closer–until you're centimetres away from his face. Your thoughts turn frantic when you see his head down and hear nothing else from him, and you're reminded of the same nostalgia you saw backstage the first time–how more than ever you want to soothe it. You're scared to touch him, to offend or unnerve or do anything which would bring him back to you when you don't have the right words to mend his ache.

There's so much to say, how they never planned to make such an effort, how it was you and your curiosity and no rehearsed plan could have saved you since he was too much for you to handle. You gulp, throat dry and incapable of more when you hear his shaky exhale. It pains your heart and your breath when you force yourself to whisper, yet all you manage is a whimper when he looks up, hazy eyes staying open for one last moment before his forehead softly falls against your own,

and your world shuts.

His shaky hand reaches out, but it never ends up touching you. The shadow of his figure falls upon your exposed skin–you see it when you look down to hold onto the last bit of control you still had. The brightness of your dress deepens into a much sultrier colour where his shadow brushes it, and he gasps when he sees the same connection. He's lost, and that leaves only innocence on his features, innocence that screams his need for guidance and begs your palm to settle on his neck. You crave for nothing more than to steady him, though all your touch does is bring him closer. With his lips hovering over your own, your heart breaks and falls into the pit of your stomach where it melts into heat. Why, why, why.

“Why me? Why are you not leaving me alone?”

He is too much, too close for you to think of anything else and it weighs on your conscience, manifests as a visceral press on everything that made you whole. The syllables sound broken, whispered in a breath you swallow as you lean in more, thumb stinging with the sensitivity of the touch when it brushes against his bottom lip. He has given it to you. Whatever state of mind or information you needed from him, he has given it up in place of being raw and open for you despite your ties with a world looking to break him apart. It's hard for you to pin what he expects from you now, if he expects pride to swell in your chest instead of the ache building in your core. You can't think beyond this moment, you can't care about anything else.

You want to kiss him. You want it so bad.

“I have no responsibility towards anyone, I don't owe anyone anything. Just like you had no responsibility to deal with my tantrums and how you still have no responsibility to give into me.” His lips tremble, and you catch the movement, fixed on nothing else but his open mouth and the laboured breaths he's taking. “You'll only do it if you want to. Why is it so hard to understand,”

“I'm sorry,” and you hope the broken words can convey their meaning. The distance cuts through you with the realisation of how far you are from attempting to seal it with a kiss.“You don't seem to take yourself that seriously, maybe it's why everyone assumed–”

“But that's what I'm doing. I am looking for someone that can take me seriously.”

You're locked in the sensation, locked up with the anticipation which prolongs the moment and you wait for the trigger to be pulled. He presses on, but the effect never comes.

"Oh, in that case, I–I'm..." you mumble, lost when your expectations aren't met but Taehyung silences any apologies you had when you feel his hands on you.

He cups your cheek with the utmost care, and it's unclear whether he wants to bring you back to earth or to bring you closer so that his mouth swallows the breaths you've been taking over his bitten lips. His hand glides up and down, uncertain in its movements as it descends to your neck, one step away from covering it whole. The delicacy of his gestures has you chasing after the warmth, head following after the motions of his palm, bending how he likes, easy.

“You risked so much. No one knew how he was going to react.” He takes you back to his previous question, the reason why he sought you. He's talking about the PD, the man in his forties who let no ground for the younger staff to express themselves, had no consideration for his employees when the cameras were off unless he had something to gain from it. Of course, he was not the only one with authority over you, but he is the one whose characteristics you can list in the eight months you have worked under him. You recalling how revolted you were in the first weeks–complaining to your mother endlessly before swearing you will not be rendered by it. If you weren't part of the situation, if that scene was not part of your current reality, you suppose you would react the same, but now the thoughts leave you voided of any emotion.

Taehyung is right, you are aware, but you cannot process it.

“Who would you have done this for? A friend?” He smiles for the show, eyes closed as his lip drags across your jaw, shy. “A lover?”

You let get lost in the sensation, let him play you as he wishes in hopes to avoid his question. His lips tease the curve of your jaw, but he never takes it further: he holds you in place as you search for an escape to cling to so you won't say it–how you wouldn't have done it for anyone who wasn't him.

“Your honesty. That was all I asked.” He sounds like he's begging, tampering with his tone and letting you see him for what he is to weaken your resistance. A fighter who refuses to die off gently. “That's my question. Indulge me a little, won’t you sugar?”

