#corsage answers

[spoonsandsporks]

HGKJG [gets down on one knee] Q, my mutual, homie, and very dear friend, of course I would be delighted to platonically marry you for tax benefits, we will have a beautiful summer wedding, im handing you a ring pop as we speak hgkj <33 omg suits would be SO FUN!! we'd look so fancy and eat cake and itd just be a fun party hgkj :3 <33

(also youre so right about the benefits, EVERYONE MARRY YOUR HOMIES FOR REAL!!! hgkjg)

*takes your hand* Voli, I'm so glad you agree, I accept your ring pop and platonic proposal with glee hjklgjf WE SHALL HAVE A SUMMER WEDDING BTWN FRIENDS. A FRIEDDING IF YOU WILL. EVERYONE IS INVITED TO THE PARTY OF THE CENTURY TO STUFF YOURSELVES FULL OF CAKE

Also, in all seriousness, thank you for the excuse for a character design exercise I needed to get better at drawing suits hrktkgj and your sona is v v fun to draw <33 (For context: )

[neriyon]

For the WoL ask meme!

9. What's in your WoL's travel bag? Any trinkets? Any vital items they cant go without? Do they travel light and figure stuff out on the fly, or do they bring way too much with them? (Bonus points if you have images!)

Hawu'li's bags (the one on his person and the one on his chocobo) are usually very messy and filled to the brim. Mostly foodstuffs, but also materia, change of clothes, some potions of varying effects (possibly over their best before date), loose change, dyes, a cool leaf he found... There's also a beat up journal and his summoner tome sitting there, as well as some ink and paper for letters. Oh and treats for his chocobo, can't go out without those.

He never really leaves home without his staff (but that won't fit in a bag), and very rarely without the tome, and while they aren't usually in the bag either: his Menphina earring and white lily corsage.

[madamechrissy]

Baby You're a Star

Art in the banner by Kerravi on x!

Summary- You meet Satoru Gojo at a wild Hollywood party, insanely out of place, waiting for your friend to show up. The two of you hit it off, spending time together, and share a kiss, but you're a good girl, and you just don't do this, but he is the top pornstar there is, and the top .01 % on OnlyFans. Once you find out, you know there's probably no match, as Satoru doesn't date, and you don't sleep around, but after meeting, you keep in touch- and soon Satoru can't get hard without thinking of you, and you get over curious, and join a livestream of the boy you like. Just how will that go for you both!?

Warnings- this time, lots of fluff, sweet confessions, emotional, mentions of Satoru's past and how he got in the industry, former Nerdjo mentioned. Also explicit sex, oral (f receiving) Gojo worshipping you, breedkink, creampie, fingering, squirting, dirty talk WC this chap- 9.6k

A/N- omg one more chapter, we are at the end! Taglist closed- please comment/rb if you enjoy <3

<<<Chapter Six - Masterlist- Playlist- Chapter Eight >>> (Final! - coming soon)

Chapter Seven

Satoru is nervous.

 He’s never really been on a ‘date’ before, he’s been on many meetings with girls from work, get togethers and hang outs, but he’s never been on something so official, even back when he was with the woman who got him into the industry. They of course fucked constantly, they went out together to hit parties, but it wasn’t that official term, not like this with you.

A real date.

Something he’s been playing over and over in his head for all these months, imagining if things could have gone differently, that night when the girl came up to him, and Nanami came up to you. Could he have said - yes, she’s my date - and not been so fucking terrified of the change? When you looked at him that way, as if you were waiting for his answer, could he have given it?

He shoves all of that back now, it’s all in the past, and the two of you have been in constant contact this week in anticipation, down to you sending him dresses you’re thinking of wearing. Suguru keeps mentioning the dopey fucking grin on his face every time you text him, and every time he calls you, the two of you end up falling asleep on the phone together.

You’re his girlfriend.

He’s actually gotten you a corsage, you maybe thought he was kidding, but he absolutely was not. He’s standing in front of your door, when he finally knocks on it, rapping his knuckles across it, and soon you’ve opened it, standing there so beautiful you make him ache. In so many fucking ways, too.

For every bit of Satoru that wants to rip this pretty little blue dress off you, another part wants to simply kiss your forehead.

The affection is as intense as the longing, the desire to have you with him always, not schedule times and days and work arounds. He knows that is what both of you have to do, but there’s a little part of him that would die to just have you with him, constantly. In his bed, waking up next to him, something he never knew he would want or crave so badly.

Your eyes light up, brilliant without your glasses on, he can’t decide what he likes better - how fucking pretty you are with them, or getting to look into them clearer without them on. You have cherry red lipstick across your lips, and a little blush on your cheekbones, your hair done up in a way that makes him crave yanking it out, letting it tumble and fall over your shoulders as he kisses you.

“Satoru, oh I’m so excited!” You’re grinning, melting his heart then, he swallows a little nervously again, leaning down and tilting your chin up with two fingers.

“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pressing a sweet kiss on your lips, you tremble at it, your hands slipping up his chest, over the pretty light blue dress shirt he’s wearing. “We match.”

“We do,” you kiss him again, tugging at his collar, sighing into his mouth at how good it feels. “You look handsome, Satoru.”

“Of course I do.” You snort now, shaking your head and stepping back and tugging at his hands.

“Come in real quick, I need to throw my heels on and get a jacket,” he steps inside, noticing the couch is still very much spotless, no more tangled blankets, he smiles as you sit on the couch then and slip on a pair of black heels. “I’m very, very excited you know.”

“So am I,” he comes over then, kneeling and halting you before you slip the other shoe on, taking it from your hand. He presses a kiss on your bare knee, watching you react, your hands trembling, your breath quickening. “Let me.”

“You’re making me feel like Cinderella or something,” you tease, he laughs a bit softly, eyeing the flustered mess he’s made you. “I could get used to this treatment.”

“I could get used to treating you this way,” he murmurs, securing the little buckle now, hand slipping up your thigh slowly, he leans close, your fingers card through the snowy locks of his hair. “Like a little princess.”

“Satoru,” you lean down and kiss him again, deeper this time, he tugs you close as he sits between your thighs, feeling your heat. You pull back, breath ghosting his lips, he notices he’s kissed just a bit of your tint off, a fainter red now. “I missed you so much.”

“I missed you.” You both kiss once more, it takes every ounce of self control not to devour you, that soaking wet little cunt so ready for him to drink up, but he knows you both have to take time, even when your bodies completely disagree. He pulls back and sighs, caressing your cheek carefully. “Don’t make it so hard for me to be a gentleman, do you know what it’s like right now?”

“You’re the one over here making me think insane thoughts,” you pout, and he grins, easing back just a bit. “This is not a good position for you to be in with where my mind is going.”

“And what is your innocent mind thinking of, hmm?” He raises a brow, so charming, still on his knees over your plush carpet. “Blushing, cute.”

“Shh! You know what I’m thinking, it’s not innocent…” you shift a bit closer, his hand slips up the inside of your thigh now. 

“No? Are you being a bad girl?” He grins, still slowly inching up, watching you shift on the couch.

“Don’t make me say it.”

“Maybe I wanna hear it,” he kisses your thigh now, watching goosebumps rise where his lips press, hearing your soft whine along with the little pop of his lips. “I can make it happen after the date, if you want it to.”

You bite your lower lip, while he looks up at you under his snowy lashes, just a little red on his own lips now. “I was thinking of places that really miss being kissed by you.”

“Oh, here?” He kisses your knee, and you giggle. “Or… here?” He kisses higher, teasing you with a nip of his sharp teeth.

“No,” he’s chuckling now, fuck he doesn’t remember the last time he felt like this, even with you. It was sexual so quickly and so intense there wasn’t much room for teasing. Your fluttering pulse and quick heart rate are matched by his own, when you run your thumb over his plump lip. “You know where I miss it most.”

“It’s here, isn’t it?” He grabs your wrist now, pressing a kiss along the delicate inside of it, over the little veins raised ever so slightly.

“You found it,” his teeth nip your wrist now, shooting desire hot and heavy, while his fingers slip dangerously close to your core. “Mnh…”

“I know, I can’t wait to taste your sweet little cunt again,” his words are husky, deep toned, that voice that feels like he’s touching you, pulling back now to tug out a pretty bunch of blue flowers from his black jacket. “But I’m going to do this right this time.”

“Satoru, did you really get a corsage!?” You’re giggling, the sound making him melt as he takes your hand now. “I didn’t think you actually would!”

“I told you I would,” he kisses the back of your hand after slipping it over your wrist, little delicate blue flowers adorning it now. “I think now you’re ready for this date, yeah?”

You blink back emotions, kissing him again, he’s still on his knees, arms wrapping your waist, kissing your lips over and over, sighing into them. “Did I tell you, I never went to prom?”

“Never?” He pulls back curiously, and you nod. “Tell me why, I want to know so much, who you were. Were you a little nerd?”

“Of course I was, I just played DnD that night.” He grins then, so handsome he breaks your heart into pieces.

“Guess what?”

“Hmm?”

“I didn’t go to mine either. I was also playing DnD.”

“No way!”

“Mmhmm,” he’s chuckling along with you, you kiss him again, a sweet little peck, shaking your head. “I was a nerd.”

“No way, I can’t even picture it!” He shrugs a shoulder and stands now, holding your hands and tugging you up, your head falls back to look at him. “There’s so much I don’t know about the man I fell in love with.”

It’s quiet then, he rests his head on yours, cupping your face, too quiet, your mind races. This will be the third time you’ve confessed, and the prior two were not met with answers, you curse internally, wishing you could keep it under wraps, wondering if you’re pushing it too far. But he pulls back, lips parted, exhaling and studying you carefully.

“You do not have to say it back-”

“I fell in love with you when I fucking saw you,” you pause, a little gasp the only noise aside from your pounding heart, beating so loudly, you can feel it thudding. “It scared the fuck out of me. I tried to explain it away in every different way, it must be your looks, it must be the chemistry, it must be a connection. Anything to avoid knowing what it was.”

“Satoru…” You’re blinking tears, little trails of mascara falling which he swipes up with his fingers.

“I was just really scared. I’ll get more into my past tonight, but I didn’t think this sort of thing was possible. These six months have been fucking torture,” you’re a mess now, while he tugs you closer, hands slipping down your bare shoulders. “I should have said it back.”

“It’s okay, it really is, you weren’t ready just yet.” He exhales, leaning low and kissing you once more, tasting the salty tears that fall.

“I wanted to do this after the date, I had a plan you brat.” You giggle now, as he keeps swiping at your tears. “All this work on your makeup too, want me to fix it for you?”

“You can do makeup?” You ask softly, he nods.

“I did a lot on set. You just need a touch up, though you’d be a pretty racoon, too. Where’s the makeup?”

“Scattered all over the sink,” he sees that clearly when you’re in your bathroom now, there are exactly seven lipsticks set out. “I couldn’t decide!”

“Always red, it’s my favorite on you,” he carefully takes your concealer and wets your makeup sponge like a pro as you watch. “Yes, I know how to do it pretty well.”

“Putting on my makeup and my shoes? I’ll never let you go,” you tease, while he dabs under your eye, touching up the little black spots as you look up. It’s quiet then, but he finishes that, tilting your chin up again. “Do I need more lipstick?”

“Wanna kiss you again first,” he murmurs, pressing his lips on yours, your arms wrapped around his neck, eyelashes fluttering shut. “One more.”

You’re smiling as you pull back, hands slipping down his chest. “I love you, Satoru.”

“I love you, and I wanna fucking bend you over this sink,” you moan softly when he turns you, facing the mirror, his hands on either side, you feel his length pressing against the small of your back, making you heat up. “The last time I looked at you like this…”

“I know,” you look at his eyes, as he leans down, bent at the waist, a big hand splaying the expanse of your tummy under your breasts, palm warm, you lean back against him, feeling every bit of it. “That was an… intense night.”

“It was, there’s this mix of regretting acting that way, and wishing I got to drink all that up,” you barely hold back your desperate whine, he kisses down the side of your neck now, moaning softly in your ear. “Is that terrible?”

“No, it’s not, I feel the same - ah - we won’t make the date if you keep kissing me like this.” He chuckles, pulling back a bit, you’re dizzy from his presence from every sensation.

“Can’t control yourself?”

“Oh!” You turn and shove him playfully, all lit up so pretty for him, he can’t help but feel that tug of affection. “You’re smirking!”

“You’re just so adorable like this.” He kisses you again, before pulling back, eyeing your lipstick, picking the shade you have on. “Here, I’ll fix it.”

Satoru glides the lipstick over your mouth carefully, smiling down at his work, when you wipe the tint of it off his own lips, blushing when he nips at your thumb. “All better?”

“All better, but tonight…” he leans over you again, a wicked little smirk on his handsome face now. “I think I’d like to ruin your makeup. And not fix it.”

“Toru…” He tugs you against him, thigh pressing right where you’re already pulsing around nothing, you arch them, dying for more, it’s been so fucking long since you felt him.

“The tears will be from cumming too hard, too much, not from you being sad,” he whispers, pressing hungry kisses along your jaw line now, until his lips brush the shell of your ear. “Lipstick smeared from where you’ll suck my cock down that tight little throat, from your drool.”

“Fuck…” You’re damn near done for, yanking him down and rolling your hips, his big hands stop you. “Please…”

“After the date, what do you take me for!?”

“You’re ridiculous!” He snorts and you barely manage a cute little glare. “Teasing me, ugh!”

“You’re too cute, I can’t help it.” He fixes the little bobby pins in your hair that have fallen, you watch his adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows.

“Then you better take me out now, before we don’t get to the door.”

“You’re so slutty right now,” he’s grinning against your neck as you push at him, his arm wraps you tightly, lifting you up for a moment with one arm like it’s nothing. “Be a good girl for me.”

“I’m trying, mnh,” it’s impossible not to want him, when he’s literally just fucking carrying you with that one arm to the front door now. “I could get used to this too.”

“You’re going to be a very spoiled girlfriend, hmm?” You bury your face at that, as he chuckles, setting you down in front of your door. “You like that?”

“Yes, I do.” He grabs your jacket from the stand, slipping it over your shoulders now and holding out his hand.

“Then let’s go on a date.”

“Let’s go.”

*****

“If it isn’t Satoru Gojo!” A girl runs up as you and Satoru are seated at the rooftop restaurant he’s brought you to later, overlooking the beautiful skyline below, high up as the sun gently sets.

Everything is perfect about tonight, sitting across from him, the soft candlelight flickering with the wind just a bit, your hands joined as your knees gently brush. He looks at her then, raising a brow, and you tense across from him, remembering the last time you two had gone out to eat. The girl who was his former costar, and you can’t get mad about it, he’s probably just rather popular with his career.

“I haven’t seen you in so long, what a shame,” she says then, slinking on up, her fingers trail his shoulder, when he takes her hand, yanking it off him, narrowing his eyes. 

“I’m clearly on a date with my girlfriend,” his words make your heart race, while you’re nervously fiddling with your hands in your lap. She looks at you in surprise, as if she’d not acknowledged it to even be some possibility. “What did you need?”

“I just remembered having a really good time on set, and was curious if you were into it anymore, I do have my contact info if you-”

“You’re clearly not reading the room,” he cuts her off, and you’ve never seen this side of him. Usually shmoozing and grinning, putting on a bit of a show, this Satoru is far, far different from the last time this happened. He puts a hand on yours and smiles at you, saying your name softly.

“Oh… I didn’t see you there,” she says, nose in the air, you blink and Satoru glares now, his icy eyes fucking insane. “I’m Amber, was a friend of his.”

Her insinuation is clear, clear as Satoru’s jaw tensing.

“Nice to meet you, Amber.” You say, too friendly for Satoru’s liking, he raises a brow and you give him a look - you can’t be rude!?

“To answer you, no I don’t want your info, I’m not doing that now.”

“Ah, I did hear you were modeling, how’d you get into it?”

“Here,” he hands her a business card. “That’s my agent, but if you don’t mind I have a date to focus on.” Resigned, she walks off, and he tilts his head.

“What?”

“Why are you so nice? Should have scowled at her with me.”

“She just likes you, who wouldn’t,” he leans forward now, hand entwining with yours over the table. “You want me territorial?”

“It’d be hot.” You roll your eyes as he smirks.

“You’re crazy, but thank you for telling her um… I’m your girlfriend.” He kisses up your inner wrist, where the corsage sits now.

“Of course,” it doesn’t feel strong enough of a word really, for everything he feels for you, watching you across from him. “All right, so what character did you main?”

“You really were a nerd,” he chuckles, the sound so perfect to your ears then, while you both nibble on your appetizers. “I was a bard of course, and a fire genasi, you?”

“I can see it, I was absolutely a paladin.”

“What kind!”

“Dragonborne.”

“Oh, that fits.”

“What’s that mean, nerdy brat?” He teases, when you lean your chin on your hand, so fucking heartbreakingly pretty across from him it almost steals his breath away, it takes everything to remain calm.

You make him feel every bit the younger boy he was then, stuttering on his words, fumbling nervously on the inside, even though on the exterior he was so calm, so sure. That grin he gives you though? It’s not the practiced one, the sleazy Hollywood one, it’s genuine - it’s him.

Maybe that’s what always scared him.

“So, are we going to play together? I have a group you know,” you tease, poking at him when he just stares for a moment. “Planning a new character?”

“No, thinking how beautiful you are,” you blink a bit in surprise, leaning back with a little intake of breath, those earrings dangling and swaying, casting shadows along the delicate curve of your neck. His fingers trail along it, reaching up to toy with them now. “Too much?”

“No, not at all,” your hand touches his, holding it there as you study him across from you, his pretty pink lips parted, lashes lowering. “I think you’re beautiful too.”

“Of course-”

“Inside too, not just your face, or your body, or even just your eyes,” you stop him in his tracks, eyes burning with the emotions that you bring from your words. “Everything about you.”

“Shit,” he tugs you to him over the table, kissing you in front of everyone, you taste the sweetness of that moscato on his plush lips, sinking into the kiss. “You’re too sweet, I need to drink you.”

“Don’t say that here,mmm…” you pull back, covering your face, hearing his little chuckle. “You’re mean, never mind.”

“Hey, sorry, come back here,” you shake your head, then he stands up, walking over in front of you, making you look up at him. “So we both missed prom to roleplay then?”

“Mmhmm, a destined match.” He hums a bit, as you look around, seeing that some people are watching you both with curious smiles.

“Then let's dance like it is prom, a nerdy little dnd prom with just you and me.” He says softly, playful gleam in those pretty azure depths of his eyes, and your pulse races, nerves making you heat up.

“Dance, here?” You ask nervously, there is music playing, there’s a singer with a guitar, and there’s room to dance on this rooftop, but no one is.

“Yes, since we both were too busy in the dungeon for prom,” he teases, white grin flashing as the soft wind tousles his white locks. “We should dance here and now, together.”

“You’re so insane, but…” He’s standing now, holding out his hand, and you take it, a pretty smile on your face melting him ever further.

He leans low, murmuring in your ear when he tugs you up. “Good girl.”

“Oh, you know what that does.” You’re burying your face against his chest as he chuckles, hand on the small of your back.

“Too cute I can’t help it, c’mon sweetheart,” he tugs you now by your hands, and pulls you in his embrace while the music softly echoes, mixing with the pounding of your heart in your ears. He’s spinning you in a little pirouette, as the people around you smile and murmur your direction. “Look, they think you’re cute too.”

You stumble nervously, he catches you so swift, like it’s a second nature, and you can’t stop the big grin on your face - a lovesick one. One only for Satoru Gojo, one that’s been gone from your face for a long time now. He has one hand in yours, as he sways you along, the waitresses pass by and giggle, whispering how cute of a couple you are.

“You don’t mind if they know I’m your girlfriend?” You ask then, he frowns, shaking his head.

“I want everyone to know you’re my girlfriend.” You light up, and he realizes when he didn’t acknowledge it to be more before, it must have created more of an insecurity. “I wish I told everyone, especially that Nanami guy.”

“Oh goodness,” his glare shows he’s still very much not a fan, you rest your head on his chest, swaying now. “You know he’s doing OF with Jenna now?”

“What!?” You pull back a bit, nodding. “Do you just attract sex workers like a lamp for moths!?”

“Shh!” You look around at his loud ass voice, and he sighs, rolling his eyes. “I thought you’d be happy he’s occupied.”

“Mmm, whatever, I didn't like his ass.”

“I can tell!”

“Didn’t like how he looked at you,” he tilts your chin up, still swaying side to side now. “Only I can look at you like that.”

“Possessive Satoru, I kinda like that,” he rolls his eyes at your teasing little smile, spinning you again, the wine hits your bloodstream, making you deliciously dizzy. “Maybe I feel possessive too, a little.”

“I knew it, you were holding back.” He eyes the girl who’d interrupted your meal, smirking as he sees your cute little scowl. “No one can catch my eye, okay? It’s just you.”

You falter, almost tripping again in your heels that are just a bit too high, head falling back to look up at him. “Oh…”

“Don’t cry again, not yet,” he presses a kiss on your forehead, warm to the touch of his lips, while the breeze gently blows cool waves of air, making your dress fly up just a bit. “Of course you’re all I see.”

“I will cry again,” you warn, eyes glassy already, as the song ends, and he spins you once more, until your back is against his chest, and his arms are wrapped around you. “Thank you, Satoru.”

“Of course.” People clap around you quietly at your little dance, when he guides you back to the table, but this time he sits the chair right next to him, a hand on your thigh under the tablecloth. His eyes lock with yours when you bite at your lip, he tugs it from the grip of your teeth. “Only I should get to bite it.”

“Only you, hmm?” He nods, leaning close, when a waitress comes with your orders, and he gives you a quick kiss, starting to cut up your food without thinking about it. “Satoru, you're very thoughtful, you know.”

“It’s nothing, I hope you like this,” he slips a bite into your mouth, juicy and tender, your eyes flutter shut as it fills your taste buds. “What do you think?”

“It’s so good!” He smiles at that, feeding you another bite now, ever so carefully, dabbing at your lips with a napkin. “You’re spoiling me.”

“I haven’t spoiled you yet, not even close,” you sip your wine, scooching even closer, your legs crossed, his hand firm on one. “I think I’ll like having a girlfriend to spoil, take you shopping, make you dress up for me.”

“You don’t have to do all that, you know.” He frowns a bit at that.

“What if I want to, will you let me?” He brushes a tendril of hair back that the wind keeps sweeping forward, the sky is darkening, the purples and oranges fading, the sun set over the horizon now. The lighting just makes the angles of his face sharper, the glow of his skin prettier.

“I’ll let you do anything,” you clear your throat then, blushing. “Well that sounded freaky.”

“I know you’d let me do anything, sweetheart I haven’t even gotten started showing you things. That blush is so pretty.”

“Oh!” You cut up some of his food then, putting it in his mouth, he eagerly takes a bite off the fork. “Yes I’ll let you take me shopping.”

“Good girl.”

“Satoru!” His hand slips up higher, surrounded by lively people and music. You get so nervous, but more excited, when his thumb brushes a little circle along the inner part of one thigh.

“You really like that, hmm?” His words are practically a purr, you narrow your eyes, but he already sees them dilate. “Are you wet already?”

“Shh,” you panic, but he’s just chuckling, pulling his hand back just a bit so it’s at your knee. Still tense, your entire body is reacting to his every movement as he sits next to you. “So you had said you wanted to tell me a few things?”

“Yeah I did,” he sighs, taking a sip of his blush wine now. “For courage.”

“You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not ready for.” He loves that about you, the way you’ve never pushed him - even if you should have truly. He picks up your hand and presses a gentle kiss on the back of it.

“So I was indeed a nerd, so nerdy in fact I may have been a virgin in college still.” You nod just a bit.

“Nothing wrong with that, not at all.”

“Right, but I thought there was something wrong with that, wrong with me I guess,” you frown now, heart aching for him. “I didn’t embrace it like you.”

“That’s okay, I’ll bring nerdy Satoru back.” He scoffs playfully at that, still holding your hand, you sip your drink, studying him carefully.

“So I met this woman, she was older. Like thirty, and she was someone who I guess started really noticing me, like as a man and not a nerdy little boy. I became really enamored with her, obsessive I guess…” You nod, listening, but he pauses. “Will this be weird to hear? Another woman?”

“It’s your past, absolutely not. I want to know more.” You set down your glass, still holding his hand now. “Go ahead.”

Fuck he loves you.

He blinks snowy lashes, they cast little shadows against his eyelids when he stares back at the hand he’s holding. “She was a very famous pornstar, I assumed out of my league, but she wanted me. And I guess I got a high off of it, it’s probably where I started associating sex with affection? Fuck I feel like you’re my therapist.”

“We probably both need one after what we did to each other.” He grimaces, nodding now. “But go ahead, I want to know.”

“I lost my virginity on set,” his voice is very quiet, just a murmur, and your heart aches then. “Don’t feel sorry for me.”

“But that seems kind of insane? Especially really young?”

“I loved that shit, I was all about it.”

“Did you love it, or just love her?” He looks at you then, shaking his head.

“Whatever I thought I had, nothing has come close to what I feel for you,” your breath catches, when he brings your hand to his lips, kissing it again. “I know it wasn’t love.”

“But you may have thought so, like I did with my ex,” he nods then. “I know now that it wasn't anything like this.”

“It wasn’t, but I suppose I was infatuated. We did this scene and I became some fucking sensation overnight, all my plans to do physics were changed when I realized that I could make millions fucking my girlfriend.”

“You wanted to do physics?”

He smiles then. “That’s what you heard?”

“Yes, that’s insanely difficult. And very interesting.”

“My parents pushed me into it, and I was good at it, I was top of my class at UCLA and all that shit. I don’t know, something about doing porn instead really made me feel rebellious or something.”

“It’s understandable.”

“You have not a single rebellious bone in your pretty body,” he leans low, fingers entwining now. “It’d be hot if you were bratty for me though.”

“Would it be?” You lean closer, necklace tantalizing him against your collar bone as it gently moves.

“Fuck yes it would be.”

“You’re distracting from the topic,” he pouts, even as you press him. “You lost it on set, and you enjoyed it?”

He leans back now, long lanky legs spread, brushing against your own. “Yeah, I did enjoy it, I guess. We got heavy into the industry, but of course she was with other people. It was her job.”

“But that hurt you.”

“Yeah, the shit hurt me. I was jealous a lot," he eyes you then. “I guess how you felt when you saw me doing that video.”

“It did make me unreasonably jealous,” you admit softly. “But I knew it was your career.”

“Yeah, I did too. I started doing my own shoots, I eclipsed her in fame, and she wanted to retire. But, I didn’t. She mentioned how much I changed, but she didn’t realize she changed me.” You blink back emotions, thinking of how a younger Satoru must have been, a sweet physics major, shy and nervous. The thoughts melt you and hurt you simultaneously.

“Deep down, you’re still just you.” He looks down at his glass, as a waitress comes and refills each of your wine glasses up. His fingers brush up the stem of it carefully.

“I almost did that to you, what she did to me.”

“You did not-”

“Yes, yes I did.” He cuts you off now, and you shake your head. “I didn’t accomplish it, or mean to do it, but just how I got into the industry for her, you were willing to for me. You just had enough sense to catch yourself. I got too into the lifestyle.”

“It was ultimately my choice, and I’m not in college and completely innocent here.”

“Damn near were, and not much older than I was. You can disagree, but I saw myself doing it, and couldn’t stop. I was so selfish for you.”

“And I was for you,” you lean closer, impossibly closer, the two of you damn near snuggled on that rooftop, a hand resting on his forearm over the soft material of his suit jacket. “Maybe being in love makes you dumb and selfish, and both of us really were.”

“You weren’t -”

“I was,” your turn to cut him off, he disagrees and opens his lips for you to put a finger against them. “Don’t take all the blame here, when we both were really bad at admitting things, expressing ourselves.”

