#guess who’s watching the devil wears prada | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wordsmithwhumpsandfluff · 9 months ago

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Can I please request a concussion story. A bad concussion and a character that just refuses to go to the hospital even though they feel and are soooo sick:)

This took a lil longer than I thought it would🥲.

!emeto warning!

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“Who brought chips?” Eliana asked, shouting so everyone who was scattered around Jordan’s apartment could hear.

“Not me,” Birdie said from across Jordan’s huge living room. “I brought the cookies.”

“I brought the charcuterie board,” Amberlynn shouted from Jordan’s guest room where she was collecting all the pillows and blankets she could. “I brought facemasks, too, by the way.”

“I think Oliver’s bringing chips,” Jordan said, hugging El from behind and kissing her cheek. “But if he’s not, we’re screwed.”

Spirit was in the kitchen, music blaring on her headphones and chopping tomatoes and basil. She was the only one who hadn’t brought anything since they’d all agreed to put her in charge of cooking. The apartment smelled incredible, filled with the scent of the five small pizzas she was making, one for each of them. Except one for Birdie who hated pizza, and Spirit was making pasta for her.

Amberlynn came out of the guest bedroom, carrying a mountain of pillows and blankets to the couch that she couldn’t even see. She was going in the wrong direction, towards the kitchen, and Birdie laughed as she helped to guide the poor girl.

Suddenly, the front door opened and Oliver came in, a few grocery bags in hand. “Hey,” he said, smiling as he went to the kitchen with the bags.

“Did you bring chips?” Eliana asked, walking over to her phone on the coffee table so she could put on some music.

“Yeah,” Oliver answered.

Eliana let out a dramatic sigh, loudly groaning, “Thank God!”

Oliver chuckled. “I’ve got Salt & Vinegar, Cheetos, kettle chips, Doritos, and tortilla chips with salsa.”

Spirit, for the first time since she started cooking, lifted one of her headphones to focus on Oliver. “You brought salsa?” she asked, and Birdie cackled because of all things, it was salsa that got Spirit’s attention.

All the chips were put into bowls, the salsa in a little dip dish, the cookies on a plate, and all of the stuff was put on Jordan’s coffee table along with the charcuterie board. Spirit took the pizzas out of the oven to cool, and the fun began.

Jordan had a hoard of boardgames—they were kind of an obsession of hers—and they played one after the other. Jordan won Monopoly. Spirit won Trouble. The game UNO became intense, and Amberlynn won that one. As for Birdie, she won everything else—Clue, Connect 4, Guess Who, etc…

Oliver and Eliana won nothing, but Eliana was fine with that since she was having fun styling and un-styling her girlfriend’s hair over and over, and Oliver was enjoying himself too much to care about winning or losing.

When they ate the pizzas that Spirit made—and Birdie ate her pasta—they put on The Devil Wears Prada and watched that until the movie ended around midnight.

Facemasks came after that, and all six of them took selfies in the bathroom mirror.

For over an hour, they all just talked about whatever they could think of. Spirit ate more than half of the tortilla chips with salsa—mainly because it was the hot kind of salsa and not the mild kind—and Amberlynn suggested that they should make hot chocolate, even though she ate the most out of all of them.

By two in the morning, Jordan had literally fallen asleep on the living room rug, and instead of waking her up to move her, Eliana just threw a blanket on top of the girl.

“Can I shower first?” Oliver asked, holding his PJs that he’d quickly gotten from his car.

“Go ahead,” Eliana said, focused on painting an elaborate starry design on Amberlynn’s nails.

“Fine with me,” Spirit said, watching Demon Slayer on her phone while Birdie began to also doze off with her head on Spirit’s lap.

Oliver went to the bathroom and grabbed a towel from a closet on his way there.

The music in the living room was still playing. He was quietly singing along to Light Switch by Charlie Puth—the song currently playing—as he stepped into the shower. Jordan had a habit of taking all of the tiny shampoos, conditioners and mini-soaps from hotels, so Oliver was using some of those.

The song in the living room changed, and suddenly TongueTied by Grouplove was playing, and Oliver couldn’t help but bounce on his heels a bit to the beat of the song while mouthing along to the lyrics.

He quickly regretted that decision when, suddenly, he slipped because of the soapy water and fell back, too quick for him to even react. He didn’t even yelp, but he did grunt when his head hit the wall, hard.

He opened his eyes, blinking heavily, and then closed them again. After five minutes or so, he opened them again, confused for a second. There was a ringing in his ears, and he felt dizzy.

He sat up, groaning and planting a hand on the back of his head, massaging the sore spot there. The hot water still rushing over him made the spot sting a bit.

He stayed sitting for a second before he felt steady enough to stand and get out of the shower. He got in his PJs, and left the bathroom, the back of his head still throbbing.

No one mentioned hearing any kind of thud from the bathroom, and Oliver realized they must not have heard it with the music still playing, and he was thankful because he honestly felt a little embarrassed about it.

Birdie was zonked out on the couch, so Spirit showered next. Then El, and then Amber.

Later, Eliana and Amberlynn were playing a round of Connect 4 by themselves, and Spirit was still watching anime when Oliver suddenly felt really exhausted.

He grabbed one of the many pillows and blankets, curled up on a sofa chair, and fell asleep.

— — —

At four in the morning, Oliver woke up with his head pounding. Not just hurting like a headache, but absolutely throbbing!

He groaned, pressing a hand to his temple as he blinked dizzily, trying to remember where he was. Suddenly, he noticed that in the dark room, Spirit was still awake on the couch, on her phone with her headphones on. Everyone else was asleep now.

Oliver uncurled, on the sofa chair, resting his elbows on his knees and clutching his head in his hands. He could feel saliva pooling in his mouth. The floor was swaying beneath him—

“Oliver?”

The voice was too loud.

“You okay?” Spirit asked, her voice actually pretty quiet since everyone else was asleep.

Oliver looked up at her tiredly. “I’m fine,” he whispered, yawning and then wincing when that caused a spike of pain in his head. Then he asked her, “Why’re you still awake?”

She stayed quiet, saying nothing for a minute before shrugging and saying, “Not tired.”

Oliver was in too much pain to notice if there was something off about Spirit’s answer.

Dizzily, he halfheartedly mumbled something about going to the bathroom and stood, only to immediately sway on his feet and almost fall back down. His head felt detached from his body and all too heavy at the same time. . . if that made any sense at all?

Spirit noticed his slight stumble and looked up from her phone, taking out her headphones. She watched as Oliver stumbled weirdly over to the bathroom. But maybe he was just still half-asleep?

Spirit was about to put her headphones back on when she heard Oliver let out a pained yell that startled her. “Oliver?” she asked, her alarmed voice loud enough to have the others stir and to have Birdie groan and blink awake.

Birdie rubbed her eyes and mumbled, “Spirit, why’re you awake?”

Spirit didn’t answer, standing and all but jogging over to the bathroom. The door was open, the light was on, and Oliver wasn’t even all the way inside, curled up on his knees in the doorway with his eyes squeezed shut and his hands clutching his head, fingers pulling at his hair.

“Shit,” Spirit cursed, crouching beside him and putting a hand on his back. “Oliver, what’s wrong?” She wasn’t whispering, and the loudness of her voice caused Oliver to whimper and making his face screw with pain. Tears even began to roll from his eyes, and Spirit had no idea what to do.

Just as she was about to go wake up the others, Oliver gagged, and the force was enough to make the pain double in his head.

“Crap. Okay, let’s go to the toilet,” Spirit said, softening her voice to try and sound comforting, not because she realized that she was being too loud earlier. “Just a few steps.”

Oliver groaned as Spirit made him stand up, taking on almost all of his weight, and brought him over to the toilet.

He hovered over it, eyes still squeezed shut in agony. “Thh’lit,” he murmured quietly, and Spirit had to lean forward a bit to hear him try again and mumble, “The light. . . h-hurts.”

Eyes widening, Spirit stood and quickly turned the lights off. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the dark, and she crouched beside Oliver again. “What’s going on? Is this a migraine or something?” Oliver didn’t get migraines though. Right?

His eyes were still closed, but not squeezed shut so tightly anymore. He didn’t answer though, and he gagged before bringing up a stream of half-digested puke into the toilet, sobbing from the pain that the force of puking brought to his skull.

Spirit’s eyes widened even more. “Shit. Why are you crying, Oliver? What’s wrong?” Spirit wasn’t a soft person, but Oliver was literally the sweetest person alive, and seeing him crying and in pain brought out this very very rare side of Spirit.

“Head. . . hurrrts,” he groaned before gagging again.

“Spirit? What’s going on?”

Spirit turned her head and saw Birdie standing in the doorway, looking confused and stunned.

“Bird,” Spirit, sighed, sounding relieved. “Something’s wrong with Oliver. Wake the others up, and then call Keiko. I don’t know what—”

Suddenly, Oliver threw up again. The sound of liquid hitting liquid made Birdie gag, and Spirit whisper-yelled, “Go!”

Birdie went back to the living room, and Oliver groaned, coughing and spitting up a small stream of bile.

Suddenly, Amberlynn and Eliana came to the bathroom, and Spirit heard Jordan on the phone in the living room.

“What’s going on?” Amberlynn asked, crouching down next to Spirit. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” Spirit said, rubbing Oliver’s back. “I was awake and he went to the bathroom, and he says that his head—”

Spirit was cut off when Eliana suddenly turned on the lights and the sudden brightness made Oliver cry out in pain, once again clutching his head and squeezing his eyes shut.

“Turn off the fucking light!” Spirit whisper-yelled at Eliana, and the girl quickly shut the light back off, whispering, “sorry sorry sorry!”

Oliver threw up again, chocking on his sick a bit and Spirit thumped his back lightly to help.

“His head hurts,” Spirit said. “I don’t know why though. He doesn’t get migraines, right?”

“I don’t think so,” Amberlynn said, reaching a hand forward to cup Oliver’s forehead. He didn’t have a fever.

Oliver groaned, spitting into the toilet and murmuring, “I don’ffffeel good.”

Jordan came to the bathroom then, her phone still pressed to her ear. “Keiko’s on his way. He asked what’s wrong with him.” Her voice was alarmed and too loud, and Oliver let out a whine, wincing.

“Lower your voice,” Amberlynn said, her voice soft. “He has a headache and he’s throwing up a lot.”

Spirit looked away from Oliver, focusing on Jordan. “Tell Kei that Oliver’s sensitive to light and loud sounds. He’s in a lot of pain.”

Jordan repeated the words to her brother, her voice now quieter. After a second, Jordan said to Spirit, “Kei says to feel through his hair to check if there’s some kind of bump or something.”

Check for a concussion? Spirit was a bit unsure that a concussion would be the case, but she began gently feeling through Oliver’s hair anyway. Lo and behold, she felt a bump on the back of his scalp that made him grimace and whimper when she touched it.

“Shit,” she sighed. “Kei’s right. I think he’s concussed.”

El’s and Amberlynn’s eyes both widened.

“How the hell did he get concussed?” El asked, looking shocked. “He was fine earlier.”

“I don’t know, but that’s not important right now.” Spirit squeezed Oliver’s shoulder. “Are you done?” she asked in a voice that shocked the other girls in the bathroom. Spirit noticed their surprise and her cheeks flushed a bit with embarrassment, but she ignored them and focused on Oliver.

He spat one more time in the toilet before nodding.

“Okay.” Spirit looked at Amberlynn. “Help me get him up.”

Jordan was still talking to Keiko on the phone while they half-dragged Oliver out of the bathroom.

Birdie—not wanting to deal with the puking—had instead helped by bringing some pillows and blankets back to the guest room and setting it up for them to bring Oliver there.

By the time Oliver was lying on the bed, he was almost completely out of it because of the pain.

“Should we take him to the hospital?” Birdie whispered from where she was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling the blankets up to Oliver’s chin and gently rubbing a hand on his forehead. Birdie had naturally cold hands, and her cool skin was a comforting feeling to Oliver.

“Maybe,” Eliana shrugged, sounding unsure.

Oliver frowned. “I don’need a ‘sspital. I’mfffine.”

Spirit scoffed at his slurred disagreement, and Jordan repeated Birdie’s question to Keiko. After a second, she said, “Keiko says that taking him to the hospital would be the best idea. He’ll meet us there.”

“Noooo,” Oliver whined, shifting on the bed. “Mmmm’fine. I’m okay. Jusss’ a lil’dizzy.”

Amberlynn frowned at him. “Oliver, you can barely speak.” She looked at the others. “Should we call an ambulance, or should we just drive him there?”

“I can drive,” Spirit said, leaving the room to grab her keys.

Oliver was pouting while blinking dizzily at his friends. Despite the fact that the world felt like it was spinning and his head was pounding, he didn’t want to go to the hospital. Not for any particular reason other than he just didn’t want to. “I don’nneed t’go to the ‘spital.”

Amberlynn and Jordan got shoes and a jacket on Oliver before trying to get him on his feet again.

He whined as soon as he was upright, knees buckling and almost taking the girls down. His feet were nearly dragging as they took him out of the apartment.

When they got out to the parking lot, Spirit had gotten her car and pulled it up so they didn’t have to walk far.

“Get him lying down in the back,” Spirit instructed. “We can’t all fit in my car. “Jor, you come with us. The rest of you, follow in Amberlynn’s car.”

Spirit’s tone had all of them listening. Once Oliver was in the back seat, Jordan got in the passenger side with Keiko still on the phone. The rest of the girls went straight to Amberlynn’s car since Birdie had grabbed all of their phones, wallets and keys beforehand.

Spirit was a fast but safe driver, and made sure they were going quick while being smooth enough to not rattle Oliver in the back seat.

Jordan looked at Spirit and noticed her grip on the wheel was so tight that her knuckles were pale. “Hey,” Jordan whispered, making Spirit jump slightly; a show of how tense she was. “Everything’s fine,” Jordan assured her.

Spirit nodded, letting out a deep breath. “So much for sleepover night,” she grumbled.

Jordan let out her own sigh before whispering, this time more for her own sake than Spirit’s, “Everything’s fine.”

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Part 2?????

#I love making my anxiety-inducing cliffhangers😊#thebrilliantidiots #thegirls+1boi #oliver #My poor bby just wanted to dance in the shower🥲#girls night #These are the kinds of friends I need😭😭😭!!!#Imma put panicked Isaac in part 2👀#Spirit and Oliver are like a big sis and lil bro #concussion

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bakedbakermom · 11 months ago

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Maybe it's because of the time in my life in which I was forced to watch it but I really fucking hate Devil Wears Prada.

