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bambikisss · 9 months ago

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To make an album: K. HongJoong

(Bambi's ver!) Producer bf HJ X Famous singer reader

'To make an album, you need three things: a studio, a mic, and a damn good producer'

📙: You have been on the rise since your debut album almost 4 years ago. Now, your millions of fans are demanding a full album from you and the company is on you about finishing it before the deadline, giving you one big choice: who will produce your album?

⚠ : Unprotected sex (always wrap it up and keep it safe), Mentions of past poor producers, Sex in the studio, Multiple rounds, recording sex, car sex, use of handcuffs (reader), L bomb, use of mirror, Spanking, HJ calls reader names (baby girl, slut, puppy, baby), Slight Dumbification, slight degradation, pussy obsessed HJ, basically smut with barely plot, Producer HJ (whole warning)

🎶: Mushroom Chocolate - Quin ft 6lack, Lil Freak - Usher, Take Me -Miso, Gorilla - Bruno Mars

Bambi's notes: SO what happened was that I got carried away because producer HJ is a version of him I will NEVER get over lol. Smut with semi plot, not really.

TAGLIST: @teez-the-time @yawnzshit @sugarnspice630 @sarah-55213 @certifiedmoa @scarfac3 @woohwababes @doritochoi @wisejudgedragonhairdo @yourfatherlucifer

ENTERTAINMENT PURPOSES ONLY | REBLOGS + COMMENTS APPRECIATED | buy me a coffee?

'Y/N L/N is set to release her long awaited full album in two months. Fans have been waiting for a full album from her since her debut almost 4 years ago. What kind of sound do you think she'll go for? Please let us know via social media at-'

"Alexa, turn this off." You ran your hands through your hair as you walked through your large apartment, your feet padding against the floor as you entered the kitchen. It was far too early to hear anyone talk about you, even if it was positive.

You raised to the tips of your toes as you grabbed your coffee bag from the cabinet, the dim morning light lighting the kitchen for you as you began to make your morning coffee. You had a long day in the studio ahead of you and knew you couldn't get by without any sort of caffeine.

You were at the top of your career after debuting 4 years ago. You had gained millions of fans and had put out award-winning singles and mini-albums. You even went on a sold-out tour a couple of months back.

However, while you were more than content with your singles and mini-albums, your fans had been getting vocal about wanting a full album from you, just like when you first came onto the music scene. You had put it off for as long as you could, not finding the process of making the full album interesting enough to hold your full attention. Plus, the producer who produced your debut album was an asshole, which made you unwilling to make another one. But, the company was now placing their foots down, not releasing any more of your music until you presented them with a full album.

You jumped lightly as you felt a pair of arms wrap around your waist, pulling you back to rest against his chest. You relaxed at the feeling of his lips pressed against your cheek, a small hum leaving his lips as you rubbed his arms. You tilted your head back to admire the man who held you close, his dark brown hair still a mess from sleep. His eyes scanned your face as if you were a piece of art, the corners of his lips curling up as you smiled back at him. It felt like such a sweet moment between you and him, forgetting all about your problems.

"Did you make enough coffee for the two of us?" HongJoong's deep, sleep-laced voice made your smile grow as you loved how he sounded when he just woke up. You nodded, leaning forward to check the pot before turning around in his arms to face him. You wrapped your arms around his neck as he placed a sweet kiss onto your forehead, his hands resting on your hips as he did so. "Good. How's the last 4 tracks of your album coming along?"

You frowned as he mentioned your album, placing a kiss on his lips as you tried to shut him up about it. It was bad enough that all the fans and the company were constantly asking you about it, you didn't want your boyfriend to ask you about it too, especially before your coffee.

HongJoong only chuckled at your attempt to silence him, pulling back to look down at you with knowing eyes. He knew you'd rather forget about it, but he wanted to help, especially since the company had their eyes on you. "Baby, you can't just kiss me whenever you want to shut me up, you know?" He laughed.

"I wasn't trying to shut you up, but I don't wanna talk about the album right now, baby." You smiled, moving to lean against the counter as HongJoong moved to grab you and him a mug for the coffee. He chuckled again, filling your mug with caffeine before sliding it over to you, a smile on his lips as he said "But we should talk about it, especially with that deadline you have coming up."

You took a sip of your coffee as he returned to stand in front of you, leaning against the opposite counter with a comforting smile. HongJoong knew about your past producer who treated you poorly when you were putting out your debut album. He had met you right afterward, so he understood when you didn't want anything to do with him unless it had to do with music. But, as time went on, you and him grew closer. Now you two had been dating for 2 years.