“You stop taking so much blame then,” his words are quiet, meant for only your ears when he cups your face, thumb brushing your overheated cheek. “You are still a good girl, what you did doesn’t change that, okay?”

“I know that, and I got a bit of a rush from it, like you mentioned, not from them seeing me, but for when you called me your star.” He kisses you then, hungry and desperate, a kiss that should be in privacy, but he can’t stop it.

“You are,” he whispers, you whine into his lips when he barely has the ability to pull back. “Check?”

“Check.”

*****

The drive back is a blur, when Satoru damn near carries you out of the car, a stumbling mess of kisses until you’re in the elevator, heading up to his penthouse. He’s got you lifted like it’s nothing, pinning you against the wall, after the drive was nothing but torturous touches, caresses, kisses. The need in both of you is so intense it’s impossible to breathe.

The moment you walk into Satoru’s penthouse, he turns and presses you against the door, cupping your chin and slamming his lips on yours. You meet his kisses with desperate, needy ones of your own, your purse falling to the floor right along with the jacket he slips off your shoulders. You’re trembling when he presses hungry kisses along your now bare shoulders.

“Satoru,” you’re whispering his name, just like a needy little plea, when he unzips your dress ever so carefully, the cool metal against your overheated skin. “Mnh!”

“If you want me to stop, tell me now sweetheart,” he whispers, exposing the expanse of your back when the dress spills, breasts gripped in each of his hands, your head falls back as he squishes them in his grip. “If you don’t want this yet…”

“I want it, I want all of you.” He moans and kisses you again, one hand staying on your breast, the other tugging that dress down your hips.

“I need you sure, I can wait,” he whispers, you step out of the dress that’s around your ankles now, still in your heels, making you just a little taller, enough where he can easily touch your cunt bending down just a bit, you whine out at the contact. “I’ll wait forever for you.”

You blink back tears at that, looking up at him with lidded eyes, one of his hands now entwines with yours over the cool, slick white paint of the door, the other touching your cunt over your panties. You bite back a moan, a mix of love and desire, emotions and need, looking up into his brilliant blue eyes, dark and dilated in the dim lights of his living room.

“I’ve waited so long, for you to be back in my life,” you say then, sniffling back just a bit of tears, he pauses his touches, for you to put his hand back, looking at him under your lashes. “I want you in me, on me, with me. Please.”

“I’ll give you anything,” he kisses you again, you move his finger under your panties, earning the slick spilling down both your fingers. “Fuck you’re so wet f’me, so ready aren’t you? For me to cum inside you?”

“Y-yes, please, please - ah!” Satoru’s fingers slip inside, now your own slick ones grip his wrist as they pump. Your eyes roll back, mouth open in a desperate cry when he curls them just so in your spot, the one only he knows, exhaling as he feels your gummy walls tighten.

“There it is, did you miss me sweetheart?” He asks softly, cocky and arrogant, but you fucking love it, you nod eagerly, earning a turn of his plump lips. “Show me how much you missed it, let me feel her cum f’me.”

He’s working them faster, in that maddening fucking rythm he knows you can’t handle, you tighten up then. “T-too much!”

“No honey, don’t tighten up, already too fucking tight, let go,” his whispers urge you on, spreading your thighs and exhaling. “That’s it, that’s my good girl.”

“F-fuck!” You’re arching for more, bare ass pressed against his thighs, his cock leaks precum through his boxers, against his slacks, as he feels your muscles contract, your walls quiver. “M’gonna - ngh, Satoru…”

“That’s it, give me it, please baby,” he’s whiny and desperate even as he controls you, with those long fingers shoved so deep, and you shatter for him. You’re gushing as the orgasm hits you, rocking your entire body, you’re trembling and whimpering when the pleasure shoots everywhere, and he slips his fingers out with a pop. “Fuck, you did so good.”

He turns you now, you’re wobbling, he has to hold you firm, slipping his fingertips coated in your arousal across your lips. “Mnh… can’t stand…”

“I’ve got you, god just look at you,” he worships your body while your tongue laps that slick off, hands gently grazing your breasts, you eagerly shove off his jacket, he loosens that black tie, kissing you again, holding you steady while you threaten to fall on your own damn heels. “Need to drink you up.”

He’s slipped your panties down then, a soaked fucking mess, before slipping a thigh over his shoulders, looking up at you under snowy lashes, running a thumb down your slit. You’re shaking, head falling back and smacking the door. “Ow!”

He chuckles, and you giggle, his breath ghosting your inner thigh then. “You better not get a concussion on the night I get to taste you again, clumsy little thing.”

“I can’t hold steady - ah! Oh my god,” he kisses your hood now, lips right above your hood, your fingers slip through his silky strands, hips arching. “I missed that so much.”

“I will eat you out all you want tonight,” he smirks then, tongue flicking up your slit, you clench around nothing while he collects the pooled arousal around your little hole, making you gasp in pleasure. “I’ll eat my cum out of you too, over and over.”

“Please,” you’re tugging his teasing mouth closer, his tongue going in the slowest circles, all while you can hardly see, still blinking fuzz from your orgasm. “Oh!”

“Go ahead, don’t be shy, use me baby,” his words end you, that desperate look his pretty face has on it, the way he tugs you closer, a hand firm on your ass. “Use me all you want, fuck out all those frustrations on m’face, huh?”

“Ngh…” You tug him against you firmly then, cunt spasming around his long pink tongue, his nose bumps your twitchy clit, already sensitive from his fingers, and you do just that.

Your hips arch and roll, riding his pretty face as much as you want, as much as you’ve craved and missed, six months without him worshipping you on his knees. And it’s what he’s doing, in between filthy words and sweet ones, praising and teasing, torturing and giving. His mouth whispers how much he wants this, even as you suffocate him with your cunt.

“That’s it, keep fucking my face,” he whispers, and you’re lost to him, he’s pinned your hips firmly, as you barely hold yourself up on one leg, tongue lavishing inside your hole, between your folds, when you tense, tightening again. “No, let go, now. Let me drink it all, baby.”

You’re done again with one practiced flick of Satoru Gojo’s tongue, this time more intense, the way he sucks your clit into his mouth pushes you over that edge again, watching from on his knees as you cum for him. You’re hoarsely crying out his name as he palms his erection, straining and aching to be inside you. “Satoru, please.”

“Need more?” He teases, letting you go with a pop of his lips, while you’re still gasping for air, and he’s just smiling up at you the way he does, licking his glossy lips. “Mm, so sweet.”

“Need you inside me, now…” You tug at his silky hair now, he eases a thigh down, pressing more kisses on it. You’re flushed as he stands up, your legs giving out damn near, but he’s got you, wrapping an arm around your hips as your fingers flit to his belt.

“That needy, that eager baby?” He teases, a flash of a grin, but when his cock springs free he whimpers, clear as day, that sound you fucking miss so badly. “Fuck…” He trails off as you free him, stroking his pretty length, you run your thumb over the tip of him as he unbuttons his shirt, lapping up his precum, making his cock thicken. “You have to be this fucking sexy?”

“I missed your taste,” you tease softly, earning his moan when he quickly gets naked, filling your gaze with the perfect body, your fingers trail over his abdomen before he stops them, pressing your wrists against the wall. “Let me touch you.

“No, I can’t handle it,” he’s hoarse against your ear as he leans down, lips brushing the shell of it. “I’ll cum in your pretty little hand, and embarrass myself.”

“No, I’d just make you cum again, in my mouth,” you whisper back in his ear, so bold like he’s never heard you, your fingers pressing against his strong back now. “Then inside me.”

“Fuck me,” he grumbles,  you’re giggling but it’s halted when he lifts you like you’re nothing, and you cling to him, gasping. He chuckles, the sound warm against your skin, and he’s kissing your neck, his cock nudging against you, hard and demanding at your soppy entrance. “You’re talking a lot for a girl who just drooled.”

“What now,” he grins as he pulls back, and you feel the stretch, but he just holds it there. “Toru, please, stop teasing.”

“You’re too pretty not to tease,” he leans low, kissing your lips, eyes locking with yours, your thighs pressing on his narrow hips, your heat just burning against his sensitive tip. He swallows, emotions present he never acknowledged before, but he can’t hold back anymore, as he whispers your name. “God I’ve missed your taste, your scent, your sweet little cries, all of it. All of you.”

“I missed all of you, Satoru - mnh!” He presses in then, head resting on yours, you taste yourself on the breath that ghosts your swollen lips, when he starts stretching you out. “Oh f-fuck, m-missed everything.”

“I missed being gripped like this,” he whispers, pulling back and slipping further, she’s stretching to accommodate him, your whines filling his ears, his mind, as your heels press against his back, the sight so fucking filthy - him fucking you on his door - everything he’d dreamed of for so long. “I missed your pretty face.”

“Oh my god I… you…” You’re a mess, tears falling in pleasure and love, while you feel Satoru giving himself to you, the vulnerability, the sweet pressure deeper and deeper inside you. “M-missed yours, missed your voice, missed you.”

“I missed you, every fucking day,” he takes a shaky breath, shoving his thick cock deeper now, blue eyes so dark and glittery with his tears, while he fills you so deep you feel him fucking everywhere. “I never, ever want you to leave again. Say it,” he shoves his cock fully then, you gasp at it. “Say it, please.”

“Never again,” your answer ends him, he’s desperate now, no longer gentle once he knows you can take him, he’s pushing your back against that door, his mouth claiming yours again, his tongue dripping saliva and the lingering taste of your cunt along his mouth, mixed with him. “Mnh!”

“Fuck,” he’s lost in you now, and everything gets fucking heady, you’re dizzy, his thrusts and kisses are just like a drug, intoxicating and fucking addictive. You’re lost in his kiss, his scent, his touch, just Satoru Gojo. While his huge hands slip down to your ass, he is lifting you up and dragging you down fully on him. “Got you so fucking full, don’t I?”

You’re nodding, helpless, as he bottoms out as much as he can, and your cunt is dripping down his length, down his balls and your ass, which smack with filthy noises, heavy and ready to bust inside your eager little hole. His teeth sink into your neck as he lifts you, uses you, shoving you harder and harder until your lower back bruises, until your head smacks the door again.

You wrap your legs around his waist tighter, while his cock is thrusting inside your ready, slick heat, making you bite your lip so hard it almost bleeds. He pulls back and brushes his thumb on it, sighing as it smears red like your lipstick. “Don’t hold back, lemme fucking hear every cry, every moan, every scream.”

“Ah!” You do just that, screaming when he’s got his tip grinding on your cervix, you’re desperately struggling to take him all, the pressure so intense in your core. “So big, fuck you’re so big.”

“You can take me, cunt is made f’me, only me,” he’s lost now, in all of you invading every sense he has, as he works you. “Say it.”

“Made for you,” you whisper, ruining him, your fingers feeling the heat and muscle of his strong body as he pumps inside you, his hands roaming your body with a familiarity that no one could ever have. The way he touches you, the way he knows you, like he’s meant for you.

“Only me.”

“Only you, m-meant for you.”

Your words make him pause, even as he’s losing control, pulling back from the process of leaving a trail of kisses down your neck, a growing bruise making his instincts to keep you forever flare. His lips are parted, fucked out as you are, as he pauses with his cock buried as fully as he can get it. He swallows and brushes back your hair then, falling pins still clattering to the floor.

“Meant for me,” he repeats softly, then picks you up further, firmly inside of you, slamming you down like some doll in the air. You scream out, clinging tighter as he turns with you, effortlessly. “You are meant for me.”

“For you.” He moans and kisses you again, carrying you until you’re laid on just a section of his very fancy suede couch, soft under your skin as he lays you down, tugging the rest of your hair out.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, watching it fall across one of the little gold decorative pillows, splayed underneath you so pretty. Even with his cock inside you, still getting gripped by your walls, he can’t help but be lost in your beauty. “Perfect.”

“No…” he grips your chin, shaking his head then, and you feel it, you’re perfect for Satoru.

“You are perfect,” he murmurs, slowly entering you this time, lifting your thigh until it’s high over the back of the couch, kissing up your calf now, sinking deeper and watching your head fall back, your tits jiggle as your back arches. “Perfect for me, aren’t you?”

You nod eagerly, earning his pleased moan as he lets you adjust again only to press your leg over his shoulder, leaning forward, you’re stuffed so full he can see it, the sight almost ending him. You’re gasping and wriggling at just how full he has you, his tip leaking precum right against that cervix, a hand splaying your stomach, feeling how his cock moves in your body.

“Look at that, too big for you, hmm?” He’s taunting now, that feral energy tinged with an aching sweetness, you barely manage to gasp when he slams hard inside you now. “Can’t talk, baby?”

You can only helplessly whine out his name, as he fucks you again, harder this time, hips slamming into you, you feel him stretching you wide open, pushing you further than you can think, while your cunt clenches around him. He moans when your  juices gush out, making a mess of him, the little silvery white trail under his flat belly button already coated in you.

“You’re so fucking wet for me, so tight, god,” he groans out as he watches you, the way your tits jiggle more and more with every mean stroke, the way your face contorts in pleasure, that mouth in that perfect O, your brows furrowing. All while with fuzzy vision you study him, his jaw clenched, his muscles straining, sweat dripping from his skin onto yours.

“You’re s-so deep,” you whine out, he groans and leans forward, pressing into you so hard you cry out. “Toru!”

“I can’t hold back, can you take me baby?”

You want to demand how this is holding back, then remember filthy fucking nights. You blush, nodding then, and he exhales, slamming your cunt so hard you’re both a mess. You want it all, his desperate needy strokes, the way he grips you so tight you bruise - you want it, his marks, his thrusts, all while he’s pushing you over the edge, another orgasm about to end you, make you fucking delirious.

Need built for months and months, both of you drowning in it, as it consumes you, and he’s whispering your name over and over. “You need to cum, don’t you sweetheart?” You just nod, helpless, your throat so tight when he leans back, rolling his hips just so. “Then cum, lemme feel her.

Your nails are digging into his shoulders, leaving crescents in his pale skin, and he hisses at the pain, wanting more of it, fucking you harder, faster, skin smacking and squelching wetness loud and filthy. “Close, m’so close I - ah!” You’re damn near sobbing the words, this time your tears are from how much you want him, so they just make him harder, pulsing inside you.

“Cum for me then, let me feel how much you’ve missed me sweetheart, let go, you can do it,” he’s urging you when he rolls them again, dragging your spot just right, and you shatter around him. “That’s it, f-fuck, that’s it baby…”

Your pussy is clamping down like a vise on his cock, milking him for all that cum you so desperately want poured into you then, he whimpers at it, at how close you have him as your pleasure hits you. He holds back, just watching, swallowing nervously as he sees your drool spill down your smeared lipstick, sees your eyes fluttering shut and trying to focus on him.

“That’s my good girl,” he whispers, just for you to tremble, thighs shaking as you feel him. “Do you want all this cum inside you?”

“Please,” he moans now, leaking more and more from his pink tip stuffed in your hole. “W-want it.”

“Want me to breed your perfect little cunt?” Satoru loses it then, seeing your eyes light up, confusion and curiosity mixing together, biting your lower lip. “Don't know what that is, sweet girl?”

You shake your head, he leans low now, lifting your thigh higher, stretching you out. Your head falls back when he grips your face between his hands, exhaling. “What is it?”

“Fuck babies into you, hmm?” You gasp, heating up then, blushing furiously, he chuckles softly. “You're so precious.”

“Y-you wanna put… babies in me?” You're a mess then, the thoughts wrecking you, he groans, breath against your lips.

“So many, so much cum inside you, keep you forever,” his words fuck everything up more and more. “Have you round with me, tits so full.”

“Satoru!” You're close again, he smirks, leaning up, jerking his hips to slam inside you again, you cling to him, whining. 

“You like that idea, don't you baby?” You nod, the images overwhelming as his lips hover. “Should I breed your pretty cunt?”

“Yes, I want it, I want you -mnh!” He slams his lips against yours, groaning deep into them, his cock pulsing as he fills you up with his hot cum, so much it's flooding you with warmth.

“Fuck, sweetheart, taking it all aren't you?” He whispers, whining out as you cup his face with your hands, kissing him over and over, while he pumps more and more. “Perfect, slutty little hole, only wants to be filled by me.”

“Only you.” You gasp as he pumps more, and for a moment, you just look at each other, breathing heavily, hearts racing. His thrumming under your palm, his chest slick with sweat. He kisses your palm, rocking inside you again, watching your eyes roll back as his cum slips down between you two.

“I fucking love you,” You blink back tears, as he cups your face, brow resting on yours while he takes a breath. “I have loved you since I met you. I just wish I said it sooner, baby.”

“I love you, so much Satoru, since I saw you across that party,” tears slip out of the corner of your eye, his own fall, as he takes in how precious you are. “I want this forever.”

“So do I.” He's kissing you over and over, he's finally taken your heels off, starting a hot shower and carrying you like a little princess in his arms. You can't help but fall further, every second in his arms.

“I never thought I'd have this again,” you trail off, under the hot spray of water  while Satoru washes your hair gently. “It's even better than before, when I held back.”

“Me too,” he rinses your hair out, exhaling as he kisses across your neck. “You’re always my little star.”

His words destroy you, body relaxed under the shower now tensing with need, as you look up at him, water droplets trailing along his hard body, his pretty face. “Satoru did you um… keep a copy? For you?”

He chuckles then, kissing your neck and shaking his head. “I felt so terrible, no. I regret not being able to see it but it didn't feel right.”

You turn in his arms, cupping his face gently. Leaning up, you kiss his lips, water dripping across your bodies. “I could have handled that better.”

“You didn't handle that in any way but how you needed to, it's okay. Why do you ask?” You blush even under the hot water and he smiles a bit. “Do you want to make a private video?”

“Yes, but only us, just for us,” he moans at that, exhaling as you press a kiss on his throat. “I liked being your star, I just only want your eyes on me.”

“And I want to be the only one that ever sees you, just me,” he whispers, the hot rushing waterfall above being blocked by his broad shoulders as he holds you. “When you’re ready, we’ll get a whole plot for it. And costumes.”

“Costumes!” He grins now.

“Yes, costumes. Fuck I’d love to dress you up, too,” you heat up at the suggestion. “Little nurse costume, a sexy teacher.”

“Would you be my student?”

“Mmm, I’d be the worst one,” you’re kissing again, so happy it’s terrifying, after months and months of heartache. You’re quiet in his arms later, as he holds you against him, the soft satin of his pillow against your cheek. “What are you thinking, hmm?”

“I’m scared,” you admit softly, he sighs and leans over, cupping your face delicately and studying you in the night. “That this will all just end, and I’ll go back to being so sad and alone.”

“I know what you mean,” he admits. You blink back tears now, studying the man you love. “I was afraid you wouldn’t even go out with me today, then more afraid I’d some how fuck it all up.”

“No, everything was just perfect, and you couldn’t. I just want to be around you, Satoru, only you,” he exhales and kisses you again, the fear of losing him once more slowly subsiding with each press of his lips, each gentle touch that builds to more and more. “I love you.”

“I love you, sweetheart. Pretty little star,” he kisses you heavier now, as you’re turned in his arms, tugging you closer against him as you straddle him, heat pressed against his cock. “My star.”

“All yours, ah, I’m sore,” you admit softly, when he’s grinding his cock on you, he smiles a bit, watching your face flush while you arch your back. “It’s been too long.”

“Didn't you touch yourself to me?” He taunts, but you shake your head.

“Not because I didn’t want you, I did, I was um… just so sad.” He exhales, hands slipping down your waist, rustling the silky blankets.

“I won’t let you go without me again.” You fall into him once more, his gentle guiding of you as you ride his cock, shoved so deep, it’s intimate, the way your hands rest on his chest, the slow strokes. So intimate you feel ever closer, ever more in love with every look, touch, kiss and sigh.

His cock is stretching you again, but his thrusts are easy, letting you have the control, letting you take what you want, what you need. You cum again and again, almost passing out from the pleasure, from your sore cunt contracting around his thick cock. When he fills you again - with impossibly more of his cum - you’re crying from how good it feels, how close you feel to him.

When you’re exhausted, and he’s already taken care to clean you up again, and make sure you have water, he’s brushing your hair back, watching you fall asleep. And one thing keeps resounding in his mind - that he doesn’t want you to go home, that he just wants you in his arms forever.

“I wonder if we could get a place together, just you and me,” he whispers, but you’re already snoring. Satoru smiles against your soft hair. “I’ll keep practicing for when you’re awake.”

I'm a little emotional ending this one, these two stressed me out but I love them very much. Hope you all enjoyeddd!

Kofi link if you wanna buy me a glass of wine 🍷

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[my-castles-crumbling]

prom - may 13 - black brothers - jegulus - @black-brothers-microfic - word count: 279 - yes, I know prom is an American thing, but I'm the writer, so now Jeggy are going to prom

“So, I know it’s cheesy,” James said with an awkward grin, “and you’ll probably say it’s stupid. But I also saw you staring at the corsages in the florist window last weekend, so you’re not allowed to complain too much, alright?”

Regulus pressed a hand to his mouth to cover his smile as he watched James take out a clear plastic box that held a slightly-wilted wrist corsage. “Idiot,” he murmured fondly, holding out his other hand. 

“You like it?” the older boy grinned, gently placing it around his wrist.

“You got it to match my eyes, didn’t you?” Regulus asked accusingly, looking down at the blue-gray flowers, narrowing the eyes in question.

“Erm…yeah.”

“I hate it,” he replied, beaming. “So fucking cliche.”

James’s answering smile could’ve lit up the entire country. “Sure you do,” he replied softly, brushing a thumb over his lip.

“Alright, boys, smile for the camera!” Effie sing-songed, having just finished taking pictures of Sirius and Remus.

“Oh, fuck,” Regulus groaned, immediately trying to hide behind his boyfriend.

“Oh, no, Reggie, don’t you even try it!” Sirius called, stepping forward and standing next to Effie. “This is prom! And look, you two look so adorable, oh my God, my baby Reggie’s all grown up! Effie, I remember when he was just a baby, they grow up so fast don’t they?” Sirius whined, clinging to James’s mother.

James and Regulus stared open-mouthed at Sirius as he then went off on a tangent with Effie about their ‘little babies’ growing up.

“D’you think they’ll turn him away at the door for being drunk?” Regulus muttered under his breath.

“Unfortunately, he’s completely sober,” James muttered back, grinning widely.

[kiwriteswords]

Won't you please arrange it? Cause I love you. [Aaron Hotchner x Florist!Reader]

Florist!Reader Masterlist|| Main Masterlist [I need to update this, sorry!]|| Ao3||Word Count: 3.8k|| AN:  Weddings were always SO fun and so romantic when I worked as a florist. The chaos was unruly, but the excitement always outweighed that! Tags/Warnings: Female!Reader, Florist!Reader, Non-BAU!Reader, established-relationship, Sassy!Reader, Flirty!Reader, weddings, marriage, alluding to fear of commitment (sorta), romance, fluff, healing!reader, hotch and florist have been dating for some time, Grant Anderson wedding!! Summary: While preparing the wedding flowers for a BAU colleague, you find yourself imagining a future you never let yourself believe in: one where the man who sees every part of you, Aaron Hotchner, might just be the one waiting at the end of the aisle.

It was well past seven, the shop long closed to customers, but you were still inside, apron smudged with pollen and eucalyptus sap, hands deep in a box of ivory roses that had been overnighted from a grower you trusted with your life. 

The backroom smelled like heaven--

Fresh lilac, white ranunculus, garden roses, blush sweet pea, trailing jasmine. It was organized chaos: half-filled vases, open ribbon spools…small cards scribbled with table seventeen: soft mauve and sage green--no baby’s breath. Bride’s orders. Mother of Groom allergic to lilies. Bride said that using quotations.

The wedding was in two days.

Agent Anderson and his fiancée had come in sheepish and sweet, asking if--maybe, if it wasn’t too much trouble--you’d consider doing the flowers for their wedding.

Hotch had just smirked behind them, arms crossed like he’d known it was coming all along.

And honestly? You’d loved the idea. Weddings were your groove. Stressful? Sure. But magical? Always. 

Something about crafting the very things someone would hold as they said forever just…filled you.

Every rose. Every ribbon. Every goddamn petal.

You were all in.

Which is why, when the bell over the door chimed and you heard the lock click behind it, you didn’t even look up from your bouquet-in-progress.

“You’re technically breaking and entering,” you called out, voice teasing, fingers still weaving stems into the bouquet holder.

Hotch’s voice answered, dry but warm, “I have a key. And probable cause.”

You grinned. “What’s the probable cause?”

“Suspicious activity,” he said, appearing in the doorway to your workroom. “Owner hasn’t texted in hours. Lights still on. No sign of food or hydration. Floral debris everywhere.”

You turned around, bouquet in one hand, clippers in the other, arching a brow. “Sounds like someone’s just really good at their job.”

His eyes swept the room, the table, you.

To many, the place would have looked like utter chaos. But Hotch? He knew you well enough now. Too well, you’d argue some days. There was a madness to your craziness. There was order in the mess. The pile to your left was clippings that could be repurposed: the flower girl’s petals, a groomsmen’s boutonniere, the mother of the bride’s corsage…

Then he stepped closer, tilting his head slightly as he looked at the bouquet. “That the bride’s?”

You nodded, turning it slightly to show him the cascade of white and blush peonies, spirea, and pale mauve lisianthus spilling from the center like a waterfall.

Hotch blinked slowly. Taking in the talent…but more so taking in you, “It’s beautiful.”

You smiled, brushing a thumb over one of the petals. “It has to be. It’s the one she’s going to hold when she walks down the aisle. When she sees him. I want her to look at it and remember that exact second forever. Every time she looks at a peony, I want her to remember this day.”

You thought about the few good men out there. The ones that came into your shop for an anniversary purchased bouquets of pale white roses with Queen Anne’s lace instead of baby’s breath because those were the exact flowers the two of them had on their wedding day. 

Flowers made a lasting impression.

They were the friend that accompanied you on some of your biggest days. Weddings, funerals, birthdays, recitals, graduations…they were always--always--a friend.

Hotch watched you for a moment, quietly.

The way your hands moved. The way your mouth softened when you looked at your work. The joy that practically radiated from your skin, even with circles under your eyes and flower bits in your hair.

He had no idea how he got this lucky.

“You know,” he said, stepping up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist, “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who works more unpredictable hours than I do.”

You leaned back into his chest. “You’re not the only overachiever in this relationship, Hotchner.”

“I’m aware.”

You turned in his arms, still holding the bouquet awkwardly between you. “Have I told you how glad I am you agreed to be my date?”

He smirked. “Anderson made it very clear I didn’t have a choice. Something about needing to show off the power couple.” Hotch cringed at his own use of the word: power couple. 

You laughed, mock moving the clippers in your hands, wiggling your eyebrows, “We are kind of intimidating, huh?” You placed the clippers back on your workbench and took in the mixed aroma of the powdery peonies and Hotch’s cologne now filling the stuffy space.

Hotch leaned down, brushing a kiss against your temple. “You, yes. Me? Only when I’m holding a gun.”

You tilted your head. “You’re very intimidating with a boutonnière, too.”

“That so?”

You held up one of the finished ones from the tray near the sink. “Try me.”

Hotch smirked, taking it and gently pinning it to the lapel of his blazer. He pinned it with such ease. When you first became a florist, you were baffled by how many men began to need assistance with a pin and a petite bouquet. But Hotch? He made it look easy. He made everything look easy.

“How do I look?”

You stepped back, fake-swooning. “Like I should marry you on the spot.”

That made him pause.

Almost took the breath from his lungs--

Knocked the wind from his sails. 

Something you…you had a habit of doing, but it was as if realization flooded over him. How he just could marry you on the spot. If you’d let him, of course. 