Backstory: me, a 20-year-old with a life-threatening eating disorder, was living in a house with 5-8 other girls in the same condition (residential treatment center). Every weekend we had a house budget to go do various normal teen/young adult stuff. Often we'd spend the money on a trip to the movies, but the movie had to be approved by the staff.

That weekend in particular, we all voted to go see Crank, but the staff decided a movie about a guy seeking thrills so he wouldn't die of no adrenaline was too dangerous to expose a group of eating disordered teens/20-somethings to. They got us tickets for DWP instead.

When I say we tore them all a new one when we got home...

Sure let's send a group of vulnerable girls to see a movie about the fashion industry where one character is on an ice-cube and paper diet (guess how many of us had done that and were triggered beyond words) and another is constantly derided for being a size 4 (how many of us were crying at the thought of becoming that size) and is later praised for dropping to a 2??

Seeing our very real traumas played for laughs soured me forever on this movie. All us girls sat down and wrote a letter not only to the staff who had made us go, but to the producers of the movie themselves for somehow managing to both glorify and trivialize the very behaviors that we were trying to NOT let kill us.

A couple of us left the theater in fucking tears. We bitched about it for weeks. I am apparently still bitching about it after almost 2 decades (much better with regards to the eating disorder though, thankfully). Seriously what the fuck is this movie.

#not tagging the movie bc i don't want to start discourse but i very much needed to bitch after seeing it on my dash a bunch this week #thank you for letting me rant #tw ed #i miss those girls #we were such a squad #adding it to my filter list actually #i'm gonna improve my mental health if it kills me

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quiet-admirer · 2 months ago

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22, 28, 29! 🙂

22. what band do you think has the best or most interesting story? (toxic breakup, bandmates in love, etc)

I'm not really someone who gets superrr into bands' lore honestly but I think Gulch was an interesting band. Their guitarist said in an interview, “We had a plan before this LP came out, and we may stick to it and we may not, but the plan was: come out with the LP, use that as a jump pad to go to the next level, then self-release an EP like a year later and then break up immediately,” and then they just did that lol. Everybody went pretty rabid for them almost immediately because, y'know, they're really fucking good, but I enjoy that they were just like 'you get us for as long as you get us and then it's over when we feel like it' haha :)

On the other end, one band with a super messy public social media-broadcasted breakup that I still think about was Every Time I Die, where the vocalist got sober so the rest of the band, including his brother, were apparently like 'ok well I guess you'll just have to ride in a separate tour bus than us then 🤷‍♂️' and I guess were jerks about it or it was a generally toxic dynamic from what I recall... It was kind of like 👀💦... watching it unfold publicly haha

28. Most underrated band or artist?

Oh good, more (rubbing my hands together). I'm gonna say... I hate it too, sleep talk, and... Action/adventure! You could probably say that all three of these are fairly straightforward emo, metalcore, and pop punk respectively, but I like them anyway!

29. Most overrated band or artist?

Local known hater time:

Maybe it's just a personal taste thing, but I can never get into those really big metalcore bands like motionless in white, devil wears prada, later-career bring me the horizon.... It's just hyper-processed to all hell to the point where it's just McNothing music to me. The butt rock of heavy music even.

Also, dare I say it...

Look, Deftones is good, but when every fan is out there with a megaphone yelling about how Deftones invented music, and how timestamp 2:36-2:38 of this other band's song reminds them of Chino (I'm not exaggerating, I saw this in a YouTube comment), and every band in the shoegaze/metal/grunge fusion genre whatever that's called is just a Deftclone it gets a little bit old. There is no band that's as good as Deftones fans think Deftones is and I say that as someone who actually likes them and recognizes how influential they were. There, I said it!

#(heartbroken that I discovered gulch 2 weeks before they broke up #but I did spend an obscene amount of money to acquire their cassette tape a couple weeks ago so there's that!)#ask game

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brenna · 3 months ago

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Color(s): green and blue

Last band t-shirt I bought: Dispatch

Last band I saw live: Dispatch

Last song I listened to: "Spirits" - Caravan Palace

Last movie I watched: The Devil Wears Prada

Last three TV shows I watched: Rivals, Curb Your Enthusiasm, X-Files (counting episodes, not that I watched the entire run of the show)

Last 3 characters I identified with: gosh, idk. Aziraphale would be one. Scully, I guess, since I watched an X-Files episode or two. Uh, pass, because I don't identify with anyone on the other shows I watched recently nor the movie. And I can't think of who the third would be lol.

Book I'm currently reading: Shutter by Ramona Emerson

Thanks for the tag, @thefuzzhead

Anyone can do this. I'm too lazy to tag atm. 🩵

#tagged #tag game #music #tv #movies

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chiccherrysblog · 1 year ago

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Day 16? Of making life more interesting-

I read somewhere that writing five hundred or more words it can really benefit you if you want a career in writing. So far it really hasn't been that bad. I mean I know im not so good with actually posting on here but im trying and I've still been writing but there is just something more satisfying about writing on paper. The way it feels with the pen on it you know? It just satisfies my brain in ways I no longer understand. Anyway, I just watched the proposal with Sandra bullock and Ryan Reynolds. Since watching it I have noticed the fact that it is just a common theme for editors to fall in love with their assistants. I mean look at mirandy. It's basically a straight version of them. Also watching Sandra bullock climb down a ladder in stilettos has given me a higher respect for her. I mean I already respected her for participating in the masterpiece that is oceans eight, but now it has dramatically increased.

Also, I've just realised how much I actually have to save in order to even have enough money for a plane ticket to view apartments in New york, including the possibility of having roomates. I say plural due to the amount of time I've spent in an evening watching friends and reading the devil wears prada. Honestly would not complain with either option. After sharing a room with my sister for quite a few years now, I'm guessing I could survive living with random strangers who could either be the nicest people on the planet or make me want to tear my own hair out. It shouldn't be that hard. Right? Maybe? I dont know. As long as I can invest in some good headphones and WiFi it should mean I can still work my way to the top without seriously considering living in a random hotel somewhere. If miranda could do it, so can I. I hope. I mean I know i can do all the academic stuff but I seriously need to work on my people skills. And being able to tolerate random small noises. And certain people. And coffee being made differently to how i make it. It shouldn't be that hard. I mean I should get to the bit where I can just sort of zone out all of the potentially irritating and distracting and not completely necessary noises. I can still get my pulitzer prize after becoming a US citizen which is harder than I thought it was and oh my god if I keep writing about this I'm pretty sure I may have yet another not even at quarter life crisis. So um...today was okay other than the crisis and migraine that doesn't seem to want to leave no matter how many of those stupid painkillers I take. My new years resolution doesn't seem to have worked as I find myself drinking more coffee than when the year started.

#blog #blogger #making life interesting #day in the life #sandra bullock #the proposal #ryan reynolds #friends #the devil wears prada #new york #editor in chief #pulitzer prize #roomates

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malcolm-reeds-pineapple · 2 years ago

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Thanks for the tag @frostysfrenzy !! Sorry it took me a bit I been goin' thru it :,)

Are you named after anyone? Yeah Kathryn Janeway bc my parents love Star Trek

Last time you cried? Earlier in the day lmao I'm goin' thru it

Do you have kids? God no I am a 23 year old teenage girl

Do you use sarcasm a lot? Uhhh sometimes idk time and place I guess

First thing you notice about people? Usually if they're going to be a pain in the ass or not. I've been in customer service for almost 10 years so you get a spidey sense for that

Eye colour? Mine? Blue. Favourite? Brown.

Scary movies or happy endings? Happy endings I guess?

Special talents? I make balloon animals at most town events that are too cheap to pay for my dad (I cost 20/hr he costs 300 to leave the house)

Where were you born? Same place as the trailer park boys

Hobbies? Writing and making greeting cards with my nan :^)

Any pets? I have one cat, my real human daughter and her name is spooky but she goes by Spoobert Doobert in professional circumstances.

What sports do you play/have you played? Oh god like a lot of them. Soccer, Hockey, Football, Roller Derby and Rugby. I ended up needing to hang up sports for real bc of too many brain injuries but these days I still like hiking (nice and low impact with opportunities to see waterfalls)

How tall are you? 5'11

Favourite school subject? None from high school but philosophy when I got to university

Dream job? Retired.

First ship? ZuTarra

Three ships? I'm not a huge shipper honestly

Last (current) song? Nuttville by Buddy Rich (nice beginner-friendly fusion jazz)

Last movie? I watched the entirety of Devil Wears Prada in like 80 parts on TikTok the other night if that counts

Currently reading? Still working on The Rum Diary by HST (got distracted by re-reading my WIP (why can't books write themselves))

Currently watching? Pretty much just Jeopardy at this point lmao (I'm too tired to watch TV when I get home from work)

Currently consuming? Nicotine still :(

Currently craving? A double gin and tonic made with Tanqueray

Tagging: @girlscience @angrywarrior69 @mcusluttt and like anyone who wants to do it

#tag games #I love these the audience in my head goes wild for them

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halimuyak · 1 year ago

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i'm literally never here anymore but i need to get this out of my head and i need other people's input because i'm going insane and i'm just gonna copy and paste the whole formalized thing

Help me understand something about The Devil Wears Prada.

I’m genuinely curious to know what everyone thinks of it. I’ve gone slightly insane overthinking a movie to this degree, and deep down, I know it isn’t serious, but my thoughts about it have been Gorilla Glue’d into my cerebral cortex.

For context, I’m twenty-five and not American. The first time I watched The Devil Wears Prada was a couple of years back during the pandemic, and since then, I’ve rewatched it twice. I also think it’s worth noting I watched the movie over a decade after it premiered, and American pop culture back then had a different set of… values, I guess? —so, my opinions are somewhat removed from the context of the story. I do know the book it’s based on is fiction, but it’s partially based on Lauren Weisberger’s time as Anna Wintour’s assistant at Vogue.

That being said, as a baseline of where I was before watching The Devil Wears Prada for the first time: I was fully expecting to detest the boyfriend. I was raised on the internet (again, I’m twenty-five, a bit of an older Gen Z person, but I still consider myself a bit of a digital native), and growing up, I was bathed with Buzzfeed articles and Tumblr think pieces explaining why the boyfriend was the “real villain” of the movie and not Miranda. Naturally, I went into the movie waiting to see Andy’s boyfriend be a fuckwit to her.

I genuinely don’t think the boyfriend is even close to any sort of villain in the movie. Like I said, this is after a few rewatches because I tried to “see” this movie in different ways, thinking maybe I missed the point, misinterpreted the story, or wrongly contextualized some things. I’m completely blind to how the internet’s got the boyfriend pegged as the villain.

When we’re first introduced to Andy, she states working at Runway isn’t something she’s invested in. Her values don’t align with what Runway does or stands for as a publication, and her boyfriend feels the same way. She’s a journalist who wants to do “real” journalism. There’s nothing wrong with that. Though, my observation is she thought she was a little above caring about fashion, at least in the beginning.

But as the story progresses, Andy starts to get it. It takes her a while to get it, so much so that when she doesn’t show proper decorum during a meeting, she gets lectured and humiliated for it (Cerulean Sweater Monologue)—but she gets it. She begins to show an appreciation for fashion and fashion journalism, which she shares with her friends and boyfriend. She’s aware and somewhat accepts Runway vaguely resembles hell on Earth as a workplace, but she adapts to it and eventually succeeds (or, at least, becomes an “effective” assistant). I’m also aware there’s an undercurrent of Runway being an immensely toxic and borderline abusive workplace, especially at Miranda’s hand, and it’s accepted because of the “prestige” (holy fatphobia, Batman!), but that’s a separate topic altogether.

On a base level, there’s nothing wrong with Andy changing her thoughts and opinions toward Runway and the fashion industry. I was under the impression the through line of the movie was:

Woman who wants a “serious” job can’t find a “serious” job, so she settles for a “non-serious” job in the meantime.

Woman doesn’t take her “non-serious” job seriously because, duh.

Woman experiences an inciting incident that begets a montage of education, appreciation, and transformation, thus, she finally takes her “non-serious” job seriously.

Woman falls into the deep end of her job, and it compromises her personal relationships (“Let me know when your whole life goes up in smoke. Means it’s time for a promotion.”)

Woman realizes her job has swallowed her whole and changed her into an unlikable person. She doesn’t like this, so she abandons it to pursue her original dream.

Of course, that’s an oversimplification of the plot. There are a ton of nuances in the film: the aforementioned toxic and abusive workplace, the insincerity in the industry these people have to accept and deal with, and the awareness of all this between the characters.

Even with her “new self” and subsequent missteps, I still don’t think Andy is a hypocrite. I can’t even fault her for falling into the bad behaviors caused by the exposure to her new workplace (though I do also have an opposing thought of Andy being oddly cowardly in her actions for someone who wants to be a “serious” journalist—and also, the weird pseudo-cheating, I guess?).

There are so many “evils” in this movie, but her boyfriend is nowhere near the problem. He and her friends get upset with Andy when she ditches them to cater to Miranda. And even then, her friends showed her a decent level of understanding because being subservient to a horrendous boss isn’t a conscious choice anyone makes. But when Andy fully misses her boyfriend’s birthday celebration, all he asks for is accountability from her, and she doesn’t seem to give it to him fully. He doesn’t antagonize her; he antagonizes what her job is making her do and the person she’s becoming because of it. I don’t recall there being a moment in the movie where she has an honest conversation about how her outlook has changed, barring a few sentences said in passing toward her boyfriend and friends. Wouldn’t anyone get upset if their friend or girlfriend puts work over them without clearly communicating these changes?

And then there’s the Miranda of it all. Miranda is the villain of the movie. The actual, main, central villain. She’s a part of a self-selecting population of loathsome, miserable human beings. She’s aware of what she’s sacrificing to hold on to her title at Runway because she truly believes she’s irreplaceable, among other beliefs that hinder her from behaving in a way that allows her happiness. I could write an entire dissertation about Miranda and the movie in its entirety, but I want to focus on talking about the boyfriend lest my brain implode.

I need other people’s opinions. What am I missing? It boggles my mind he’s perceived as the villain at any point in the movie. And more importantly, I can’t believe this has taken up a significant amount of brain space that I felt compelled to write about it.