"Y/N, baby." HongJoong tilted his head to meet your gaze, offering you a comforting smile as he took a sip of his coffee before standing back up straight. Only when he is sure that he has your full attention does he ask "Did you find a producer yet?"

You hadn't. You had been writing and recording demos all by yourself, choosing to put off picking a producer till the very last second. You didn't know any other producers you trusted with a project like this. You shook your head, meeting your boyfriend's eyes over your coffee cup as you said "I'll probably just take whoever the company assigns to me to produce this."

To your surprise, HongJoong's eyes lit up at your words before he said "Well, let me produce it."

You narrowed your eyes over the mug of coffee at your boyfriend, trying to see what he meant by that. At your sharp and questioning gaze, he placed his mug down on the counter before saying "I'll produce your album." You and HongJoong had only worked on two other songs together, those two songs doing well on the charts and even winning awards. However, you wanted to keep your relationship and your music separate, but HongJoong wasn't having that. He placed his hands on your waist, a small pout on his lips as he asked "do you not have faith in me and my skills? I know what it takes to make a good album, you know."

"What do you need, HongJoong?" You asked, crossing your arms over your chest as your boyfriend smirked, his hands moving to your thigh, his fingers playing with the edge of the large t-shirt you slipped on after your many rounds with him last night. His fingers slowly dragged up the sides of your thighs, small goosebumps being left in his wake as it moved underneath your shirt, cupping your ass as he spoke with confidence ''To make an album, you need three things: a studio, a mic, and a damn good producer''

You were no longer paying attention to his words, his lips grazing yours as he placed a small kiss onto the corners of your lips, his fingers digging into the flesh of your ass as he pressed his chest against your folded arms. HongJoong lips dragged against your cheek to your ear, his hands moving up the small of your back as he spoke into your ear "plus, think of all the fun things we can do in the studio. I know you like riding me while I produce"

You bit your lip at the memory of you riding him in his studio while he tried to focus on producing: you had been missing him while on tour and was on break for a week when the company asked him to produce a song for Yunho. You had been begging him to just take an hour's break and come home to fuck you, but he was very insistent on finishing the song that night. He responded to your needy texts with a simple "If you want me that badly, you better come and get it."

"You were so wet for me, babe" You shivered as he placed a kiss onto your neck, his hands now moving back down to your ass, his finger dipping underneath the panty fabric to tease you before he whispered again "I remember that I had to cover your mouth while I bent you over my keyboard because you were so goddam loud, moaning and whining like a bitch in heat."

"HongJoong" you whispered, the desire in the air making you forget what the conversation was even about. You closed your eyes as your panties snapped back against you, his hands soon moving to grab the sides, teasing you by pulling them down slightly before snapping the fabric back against you. HongJoong smirked at the sight in front of him, his cock pressing against his thin boxers as he repeated his process a few more times till your hands were gripping the countertops. He had you right where he wanted you.

You closed your eyes as he leaned in close to your lips, hoping he would take mercy on you and just kiss you. You were soon filled with disappointment as his hands left your body, opening your eyes to see his proud orbs. He placed one of his hands underneath your jaw, making sure you kept your eyes on him as he said "just think about it, baby."

You sighed silently as he let go of your chin, grabbing his coffee cup before walking away to begin getting ready for his day. You took a deep breath, hoping to calm down as you looked outside your apartment windows. You pressed your legs together as you felt your wetness pool in your panties, your boyfriend's touch having lingering effects on you.

You thought about ambushing him while he showered, but your phone buzzed with a text from your manager, letting you know that she was on her way to pick you up and take you to the company so you could work on your album. You bit your lip, realizing that you had an hour to go get ready.

Today was going to be a long day.

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"No, he called me a bitch for not wanting too much autotune in my songs"

Your manager ran a hand through her hair as you denied another producer, sitting across from you in the meeting room at your company. She had a whole stack of worthy candidates to produce the album that you had worked with in the past, but you turned them all down. You had bad experiences with all of them that you didn't want to think about when you were working on an anticipated album.

Your manager called for a break so she could find another list of possible producers, sighing as you shot out of your seat and made your way to the doors. She called out to you before you could leave, a motherly look on her face as she said "Y/N, you have to let someone produce this album. You can't keep putting this off."