The plea shakes your entire being, and only when he moves to say it into your ear you can breathe again. You're brought back to a thread of reality he pulls at, though his presence and aroma still linger. You can feel your surroundings, and they still mess with your senses when you notice the gold all around you, how your thighs are resting between his spread ones. “I'd do it for anyone who needed it.”

Taehyung laughs in your ear, and the vibrations run shivers down your spine. “Quite the interesting answer. After what I've told you, I didn't think there was any way left for you to surprise me. Didn't take you for a liar.”

With how wrecked you feel, body walking the line between tight and boneless, you can't understand how he can be so sharp and articulate. How much experience does he really have with strings to bring a new star to light, alternating between your loss of control to his vulnerability which goes away on whims. You're taken aback by how his voice is drained of emotion and replaced with a sensuality that serves to tempt you. It comes naturally to him, and so you suppose that is why it’s easy to forget, because with him experience every moment in the present. You see him as a new person with each reply.

“I'll lead you back if you don't want this. I shouldn't have to beg,” he whispers and you jolt, too shocked at him suggesting leaving as he rests in your space, touching and breathing on you.

“I can’t,” you admit, weak, “I don’t want to humiliate myself.”

“How is it humiliating? You did not feel a thing when you asked me those questions. You had a lot to say before,” he teases with his tint of condescending before setting on gentle. “We can talk another time. We can do it when you’re ready.”

He gets up and waits for you, and the graveness sinks your stomach to the ground. You walk the same pace, steps slow and deliberate, and you fix your gaze on the floor to avoid looking at him, as if you'd announce your defeat, your weakness if you were the first to do so. Every move bringing you closer to the point of departure gives more heaviness to your legs and alarms ring in your head in the rhythm of your heartbeat. You need to say something, you need to stay–

“It's still a truth, no matter if you choose to believe it or not.”

He says nothing, smirking when he spots traits of him in your stance, in your words. “Pretty games for a pretty girl. Too bad I won’t get to play them.”

You press the elevator button, the indicator lighting up to signal the following descend from the tenth floor. Crossing your arms in indignation, you lean against the cream wall and in his personal space, looking at him from under your lashes. “You can’t say that, you’re hurting my pride.”

“Come on, I have no intention of doing that, I’m just trying to work you a little, get my entertainment. It gets tiring–kinda lonely after a while.” He is rambling, distracted by the change of position and how you seem to be pulled in his direction. He gulps, eyes wide at his own actions, as if he surprised himself by holding onto a mask that cannot stay any longer. In your mind, the meaning blurs. You can't make the difference between the two variants of his truth: if he is selling you the transparency or if it is a figment of your perception. Acknowledging how it might not be an act would only bring you back to where you were before, too scared to admit you’re wishing for it to be true.

“Is this why you want to hear this from me?” you urge, pulled towards him no matter the implication or how much you lie to yourself that you're not affected by it.

“Yeah. You don’t know how lonely it is. You don’t know how bad it is to be in need of a touch,” he smiles but it's full of need and bitterness, the heat of his exhale falling on your neck as he speaks into it. He's far too close for you not to notice every move, how your hairs rise as he noses along it.

“There’s all these people–” you protest, but instead of pulling away, you grip the hair that's touching the nape of his neck. You're not sure if you mean for an ode his audience, or a warning about the people around you whose interest you lost, but who could turn around any minute at the slightest sound.

“So? Are they going to touch me? Fuck me how I like it?” he demands, chest pressed against yours, and it's so rare to anything dirty spew out of his mouth. The effect is far more powerful, far more wrecking. Oh, how it bites. “What do they have to give to me?”

What do I have, you mean to say, but your thoughts are blurred by the groan he lets out as his lips seal over your own, hand pressing on the wall to steady himself as he presses into you more. His pace is frantic, hands gliding across your body and your rationality spreads all over the place till you have no sense of surroundings, till all you can register is his touch. The first sound is what gets to him, makes him push his knee between your thighs and spread them as his for the taking. You can't take it, impatient in your gestures as your splayed out fingers travel across his ribs, searching for more material to grip. Half-lidded eyes meet yours before falling on your jaw. His fingers reach to caress it for the briefest second, gentle hand pressing over of your throat as he sucks hard enough to bruise.