You’d probably put up a bit of a fuss. Act like you didn’t want it. Share some slightly cynical statistics about weddings and marriage. Yet, deep down, he knew you well enough to know that you did want it. 

You wouldn’t be working here and surrounding yourself with it if you didn’t fully believe or want it wholeheartedly.

You didn’t notice. You were already turning back to your arrangement. A few more sprigs and you were close to being finished. 

He reached for your wrist gently. “Hey.”

You looked up.

His expression had softened, all the teasing tucked behind something a little deeper.

“I love watching you do this,” he said simply. “I know how hard it is to care about something this much and still do it well. You make it look easy.”

You felt that one in your chest.

You felt that one in your soul. 

To be loved, is to be seen.

To be loved…is to be seen.

TO BE LOVED. IS TO BE SEEN. 

To. Be. Loved. Is. To. Be. Seen.

That quote played like a broken record in your brain. You could have stared at him for a minuscule second or maybe five minutes. But you felt so…so seen. 

He was staring right through you.

Right at you.

“Thank you,” you said, quieter now.

“You ready to go home?”

You shook your head. “Not yet. I’ve got three more centerpieces, and the aisle markers haven’t even started.” You looked around at your organized mess, “Oh, and the mother of the bride and groom’s corsages, ugh,” you groaned, “I have to wait until the last second to do those because they’re so damn fragile.” You got back into your rhythm, “They’ll wither to pieces if I don’t.”

“You’re going to wither to pieces if you don’t eat something sustainable soon,” Hotch checked his watch. “I can give you an hour. After that, I’m carrying you out.”

You grinned. “You say that like it’s a threat.”

He leaned in, kissed the side of your neck. “It’s a promise.”

You exhaled a soft laugh, and he just held you there for a second--his arms wrapped around your middle, the smell of lilacs and coffee clinging to your skin.

Somehow, amidst the chaos of your workshop, covered in thorns and tape and half-finished beauty, it felt like the most romantic place in the world.

It always was with him. 

You lost track of time completely in the two days leading up to the wedding.

Your shop transformed into a full-blown production zone: tables covered with rows of centerpieces in progress, glass vases waiting to be packed, crates of blooms stacked in the walk-in cooler, ribbons fluttering from every knob and handle. 

You moved in a rhythm--focused, deliberate, elbows deep in roses and ranunculus and fern--and still somehow chasing the clock.

Hotch had started showing up every night after work.

Always the same.

Loosened tie. Rolled sleeves. Low voice. Calm presence.

That first night, he offered to help.

You handed him the floral preservative spray.

He lasted five minutes before he set the bottle down and said, “This smells like a hospital hallway, and a meadow hd a toxic lovechild.”

You tried not to laugh.

“I think I’ll be more useful handling food,” he muttered, disappearing into the backroom.

After that, he became your unofficial project manager.

He made sure you were eating. Made you drink water. Pressed coffee into your hands without being asked. He sat at the edge of the worktable and asked about table layout and runner colors, like he understood any of it. He didn’t--

But he cared.

And when you finally packed the last bouquet into its cooler, stood back, and let out a slow, shaky breath, he came up behind you, wrapped his arms around your waist, and said, “You crushed it.”

And you did.

The wedding day arrived in a blur of sunlight and music.

Anderson looked nervous in a sweet, fumbling kind of way. His bride glowed. The venue--draped in warm light and blush-toned blooms--was picture perfect. The centerpieces were crisp, the aisle markers held beautifully, and the bouquet? 

The one you’d trimmed and retied and fluffed four separate times?

Perfect.

You wore a floral dress.

Flowy, soft, romantic.

A little on-the-nose? Sure. But so you.

Hotch wore a dark navy suit with a tie that matched one of the floral hues of your dress. A subtle pocket square peeked from his lapel--

Same shade. 

He didn’t say a word when you complimented him. Just reached for your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And as the ceremony began, you sat beside him--close, impossibly close, thighs brushing, shoulders aligned--and for once, you didn’t look at the florals.

You didn’t scan for wilting petals or crooked vases. You didn’t worry about whether the arbor garland was holding or if the corsages had been pinned correctly.

Your hand was in his. His thumb was brushing soft circles against your skin. His cologne--warm, clean, him--curled into your lungs like it belonged there.

And he was looking at you.

Not at the bride.

Not at the aisle.

Definitely not at Anderson, who was a puddle of tears at the alter.

You.

Like he already knew what you were thinking.

Like he was thinking it too.

And you couldn’t stop the wave that hit you then--not nerves, not fear.

Just clarity.

You'd never been the girl who let herself imagine a wedding of her own. You knew too well how expectations led to disappointment. You’d spent years scoffing at that brand of fantasy--

Keeping your heart safe by staying realistic.

But now?

With him?

With the weight of his hand in yours and the warmth of his love so constant, so quietly fierce, you didn’t even realize how deeply you’d sunk into it?

You couldn’t not imagine it.

Dreams did not seem too far out of reach when you were dating Aaron Hotchner. 

Not a venue. Not a dress.

Just him.

The man who came to your shop every night without being asked.

The man who didn’t flinch at your mess or your stress or your silence.

The man who wore a tie to match your flowers, and who--right now--was looking at you like he knew every secret you weren’t saying.

You turned your head slightly, and he leaned in.

“I love you,” he whispered, low and reverent.

Your breath caught.

Your fingers curled tighter into his.

And when you whispered it back, something in his eyes softened like he’d been holding that hope for far too long.

God, you loved him.

So much it bloomed in your chest like wildflowers--

Unruly and full.

Because maybe that’s what you were. All of this time, you tried to put yourself into the category of traditional. Yet, you couldn’t be tamed. You were not some neat rose bouquet or dainty sprig of carnation. You were a coneflower…or a poppy…or an aster. Something…something wayward and lawless. 

Wandering and oftentimes chaotic. 

You’d spent your whole life trying to find someone to hold you. You’d been looking at people who only knew how to hold traditional. Safe. Calm.

Yet Hotch? He could hold the wild, untethered, ethereal person you were. 

And for the first time ever, you let yourself picture the walk. The vows. The bouquet you’d never have to design--

Because someone else would make it for you.

And you’d walk toward him.

And he’d look at you just like this.

Because he was already yours.

After, the sun dipped low over the reception tent, casting everything in a warm, dusky glow. The fairy lights strung overhead began to flicker to life, one by one, like fireflies waking up. There was a hum of soft conversation, champagne fizzing in glasses, the faint scent of peonies and greenery weaving through the air.

The dance floor had just opened. Music floated in--

Something romantic but timeless, instrumental and slow, the kind of song that didn’t need lyrics to get its point across.

You stood off to the side with a glass of prosecco in hand, still glowing from compliments on the florals.

Hotch appeared behind you, sliding his hand low against your back, voice close to your ear.

“You know there’s a whole tent of people talking about the flowers instead of the bride.”

You grinned, eyes scanning the candlelit tables. “That’s because the bride didn’t come in four hours before the ceremony to personally reposition the arbor installation.”

“She didn’t have to,” he said. “She had you.”

You turned to him slowly, raising a brow. “Are you flirting with me, Agent Hotchner?”

His mouth tilted in that unfairly attractive, knowing smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Uh-huh,” you said, sipping your drink. “You only flirt with your eyes.”

“That’s not true,” he said, stepping closer. “Sometimes I flirt with my hands.”

He let one of them slide down your bare arm--slow, feather-light, possessive in the gentlest way.

You laughed, but it came out a little shaky. “You should probably dance with me before I combust.”

“Can’t have that, can we?” He took the glass from your hand and set it on a nearby table. “Then let’s save your life.”

The two of you stepped onto the dance floor.

He pulled you close, hand resting respectfully at your waist, your other hand finding its way to his shoulder.

You weren’t the most graceful dancer--not in heels, not in long dresses--but somehow, with him, you moved like you were born for it. He guided you effortlessly, his hand gentle, his body strong and sure. You could feel every breath he took. Every inch of warmth between you.

“I’ve seen you knee-deep in buckets of blooms, hair a mess, hands full of wire and tape--and you’ve always taken my breath away. But tonight, I think you might’ve just finished me off.”

Your lips curled. “Don’t say that. You’ll ruin your image.”

“I’ll survive,” he murmured.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, heart full.

You’d never been a pristine bouquet kind of girl. 

You were a wildflower by nature--

Soft in the middle, a little unruly, a little overgrown, impossible to contain.

You knew how to thrive in the dirt, in the chaos, in the sun and the storm.

And somehow--somehow--you’d found the one person who didn’t try to trim you back.

He just held you like you bloomed just fine the way you were.

Hotch didn’t say much for the next few minutes. He just held you like the world outside the tent didn’t exist. And every now and then, you caught him looking at you with that quiet, reverent gaze--

The one that said more than I love you. 

The one that said I choose you.

Even when you’re messy. Even when you’re loud. Even when you don’t think you’re easy to love.

Especially then.

The song faded into another, more upbeat number, but neither of you moved.

You looked up at him, cheeks a little flushed from the prosecco and the moment. Maybe this wasn’t the right time. Was there a right time? You’d never brought up the topic with him before. 

Despite having worked on…handfuls of weddings since dating him. Yet…yet this? It was so different. 

“Can I ask you something?”

His brow lifted slightly. “Always.”

You swallowed, “Do you ever think about getting married again?”

He didn’t pause.

He didn’t blink.

He just looked at you like he’d already been waiting for the question. 

Like maybe if you didn’t ask it, he would have.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about it,” he said, “since you held that bridal bouquet the other day.”

Your breath hitched. “Seriously?”

He nodded. Confident. “You looked like the future. My future.”

You stared at him--caught somewhere between awe and something close to panic--and then laughed, light and breathless.

“Well,” you said, “maybe we should just rip the band-aid off and get married right now.”

Hotch glanced around the floral-filled tent--

Then back at you. 

Dry and devastatingly sincere.

“There are far too many calla lilies here for your liking.”

You froze.

And your whole heart twisted in your chest, full and fast and certain.

Because he remembered.

Of course, he did.

Every preference. Every offhand comment. Every flower you adored and every one you couldn't stand. He saw every version of you--thorned and blooming--and loved you with his whole chest anyway.

You stared at him, suddenly breathless.

And in that moment, with the laughter still warm between you, the stars coming out above, and the scent of garden roses all around…

You knew.

You were going to marry this man.

Someday.

Hotch’s fingers curled a little tighter around yours as the music picked up again, but neither of you moved to leave the dance floor.

You were still caught in the moment, in him, in the warmth of what he’d just said. The idea of forever no longer something abstract or intimidating—

But real. 

Tangible.

Safe.

You rested your forehead against his chest for a beat, grounding yourself.

“Calla lilies,” you murmured with a small smile.

You felt his chest rumble softly as he replied, “Unforgivable.”

You leaned back just enough to look up at him. “You really do know me.”

“I pay attention,” he murmured.

You turned your head slightly, looking up at him.

“To what?”

He smiled—

Not the public kind. 

The private one. 

The one that came with soft eyes and that quiet tilt of his head that said he saw you.

“To everything,” he said simply. “The way you laugh when you’re tired. How your shoulders drop when you’re proud of something you made. What flowers you hate. The way you hum when you work without realizing it.”

He kissed your temple, the gesture feather-light.

“Every part of you.”

You tried to keep breathing, but it was unfair, really, how easily he could undo you—how being loved like that, seen like that, turned your chest inside out in the best possible way.

You let your forehead rest against his for a beat before the chatter of the reception pulled you back.

“Come on,” you whispered. “They’ll start teasing if we stay out here too long.”

He offered you his hand like you were still in a ballroom, and he was your formal escort. You took it anyway.

The team was exactly how you left them: lively, halfway through their drinks, and already halfway into the next round of commentary.

As you and Hotch reached the table, Garcia let out a delighted gasp. “Finally. I was about to send out a search party. Possibly with glitter.”

“You looked good out there,” Prentiss said with a smirk, swirling the last of her wine. “A little too good. Hotch, you trying to make the rest of us look bad?”

Hotch pulled out your chair for you before answering, casually slipping into the seat beside you.

“I’m just dancing with the love of my life,” he said, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

You froze for half a second—

But no one else did.

“Oh no,” Morgan said, setting his drink down dramatically. “See, that right there? That’s the tone of a man ready to drop to one knee.”

“Seriously,” JJ added with a knowing smile. “Maybe we should start vetting florists now—because the way he looks at her? We’re definitely attending another wedding soon.”

Hotch didn’t even blink.

He just looked at you.

Dead serious. Still a little soft.

“I wouldn’t rule it out,” he said.

Your heart jumped.

But not in a bad way, jumped? Which was weird for you because your avoidant personality typically would be running for the hills about now.

Garcia gasped. “Oh my God. Can I officiate? I’ll cry. I’ll sob. But I’ll do it.”

“Can we not propose at Anderson’s wedding?” you managed to say, grinning even as you reached for your drink to cool off your entire existence.

“You’re right,” Hotch said, sipping his half-forgotten drink, “What I’d have planned wouldn’t be half as tacky.”

“Fair,” Emily said, raising her glass. “But just saying—might want to start thinking about who’s going to do your flowers.”

You opened your mouth, probably to make a snarky comeback—

But Hotch leaned closer again, voice low, meant for you alone.

“I already know what I’d pick,” he said. “And I’d help. But only if you’d let me.”

You stared at him, caught somewhere between a laugh and a breath and a dream that was getting a little too close to real.

God, you were going to marry this man.

Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow.

But it was going to happen.

And when it did—

There wouldn’t be a single calla lily in sight.

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry @Sweethotchlogy @softtdaisy @stilestotherescue @midnghtprentiss @superlegend216

[ahundredtimesover]

I Want You to Stay (06) | JJK

Pairing: Jungkook x (f.) Reader

Genre/Tags: boss!JK x assistant!reader; idiot strangers to lovers; slow slow burn; k-drama feels; angst, drama, fluff, smut

Chapter (Series) Warnings: foul/explicit language; alcohol consumption & passing out, unhealthy coping mechanisms; family drama; minor injuries; power dynamics (JK starts off as a jerk); work-related anxiety, feelings of helplessness, insecurities; childhood traumatic experiences, nightmares; sexual harassment, prior incidence of domestic violence (PLS PLS BE CAREFUL WHEN READING); arts and business/property devt talk that’s probably inaccurate; commitment issues & emotionally constipated characters; cold and detached JK; eventual explicit sexual content (specific warnings stated per chapter) (18+)

Chapter Word count: 14.6k

Series Masterlist

Status: Ongoing

Series summary: Working for Jungkook isn’t the same as working for Hoseok. For starters, Jungkook doesn’t smile, he doesn’t appreciate you, and he gives you too much work. It doesn’t help that he’s incredibly handsome and has women at his beck and call. But as the tension grows, it becomes impossible to resist him. You’ve dedicated yourself to your job for 8 years so when you finally decide to put yourself first, he asks you to reconsider. And while you know that leaving is difficult, you learn that when it comes to Jungkook, staying is always so much harder.

Playlist 🎶: on the way home

A/N: We're slowly heading somewhere! Still slow but it's something hehe thank you again for appreciating this piece! 🥰 Also... JK in that Vogue outfit with a corsage. YEP.

And as always, my biggest thanks to @wonwoonlight  🥰

PS. If I can’t tag you, pls fix your settings!

The silence that engulfs Jungkook’s apartment once you enter the following Monday is quite unnerving, as it brings back memories of the last time this happened and a half-naked woman came out of the bedroom and questioned who you were. The gym is empty. There’s no other sound of someone typing away or talking on the phone like the few times that you found Jungkook working before you even arrived.

You take a deep breath and decide to just face whoever comes out of these doors until one of them opens and out comes the man himself - alone - dressed in an oversized jumper and sweatpants. He looks like he just got out of bed with his semi-mussed hair - with a little sprout bouncing along as he moves - and groggy eyes, which widen once it registers that you’re here.

“Mr. Jeon,” you bow in greeting. “Are you feeling better?”

“A little,” he replies, his deep and gruff voice startling you a little. “What do you have there?”

He gestures towards the paper bag you’re holding, and you remember what you decided to bring over.

“Uh, chicken noodle soup,” you mutter, somehow suddenly shy. “Just an option for this morning. I wasn’t sure if you were still feeling under the weather.”

“I think I’m just fatigued,” he says. “But uh, I can have that.”

“Yes, sir,” you nod, putting it in a pot to eventually heat. 

You prepare his suits for the week then prepare his breakfast, pouring yourself a small serving as well. He takes his seat and starts eating, and you glance at him to see his reaction.

“Where did you get the one from last Saturday?” He asks, his face expressionless.

“From a store nearby,” you answer. “I was heading somewhere and your building was on the way.”

“This tastes better. Where did you get this from?” 

“I, uh, I made it,” you say softly, feeling a bit of pride that it’s something he complimented. 

There’s prolonged silence that you’re suddenly nervous about. His eyes remain focused straight ahead while yours constantly flit towards him, partly to gauge if he’ll start talking about last week’s meeting and partly to see his reaction about your dish.

“You don’t have to send or make me food, Ms. Cho,” he finally says, wishing he’d said it with a bit more warmth. 

But he’s not used to speaking that way, so it comes off as displeasure, as if he doesn’t appreciate what you’d done even if that’s exactly how he feels. He’s grateful; he just doesn’t want another reason to think that you actually care about him. 

“My health is my responsibility, not yours,” he adds.

“I, uh… I suppose that’s true,” you say even more softly. “I just thought it would be nice to be given something like this when you’re sick.”

And it’s the truth. During the times you were unwell, Hoseok would remind you to rest or take your medicines; he even bought you vitamins and it’s why taking them became a habit of yours. You barely had the energy to make soup. But after that one time when you braved through an event and Yoongi noticed you feeling under the weather, he took you to a noodle house and ordered extra chicken noodle soup for you to take home. You had it all through the weekend, and though it wasn’t like your mom’s, it was still something familiar, and it was comfort that you badly needed.

You thought it was something you could extend to Jungkook. You weren’t sure if he was spending the weekend at home by himself, but in case he was, you thought that something warm would help. You were on your way to watch a local film and happened to pass by his area, the image of him sick and probably alone prompting you to just buy that dish and leave it at the reception. You suddenly craved it and made one for yourself last night, thinking it wouldn’t hurt if you brought some over for him as well. Even if he thinks it isn’t your responsibility, you think it’s still within your role to make sure that your boss - the Vice President - conducts his functions properly, and he can only do so if he’s healthy. 

As you finish the small portion that you prepared for yourself, Jungkook wonders who’d taken care of you during the times you were sick. With your friends and family miles away, perhaps there wasn’t anyone. Maybe it was a boyfriend. Or maybe like what he’s come to see, you did things on your own. Maybe you think there’s no one doing that for him, too. 

And you wouldn’t be wrong. He was never good with company, after all, whether it was offering or keeping it. So when someone offers something as simple as a bowl of soup for when he’s feeling unwell, it cuts through the walls he’s built around himself because he’s become used to no one even knocking to check how he’s doing. 

But in an effort to remain unmoved and insistent on keeping his distance, he sets boundaries once more. 

“You don’t need to do this for me, Mr. Cho,” he states. “I appreciate it, but I’d prefer if you don’t do it again.”

He sees your face fall from his periphery, and much as he wants to take it back, he knows he has to hold back. It was hard enough to resist feeling cared for. 

He’d really spent the weekend by himself, turning down his friends’ invitation to go to a resort and Hoseok’s offer of dinner at this newly opened steak house. Jungkook was buried under the covers when the phone rang informing him that you’d left something for him, unwilling to move and get off the bed because he was too tired but also too hungry, so when he opened the bag and it registered to him what you've given him, he felt less alone and less sad for himself. The image of your shy expression flashed through his mind and he couldn’t help the smile he let out, giving himself only a minute to bask in your kindness before reminding himself that it means nothing more than making sure he’s well. It’s harder for you if he’s sick, he convinced himself. Still, he’d rather not think about it; he’d rather not torture himself by his brain wanting you to mean one thing, but his heart hoping it was another.

“I understand, Mr. Jeon,” you say, your voice a little too firm for his liking. “I apologize if it made you uncomfortable.”

“It—” didn’t, he wants to say. It made him feel nice and comfortable and that’s what he can’t let himself feel around you.��

“I treat this as part of my job,” you reason, a half lie because you really did want to extend some kindness even if he may not exactly be deserving of it. “But it may not be so for you. I’ll take note of this moving forward.”

Jungkook concedes. Any objection will counter what he’s been saying, even if he didn’t mean all of it. And like how you always do, you get over it quickly, flashing him a measured smile and taking out your iPad to go through this week’s schedule. 

You both head to the car after and discuss his previous meetings. You’re detailed and engaged, taking down notes and asking him questions like the professional that you are. He tells you about his meeting with artist Lee Jaemin and that he agreed with 80% of the pieces that you and Yoongi chose. You talk about the Board members’ reactions during his presentation and he shares what they talked to him about during the dinner. 

“Socializing with them was tiring,” he admits. “I couldn’t keep up with all the things that they wanted to talk about.”

You give him an assuring smile. “You looked like you did well,” you assure him. “They seemed engaged, although as Mr. Jung would say, part of that is for show, to get on your good side. It would be smarter to think that not all of it was genuine.”

“True. But I enjoyed speaking with Mr. Saito. He’s an architect, too, and we had a really good talk about incorporating traditional elements in a modern design.”

“Yes, he’s always been kind,” you say. “But it’s good that you’re able to forge these relationships. Perhaps it’s also new to them, seeing you in that light. I suppose they don’t know you all that much. It’s a nice change being able to engage with you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ah, well, it’s just during the company events that you attended, it wasn’t exactly hard to spot you,” you chuckle, seemingly comfortable now.

“And why is that so?” 

He turns to you, legitimately curious because he’d never really noticed you before, even if he knew you as Hoseok’s assistant. If he’s being honest, you didn’t even look familiar when you first met, and that just reinforces the fact that Jungkook didn’t really care for the other people around him, especially during those events he was required to fly to Seoul to attend. If he’d paid a bit more attention, maybe he wouldn’t have been caught off guard when he did finally meet you. Maybe he wouldn’t have been as rude, too.

“If I may, sir, it was quite easy to spot one of the Jeon sons always at the bar,” you chuckle. “Your father and cousin would often look for you and you were always in the same spot.”

You’d noticed him, Jungkook thinks to himself. He wonders what you’d thought about him then, but given how he hated those events, it probably wouldn’t be something good. He just always couldn’t wait to leave. 

“Ah. As you can tell, I’m not one who likes to socialize,” he says. “I don’t really know what to talk to people about. And I’m not that good with names nor faces. It was easier to keep to myself.”

“That’s understandable. But you already know that’ll have to change,” you remind him. “Half of what Mr. Jung did was attend events.”

“I know. He’s been preparing me for that. I need your help in that aspect, too, from remembering names to getting my energy up. Those are oddly what I’m most nervous about, if I’m being honest.”

“I’ll do what I can, Mr. Jeon,” you assure him. “I hope I can make things easy for you.”

You’ll never know the irony of your words, and perhaps the push and pull it brings about - as you try to make things easy for him, the harder it actually becomes on his end. 

You find yourself back at the tailor shop the next Thursday for Jungkook’s suit fitting, and if it wasn’t for Taehyung telling you that your gowns are ready, you would have totally forgotten that you had some dresses made as well. 

While Jungkook tries on his outfits, you’re instructed to choose several dress shirts that he’d be adding to his wardrobe, given the various functions he’d be attending from now on. You didn’t anticipate for this to be part of your role, but you don’t mind, as it’s a welcome change to what you normally do, which is attend meetings, bury yourself in paperwork, and everything else in between. At least you’ll be visiting the venue for the Arts Center event tomorrow, but today, you focus on the task at hand, which turns out to be harder than expected.

The options are endless. It doesn’t help that you have to envision Jungkook in each piece of clothing and that he looks good in every one of them, and that you have to imagine him at all. You see him everyday - and have seen him in as little as in just his gym shorts - and you don’t really want to have him in your mind as well. But how he presents himself is a big part of his new role, as Hoseok had told you. As the Vice President, Jungkook needs to look sophisticated and respectable, someone worthy to represent the company and the Jeon family name. 

You go for different hues of grays and blacks and other colors, too. There’s an olive green that looks really nice, and a few maroons and pinks that would add variety to his everyday look. You’re focused on making your choices, but your focus shifts to Jungkook when he comes out of the dressing room donned in a patterned  black suit. The fit is perfect and even with the distance between you two, you could spot impeccable details that make the outfit look elegant yet fresh. 

“This is for the gala,” Taehyung states. “What do you think, Ms. Cho?”

“It looks nice” is all you manage to say. 

It’s the only word you feel is neutral enough to describe him. Even if you could accept that Jungkook is handsome, you don’t exactly want to say so in front of him.

“I was going for something better than nice, but that should be fine, I guess. What do you think, Kook?”

“I like it. But don’t you think the sleeves are a bit too fit on my arms?” Jungkook asks his friend.

“Well, it’s not like you were flexing them when I was measuring you,” Taehyung playfully rolls his eyes. “But I can adjust it, since I doubt you’d take a pause on lifting weights anyway. It’s probably the material though so don’t worry, I’ll fix this. Okay, on to the next one.”

You return to your task at hand, choosing some patterned tops that are appropriate for less formal events, and you inform Taehyung who then says that he’ll have those made in Jungkook’s measurements. With your task finished, Taehyung instructs you to head downstairs so you could fit your gowns as well, and you follow in anticipation because these might just be the first and only custom-made pieces of clothing you’ll ever have the luxury of wearing.

A female staff assists you, making sure that the length and neckline are to your liking. The first outfit, the one for the Arts Center event, is an old rose sleeveless lace midi dress that looks even more gorgeous when worn. The gown for the Appointment Dinner is a black short-sleeved pleated piece that is both functional and fashionable, but it’s the last one - the one for the gala - that has your jaw dropping to the ground.

“Ms. Cho,” you hear Taehyung call out from outside the fitting room. “Is everything okay?”

“Y-yeah,” you stutter, unable to stop looking at yourself in the mirror and turning around to try to see every angle of the stunning dress. “It’s just, uh…”

“It’s what?” He asks worriedly. “Can you come outside so I can see?” 

You take a breath before pulling the heavy curtains open and find Taehyung and Jungkook standing not far away.

“It’s too pretty, Mr. Kim,” you say shyly. “I don’t think I can wear this.”

“Well, you will. Because it’s custom-made,” he points out. “And it looks gorgeous on you. It fits perfectly. I assume the others do as well?”

“Yes,” you smile, feeling like a fairytale princess who gets to wear a gown that her fairy godmother had made for her. “They’re just…”

“Exactly what you need as this guy’s right hand woman,” Taehyung finishes for you.

He gestures towards his best friend who seems expressionless and probably unimpressed by how you look. It’s not like you mind but it at least wouldn’t be humiliating if he just stood there looking uninterested.

“What do you think, Kook?”

“It looks nice,” Jungkook shrugs, repeating the words you’d used on him earlier. Shifting his gaze from you to Taehyung, he excuses himself. “I’ll head to the car, I have calls to make.”

“I’ll finish up here,” you say, turning around to go back to the fitting room.

Jungkook exits the shop and finally breathes, feeling like he’d suffocated inside because of how you looked. He’d wondered how the dresses turned out, curious about the designs because Taehyung didn’t want to show him; it’s a surprise, the man had said. And now Jungkook knows why. 

Stunning would be an inadequate word to use. The burgundy color of the gown made it look sophisticated on you, even more with the off-shoulder that showed off some of your features that he’d rather not think about. The flow was elegant, and he half wishes that he hadn’t thought of having these made only so he could avoid the moment earlier when he felt his throat dry up because of how beautiful you looked. 