You nodded, walking out of the room silently. She was right, you couldn't keep putting it off, but you didn't want just anybody touching your tracks.

You ran your hands through your hair as you walked through the long hallway, looking for a practice room for you to record another song you had written. Maybe you could release an album full of demos?

Before you could enter the room, your eyes fell onto your boyfriend's studio down the hall. His door was covered in stickers that his visitors had placed there when they worked with him. The familiar feeling from this morning returned as you made your way to his studio, hoping to just get a glimpse of your boyfriend. You carefully opened his office to see him working on a track, his headphones snug on his head.

You smiled at the sight of your boyfriend producing, bouncing his head to the beat of the music while his fingers added to it. He was in his element and you found it incredibly sexy. You bit your lip as you closed the door behind you, making your way to him carefully as he continued to produce, not noticing you till you placed your hands onto his shoulders. His eyes glanced over at your manicured nails, smirking when he realized it was you.

He let your hands drag up his shoulders and neck, carefully taking off his headphones as he saved the track, knowing that he wouldn't be getting back to it for a while. He turned his chair around, looking up at you as you moved to his lap, both of you sighing as your warm, clothed pussy pressed against his clothed cock. He watched as you began to grind down against it, craving any sort of friction you could get. He gently grabbed your hips, helping you as he placed kisses along your neck.

"Did you think about what I said this morning?" He hummed against your neck, his tongue peaking out to lick your sweet spot, making you purr out "Hmm, what did you say this morning."

Your words were met with a bite from him, tsking as he pulled back to look at you, his hips meeting yours as you both ground against each other on his chair. "Don't tell me you didn't pay attention to me, baby. Or, were you distracted by something?" He played with you as he looked up at you, chuckling at your already fucked out looking state. He gently patted your cheek, licking his lips as he asked "Were you distracted, baby?"

At your nod, he let out a soft "aww," his voice laced with faux care as he unbuttoned your jeans, leaning down to place a kiss on your stomach as he looked up at you through his eyelashes. "I'm sorry baby, I'll make sure not to touch you when I'm talking to you"

You knew he wasn't really sorry, your hands running through his hair as his hands slid into the back of your jeans, pushing them down as much as he could. HongJoong loved it when you got distracted by his touch, loving the sight of you trying to remember what he was talking about while he picked you up from his lap, smirking at the wet patch that was on his own jeans.

"I was talking to you about me producing your album, baby," he said, unbuttoning his jeans as you took off your jeans and shirt, now standing before him in nothing but a thin thong and bra. You let out a playful "Oh? Were we really?" as you turned around, bending over as you pulled down your panties. You made a show out of it, smirking when you heard your boyfriend's breath hitch. You bit your lip as his hands made contact with your ass, his hands massaging the globes of your ass before he stood behind you, his cock slipping in between your thighs, making you moan softly.

"Yes, we were talking about me producing it. You need to learn to focus, babe." He hummed, pressing a kiss to the bottom of your neck while his hands moved up your sides slowly to your hair, his fingers making a ponytail out of your hair. Once he was satisfied, he kicked your legs apart further, making you lean forward to place your hands onto the couch he had in his studio as he spit down onto his cock, his spit coating the head of his thick cock before slowly pushing into you.

"Oooh, that's it baby" he groaned deeply, closing his eyes as your wet pussy welcomed him back in warmly. HongJoong couldn't get enough of your pussy, always wanting to be balls deep in you whenever he could be, even if you two of you weren't fucking. He swore he felt his brain turn off as he began to fuck you, his eyes shut tightly as fucked you. You gripped the couch as he fucked you, his cock stretching you out perfectly as you moaned into the couch. At the sound of your muffled moans, he pulled on your hair, tugging you so your back was arched, your head no longer on the couch as he drilled his cock into you.

You tried to keep quiet as he praised you through your moans, even lifting one of his legs to the couch so he could drill his cock deeper into you at an angle. He had you seeing stars in no time, panting out his name and moaning as he fucked you.

HongJoong soon pulled out of you, making you whine at the loss of his cock and back your ass up to where you thought he was. You were met with a hard spank to your ass, making you moan as your boyfriend dropped to his knees behind you, kissing your puffy pussy before whispering "hush baby, lemme taste you, then you can ride my cock till I fill you up."

You moaned at the thought, your moans only growing as HongJoong's tongue licked your pussy, flattening his tongue against you before sucking on your lips. You reached behind you to grab his hair, pulling him closer to your pussy as his hands gripped the flesh of your ass, spreading you for him to eat you.