You can't explain it, how much you like him filling up your space, how much you like it that at every angle there's a piece of him on top of you. How he can't wait any longer to take from you, how he pins your wrist away as his other hand reaches and toys with the ends of your dress, lifting them so he can grip the fuller part of your thigh and wrap it around his own. Satisfaction floods your senses, since there’s no way around it anymore: you’re getting a side of the real him. The part of him who is reckless, who can't wait to rip the same hems apart so he can reach deeper, move your underwear to the side and make a mess out of you.

Despite the roughness, despite how he handles you in a way you can’t do anything about it, you still feel safe. But it's not enough right now, no, no. You crave to lose that sense as well, to get so lost you'll never find your way again. You crave his mark, yes, you want for him to soothe the desperation eating at your conscience with no regards, take the pure part of you and wash it away with traces of his tongue. You’re about to voice it over his mouth when the sound of the elevator opening brings you back to earth, and you hold onto him to find a balance for your weak legs.

His hands cup your cheeks in support, like he fights to pull away but he can’t, heavy breathing falling over your lips–only that this time he bites at them and soothes the sting with another kiss.

“I'm not some tragic story. All that they say about me, my lifestyle and the shit I thought you were going to ask–those are true as well.” He grins, no regards to the people who pass by you. “Not even a little bit curious about those?”

Your body lights up at the words, familiar with the rumours of the things they do after performing, though it holds no fear or judgement. You couldn't say no to him right now, not after he kissed you, the dark red of your lip around his mouth a clear reminder of your act. A reminder that you’d love for your stain to reach deeper and take parts of him yet unknown.

Too lost in the possibility, you choose not to answer and pull him inside the elevator, hands brushing the satin as they glide down his back till they reach his hip bones. You don't think, pressing him against you once again as your hips drag against each other. He nods against your neck, a wrecked chuckle passing him as your breaths become weaker, needier.

“Fine. Eyes on me and I’ll show you.” With that, he distances from you and turns to press the button for the penthouse, eyes flaring with promises of more than you could handle.

The doors to the elevator open, the foreign space they hid making you shift closer to Taehyung, whose hand now remains tight around your waist. Throughout your interactions, you've made yourself one between the tints of gold, shone and felt burned under the bright lights–each colour scheme bringing the best version of yourself for everyone to see. This time, with no shame, dark surrounds you and overshadows your presence. With the exception of the ambient neutrality of the walls, all around you can find leather and recklessness, people who drink in motion with the bass, images you’ve taken as universal truth before meeting him.

The penthouse covers the same surface as the private area, might be even bigger at a deeper glance, only that the silk on tables and the big windows are replaced by accent walls and liquor stains on wood. You can't name most of the bottles you see, much less the faces, but you catch sight of the signs of luxury, how the drinks are adorned in coloured glass and cursive writing. Seems like that's the place Taehyung left his leather at, as everyone has a quintessential part from its element, from pants to chokers, to jackets that sit pretty over bare skin. At its core, the scenery is modern, but it keeps tints of the classics, with an imposing chandelier being the only source of light, the bulbs inside covered in translucent reds. Pairs of eyes turn to you as they see you, careful to move with him at once.

A shadow of scarlet falls upon the centre, where most of the group sits, where most of them turned to watch the both of you, giving meaningful glances to Taehyung and studying your figure, from the crossed model on your stockings to the slight rip in your dress. He grins when the attention lingers on him, pulled by his string, and he turns to you with mock curiosity gleaming in his eyes. “Looks like anything you've imagined?”

“I haven't got to that yet,” you confess, thoughts of Taehyung's presence alone overwhelming you. “Is this the place–the place where...?”

You haven't considered this aspect of his life in its entirety, too caught up in untangling the wires lost from the start of his career and up to the point of now. As you see him, he is in control of every aspect of his identity, making active choices of where and when he'll show his vulnerability–it's hard to imagine him losing that control without his will like the ones here seem to do. Your mind swims in all the possibilities, mixing the scenery with what you have heard and what you have experienced with him. His inhibitions were limited regardless, though their level has yet to be discovered.

The picture snaps on the newspapers you read were blurry and inaccurate but captured the same essence: he hung around places where someone could mingle, make relations, drink, hold no inhibition when it's about feeling each other, no matter the person, no matter the number. Places where he had the opportunity to deviate from whatever it was imposed from his lifestyle as a songwriter and a chance to experience the fantasy people associated with his kind. As the clarity of the area is faded by incense, opulence drowns your remaining senses. You feel out of it, and oh, how you'd shame this if it was anyone else but him.

Him, you think, for him it's not enough. He deserves more than that.