He’s gonna have to get used to being rendered speechless every time, he thinks, but it’s not like it doesn’t happen everyday, anyway. Every morning that he finds you standing in his kitchen, donning the pencil skirt and blouse ensemble that assistants are recommended to wear, his mind short circuits. There’s something especially fresh and electrifying about you at the start of the day, and he always has to pull himself together and act normal around you without giving himself away. 

He can’t nurture the attraction, after all, even if he’s reminded of it during times like earlier, even more so when he gazes at you and you hold it, letting the tension build unconsciously. Because that’s what happened, as you pulled open the curtains and looked up. He wishes you were too shy to notice how long he had his eyes on you. But it’s why he had to get away. You’re too much for him sometimes, and he doesn’t know if you have any idea of how you affect him.

Jungkook stares at his phone, half hoping that an actual call would come to distract him. But nothing does, and he leans his head back and groans in frustration. What is it about you that makes him absolutely weak in the knees and stupid in the head? 

Back inside, you give Taehyung your address so he can have the gowns delivered to your apartment for your convenience. 

“Thank you again, Mr. Kim,” you say. “I wish I could do your creations justice.”

“You will. It’s in the confidence, so exude it, okay?”

“I’ll try,” you giggle. “Especially since those pieces will pretty much blow the Office of the VP’s budget.”

“Is that what Kook said? That these are budgeted under him?” Taehyung arches an eyebrow.

“Uh, yes, sort of. I just assumed because he’d pointed out that they were being made as part of my functions,” you explain. 

“Hmm. I know his office has a lot of money but these gowns would definitely blow up any contingency fund you have,” he chuckles. “So no, your assumption is wrong. Kook’s paying for all this.”

“What?” You exclaim. “But that’s— why?”

“Well, you do need these as part of your job, and he wanted to save you the inconvenience of spending for them. I mean, he did buy Lucas some suits, too. But between you and me, I think this is his way of apologizing to you, just in a very gallant way.”

“You mean unnecessary and undeserving,” you correct, still in shock that Jungkook is paying for all those, even if yes, he can easily afford them. 

“Nope, not at all. I know he’s been difficult to deal with and I’d like to apologize on his behalf, seeing that he’s terrible at doing it. I know it doesn’t make things better but at least it’s something you don’t have to worry about anymore.”

“Well, that does help a bit,” you smile, following him as he heads out the door. “But thank you again, Mr. Kim.”

“Off with the formalities,” he laughs. “It’s Taehyung. And you’re welcome. It’s the least I could do to somehow make up for my ass of a best friend.” 

“He’s not too bad. Not anymore, at least,” you counter. “I’ll go ahead. Have a good day, Taehyung!”

Jungkook manages to look down on his phone in time for you not to see him watch you talk freely and casually with his friend. That’s another person close to him who gets to experience how you’re like - joyful and warm, perhaps a little shy sometimes, but comfortable just the same. It’s something he’ll only see from afar; your positions necessitate some distance, but perhaps that’s better than not having you around at all. 

You enter the car and you’re back to being quiet and reserved, your eyes focused on the road while Jungkook, in an effort not to keep glancing at you, turns to his leather notebook and doodles some designs that pop in his head. It’s his way of calming himself down most days, helping him focus given that his mind is often filled with too many thoughts that he can’t express. He hopes that in drawing them, he can somehow rid himself of the feelings he’s locked in and it helps, as he’s somehow able to get over the tension from earlier and the tiniest bit of jealousy over your casual engagement with Taehyung.

You both return to the office, with Jungkook proceeding to his room to prepare for a lunch meeting and you follow, taking some signed documents that he’d left earlier.

“Mr. Jeon,” you say as he settles in his seat. “Thank you for the dresses. I… I’ve never had anything as beautiful as those and undeserving as I may feel, I’m just really appreciative.”

Jungkook isn’t prepared for the softness in your voice as you say the words, and like the consistent jerk that he is, he brushes it off.

“Taehyung made them; you should thank him. I just paid for them,” he utters, his tone stern and uncaring.

His eyes flit to you when there’s silence on your end, and he wishes they hadn’t. There’s resignation in yours, as if he’s shattering another moment you’re creating where you’re just being sincere and he’s being dismissive. It’s his default, he reasons, not just towards you but towards everyone. Normally he wouldn’t mind how the other would take it, but with you right now, he wishes he was so much better than this. 

You hold his gaze, as if trying to tell him things you don’t want to express. He’s not one to apologize, but he also won’t accept gratitude. You’re starting to think that what Jungkook can’t handle is any form of human connection. It’s something you struggle with at times, but you’re at least open to it, willing to accept kindness and appreciating people for what they have to offer. Jungkook deflects; he turns away. It seemed like it took so much for him to even verbalize needing your help and perhaps he was desperate; his reputation was on the line after all. But even then, he doesn’t give nor does he accept, and you wonder what made him that way. 

“Is there anything else?” He finally asks after a long beat of silence. 

“Nothing more,” you shake your head and excuse yourself. 

Returning to your desk, you look at Jungkook from your seat. There’s a hint of emptiness in his eyes that you often mistake for apathy. Perhaps there’s more and perhaps the help he really needs isn’t just about dealing with his father or remembering names or navigating relationships required for his role. Maybe it’s about opening himself up a little, or smiling when the situation calls for it, or not questioning other people’s kindness towards him. Maybe it’s about realizing he’s more than just this heir to the company or the playboy he’s known as. Maybe it’s about seeing that he’s capable of sincerity and gentleness as well.

You sigh to yourself. It’s probably a long shot but you only feel strongly about it because you know what it’s like to turn people away. If it hadn’t been for your family and friends, you probably would’ve continued to do so. Jungkook may be your boss but he’s human, too, and he may just be waiting around to see who’d be patient enough to extend a hand and let him know that he’s not alone, that someone understands, and maybe that someone is you.

The days fly by too quickly for your liking and you haven't been able to take a breath. You had a meeting with the organizing committee of the Appointment Dinner most of last Friday and you spent your weekend coordinating with the designers for the Arts Center launch. It’s been last minute preparations these past two days and before you know it, Wednesday has come. You stayed late the night before and were gladly checked in at the hotel with the other assistants, so you at least got a bit of sleep even if your body felt like it continued to stay awake. 

But tonight is important, as the newly appointed executives will be formally introduced to the corporation’s directors, shareholders, and subsidiary companies. You’ve been organizing this with the planning committee since the appointments were announced, and given that coordinating events like this is one of your primary tasks, you’re exhausted and excited and nervous all at once. But it’s the second time you’re doing this and you’ve learned so much since you did this for Hoseok. There’s more knowledge, sure, but there’s also more confidence. You also know enough to eat before the guests arrive and at 3PM, it’s exactly what you do, knowing you won’t have much else until the event ends.

The other employees compliment your dress, and you’re too shy to say who had designed it but you eventually do, knowing it’s good for Taehyung’s brand. But you don’t say much else, choosing instead to focus on the guest list as you’re tasked to do, and you go around the events hall to make sure that the VIP name cards are placed on their proper tables. You’re able to sneak bites of the canapes as you go, allowing yourself a flute of champagne for that kick you need to socialize with the guests tonight. 

You engage with the early birds when they arrive, guiding them to their seats and putting on your most welcoming smile. You get Mr. Ri’s message that they’re nearby, so you head outside and stand by the entrance and wait for them, knowing Jungkook would want to know how things are going.

He exits the car in a black suit and white top, a statement brooch adorning his classic coat. The strands of his long hair are tucked behind his ears and he looks even more polished than usual, a look that catches attention; it definitely catches yours. 

“Mr. Jeon,” you bow in greeting. “Some of your invited guests have arrived.” 

“Have you spoken to them?” He asks, as you walk slightly behind him towards the venue. 

“I have, and they’re looking forward to seeing you.” 

He nods, and just as he’s about to enter the hall, he stops and turns towards you. 

“You’re busy tonight, aren’t you?”

“Somewhat, sir,” you reply. “We all have our tasks but I’m free to move around. Do you need help with anything?”

“Just, uh, names.”

“I’ll always be nearby,” you assure him. 

Your smile gives him the comfort he needs. He’s been without it since yesterday afternoon, given that you had to prepare as part of the organizing committee. And while the support team and Yoongi have been encouraging, only you really know why every event such as this is important for him. 

Jungkook has already made gains with some of the Board members last week; this time, it’s about engaging everyone else - the staff, the partners, and key personalities in the industry. Hoseok and Ji-woo have done this before but it’s Jungkook’s first time. He’s no longer just an executive in the Southeast Asian office; he’s now the Vice President of the entire company. There’s a lot of pressure that comes from carrying the Jeon family name, and even more being the only one of the two sons who’s taking on such an important role. 

The event hall is grand. It’s pretty special, too. It’s one of the projects he worked on as part of the design department years ago before he left for Singapore, and the thought makes him stop. Perhaps this is the reason why his father chose this venue for tonight; if anything, it’s a reminder of what Jungkook is capable of. He takes a breath and looks around to soak everything in before approaching his invited guests - partners and consultants he worked with in his previous role. 

But that ends quickly, as many more people approach him for a greeting. 

Jungkook is a bit overwhelmed. He tries to hold eye contact when he speaks to them but he can only do so for so long. Some faces are familiar but the names escape him, and he starts to regret all the times that he flew here for events like this and never engaged with the other guests. If he had, perhaps this wouldn’t be so hard. 

There are those who introduce themselves, while there are those who don’t, perhaps assuming that he’d know who they are. Just like the couple who’s speaking to him excitedly, and he wants to return the energy by at least calling them by their names. His mind is blank, and just as he’s about to give up, he looks up and sees you, your eyes catching his as if you’re just waiting for his cry for help. 

There’s pleading in his eyes and you get it immediately, as you walk towards his direction then greet the pair next to him.

“Mr. and Mrs. Yamada,” you say. “It’s lovely to see both of you again. I saw in the news that you’re launching a new project with our partners from Dubai. That’s quite exciting.”

“Ah, Ms. Cho,” they greet you back. “Yes, all thanks to Mr. Jung who helped us with that partnership. We’re excited for it as well.”

“Oh, I’m sure. We’re looking forward to it,” you smile.

“Thank you. I’m pleased to know that you remain as the Vice President’s assistant,” Mrs. Yamada says. “Perhaps we can invite Mr. Jeon to one of our hotels in Japan? Or even in London?”

You turn to Jungkook who looks less tense than he did a few minutes ago.

“Ah, yes, that would be great, Mr. and Mrs. Yamada,” he responds. “I’m sure I’ll find time during one of my trips and I’ll definitely give you a call. Perhaps we can talk about projects we can work on as well.”

The excitement in the couple’s faces is a joy to see and for their sake, you really do wish that Jungkook makes good on his promise. You ask him about it after they leave, and he says that the names were familiar. Ji-woo’s talked about working with them before and that they’re long-time friends of the family, so he should maintain that relationship. 

A call of his name prompts both of you to look to the side, and he turns to you with a questioning face. 

“Mr. Adam’s an investor. Behind him is Professor Zhang from SNU. They’re friends of your father,” you tell him. Seeing Bitna signal for you, you say, “I have to check on something, Mr. Jeon. I’ll be back.”

You turn around to head to one of the tables, but you look back to watch Jungkook greet those who approach him, his smile becoming more natural as the moments pass by. You briefly meet with some staff about the musical guest and some other last minute adjustments. You greet Taehyung and Seokjin who show up to support their best friend, with both men complimenting how you look.

Knowing that Jungkook will be needing you again after, you call over Do-hyun and Yohan and delegate some of your monitoring tasks to them, and then stand by one of the tables as you watch the socialization take place as more guests come in.

Your eyes find Jungkook again as he’s engaged in a conversation with some Board members and other partners, and you smile a little at how he’s able to maintain eye contact and look like he’s actually interested, especially after he looks up and gives you a look as if to say that he’s trying his best. 

“Why are you watching him like some child who’s trying to make friends at the playground?” Chin-sun asks, the teasing tone of her voice making you chuckle. “He’s a grown man, you know? He can hold his own.”

“I know,” you reply, turning to her. “But it’s one of the many things that’s new about his role. And probably one of the more important ones. I just wanna let him know that he’s doing a good job.”

“Well, there’s no wife or girlfriend to do that. I guess that makes it your responsibility then.”

You disregard her comment’s implication and point out that Hoseok does that for Jungkook, too, but he’s just as busy and perhaps just as nervous as well. 

“It matters a lot to hear it. Plus, social events can be overwhelming and isolating at the same time. He’s still getting used to it,” you add.

The prolonged silence prompts you to turn to her.

“You know, I admire you for a lot of things,” she says. “Your ability to remain kind after everything is one of them. I mean, after how he treated you those first few weeks? That was tough.”

Your resigned face pushes her to continue. “Do-hyun could’ve gone on without telling me about seeing you cry and I still would’ve known. You tried to hide it but your smile always fell too fast and your eyes were just always sad. Must’ve been hard, trying to get the team on his side when you couldn’t do that for yourself.”

“I honestly don’t know how I survived that first month,” you laugh to mask the sadness from that experience. “But that’s in the past. He still has his moments but at least there are good ones now. I’m here to do my job. Being kind after everything is part of it.”

“I wish you didn’t have to keep it to yourself though,” she laments. “If we couldn’t help, we could’ve at least cheered you up.”

“I didn’t want to bring you guys into it,” you say. “The team was incredibly busy with so many things and I managed. That’s what matters.”

“Oh, ___,” she sighs. “You put so much of yourself in your job. I think that’s why the bosses trust you. But that takes so much out of you, too. Do you have anything left for yourself?”

“What’s left is right here, Chin-sun. I don’t think I know what I am outside of all this.”

“Doesn’t that bother you? I mean, I’ve worked with you for three years and I can’t say I really know you outside of this, too. And if you can’t… well, that’s something to think about.”

“And I have. It’s something I’ve asked myself, but trying to find the answer isn’t as easy as asking the question. So I just put all my energy into my work because where else would I? It at least pays the bills and lets me enjoy little luxuries every once in a while,” you reason. 

“Well, I know what learning who you are outside of this job would entail, and I’m a little selfish because I need you around,” she smiles. “No one does things the way you do, and that’s also why I figured that at some point, Mr. Jeon was gonna get himself together because he can’t afford to lose you. You’re so good at this, ___. He’s lucky you didn’t quit.”

“Apparently, it takes a lot to get me to quit,” you reply. 

Or I was just never brave enough to do it, you want to say. Asking the question is indeed always easier than finding the answer. 

“Let’s hope you find a way to find yourself without resigning. We can’t afford to lose you, too,” she winks. 

“I appreciate that, Chin-sun. Thank you.”

“Well, I think it matters that you know that you’re doing amazing. I hope he treats you as you deserve.”

He tries, you think to yourself. At least that’s what you hope. 

The call of your names from a familiar voice excites you, as A-yeong approaches you and Chin-sun. You engage in your usual hushed conversations until you see Jungkook in another sea of people and you decide to approach him, the relief on his face telling you that he’s indeed been needing you. 

It’s not your preferred crowd. Something you’ve learned in your years of attending these events is that you would smile and entertain them and men would think it’s an invitation to invade your personal space. A lingering touch on the elbow, a hand on your waist, standing a millimeter too close… and they disregard your uncomfortable look or attempts at stepping away. 

The man you’re introduced to is new but his ways aren’t, and you scan the hall to find Bitna who turns to you in time, the look you give her signaling another person to look out for. It’s a system they developed that they’ve filled you in on, and you immediately excuse yourself and check on the food served at the back even if you know they’re still well stocked. It at least allows you a breather. You’re not even a main actor but you’re tired as hell from socializing with people. 

It’s not long after when the event starts. Speeches and a performance take place while dishes are being put out, and it’s after the main course is served when Jungkook steps away from his seat. 

Choosing to stand towards the back before he’s called on stage to be introduced, he scans the hall and thinks about the work that the committee put in, including you, who had to deal with him while dealing with all this. He catches sight of you speaking with the other assistants, and he already knows there’s some planning going on. But like the last time, he felt you around even if you were busy; you held his gaze during the times he felt a little overwhelmed. 

“You ready?”

Yoongi’s voice is deep but calming, and Jungkook takes it as his friend’s way of encouraging him. 

“Not really, but I’ll manage.” 

“Good. You’ve got people on your side,” Yoongi assures him. “Like me. And especially her.”

He gestures towards the left where Jungkook sees you approaching them. Since you started working for him, he didn’t expect how easily he could find comfort in your presence. He went from wishing you were someone else, to wanting to distance himself from you, to constantly hoping you were around. Those last two could actually coexist, and they do. There’s still detachment as his means to combat the attraction - he tries not to care about you, to not get to know you, to remind himself of who you are in his life, but he still depends on you for support, for comfort, for stability. You make his life easier; you also make it feel less lonely. And every time you’re there is a moment where he feels like he could breathe, like the noise in his mind stills because he’s forced to focus on you; somehow, you captivate him that way. 

“Are you ready, Mr. Jeon?”

The contrasting tenderness of your voice gives him that boost and he nods despite the lingering nervousness.

“I guess so,” he huffs. “Let’s get this over with.”

He walks towards his seat up front while you stay behind with Yoongi who leads you to one of the free tables at the back. You both don’t say much to each other, focusing instead on the short speeches that Ji-woo and Hoseok give, both of them expressing their gratitude and giving previews of upcoming projects to look forward to. They’re masters at commanding a crowd, as evidenced by their engagement and loud applause at the end of it. You can already imagine Jungkook feeling even more nervous, knowing that’s not really his style, but you hope that your earlier encouragement lingers, as he walks towards the stage.

He delivers his speech flawlessly. Knowing him the way you do, you could tell he let his vulnerability shine through, even if it may not seem much to everyone else. The teaser about the Arts Center gets people excited, which he builds up on. He even slides in a few jokes that surprisingly get the audience entertained. 

A small smile paints your face and from next to you, Yoongi chuckles in almost disbelief. 

“Is it safe to say you’re proud of him?” He asks, as Jungkook walks down the stage and CEO Jeon takes the mic. 

“You could say that,” you turn to him. “It’s silly, considering how things started. I… I didn’t think I’d be genuinely rooting for him, you know? But I am. I really want him to do well.”

“That’s good to hear, ___. I guess it means that things really are changing and he’s treating you better.”

“I think they are,” you hum. “I mean, not the best, but I also don’t know what that’s supposed to look like. I guess I’m just understanding who he is a little bit better now. And I think that makes the difference.”

“Like I said, he’s not a terrible person. He just needs… someone to be patient with him, someone to show him kindness,” Yoongi says. “I think that’s what he lost along the way. He stopped being that way to himself and so did people. They just didn’t want to upset him, but they also didn’t give or show anything more.”

“You think so?”

“Why do you think it’s so hard for him to forge even the simplest and most basic connections?” Yoongi questions. “They lack meaning for him. I think he’s forgotten what that’s like. Without sincerity or kindness, without intensity or honesty, there’s just… emptiness. Everything is fleeting for him.”

“And you’re telling me this, why?” You eye him curiously. 

“Because I think your kindness did something to him.”

“And that is?”

“He’s showing a bit of that to himself, too. And I guess to others as well,” Yoongi explains. 

“I’m a mere assistant doing her job, Yoongi,” you shake your head. “It’s a little selfish but I do what I can to appease him and to make our relationship good enough to make this job bearable for me. If it makes him a better person, good for him and better for me. I’ll just keep doing it then.”

Your friend’s silence prompts you to turn towards him. He seems to be in deep thought, perhaps analyzing what you’d just said, which he tends to do. 

There’s no lie in your statement. You’d done your part of standing up to Jungkook at the start; you at least got to show you were capable of fighting for yourself in that sense. But after that, you learned that keeping things in and letting him see how his actions affect you works as well. You show kindness because it’s natural for you, but also because it keeps the peace, it keeps both of you stable. 

But you can also admit that you do all that because wanting him to know that he’s got you on his side is a way to tell yourself that you’ve got people rooting for you, too, even if you’re not the best at keeping relationships nor keeping people close. You show Jungkook what you want to experience from people; you make him feel what you want to feel. Maybe that makes you selfish. You think it also makes you human.

It’s not something you tell Yoongi, though. But maybe with the way he looks at you assuringly, you suppose he knows it, too.

The event finally ends and the guests start exiting the venue. You bid them goodbye while instructing some in-house staff about cleaning up. Mr. and Mrs. Jeon greet you on their way out, commending you for your work along with the others, and it’s their encouraging smiles that remind you of one of the reasons why you stick to this job. They’re people you don’t want to disappoint as well, and seeing them satisfied is always a good thing. 

“Hey, you’re officially off the clock,” Bitna reminds you. “A couple of us are staying for closing, remember?”

“Right,” you smile. 

They have a day off tomorrow because of tonight but it’s not something you can afford, given that you’ve got the Arts Center event one a week from now. It’s almost midnight and you’d have to be up in 5 hours.

“I’ll get going then. I’ll just say goodbye to— oh, Mr. Jeon,” you say, finding him just as you were about to look for him. “Is there anything I can help you with before I leave?”

“Oh, there’s nothing. Just, uh, how are you getting home?”

“A cab,” you answer. 

Yoongi nudges your arm from next to you with a pout on his face. “Yah! I’ll take you home. It’s not safe to take a cab this late.”

“Yes, that’s preferable, Ms. Cho,” Jungkook says. “It’s been a long night.”

“Okay, sir,” you nod. “And it has. You also did really well. I didn’t expect the jokes but they were obviously a hit. Yoongi laughed, that’s how I know.”

“You laughed, too,” Yoongi points out.

“I’m glad it worked, then,” Jungkook says. “You can get going. You can also report to my place at 8AM to give you more time to rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Jungkook heads out and rushes to the car where Mr. Ri drives him home. His mind is still buzzing from what transpired but he’s glad he managed like he said he would, like you believed he would. 

And amidst the relief that he did well and the nervousness from having to do something similar again next week, there’s you, a vision that he quickly shakes off and one he finds himself seeing after every big and small thing that he does. 

Your warm shower and your bed have never felt this good, only because you’re as tired as you are and you want nothing more than the weekend to come. But you’ve got a few more stressful days ahead of you and you try to push through them one at a time.

You go to Jungkook later than usual that Thursday then spend much of the entire day meeting with him and the team about next week’s event. You conduct a visit to the venue the next day and then spend the weekend answering guests’ queries and helping Chin-sun coordinate with suppliers. Monday and Tuesday have you going from one place to another and hopping from one meeting to the next, all while balancing your executive assistant and events manager responsibilities. 

It’s incredibly tiring, but you also won’t deny the exhilaration you feel. There’s something so satisfying about seeing everything come together, especially as you look around the venue - an industrial commercial space that Jungkook and Yoongi jointly designed specifically for tonight. The high ceilings allow for the large panels that project the Arts Center design, with bright lights Illuminating the curated sculptures and art pieces placed around. The space elicits a feeling of newness and familiarity, of hollowness and clarity. There’s integration of traditional and modern elements and essentially, of history and emergence. 

It leaves you quite breathless as you look around. It’s not even the Arts Center itself but you know that this is the emotion that Jungkook wants the guests to feel. He wants them to be in awe, to look on in excitement. 

“It’s pretty great, huh?” Yoongi asks next to you. “Worth all the hard work.”

“It is. Design and logistics did amazing in putting this together,” you say, given that you’ve spent the entire day working with both teams to set this up.

“Well, Jungkook’s vision is captivating to begin with. It really makes a difference when you’re led by a creative mind. Selling the idea won’t be so hard in a place like this.”

“I really hope so. We’re banking on the artists for exposure. There are gonna be articles about it, too. The whole process is being documented and that makes the final product much more exciting,” you explain. “I… I actually feel really good being a part of this. I’m glad I didn’t quit after that first week.”

Yoongi laughs along with you, knowing now that that experience no longer bothers you the way it used to. But he’s glad about it, too, not only because he selfishly wants you around but even more, he knew that you needed this, that you needed to feel redeemed in Jungkook’s eyes and in yours. Yoongi hopes that as the project goes on, you’ll learn more about yourself and what you want, what you’re good at, what you can give, and what makes you happy. 

“That makes both of us. I’m sure Jungkook thinks so, too,” Yoongi replies.

“Well, we’ll never know because he’ll probably never admit it but it’s a good thought,” you smile. “As long as we maintain this unproblematic dynamic, I’m good.”

“Speaking of which, where is he?”

“On the way,” you say. “He had a meeting to attend and he said he’ll be fixing up here. He should be here in a few minutes.”

Do-hyun approaches you about the photographer and you excuse yourself, instructing Yohan next to her to lead Jungkook to the waiting room when he arrives. 

Jungkook steps into the venue and like he’d hoped, he feels the energy as he takes it all in. There’s a lot of possibility as he looks around, and that’s what he wants the guests to see. He wants the artists to envision their own pieces displayed; he wants the creatives to imagine fashion shows and photo shoots and videos that come to life; he wants people to see the potential of an Arts Center beyond just looking at art pieces.

But underneath the pride is nervousness. There will be important personalities coming today and it’s his opportunity to engage with them, to make them want to be a part of this. Talking about the details of the project would be easy; it’s connecting with them that’s a challenge. He had last week’s Appointment Dinner as a trial and like you said, he did well. It’s tonight that matters so much more to him. He supposes that what happens will set the trajectory for how the promotion of the Center will go, so making a good first impression is crucial. 

Yohan approaches him and leads him towards the waiting room where his outfit, which Taehyung had pressed and sent over here, hangs on a rack. There are two magazine publications that will feature this event and both include an interview with him and some photos. 

Jungkook starts dressing up, knowing he’ll be called for those not long from now. He looks at himself in the mirror and the uncertainty fills him again. It’s not the look he would’ve gone for but his best friend was adamant that an event like this calls for something new. With his trousers and fitted shirt on, Jungkook breathes in and out, and it’s at the same time when there’s a knock on the door and your call of his name suddenly makes him nervous. 

You enter, stopping as you shut the door, your eyes a little wide, and look at him. You’re a sight to behold in your floral-laced dress and if he was anxious seconds ago, he’s even more now.

“I knew I should’ve stuck to the classic,” Jungkook sighs at your unmoving form. 

“What—what do you mean, Mr. Jeon?” You ask, finally finding your voice. 

“You’re not saying anything,” he frowns. “Tonight probably wasn’t the best time to show up in an outfit like this.”

“And why is that?” You wonder, walking closer to him now. You try to calm your racing heart because Jungkook looking this good in a checkered flared trouser and white v-neck shirt was not something you expected. “You look…”

“Pretentious?” He chuckles, shaking his head and bending towards the mirror, his angled body making you feel even hotter.

You’ve long accepted that Jungkook is a very handsome man. It’s probably why it was more frustrating despising him and, like Soomin said, also satisfying. He’s got a perfect mix of boyish and manly features with his doe eyes and chiseled jaw; the aura of confidence and nonchalance perhaps add to that as well. It also doesn’t help that he has a really good physique, something you’d seen on his first day on the job and one you’d denied affected you. You’d gotten used to it somehow. Hard as it was to suppress those thoughts every time you fixed his tie or watched him walk about his penthouse in his gym clothes, you managed. You’ve always been professional, and you’ve always reminded yourself to not let it affect you.

But tonight, it’s just hard not to, especially with the way his biceps are popping out of those short sleeves; and if the shirt were an inch tighter, you’d probably be able to trace his toned chest and abs as well. He’s cut his hair, too, slick and pushed back as if he's starring in some western rockstar film. 

“Good…” you manage to say after what seemed like minutes. “The outfit looks good on you, sir. It’s new and fresh, not like the usual formal attire that screams ‘businessman who only wants profits.’ This is posh and stylish. It makes you look more approachable.”

“This is what would make me look approachable?” He asks incredulously.

“Actually, a smile would,” you say too quickly, earning you a laugh. “But this works, too. It fits with the theme.”