One of the things you loved about him was how loud HongJoong got when he ate you out: you could vividly hear every time he sucked, licked, and spat back into your pussy. You bit your lip as he moaned lewdly into your pussy, his secret desires and your praises being moaned into your wet pussy, the vibrations making you shake. After one long lick, he pulled back, helping you to stand up (more like he held you while you leaned against his body) before leading you to his chair, sitting down on it before he pulled you down onto his lap.

You instantly knew what to do, sinking down on his cock with a pleasure-filled sigh. You began to grind down as his hands returned to your hips, guiding your hips to spell whatever he wanted. "You still haven't answered me, princess, come on." Your eyes snapped to meet his dark ones, your bottom lip quivering as you tried to remember what the hell he was talking about.

HongJoong tsked at your fuzzy memory, shaking his head before saying "I know you're in heat, baby, but you should at least be able to remember what I just said. Don't tell me my cock is stopping you from thinking." He leaned forward, biting your shaking bottom lip as he began to fuck up into you, pulling back as you moaned loudly, tossing your head back as he clicked his tongue. He suddenly stopped, smirking when you began to whine and try to move again, his grip on your hips tightening, warning you. "Look at me, baby, meet my eyes."

You did as you were told, his head falling back against the head of his chair as he opened his legs a little wider to make it more comfortable and to firmly plant his feet against the floor. "Tell me, baby, what were we talking about?"

Your brain once more short-circuited as his thumb began to rub small circles on your clit as your thought, your boyfriend's lips soon wrapping around your nipple as you stumbled out "You producing my album?"

"There we go, baby" HongJoong praised, helping you resume riding him as he fucked up into you. He watched as your face contorted to show pleasure, your head now tossed back as you eagerly rode his cock, making him moan. "That's my smart baby, huh? She may be a slut in heat, but she knows what's important, right?"

"Yes, yes" you moaned, HongJoong lips returning to your nipple with a soft "good girl." You let his words motivate you to move faster, no longer even registering that you were in his studio in the company with an album that was due soon. Nothing else mattered when he fucked you so well.

"Hmm, so what about what I said this morning, baby? Are you going to make the right decision and let me produce your album?" He hummed against your breasts as he moved faster, watching as you bounced faster to match him. He could tell you were about to cum and that he was getting close too, his own moans growing to match yours. It made him glad he soundproofed his studio that morning.

You nodded at his words, desperate to agree to whatever he wanted so you could cum, his lips crashing into yours as you both came. You held him close as you both kissed, your tongues locking in the kiss as you both ground against each other, both of your cum mixing and leaking out of you onto his cock, balls, and even a bit on the chair. Once you both had calmed down, you placed your head onto his shoulder as you took a deep breath, your eyes closed as HongJoong turned the chair around to face his setup, his hands running through your hair as he whispered "Whenever you're ready, baby, we can get started recording the tracks. We got an album to make."

Yes, the two of you did.

______________________________________________________________

"Looks like you found your main producer, huh?"

You smiled as you held your glass of champagne, turning to look at your boyfriend. HongJoong was across the party with his own glass of champagne, his custom-fitted dark purple velvet suit against his body while his freshly bleached hair was styled perfectly. He was talking to someone else, but with the feeling of your eyes on him, he suddenly made eye contact with him.

Throughout the whole album-producing process with him, you both had not been able to keep each other's hands off each other, fucking multiple times all around his studio.

"Yes, I did." Your eyes drank in the way HongJoong leaned against the wall, his eyes doing the same as walked around that night. HongJoong couldn't wait till the two of you got home, excited to rip off your short, dark purple dress that hugged your body perfectly. His eyes moved up your legs and thighs, his body heating up knowing what was between your thighs. He felt like he could pounce on you at any minute, not caring if everyone watched as he fucked you on the table. In fact, that was on his bucket list.

"Baby?" You turned around to see HongJoong now behind you, his lips still puffy from the make-out session you two had in the hallway 30 minutes ago. "I think it's time we go, Y/N. The party is winding down and I have another surprise for you at the apartment." A surprised "Oh really?" left your lips at his words, not expecting him to have a surprise for you waiting at the house. Before you could try and ask for hints, HongJoong's hand interlocked with yours, pulling you from the party. You tried your best to keep up with his fast walk as he walked outside, unlocking the car you and he shared before he opened the back door. You looked at it with confusion, HongJoong's only response being "Get in the backseat, baby. It'll all make sense later."