#or honestly just report me #it's embarrassing in my grown ass age that i've thought long and hard about a chick lit movie #it's a great movie though i love it #tucci gang 4ever

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velvetdeer · 8 months ago

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Hazbin Hotel Headcanons

● Alastor's little devil dolls he summons when he fights Adam are the souls of the Overlords he's killed

● Cain (Son of Adam) was killed by Adam in the 1st extermination

● If Sinner Overlords had to get their powers through a deal with a VERY powerful demon, here's who I imagine them being from:

- Alastor: Lillith (Heavily hinted at in the series)

- Vox: Lucifer (Prideful attitude, notice how Vox comments how "Lucifer's daughter" is staying with Alastor, he says it as if he knows Lucifer)

- Valentino: Asmodeus (I feel this is very self explanatory)

- Velvette: Leviathan (We see throughout the song "Respectless" that Velvette feels as if she doesn't get enough credit, a sign of envy. Plus, she's a social media influencer and fashion designer, fashion + social media = envy of the false beauty of the models)

- Rosey: Not quite sure but if I had to guess, probably Beelzebub because of gluttony.

- Husker (Pre-Alastor): Mammon (Gambling = Greed)

- Carmilla Carmine: I don't think she made any deals, she probably just rose up the ranks Mafia style

● That deer skull Overlord with the turquoise flame, I'd imagine he'd be an Overlord of restaurants and diners (because he looks like a waiter), providing supplies for/from Cannibal Town and other sections of Hell.

● Charlie's favourite movie is The Wizard of Oz, Vaggie's is Full Metal Jacket, Angel Dust is Fifty Shades of Grey, Husker's is Ocean's Eleven, Nifty's is Sound of Music, Alastor doesn't watch TV but I'd imagine would enjoy horror movies like Silence of The Lambs, Vox's is The Truman Show, Velvette is The Devil Wears Prada, Valentino's is Scarface, Adam's is School of Rock (iykyk), Lute's would be Terminator

#hazbin hotel #headcanon

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lonespektr · 1 year ago

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SEPTEMBER 12TH HORROR WATCH

Calls (2021) 1x1, 1x2,

Calls drops us at the beginning of a crisis event

It's 15 min episodes told entirely through you guessed it a series of phone calls

Primary to dispatch 911

It's not tv

It's audio with limited visuals comprised of two primary things

1 the sound waves the voices make

2 animated yext on screen that sometimes mimic the emotions or actions of the word

E.x.

"I'm floating."

the word starts to float up away from the sentence

It's uh neon rainbow screensaver color scheme

Anyway cousin greg is cheating on his girlfriend being a failed artist in LA

Then there's a inhuman looking intruder

Then the cheater girl calls because her baby sitting baby isn't acting like a baby anymore

Then cousin greg thinks the cheater girl is at his place but it's not her

Same back at girlfriend who said the intruder had cousin gregs face

Then an earthquake

Then the police are overwhelmed and they ditched

Then everybody starts floating???

1x2

Another ain't shit man

He leaving his preggars girl

They agreed not be preggars apparently but ditching in the middle of the nights night ain't it

Apparently ain't shit doesn't know he's been gone for three days after a brief phone call drop

They are both condescending shits to their crying ladies

Omg he needs anger management punching doors

That was a poor writing choice

Even poorer if the line dropped briefly then how could anyone put her up to anyway

Actually poor writing choice why can't they write the passage of time without it being contrived

People keep calling and telling him it's further into the future than he thinks it is

Yea this is shitty exposition

These are apparently episode

It's not one crisis

This guy is just losing time

Oh they are married

Resistance to turning the car around

The call keeps dropping it's not like he's hanging up

Now the calls are just cutting in he's not picking up the phone

Much better concept poor execution

But i love the concept

Jeezus they are just doing a terrible job naturally marking the time

Now mom is saying this same thing happened with his dad

My Internet is dropping which makes this episode more authentic because the calls are staticky and keep dropping

The director voice actor forgot that one person was supposed to have a cough part way through

This call ending on "you're a good man" in the same the last one ended with "i live you" from the guy who was cheating

No they are both shitty what's with this redemption bullshit

Men get to just fucking do whatever they want and still be considered inherently good.

All of these are like the devil wears prada where anne Hathaway is being portrayed as unsympathetic when the guy is the asshole

The audacity for this show to end on her broken promise to wait for him in the driveway no matter how long he took to get back when he's been gone for twenty years

WHY THE FUCK WOULD the kud who's literally never talked to him say i love you or respond to all that speech???

This was a great concept that was so shittyl executed it's hard to express all the bad but the answer is mostly men

#graywatchhorror23 #calls

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figarofabbri · 2 years ago

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"Baking and bird watching," Fig said with a nod, "That's really cool, would you ever open a bakery? If you haven't already--or maybe that's too much info. Your taste in music is great, by the way." Fig answered. Fig wracked her head for if any of that information tipped her off on who the person might be, when paired with their outfit and size. She still was mostly drawing a blank. For all her thoughts about the girl being so anxious, at the feeling of her hand upon their hip, Fig's outgoing confidence shifted into something shy, and lost for words for a few seconds. It was easy to be bold, but there was something really, really nice about being sweet. Fig held her breath for a little too long, and hoped her dancing partner would not notice as Fig looked down a bit as well, trying to find their footing, before looking back up, taking a breath, and deciding she'd just follow her lead. It would not be the most graceful dance, but at least she could avoid stepping on toes or ruining shoes.

"It's complicated." Fig grimaced a bit at the question. One part of Fig told them not to dig into it, this is a party not a therapy session. The other part of Fig was desperate to finally have someone she could say her worries out loud to, without worrying about their reaction.

"It's more.....People, usually women, approach me at parties because they wanna make out and stuff, which like, I'm more than happy to, that's just fun, and I've had a few hook ups here and there, and like, I'll get coffee or drinks with them maybe once or twice after, but it never really goes past that. Usually because it's one of those, wanting to confirm they like girls before they ask the girl they really want to be with out. Which, glad I'm people's gay crisis and helping so many couples get together, but.....I do deep down kind of hope that one day someone will ask me for coffee before the party even happens, or even after the party and then we just keep getting coffee and stuff, hold hands and build blanket forts and watch movies in, go to my sports games-unless they're on the team...I guess that means they'd be there anyways, late night lattes or tea or hot chocolate while painting or reading, going to concerts and stuff---not just the back seat of my truck. But my therapist is always like 'You're only in university and twenty two, two have so much time you're just a baby" and she's right but--" Fig stopped herself, and looked back with embarrassment, "I am rambling way too much, I am SO sorry. I'd say is the whiskey I had earlier but I only had one and it didn't hit at all so really just this is me..... Kind of really failing at being the cool aloof stranger woof anyways I hope that wasn't too uncomfortable," Fig laughed nervously. "Feel free to just ramble if you ever wanna too, like totally ok with that, I'm like SO sorry again. And um, I think it depends. Devil Wears Prada is probably my fave film. But I kinda just like specific movies that like, move me, you know? Not really one genre."

“Oh, I wouldn’t want to go against the rules,” Sofia said quickly. They had given her a fair amount of clues now (was fast in a field when playing sports, liked these two musicians, liked listening to music loudly, was not confident in their dancing skills). She hadn’t given them anything yet. “Um... I like Mitski, and The Carpenters,” she stated. “I don’t play sports, but I do enjoy baking, and birdwatching.” Hopefully that was enough information to allow the game to continue, but not enough to insinuate an obvious, clear answer.

Then they called her ‘kitten’, and Sofia simply lowered her head again, like a snail shutting itself up in a shell. She thought of that blind date she had with Marie Beaumont and how she had called her ‘doll’. She started to feel that maybe this person was flirting with her. “I think having me as a lead is reason enough to be nervous,” she admitted in a thin voice, light as a flute. Carefully, though a little comforted by their words, she reached for their waist with her free hand, and kept her eyes away from their mask. Going over waltz steps in her mind, staring down at where she assumed her feet would be under the big gown skirt, she almost didn’t breathe at all.

“So you have never had a date?” Reached an age, she repeated quietly, wondering what age that might be. “I think I understand. I wouldn’t want to be someone that someone else settles for either... I like your candor,” Sofia smiled. “Though maybe it’s because of the mask. Are you normally this forthcoming?”

Her own previous words rang in her mind. You’ve talked far too much about yourself. Shift the conversation back to them. “Are there any romances in movies you do like? They don’t have to be romance movies, per se.” Was that flirting back? Was she doing that, now? Sofia had a small shiver at the thought that the cat-mask person might misinterpret her. But what did she mean?

#c; sofia #fig baby you need to stop rambling

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raccooninthedaytime · 3 years ago

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good evening everyone Andrea Sacks has never done a damn thing wrong in her life.

#guess who just watched devil wears prada #that movie was SO directed by a man it makes me mad #thoughts from the dumpster #andrea sacks

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smileysuh · 2 years ago

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celebrated

🌙 staring. Wonwoo & Mingyu x afab!Reader

🔮 synopsis. after a long week working overseas, mingyu calls you and wonwoo to make sure you still miss him. And, because he’s the ‘breadwinner’ of the day, supposedly- he’s going to get to call more of the shots ;)

cw/ tw. 3some, phone sex, voyeurism, oral (f receiving), fingering, dirty talk, power play, sir (1), multiple orgasms, praise, masturbation, unprotected sex, etc…

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.9k

🍭 aus. non idol, poly au, established relationship, model!Mingyu

☀️ mlist + an. this pairing is my life blood and I don't care who knows it

“We should really wait-” you suggest, as your boyfriend strips you naked with an impatient set to his jaw.

“We’ve been waiting for Mingyu for an hour-” Wonwoo insists. “I bet, if we opened up social media, we’d see he’s at the Prada Afterparty-”

“Louis Vuitton,” you correct- only to furrow your brows in confusion, “or- wait-”

It can be hard to keep tabs on all of Mingyu’s whereabouts as a top model in the industry- even after dating for a couple of months.

“Speak of the devil,” Wonwoo grins when his phone buzzes in his pocket, and a moment later, your other lover is on FaceTime.

“Did you start without me?” Mingyu asks when Wonwoo shows him your half-naked form.

“We were about to,” the elder of your boyfriends' retorts. “What took you so long to get back to your hotel room?”

“You know-” Mingyu sighs, “I had to fight off the hot girls-”

“You must be too tired to watch us fuck then,” Wonwoo quickly shuts down the teasing, knowing that after an hour of waiting for Mingyu, you’re in no mood for his egotistical bullshit.

Mingyu groans. “Stop-”

“You stop,” Wonwoo tuts, shaking his head and handing you the phone so he can get back to his task of taking off your sweatpants. “Tell us about your show.”

“I thought my reward for being a ‘working man’ was a phone call where I get to be the dom,” Mingyu pouts dramatically.

“You get to be a dom, not the dom,” Wonwoo corrects him. “Just tell us about your show. Were you modeling for Prada, or Louis Vuitton?”

You love the sly look Wonwoo gives you, the little sneer before he settles between your legs, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh while Mingyu goes on a rant about Wonwoo being horrible for not remembering, because of course he’s at a Prada show-

You feel bad because it had been your mistake, not Wonwoo’s- he had known all along- in fact, he’d even said, speak of the devil, and what does the devil wear?

“Prada is in every season-” Mingyu continues while Wonwoo adjusts your thighs over his shoulders, his breath hot against your core- and the model’s annoyance dissipates at the view- “I guess I did keep you waiting for a long time…”

You smile at the fact that you can see Mingyu’s reactions, but all he can see is Wonwoo between your legs.

“Did you guys do anything while you waited?” Mingyu asks while swallowing thickly, and you take a moment to appreciate how pretty he looks-

“Tried to be patient, but I gave her my thigh till she was a moaning mess- and then we took her shirt off-”

“Then you called,” you cut Wonwoo off, shifting with impatience.

With a smile, Wonwoo repeats for the third time; “Tell us about your show.”

Mingyu groans. “It was good, I’ll send you videos tomorrow- baby?”

“Yes, Gyu?”

“Do you miss me?”

“Of course I miss you,” you coo at your lover while Wonwoo moves your panties to the side- “I think about you all the time.”

“You do?”

“Uh huh.” You close your eyes and lean back against the pillows, enjoying the feeling of Wonwoo’s tongue, as it licks a stripe of your pussy-

“She’s been whining about missing your mouth,” Wonwoo teases, pressing a sloppy kiss to your inner thigh.

“Really?” Mingyu’s tone has dipped, and there's silence on the line for a second, then; “Have you not been taking care of our girl?”

“I’ve been taking care of her very well,” Wonwoo says, reaching up and plucking the phone from your grasp.

He straightens between your legs, panning the camera shot to take in your whole body until it reaches your face- “Isn’t that right, gorgeous?”

“Uh huh,” you nod quickly, reaching to grab at the waistband of Wonwoo’s sweatpants-

The camera pans down and Wonwoo grins.

“What’s up, baby?” he toys, gently removing your fingers from tugging at him-

“We waited-”

“Yeah Gyu,” Wonwoo laughs; “We waited.”

“I’m sorry,” Mingyu groans.

“If you keep apologizing to me like that,” the elder of your boyfriends says smoothly, “you’ll never have control of this call.”

Wonwoo is grinning a the phone, and you know the camera’s fixed on you- so at the moment, Wonwoo is holding all the power. He can see Mingyu, he can control the view, and he’s the one calling the shots-

“Fine,” there’s a pause then, “you both waited for me because I’m a model for Prada, now be happy I’m here and not at the afterparty, because I did my best to get here- I’ve been thinking about this all day, and I’m the one being celebrated tonight for doing a runway- so you’ll do what I say.”

Wonwoo looks up at you, and gives a small nod, a smile on his lips when his gaze falls to the phone again. “What did you have in mind, Mingyu?”

“First, you’ll prop the phone up on my tripod next to the bed so I can see everything without your hand being so shaky-”

“Watch it-” Wonwoo warns, but he moves off the bed to follow through with the instruction despite the personal jab-

“That’s better,” Mingyu says when everything is set up, “but princess, we gotta get you naked.”

“I’ll get to it,” the man who joins you on the bed says with a laugh, and you sit up to accommodate the hand that slips under your back to undo the clasp of your bra.

As soon as the material is pulled away, Wonwoo has you pressed to the mattress again, his lips on your neck while he palms at your breast.