“That’s what Tae said, too,” Jungkook sighs. “He insisted that at least for these Arts Center-related events, I should dress a little more boldly and more interesting, things I definitely am not but, well, I couldn’t counter him when he said that my usual prints and styles make me look like I’m just going to a meeting or some business conference.”

“And he’s not wrong,” you point out, walking closer to him. “You don’t need anything eccentric, just something exciting. This is simple yet sophisticated.”

“Have you seen the coat?” He asks, gesturing to the rack when you say no.

“Oh. There’s a corsage,” you say, admiring the matching brown checkered piece.

“An oversized one,” he rolls his eyes. 

“It looks pretty.”

“That’s what he said, too.”

“If you don’t like it, why didn’t you tell him during the fitting?”

“I did like it but it’s Tae - he’s good at convincing people that they look good. And I probably thought that, too. But he’s not yet here and he’s gonna be late so right now, all I can think about is that I’ll look ridiculous.”

“Well, that makes one of us,” you say, surprising him. “If what I think matters, then you’d have to take my word for it. The outfit looks good. It captures people’s attention and that’s what you need. You’re just gonna have to follow this up with similar styles but that wouldn’t be a problem. Just carry yourself with confidence. It’s what Mr. Kim would say.”

“I know. He texted that same line to me five times today.”

“He’s your best friend, Mr. Jeon. I’m sure he’s looking out for your best interest.”

“True, but then again, we were forced to become friends when we were young so who knows?”

You laugh at his words. “Is that so?”

“Our fathers are best friends so we spent a lot of time together,” Jungkook shares. “We were all so different and we got on each other’s nerves but I guess that made us closer. I… I wasn’t close to my brother so I just stuck with those who stuck around. It’s a good thing they turned out to be decent people.”

“They’re very kind, I should say.”

“Yeah. It sucks that their kindness didn’t rub off on me,” he says as he holds your gaze.

The tension rises as you look back at him. It’s hard not to fall into his eyes, and you’re thankful for the knock on the door and Yohan’s voice on the other side saying that the interviewer is ready for Jungkook now. 

“Five minutes,” you call out, breaking the moment and retrieving his last piece of clothing. 

You assist him in wearing his coat and just like reflex, you immediately fix the sleeves and adjust the corsage that isn’t actually that big. You look at him from head to toe and see Taehyung’s vision. There’s something captivating about Jungkook in this fit; it makes him intriguing and someone to look out for. You suppose that was the intention.

“Respectable enough?” He asks worriedly once you meet his eyes.

“Respectable enough,” you affirm, hoping your smile can give him the encouragement he needs. 

You open the door and let the first set of crew in. You watch on as they interview and take snapshots while your own team from the marketing department capture what’s happening as well. 

Jungkook sits cross-legged on the sofa, his eyes looking out into the distance as he absorbs the questions and thinks of his answers. He gesticulates as he responds, something you noticed him only ever do about topics that seem very important to him. He’s done it during meetings with the team and with Yoongi, and you suppose there’s that level of honesty that he shows then. His responses are thoughtful and profound, as the questions revolve around the type of art pieces to be displayed, how culture can be celebrated and respected, and what the public can look forward to once the Center is open to everyone. 

The next interviewer starts off with the practical questions before moving to the technicalities of the design and structure such as the materials used, the techniques utilized in renovating such a massive complex, and how the Center itself represents art and culture. This is when Jungkook fully relaxes. You see it in his body language, in the softness of his expressions, and in the mellow tone of his voice as he discusses in terms you don’t fully understand but somehow still make you feel like you know exactly what he’s talking about.

It’s different seeing him in this way. Your team vetted these interviewers and publications and they seem sincere about their articles and so you know they aren’t there to judge; Jungkook knows they aren’t there to scrutinize him. He’s not there to impress them or even to sell the idea; he just wants to share it, to make it known, to narrate the process of this project that may still be in its very early stages but which has lived in his mind for years.

He may not always be good with words but you can tell that he finds them when the ideas are clear to him. He’s able to articulate what he sees in his mind and there’s something captivating about that. There’s a lot you can learn from him, you think, and if what you develop after having stayed this long is even just a fraction of his creativity, then you’d feel accomplished. 

You can tell even more now how important this is to him, especially when he emphasizes the individual’s need and desire for connection and how he wants the Center to be a hub for that, or perhaps its creator. You wonder if he knows so much about it, or if, like you, it’s something he also constantly seeks. 

You’re so focused on taking him all in that you don’t notice that you’ve been staring. Your eyes fall on his fingers, waving about as he draws imaginary pictures; they land on his lips, pink and dry as they utter words that are perhaps the most he’s said, and suddenly, his voice is the most comforting it’s ever sounded to you. You look upwards and that’s when you notice it - his eyes are on you just as yours are on him yet he continues talking, and you hold onto it for a few seconds before you feel the heat reach your cheeks. It feels like a burn and you snap out of the spell-like feeling you were caught in as you turn away now and try to catch your breath.

You hadn’t meant to stare but you were drawn to him at that moment, and as he talked about how the designs reflect the tangibility yet elusiveness of human connection, you found yourself drowning in his words and in the way he said them. He’d caught you before you could look away, and you decide that the only way to go about it is to pretend it didn’t happen.

And that’s what you do, as you remain on your spot with your eyes scanning the room, no longer focused on him.

The interview ends right as Chin-sun enters to say that some guests have arrived. You instruct her to entertain them first with Manager Lee as you wrap up in here and it’s not long after when you’re left with Jungkook once again.

“Was that good?” He asks, his gaze on you as you look elsewhere.

“It was. You seemed more relaxed,” you state, unnecessarily fixing the couch to distract yourself. “That’s a good way to start the evening, Mr. Jeon. I’m sure the guests would enjoy speaking with you tonight.”

“That’s what I hope,” he replies. “I’ll need you close to me to keep track of scheduled meetings or any invitations. I’d also like them to be familiar with you as my assistant so they know who to reach out to in case I’m not available.”

“Of course, sir,” you say, turning around to face him again, suddenly feeling nervous about the intensity of his look. “I’ll take note of all those.” 

He nods then exits the room and you follow. You trail him as he starts to greet the guests one by one.

There are heads of private foundations and curators. There are creative directors from entertainment agencies and some art enthusiasts. There are artists and authors and poets, all of whom are intrigued and seemingly excited about what’s in store. 

Jungkook heads to the front after being introduced by Manager Lee and takes his time to introduce the project, utilizing the panels and all of the interiors’ walls to showcase the design virtually. He presents his plans and the role of artists, creatives, creators, and consumers. It’s a half hour speech that ends, followed by a light sit-down dinner that Jungkook takes advantage of to engage with the guests. 

He first greets the deputy minister of the arts and culture ministry and then Mr. Saito, who’d likewise brought some of his artist friends from Japan. 

You then follow Jungkook around as instructed, taking notes on your phone in between to list all the upcoming meetings and other activities scheduled on the spot. You’ve somehow developed this skill with Hoseok but it still doesn’t get any easier. The fact that so many of them want to touch base with Jungkook after his pitch says a lot about how well he did and how much it resonated with the people he wanted to connect with. 

Based on your notes, you can already tell it’s gonna be incredibly busy moving forward, and the thought suddenly makes your head hurt. But you push through, knowing there are more people to meet with, even with Chin-sun and Manager Lee entertaining half of them. 

Jungkook takes the stage again to introduce some of the artists whose works will be displayed in the Arts Center, and he gives them time to talk about their pieces and what drew them into the project. The company head who’s been contracted to create the products for the souvenir shop also speaks, and as they share, you feel the excitement heighten. The opening is still a long time from now but things seem so clear and so certain, and you know that was because of Jungkook - because he demands the same level of excellence he practices from others, because he’s committed to his vision and he makes sure to see it through. 

More engagement takes place, and your only breather is when Jungkook decides to talk to his father and then Hoseok but after that, you’re back to following him around and running out of calling cards for people to keep and call you in the future. 

The last of the remaining guests finally leave at 10PM. You look around and the art pieces are being carefully wrapped for transport. The panels remain but Do-hyun and Yohan will be returning in the morning to pack everything up. Slowly, you start to feel the soreness creep in and the headache intensify but you shake all the pain off. There are two more days left for the week and you just have to power through them to survive. 

“You sure you don’t want me to drive you home?” Chin-sun asks as she readies to leave.

“I live on the other side of the city from you. From all of you,” you remind them. It’s really the only reason why you don’t hitch a ride with them, especially considering that they have families and pets they go home to. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

“What about Yoongi?” Jungkook asks, surprising you because you thought he’d been on the phone. “Can’t he drive you?”

“He left an hour ago, Mr. Jeon,” you reply. “He has that early morning flight to Jeju tomorrow.”

“Mr. Ri can drive you home after he drops me off,” Jungkook says. “It’s too late in the night and it might be hard for you to get a cab.”

“Okay, sir. Thank you,” you mumble, waving everybody goodbye as you follow him towards the car. 

You get inside and find him sitting in the backseat, his coat removed and his head rolled back. You can tell all the socializing drained his energy again, and you’d hate to remind him that there’s a Property Expo next week that his father assigned him to attend, as well as a Partners’ Fellowship Dinner where he has to deliver another speech. You decide to do so in the morning instead and let the soft sounds of the radio soothe your mind.

“I think tonight was a success,” he mutters, prompting you to turn towards him. “Everyone I spoke to seemed excited.”

“They were,” you affirm. “They wouldn’t be scheduling meetings with you if they weren’t.”

“That’s true,” he hums. “That’s one major event down and several more to go.”

“I hope the team was able to show you how well we work together, Mr. Jeon. And that like me, they’re all on your side.”

Jungkook lets your words settle. He agrees. The team was like a well-oiled machine. Each member knew their roles and performed their tasks excellently. And there was you, of course, handling every one of his instructions and requests with grace. You looked really beautiful doing it, too, and he doesn’t know if he wants to thank or curse Taehyung for designing another dress that makes you stand out from the crowd because that’s what happened tonight - everywhere Jungkook looked, it seemed like all he could see was you.

He shakes away the thought, knowing that constantly acknowledging his attraction towards you would just make things harder for him the way that denying it would, and while he doesn’t have a solution for that either, he supposes that not acknowledging it at all would be the best option. 

So he focuses on the team instead, and he feels comforted to know that they worked hard because they knew how much tonight mattered to him, as Do-hyun expressed earlier. 

“I’m glad they are,” he finally replies. “I… I still don’t think I’m their favorite person but as long as they don’t despise me anymore, then I’m satisfied with that.”

“They don’t,” you counter, although even you’d know that’s a half-lie.

“They do. Or did, at least,” he laughs dryly. “It’s easy to stay unnoticed outside of the team’s office, you know?”

The tinge of sadness in his eyes confirms what you’re thinking - he’s heard some of the team conversations about him. And while you’d argue that they’re not vile or anything close to that, you also know that talking about him not smiling or not expressing his gratitude are things you shouldn’t be saying behind his back. Even if they’re true.

“I”m so, so sorry, Mr. Jeon. We–”

“It’s okay, it’s not a big deal,” he interjects. “I mean, it’s not like I haven’t given you reasons to feel that way. You all did go from Hoseok to me and that’s quite the downgrade in terms of camaraderie and stuff.”

“We still didn’t have the right to say those things. And no, I’m not agreeing that you’re a downgrade,” you clarify. “Like you said, you and your cousin are very different.”

“I did. And that’s why I’m not surprised, is all I’m saying. But despite all that, the team did amazing tonight. Not like I’d expect they wouldn’t because they prefer someone more joyful or expressive, but it… it was also nice to see them enjoying themselves. I hope you did, too.”

“It was a memorable experience, Mr. Jeon,” you say. “It’s something new. The previous projects and events we handled were either residential or commercial in nature and our creativity wasn’t pushed as far as the Arts Center is doing. And we all appreciate that, even if we may not show it.”

“That’s good. At least there’s still something that you’re all getting out of this.”

There’s a sadness in his voice that you’re hearing for the first time. You don’t know what about tonight that’s making him vulnerable and honest with you. Perhaps it’s all the talk about human connection that he seems to struggle with, and maybe he’s realizing now that even with the team performing as well as they are, there’s still something lacking in soul and emotion that he thinks is because of him. 

Whatever it is, you hope that he doesn’t let it bring him down too much. Working closely with him, you’ve come to see more of him despite his efforts to keep those layers unpeeled and you’ve come to understand him a little more. You’ve forgiven him in the process, too. The team is still adjusting and you know it’s your job to bridge that gap. You’ll just have to figure out how. 

You let the silence end the conversation, not knowing what else you can say to comfort him at this moment. But you try though, as the car stops in front of his building and you call his name right before he closes the door.

“Yeah?” He asks, looking curiously at you. 

You almost forget what you’re about to say as he’s bent forward, his arm propped on the car roof, the surrounding lights highlighting the features of his face. 

“You did great tonight, too. And I learned a lot from you. Thank you for guiding us, sir.”

He’s left speechless, as he holds your gaze for a moment before nodding and closing the door. Mr. Ri drives away and you look back to see Jungkook walk slowly towards the building entrance, briefly looking your way before disappearing inside. 

You arrive at the office the next morning at 9AM with a splitting headache, your body dragging itself towards your chair as you try to maintain balance and get yourself together. Jungkook had messaged late last night that he was going to have a breakfast meeting with his father so you could go straight to work, and given last night’s late finish, you could come at a later time as well.

That gave you another two hours of sleep, which you were thankful for considering the terrible state you were in when you woke up. Your body felt sore and the dryness of your throat signaled that you’re about to get sick - it was just a matter of when it was going to fully kick in. It’s how your body reacts to stress, a pattern you noticed since you started working in the company. It’s usually after succeeding weeks of late nights and big events when you give in - the headaches start then the sore throat; not long after, the fever hits and you’d have to spend days just doing nothing until you’ve expelled the exhaustion away. 

On rare occasions, your mother or friends come, knowing you’d be too sick to make yourself some food. But they don’t always have that luxury. They have their own lives, too, lives that they just happen to have far away from you. But it’s why it mattered that you gave Jungkook that noodle soup when he was unwell. You know what it’s like to be sick and hungry and completely helpless, and you had a feeling that just like yourself, he’d deal with it on his own. You’ll probably have to stock up on food tonight to get you through the next few days; you just hope you haven’t completely fallen apart by then.

You take your medicines and try to focus on your tasks for this morning, scheduling meetings and screening photos from last night to be used for marketing purposes. Needing some tea, you head to the pantry and briefly check in with the team before heading back. You see that Jungkook has just arrived, as he accompanied his father to one of their project sites after their meeting. He calls you over and asks if Do-hyun and Yohan have come back from fixing things at last night’s venue.

“Yes, sir, they just got here,” you reply. “Everything’s been stored properly and Chin-sun’s working on the payments already.”

“Good,” Jungkook responds. “It’s lunchtime though, so you should all grab a meal. There’s a French restaurant that just opened a block from here. I heard it’s got great reviews, so take the team there and have them order anything they want. You can just use your card to pay but it’s under the office’s budget.”

“Okay, sir. Uhm, that sounds great,” you manage to say, excitement filling you because you spent the other night watching review videos of that restaurant on YouTube and immediately told Jimin and Soomin that you’ll be eating there when they visit you the next time. “What about you though? Aren’t you joining us?”

“I… Well…”

“You don’t have any other scheduled meeting other than the one we’ll have as a team at 2:30.”

“I don’t have to go,” he answers. “You all worked hard and deserve to enjoy yourselves and I don’t think that’ll happen if I’m around. We can all debrief during the meeting but lunch is your time to get together and bond as a group.”

“You’re part of that group, too, Mr. Jeon. You are our boss,” you counter.

“Exactly.”

“But Mr. Ju–” you stop, not wanting to draw another comparison, which you said you’ll stop doing.

“I know. Hoseok would join you for lunch or dinner and the team enjoyed his presence,” Jungkook states. “I don’t think that’s the case with me. This isn’t me putting myself down but… you know that I don’t really… do things like that. I’m still learning that part of the role and I don’t want to spoil their fun.”

“You can’t really speak for the team though,” you point out.

“Well, you represent them to me. Am I wrong to assume all that?”

“No, but I think it would be a good opportunity to prove to them otherwise,” you advise.

Jungkook sighs, knowing you’ve got a point. But he insists, claiming that he’s still figuring out the team and how to relate with them. 

“I understand, Mr. Jeon,” you concede. “How about your lunch?”

“I’ll manage. You can all go ahead so you can get back on time.”

“We will. Thank you. I already know they’re going to enjoy it.”

The team is ecstatic when you tell them about lunch plans. They also only wonder about Jungkook’s presence once they’ve ordered and perhaps they’re still figuring him out, too. Much of their engagement with Jungkook is through meetings, as none of them, save for Manager Lee, feel comfortable or even free enough to just approach him. They also don’t know much about his interests or his quirks, and that puts you in the same boat as them. 

You said once that you’re not sure if you’ve gotten used to him already. Maybe slowly you are, as you look around and wish that he was here to experience this, too. Somehow you just think he’d love the duck confit dish that you eventually order for yourself. Maybe you can let him know, and he can order it on his own time. 

Lunch ends with everyone on a high from the delicious meal. Even you forget how terrible you’re actually feeling and let the laughs and scrumptious food compensate for the fatigue. 

You get back to the office and head to Jungkook as the rest of the team prepares the conference room for the meeting. You see a half-eaten sandwich on his desk and hate to think that it’s all he had while you enjoyed a fancy lunch that he ordered you all to have. He seems to pick up your thoughts as your eyes flit from him to his food and he affirms you that he’s not that hungry, given the heavy breakfast he had this morning.

“How was lunch?” He asks. 

“It was great. The food was really good. I had the duck confit that I think you’ll like and… uh, they were asking where you were.”

“They were?” 

“Yeah,” you respond. “They were wondering why you didn’t join us.”

“What did you say?”

“That you were on a conference call,” you say. You didn’t like that you had to lie to them about it, but you also didn’t want to use that time to talk about Jungkook behind his back again. “Yohan said that it’s understandable; you’re always busy and he doubts you get a break while you’re here.”

“Oh. Well, he’s not wrong.”

“We had a good time though, and I’m sure they’ll tell you later but thank you. It’s nice seeing the team enjoy themselves. I wish you could see it, too.”

“Maybe one day,” he says sullenly, standing up right after to head to the meeting with you.

The room quiets down when you both arrive and Jungkook feels once more the shift in their disposition once he joins them. He can’t fault them for it knowing that’s because of him, but as time passes and the more he talks about the value of human connections - which the Arts Center aims to foster - the more he starts to think of exactly what he’s missing by keeping himself too far a distance from everyone else around him. 

His father tries, he can tell. Most of their breakfast or lunch or dinner meetings aren’t actually meetings, and he supposes it’s just his old man’s way of spending time with him by disguising it as something work-related, knowing that Jungkook wouldn’t be into it if it wasn’t. His mother asks him over to their house on some weekends for lunch, her own way of reconnecting with him after years of being apart, but even with that, Jungkook just gives the bare minimum. 

He doesn’t not like them; he just stopped being close to them at some point and he didn’t really care to mend it as he grew older. The women he sleeps with don’t count since he doesn’t even really talk to them, and other than Taehyung and Seokjin, and occasionally Yoongi, who keep up with his attitude, there really isn’t anyone else whom he thinks enjoys his presence enough to want to have him around. 

He doesn’t know about you though, but he makes an educated guess and thinks there’s not much of him you’d miss just like anyone, and while the thought stings a bit, it’s one he tries to live with.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Jeon,” Manager Lee greets and implores the others to do the same. “Thank you again for lunch. It was really delicious and pretty fancy. I wish I’d worn a prettier tie than the one I have right now.”

“Your tie looks fine, Manager Lee,” Jungkook replies.

“Ms. Cho said you were busy, that's why you weren’t there,” Do-hyun boldly says. “Hopefully next time you can join us. I mean, not to assume you’ll treat us again, although that would be nice, but–” 

“Do-hyun just wanted to say thank you,” Chin-sun butts in. “And that we understand you have so many things going on, Mr. Jeon, so hopefully, when you have time in the future, you can join us for a meal, too.”

“That, uh, that would be fine, yes,” he mumbles, taking his seat and avoiding looking at everyone except you. “Let’s start the meeting.”

You’re there for over two hours, rehashing the entire process, given that it’s the first event out of many that the team organized. Jungkook is generous in complimenting everyone, including you, and he gives updates on the interest generated and all the artists he’ll be meeting in their respective studios as a result. 

The Ministry of Culture minister likewise pledged support, promising a linkage with the international media festival organizers like Jungkook had hoped. You’ve all accomplished so much in so little time, but the rest of the timeline shows that there’s still so much ground to cover. You plan the next steps and then spend half an hour talking about the other small projects that the VP’s office is managing before Jungkook adjourns the meeting and orders you all to head home to get some rest while he stays behind to work some more.

You follow him this time, trying your best to be stable as you take the bus home. You manage to buy some beef bone soup on the way for dinner, and once that’s all finished and you take a long hot shower to hopefully get rid of the stress in your body, you plop down on your bed and fall asleep with no warning at all. 

You wake up in the middle of the night, your clogged nose keeping you from breathing. With puffy eyes, you search for your eucalyptus inhaler and take your medicine before going back to bed and hoping that when you wake up, you’ll feel less terrible than you do right now. 

But you don’t, as you wake up to your alarm not long after and feel even worse. Your body is sore, your head feels heavy, and it’s a struggle to even turn to your side to try to pull yourself off the bed. Knowing there’s no way you’ll manage today, you call Mr. Ri and inform him that you’re unwell and can’t make it to work. 

“I can’t even type nor talk properly right now,” you tell him. “Can you–”

“I’ll tell Jungkook, don’t worry,” he assures you. “And just to remind you, you’re sick, okay? So stay in bed, don’t do chores or anything, and don’t think about work for even a second. You hear me? And update me on how you are.”

“Yes,” you cough out. “Thank you.”

You lie underneath the covers and hope to the heavens that more sleep would make you feel a bit of relief and it does, given that when your phone rings five hours later, you don’t feel like your head is splitting apart. 

“Good, you’re awake,” Mr. Ri says on the other end after you greet him. “Can you open your door?”

“Okay, just give me a few minutes. I’m exceptionally slow this morning.”

Mr. Ri laughs but tells you to take your time. You put on a hoodie over your gray sweatpants and briefly wash your face before opening the door. 

“Work’s got to you, huh?” He asks worriedly as he stands in front of you. “Is it bad enough to warrant a visit to the hospital? I can drive you there.”

“I’ll manage,” you mumble. “But what are you doing here, Mr. Ri? Mr. Jeon has a meeting in an hour.”

“I know. But he wanted me to give you this.”

The older man initially hands you a large paper bag but decides to just place it on your table given your weak state. He removes the containers of chicken noodle soup, rice porridge, and soybean sprout soup, boxes of soft bread, and a small jar of yuja marmalade for tea. 

“What–”

“Your meals for the next few days so you don’t have to worry about preparing them,” Mr. Ri says. “Jungkook wants you to focus on resting. He wants you to take Monday off, too.”

You look at him and suddenly feel like crying. You knew that waking up, you’d be worrying about what to eat, given that you barely have ingredients to work with. You also don’t have the energy to make anything, especially something that’d help with your health. Jungkook just relieved you of that, and at a time like today, you feel what it’s like to be cared for. And though you can argue with him using his own words - your health isn’t his responsibility - you won’t pretend that it doesn’t give you comfort knowing that he’d made the effort to buy all this and have them brought to you. 

You talk a little bit more before he heads out, and you lead him to the door where you look across the street where the car is parked. Your eyes may be puffy but you don’t miss the silhouette behind that backseat window. 

“How is she?” Jungkook asks as Mr. Ri enters the car and slowly drives away.

“She looks like someone who’s been working hard these past months and in need of rest. She says it’s normal but this is probably the worst. These few days off will be good for her.”

“I hope so, too.”

“She’s thankful for the food, Jungkook,” the older man says. “I know she’d probably say you didn’t have to but I could tell it meant a lot to her. She doesn’t always ask for help, you know? It’s good you’re somehow letting her know that she can count on you when she needs you. If this is you making it up to her, you’re on the right path.”

Jungkook hums in acknowledgement, although unsure what it means for him. Is it to compensate? To apologize again? To return the favor because you’d done it first? Is it to let you know that he has your back, too, the way you’ve been showing him that you have his? 

He’s alerted by a message, your name on his screen somehow making his heart jump. It’s a text message and not one from the usual messaging app you both use for work purposes because, well, that’s really the only thing you talk about.

[From: EA Cho] Thank you, Jungkook. I really appreciate it.

It’s the use of his name. It’s the sincerity in your simple words. 

He smiles to himself. 

Whatever it means to you, he knows it means another thing to him. He doesn’t want you to feel alone. And that in the coldest nooks of his uncaring heart, he actually does care for you. For this moment, he’ll acknowledge it. For this moment, he’ll let himself feel it. He can only hope you feel it, too.

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[pretty-little-mind33]

Dave Lizewski x fem!reader

Summary: You convince your best friend to take you to Prom—only as friends, of course.

Prompt: friends to lovers - "don't bite your lip, bite mine."

DAVE LIZEWSKI MASTERLIST

BLURB MASTERLIST

"Damn Davey, you look so dapper," Todd jokes almost meanly as soon as he walks into the gym and sees his best friend. Poor Dave instantly tightens his grip on your hand and narrows his eyes. 

"Shut up," he hisses, his cheeks a bright pink.

Your hand is still in Dave's and when you hear Todd, you turn to glare at him. "Jealous you don't have a date, Haynes?" you quip and turn to adjust the little rose in Dave's suit pocket that matches the colors in the corsage on your wrist.

You smile up at him, which only makes his cheeks turn even pinker. 

"Whatever, Y/l/n," Todd adds, laughing, "At least I didn't need a pity date."

You hate the way Todd is with Dave sometimes—although Dave always insists it's banter, sometimes it just feels mean.

You glare at Todd and say with a hiss, "You're an ass," and then you're pulling Dave away and towards where the center of the gym where your classmates are dancing.

It's upbeat music for the moment and Dave is clumsy in his movement as you dance around him. His eyes are stuck on yours.

"Loosen up will you?"

"You look very pretty tonight."

You and Dave say at the same time, your eyes widening and you both laugh a little. You wrap your arm around Dave's shoulder, still dancing to the music.

"Thanks, Davey," you whisper, your eyes sparkling. "You look very handsome," you echo his compliment, meaning every word. He does look handsome—but then again, he always looks handsome. 

He hums and his cheeks turn pink again. The song turns from dancey to slow and you lock gazes. Dave's hands wander to your waist as you lean into the dance. This feels so natural, as if your bodies are made to be molded into one soul. Dave presses himself closer, his head near your hair as he inhales your scent.

You smell heavenly. 

"Thanks for coming with me tonight," you say, "I really didn't want to go alone."

"Of course," Dave answers instantly, his breath by your ear, "anything for you," he adds in a whisper. 

Your chest feels warm and you look up at him, your hands sliding down to lay on his chest. Your smile widens and something in the air shifts because your eyes downcast to his lips. They've never looked prettier. He senses your gaze and his heart leaps. Instinctively, his teeth sink into his bottom lip. 

"Don't bite your lip, Lizewski, bite mine," you tell him boldly, unable to keep the thought inside you any longer.

Dave's eyes widen but you sense him leaning in closer and he hums as a question. Your eyes flutter shut and almost automatically, your lips meet.

It's short and sweet, his warm hands moving up to your cup cheeks as his lips linger on yours until he suddenly remembers you're in the middle of the school gym, surrounded by all your classmates.

He pulls away. "Sorry," he mumbles, embarrassed, "I didn't mean to kiss you like that—in front of everyone. I- this really wasn't how I had planned this moment," he admits, his cheeks a flaming red now and your eyes soften. You can feel his nervousness. 