Taehyung ponders over his answer, slight pout shaping his mouth, confirming all your thoughts. He does deserve more. “For now.” He leads you towards the corner where the appetizers are, parallel to the line of instruments and sound equipment. Ever so careful, he avoids the centre where people stare and nod at him. “They needed a place to bring all the instruments till we move to the next city.”

“I'm sure this is the case,” you state without much conscience, and there would be more sarcasm laced in your tone if it weren't for your disbelief and closeness to Taehyung, which has you reconsidering the roots of this place. “What do you do here?”

His brows raise, free hand gesturing towards the groups. “You're free to do as you like.”

“I'll stay with you” you blurt, feeling your cheeks heat up at how fast you made your choice. “I mean, of course. Is this the rule for everyone?”

“Well, who am I to tell them what to do? Mm?”

“What if they ask you to?” The question has you holding your breath as you watch his gaze darkening, the intensity from moments ago blazing in his eyes. He reaches out to cup your face, thumb massaging your lip and your lids are already dropping when he presses deeper–moments before a hand slaps upon his shoulder.

“You said you wouldn't be here tonight,” the man says as Taehyung cuts to him, confusion morphing into acknowledgement. “We didn't expect to see you so soon.”

His tone is snarky, more scolding than playful but you suppose it is a casualty since Taehyung smiles at him. The latter mentions how he was not planning to do so, and his eyes travel to you by instinct, making the stranger watching with intent, doll eyes sharp as they study you. Taehyung introduces him as Yoongi, mentioning how he plays the keys and works for his previous label, the one deciding to stay while Taehyung left.The dark-haired man nods at you and disappointment spreads under your sternum at how he doesn't pull you closer to introduce yourself like you've seen around here. Like you've seen the two women in cut-out shirts do, shake hands and whisper to each other before embracing. Last you've seen them giggling, tangled in each other as you passed the fuller part of the crowd. Thoughts of sticking out too much overshadow past desires, and anxiety climbs up your spine once you make eye-contact with Yoongi again.

“We worked on a couple instrumentals together. And this is–”

His talk is interrupted by another presence, and if Taehyung had the looks and emanated the thrill of the rockstar, the man in front of you had it pouring out of every pore. While Taehyung is a subtle controlling aura, asking for what he wants through tints of games and teasing, the other man's smirk tells you he had no qualms about being upfront about his needs. His body tells the same by the open shirt halfway down his chest and the way his hands lay his pockets, how he stands with his legs spread. Even with the blur around, you can make out shades of messy pink hair and coloured drops of sweat which have dripped down his forehead. He looks like the kind of wanderer you'd lose yourself in with no mind, one who seems like he doesn't care for hiding, skin glistening and pairs of hoops hanging from the cartilages. Crystals adorn the translucent silk brushing his chest, sticking to bits of skin where sweat has sunk in. It didn't take a lot to figure out that if Taehyung was the core of this place, this man was a split image of its surface.

“Jimin, good to meet you.” His aura shifts and you're marvelled at how young and pure he does look when the grin he wears emanates warmth and self-assurance in the way Taehyung's does. “The one responsible for all of this.”

You suppress the reflex to bow your head as you introduce yourself, aware that there was no room for respect and formality in a place like this. He seems to lose the last tints of shame as you take him in, and you presume he wouldn't mind more arrangements with you. Jimin, in all his careless glory, is a pretty face the tabloids wouldn't mind. A face you wouldn't mind seeing every night from your TV screen as you breathed out the worries of the day. While fine taste suited Taehyung the best, Jimin's luxury was written in the same cursive next to the signature of his name.

“Say, how did you meet V?” Jimin throws, focused on you, and Taehyung's hand on you splays out, a change of position which lets you know that he is listening, more carefully than you'd like to consider. Heat is still simmering under your skin as a reminder of his touch he is not keen on letting you forget, back arching when his hand moves to your stomach over your belly button. It's not fair, he can't demand answers from you when Taehyung pulls you in like this and you feel his solid body on yours.

You can't think when he touches you like that, with warmth burning at your side and your mind focusing on nothing but how hard it is to bury the urges of following the trail of his mouth. Pressure lays upon your shoulders but it sinks in your stomach and manifests in how you pulse from it. It's too much, the attention that makes you feel small under their gazes, makes you steel yourself to hold eye-contact with the man in front of you. “I was with him in my last interview.”