“I miss your boobs,” Mingyu’s voice cuts through the feeling of Wonwoo on top of you, and you turn your head to look at the phone.

“You see lots of boobs pre runway-” you tease, gasping when Wonwoo pinches at your nipple as if to tell you that you’re ‘toeing a line-’

Then you realize, if Mingyu is in charge tonight, and not just your usual soft switchy boyfriend, you can’t be as playful-

“None of them are yours,” Mingyu states- he obviously hadn’t seen your mistake, or the way Wonwoo quietly chastised you for it. “And how about your pretty pussy? I bet your panties are just sticking to you-”

“I’m so wet-” you confirm, “Wonwoo’s been teasing me-”

“Right- with his thigh-” Mingyu swallows thickly, “and then he got so close to giving in to you- gave you just a bit of his tongue- but he pulled away to talk to me, isn’t that right angel?”

“Yes, sir.”

“He’s a sir now?” Wonwoo breathes hot against your skin as his mouth descends down your body-

“Sounds like he owes you one orgasm- or two, or three-” Mingyu trails off and you find yourself grinning down at Wonwoo, who is looking up at you with a look of realization.

You’re both ganging up on him-

When you give Wonwoo push back by yourself, you’re just a brat.

When Mingyu gives push back, he learns a thing or two about patience-

But with both you and Mingyu together? And an agreement that Mingyu gets dom power on this call?

Things have shifted more than Wonwoo had realized they would, but when his first command from Mingyu is “eat her out until she’s quaking, and then we’ll decide if she should have some more” - well, Wonwoo’s not complaining.

He strips you of your panties, settling between your legs in Mingyu’s usual spot. in the week that your lover’s been away, things have simply been busy, and Wonwoo hasn’t been able to take his time with you- hasn’t had Mingyu in the wings-

“Bet you’ve been missing this,” Wonwoo practically purrs as he pulls you towards his mouth-

Both you and Mingyu let out sounds of affirmation, and Wonwoo’s happy to know that despite any momentary power you and Mingyu had as a united little front- you’re still putty in his hands.

“He gets sloppy with you,” Wonwoo notes, “Mingyu.”

You groan, nodding and shifting your hips towards his face-

“Do you like it sloppy?” Wonwoo can’t help but grin at your movements, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh before letting out a deep breath that fans across your wet heat, making you shiver.

“I like it eager,” you respond, enjoying this form of dirty talk- “Mingyu always eats me like he’s starved.”

“Does he?” Wonwoo taunts, ignoring the groan that comes from the phone. “I guess I should give that a try, huh?”

His hands spread your thighs open, and his mouth makes contact with your core, wet tongue dipping into your hole while you scramble to grab at his hair-

“Fuck- Wonwoo-” you shift your hips, closing your eyes and letting your head loll back to the mattress-

Mingyu’s voice makes you tingle when he asks; “How’s he feel?”

“So good-”

“Does he feel like me?”

“He feels-” you let out a whine when Wonwoo focuses in on your clit, and he keeps your legs open with steady hands- “I’m so-”

“Is he really that good?” Mingyu’s tone has shifted to shock, and you can’t blame him. After waiting for an hour to finally get any real action, you and Wonwoo have more pent up energy than you’d realized, and you’re eager for a release-

“I’m gonna- Gyu- please-”

Wonwoo does something Mingyu doesn’t often do while eating you out for a first course- he uses his fingers, and the feeling of two digits slipping into your wet heat has your head spinning.

“You’re cumming already?” Mingyu asks-

“Yes-”

“Then come on, pretty girl, let go for us,” your soft lover groans, making you whine even louder as you fall over the edge- “That’s it baby- fuck, you sound so pretty-”

Wonwoo does his first duty diligently; he eats you out until you’re quaking, and only then does he pull away from your core, fingers continuing to pump in and out of you, their pace drastically slowed-

“What now, Mingyu?” he asks, thumb finding your clit- “I could work another out of her really easily.”

“Do it.”

You’re taken aback at how quickly Mingyu is agreeing with his hyung- and the pressure that’s applied to your clit has your legs threatening to close around Wonwoo’s shoulders, a gasp tumbling from your lips-

“Another?” you question, looking down at Wonwoo desperately.

“Another,” he confirms, bringing his face down to your entrance again-

His mouth is better than his thumb, but it’s also so much worse- because his tongue and the suction of his lips can do things to you that a finger never could- and you’re still so sensitive from your first orgasm-

“Wonwoo-” you wiggle in his grasp, and Wonwoo lifts a hand to splay his fingers across your lower abdomen, pinning you-

“Cum for us again,” Mingyu says simply. “Come on baby, I know you can do it- who’s our good girl?”

“I am,” you whimper, grabbing at the bedsheets-

“And what’s our good girl gonna do for us?”

“I’m gonna cum!” you gasp, the knot in your stomach wound impossibly tight before releasing.

“Fuck-” Mingyu groans loudly, and the sound makes you even more delirious as waves of pleasure slam into you, aided by the man who continues his work between your legs-

“Wonwoo-” you whimper breathlessly, tangling your fingers in his hair-

He lets up, pulling his mouth away from your core while his fingers work you through your high.

It’s amazing to have two people’s attention again-

Mingyu’s not been gone on his trip for long, but even a week of his absence is felt more than you can describe-

“Did you cum too, Mingyu?” Wonwoo’s voice makes you open your eyes, and you turn to look at the phone-

“Maybe,” comes a muffled response, and you realize Mingyu’s carrying his phone- it gets set down, and then comes the sound of running water. A moment later, Mingyu is letting out a deep breath and things are settling again. “I just really miss you guys.”

“You fly back tomorrow night though,” Wonwoo says, removing his fingers from your core to lick them clean.

“Yeah, but I have schedule all day until the airport-” Mingyu groans.

“Baby,” Wonwoo looks down at you slyly, “it sounds like Mingyu’s saying he’s going to be too tired to fuck you tomorrow night when he gets back from his work trip.”

“What?” you sit up, looking towards the phone-

“I just- might be tired tomorrow is all,” Mingyu says, flopping down onto his hotel bed.

“Sleep on the plane,” Wonwoo suggests, pushing his pants down to remove his achingly hard cock-

“You guys are going to pick me up when I land, right?”

“We wouldn’t miss it,” the man rubbing his length between your folds assures his friend before slipping into you with a groan.

“Fuck-” Mingyu lets out his own sound as he adjusts his hold on his phone, watching you and Wonwoo with interest-

“It’s okay if you’re too tired-” you begin, only to cut yourself off with a whine of pleasure when Wonwoo adjusts your leg on his hip- “It’s okay if you’re too tired to fuck me when you get back home,” you assure Mingyu- “Wonwoo will- Wonwoo can fuck me really good before you come home and then we can just sleep-”

“Stop, you guys are the worst,” Mingyu groans, eyebrows pulled together in concentration as he watches Wonwoo fuck you into the mattress.

“You know, I was considering switching up the position to give Gyu a better view-” Wonwoo breathes, “but if he’s going to be like this-”

“Give me the view.”

Wonwoo gives in with a laugh, and before you know it, you’re on your knees with your back to his chest while he fucks up into you from behind, your boobs on display for the third member of your trio, miles away but connected on facetime.

“Fuck- baby, you’re so pretty-” Mingyu groans, and you can tell he has his hand on his cock again, but your view only includes his face-

“She is, isn’t she?” Wonwoo’s breath is hot against your shoulder, and his fingers dig into your hips while he thrusts into you.

“Even with all the other models and pretty girls in the world,” Mingyu shakes his head, swallowing thickly, “there’s only you.”

Wonwoo laughs when your pussy squeezes him at his friend's words. “He always knows what to say to you, doesn’t he, gorgeous?”

You nod, and a moment later, Wonwoo’s digits are on your chin, prompting you to the side so you can meet his lips-

He presses into you fully, holding still while his tongue invades your mouth, and then the hand on your hip slides down to your clit-

“Wonwoo-”

“One more baby,” he tells you softly, “you can give us one more, right?”

You can- as long as it’s only one more.

After an hour of waiting, and then two back-to-back orgasms, you’re already feeling like you’ve been spread a little thin, but one more orgasm is doable of course-

“Look at Mingyu when you cum,” Wonwoo instructs, gently drawing circles on your clit while his lips press kisses to your throat. “He’s been good and patient most of the week while busy with work, so he deserves it, don’t you think?”

You nod eagerly, opening your eyes to stare at the phone, where Mingyu stares back.

Mingyu sits up, biting at his lip with interest before asking, ”You’re gonna cum for us?”

“Yes, Gyu-” you tell him, lifting your hands to your breasts while Wonwoo finds a pace behind you again. Each thrust has your boobs bouncing, and the fingers on your clit are unrelenting now-

“Then cum.” Wonwoo’s breath is hot on the nape of your neck, and it makes you shiver-

Your core tightens on your boyfriend’s length and you both let out groans of pleasure-

It’s difficult to keep your eyes open, but you watch Mingyu, listening to the sounds of both men coming undone with you- Wonwoo moves his hand from your clit to anchor your hips during his final few thrusts, and you can hear Mingyu panting-

As things come to a stop, Wonwoo lets out a deep breath and Mingyu mutters, “fuck” before he’s tossing his phone down and the screen goes black while he audibly lumbers to the bathroom.

Wonwoo chuckles against your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss to your skin.

“It will be good to have him back tomorrow,” he says.

You agree, and the two of you get cleaned up. When you return to the bedroom and take your phone off the tripod, you find Mingyu settled under his covers, a sleepy expression on his face.

“You had a long day,” you empathize, smiling at the pretty man you call your boyfriend, “walking a runway-”

“Cumming twice,” Wonwoo adds with a grin, joining you on your bed.

“I’m tired-” Mingyu says, “but I missed you guys. Can we watch an episode of our show on Netflix together before I sleep?”

“Of course,” you respond, and Wonwoo’s already grabbing for his laptop. “And Mingyu?”

“Yeah?”

You smile, heart swelling- “Congratulations on completing your show.”

The model simply grins. “You can congratulate me tomorrow.”

✘ thanks for reading :) ✘ Please find the teaser for the accompanying patreon exclusive extension bonus of this fic below :)

Patreon bonus details :)

✘ [synopsis]: Mingyu gets home :) but he's a bit of a grump ✘ [warnings]: 3some, shower sex, fingering, size kink, orgasm control, dumbification, praise, cumplay, facial, pearl necklace, etc… ✘ [word count]: 1.6k - 180 words shown in teaser

“I’m gross from the airport,” Mingyu insists when you pick him up at the terminal to take him home. Despite the possible germs he may have concocted while abroad, he doesn’t complain when you suggest sitting together in the back of the car while Wonwoo drives.

Your boyfriend is obviously exhausted- he hardly talks at all, simply holds you close while Wonwoo checks on the two of you every now and again through the rearview mirror.

“He needs a shower,” the elder of your lovers concludes when you’re on the way up to your apartment a short time later, and Mingyu doesn’t complain about this either.

Soon, you find yourself stripping Mingyu of his clothes while steam fills the bathroom.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you ask while pulling off your shirt.

The model yawns, stretching his arms over his head- and your eyes go to the band of his Calvin Kleins- fingers itching to reach out-

“I’m tired, but-” Mingyu rubs his eyes, swallowing thickly and returning his gaze to you, “but once we’re in the shower, I’ll be better.”

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#wonwoo #mingyu #svthub #wonwoo smut #mingyu smut #svt smut #svt #kim mingyu #jeon wonwoo #kim mingyu smut #jeon wonwoo smut #svt mingyu #svt wonwoo #svt meanie #svt meanie smut #meanie svt #mingyu wonwoo smut #wonwoo mingyu smut

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yeojaa · 4 years ago

Text

( DEVIL IN A NEW SUIT. )

Money’s something that makes the world go around. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with securing the bag. You don’t shame anyone for doing what they need to do.

That is, until you come face to face with the poor guy that’s being suckered out of both his heart and cash. You simply can’t let it go on.

pairing. jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating. idiots to lovers. fluff, angst, smut. the holy trifecta, babies! explicit, obviously.

tags / warnings. mentions of infidelity, kook being adorable and sad, reader being a bit of a tactless butthole, a satin playsuit (very nsfw), kook does a 180, smut in the form of: a slight oral fixation, too much spit, overstimulation, pussy slapping, unprotected sex (pls don’t be irresponsible).

wc. 12.2k of nonsense. pure nonsense, i tells ya.

beta reader(s). @hobi-gif did what she always does aka read through this and made me a better writer and @yeoldontknow dealt with my big dumbass and let me cry about my pea brain to her. i love you both sm!!! ✨💜

author note. the long-awaited fic is here!! i really hope you enjoy it. if you do, please maybe leave a comment or something? i swung back and forth between loving and hating this so it’d really, really mean a lot. anyway, thanks as always for reading and i adore you! stay safe and happy and healthy!

He’s a sucker. That’s what you think of him, despite the fact you’ve never met him. It’d be impossible not to, given what you’ve heard.

His girlfriend - or something - is in every other week, flashing his black card like she has something to prove. Sometimes, she’s by herself; often, she’s with another gaggle of girls that fawn all over themselves and shriek a little too loudly for your taste. They’re vapid, snooty in a way that makes you cringe every time they step into the boutique. Still, you’re nice because this is your job and you have to be. You can’t exactly tell a paying customer to get lost - even if you think it at least six times each visit.

“He has no idea.” It’s always the same thing, a story that pulls at your heartstrings yet has you scoffing in equal parts. “I told him we were doing a girls’ trip but Hyunjin’s going to meet me on his way back and we’re spending the week at the Ritz.”

How can he possibly be this dumb, you wonder. How can’t he see past the pretty pink lipstick and perfectly coiffed blonde hair? It isn’t even that nice of a colour job - too icy and reminiscent of Malibu Barbie.

(She’d bragged about it once - how she’d gotten an appointment at one of the most coveted salons in the city, spending hours in the stylist’s chair to get this “perfect shade”. Her words, not yours.)

You figure he must be some lonely schmuck, some poor old sap who can’t possibly get what he’s looking for anywhere else. Maybe he had some weird spoiling kink - if so, where was your man like that - or he just wanted companionship and found it in the arms of girls who paid him any sort of attention. Truthfully, you thought a lot of things about him. Kind of had to, given how often his girlfriend was in, rambling about her exploits and snickering behind his back.