"You had a plan?" you tease.

Dave nods instantly. "A stupid plan."

"Why don't you let me judge that," you say with a grin and wrap your arms around him again, holding him closer as you kiss his cheek and whisper in his ear, "because this is exactly how I planned this, baby."

[hemmingsleclerc]

Prom Night┃OP81

summary: u go to prom with your bf oscar <3 but I love the drama

Y/N couldn't wait for prom. As a senior, the night she had been waiting for years was about to happen. But there was something different about Y/N compared to her friends; She had a secret, or at least that was what everyone thought and rumors said.

In the hallways of her school, the whispers grew louder and louder. "Y/N is with her imaginary boyfriend again," they said, as if their words were just to get attention.

"He's tall, with brown hair and a beautiful smile," Y/N insisted when they asked her what her boyfriend was like. "And he's not from around here; he's Aussie."

Her ''friends'' rolled their eyes, unconvinced. "Sure, Y/N," they said, exchanging mocking glances behind her back.

Prom night was approaching and the doubts were growing stronger. But despite all the comments they said behind her back, she knew that her boyfriend would be there for her on that important night, even if no one else believed it.

Y/N took a deep breath and dialed the number she knew by memory. "Hey, it's me," she said with a shaky voice when he responded. "Are you still up for prom?"

There was a pause on the other end of the line before a soft voice answered, "Of course, my love. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

That made Y/N release the breath she had been unconsciously holding.

And true to his word, when the night of the prom came, there he was: tall, brown hair, with that same charming and cute smile that Y/N had fallen in love with. Her Oscar.

When Oscar first saw Y/N in her beautiful dress, he felt like he could faint from how beautiful she looked. He couldn't contain the big smile that adorned his face when she ran into his arms when she saw him again. Also, Oscar gave Y/N a surprise when he took her hand to put the famous ''corsage'' on her, because he wanted to do things right so that his girlfriend had one of the best nights of her life.

When Y/N entered the place hand in hand with Oscar, she felt a mixture of nerves and excitement. But all her doubts were quickly disolved when Oscar took her hand, gave her a spin and took her to the dance floor, where both of them, even though they didn't know how to dance, made their best effort and had fun.

However, in the middle of all the joy of the night, Y/N couldn't ignore the whispers that could still be heard over the music. She caught cruel words towards her by those who had doubted her all along.

''Clearly that's not Y/N's boyfriend, she's too stupid to have such a cute guy by her side.''

Y/N felt embarrassed hearing that. But before she could say or do anything, she felt Oscar's grip tighten around her hand, without actually hurting her.

"Who said that?" His voice was low, a different tone than usual.

Y/N's heart beat faster as she watched Oscar's usually calm attitud break, replaced by a slightly stronger one. With a quick glance around the room, he saw the group of girls and boys who had been talking about her, their faces expressing surprise at realizing they had been caught.

''Wait for me here darling'', Oscar let go of Y/N's hand and crossed the room, with determined steps. The crowd parted before him, a silence falling over the room as all eyes turned to watch the situation unfold.

"You got something to say mate?" he said.

The girls and boys stutter, not being able to meet Oscar's gaze, his presence felt heavy on the room.

''If you're not such a coward, say it in front of my face, because I won't tolerate people speaking shit about my girlfriend'' his anger palpable in the air.

The girls and boys exchanged nervous glances, backing away from Oscar's gaze. They had hoped to make fun of Y/N without consequences, but they had never anticipated her boyfriend.

With one last sharp look, Oscar turned on his heel and returned to his girl, his jaw clenched in barely contained fury. When he reached her side, he took her hand in his, her hold was reassuring and comforting as he hid his face in her neck.

''Thank you very much for that, Osc, but it really wasn't necessary,'' she said as she play her boyfriend's hair.

''Of course it was necessary darling, they should never talked like that about you, ever. I hope they learned or I wouldn't mind running them with my car later'' Oscar said ''Even so, they shouldn't have talked about my girl like that''

''I love you''

''I love you too darling''

ynln

Liked by oscarpiastri, yourbestfriend and 139,535 others

ynln prom w my baby 🤍🪩

username So this is oscar's mysterious gf!!!

username she's so pretty omg

oscarpiastri love you my girl ❤️

[tragedy-of-commons]

fuck it we ball. hsr prom date hcs because i am on something different tonight. based on my very limited experience.

dan heng

he's painfully awkward. like you expected it when you asked him to be your date but it's even worse than you predicted...

he DID pick you up and he WAS almost an hour early, causing you to rush down the stairs and almost trip (not very magical-teen-coming-of-age-moment-like of you). that kind of lightened the mood though.

also painfully sweet! upon your arrival he gives you a boutonniere/corsage that matches your outfit which he had managed to keep hidden. his sweaty palms were not just because he was nervous, then...

march helped him pick it out, he admits with red-tipped ears. that makes sense, because she was suspiciously interested in what you were wearing to the function.

but he did also forget to pick out one for him. oops.

during the slow dance bit, his hands are sweaty. you don't care because your eyes lock and there's the fuzziness curling in your gut that plagues you whenever you're with dan heng.

overall, a good experience! polite and always willing to humor your whims, even if he's a little stiff.

and if you peck him on the cheek after he walks you back to your doorstep, well, that's alright with him. more than alright.

black swan

life of the party. not in a screaming-getting-way-too-into-the-music kinda way, but in the way that everyone wants a sliver of her attention. she's always relaxed, interesting to talk to, and dreamy to boot! it wouldn't be any different at prom.

but black swan, above all else, wants to just... spend time with you. anyone that wants to chat can wait until later, when she's not watching you stuff snacks into your pockets with a fond look in her faraway eyes.

to commemorate the occasion, you're cajoled into the photobooth where you both hold up props and make funny faces for the camera. you know black swan doesn't cherish much above memories, even if they're immortalized in a gag reel where you're clad in silly-straw glasses and her in a purple mustache.

but in the last photo, right before the camera flashes, she sneaks a kiss on your cheek. your eyes are blown wide in surprise in the picture and that's her favorite part!

surprisingly adept at dancing. depending on your taste, she will either dip you dramatically and take the lead, or fall into your steps and try to make you feel more comfortable if you're nervous.

cherishes any memento from the event. she does the teasing, though, so don't get any ideas about poking fun at her for being sappy.

a great date, i dare say.

aventurine

it's a given that both of you look the best. dressed to the nines.

the whole thing is a bit sensationalized, though. mostly because he's used to everything being treated like a spectacle, aventurine tries his best (while looking like he isn't trying at all) to give you a good time.

his saving grace is that... he's here with you. everything is more enjoyable this way, even the distastefully loud music matches the pulse in his ears when he looks at y💥💥

his favorite part of the event, surprisingly, is when you ask him to ditch with you early. makes a little joke like "wow, are you having that bad of a time with me?" but there's a bit of weight behind it that you can sense. anyway, you answer by rolling your eyes and pulling him outside.

away from the noise, pretenses drop and You Hold His Hand, telling him that any time with him is a good time. but this is infinitely better, even if you're both just stood in the parking lot.

you both decide to stay a little longer. at the end of the night, the principal gets into one of those dunking booths for the children to throw balls at to get them dunked in water. aventurine bets you a date that he'll hit the target.

you know he'll win (his luck kind of scares you), so of course you take him up on that wager, very excited to lose. it's very sweet.

lol he does hit the target

you both are prom celebrities for the rest of the night with another date set in stone a week from now!

kafka

imo she would make the best date out of everyone on this list.

mostly because any outing with kafka is almost cataclysmic in its impact... starting when she pops over at your place to help you get ready! surprise!

zips you up/adjusts your lapels/make sure your makeup looks good/whatever is part of this whole routine for you. she does so while humming a dulcet tune. she wants to be involved with every aspect of your pivotal prom experience tbh. keen on making memories like black swan is, but the effort is unconscious.

also. since blade has his driver's license, she basically bribed him into being your chauffeur for the night. i think that'd be a fun detail.

if you suck at dancing, never fear, because she also isn't very good (or so she says, but she's kafka, so of course she makes it work).

is not opposed to silly photobooth pics but she'd rather have someone take a candid of you both together by persuading them nicely - more her speed.

her eyes are ENCHANTING in that dim lighting... i just know... you get so distracted that you trip over her feet. silver wolf, the resident DJ that the school hired, sees and laughs.

has that tattered jacket thrown over whatever she decides to wear. she drapes it over you if you get cold due to the weather or temperature inside of the building.

[darlinluxx]

— 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐌 | 𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐄 𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐂𝐈𝐎 ౨ৎ

↳ now playing : prom by sza

pairing : natalie scatorccio x fem!reader

fluff

warnings : cigarettes, weed

a/n : thinking about going to prom with nat :(( <3

𝐓he corsage felt like a foreign object on your wrist, a delicate cluster of baby’s breath and pale pink roses. you smoothed down the silk of your dress, a light pink color that pooled at your ankles, and you took one last look in the mirror. perfect. you had spent weeks agonizing over every detail, from the exact shade of your lipstick to the way your hair cascaded down your back in soft waves.

prom. it was everything you’d ever dreamed of. expect, maybe you hadn’t dreamed of going with Natalie Scatorccio.

not that you didn’t adore Nat. you did, of course. intensely. she just wasn’t… prom. she was cigarettes and cheap liquor. she was the ghost of mischief that lingered in every hallway, a dare bubbling just beneath the surface of her eyes.

you heard the rumble of her beat-up car pull into the driveway, the engine coughing like a chain smoker. a nervous flutter erupted in your chest. you grabbed your clutch purse, took a deep breath, and walked out the door.

Nat was leaning against the hood of her car, a cigarette dangling from her lips, a smirk playing on her face. even though you knew her taste for things like that were probably unhealthy, she looked so alluring, so rebellious in that moment. she was wearing a thrift store suit that was slightly too big for her, the tie askew, but somehow she managed to make it look effortlessly cool.

“you look amazing.” she said, stubbing out her cigarette under her boot. the compliment, so simple and genuine, made your cheeks flush.

“you don’t look so bad yourself.”

she opened the passenger door for you with a flourish, and you slid into the worn leather seat, the scent of stale smoke and cheap cologne filling your nostrils. not exactly the romantic ambiance you’d envisioned.

“ready?” she asked, a glint in her eyes.

the prom was exactly as you expected. garish decorations, too-loud music, and a sea of familiar faces trying too hard to look like they were having the time of their lives. you danced a few slow songs with Nat, her awkward movements somehow endearing, but the whole thing felt… stilted. fake.

you were on your third glass of punch, the sugary sweetness doing little to quell the rising tide of boredom, when you felt Nat’s hand slip into yours.

“wanna get outta here?” she murmured, her breath warm against your ear.

the question hung in the air, a silent invitation to abandon the carefully constructed façade of prom night and embrace the thrill of something real. you looked into her eyes, saw the promise of adventure, and knew there was only one answer.

“definitely.”

she didn’t waste any time. within minutes, you were back in her car, the prom receding in the rearview mirror like a forgotten dream.

“where are we going?” you asked, as she navigated the familiar backroads.

“somewhere we can breathe.” she replied, her voice laced with a mischievous grin.

she drove further and further out of town, the landscape growing increasingly rural. finally, she pulled off onto a dirt road that led into a dense pine forest. the air was thick with the scent of pine needles and damp earth.

“c’mon,” Natalie said, grabbing a backpack from the back seat. “i know a spot.”

you followed her through the trees, the silk of your dress snagging on branches, your carefully styled hair becoming increasingly disheveled. you didn’t care. the weight of expectation had lifted, replaced by a sense of exhilaration.

you emerged into a small clearing, bathed in the soft glow of the moonlight. Nat spread a blanket on the ground and pulled out a small bag of weed. she sat down on the blanket and you sat down beside her.

“don’t tell me you’ve never done this before.” she said, raising an eyebrow.

you hasn’t. not with her, or really anyone. your crowd wasn’t the drug crowd. “i haven’t.”

she grinned. “then you’re in for a treat.”

you watched as she expertly rolled a joint and lit it, the flame of the lighter illuminating her face in the darkness. she took a long drag, held it in, and exhaled a cloud of smoke that dissipated into the night air.

“your turn.” Natalie said, handing you the joint.

you hesitated for a moment, then took a hit. the smoke burned your throat, and you coughed. Nat laughed, a low, throaty sound that sent shivers down your spine.

“easy there.” she said, guiding your hand.

after a few more tries, you got the hang of it. the world around you began to soften, the edges blurring, the sounds of the forest amplified. you laughed at something Nat said, a giddy, unrestrained laugh that surprised even you.

you lay back on the blanket, staring up at the stars, the universe unfolding before you. Nat was beside you, her hand intertwined with yours.

“this is so much better than prom.” you murmured, your voice slightly slurred.

“i told you,” she said, squeezing your hand. “we make our own magic, doll.”

surrounded by the darkness and the intoxicating haze of marijuana, you believed her. this wasn’t the prom you had dreamed of, but it was real. it was messy. it was you. and it was perfect.

the next morning, you woke up in your own bed, the faint smell of smoke clinging to your clothes, the corsage crushed on your nightstand. the memory of the night before was hazy, fragmented, but the feeling remained: a sense of freedom, of rebellion, of being truly seen by someone who didn’t care about your dress or perfect hair, but about the wild, untamed spirit that burned within you.

[senselessviolets]

“stay soft”

Roman Roy x Fem. Reader

Rating E (Smut)

Word Count: 3.3k

AO3 Link

WARNINGS:

Mommy kink, smut, some plot, this man has MOMMY ISSUES™️, gentle femdom, titplay, breast sucking, so much dirty talk, Roman gets called “baby” a lot, no PIV, no uses of Y/N

Author's Notes:

The people have spoken—y’all want Roman being fucking babied in bed so that’s what the fuck I did and I have zero regrets. Totally gave up in the end but school’s been incredibly draining for me so I’m proud of myself for even getting THIS out.

[Gif creds: I forget. if it’s yours, lemme know!!]

Summary:

You are an equally wealthy childhood friend of the Roys and Roman in particular. After years of little to no contact with him, he and you decide to finally act on the mutual attraction you both share in the most ‘Roman way’ you can think of. 

“Okay, but like if we…fuckin’...if we fuckin’ do this, I will want…some things. But I’m not g’na fuckin’ beg or anything…call you mommy, ‘goo goo ga ga’…none of that shit. I will want you…to be there…and I will want you to ‘not be there’...if you catch my drift. I-I don’t wanna hear a fuckin’ word or a single moan. I don’t want—I just don’t want it, okay. And this might sound bad—even though I’ve definitely said worse—but you would be just a-a means for me,” a voicemail blears in your ear as you are made aware of the four calls you missed in your slumber, “‘Kay? I dunno. Think it over. It’s not fuckin’ life or death. Until it is. And I kill you. And hide the body and burn the evidence…kidding! ‘Kay, love you, kidding, ‘kay, bye!”

This was uncharted territory for you both. 

You and Roman and the other Roy children were longtime family friends. Like Stewy Hosseni or a lesser example Ray Kennedy. What that meant was your incredibly loaded dad gave Logan Roy an ungodly sum of money in the nineties and had managed to stay on his good side ever since. At their status, that’s what qualified as ‘friendship’. Everything was a transaction at the end of the day. Like you suspected Logan and Caroline had bought their way into their kids’ hearts, to even be in the same room as these titans—to breathe the same air—you had to beg, steal, or borrow. Fortunately, you hailed from less-than-humble beginnings; your father being an incredibly successful venture capitalist-turned-philanthropist and your mother the heiress of a billion-dollar publishing company. 

But it was all just details. 

You were eternally grateful to be an only child, imagining an existence where you and your progeny were destined to forever claw at each other's throats—all for whatever scraps your parents were generous enough to leave you.

Unfortunate. ‘Pitiful’ felt more accurate. Every hollow soiree and vapid function served as a reminder. These were not your people. And they never would be. And yet—

“Heya! Well, you look less miserable than usual. Lemme guess, you finally ditched Loser What’s-His-Face and have taken up my longstanding advice of giving lesbianism a try,”

“Hi, Roman. No, I’ve actually been reminiscing about our younger years together. Remember the time you threw up in your mouth before presenting me my corsage the night of the winter formal? Seventh grade? Ring a bell?”

“That was because it only dawned upon me then that I would be getting Cody Keener’s sloppy seconds,” he answers, “I just couldn’t cope with that, I’m sorry,”

You slug him in the arm and he reacts overdramatically, as if someone stuck him with the pointy end of a knife. Onlookers included none other than Frank Vernon, Hugo Baker, and a close friend of your mom’s, Michelle Anne. This time, you and Roman had crossed paths at your father’s 70th birthday party. It was held at your parents’ penthouse on the Upper East Side and attracted a decent crowd. Faces you’d sworn you met pass you by as strangers come up to you, recounting memories of you who were only this tall. It was always a discombobulating experience but you continued to frolic and mingle nonetheless. 

In truth, this little ‘reunion’ was nothing but a facade. 

You and Roman had been talking for weeks now after years of no contact with one another. Brief texts turned into prolonged phone calls which by the end of the night became one-sided, pathetic voicemails expressing some sort of yearning for the other. It was becoming all-consuming and quite frankly, exhausting. And now it had finally come to blows. 

There was a plan, there were contingencies (of course, there were) but above all—there was transparency. And that was something you could hold onto. Oh, the many men who lied their way into your bed. And then here comes Roman, who’d made it abundantly clear he’d rather inhale glass than have you worm your way into his. So this scheme would not transpire at his place or yours. 

It would be occurring in a Central Park Suite at The Carlyle—just a quick jaunt from your parents’ place. He deigned to be a gentleman and handled the reservations as well as your transportation because you had to already be there. You were going to be lying on the bed, in some satiny sleepwear. No lingerie, no hosiery—nothing that could be construed as ‘sexy’. You were to look mundane, average, and bored. 

Roman would enter and you would be still and let him do as he pleased. While you’d had this endeavor nailed to a T, you’d be lying if you said the prospect of him going off-script—doing things rougher, harder, doors off the hinges, letting his darker impulses get the better of him—didn’t make your knees buckle a bit. 

So once the candles had been blown, the birthday wishes made, and goodbyes were said—you were to slide into his black Range Rover SV while his secondary chauffeur Crispin brought you to your destination. In your duffel was your change of clothes and a few other goodies. It had crossed your mind—once, twice how exceedingly easy it would be to bail right about now. Crispin could drop you off on the side of the road like some floozy and then your personal chauffeur could pick you up and drive you back to your cozy brownstone for a mundane evening spent by yourself—alone. That was the part that struck a pang in your stomach. That was the truly unbearable part. That, and the heat between your thighs which was starting to become really inconvenient. 

…

Now was not the time to get cold feet. 

You had already slid your sequin cocktail dress off and exchanged it for your satin sleepwear. Like the pretty kept thing he’d instructed you to be, you lay flat across the plush hotel mattress, awaiting his arrival, legs swinging to and fro like an eager teenage girl.

Maybe he’d be the one to pussy out.

At least then you’d have yet another thing to hold over his head for the foreseeable future. In your phone’s front-facing camera, you inspected the makeup you’d done earlier that evening for the party and it still seemed sufficient. Your lips seemed a bit drab. You roll off the bed and I sift through the contents of your bag, searching for the mauve lip color you’d brought along. Dabbing it onto the purse of your mouth while gazing into the mirror of the room’s modest vanity—you begin to lose track. 

This isn’t it and you know it. 

You know it. 

So fucking do something about it. 

Examining the time on the wall clock, you decide to hastily shake off your striped satin pj set and tear through your duffel for the sheer lace slip and matching long gloves. Not liking the unkemptness of your long hair at this particular moment, you palm your bag for one of the chignon French hairpins that had sunk their way to the bottom—a go-to for you since your younger years. The best you can muster is a half-up, loose, more-than-messy low bun because suddenly, a knock on the door can be heard. Your heart leaps into your throat and you shove your duffel bag into the armoire in a hurried panic. The click of the hotel room’s keycard lock comes next and you spring to the door as to be the one to open it. You and Roman meet each other’s gaze through the crack of the half-open door, you two beam down at your hands, enclosed over both sides of the handle. He is very noticeably startled, not expecting you to answer the door.

“C-Come on in,” you stutter, gesturing into the hotel suite with a gloved hand. 

Roman’s mouth goes dry. It is not all that often the family jester is able to be truly caught off-guard. This absolutely was one of those times. He shuffles into the room with tepid steps and doesn’t turn around to face you until he hears the door click shut. With a blank, nonchalant expression—he shrugs, prompting you to provide some sort of explanation. Of which, you do not possess. 

“What?” you say. 

“What’s…all of that about?”

“Yeah, sorry…wasn’t really feeling the pajamas tonight. I opted for something I felt was a little more fitting. You don’t mind, do you?”

“No,”

He definitely fucking does mind actually. But any frustration at being caught unawares expresses itself in the form of big beautiful hazel eyes beaming at you with fear and uncertainty. His lips are parted, unable to form the words he can’t even begin to think of at this particular moment.

“So…,”

“...so…?”

“So…lay down,” you finally say.

Roman is able to briefly channel the smarmy assholeishness he usually hones with a sarcastic scoff and smirk. He shakes his head to himself before his gaze finds the floor. 

“...I’m sorry, maybe you just didn’t hear me right the first time,” you say, crossing over until you are eye-to-eye with him and your competing breaths can be felt, “...or maybe I should’ve been a bit more specific.”

You lean in until your lips brush the outer shell of his right ear and he stops breathing. 

“Roman. Lay the fuck down on that bed. Now.”

He quickly scrambles onto the bed, resting on his back while slightly sitting up. There is a tentative eagerness in his demeanor as if the last hints of resistance in his muscles had yet to dissipate.

“Good. Now can you unbutton your shirt by yourself or do you need my help?”

“...I-I-I need your help,” he mindlessly babbles, “P-Please. Please, can you help me?”

You click your tongue at his wanton request, attempting to maintain your composure. It was after the first ‘please’ that you knew you were going to willingly give everything in you to this man right then and there. 

The safeguards? Fuck the safeguards. 

The time for self-preservation was about five or so minutes ago before his knuckles had rapped gently on the heavy wooden door. Without breaking eye contact, you straddle him effortlessly, both knees on either side of his hips. You aren’t certain because all the blood had flooded to your ears and you were unable to hear much over the thumping of your own heartbeat but you swear you hear a quiet ‘oh god’ slip out of him. Your fingers find the buttons on his grey button-down and your wrists noticeably begin to shake as they undo them.

For fuck’s sake.

Up until this point, you had conjured the impression that you were the one in control here and that there was nothing he could say or do otherwise. But now the true vulnerability of the situation had begun to set in. The playing field had been leveled. 

His fingers enrapture yours and he steadies your grasp as you both work to unbutton his shirt. Roman swallows, anxiously. You get more than half of the way there before he gives up and presses his face firmly to yours. 

It’s a declarative kiss. 

It’s long-lasting and when the two of you eventually break it—you know there’s no going back. Those hands of his, wracked with nerves, find their way to your hips. He slowly drags the lacey fabric up so your upper thighs are exposed. Once you can feel the soft flesh of your hips exposed to the cold air, you grab his wrists and he freezes. 

“Ah-ah-ah, I don’t think I remember saying you could do that,”

“I-I’m s-sorry. I’m sorry. Don’t—I’m sorry,”

“So many apologies, they just keep on coming,”

“I’m…,” he deeply exhales out of his nose. 

“You’re what? Wait, lemme guess,” you goad, “Sorry?”

He bobs his head up and down, face full of embarrassment.

“Hm…think I’m a little sick and tired of those ‘sorrys’, sweetie. You and that mouth of yours. Oh, that fuckin’ mouth of yours. You couldn’t even begin to imagine the amount of headaches it’s caused me in what, the two decades I’ve known you? What are we gonna finally do about that mouth?”

Roman looks up to you, hanging onto your every last word. 

“I-I don’t know, j-just tell me what to do. I can make it up to you, I-I promise,”

You genuinely take a moment to mull it over, though the growing hardness pressing against your most intimate place admittedly was making it hard to think.

“...I think…we need to find another use for that mouth of yours—something to keep it busy, hm? How does that sound, my sweet baby?”

You swear his face goes pale as he assumes you mean your cunt. While the thought had crossed your mind (many, many times in fact), knowing Roman—you know that would be too much. And that you would lose him forever somewhere along the way and you didn’t even want to begin to think about that. 

You tilt your head, staring longingly at that poor little boyish face of his. Your clothed index finger traces its way slowly from the exposed flesh of his tummy, up to his ribs, across his collarbone, along his Adam’s apple, over his bearded chin— finally stopping at his pinkish bottom lip. You pull it down, making him pout for you. 

“Open for me,” you utter softly. 

Roman obeys, his tongue moving upwards in his mouth when he swallows. You continue to tease around his mouth torturously, the lace creating a delicious friction against his beard. The heat of his pants against your lone finger makes you stir inside. 

“Now, close your eyes—mouth still open,”

He noticeably resists before relenting, his eyes flutter closed. You drop one of the spaghetti straps of the slip off of your shoulder, exposing yourself. Your nipple pebbles in the cool air conditioning of the room. You awkwardly lean your torso inwards, inching your breast closer to his mouth. For a brief second, his eyes flick open, taking in the scene. Catching your drift instantly, he swallows as much of the soft flesh as his mouth will allow, moaning into it. The most obscene sucking sounds soon fill the room. Roman whimpers into your skin, letting his head fall limp against your chest. You wrap your arms around his neck, cradling his head. His brown fluff of hair is too tempting for your hands to not tangle themselves in. 

“There, you go…you’re so good. You’re so good for me, aren’t you? Yeah?” you sigh, tilting your head backward.

You swear you can feel your hips gyrating on their own. Roman’s fingers have ensnared themselves onto the flimsy fabric of your slip, gripping it so tight you think it might tear. Not that you’d give a shit if it did. 

“Y’know what I think? I think you act the way you do all the fucking time because you’re just waiting for someone to come and put you in your place, is that right? Yeah? You’re a brat ‘cause you want someone to do this to you? Hm?”

He releases your nipple and an almost pornographic line of spit drools from his mouth. Roman’s lips are plump and rosy, kiss-bruised and swollen. You find out just how warm they’ve become when his wet mouth comes to meet your own in a kiss so messy, you know you’ll touch yourself thinking about it later.

“I-Is this good? A-Am I being a good boy for you?”

“Mm-hm, you’re being a very good boy for me. My good boy. Mommy’s good boy, right?”

“Yes, fuck, yes—” he sobs, moving onto your other breast.

His voice is shrill and wrought with desperation. You only ever heard it get this high-pitched when he was making a mocking impression of you or some other woman. And now here he was, making these noises all on his own. The edge of his bottom teeth catches your nipple in just the right away. You squeal, jolting upwards in his lap and laughing at the surprise sensation. He soothes the sensitive skin with the flat of his tongue immediately after. 

“That’s it. There’s my boy, there’s my sweet baby boy,”

All of the sudden, his hands leave your slip and fly to the buckle of his belt. Roman undoes his zipper and shimmies down his slacks enough to pull his dick out. He jerks it quickly with his eyes wound tightly shut in an attempt to get himself completely hard. 

“M-Mommy, c-can I see ‘it’? P-Please, god!” Roman begs out.

Your current position leaves his cock hidden by the hem of your slip. All you can see is the silhouette of his fist in the fabric pumping up and down speedily—relentlessly. He could easily just lift the skirt himself and look at your bare pussy, just as he hungrily wants but he doesn’t. 

He waits. He waits for you to give him permission. 

“See what, sweet boy? Say it, use your words for me. You’re a big boy, you can do it. I know you can,” 

Your hands cup his face and you rest your forehead on his. The skin is taught and slick with sweat. A vein above his brow becomes visible as he strains into his own palm. 

“What do you want, Roman?” you reiterate, trying to regain his attention.