Jimin's face lights up in recognition, and a wicked curiosity stains the previous warmth of his smile. His gaze is lost in the red marks on your throat before switching back to your eyes, not bothering to hide his interest. “The bold one, huh? Are you like this always or is my Taehyungie over here making you act like that?”

“Jimin.” What comes off your date's lips is a warning, but he fights against his lips curling. “You're too much.”

Fake innocence settles over the man's features as he tilts his head at you two, peering at how Taehyung's holding you. “What, you can't blame me for wanting to know. I'm sure she had her questions too.” With another glimpse at Taehyung, Jimin abandons the focus, taking a step closer towards you. “Did he satisfy? It's hard to get him to talk when he insists so much on being an ass.”

Another one and he'd be in your personal space, body pressed to your front.

“He's a little impatient, isn't he?” Jimin chuckles, but the connotations are open enough to include you in his game. “I didn't expect him to bring you here so soon.”

“She wanted to know.” Taehyung shrugs and says nothing else.

“Did she? In that case, you can ask me all about it.”

Although Jimin himself resembled the protagonist of any fantasy you’ve had arisen from the crescendo of the moonlight, had the boldness you so much enjoyed in his approach, you couldn’t comply. Your presence there was owed to Taehyung. Your interest laid on discovering parts of him yet unknown, untangle webs from such a complex character that details beyond him overwhelm you–aiming to get to know Jimin would be too soon, too much.

“I asked him,” you begin, words forming with difficulty. “I do want it...from him.”

Jimin purses his lips and nods with you. “Such a sweetheart, and so eager to ask...him. Who gave you the reign for it?”

The question makes your blood boil and your walls rise in defense, possibilities of forgoing the thoughts you've had of him running rampant. A part of you feels that Jimin's approach comes from how protective he needs to be, of both the collective and Taehyung. You're sure exclusivity must be kept, and the stamp comes with being a judge of character, an ability to look beyond and into the transparency of outsider intentions. With the way you're clinging to Taehyung, you can't understand how Jimin might think you're here for any other reason. More than pissing you off, it is upsetting you.

“What did you do to deserve it?”

You unlatch from Taehyung in need of something to prove, hoping that Jimin can see through you without your use of words or the need to scream for it. Despite how fresh into the scene you are, you can figure out that once you have to say what you mean, the words lose their value.

“Or what will you do, hmm?” Your breathing is heavy as Jimin zones into your lips. The tension lays a thick web in your stomach that's grows all that more intricate when he arches an eyebrow at you, provoking you with the same vigour. Anger and craving tighten against each other like vines, you wish to prove him wrong so bad it fades the lines of morality you built. Teeth clenched, you take the remaining step towards him and break the barrier as you fist his shirt before turning around and roughly pulling Taehyung into you.

You feel restless, impatient in your own skin as you cup his face and slam your lips against his, and he lets out a choked moan as presses against you, grip tight as he sits you on the table. The sound of glass shattering is deafening to your ears before you sink underwater, muffled by his breath. Your tongue licks at his bottom lip and he opens his mouth further and lets you lead as you fall back, dragging him with you and spreading your legs further to accommodate him better.

There is a rush you get at the fact you know Jimin is watching, the image of his expression stirring you on further and making you spread your legs as much as you could to bring Taehyung closer in his rut against you and prove something to the man. Your thigh knocks against Jimin's hip on purpose, and his fingers fit themselves into the dark nets, and oh, how you like it when he pulls on them.

“Take a shot with me.” Jimin offers to Taehyung as big hands drift to pull your skirt down, until he could slip his fingers under your stomach. Taehyung struggles to break apart from you, the softness of your lips molding on his tempting him to forget anything about paying attention. You whimper against them, rotten satisfaction burning your loins as you feel his hands falter and how the rhythm breaks, and you can't stop thinking it's all you. You're making him feel like this.

“I’m not drinking,” Taehyung states as he lifts your thigh to press deeper into you, rough drag of his cock against your clit.

“From me. He'd drink from you though.” You break apart at the affirmation and look at Taehyung to confirm, mouth gaping at how wild his eyes are, though there is no sign of denial. Confused, you grab a cup and wait for Jimin to fill it, turning back only when the whiskey nears the tip of the glass. He doesn't budge.

“Not like this,” Jimin tutted, tipping the glass so the liquid falls on your exposed skin, over your low piece and hipbones, and before you can express your shock you feel Taehyung pulling down your skirt, drops dipping into your belly and gliding further down. He falls to his knees, grabbing your hips and pulling you close to his mouth as his tongue cleans it all up, lips sucking on the skin there, so close and yet nowhere near enough.