You’d never expected him to be like this.

Jeon Jungkook shows up on a Sunday afternoon, shortly after lunch and with the dopiest smile on his face.

Your colleague notices him first, nudging you to attention because you, unlike her, actually do productive things while you’re at work like go through layaways and make sure items aren’t sitting in the back gathering dust.

“He’s cute,” she very poorly whispers, voice carrying because it always does. She’s a younger girl - maybe a few years your junior, who’d gotten her job through pure nepotism - but she’s sweet enough. Zero tact, though. Never notices when she’s being just a little too forceful with her sales but her sweet smile and full rack seem to keep her from getting into any trouble. You consider her a vaguely annoying sister, someone you love even when you don’t necessarily like her.

You glance up from the iPad balanced in your hands, disinterested. “Who?”

There’s an older couple striding past the entrance, hand-in-hand with three Hermes bags. (God, what awful taste.) There’s another couple standing at the mouth of the Louis Vuitton boutique, bickering about which belt will best match the boyfriend’s tux best. (The answer is neither, because those belts do not belong with a classic black tux.)

“Him.”

Yejin all but points him out, jerking her chin in his direction. You don’t know how you hadn’t really clocked him in the first place. Maybe because he’s so unassuming that you’d just brushed over him, noting his outfit before moving on. When you look at him - really look at him - you can’t look away.

You think he’s handsome in that off-kilter kind of way, too-big teeth and too-wide eyes. He’s terribly innocent looking, despite the fact that he’s wearing a gleaming gold Rolex and sleek black boots you recognise from Prada’s 2019 RTW. Everything he wears is tailored, fitting him to the point you wonder who his seamstress is.

But then he speaks, and it’s not the suave, sultry voice you’d expect. It’s featherlight and almost shy, bashful in its delivery.

“I’m here to pick up a bag for my girlfriend?” He upspeaks. It’s stupidly adorable.

Bless her soul, Yejin throws a glance in your direction first. A silent ‘yours or mine?’ that’s answered when you step forward, blindingly bright customer service smile in full effect. “What’s the item and the name it’s under?” You keep in mind he’s said girlfriend very clearly, even as you can’t help but trail your stare over his shoulders, the dimple that digs itself into his cheek when he speaks again.

“Oh, it’s under mine. Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook.”

You’re floored. This is Jeon Jungkook? This specimen draped in leather and fine Japanese silk is the poor idiot wrapped around Barbie’s finger? You’ve got to be kidding.

You wonder whether the surprise is evident on your face. It must be, given how quickly Yejin interrupts, piping up in that saccharine sweet voice of hers. “I’ll grab it! The Box bag in cloud, right?”

Jungkook can only nod dumbly. He has no idea what he’s there to pick up - only that he needs to because his girlfriend is away on a trip with her two best female friends. He tells you as much, chuckling at his own ignorance. It’d be cute if it weren’t so sad, his eyes twinkling like the jewels set in your ears. There’s so much love in his eyes it’s frankly sickening.

It comes before you can help it, snapping off your tongue - an oil spill ready to drag him to the depths of hell.

“Oh - you’re Kiko’s boyfriend? I thought you’d left for Hong Kong already.” Your head tilts - the picture of innocence as you continue to spew things you shouldn’t, staining the innocence of his expression with each word that drops off. “She said she was leaving on Friday.” Even while you’re tearing this poor man’s life apart, you’re racking your brain for the off-handed comments she’d made. “She kept going on and on about how she was so excited to be staying at the Ritz.”

It’s almost like you gain some sick sort of satisfaction in watching his face fall. You’ve never seen someone crumble so quickly, every ounce of affection swept up and spat out in the time it takes you to take a solid, proper breath.

You do feel bad. Not for saying it, but for being the person to do this. For hurting this stranger. (At least he knew?)

“I think you have me mistaken for someone else.” Gone is the sunny friendliness, the blissful geniality. He’s very much uncertain, bunny teeth digging into the full swell of his bottom lip. He’s pigeon-toed and round-shouldered, thick brows drawn neatly over his stare as he focuses on some indeterminate point somewhere by his feet.

If Yejin were on the floor with you, she’d tell you to knock it off. Chastise you for getting involved in something you had no business being in. (She’d be right, but you’ve always been an advocate for tough love.) As it stands, she’s still in the back finding that stupid girl’s bag and you’re here, shaking your head, weakening Jungkook’s resolve with the edge of your teeth. “No, she definitely said she was going away with her boyfriend. Did you maybe give us the wrong name?”

Maybe if he weren’t so upset, he’d be more offended by the insinuation he’s stupid. Instead, he only falters further, head mimicking yours. Poor guy.

“I—I think there’s been a mistake.”

Yeah, you dating that gold-digger, you want to say. Instead, you meet his stare like you haven’t just dug a thousand holes in his foundation. “Oh, maybe. I’m sorry.” The apology is honest, even if the meaning behind it isn’t. That’s a thing, right? Apologising to make someone feel better, even when you don’t necessarily agree with it?

God, you’re an altruist.

“It’s fine.” When he stutters, adorable lisp coming out to play, you know it’s not. You applaud him for his brave face, even if it’s very poorly offered - a makeshift mask you think you could tear off with just another well-aimed word. (You won’t.)

“Here it is!” Yejin’s back, bouncing out from behind the counter with the giant white bag in her hands. If she notices the atmosphere, she says nothing. You remind yourself to tell her good job once Jungkook leaves - and you know he’ll leave the moment he’s got those silk handles in his hand. He looks about ready to cry - or ready to fight, you’re not sure.

Once the purchase is passed over, he nods his head furiously and you swear you see a tear go flying. You don’t have time to ask before he’s hoofing it out of the store.

He doesn’t even notice he’s left his wallet on the counter.

By the time you snatch it up and round the corner, he’s nowhere to be found. Probably because running in stilettos is next to impossible and he’s gotten an embarrassed head start. Well then.

“I guess we’ll have to call him,” you hum, turning the Prada bi-fold over and over in your hands. It’s practically brand new, stuffed with large bills, his driver’s license, and few credit cards, including a Hyundai black card. The same one on file that his girlfriend - maybe soon-to-be ex-girlfriend? - uses shamelessly.

Yejin’s watching you carefully, silently. You’re counting down how long it’ll be until she asks - because you can see the curiosity swimming in her eyes, practically bulging her cheeks with the effort of keeping her questions caged behind her teeth.

Finally, after a good three minutes, she’s at your side, bony point of her chin digging a grave into your shoulder. It’s probably not the most appropriate thing but she’s never much been one for decorum. (You either, but still.)

“So… what was that about?”

You don’t bother to turn when you speak, back to running through order details and matching them with customers. “What?”

“You know— that!” She waves her wrist in a circle, gesturing toward the space Jungkook had occupied not five minutes ago. “He ran out of here like he was scared for his life.”

“Scared of the truth,” you correct.

You hadn’t thought it was possible for her to get more pale - she’s already fine porcelain, perpetually slathered in sunscreen - but she somehow does, balking at your response. There it is.

“What?” There’s a reproachful edge to her words, an uncertainty that tells more than the single syllable.

“What?” It’s mimicry and a challenge all in one, meeting her stare from the corner of your periphery. You can read every emotion that runs through her expression: shock, displeasure, confusion.

She retreats a step, bottom lip caught between her teeth. (She really does remind you of your little sister.) “So, you told him?”

You shrug, a noncommittal gesture that disrupts the curtain of silk that falls over your shoulder. You hadn’t laid it out for him but surely he had an idea now. There was no way he didn’t.

“I pointed out a few conflicting facts. That’s all.” You’re not ashamed about what you’ve done. You’d want to know if you were him. Consider it an act of goodwill.

The silence that meets your ears isn’t surprising but you don’t pay it any further mind. What’s done is done. Now he knows, or something close to it. The chips would simply fall where they were meant to.

You have to admit - you’re rooting for him.

Whatever Yejin’s thinking, she keeps it to herself for the rest of the shift. She knows better than to berate you about something like this, not that she would anyway. Obnoxious as she can be, you have an understanding. It strengthens your not-quite-close-friends-but-more-than-colleagues relationship.

It’s only at the end of your shift that she brings it up again, drifting over to you as you complete your cash count for the evening.

She holds Jungkook’s wallet in her hand, mouth pursed thoughtfully as she taps it against the edge of the counter. “You have to call him.”

You almost lose your count, finishing with a pinched expression. “Whoever works tomorrow morning can call him.” You’re not brushing off the responsibility - you really could care less - but simply passing it along to the next person. Sensible.

As it turns out, you’re the person who works the next morning, called in because another associate has come down with a cold.

You’re two lattes deep when you remember the wallet, tucked neatly behind the counter with a yellow sticky note posted to the front. You suppose it’s your responsibility now. You know if Yejin comes in tomorrow and sees it, she’ll give you her childish brand of hell.

The line rings twice before it picks up, that oddly familiar voice crackling through the speaker. “Hello?”

“Jungkook?”

There’s a beat of silence followed by a careful confirmation. “Yes, that’s me?” Upspeaking again. How cute.

“I’m calling from the CELINE boutique.” You can practically imagine the look on his face, eyes as wide as saucers as he recalls the awful-to-him encounter. “You left your wallet here and I wanted to make sure you got it back.”

“O-oh, uh—“ It’s like encountering a baby bunny - or deer or something equally adorable and vulnerable. “Thanks. I didn’t even notice. Um, I can come pick it up today?” There’s another pause, the sound of fingers over a screen, and then he’s back. “Is that okay?”

Leave it to him to have lost his wallet and yet be worried about putting someone else out. He truly was a sucker.

“That’s fine. We’re open until six tonight.”

“I’ll be there before dinner.” As if realizing how vague that is, he continues, words running headlong into each other like he can’t get them out fast enough. “Before six, I mean. Um, is around five-thirty okay?”

You want to tell him to just come whenever, that it really doesn’t matter to you, but that probably isn’t going to help the situation. Instead, you hum a quiet sound of confirmation. “Of course. We’ll see you then.”

He hangs up immediately.

The second time you meet Jeon Jungkook, he’s just as endearing as the last. It’s actually surprising, if you’re being honest. You’d thought he’d be resentful or mean or any other emotion better fitting someone whose entire world had turned upside-down.

As it stands, he’s just the right-side of anxious, a hundred little sparks of uncertainty flaring beneath his skin and lighting him up in neon. You can see him from a mile away he’s lit up so bright, seemingly uncomfortable in his own skin.

Your heart aches for him - and then it skips, almost trips over its own two feet when he wanders into the store with his hands dug deep into the pocket of his pants.

How he looks tonight is nothing like how he’d looked yesterday. Somehow, you like it more. The undone head-to-toe Balenciaga, the unruly curl of his dark hair. It’s effortlessly chic - though you think it might have something to do with the fact that he’s just an attractive person. (Good-looking people could get away with anything - even god-awful fashion faux pas.)

At the sight of you, he seems to further lose steam, eyes widening to such an extent you briefly worry for him. Surely they’ll fall out of their sockets one day.

“O-oh. It’s you.” The moment the words come, he’s blushing the colour of your red-soled shoes, horrified. “I m-mean, just—” He takes a deep breath, finds his footing and tries again. “You’re the girl that helped me yesterday.” Spoken like you, the exact girl who helped him yesterday, wouldn’t remember that fact yourself.

“That’s right,” you say evenly, expression neutral. It’s almost as if that surprises him more - as if he’d expected you to shy away from the knowledge.

The two of you stare at each other for longer than is strictly speaking necessary. Well, you stare at him and he kind of bounces his eyes around the room. You know he can’t be that interested in the croc stamp Belt bag behind your head or the selection of small leather goods in the glass case.

He’s so awkward.

(You did kind of ruin his day though, so you can’t blame him.)

“So, um, my wallet?” He’s made barely any headway, still lingering awkwardly by the front of the store. You can’t help your smile - it’s more of a smirk - as you raise the item in question.

“Right here.”

Jungkook glances from it to your face, then back again. He makes the same trip twice more. “Can I have it?” To your surprise, he’s taken two whole steps toward you, brow furrowed. He’s still terribly soft, rounded edges and innocent eyes, but he’s making progress. Good job, you think.

“Of course.” You mirror him, moving out from behind the counter. Somehow, that’s not the right move, because his features are breaking and rearranging, big bunny teeth worrying a hole straight through his bottom lip. You’d think he’d be more confident, more demanding, more… everything. (You quite like that he isn’t - a complete anomaly - but you also imagine it’s also to his detriment. Too much honey, not enough vinegar.)

This time, he closes the distance with three long strides. It hadn’t escaped you how tall he was, the length of his gait - after all, you’d tried to run after him - but you’re still a little surprised when he’s in front of you, not a foot away, arm extended. Palm out, he asks again, all while refusing eye contact. “May I have it, please?”

You hand it over with a soft laugh, pressing the grained leather into his hand. You expect him to retreat immediately and he does - but then he turns and his expression is inscrutable. Is he going to say thank you? Berate you for what you’d done yesterday?

Neither, it seems. “Why did you do it?” There’s no anger, just an abiding sadness that laces his words, turns them the saddest shade of blue.

“Do it?” You know what he means. You ask anyway.

“Why did you tell me?” Jungkook’s doing that thing again, alternating between biting his tongue and chewing his cheek as he stares at you. You can practically see the melancholy rolling off him; it shines dark on the depths of his irises, how his fist trembles just barely at his side. For all his good looks and leisurely charm, you can see the effort it takes to hold himself together now.

Guilt ascends, starts somewhere deep in your stomach and turns stomach acid to butterflies. It creeps higher and higher over your spine, locking each vertebrae until you’re immobile, unable to tear your gaze from his. “I thought you deserved to know.”

“But why?”

“What do you mean?”

It’s almost comical, how both your expressions descend into bewilderment - like looking into a fun house mirror. He’s trying to wrap his mind around your actions and you’re just trying to make sense of his confusion.

You anticipate a response - can see it tittering on the tip of his tongue - but he seems to think better of it, shaking his head. It dislodges a wayward curl from behind his ear, silver twinkling with the movement.

“Thank you” is all he offers before speed-walking away.

You don’t expect to see Jeon Jungkook for a third time.

He’s waiting for you when you end your shift on Thursday, standing somewhere between the two boutiques, loitering like some kind of gremlin. (Except he’s dressed exceptionally well, slick black jeans and a Balenciaga tee shirt that rivals the cost of your shoes. Of course he’d get away with hanging out in the store without being told off.)