You sat in the backseat as he climbed in the front seat, the car ride silent as he sped home. You bit your lip as your eyes fell on your boyfriend's hands as they gripped the steering wheel, his veins popping out from how tightly he was holding it. Your eyes moved from his hands up his body, noticing how fast his chest was rising and falling. Your eyes soon looked into the rearview mirror, meeting HongJoong's hard gaze. You hadn't noticed that he was looking at you throughout the car ride, biting your lip as you spread your legs, giving the mirror and your boyfriend a perfect view of your soaked panties.

When HongJoong glanced into the mirror once again and saw your new position, he swore he almost pulled over right then and there. He smirked, glad to see that you were just as horny as he was for you. He reached back to touch your knee as his other hand stayed on the wheel. His eyes never left the road, but his voice let you know that he was still watching you.

"Why don't you run a pretty finger up your panties for me, baby? Tell me how wet you are for me" You did as you were told, dragging your fingers up your clothed pussy, shivering at how your panties stuck to you. "You're so wet, aren't you baby? Just a few more minutes, then we'll be back home. I'll take good care of you, I promise, just keep yourself wet for me."

You nodded, feeling a jolt of excitement rush through you at what was about to happen.

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"Joong, please" You closed your eyes as HongJoong ripped open the door to the car, his knees meeting the floor of the car in an instant at the sound of your voice. HongJoong has made you touch yourself over your panties constantly, not letting you give yourself any relief. He parked in a spot in the parking garage that was hidden from everyone else and from the security camera, making sure that no one could interrupt you two. He closed the doors behind him as he cooed at you, promising to ease your pussy's ache as he placed kisses along your inner thighs, moving closer to you.

He soon hooked his fingers into your ruined panties, tugging down the fabric. He had to pause when he saw a string of your arousal connect with the panties, making him look away to ensure that he didn't cum in his pants. He wanted you to have all of his cum, not wanting to waste a drop.

He finished removing your panties, placing the fabric into his pocket before he took in a shaky breath; it wasn't out of nerves, but to control himself. He spread your legs as wide as they could go, biting his lip at the view of your spread pussy. "Such a wet and naughty pussy. Did you want me as much as I wanted it, baby?" You nodded as he leaned in, licking a long, slow stripe up your pussy. Both of your loud moans mixed in the car as he repeated his motion, slurping up any more wetness that leaked from you with urgency.

HongJoong soon sped up, his licks moving faster as he pushed a finger into you, curling it as his tongue played with your clit. He loved watching how you rode his tongue and fingers when he ate you out, wanting more of him as he drowned in your pussy. He licked up his wrist, catching more juices before his tongue replaced his fingers, making your hands rush into his blonde hair, your back arching against the car seat as you came and squirted. HongJoong moaned loudly, cussing as he cleaned you up. You lay limp against the seat as he finally pulled back from your pussy, moving up the seat to stand in front of you.

"Talk to me, baby. Let me know you're still here with me" he cupped your face as he spoke, his thumbs rubbing along your cheeks as he waited for you to come down. When you finally nodded, he smiled before pressing a small kiss to your forehead. "There you are, baby. You came so much for me."

You smiled at his praise, reaching for his cock that was now pressing against his velvet pants, HongJoong's hand gently grasping your wrist to stop you. "Not right now, baby, not in here. Lemme move the car closer to the elevator and take you up to the apartment." You pouted as he got out of the car to move to the front seat, meeting your eyes in the mirror as he said "trust me, baby."

You trusted him as he moved the car to park in front of one of the elevators before helping you inside. When you both finally made it inside the apartment, you had to pause at the doorway.

The apartment was decorated with tons of flowers and heart balloons, led candles were lit all around the place. It looked so romantic. You turned to HongJoong as he locked the front door and removed his shoes, an obvious smile on his face as he walked past you. "Did you do all of this, Joong?" You followed him into the living room, smiling as he finally faced you with a smile on his face. "Of course I did. My girlfriend put out an album despite not choosing me two weeks before it was due" You rolled your eyes playfully as he pulled you close to him, smiling as he placed a kiss on your cheek. "But, I did this to show how proud of you I am, Y/N. I mean that."