“I could show you more,” is uttered through reddened lips before big eyes plead for your confirmation.

“Here?” you ask when he takes a step back and fumbles to take the belt off. Molten pleasure runs through your core at the idea and it lights up ablaze when you're met with his smirk.

“Where else? I'm sure that they don't mind.” He looks like he wants to say more, but something is stopping him. “Come here,” he motions as takes his belt off.

You take deliberate steps until your thighs brush against his, hands rising to splayed over them. There’s a hesitation on your part, used to him making the first move–some could say it’s shame burning in your belly at the faces watching, distant memories that remain in dark corners of your mind as the star twirls in his toybox. Taehyung stares at you with his head tilted and intensity sharpening his features no sooner than you feel the leather of his belt snaking over your shoulders till it reaches the back of your neck. He pulls on it teasingly, bringing your face to his. “I said closer.”

He leaves a fleeting kiss on your lips, enough to have your mouth chasing after his.

“Usually you're so well-mannered, why is it so hard to get you to listen baby? I've been patient with you,” Taehyung pouts as his hand reaches between your legs.“I think I deserve an apology.”

“I'm sorry,” you mumble as you throw your arms around his neck, face attempting to hide there as his finger massages over your underwear before deciding against it. He dives in, sliding his fingers in and circling your bare clit. Your mouth gapes at the sensation and at just how easy it would be for him to go further.

“Who are you speaking to?”

“I'm sorry, Taehyung.”

“That’s right, say that again,” he commands, but his voice is breathy. “Say my name again and I’ll give you what you want.”

“Why are you teasing her like that,” Jimin, whose presence you have forgotten about makes your breath hitch up in your throat. “Can't you see how bad she needs you?”

Your unfocused gaze falls on him, leaned against the same table Taehyung kissed you on with Yoongi not too far apart. You’re aware of how Jimin’s eyes devour you, taking in the image of your loss of control, but you’re not shy. You’re grateful for him, for the interruption, believing that his provoke Taehyung into hurrying up. And hurry up he does, unbuttoning his shirt, giving you all the space to roam over bare skin and over the band of his boxers.

Based on first impressions alone, Jimin is slim and chiseled, straight line defining his abdomen. He is a stark difference from bodies you have seen before, and trying to get used to it grows the surprise you have when you get a peek at Taehyung, who is solid in all the right ways and feels warm under your hand. A tiny sound from the back of your throat leaves you when you squeeze his shoulder and splay your palm on his chest, finding how his heartbeat matches yours.

“And just how am I teasing?” Taehyung smirks, pushing one finger into you, making you clutch the collar of his shirt. “Hear that? That’s what he believes.”

His free hand drifts higher till it reaches the belt still resting on your neck, gripping it to have his mouth brushing over yours as he takes his time spreading you open and curling them. “Am I so mean to tease such a pretty baby when she’s already this gone for me?”

You can’t say anything, too focused on trying to push back against his fingers so you’re getting more of him. Your head shakes in an attempt to soothe him before his tongue licks into your mouth and laces with yours, hints of champagne still on his tongue. When he parts, he takes the belt in his grasp and raises it until it reaches eye-level, the hand slick with you remaining on your mouth. “If I were teasing, I’d say this.”

You let your eyes close as the leather wraps around your eyes, presses on your lashes. You're more vulnerable like this, more easy to be watched without a shame in the world but you can't find will to care about it, too busy running your mind with possibilities of what Taehyung will do. The action heightens your other senses, hyper-aware of every move happening around you, so it comes as a no surprise when you feel Taehyung leading you backwards, pushing until your back makes contact with the table.

“I’d say you know me.” It is not a hypothesis, it is a statement, one that has been tested throughout your evenings and which gave you an illusion of hope. “I’d ask you to tell me where I'm touching and I'll let you cum.”

You don’t grasp the full meaning of his words until another hand lays softly upon your shoulder and your back arches from the touch. “Yes, yes–” you breathe out, pushing your chest up to slide the touch lower, to dismiss the softness in place of something bolder. The blazer you are wearing is pulled down and the skin to skin contact intensifies as you’re left with your two piece before you’re pulled into another body, bold teeth grazing the zipper of your top. Your back is left exposed, top still hanging by the straps on your shoulders, and no further move is made. It leaves you feeling that much more vulnerable.