“Excuse me.” For once, he doesn’t sutter. The lisp doesn’t present itself, either. Was this the same Jungkook? You’re not sure until you meet his stare - or try, his own skipping away the moment you make contact.

There he is.

“Yes, Jungkook?” He flinches, as if he isn’t expecting you to know or say his name. How can someone so big, so broad across the shoulders with a face that belongs on billboards, look like such a terrified rabbit? It makes no sense to you.

“Can we talk?” The stare he levels you with is unfair, too sweet and coaxing for you to even consider saying no. You’ll still mess with him a bit though.

“We are talking.”

He sputters at that, hacks out a cough that makes you snicker openly. It’s just so easy with him, like taking candy from a baby.

“I mean like— talk talk.” The set of his jaw gives away the whisper of frustration, the fleeting touch of exasperation that doesn’t allow itself to live anywhere else. His eyes are still soft, round and glossy beneath the fluorescent storelight.

“Sure, we can talk talk.”

“Did you, um, want to grab dinner?”

You don’t mean to mock him (at least, not really) but he just makes everything so easy. You hope he doesn’t take it the wrong way. “Are you asking me on a date?”

“W-what? No!” Despite the immediacy of his response - the look of utter shock that cracks the careful facade - he’s burning bright, cheeks aflame with colour that licks up and over his ears. “I just— I thought you’d want to talk somewhere else—”

“I’m kidding. Let’s go.”

You move first, stepping past him and onto the elevator without a backwards glance. He scampers after you, trails like a lost puppy in the wake of your shadow. Even while you stand in the corner, waiting for the lift to meet the main floor, he keeps a careful distance, hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans.

“So, what do you want to talk about?” It seems you have to take the initiative, throwing him a curious stare as the floor number ticks down. His gaze is trained on neon digits, unmoving. You repeat yourself, glancing up at him, half-tempted to nudge him out of his reverie. It’s almost like talking to a really hot brick wall. “Jungkook?”

He tears out of his thoughts like a wayward bullet, head swivelling wildly. “Huh?”

“What did you want to talk about?”

“Um—” He hesitates, not as if he doesn’t know the answer, but rather that he’s hesitant to speak it into existence. There’s a tidal wave in the depth of his stare, a cresting wave that looks on the edge of breaking. “—m-me?”

Brows furrow then amusement spills out. “You want to talk about… you?”

“That sounds bad.” The shape of his grow prominent over his bottom lip, his mouth pulling and pursing with whatever maelstrom exists inside that pretty skull of his.

“It’s fine. We’ll talk at dinner.”

He nods. You think it means thank you.

Sitting across from each other in the Michelin-starred restaurant - a sought after spot that takes reservations weeks in advance - it’s easy to imagine Jungkook is just another guy. Another bachelor with too much money and not enough sense, eager to sink his teeth into his next victim.

It’s hilarious how far that is from the truth.

“What did you want to eat?” He’s speaking into the pages of the leatherbound menu, half his face hidden. Whether it’s a defense mechanism or just how he woos pretty girls, you’re not sure. (You have a feeling it’s the former.)

“Whatever.” Everything here is incredible. You really don’t mind.

Jungkook’s face falls, folds in on itself like wet paper and you sigh a sound that further breaks apart the pillars keeping his composure in place. His right cheek is hollowed, interior being shredded by enamel. You take pity on him then, flipping open the menu with a great flourish.

When the waitress - a lovely little thing whose gaze lingers on your dining partner for too long to just be polite - comes to take your order, you rattle off your usual order, doubling certain selections. Soft-spoken as he might be, you have a feeling the size of his stomach makes up for all the mumbling and half-hearted glances.

“So?” You level him with a stare over the rim of your glass, lavender and lemonade bursting across your tongue.

He echoes you, wide-eyed and Bambi-like and stupidly cute. “So?”

“What did you want to talk about?” If you’d had a worse day, if you were a lesser person, you might be irritated by having to repeat yourself so often. As it stands, you’re only curious, your inquisitive nature outweighing your naturally short temper.

“Oh.” Poor boy looks like he’s been asked an impossible question, like what’s the meaning of life or the secret to eternal youth. He fumbles with the edge of his sleeve, turns the plaid over and over in his fingers as if it were a puzzle. You stare at him the whole time, unflinching, unrelenting. He’d asked you here so you damn well expect an answer.

You’re about ready to repeat yourself - fourth time’s the charm? - when he finally finds his voice.

“I wanted to say thank you.”

It’s not the answer you’d expected. It whacks you in the face, smacking your usual confidence out of place and shooting your carefully threaded eyebrows into your hairline. “What?”

He’s terribly uncomfortable, unhappy with being on the spot. You watch the flicker of emotions through his face, the ones that creep into the delicate skin beneath his eyes, the wobble of his bottom lip. Try as he might, he can’t keep the light from his eyes - twinkling stars that bloom like newly minted stars.

“Thank you.” It’s just that much harder when he repeats himself, edges he builds with his bare hands and a clearing of his throat.

You’re silent for a long while - long enough for the first few plates to be set before you. You gather up shredded radish and perfectly charred beef with your chopsticks, chewing thoughtfully on the morsel. Jungkook doesn’t move - doesn’t even reach for his chopsticks - and simply stares at you. You might find it off-putting if it were anyone but him.

You get through half the bowl of green beans, well on your way to finishing it, when he finally begins eating, deftly transferring little bites to his bowl.

The only sound is crunching - king oyster mushroom tempura, ice from your cocktail - and you’re pleasantly surprised to find it’s not uncomfortable. A little different, sure, but altogether nice. Like dining with an old friend.

You finally answer when half the plates are gone, another three laid out in their wake. You’re careful not to speak with your mouth open - you notice Jungkook doesn’t either - and take a long sip of your water. “You’re welcome, I guess.”

Something tells you you’re always surprising him - whether intentionally or not. His eyebrows have a tendency to shoot up, making him look even more shocked than he normally does. (Seriously, how big are his eyes?) You find that funny but don’t comment on it, opting to pop a silken piece of black cod into your mouth. Your stare never falters, trained on his face as you chew thoughtfully.

“What?” He’s had enough of your quiet observation, apples of his cheeks reminiscent of the tree in your parents’ backyard.

“What?” You parrot back, shameless, dark eyes twinkling at him.

“Y-you’re staring at me.”

“You’re sitting in front of me.”

The line of his mouth hardens then, tongue rolling against his cheek in a gesture that stands out. It’s the first glimpse of something rude, something not doe-eyed and innocent. Oh?

“You don’t have to stare.” Said with a speared piece of sashimi, the end of his chopsticks assaulting the poor piece of bluefin tuna like it has personally offended him.

You reach for the same place, knock ornate wood against his, and quirk a brow when he meets your stare. “Does it bother you, Mr. Jeon?” The inflection is drawn out, almost mocking, only softened by the smile you offer.

“That’s not my name.” The bite disappears past his teeth. You expect him to continue three chews later but he only goes for another, filling his plate and then his mouth.

“Sorry— Jungkook. Does my staring bother you?”

It feels a little like playing with fire - holding your hand too close to a flickering flame, curious what it’ll do. Juvenile in a way but enticing in another. You’ve never met anyone quite like Jeon Jungkook.

“It’s rude,” he reasons, glossy eyes meeting yours for perhaps the fifth time that evening.

“Maybe I’m just rude.”

He shakes his head then - dislodges untamed strands from behind his silver-lined ears - and sets his chopsticks down. (Perfectly matched up, propped against the provided rest.) “You’re not.”

You can’t keep the surprise away, the emotion threading through your brows to tie them into a little knot of consternation. He says it so readily, as if he knows you and this isn’t one of a handful of very short, very unexpected conversations. He’s not even looking away, meeting your stare with a confidence that surprises you.

It lasts for all of five more seconds before he clears his throat and sips at his tea. Anything to busy his hands, you think.

“You don’t know that,” you finally return, after what seems like too long.

“I do.” He nods - almost to himself - and continues, matter-of-fact. “You care about people. You’re… hard around the edges but you don’t mean to hurt anyone. You want to do what’s right. Sometimes it means you have to do things that aren’t easy.”

For once, you’re at a loss for words. Really and truly silenced, unable to articulate anything that might beat back the kindness he’s offering.

How the tables have turned.

He likes waffles with chocolate syrup rather than honey. He doesn’t like whipped cream or citrus-flavoured desserts. He has a tailor he’s gone to since he was a child, the same elderly woman he sometimes calls halmoni because she’s watched him grow up. He decorates his apartment with the most random things: limited edition KAWs figurines and the guitars he still hasn’t had the most practice with, one of a kind paintings from the gallery one of his best friends curates. He buys the most expensive bottles of wine at any given restaurant not because his palate is so evolved it matters, but because it’s what he’s been taught to do.

He’s been in four serious relationships in his twenty-five years. All of them have ended poorly, though his latest with Malibu Barbie is the first where he’d been cheated on. (Somehow, you doubt that but you don’t voice this disbelief.) He tends to lean towards long-term relationships with women who baby him (your words, not his). He scoffs when you call him a serial monogamist, insists he isn’t even as you list out all the facts pointing otherwise.

“I just… don’t like wasting my time,” he insists from behind his coffee cup.

“You mean you don’t like the potential to be hurt.”

Jungkook blinks at you then, Bambi eyes so big and bright you almost want to laugh. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He seems confused - as if his reasoning is solid, irrefutable.

“High risk, high reward, Jungkookie.” It’s something your father had taught you years ago, the crazy old sap. It’s probably why he’s had three divorces since you were seven years old, but you suppose it’s worked out for him now. He’s been happily married for the last ten years - the longest relationship he’s ever had. Youngin is good for him, though. You like her - even if you sometimes wish she weren’t young enough to be your older sister and not his wife.

“You say that a lot.”

“I mean it when I say it.”

He’s quiet then, shoving a corner of his croissant past his lips. When he speaks - starts to, anyway - his mouth is still full and you level him with a look that silences him until all traces of the pastry are gone. “Girls are scary.”

You laugh. Cackle, really. You can’t help it. He says it with a pout, the expression so utterly at odds with the offensively revealing shirt he wears, the smooth unblemished skin of his chest almost too much for such a quiet afternoon. He glares at you across the table, shoves another piece of the flaky golden treat into his mouth, and waits for you to speak. He knows you’re going to give him a piece of your mind because you always do, rebuffing 99% of the things he says. (Sometimes for fun, often with good intentions.)

“Heights are scary. Death is scary. Leaving your wallet at home when you’re low on gas is scary—”

“Don’t you have Apple Pa—”

“Don’t interrupt.” He clamps his lips shut, folding his arms across his chest. From anyone else, it’d be a defensive gesture; from him, it’s patient. “Girls aren’t scary. Having real feelings for people is scary, but that doesn’t mean you should just stay with people who don’t deserve you.”

“Not all of us have cheater-sniffing noses.”

You suppose he’s right but the fact still remains that he’s too nice for his own good. Too trusting, too lenient, too blind to all the red flags. Like he’s living life in greyscale.

“Well, that’s what you have me for.”

The look Jungkook gives you then is incredulous, screwing his pretty face up as if he’s about to sneeze. Instead, he laughs. “I’m not hopeless.”

“Oh, but you are.” You’re adamant, insistent. He’s more comfortable with you now - sometimes teases you in a way you’d never have expected weeks ago - but he’s still so soft. An absolute marshmallow dressed in designer duds, a heart of gold wrapped up in a bubble gum package.

You want to protect him, teach him to fly. Be his wingwoman until he’s soaring the skies on his own.

You know it’s not his pride that keeps him from saying yes. He doesn’t have an abundance of that, far too gracious to ever deny help when he really needs it. He’s just shy, doesn’t know what he wants until it’s staring him right in the face.

“Fine,” he agrees after you’ve stared at him for too long. It’s one of his weaknesses - his inability to handle attention when it’s laser-focused. It makes him sweat, prompts his nervous habit of chewing at his bottom lip, long fingers picking at the peach fuzz on his cheeks.

“You won’t regret it.”

Jeon Jungkook has gone on six dates over the last ten days. You know, because you’ve helped him pick out outfits for each of them, seated at the edge of his bed with your knees folded and a bag of white cheddar popcorn in your grubby little paws.

It’s not that he isn’t stylish - you both know he is - but there’s a certain finesse to dressing for dates, to knowing the likes and dislikes of your potential partner and playing to those.

He, to no one's surprise, does not have this finesse. If it were up to him, he’d wear his favourite clothes every day, different jeans and joggers in medium-wash denim and impossibly soft cotton. He’d swap his Balenciaga separates in and out and stick with the finely tailored Gucci suit he calls his lucky ticket (ew). He’d live in those stupid two-toned sneakers and barely do his hair, allowing it to become a powder puff reminiscent of old Hollywood movies.

The girls would probably still love it. (It’s easy to love him.)

“What do you think?” It’s low-cut black, relaxed in the shoulders and flattering in the torso. It holds him just right, hugging the muscle that threads across his shoulders like armour, coils around his upper arms and makes his tattoos stand in stark relief where the sleeves end, mid-forearm.

It looks good— but then again, a lot of things look good on him. He wants great.

You answer honestly, because that’s what you do and that’s what he has you there for. To knock him down when his (admittedly small) ego gets a little too big, remind him of his hubris like the summer sun upon his candle wax wings. “Not bad…”

You don’t even need to finish the thought for him to be tugging the shirt over his head, back flexed, ink-strewn fingers gripping the hem.

Not for the first time, you’re reminded of just how unfair life is.

How had Jungkook - bona fide dork, certifiable shy guy - been gifted one of the best bodies in human existence? (You wish you were joking.) It was utterly absurd, a complete waste on someone who’d only learnt to utilise his good looks in the last five months you’d known him.

“This one?” He’s grabbing another hanger, all but thrusting it into your face. Medium-weight cashmere. Probably too hot for a night like tonight but you’ve seen it on him before and it hugs him like a lover, displaying his best assets (titties) and drawing attention to the narrow shape of his waist. It’s the equivalent of a little black dress.

“Look at you go,” you tease, mouth full of mirth and popcorn kernels. “Throw that Juun.J trench you have overtop and you’ll be set.”

Jungkook nods sagely, as if your word is law. You suppose it is.