You smiled as he kissed you again, the kiss this time sweet as you cupped the back of his neck as he began to lead you down the hallway, stumbling with you into walls. When you both finally reached the bedroom, the kiss had intensified to the point where your tongues were caressing each other. HongJoong pressed you roughly against the door, his hands moving around your body before he ripped down the front of your dress, shoving his face in between your tits as he picked you up. You moaned his name as he carried you to the bed, laying you down on it with ease before he pulled back, standing up.

For the first time that evening, you saw HongJoong's desire in his eyes fully. He looked at you as he began to unbutton his suit, commanding you to watch when you tried to move closer. His eyes drunk in your sprawled-out body on the bed before he removed his jacket, making his way into the closet that was adjacent to the bed. You kicked your heels off as you watched HongJoong toss the velvet jacket onto the floor carelessly before he roughly separated some hanging clothes. He leaned into the clearing he made before he took out a dark blue box that was covered in stickers and had a ribbon on it.

That dark blue box was your and HongJoong's sex box. HongJoong called it 'Joong's box', a play on Pandora's box. Inside the box contained anything either one of you had bought to use during sex, having decorated the box so if anyone saw it, they wouldn't think anything of it.

When HongJoong turned to exit the closet, the two of you made eye contact for a brief moment, and you felt your body shiver. He looked so far gone, not even recognizing the depth of desire he had for you. He gently removed the ribbon as he approached the bed, his thumb flicking off the top of the box as he stood in front of you. He smirked as he looked through the box, picking what he wanted to use on you tonight before he placed the box down onto the nightstand.

He moved you to your knees, allowing your hands to run up and down the fabric of his pants before you began to unbutton his pants, eager to get a taste of him as he fiddled with the box. As you pushed his pants down his thighs, your eyes zeroed in on his cock as HongJoong soon pulled out something from the box, placing them on the bed before he moved to grab the box top. You took the opportunity while he put the box back to see what he took out, moaning softly at what he picked out.

Sitting on the bed next to you was a black cannon camera and a pair of fuzzy red handcuffs. You bit your lip as he returned, picking up the camera to inspect it. "I think there's enough memory in here for tonight, don't you baby? I mean, we are celebrating."

You watched as he positioned the camera on the nightstand to get the perfect angle of you and him before pressing record, leaning down to give you also a sweet kiss. His lips gently rolled with yours as he kissed you, taking all the air from your lungs as he held the back of your neck, keeping you in the kiss. His hands slowly moved down the back of your dress, dragging the zipper down with him as he did so. "Are you going to be good tonight, Y/N? Say it loud enough for the camera to hear, baby girl."

"I'll be good for you, HongJoong. I'll always be good for you" you moaned as he bit your bottom lip, a proud smirk on his lips as he pulled back. "Of course you'll be good for me, baby. That's all a dumb puppy in heat like you wants, huh? Just my cock pleasing you?" HongJoong watched as you nodded, pushing down his boxers with a proud smile lacing his lips.

"Yeah? Come get your cock then, baby. I know you've been craving it since we got home." You rushed to give his cock a few pumps as your tongue dragged along his tip, gathering his precum on your tongue as he leaned over to grab the camera, holding it in one hand as another hand went into your hair, pushing you down onto his cock. You and HongJoong closed your eyes as you began to bob your head, your hand pumping what you couldn't take as he tossed his head back, offering you praise through his moans. When you couldn't meet his eyes, you looked into the camera, doing whatever it took to hear him curse and moan your name.

HongJoong tossed his forward, forcing himself to watch as you bobbed your head on his cock. He then leaned over to place the camera back on the nightstand before the hand that was in your hair pulled you off his cock, some of your saliva mixed with his precum dropping from your lips as he tilted your head back. He smirked at the sight before leaning beside you, grabbing the handcuffs while you pressed kisses to the side of his face, desperate for him.

"Place your hands behind you, baby." You did as you were told, looking up at him as he handcuffed your hands behind you, stopping you from being able to feel him. You whined softly, about to complain when you felt a sharp sting on your ass, the spank echoing in the room as HongJoong hissed "Shut it."

You nodded as he eased you down on the bed so your head was hanging off the edge while the rest of your body rested on the bed, his hands moving to knee your breasts as he positioned his cock at your mouth. "You shouldn't need your hands to take my cock baby. No, baby girl, you're a pro." He moaned as he pushed into your mouth, gripping your breasts as he began to fuck your throat. You gurgled around his cock as he used your mouth, your hands gripping the sheets as he continued to speak.