Footsteps are heard to your right and the grip on the belt is released until another one takes Taehyung’s place. You can’t make accurate guess, but you follow the motion of his fingers, know that the large palm below your breast and brushing over your rib belongs to him before he moves again. Others are too soft, respectful almost, and your train of thought is confirmed when lithe fingers dip into the curve of your waist. It’s all too much, trying to keep up with his trail when the touches mix and hands intertwine and lay upon the other on your body until his fingers fuck into you again, making you moan into his mouth.

“Taehyungie, look at how much she likes it.” Jimin says into your hair, marvelled and Taehyung’s pace increases, a third finger teasing at you.

You’re getting closer to your orgasm, voice left free and inhibitions gone as you whine and whimper at the smallest touch, at every motion inside of you. Your reasoning pours from your mind right between your thighs, yet no matter the moans and how wrecked you feel, you still can’t prevent your mouth from speaking, questions left unanswered still gnawing at you. “Do you do this with a lot of people?”

“I do,” he admits freely, breathing into your neck, and you hold no judgement. He seems to press himself deeper into you as he anticipates your next question. “Most of the time with however many Jimin wants. You should see him, he's very demanding.”

His reply births another meaning to his words and spreads heat to your core, burning the remaining sanity you had so hard you jolt, clenching around his fingers. Taehyung, surrounded by more bodies. Oh.

“In the future, you could join us if you ask. Jimin doesn't seem too upset about it.”

“Aren't you happy? You'll have to ask.” Jimin teases, and he seems to hold it over your head, yet all his remarks do is make you roll your hips harder into Taehyung.

“That’s all it would take to make me do so much.” Taehyung pauses to laugh, a little wicked and breathless and right as you want him. “Scream your name? I’ll scream for you. I'll do it if you want it.”

He scissors his fingers inside of you to support his claim, that you throw your head back, sense of reality alternating the balance. Jimin holds you still, darkness muting everything else surrounding you.

“Ask me.” Taehyung demands, adding a third finger, and the knot in your stomach tightens until the friction has the fibers breaking the foundation apart. “Ask.”

“Make me cum,” you whisper, defeated. “Please make me cum.”

At your plea, he press on your clit, touch firm and tight and you unravel, thighs shaking as Taehyung mutters little praises. Before you can catch your breath, you don’t register how he keeps going until you feel how sensitive you are, body trembling against him but he is relentless, tone sweet and apologetic. “I’m sorry baby, you’ll need it.”

You hiss at the overstimulation, unable to register what he is talking about until head of his cock pushing against your sore clit and slides further, length reaching your stomach. You gasp as he repeats the motion, your thighs closing around him.

A higher, sultrier voice speaks and tangles you deeper into Taehyung’s nets. “Look at him, such a wicked man, and you'd let him touch you? Let him stretch you open? My, my.”

“Jimin's right. You'd let me do whatever I wanted, right?" he taunts as he pushes in inch by inch, stretching you beyond what you'd normally take. He's so big. "What a little deviant.”

Your moans are swallowed once he thrusts into you messily, all senses of morality gone. Yes, you would do whatever he asked, you realise as he sets a rhythm, slow and reaching depths that haven’t been stained before. Your morality ends in downfall as your head falls back, dizzy. In your haze you can’t think of anything else, only Taehyung, Taehyung, Taehyung, how let him take and take no matter who is watching and what might come after.

“Do you even care about the consequences?” Jimin's condescending tone makes its way to you, the world outside is so muted you hear it right by your ear. You whine, ashamed and needy, because you don't and you wouldn't even consider them if it meant getting your pleasure. Jimin takes it as a cue to push you further. “Oh, you don't, you're so close, you want it so bad, yeah? Poor baby.”

“Ah, fuck–please.” You can’t help begging when plump lips kiss behind your ear and the grip loosens, belt falling off your eyes, and you can’t understand how he’s in front of you, inside of you, moaning because of you. It’s not possible that you have such an effect because how far up he is, how unreal he is.

Taehyung gazes at you with unspoken promises and primal need to claim, and you want to scream how you’re his for the night, and you’d remain that way for other times, titles which dance to the night in fear of what the light brings spinning in your head.

As much as he toys with the idea of sharing, he is possessive, you can sense it in the way he grips you harder than the others, how he groans and keeps you at a closeness where your breaths mingle. You can sense it in how his body shields yours despite the setting and how he asked for you in the open and under scrutiny.