“Thanks, ____,.” He says it in that sweet way of his, eyes lost to the weight of his gratitude.

Your response is a shrug. “Bring me back some dessert and we’ll be even.” You don’t know where he’s going tonight but you figure it’s one of the many restaurants you’d recommended earlier in the week when he’d started lining up his various dates. You know there’ll be something good on the menu.

He promises he will as he slides the turtleneck on, tucking it into the dark trousers he’d picked up days ago, and redoes the slim black Rag & Bone belt around his waist. You have to admit - you’ve done another great job of styling him. Simple yet painstakingly attractive, playing at all the little bits of Jungkook’s best qualities without outlining them in bright red ink. Understated but elegant, effortless yet seriously hot.

Maybe you should quit your day job and become the female Hitch. That was a viable plan, right?

You’re mulling it over when you realise your walking Ken doll is making toward his bedroom door, wallet clasped in one hand and phone in the other. “Hey! You’re leaving already?” It’s polite surprise that colours your words, stare drawn to the screen of your iPhone. It’s only 6 PM and the reservation isn’t for another hour.

There’s a sheepish look creeping over his features, painting itself in delicate strokes that you spy past the line of his smile, how the skin crinkles around his eyes. For a moment, he’s the shy Jungkook you’d met in your store and not the one that now bleeds careful confidence, filling his little black book (read: phone contacts) with names as easily as he breathes. “I was, uh, going to stop and get f-flowers.” A silver-lined hand scrubs across his nape, dislodges the carefully styled waves he’s settled for.

Flowers, huh? Well, that’s certainly something new. Good for him, you think.

“Jeon Jungkook, going all out.” It’s heavy on the teasing, playful mockery lending a warmth to your words. “She’s special.”

Which you’d figured, given he was seeing her. Repeats were rare for him now that he’d learned how to weed out the bad seeds, held his hand a little closer to his heart (at least, sometimes). Since he’d started dating again, this would be the first time he’d be going on a second date. It’s a big deal.

“Yeah—“ Nervousness sparks across his face, lights up his stare like the stars in the night sky. “I guess she is.”

You smile fondly, like a proud mother. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

“I will,” he promises, looking so giddy it makes your heart swell ten sizes.

You don’t even think anything of it as you follow him out of his room, bag of popcorn neatly rolled under your arm and your socks slid back into place. It’s only when he levels you with a strange stare, pauses in the shrugging on of his coat, that you return his look. “What?”

“Where are you going?”

“Leaving?”

“Why?”

Wasn’t that the million dollar question?

You don’t normally leave, usually waiting here at home for him until he returns to give you a rundown of his date (and the promised appetizer/dessert/whatever). It feels somehow wrong to stay, though, as if you’re taking up space that doesn’t belong to you. He’s going on a second date, after all. Soon enough, he won’t need your help picking out clothes or deciding on a restaurant. You won’t get to curl up on your usual corner of his sectional, wrapped up in the obnoxiously soft blanket you’d convinced him to buy one night while online shopping.

But it’s fine. Totally, one hundred and ten percent fine. The two of you are friends. You’d always expected - anticipated, hoped - this day would come. Baby boy was growing up.

“Y’know.” You answer a second too late and he’s still wearing that odd expression, handsome face flooded with something that looks like disappointment. It flickers in the bits of his stare you can make out past his fringe, partially concealed by the dark silk that you know feels as soft as it looks.

“I know?” He never tries to read your mind - knows it’s utterly useless.

You wiggle your hand dismissively. “Second date and all that.”

Jungkook giggles - the same deceptively sweet sound he always makes - and finishes tugging his jacket on. It fits him so well it should be illegal, falling to his knees and ending just shy of the intricate laces of his boots. “Just stick around. I’ll drive you home when I get back.”

It’s something he always does - his way of saying thank you for putting up with all of his first date jitters, his outfit changes, his worrying over how to first approach a girl on Tinder - so you don’t doubt him. “Fine. I’ll stay.”

He beams, caught halfway out the door. “Tell me to break a leg.”

“Go break her back,” you retort to the sound of his laughter.

You’re almost asleep when your phone starts going off, the vibrations jolting you awake. It rattles across the glass table, won’t shut the hell up until you’re slamming your hand atop it, glaring at the screen as it lights up with notifications.

It’s almost 2 AM and they’re from Jungkook. This can only mean one thing.

from jeon jungkook: Hey. from jeon jungkook: I’m really sorry but I won’t be home tonight. from jeon jungkook: If you want to stay over, I can drive you back in the morning. from jeon jungkook: Please don’t be mad.

Leave it to him to apologise for getting his dick wet - to feel bad about having a successful second date. It makes you laugh as you stare down at the texts, tap a quick response you know will have his heart racing. (Even after months of friendship, it’s hard not to tease him just a little bit.)

to jeon jungkook: i officially hate you

The typing notification gives him away immediately, but the moment you do the same, he stops. Of course. He hates confrontation - would rather leap off a cliff-face than deal with negative emotions. (He’d told you that once, over a night of beer and fried tteok.)

to jeon jungkook: it’s fine! have fun! to jeon jungkook: turn her world upside down 😏

He doesn’t answer after that but the read receipt pops up. Good, you think. About time he finds someone nice. You wonder what she’ll be like when you meet her.

Jungkook’s third date comes with another third - you.

He drags you along to dinner, insisting there’s nothing at all weird about the fact. He has to repeat it at least four times during the drive there, head nodding like a plastic bobblehead as he weaves in and out of traffic.

“I want you to meet her,” he mumbles, like that makes it better. As if bringing a friend along to a date with that reasoning means it’s totally acceptable and not on the list of Hard No’s When Dating.

“Don’t you think that’s kind of weird?” He’s too focused on changing lanes to answer you, signalling before seamlessly drifting over. (He’s an impressively responsible driver, but that’s unsurprising.) You repeat yourself.

“It’s not… weird.” But you have a feeling that he knows how odd the request is. Knows and doesn’t care, unfortunately. “She wants to meet you too.”

(When had Jungkook turned into this person who argued with you?)

You somehow highly doubt that. No girl in her right mind would leap at the chance to meet her potential beau’s wingwoman. It’s something reserved for official status, when the foundation is set. Still, you play into his hand, level him with a stare he should recognise. It’s the one you throw his way any time he’s too nice, gives a mile when he shouldn’t even offer an inch. (It doesn’t come as often anymore, but it still makes appearances once in a while.)

“What does she even know about me?”

“That we’re friends.” His vague response speaks volumes. The look changes - grows into a glare that has him furtively peeking at you from the corner of his periphery. When he speaks, it feels like a dead giveaway. “That I really value your opinion.”

You groan, a noise so loud it rattles around in the car and interrupts the ballad playing through the speakers.

“She’s trying to figure out if I’m competition or not!” Of course. It’s obvious. She wants to know what she’s getting into it before things get too serious, determine if her Prince Charming is really all that. (He is.) “I’m not coming to dinner.”

“You’re already in the car,” he reasons.

You note he doesn’t deny your first statement, mouth rounding into a pout that should crush your resolve. Instead, it drives you mad, irritation bubbling in your throat.

“I just won’t go in.”

“____,.” When he says it like that, it’s hard to deny him. Jungkook might not utilise his charms often but when he does, it’s lethal. Undeniable with those dumb Bambi eyes of his.

“No.”

“____,,” he repeats, almost pleading. You can’t look at him. You won’t. The moment you do, you’ll be sucked into the swirling vortex that makes up his stare - a million pretty little lights caught in the brown of his iris, so many possibilities you’d lose yourself trying to explore them all.

You last a whole ten seconds before his staring becomes too much, those round eyes tracking you in the rearview mirror until you’re relenting, softening in the way that only he can cause.

“Fine.” You hate how it sounds rolling off your tongue, terse and a little pissed off. You’re not actually mad. Just worried. You’ve seen situations like this play out - not that you’ve been in this position before - but female friends and potential girlfriends just don’t go hand-in-hand. It takes a very special kind of person to facilitate a meeting this early and you are not that person. You’re ragged edges, uneven temperament, distrust that you can’t help.

Jungkook knows that. Should, anyway. You’ve grown close over the last nearly half a year.

When he mumbles a quiet sorry, turns to rest his chin against his knuckles as he drives, you know he means it. He’d never put you in this position if it didn’t mean a lot to him - if his own happiness wasn’t somehow also on the line. (Truthfully, it’s your fault. All that self-love encouragement was coming back to bite you in the ass.)

You grumble an obligatory acceptance as the streetlights fly by. You’ve got a reputation to uphold.

“You’re paying for my dinner.”

“Of course.”

How many times have you pictured this same situation, watched it unfold on your television screen as the protagonist gasps wildly, hand at their throat? How many times have you laughed at the exchange, snickering into your palm as the romantic interest makes some wild declaration of love and wins the protagonist’s heart?

Answer: you’ve lost count.

Still, it doesn’t prepare you to be thrust beneath the spotlight, half-dreaming and terribly confused.

“What’re you doing here?” At any other time, it might be as reproachful as you want, full of disapproval and sleepiness. Here and now, it’s slurred speech and the lines of your pillow dug into the softness of your cheek, lashes dusted with sleep and breath freshly minted.

Jungkook’s oddly surprised, considering he’s appeared unannounced at your doorstep at the crack of dawn (not really). “C-can I come in?”

You don’t budge. It’s not because you’re about to say no, but because you’re still really tired. So tired you stare at him for a moment too long, zoning out as you drink in his appearance. He’s wearing the clothes from last night - the same animal-print silk shirt that hangs obscenely low and reveals too much skin. You recognise it because you’d picked it out for his date.

(The one where he was supposed to ask Jiwon to be his girlfriend, you fail to note.)

You repeat yourself around a yawn, ignoring the way your vowels crash into each other and barely make it to the light of day. “What’re you doing, Jungkookie?”

“Please let me in,” the doe-eyed prince at your door mumbles, gaze bouncing somewhere beyond your shoulder, over your face, to the wayward strands that’re the result of sleeping too well. Everywhere but your eyes.

“Fine,” you huff, stepping back to allow him over the threshold. You don’t miss the way he smells - his signature cologne and something else. If you had to guess, it’s her perfume. It’s distinctly floral, drawing you into a garden of roses. You don’t know if you like it.

Without a second glance, you’re shuffling away from him, dragging your slippered feet into the kitchen.

You move on autopilot, spooning coffee grounds into the Chemex filter. You don’t bother asking whether your surprise guest wants any - assume he does, because the fiend somehow lives on caffeine - and settle against the counter as you wait for your kettle to whistle.

You’re still so tired you feel like you might fall asleep standing up but you think you do a good enough job of levelling Jungkook with a solid stare. “So?”

“W-what?”

It’s been so long since you’ve last heard his stutter that it surprises you, recentres your attention from your own exhaustion and has you frowning. Something’s happened. Must have. There’s no other explanation for it - for how he looks at you, so uncertain like all those months ago when you’d smashed his glass house to pieces.

“What’s going on?” You’re demanding, full to the brim with concern as you round on him. He flinches away as if your words have burnt him, leaning into the stainless steel side of your fridge.

(Silly Jungkook - that won’t protect you.)

“What do you mean?”

The early hour has, luckily, dampened your usual aggression. He’s stalling, you can tell. You hate when he does this. You tell him as much, glowering at him as he tries to shrink his nearly six foot frame into something small. “You’ve showed up at my house unannounced. What do you mean ‘what do I mean’?”

He looks as if he’s on the brink of repeating himself, biting it back behind his neat white teeth when your expression grows darker, more frustrated.

It’s impossible to stay dressed in red, lethargy swathing you up like a cocoon and softening your edges. You sigh heavily - perhaps a little overdramatically - and go about completing your coffee ritual. Patience works best with Jungkook, you’ve learned. (Though, he sorely tests your own sometimes.)

With a steaming mug in your hand and the other passed over to him, you gesture toward your living room.

He nods once - a small up and down of his head.

“So.” You try again, softer this time, warmed by the heat that permeates ceramic and settles your sleep-ravaged nerves. You’re seated cross-legged on your couch, facing him with your back pressed to the arm rest. He’s half-turned to you, coffee cup slotted between his thighs. Feet turned in, mouth wobbling with the intensity of how hard he’s chewing into his bottom lip.

“I couldn’t do it.” The words rush out too fast, tumble into each other in such a way you have to take a second to comprehend what he’s said. Couldn’t do… it?

You stare at each other for a long while, you trying to understand and him refusing to meet your stare.

When realisation dawns on you, you can only imagine how you look. It must be terrifying by how Jungkook practically tries to crawl into the cushions of your couch, shoulders rising around his ears like a turtle.

“You didn’t ask her?” It explodes out, a question that demands an answer.

He’s staring past your head, unblinking. You’d almost worry he was a robot if his voice weren’t so damned human, full of melancholy and rounded by his lisp. “I c-couldn’t. It was just…” The shrug he offers is half-assed at best, not nearly good enough to excuse him.

“Just what?”

“Just—” There’s the wiggly hand gesture you do that he’s adopted, his ink-strewn hand waving through the air like a floppy chicken foot. He thinks it’ll earn him a pass but your unrelenting glare indicates otherwise. He deflates, hand falling back to his lap, clutching his mug like it's a makeshift security blanket. “It didn’t feel right.”

What did that even mean? Feel right?

Love didn’t just appear, fully-formed and complete. It took work and dedication and the understanding it could all come crashing down. Didn’t he understand that? Hadn’t you drilled that into his head?

You exhale through gritted teeth, push breath past enamel that acts like a solid steel gate.

“Jungkook, it’s not going to just ‘feel right.’” You’re air quoting, all tact thrown out the window. “You like her, don’t you?”

You expect him to nod immediately. He doesn’t.

“Jungkook.”

“Yeah?”

“You like her, right?”

“I think so.”

You want to tear your own hair out. Instead, you press the pads of your fingers into your temple - apply pressure in hopes of alleviating the tension that settles there. “So, you like her.” It feels a bit bad, condescending in a way; you don’t mean it in any way but supportive. You just want him to be happy. “But you couldn’t ask her out because it didn’t feel right?”

“She’s not you.”

He’s looking at you now, looks like he might have a heart attack if he does so any longer. But he doesn’t tear his gaze away when you meet it, entire expression warped into something you don’t recognise. Hope, maybe? Fear?

“What?” You wish it were hard rather than feather light, almost lost to the cacophony in your head.