“Fff-fuck! Your p-pussy, I wanna see y-your pussy!”

“All together. Say it all together. Say ‘Mommy, can I please see your pretty pussy?’” 

“Mommy, can I please see your pretty pussy?”

His eyes finally open and they aim downwards, expectantly. 

“Is that all you want, pretty boy?”

“N-N-yes!”

“Is that all you want?”

“No! No, I wanna cum, I-I wanna f-f-finish! W-Wanna finish on it,” he whines.

“All together, baby…”

“Mommy, can I please finish on your pretty pussy?! Please!”

It’s on the last syllable of his sentence that he erupts. Only as he’s cumming is he able to look at your cunt. You swiftly move the fabric up and his load catches the edge of it, the rest of it coating your exposed pussy. Roman falls backwards limp onto the pillow and you roll off of him and the bed and onto your jelly-like legs. The two of you don’t look at each other, occupying opposite sides of the room while you make yourselves decent. You shed your stained garment, using it to wipe your cunt clean. You fling it onto the hotel carpet and don’t think twice about it. 

“Mind if I…borrow that…for a bit?” a weak voice croaks from across the suite. 

You turn your head and smirk, still topless.

“All yours.”

Briefly, you catch a glimpse of Roman from behind, buttoning up his shirt. You pull up your dress, sweatier than before when you had taken it off. You expected there to be a palpable shift between the two of you, had everything gone according to plan. You figured the next RECNY ball that was just around the corner might be a bit awkward but it was nothing a few sarcastic quips and some alcohol couldn’t fix.

“My guy’s still waiting out front, so that’s my not-so-stealthy getaway. I can have Crispin pull around in twenty if I guess, I dunno, you wanted to shower the stank off of y…”

Roman’s words trail off as he becomes caught up in the sight of you; your cocktail dress zipped up halfway, your hair in an even messier updo than before, one heel on with the other remaining to be seen. It left him dumbfounded, feeling impulsive, like he could leave everything behind then and there and things might turn out alright. 

“Um…d’you maybe wanna just come with me…I dunno. Back at my place, I mean. And don’t make it into…it’s not a thing. Th-This is not a thing. But, yeah, we could order in whatever you, you could stay over, I-I got spare rooms–”

“Roman—”

“—it-its not like a big deal or anything, y’know? This isn’t, this wasn’t ‘a thing’. Fuckin’ labels and everything, I m—”

“Roman! That all sounds fine; I just would like to exit one of the nicest hotels in the damn city not looking like a two-bit whore, yeah? Come and zip me up,”

“I mean, if you ask me—I think it’s a rather fitting look,” he says, echoing your previous words.

“ROMAN!” 

“Alright, fuck, fine!”

End.

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<3

[concretejunglefm]

bestfriend!noah thot that has been brewing in my head for soso long

reader telling noah she’s never had sex even tho she has preached to him every which way about how her ex bf would fuck her any chance he got and noah being respectful thanks her for her honesty despite her lying withholding information (bc that’s a big thing to admit yknow)

she tells noah that she had always wanted him to be her first so that’s why she made up the lie in the first place but noah’s her best friend how could she just say that!!

then noah offers to be her first and…….. sigh yeah

hi bb I went for a real soft approach on this one, I hope you don't mind and you like it 💕

CW: smut including unprotected sex (p in v), first time, virgin!reader, soft and fluffy vibes/talk, light fingering (f receiving), confessions of love, best friends to lovers vibes.

Smut below the cut 🔞 Minors DNI.

“I was wondering… would you like to go to prom together?”

Noah had been contemplating asking you for nearly two weeks, ever since the posters advertising the school prom began coating the corridor walls, but your pause—between his question and your answer—caused him to hastily clarify something far from the truth, something that didn’t reflect how he really wanted to go with you.

“As friends.”

He didn’t get the chance to go with you—not even as friends.

Lately, you’ve been having these conversations more often. Gentle topics, approached lightly, but Noah knows the inevitable is coming—the kind of discussions you’ve both danced around, avoiding with careful footwork. A practiced tango where neither of you misses a beat.

And it’s in this rhythm that Noah’s confession finally slips free.

“When I asked if you wanted to go to prom together, I meant it as more than friends.”

Saying it aloud now sounds almost ridiculous. To admit the fear he felt in your delayed response, how that silence twisted in his chest, forcing him to blurt out ‘as friends’, like it didn’t splinter something deep inside him. No, you weren’t anything more than friends by label, but the way you look at each other—God, it tells a different story.

Back then, part of Noah had dreamed of walking hand-in-hand with you. Dancing together beneath whatever dollar-store decorations the gym had that year. That version of prom never happened, not as friends, and not as anything more.

But now, he’s determined to make it right.

It’s been less than a week since Noah brought it up. You honestly expect that he may have forgotten—but in truth, what he needs is time to prepare.

When you arrive at his, he banishes you to his bedroom with firm instructions: change into what he’s left for you, and don’t come out until he knocks. You attempt to peek over his broad shoulders as he directs you, stealing a glance past his larger frame to the multitude of bags spread out across the living room.

“What do you have planned?” you ask, brow arched.

His answer is firm—an instruction, giving you nothing. “Upstairs. Now.”

Stepping into his bedroom, you softly close the door behind you. Before you can even snoop around for a hint of what he has planned, your eyes catch on a large box laid out on the bed, finished with a ribbon and a card tucked beneath it.

You trace your fingers along the ribbon before slipping them beneath and retrieving the card. Tentatively, you open it, reading the soft inscription: No prom date is complete without a dress.

Tears press at your waterline, and you do your best to blink them away, but it’s opening the box that truly steals your breath.

Resting atop a folded dress is a white and red corsage made of delicate carnations. A soft sob catches in your throat as you reach in and gently lift it, stroking the petals before your eyes fall to the red dress beneath it.

You unfold it and hold it up against yourself, marveling at the sight. It’s a near-perfect match to the one you wore back then, but how Noah knew, you have no idea. He’d dropped out of school before prom came around, focusing on his band while you had your date—your first official boyfriend. Things only grew further apart from there, until recently, when your breakup seemed to pull you and Noah back together.

When you step in front of the mirror after slipping the dress on, you blink back tears long enough to really look at yourself. You’re not seventeen anymore—you don’t feel like a girl playing dress-up in something fancy, but the way your heart pounds in your chest, the butterflies swirling in your stomach,  it makes you feel it more than ever.

You honor Noah’s request and wait. You don’t leave the room until you hear his knock, and when you do—he’s changed, too.

His suit is slick, charcoal grey—the only one he owns, but it fits. A white and red carnation, matching your corsage, is pinned to his lapel. You’re not the only one losing your breath, because the second the door opens and he lays eyes on you, his is gone too.

“You look… wow. Wow. Oh, wow…”

A heat blooms in your cheeks and you drop your head, shying away, but he reaches out, his hand gently finding your cheek, guiding you to look back at him. His eyes lock onto yours, and he can’t stop smiling, he doesn’t think he ever will.

You look like you belong in a movie—like the kind of sight people write songs about, and maybe he will write one about tonight.

“Can I?” he gestures toward the corsage in your hand, taking it before you have the chance to answer. He slips it onto your wrist, and the brush of his fingers against your skin makes your heart skip a beat. You almost dare to believe you’re dreaming—until his fingers slip between your own, guiding you down the hallway and stairs.

At the bottom of the stairs awaits your first cheesy prom tradition: photos. The backdrop is a constellation sheet he found at Goodwill, which hangs a little crooked, but the effort makes it perfect.

“Say cheese,” he instructs, slipping behind you and falling into generic poses as Bryan takes a few snapshots. It takes until now to realize you’re not entirely alone—you can hear faint chatter coming from another part of the house, the living room, which has been blocked from your view. You imagine it’s the rest of Noah’s friends, and when he leads you into the main room—the now-transformed living room—you see them all hanging around, dressed in suits or their own versions of prom attire.

His living room has become a starry dream—more middle school dance than high school prom, maybe, but it’s magical anyway. Fairy lights sparkle, tinsel glimmers from every corner, and glow-in-the-dark stars blanket the ceiling and walls. Noah’s stuck them anywhere he could reach, and he’ll be finding them for weeks—but it’ll all be worth it for this.

“A night under the stars,” he says, grinning nervously. “It’s cheesy, right? You think it’s cheesy.” He panics before you even get the chance to speak, but the look on your face silences every fear.

“Dance with me.”

It’s not a question.

You take his hand, and he pulls you close, your body melting against his. Over his shoulder, you spot Matt—semi-dressed-up with an open shirt over a Lord of the Rings T-shirt—controlling the music. He switches it to something slower and softer.

Georgia, wrap me up in all your… I want ya in my arms Oh, let me hold ya…

Your hand finds Noah’s chest, palm flat over his heart. You can feel it—strong, steady, racing. You move effortlessly with him, a soft, swaying rhythm that matches the hum of the music, the lyrics washing over you both like waves.

Tears gather at the corners of your eyes and slip down your cheeks before you realize they’ve fallen. Noah pulls back just enough to see you, and the sight of you makes his breath catch—like the world has narrowed to just this moment.

This is the memory he had wished for a thousand times before: dancing with the love of his life at eighteen. The chance you never had back then, but here, now—it doesn’t matter anymore.

He holds you like you’re everything, and he’s never loved you more.

I would never fall in love again until I found her I said, I would never fall unless it’s you I fall into I was lost within the darkness, but then I found her I found you.

This is everything your prom should have been—and so much more.

When Noah leans down and dares to kiss you, it’s everything he could have ever imagined and yet somehow more. Your lips are soft and warm, and you make a gentle hum in response, as though you’re lingering in it the way he is. His heartbeat, thrumming in his chest, matches the rhythm of your pulse racing beneath his hand as he cups the side of your neck, holding you close in the embrace.

For a moment, you linger. You don’t say a word, just sway to the music, his forehead resting against yours. Neither of you dares to break away too soon, to fall back into reality.

It’s you who breaks the spell first, a soft confession slipping from between your lips.

“I always wanted you to be my first, you know. After prom… I thought that…”

You don’t finish the sentence, you know he can draw the conclusion of what you had anticipated. Even if Noah had suggested going as friends, you held onto the hope that it meant more—that prom night would change your friendship forever into something better.

“I’m sorry that I couldn’t be.”

You hear it, there’s a faint hint of something in his voice, as though there’s genuine sorrow over not having been that person for you, and while you would have chosen to hold onto your words longer, you can’t stop them from tumbling out in one breath.

“You still can be.”

Noah pauses, pulling back to gaze down at you. His face twists, and for a moment, you think he’s going to be upset with you, but as quickly as the thought comes, his shoulders relax, his features softening—as though he understands without you needing to explain about why you lied—or rather, why you never corrected any assumptions he’d made about you and your previous relationship.

“Do you really mean that?”

You can’t quite pinpoint it, but it looks like relief that washes over him. Like he’s happy to know your ex never had you in the way he clearly always wanted to, and while he doesn’t say it out loud, it’s exactly what he’s thinking.

You nod—slow, but sure and he meets your mouth with another kiss, whispering softly, “We’ll take it at your pace.”

That’s all you need—his assurance, the tenderness in his words that allows you to fall into him even further.

Everything is at your pace. It’s you who takes Noah’s hands and guides him out of the ‘prom’ and up the stairs to his bedroom. You who starts pushing the suit jacket from his shoulders, your fingers tentatively trailing along the buttons of his shirt. When his mouth meets yours again, it’s soft and warm, and it sets off fireworks behind your eyes. This kiss is more intense, more devouring, more devoted than the one you shared downstairs.

It’s you who can’t hide your hunger for him anymore—no longer shying away from how you feel. You’ve held back for too long.

Piece by piece, you strip off your clothes until you’re falling back onto the bed together, Noah slotted between your thighs, both of your chests heaving with a mix of nerves and anticipation.

“Is this okay?” he asks, his fingers delicately gliding across your skin, following the curve of your hips before they tickle along your stomach—making your body arch instinctively toward him.

“Yes…” you breathe, your fingers threading into his hair as you guide him back down to meet you. Your mouth finds his in a slow, gentle kiss, and the moment his hand slips between your thighs, a moan escapes into his mouth. His fingers circle your clit, teasing over the sensitive nub, and your hips rise instinctively, pushing closer to him.

“Noah…” you whimper, tugging at his hair. He smirks against your lips before trailing kisses along your chin, down your throat, pressing soft, reverent ones to the front of it. You’re sure he’s about to say something teasing about patience, but instead, he covers your skin in kisses, whispering the sweetest nothings—words that have your toes curling before he’s even inside you.

Beneath him, you raise your hips, trying to coax him closer, your skin tingling from the heat of his body and the way his throbbing erection presses against your thigh. 

“Please…” you whisper, breathless, your nails dragging down his back. Then you hear the soft rustle of foil. You reach for his hand, stopping him. “No, please—I want to feel you. I need to feel you inside me, Noah. Please… please, baby.”

The way you say ‘baby’ sends a surge of heat through him, pulling a trembling groan from his throat. Your pet names sound sinful and sweet when they fall from your lips like that, especially when you’re in this state—desperate, vulnerable, utterly his.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, his lips brushing your throat, then trailing back up to yours. You answer with a soft, affirming sound, your eyes full of need.

The condom he’d been fumbling with is tossed aside, forgotten, as he slips a hand beneath you, cradling the back of your thigh, while the other wraps around his cock, guiding himself to you.

The press of his tip against your slit draws out a soft, needy sound from your lips. Your hips buck against him, your body craving him, aching to be filled. Slowly, he begins to sink into you, and a deep groan escapes his throat as your head falls back with a sharp gasp, followed by a moan that fills the space between you.

“How does that feel?” he whispers.

You clench around him in response, pulling him deeper, and he twitches inside you with a shudder.

“So good,” you whimper—and it does feel good. Incredible, in fact. It’s overwhelming and perfect all at once, like he’s sliding home to where he truly belongs and it’s a sentiment Noah shares, because nothing has ever felt so fittingly right as being wrapped in you, like this.

“I’ll start slow, okay?” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours, grounding you with a hand at your waist, cradling you close. “Okay?” he presses again, waiting for your answer, needing it—any sign that you’re okay.

A faint “yes” falls from your lips as your fingers tangle back into his hair, urging him on. You hold him close, your body trembling beneath him, unraveling with pleasure.

Every slow drag of him through your soft, velvet walls sends a shiver down his spine, right to the base of his cock and you feel it, too—the slow build in your stomach, a warmth that tightens with every movement, something you can’t quite name but know you never want to end.

“Feels…” you gasp, another moan tumbling out. “So good.”

Your legs wrap around him, desperate to pull him closer, and it’s enough to make him sink even deeper. Your bodies are completely pressed together as his hips move in a slow, deliberate rhythm. You’re wrapped in each other—lost in the pleasure, the affection, the shared breaths and whispered truths that make this more than just sex. It’s love, pure and soft and all-consuming.

Noah’s confessions come in panted breaths against your skin. “I’ve always loved you. I don’t think there’s been a time I didn’t. And I’ve always thought about this… about you, about being with you.”

You clench around him, and he throbs inside you, perfectly in sync. Your bodies respond to each other instinctively, like they’ve always belonged together. The slow buildup of your climaxes comes with soft declarations of love, yours whispered against his jawline, teeth brushing the scruff that grazes your cheek with every movement.

And when you fall apart, it’s together—loud and messy, with moans and soft cries, praises and confessions tumbling out between gasps. You give yourselves over completely to what you’ve both fantasised about for so long: two best friends, deeply in love, finally and completely each other’s.

tagged: @fadingangelwisp @deathblacksmoke  @geminigirlfromfinland @fuck1ng-queen @xxkittenkissesxx @lacy1986 @ami--gami @floodflameschosen @dominuslunae @tosoundlessdarkistare @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @lonelydragonlady @th4t-em0-k1d @amelia-acero @dollieomens  @sitkowski @athenexe @trvshdxddy @collapsedglasshouses @overmydeadbodysblog @xmads-omensx @ajordan2020 @astronoids @courta13 @oobleoob @bluehairpunklol @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @swissy23 @i-love-the-smell-of-you-blood @concretenoah @death-ofpeace-ofmind @ichoosetenderomens @chey-h @blade-dressed-in-red @limerinseme @lilgarbitch @pipidoll @heyyoplayer @iconictaurus @flowery-mess

[notbecauseofvictories]

50/50

Well, 2024 sure did...happen.

Anyway! I didn't set any sort of goal to watch 50 films and read 50 books this year, but that's where I ended up. Neither number is exactly accurate, and I'm leaving out television, revisiting what I've already read/watched, and all the ridiculous novels I pick up when I'm hungover, but still. I'm kind of impressed with myself. I didn't get to 50 books last year, and I don't think I've watched 50 movies in a year ever---but the more I watch them, the more I explore what they can do and communicate, the more I want to see. As a lifelong reader, it's interesting to explore a new kind of art, to try and intuit your way in through a strikingly different form of communicating the exact same humanness.

TOP FIVE 2024

FILMS

The Florida Project (2017)

Crimes of the Future (2022)

M (1931)

Something in the Dirt (2022)

We’re All Going to the World’s Fair (2021)

It's been months and months since I saw The Florida Project, and I still think about it. The bright and artificial sherbet coloring of it; the dank and mold and shadows that linger around the edges....Actually, I think of all these films in terms of their aesthetics first. Not that there wasn't a story there, but because they all represent such a marriage with form. Consider Crimes of the Future with its fading decay, its browns and rust; M with its stylized, refined cityscape even in the greyscale of 30s cinema; Something in the Dirt where every shot is mundane, or fantastical or both; and We're All Going to the World's Fair, with the particular blue-grey loneliness of the internet age. Surely the benefit of watching a movie (as opposed to anything else) is being presented with something to watch, and I like when directors and creative teams understand that.

Honorable mention to American Psycho (2000) since I'm still a little insane about it---or maybe Corsage (2022) because whether or not it was a good movie, it was nevertheless the most uncompromising, brutal portrait of a historical figure I've seen.

BOOKS

The Rehearsal, Eleanor Catton

Big Swiss, Jen Beagin

Vintner's Luck, Elizabeth Knox

Wylding Hall, Elizabeth Hand

Diavola, Jennifer Thorne

Some people may try to tell you that horror is a discrete genre---I am here to tell you that it's not. All great novels are horror stories, and those listed above especially. From The Rehearsal's self-important artistes, to the therapy-speak Millennials of Big Swiss, to the musicians of Wylding Hall (who miss every sign that Something Is Happening) and the Pace family of Diavola (who deny that the signs mean anything, even after fleeing their vacation home in the night)....all these novels are a study in people experiencing something painful, even terrible. And yet, that provides incredibly fertile territory for their authors to explore the things that come with horror---complicity, desire for closeness, narration and performance, the open wound of family, the thin netting of modernity that keeps us from plunging into something older and darker than we can comprehend.

The only exception might be Vintner's Luck. Not because it's not there as a theme, but because the novel itself spans the narrator's life. By the time he's middle-aged he's committed so many errors, he can't judge too harshly when others do. In this respect it's almost an answer to the questions horror poses---not just how do you survive this? but how do you go on, having survived that?

Honorable mention to Dead Inside, by Chandler Morrison, because it was stomach-turning in the very best way. Echoes of Cipher by Kathe Koja---when an author really knows, really understands, how to wield grossness without shirking or apologizing for it, the result is delightful.

Books of 2020 | Books of 2021 | Books of 2022 | Books of 2023

[heartstringsduet]

Happy Wednesday! Have a snippet from the agent fic the wonderful @welcometololaland are working on.

TK pastes on a smile he knows will even fool his best friends. “Is he hot?”

Paul scans him, ever the detective, but eventually lets up. “Who? Our contact?”

“No,” TK corrects. “Monarch. My handler.”

“How am I supposed to know that?”

“Come on. I know Marjan. She’s not exactly shy about her opinions about literally anything, so if there’s a hot guy at the office, you’d know.”

Paul shakes his head with a smile. He pats his bed, not stopping until TK sits down next to him. It’s always odd to meet agents, friends, family, the first few minutes a mutual shedding of suspicion that dissipates now as he nudges Paul’s shoulder. This is the friend whose back he rubbed when Paul threw up glitter at a club, who rubbed TK’s back when yet another man broke up with him. 

“Alright, she said that he’s easy on the eyes,” Paul admits.

“What exactly does he--” TK broke off. “No, don’t tell me details.”

Paul raised an eyebrow again. “What’s that about? How are you two getting along? Anything I should know about him?”

“I mean you spoke to him. How did the debrief go?”

Paul shrugs, face neutral. “Fine. I can appreciate his precision.”

He waits it out until TK finally answers the question he was asked too.

“It was a rocky start but he’s…" TK clears his throat. "He’s a bit too stuck-up, too careful one moment, and a pushy bastard other times. Probably gets off on ordering people around outside of work too.” Paul makes a face and TK wins. See, manipulation is TK's thing; with his friends he uses it to humor them. “But he also is dependable and has a good heart -- the other day he warned me to watch my step because I nearly walked into a puddle. And I think he tries to hide it but he has this silly side.” Paul doesn’t interrupt him, though his lips twitch a bit. Something about it prompts TK to say, “I told him I would try and find him at the holiday party without any help on what he looks like.”

This, Paul reacts too, eyes widening before he asks, “You think that’s a good idea?”

He knew Paul wouldn’t like it. He surrounds himself with rule-followers, apparently. TK shrugs. “Probably not.”

OPEN TAG &

@carlossreaders @annoyingcloudearthquake @carlos-in-glasses @carlos-tk @future-tense

@paperstorm @strandnreyes @henrygrass @lightningboltreader @eclectic-sassycoweyes

@lemonlyman-dotcom @theghostofashton @ladytessa74 @freneticfloetry

@liminalmemories21 @emsprovisions @sapphic--kiwi @neverblooms

@welcometololaland @rmd-writes @alrightbuckaroo @decafdino

@tellmegoodbye @ironheartwriter @literateowl @reyesstrand

@butchreyes @corsage @honeybee-taskforce @orchidscript @neversleepuntilfive

@never-blooms @irispurpurea @everlastingday @theghostofashton

@nisbanisba @bonheur-cafe @certifiedflower @firstprince-history-huh @denizoid

@nancys-braids @chicgeekgirl89 @ironheartwriter @pimento-playing-hopscotch

@rangersoup @the-126-family @carlos-tk @ladyknight1512 @onswiftshorses

@whatsintheboxmh @thisbuildinghasfeelings

[twdgrxmes]

Trouble - TrailerPark!Daryl Dixon x GoodGirl!Reader (Part 10)

<-prev next->

WC: 2025

Tags: Arguing?

The Next Morning

SOPHIA’S POV

The sun was barely peeking through the blinds when your bedroom door creaked open. You were still wrapped in yesterday’s tiredness, face half-buried in your pillow, body tangled in the sheets, hair smelling faintly of hairspray. 

You didn’t need to lift your head to know it was him.

Your father.

He was whistling. Whistling. Like it was the best morning of his life.

“You awake, kiddo?” he asked cheerfully, his voice followed by the sound of his boots crossing the hardwood.

You groaned, rolling over. “Barely.”

“Well, you better get used to early mornings,” he teased. “Can’t sleep the day away when you’re a deputy’s girl.”

You opened your eyes fully, blinking at him. He was in full sheriff mode—uniform tucked and pressed, badge gleaming, mug of black coffee in hand. But instead of heading out, he was cleaning.

Actually cleaning.

He was picking up the throw blanket from your floor and folding it. Straightening your bookshelf. Plucking bobby pins off your dresser and humming like he was ready to break into song.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” you mumbled.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he replied, pulling open your curtains to let the light in. “You had a great night, didn’t you? Shane said y’all had a good time.”

You nodded vaguely, rubbing your eyes. “Yeah. It was… fine.”

“Fine?” he repeated, raising a brow like that was an insult. “Shane came by the station this morning. Dropped off your corsage—said it was too pretty to toss. That boy’s got manners. Real potential.”

You sat up slowly, back against your headboard. “You’re not gonna make me frame the corsage, are you?”

He laughed. “Not unless you’re already thinkin’ about wedding colors.”

You stared at him. “Dad.”

“What?” he said innocently, holding up his hands. “I’m just sayin’… it’s nice. Seein’ you with someone steady. Someone who’s got a future lined up. Hell, he’s already workin’ shifts part-time. You could do a lot worse than a man like Shane Walsh.”

Your stomach twisted. “We’re not engaged.”

“Not yet,” he said, pulling your desk chair in neatly under the table. “But don’t think I didn’t notice him eyein’ your ring finger last night. Boy’s serious about you, Soph. Wouldn’t be surprised if a promise ring shows up by Thanksgiving.”

You stared at the blanket in your lap, fingers curling around the edge of it like you could anchor yourself there.

“Things change,” he added, a little softer now. “But some things… they feel right from the start. And I got a feeling about this one.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Your dad moved to pick up the clothes draped over your desk chair, muttering something about laundry, and then paused.

He turned slowly.

“What’s this?” he asked, pulling a familiar lump of fabric from the pile.

Your breath caught.

There, crumpled between your hoodie and the hem of your dance dress, was his hoodie. Faded black. Worn at the cuffs. Smelled like smoke and cedar wood and memories you’d tried to bury.

Daryl’s hoodie.

Your father lifted it with a frown, holding it up like a strange artifact. “This doesn’t look like Shane’s.”

You sat up straighter, heart pounding. “It’s just—” 

You scrambled for words. “Jess’s. She left it here weeks ago.”

Your dad turned it over, inspecting the hem, the tag long faded.

“Jess wears Men’s Large now?” he asked, one brow lifting, skeptical.

You bit your cheek. “It’s her cousin’s. Or… something.”

Your father chuckled, but it was empty, blunt. 

“So Jess’s cousin just happens to wear the same hoodie that that piece of trash Dixon was wearin’ the night I had to drag his sorry ass off Shane at that damn party?”

Your eyes burned. “Please—just let me explain—”

“Oh, I’d love to hear this,” he spat. “Go ahead. Tell me how Dixon’s hoodie ended up in my house, in my daughter’s room. Tell me how long you've been lyin’ to my face.”

You swallowed hard. “Since… since he fixed the Chevy.”

His face twisted like you’d punched him.

“You mean to tell me,” he said slowly, dangerously low, “you’ve been sneakin’ around with that boy since he worked on my damn car? That was months ago. Hell, that was the beginning of Summer”

Your voice cracked. “I didn’t mean for it to happen—”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” he roared, taking another step forward. “You lied to me. Repeatedly. You went behind my back. With him? After what his family’s done in this town? After what he pulled at the party?”

“Because he was defending me!” you shouted through tears. “Because Shane wouldn’t take no for an answer and you didn’t want to hear it!”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, something flickered behind his eyes—guilt. But it vanished in the next breath, buried beneath fury.

“You think that excuses it?” he said, voice low and vicious. “You think that justifies crawling into bed with a Dixon?”

Your voice rose in pitch, barely coherent through your sobs. “I didn’t crawl into bed with anyone! We—we talked. We saw each other. He made me feel safe. He listened.”

He stared at you like he didn’t recognize you anymore. “You’ve lost your damn mind.”

You pressed your fists to your chest, trembling. “He broke my heart.”

That stopped him cold.

You wiped at your cheeks, shaking. “He told me he wasn’t good enough for me and just—just walked away. He left me, and I can’t even hate him for it because he thought he was protecting me from you.”

Your father’s face was stone, but his nostrils flared. “And you love him?” he asked, the words like poison in his mouth.

You nodded, voice raw. “I love him. And I never told you because I knew you’d react like this.”

Your father stepped toward you, towering, eyes black with rage. “You’re done. Do you hear me? Done. You will not see him. You will not speak his name. If I so much as see that boy near you—on the street, in this house, anywhere—I'll put him in a cell so fast he won’t know what hit him.”