It turns out you get a sick pleasure from it, from the low pitch he can't shake off, familiar yet contrasting the playful aura resting within the shape of a classy surface. From what you have noticed, Taehyung as a man and in regards to his own self must not allow anything far away from the untouchable. Like this, he looks disheveled, messy from his sticky hair to his clothes and down to the way he is handling you.

“Look how well you're taking it, you're so good for me, shit.” He mouths at your neck and grips your chin before tilting it down, fixing your eyes on the motion of cock sliding in and out of you. “Gonna let me be a man, mm? Watch me stretch you out?”

You can’t nod, the breaths you’re taking and nothing else overwhelming you as you get closer, knot building so soon and with no regards to your feelings. Your hand travels and reaches into your thighs, opens you further for him as he fucks harder, faster, until your toes are curling in your satin heels.

“Oh–fuck. Too much.” you cry out when coming down from your orgasm you still feel him rutting into you.

“I know baby, I do–” he gasps, pace turning frantic as he pulls you to his chest, little whimpers leaving you at his insistence. You can't make out the ties between how weak his voice is and how hard he fucks into you, chasing his release. “Just a little more.”

He uses the last bits of his energy thrusting in deep, slow drags of his cock into you, a primal growl makes its way from his chest before pulling out of you.

His cock pulses on your stomach as he cums, and your fingers follow its path, bringing them to your mouth for a taste. The substance stains your lips as you dip it in, craving to swallow though you can't bring yourself to do it. An urge deep within tells you to await his request, tying you to him, “Open up.” You obey, letting him see his cum in your mouth, how your tongue swipes across it and Taehyung coos, reaching to caress your jaw. “Want more of me? Close.”

He drags his finger down your neck, throat bobbing under his thumb as you swallow. “Very good, such a sweet girl.”

You find comfort on the feel of sturdy wood, still pulsing from sensitivity and need, Taehyung's embrace holding your threads to reality. The bass is thumping along with the beat of your heart, but you can't hear anything else for now, senses surrounded by a thick fog that clears up only when you feel another hand turning your jaw. Jimin drags the wet tissue across your mouth, careful not to miss on the corners and you stare at his plump lips, remember how wild his eyes were as he dug the same fingers into his thigh, pushing himself not to touch you any further.

Your fingers circle his wrist, guiding his soft gaze to yours. You pucker your lips and he grants your wish, covering them in a gentle caress, almost shy. His touch barely there, treating you with such tenderness it has you whimper at the contrast between his words and his kiss.

“I…” Taehyung watches you with expectations gleaming in his eyes as you push your hips up. He stills them and bites his lips as Jimin taunts him further, poster troublemaker for all the right reasons.

Taehyung has no reason to hide. He doesn’t play with the honesty of those who lie behind closed doors but rather toys with it in a secret meant for your eyes, with the way he throws his head back and bends you the way his body demands. Up close, his half-lidded gaze is unfocused yet untamed, and it moves towards an end only he knows. He grips all that is inanimate with the tightness of a viper’s fangs and reserves the delicacy of a lover for when he touches you, fingers trailing from the ends of your mouth to your jaw and through your hair as he fucks deeper into you. More often than not, the actions make you wonder how it would feel if the nailbeds stained on his jawbone would remain as yours.

“How is it?” he asks through the haze you’re in, messy hair and scarlet around his mouth, expression far overstepping the sinner title. “Feeling sated?”

What is about to follow makes sense to you, because it is a matter of when, and one of power. A power you surrender as pleasure pushes at you until it stings, until you shake your head and shake off any past thought you have wished to bring into this.

“More,” you say and spreads you further and claims his space till there’s no part of you he hasn’t covered, no root left untouched. He nods and teases you in the way it makes your head swim as buries himself within you to the core, taking and taking until his lips are over yours again, bitten and about to taint the tears on your cheeks.

A moan tears out of him as he praises you more, voice rough with effort, and he seems to have the same reaction you do as he hears himself talk. The words reflect the effect, however unassuming they might be, and with the heavy breaths of a clear desire supporting his every claim, it’s possible even for atheists to catch their glimpse of God.

a/n: for my sweethearts who might have caught it, taehyung’s character is partially inspired by prince and his songs, and the interview scene was inspired by his interview with maria bartiromo in 2004! scream to me about him please. chaos and disorder wasn’t much of a happy album for prince, but i thought the title was cool. i killed 2 of my 3 braincells writing this and slaved away for ur consideration ok byye

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