The hollow of his cheek is thrown into stark relief, the line of his jaw clenched tight. He repeats himself even as you’re the one looking away, shaking your head as if that might will away the irksome answer. (It won’t.)

“Don’t say things like that.”

It’s hurt that flashes through his expression and strikes you right in the centre of your chest. His face crumbles, brows knit together beneath his mop of shiny hair. He looks so terribly sad - a kicked puppy, an abandoned deer. Bambi, through and through.

“You asked why I didn’t do it,” he reasons in a voice far more solid than he looks.

“I didn’t think you’d say something so ridiculous.” It’s cruel. “You’re making a bad choice. You’re into this girl. Don’t be dumb.”

His features rearrange, then so do his limbs, entire body lifting from his seat in jerky, disjointed movements. “I’m not dumb.” There’s a reproachful quality to his words, a distaste he doesn’t bother to mask. It’s not something you’ve ever faced, surprising you enough to draw your eyes to his face.

He doesn’t look like the Jungkook you know.

When he leaves - sets his cup in the sink and storms out the way he’d come before you have time to stop him - you wonder if you ever knew him at all.

“Okay. Spill.”

Yejin’s tired of your abrasiveness, tired of having her head bitten off every time she tries to approach you with a question. You can’t blame her. You’ve felt like shit the last week, sleep-deprived and generally pissed off.

All because of a doe-eyed idiot.

“What?” It’s less snark, more sigh. You’re counting down the minutes until you’re free, until you can curl back up in your bed and try to sleep like you’ve done the last four days.

“What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” she hums, trailing after you as you move behind the counter. “You’ve been in a bad mood all week. I’ve never seen you this upset like, ever.” She’s right, of course. You’ve always been very careful to keep business separate, pushing the customer service agenda no matter what. “Did something happen?”

You grit your teeth. An expletive careens off your tongue when you slam the tip of your finger within the drawer you’d just shut.

“____,” she tries again, concerned.

“Nothing happened.”

“See, I don’t believe that because like, look at you!” She gesticulates wildly, adorned wrists clinking loudly. “You look like hell—”

“Thanks.”

“—and you’re being clumsy and like, I think I know you well enough. So just tell me?”

You hate that she’s right. It doesn’t mean you’ll relent, too caught up in your own strange brand of strength to unload. (Maybe it’d be helpful. Probably. But you’ve never found comfort in other people. At least, not like this.)

“Yejin.” Her name stops her in her tracks, hurried and insistent as you pull your coat on. “It’s fine. Really.” You’re swallowing your pride - practically choking on it - as you offer what you hope is a reassuring smile. “I just need to get some sleep.” And figure out what the hell to do about Jungkook, but that’s a can of worms you refuse to open and certainly not here.

Maybe at home, over a glass of wine, fueled by liquid courage.

The bottle of Côtes du Rhône has aided you more than you’d hoped, offered an armour that slinks over your shoulders and drives your fingers to action. It’s prompted something - started the ball rolling.

(Idly, you think that might not have been a very good idea, but it’s too late to care now.)

“You’re here.” You being him and him being Jeon Jungkook, hair damp and imposing frame draped in an oversized sweater. He looks terribly uncomfortable standing in your doorway - more so than he had days ago - hands shoved into the kangaroo pouch of his hoodie, dumb sneakers pigeon-toed as if he’s ready to take flight.

“Y-you asked,” he mutters, refusing to meet your stare. At least, you think he’s refusing. It’s a little hard to focus when there’s this fine film turning everything hazy, the bitter taste of wine heavy on your tongue.

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

He looks at you like you’re crazy then, though he never quite meets your eyes. It’s a smart tactic - level you with a look then immediately bounce it away. It has you coming back for more, eager to refocus his fretful gaze until it’s locked with your own.

“Will you come in?” You sidestep, give him enough space that he can enter without feeling suffocated. He still hesitates, takes a second too long in deciding. “I won’t bite.”

You don’t miss the better promise that comes under his breath.

“So.” This feels oddly familiar, him backed into the corner of your couch again while you settle across from him. He hums a noise but offers nothing further.

This is how it’ll be then. Fine. If he wants to be this way.

“You like me.”

He sputters - doesn’t mean to, by how big his eyes go. He hadn’t expected it to come barreling out of your mouth. “I— I don’t— I didn’t say that.”

If it were anyone but him, you’d take his reticence as rudeness.

“Tell me why.”

The poor boy blinks, stares at you full on now. Can’t look away, locked in the intensity of your stare.

“W-what?”

“Tell me.” You sip carefully at the liquid in your glass, swirl it ‘round and ‘round. “You said that girl wasn’t me but you haven’t made a case as to why that matters. What have I got that she doesn’t?”

“You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack, Jungkookie.”

The brunet swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. You think he might say no, outright refuse. You don’t expect him to start rattling things off like the list lives in his head, answers printed against the darks of his eyelids.

“You’re funny. You’re honest. You speak your mind.” You don’t mean to scoff but his reasons are so shallow - so easily found in other people. He must read the doubt in your expression, pushing on to cut you off from doing the same to him. “Y-you care about people even when you pretend like you don’t. You’re just as scared of being hurt as I am.”

For the first time in a long time - in years and years - you feel seen. As if he’s pulled back the cover of your unpublished draft, memorised the redlines and notes in the margins.

“I don’t—”

“You have this face you make when you’re proud of me.” He’s turning his own fingers over in his lap, knuckles white from the strain of locking them together and undoing them again. “When I do something you approve of or when I make you laugh.”

There’s something thick in your throat.

“You make me want to try.” He clears his own, speaks so softly you have to strain to hear it. “Y-you make things not so scary.”

It grows heavier, harder to breathe as you stare at the man sitting across from you. He’s focused wholly on his hands, too caught up in his words to help the way he plucks at his skin, fiddles with the silver chain that loops around his wrist.

“You know what I need, even before I know myself. You make me laugh.” He laughs, an almost choked sound that fizzles and rattles bashfully. “You look really, really good in your work skirt.” You know the one he means - all black, pencil-fit. Makes your legs look a mile long, despite the fact that they aren’t.

You can’t help but join him, a little breathless, with a strange sensation behind your ribs. Like sunshine on a cold day, filtering past the walls you’ve put up, streaming through the windows that’d replaced drywall when Jungkook had waltzed into your life with his fluffy hair and boyish laugh.

When you speak, you don’t even believe your own words. They come of their own accord - a defense mechanism. “I can’t.”

As if he knows - as if he’s got a polygraph going, Jungkook shakes his head, meets your eyes and holds you there with the intensity of his attention. “Can’t or won’t?”

“I—”

“I’m not asking for the world here. Just a chance.” He’s got a peculiar look on his face. “Don’t you think you owe it to me?”

“Excuse me?”

All of a sudden, he’s close. Closer than you’d expect, far closer than he should be. There’s nothing beyond his expression, the way his eyes twinkle under the dimmed apartment lights as he stares you down. The scent of his cologne is cloying now, the fading nectarine hint of his shampoo making your mouth water.

“You kind of ruined my life. I think this makes us fair.”

You sputter, gasp, make sounds that careen off your tongue and fill the air with nonsense. You’d ruined his life? (You’d made it better - made him see the light, you thought.) You’re working to find your voice, ready to tear into him for this abrupt accusation.

Then he’s giggling, nose scrunched and delight filtering past his teeth.

“I’m kidding.”

It feels like whiplash. You’ve created a monster.

“But you do owe me, I think. So why not?”

You only have yourself to blame when you say yes, conceding to his pretty eyes and sweet smile.

Dating Jungkook is easy - as effortless as breathing. He’s a bona fide dreamboat plucked from your wildest dreams.

He texts when he says he will and picks you up every night, stamping a kiss to your cheek the moment you’ve clocked out. He holds your hand and refuses to let go, rubbing soothing circles over your wrist when you’re tired or stressed or annoyed. He brings flowers to every date - insists on them even when you tell him they’re a waste of money. He knows your coffee order, has learned the art of the pour over when he wakes up before you.

You understand now, why he’d stayed with women who were terrible for him (to him). If you were them, you wouldn’t have let him go either. Would lock him up in an old tower like your own personal Rapunzel.

(You say that because you’ve been on a Disney movie binge. He is, unsurprisingly, very into these sorts of things.)

“Open it,” he pleads, pushing the luxurious pink box towards you.

You stare down at the lid, the Agent Provocateur label glaring back at you. You can’t help how you laugh, sound bouncing around his bedroom. “Are you trying to tell me something, Jungkookie?”

Your lover - not boyfriend, because you haven’t had the talk and it’s still new and you’ve never been this careful before - rolls his eyes, pushes the box closer with a huff. It’s adorable.

“Just open it.”

You finger the soft bow strapped across the top, play with the neatly cut ends. You can feel the impatience radiating off Jungkook, feel those pretty doe eyes boring holes into the top of your head. You take your time even more now, unravelling the ribbon with slow, measured twists of your wrist.

Whatever you’d expected to find nestled among the tissue paper, this isn’t it.

You’d imagined he’d be into something feminine, all pristine white lace and scalloped cups. Something he could brush his cheek against, run his fingers over.

Tucked within the box is something that doesn’t even earn the title of lingerie, a few flimsy straps bonded together. Blush pink satin and dressed with buckles, you turn it over in your hands, trying to make sense of the way it all connects. Surely there’s more to this. Surely, darling innocent Jeon Jungkook doesn’t expect you to wear just this?

“Do you like it?” You can sense the eagerness in his voice, that desire he has to please that seems to never go away.

“What is it?”

“It’s a playsuit.”

“A playsuit?” You’re no stranger to experimenting in the bedroom but this— this looks like it’s meant to harness a dog in. Would it even fit? Soft as it is, it seems terribly restrictive, made for someone with model proportions and no body fat at all.

He nods, round eyes so bright, so hopeful, you can’t voice your concerns. “Will you wear it?”

It fits you better than you’d expected. Or at least, you think it does. If Jungkook’s reaction was any indication, it’s heaven sent - the perfect gift wrapping for a present he’s been dying to claim.

The buckles you’d studied earlier - that had taken you too long to strap together - dig into the tender flesh of your hips, the shape of his fingers imprinted along the metal. He grips you so tight you think you might bruise, left with a reminder of his love for weeks.

“S-so wet,” he groans, sound dropping into an almost whine as the swollen mushroom head of his cock brushes through your folds. The satin of the playsuit has been long since tugged aside, stained with your arousal as it cuts into the softness of your thighs. He repeats the motion once, twice, coats your clit in pre-cum that leaks out of the slit and adds another layer of slick. “So ready for me, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You nod dumbly, drool around the two fingers he’s got slotted against your cheek, ring finger pressed down over your tongue.

“Use your words, gorgeous.” As if you can, as if you’re not riding the high of your last orgasm and about to come apart beneath his playful teasing.

The palm of his hand meets your overstimulated clit with a sharp smack, the cold of his teeth bared against your neck. He doesn’t like when you don’t answer - much prefers to make an effort even if it’s indiscernible.

“What did I say?”

Something garbled comes, a plea as much as a sob. Another hit lands, just shy of the pearl that throbs with need and pain, landing instead on the sensitive, already red skin of your inner thigh. He soothes it this time around, massages your own wetness into the roses that bloom beneath his touch.

When he speaks again, it’s so utterly sweet, tender as can be. The Jungkook you’ve known for months and not the devil in disguise.

“You like this, don’t you?” His kisses are searing, laced with reverence that feels at odds with the way he forces your gag reflex, taps his curved cock against your pussy. “You like what I’m doing?”

“Y-yes,” you cry, spit pooling past the sides of your mouth, dripping lewdly across your breasts. The hand cradling your chin is all but drenched, dark ink thrown into stark relief by the way it slides over his skin. Jungkook hums against your cheek, licks a fat stripe from shoulder to ear.

“Good girl.” Two fingers spread across over your heat, pointer and index sliding over your lips. You’re spread obscenely - can see it in the mirror that rests against the far wall. Can see how the head of his cock peeks between your thighs, runs the same path over and over with each languid, slow roll of his hips. “Such a good girl for me. My perfect girl.”

Your shoulders shake with the effort you put into nodding, throat clenching on reflex when the three fingers in your mouth flatten over your tongue, hold you steady in place.

“Pretty girl wants more, doesn’t she? Wants me to fill her up?”

He’s teasing you, the bastard. Dragging his aching erection against your cunt as you writhe against him, desperate. It’s amusing to him - you can read the delight in the reflection, see it shining bright like a beacon when he pulls his hand away and recentres it across your chest. Digits tease at the already pebbled buds, swollen and sensitive from how hard he’d sucked them into his mouth earlier.

“Say it. Say you want me.”

You do, without hesitation, without fear. You know he’ll catch you. “I want you.”

He sinks into you the same instant the words fall, holds you tight against him when your entire body begins buzzing and threatens to do the same. Your walls feel like a vice grip around him, greedily sucking in his cock as he slams home, ruts into you like a wild animal.

Strong as he is, he’s weak to the noises you make - the broken sobs that spill off your tongue and make up the prettiest sound he’s ever heard - and how you feel absolutely perfect, wet and warm. The muscle in his thighs strain, pleasure vibrating up the notches of his spine, setting every nerve ending alight with its ascent.

“B-be mine,” he returns, practically begging as he spreads you wide, making you take everything he has to offer. Heart and soul and stupidly huge, perfect cock.

“I am. I am. I am,” you chant, tears welling along your lash line. They fall when his rhythm stutters, when the heat overwhelms and you’re coming for the third time that night, crying his name like it’s the only word you know.

They continue to pour, carve trails down your reddened cheeks as you reach nirvana, wait for moment he’s right there with you. It doesn’t take long - a few more punishing thrusts into your fluttering heat - and then he’s found his bliss, crying into the silk of your hair, spilling inside you.

It doesn’t happen how you thought it would - a shy question poised over dinner, sealed with a sweet kiss on the way to the car - but it means just as much. Breaks you apart as it rebuilds you, fills you up as it splits your seams.

You’re his and he’s always been yours.

tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle @shaybtsforever @we-found-wonderland-in-1989 @justanothergirlfromeurope @jalexad @bonnyskies @coffeeismylife28 @haeilove @purplespaceymermaid @sunsetsnsirens-blog @beingbeings @veronawrites @notmontae97 @papillonsgf i’m really hoping i didn’t miss anyone e___e

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