“You can’t—”

“I can. And I will. I’ll make sure he never sets foot in this town again. He won’t get within a hundred yards of you without a goddamn restraining order.”

Your sobs filled the room, your father just shook his head firmly.

“I raised you better than this,” he said coldly. “You don’t know what love is.”

You stared up at him through tear-blurred eyes. “Then maybe you never taught me.”

The silence was deafening. Then he turned and walked out, the door slamming behind him so hard the walls shook.

You stayed there on the floor, clutching Daryl’s hoodie to your chest like it was the only thing left of him.

And for the first time in your life, you wished you weren’t the sheriff’s daughter at all.

~

The Next MorningBennet House – Back Porch

Jess didn’t knock.

She found you curled up on the back porch swing, Daryl’s hoodie draped around your shoulders like a second skin, your legs pulled tight to your chest. You hadn’t even made it to school. Hadn’t touched your coffee. The porch creaked gently with your weight, but the air was still.

Broken.

She crouched beside you slowly, like one wrong move might shatter you completely. “Hey,” she said softly.

You didn’t answer. Just stared out past the porch railing like the world had gone flat.

Jess slid down beside you, tucking her knees up. “You’re not coming to school today?”

You swallowed. “He knows.”

Jess’s eyes widened slightly. “About Daryl?”

You just nodded, eyes brimming with fresh tears.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, placing a steady hand over yours.

You laughed bitterly, no joy in it. “He said if he saw Daryl again, he’d have him arrested. Said he’d get a restraining order. He looked me in the face and told me I didn’t know what love is.”

Jess clenched her jaw. “God, I knew he’d lose it, but…” She shook her head, breath tight. “That man is more concerned with his image than your damn heart.”

You looked over at her finally, voice barely above a whisper. “He said Daryl wasn’t good enough. That I was the one who’d lost my mind.”

Jess exhaled hard. 

She took your hand and gave it a squeeze. “You’re not crazy. You hear me? What you had with Daryl? That was real. And if your father can’t see that, then he’s the one who doesn’t know love.”

You dropped your head to your knees. “He’s not coming back, Jess. Daryl’s not coming back. I never even got to tell him I loved him. It’s all gone.”

Jess went quiet.

Dead quiet.

Then she stood.

You glanced up at her, confused. “Where are you—?”

“To get that boy’s stubborn ass out of whatever hole he’s crawled into,” she snapped, grabbing her keys from her bag like it was war. “You love him. He loves you. And this whole mess? It doesn’t end like this. Not with you crying on a porch in his hoodie while your dad tries to rewrite your life.”

You blinked, stunned. “Jess, you don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do,” she said, already halfway down the steps. “Because I’m not gonna sit back while the best thing that ever happened to you runs off just ‘cause he’s scared of the consequences.”

~

The Garage off Route 9 – Later That Morning

DARYL’S POV 

The garage was already sweltering by the time Jess pulled up, dust kicking up behind her tires. Daryl was hunched under the hood of a rusted out pickup, sleeves pushed up, jaw set, a scowl permanently etched into his face. Sweat clung to his brow, but he didn’t so much as flinch when Jess slammed her car door and marched toward him.

“You better be alone,” she barked, stopping a foot away.

Daryl didn’t look up. “Ain’t in the mood, Jess.”

She scoffed. “Tough. You’re gonna hear this.”

He wiped his hands on a rag and tossed it aside, finally looking at her with guarded eyes. “What now?”

“She told him,” Jess said sharply. “Her dad. She told him everything. About the two of you. About Shane. About how she felt.”

Daryl froze.

“You left her to face that man alone, and she still stood there and defended you,” Jess continued, voice shaking with emotion. “You broke her heart, and she still loved you enough to fight for you. To tell the truth. Don’t you get that?”

He swallowed hard, shoulders tense. “She what?”

“She stood up to him, Daryl. And he tore into her like she was some damn criminal. Said if he saw you again, he’d arrest you. She’s home right now, crying in your hoodie like it’s all she’s got left of you.”

Daryl’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

Jess shook her head, disgusted. “You really gonna let her think you’re gone for good? After everything?”

“She’s better off—”

“Stop.” Jess stepped forward, finger in his face. “You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to make that decision for her. She loves you, Daryl. She wants you. Not Shane. Not her dad’s fantasy of a perfect match. You. And if you can’t see how rare that kind of loyalty is, then maybe you’re the fool he says you are.”

Daryl’s jaw tightened, eyes wet.

“I’m scared,” he muttered. “Not just of him. Of her. Of not bein’ enough. Of ruinin’ her.”

Jess’s voice dropped, steadier now. “She doesn’t need perfect. She needs real. And Daryl, you are. She needs someone who’ll care enough to fight for her.” 

He blinked, struggling to breathe past the weight in his chest.

Jess stepped back and crossed her arms. “Come to the game Friday night. Talk to her then.”

And with that, she turned and left.

Daryl stood there a long time after her car was gone, the world muffled around him, heart thudding like it was ready to leap out of his ribs.

Maybe he didn’t deserve her.

But she loved him anyway.

And maybe that was all that mattered.

[juniper-sunny]

The Art in the Heart* - Chapter 11

For your first date, Silco has a lot in store for you: a harrowing tale from his past, along with the oddest of surprises...

Happy Ending AU | Silco x Reader | Young!Silco | F!Reader | No [Y/N] | Slow Burn | Romance | Eventual Smut | Fluff | Angst | Hurt/Comfort | Fix-It || SFW | WC: 4.6k

beta reader: @silcoitus <33

ao3 || Masterlist || Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5 | Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8  |Chapter 9 | Chapter 10

───────────────── ●◉◎◈◎◉● ─────────────────

Life in the Undercity is short, so courtship rituals are fast and intense, especially for the youth. Maturing quickly is a matter of survival in Zaun, and romance is no exception.

 You have a decent amount of experience yourself, maybe a little less than average. But it wasn’t something you ever discussed with Silco. As curious as you were about that aspect of his life, you didn’t know how to bring it up casually, especially without drawing attention to yourself. Once, Vander had asked Silco how long it had been since his last visit to Babette’s. Your friend had rolled his eyes and retorted coolly, but had still flushed a deep red to the tips of his ears.

 Needless to say, you hadn’t pressed him to answer the question directly.

Sometimes, your shifts at the Embrace involve supervising children. You’ve lost count of how many times kids and teenagers have confided in you about their own relationship woes. Of course, you always listened sympathetically, offering comfort, advice, hugs, snacks, or a shoulder to cry on depending on the situation. But you can’t help but feel an amused awe when a girl around Vi’s age vents to you about a love triangle she’s involved in. 

Now, on the night of your first date with Silco, you curse yourself for not paying closer attention, wracking your brain for any helpful suggestions you could follow tonight. According to one teenage girl you overheard, you shouldn’t kiss until the third date. 

So much for that advice. 

At the time, Silco had seemed enthusiastic when he kissed you back. But you had days to exhaustively replay that moment over and over again in your head. 

Did he really want you? Or was he just caught up in the moment? Had he pulled away too soon? Was he smiling or grimacing?

 You tried to tell yourself that everything was fine. He hadn’t canceled the date, after all.

 But your worries still gnawed on you, late at night when the giddiness and anticipation turned to anxiety. It led to a lot of sleepless nights that worsened the dark shadows under your eyes.

 Then there was the matter of what you’re going to wear. Silco had said he wanted to bring you somewhere “special”, and he was fairly confident that you hadn’t been there already. He refused to give you any more hints, saying that he wanted to surprise you. Was this place in Zaun or Piltover? You’d have to take the answer into consideration when planning your outfit. Undercity garb would be too scrappy for the upper city, but Topside couture would be too fancy for the underground.

 For now, with less than an hour left before Silco is due to pick you up, you put on your nicest dress from the Undercity. It’s sleeveless and clean, light gray with plenty of decorative dark straps and brightly polished brass trappings. A wide, leather wrap pulled tight around your waist helps emphasize your curves like a corset. The dress ends just above the ground, long but still loose enough to be breezy; you can’t help but admire how it twirls flirtatiously when you spin. Your black ankle boots have a low heel, scrubbed clean of all grime from the Undercity.  

To add a romantic flair to your look, you style your hair elegantly and pick out a corsage of nightbloom flowers. The petals are long, silky, and pointed, the outer layer a seven-pointed star of purple and the inner star of red. The green and white stamens complement the pale pitcher plant next to it, its red veins matching the crimson ribbon tied in a bow around your wrist. Zaunite flora might not be able to match the beauty of their Piltover counterparts, but you know that Silco will appreciate you wearing your Undercity pride on your arm.

Just as you throw on a vest jacket, someone knocks at the door. 

Nervous, you force yourself to take some deep, steadying breaths. You still can’t help but run to the door and almost trip over yourself before you open it.

Silco stands there, tall and straight, his handsomely carved profile illuminated by the low sun. He has most of his hair neatly pulled back in a bun, except for his bangs hanging rakishly over his left eye. With his hair out of his face, he looks so dashing that you almost miss the pale gold tie knotted at his throat, tucked snugly under the collar of a blood-red shirt. The tie slips under a dark vest with brass clasps and studs, clinging close to his lean waist. He has his jacket sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off his wiry forearms. A picnic basket hangs in the crook of his arm. 

“Good evening,” he says casually, taking a step closer to you. The movement of his lips brings back the irrepressible memory of the kiss, and you blush deeply.

 Even with your eyes turned downwards at his polished, steel-toed boots, you struggle with the impulse to close the distance between you and kiss him. Your shyness wins out and you force yourself to stay put on your threshold, dragging your gaze up his cheekbones before meeting his brilliant eyes. “Hi.” 

He looks at you gently, the softest you’ve ever seen, a light and warm smile playing around his mouth. It spreads into a toothy grin of appreciation when he says, “You’re beautiful.” 

“Thanks,” you stammer out, blushing even deeper. Your face is hot as you turn away from him to pull your front door closed behind you, your hands fumbling with your keys as you lock it. “I like your new hairdo.” 

“Is my hairstyle the only facet of my appearance that appeals to you?” he asks teasingly. 

“No! You look great tonight—I mean, you always look great—but tonight you look—extra great—red is an amazing color on you—” you babble, inwardly cringing at your inability to shut up. “You look good in everything—Topside formalwear is overrated, you know? It’s so expensive for no good reason—” 

He chuckles, extending a hand out to you. You clamp your mouth shut as you take it, savoring the feel of his rough calluses sliding against your palm. He squeezes your hand reassuringly as your fingers intertwine. 

“Thank you,” he says, still amused. He starts walking leisurely, thoughtful and considerate of your slower pace. “Perhaps we’ll have the opportunity to don formalwear on another date. We can show Topside how we wear it better than they could ever dream of.” 

“You’re already thinking that far ahead?” you ask, glad to tease him back. 

“Of course,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’d be a fool to ever let you go.”

“Well, I’m not going anywhere,” you say happily. “Maybe we can go suit shopping someday; you’ll need a bunch when you’re sitting at that fancy Councilor’s table.”

“Is that so?” 

“Yeah; Janna forbid you wear the same suit two days in a row. Then they’ll never listen to anything you have to say,” you say sarcastically, rolling your eyes. 

“I’ll be sure to budget for a new wardrobe when the time comes,” he laughs. 

The stroll through Lower Piltover is relaxed, but somehow so exhilarating. Your enjoyment of Silco’s company is enhanced now that you don’t need to hold back your affection for him. You take every chance you can to touch and compliment him, staying close to his side even when moving around other pedestrians on the street. 

Maybe you’re too hopeful, but he seems to match your energy. His smile never leaves his normally stoic face, his eyes twinkling at you even as the sky dims with the setting sun.

Silco leads you through the cobblestone streets, which gradually empty out as people head home for the night. He approaches a long, yellow-and-black-striped barricade at the end of the avenue. Attached to the barricade is a sign with the words “NO ENTRY – CLOSED FOR REPAIRS” painted in bold letters.

Your date glances around surreptitiously, making sure that no one is watching from the nearby buildings or the sidewalk. 

Then he swiftly ducks under the barrier, pulling you along with him.

You laugh at the thrill of rule-breaking. Silco’s pace quickens into a jog. He looks back at you over his shoulder as you stride to match his pace. His steel-sharp, mischievous grin has your heart pounding harder than the running.

Just as the stone under your boots gives away to wooden planks, Silco skids to a halt. He spins and catches you in his arms as you collide with his chest. His hands are warm on your elbows as he holds you, patiently waiting for you to catch your breath.

“Could you wait here a moment?” he asks. “I’ll be back momentarily.”

You nod, still panting too hard to speak. He turns and strides off purposefully, leaving you to hunch over with your hands on your knees, wheezing with your whole chest. You try to pull yourself together, not wanting to look undignified in front of Silco. But your lungs still burn, scraping against your ribs. You can barely hear the faraway scraping of wood on wood over your own huffing and puffing. A metallic click rings through the air, followed by Silco’s careful footsteps heading your way.

Just as he rounds the corner, you straighten up, retying the corsage around your wrist. You busy yourself with readjusting it, trying to look nonchalant even though your heartbeat hasn’t slowed down yet from the exertion.

“Thank you for waiting,” he says as he comes to a stop in front of you. This time, he offers you the crook of his elbow. You hook your hand around it, glad to be touching him again.

“Is this safe?” you ask, thinking back on the barricade.

“I placed the barrier there myself,” Silco says with a smirk. “Just to ensure that we wouldn’t be disturbed.”

He leads you carefully onto the wooden pier, steering you around large barrels and missing planks where a careless step could have your foot plunging into water. You both walk out onto the end of a dock where three wooden crates have been assembled into a makeshift dining arrangement. The crate in the middle is covered with a picnic blanket. A cheerfully burning candle and two carry-out boxes that you recognize from Jericho’s sit on top of the improvised table. Silco’s basket is tucked next to the boxes, its lid now open to the evening air.

Framed against a deep blue sky tinged with orange and streaked with indigo clouds, the scene is very charming and cozy, a hidden oasis in the Undercity that you’re encountering for the very first time. 

“Welcome! To Zaun’s finest seaside dining establishment: the East Shore Diner,” he proclaims with a grand sweep of his free arm. He speaks with all the gravitas of a circus showman, but he swallows subtly. His glance at you is nervous, turquoise eyes darting between each of yours as if hoping to find your approval there. 

You wonder if Silco has been as anxious as you for this date. A genuine grin spreads unbidden across your face as you squeeze his arm encouragingly. “I can’t believe you were able to get a reservation for tonight! I’ve been on the waitlist for ages.” 

“I may have threatened the owner to ensure a table would be made available for us,” he chuckles. “They’ve saved the freshest catch of the day for our dinner.” He steps ahead of you to pull one of the crates out for you to sit on, as if it were a chair at a more formal restaurant. 

“Silco… thank you,” you say softly as you take a seat on the box. “This is so nice.” 

He smiles at you while he picks up the carry-out boxes, opening the one in front of you first. The delicious smell of sharp spices wafts out of the box, and you look inside to see kebabs of juicy, fatty dark meats from Jericho’s, still warm and steaming. 

“I’m afraid I’m not much of a chef,” he admits. “I’m incapable of making anything on par with your cooking—” 

“You remembered my favorite!” you beam at him. 

He grabs two glass cups from his basket and places them on the table. You recognize them as his favorites from The Last Drop, as thick as crystal and embellished with elegant gold trim at the rim and bottom. After grabbing a flask from his basket, he pours into both glasses with a flourish, the orange drink sparkling in the candlelight. 

“If you’d like some alcohol, perhaps we could stop by The Last Drop later tonight,” he says, finally taking a seat opposite you. “But I know you have a shift tomorrow at the Embrace—” 

“Silco… this is perfect,” you say warmly. “I wouldn’t ask for anything different.” 

Your date is a wonderful companion and friend, polite and charming as always, if a little more flirtatious than usual. When you ask if he brought napkins, he reaches across the table to touch the corner of your mouth with his thumb, wiping a drop of sauce off your face. He holds your gaze as he licks his finger clean, the candlelight dancing in his eyes. It’s only when you blush and look away that he finally reaches into the basket to grab a napkin for you. 

But his eyes flicker to the water whenever he thinks you’re not looking at him. You ask him a question while he’s still chewing, and he turns to gaze at the river, a faraway look in his eyes. It’s the same look he gets while he’s thinking hard about something—something visible only in his imagination, but intangible to everyone else. Even after he swallows and sips his drink, he continues staring out at the horizon. You have to repeat your question a few times before he turns to you with a snap, startled as if he forgot about you. 

“Do you have a date with an aquarian Vastayan later or something?” you tease him. 

“My apologies,” he says, wincing with embarrassment. He focuses all his attention on you now, his gaze intensifying as he reaches across the table to take your hand. You let him, entwining your fingers through his.  

A muscle in his jaw twitches as he scoots forward, leaning towards you. 

“I almost drowned in these waters,” he says quietly. 

Your eyes widen in shock, and you can’t help but gasp. Even though he’s sitting here in front of you, alive and well, your heart lurches in terror at the thought of his near-death. 

“Ever wonder what it’s like to drown?” he asks. “Story of opposites… 

“There’s peace, in water,” he says slowly. “Like it’s holding you, whispering in low tones to let it in… and every problem in the world will fade away.”

You squeeze Silco’s hand tighter, determined not to let him fade away. Hoping to convey how much you care about him, that he can rely on you to pull him out of the depths whenever he needs rescuing. 

As you ponder his statement, you purse your lips. You’ve never experienced a sensation like that before: to be held in the embrace of the elements, an all-encompassing comfort surrounding your whole body, even as they drag you closer to oblivion. It’s too frightening to think of for long. 

You keep your gaze fixed on Silco, patiently waiting for him to continue.  

“But then there’s this—thing—in your head, and it’s raging,” he says with bared teeth at the last word. He continues staring in your direction, but now through you, into the middle distance of some unseen horizon. 

His free hand drifts to hover over the candle. He brings his palm close to the tip of the flame, letting it graze his skin. The blinding flare and Silco’s smooth, deliberate turning of his hand hypnotize you, as if the flame were a puppet he was controlling expertly. 

He clenches his fist forcefully, the flame flickering in the sudden burst of wind.  “Lighting every nerve with madness—to fight… to survive.

“And all the while this question lingers before you… ‘have you had enough?’”

His gaze turns back to the river again. You fight the urge to cup his face in your hands, not wanting to interrupt him. 

“It’s funny,” he continues. “You could pass a lifetime without ever facing a choice like that… but it changes you forever.” 

You bite your lip. It’s hard to fight back the instinct to get up and hug him, to hold him tight and never let him go. But you know he would feel smothered by your concern.  

“You said… this place was ‘special’ to you,” you say carefully. “Is it okay if I ask what happened?” 

“A platoon of Enforcers pursued me here. I had no choice but to take shelter in these waters,” he says simply. 

“That was brave of you,” you say in awe. Everyone from your side of the bridge knows that the Piltover River is engorged with pollutants from Topside’s industrial operations. The water is slick to the touch, swirling with colorful oils. It’s unsafe to drink, much less submerge oneself wholly in. 

“It was here that I learned, I had to take control of my life,” he says grimly. “To become what they cannot kill. 

“To be shown your own weakness is a gift… one that I would like to share with you.”

“Are you telling me that I’m weak?” you ask jokingly in an effort to lighten the mood. You bite your tongue, cursing yourself for your poor timing.  

He stands abruptly. You raise an eyebrow at him when he takes off his jacket. His vest is next, and he folds his clothes neatly before placing them on his chair.

 Just as you begin savoring the sight of him in his tight red shirt, he whips off his tie and begins unbuttoning his top.

“What are you doing??” you ask in alarm. As reluctant as you are to look away from Silco undressing, it still feels wrong to ogle. You clap your hands over your eyes when he untucks his shirt. When you catch a glimpse of his lean, pale torso between the gaps in your fingers, you clamp your eyes shut.

 The rustling sounds of his undressing continues, now joined by the clinking of his belt buckle. Followed by the snap of metal clasps on his boots being loosened, then the quiet creaking of wood as Silco walks lightly towards you. 

“Let me show you,” he says earnestly. 

“Show me what?” you blurt out. You don’t have to look at him to know that he’s extending a hand out to you. 

“Do you know how to swim?” 

“Maybe,” you squeak out, too agitated to give him a straight answer. “You want to go in the water, right? Go ahead—I’ll watch our stuff.” 

Silco’s breath on your forehead startles you; you hadn’t sensed him leaning in so close. He presses his lips to your cheek, soft and lingering, whispering your name imploringly. 

You crack open your eyes and peek at him. Even though you can only see a sliver of his face, his gaze is intense and adoring, too earnest to refuse. 

“Fine,” you sigh in defeat. “Do I have to take my clothes off too?” 

“It’s better to be unencumbered by them,” he says with a delighted grin. 

“If you wanted me to take off my clothes, you could’ve just asked—” you grumble under your breath. 

“Pardon?” 

“Nothing!” you exclaim too loudly. “Just—just get in the water already, Silco. I’ll be there soon.” 

He waits for you to lower your hands before he plants another excited kiss on your temple. In his haste, he clumsily bumps against your forehead, jostling you in your seat. 

Just as quickly, he runs gracefully towards the end of the pier, his long limbs streamlined as he raises his arms and brings them together above his head, fingers forming a sharp point to pierce the river. The splash is quiet, reminiscent of a paintbrush dipping into water. 

You get to your feet slowly, stretching to get some blood flowing after sitting for so long. The night is cool, and you rub your arms for warmth. But a quick, surreptitious peek at Silco’s neatly stacked clothes confirms that he stripped down to his underwear. For the sake of fairness, you do the same, stacking your clothes next to his. You carefully untie your corsage and lay it on the table. As a precaution, you blow out the candle. 

When you stand on tiptoe to scan the water, Silco is nowhere to be seen. You walk carefully to the end of the pier, one small step at a time, conscientious of splinters stabbing your bare feet.

“Silco?” you call out when you reach the edge. 

A breeze gusts past as if in response. You shiver as the chilled wind brushes against you, goosebumps sprinkling across your skin.

You kneel down cautiously, then take a seat. When you dip a toe into the river, you flinch at the cold. Ripples unfurl and spread across the surface as you slowly, slowly, lower your foot into the water, adjusting to the temperature. 

Eventually, the water’s chilly void becomes a tolerable caress. You kick your feet in boredom, watching the reflections of the moon and stars distort on the river’s surface.

A strong grip closes around your right ankle.

You’re yanked off the pier. 

Your heart leaps into your throat. Wind rushes past you. 

You crash into the water with a shriek.

Dark oblivion surrounds you completely, bubbles dancing all around you as you scream. A muffled sound comes out of your mouth only to be smothered when the river floods it. You gag and try to cough out the greasy, bitter liquid, flailing every which way to right yourself. The water already coalescing into a film against your rapidly blinking eyes.

Disoriented, you spin around, unsure of which way is up. Panicking at the thought of your corpse sinking into the depths, Silco and your friends never learning of your demise—

Something takes hold of your sides. You instinctively kick out, your foot colliding painfully with something long and thin.

Before you can kick it again, the thing’s grip on you tightens, solidifying its hold on your waist. 

You’re propelled to the surface, limbs dangling uselessly as you resign yourself to your fate.

But your head crashes through the surface. You spit and sputter out mouthfuls of water, taking in heaving breaths of rejuvenating air. Your arms thrash wildly as you struggle to stay afloat.

In between the dripping locks of hair plastered against your eyes, you see Silco. His mouth is open in laughter as he swims towards you.

“You’re alright, sweetheart,” he chuckles.

You cough, hard and hacking, throat scraped dry despite all the water you almost swallowed. “Help!!”

“Pedal your legs,” he instructs calmly, still smiling. “Spread your arms out and push downwards. The water is your cushion, not your enemy.”

You shake your head furiously, water drops whipping off your head. “Bastard—!”

“You can do it,” he says encouragingly. 

You panic as your chin dips underwater. Out of desperation, you follow his advice.

Instead of flailing your legs, you pedal. The water doesn’t resist, and your legs glide through the river easily. Your splashing becomes less frantic as you find a rhythm to push against the surface, more efficiently keeping you afloat.

All the while, Silco watches you patiently. You cough one final time as you find your footing, so to speak. Treading water adequately, if not gracefully.

Finally, he swims to you, closing the distance as his hands find your waist. His hold feels familiar, and you frown even as your arms automatically wind around his neck.

“Did you pull me in?” you ask in a hoarse voice.

He nods, still mirthful. “I only meant to ‘sweep you off your feet’.”

“Dummy,” you say, headbutting him in exasperation. “I could’ve drowned.”

“I would never let that happen,” he vows solemnly.

You snort in annoyance, but you don’t pull away from him.

You’re so close to him now. It’s different from that time in the councilor’s closet, when you were forced into his proximity by necessity. You could let go and swim away; as unorthodox as his teaching methods are, you no longer feel helpless in the water. 

Instead, you’re hypnotized by the sight of Silco dripping wet, dark hair sparkling like dewy grass on a misty morning. Droplets sliding down his temples to trace his cheeks, dripping off his nose and chin. The moonlit gloss of water on his lip that you’re aching to taste. His turquoise eyes brighter and clearer than the dark azure of the river.

You cling to him, a tall buoy in the river, solid and warm against you as you hug him close. Shivering as your bodies align, your breasts pressed flat against his chest.

His fingers glide against the waistband of your panties as he wraps his arms around you.

He hooks his chin over your shoulder. His warm exhales tickle your skin.

You cautiously coil one leg around his waist. You’re rewarded with a sharp, surprised inhale from Silco when your cunt grazes his pelvis.

Your other leg hooks around him, slotting him perfectly against you, a key nestled into the lock of your embrace.

The temptation to kiss him feels different this time. To open the floodgates of not just affection, but lust as well. The craving of feeling his skin against yours with nothing between you, the friction of your bodies warming you hotter than a bonfire. Even now, you almost wish you had stripped fully nude.

It’s the next step you’ve wanted to take with Silco long before you kissed for the first time. But now that you’re at the threshold, there’s something about it worth savoring, just before you take the plunge. The contradiction of bobbing peacefully in the river with him, entwined in silence even as your heart hammers underneath your rib cage. The slow caress of his hand on your side even as his cock hardens against your cunt.

You nudge your nose against the shell of his ear. Blinking water out of your eyes as you drag the tip of your nose against the contour of his cheekbone.

Pressing the bridge of your nose against his.

He swallows hard. Water drips from his chin to outline the tendons of his throat.

Waiting. 

Wondering.

Wanting.

You kiss him.

Bursting with desire, it’s more disorienting than when he pulled you off the pier. Marveling at the novel sensation of him dripping wet, kissing him dry while reacquainting yourself with the shape of his lips.

He responds just as eagerly, a devouring hunger in the movements of his mouth against yours. Groaning as his tongue fills your mouth, wet, heavy, eager to taste the inside of you and forgo all other flavors forever and ever.

His fingertips dig into your hips, nails biting into your flesh. Water splashes as he insistently grinds his cock against you, furious at the barrier of clothing between your bodies. 

You gasp as your shoulders dip below the water, sinking without the aid of Silco treading water. He kicks out impatiently, as if staying afloat was less important to him than kissing you. 

“Take me home,” you beg, so breathlessly that you’re not sure if he heard you.

He moans deeply as you capture the corner of his mouth in a kiss. You drag your lips against his cheek, settling on the hinge of his neck and jaw. You plant yourself there, eyes closed as his soft, damp hair brushes against your brow.

“Are—” he stutters, breath hitching. “Are you sure?”

You gently trap his earlobe between the tips of your teeth before letting go, whispering in his ear:

“Yes.” 

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If you liked this fic, please reblog and/or leave a comment! My inbox is also open to requests for both sketches and drabbles, or just to chat. Feel free to say hi :3c

Chapter 12