"No, my baby is a slut. My baby knows how to take some cock, especially when it's mine. You even made a whole song about sex with me, didn't you?" HongJoong asked, his voice now deeper than usual as he pulled out of your mouth, looking down at you with dark eyes.

Near the end of producing your album, you had chosen to get inspiration from your many nights in the studio with your boyfriend and write a bonus track. When HongJoong heard it, he fucked you all around the studio in one night. To say HongJoong liked it was an understatement.

You nodded as he turned you over onto your stomach, cupping your jaw as he fed his cock into your mouth, resuming his rough pace as he moaned. "Wrote a whole song surrounding getting me cock, didn't you, baby? Fuck, and when everyone hears it, they're going to wonder who you're singing about, not knowing that you were on your producer's cock while you sang about riding it."

You couldn't help but moan louder at his words, grinding down against the bed for comfort. With the sight of you grinding against the bed, your moans, and his own words working him up, HongJoong pulled out to cum all over your lips and chin with a loud moan of your name. You gently licked your lips as HongJoong calmed down, his still hard cock pressing against his stomach as he finally opened his eyes to look at you. He smiled at the sight before his thumb moved along your lips, cleaning you off before he grabbed a towel, wiping off your face fully.

HongJoong uncuffed you before he got on the bed next to you, his hands helping you move to your back as he slowly pushed into you. You whined, wrapping your legs around his waist as he leaned down to place his elbows onto either side of your head as he met your eyes. His eyes we not as dark as before, but softer as he slowly moved his hips. His hands soon intertwined with yours as he began to rock his hips to meet yours, placing small kisses around your face. "I know you're tired baby, just one more for me, ok? God, you're so perfect."

"One more" you purred against his lips, making him moan at your true fucked out state. He nodded, moaning against your lips "yeah, one more for me, baby. Fuck, I love you."

You felt your heart swell at his words, whispering that you loved him too as you both got lost in each other. HongJoong pressed his forehead against yours as he moved, pressing small kisses to your nose whenever he could before he moved to stuff his face into your neck. He felt his body heat up as he felt his climax approached, his breath now short as he let out a broken moan of your name as if he was calling out to you.

"Y/N...baby, I'm so close for you, I love you so goddam much" he moaned, moving to see your face as he moved faster, wanting to watch you fall apart. "Say my name, baby. Say my name while you cum for me. Let everyone know who you love"

"HongJoong," Your eyes rolled back as you came, your name leaving HongJoong's lips as he came with you, his hands slipping from yours to hold your face in a deep kiss as he shook. You wrapped your arms around him as you both rolled over onto your sides, the kiss slowing down to simple pecks. You both panted against each other's lips, holding each other as you both slowly came down.

HongJoong was the first one to move, standing up to go grab a towel before returning to you with shaky legs, both of you laughing when he fell onto the bed. He gently cleaned you up, whispering more praises to you and your pussy before he pulled you to his chest, rubbing your sides.

"So, you love me, huh?" Your question made your boyfriend of two years blush before turning away, making your smile grow. You moved to place your hands onto his shoulder, making him face you once more before you said "I love you, HongJoong. I wrote a whole damn album about you, so don't be the one getting embarrassed"

Your words made HongJoong smile and laugh, nodding before pulling your back down into his embrace, smiling at you snuggle into him. "How do you think your album is doing on the charts right now?" He asked, grunting as he stood up with you in his arms, carrying you to the bathroom. You hummed against his shoulder, shrugging as he placed you on the toilet before going to turn on the shower.

HongJoong handed you your phone as he went into the bedroom, letting you check while he gathered shower stuff. When he returned, you had a bright smile on your face. "Number one everywhere and trending. Everyone is complimenting me and the producer."

Your words make your boyfriend laugh, placing the towels, lotion, and clothes onto the bathroom sink before he aimed the black camera to face the shower, making you smirk. "Why'd you bring the camera in here, baby?"

HongJoong smirked as he helped you to your feet, walking back into the shower with you as he said "I'm help you get inspiration for your next album. That's what a good producer does, baby. And, you're lucky, because you have one of the best helping you. Now, make sure you're loud enough for the camera baby, this all might be useful for another secret track."

Bambikisss | 2024

#bambikisss #~bambi #atz icons #ateez #ateez smau #ateez scenarios #ateez smut #ateez imagines #ateez smut reactions #ateez fanfic #ateez fic #ateez x reader #kim hongjoong #ateez hongjoong smut #ateez fluff #ateez hongjoong x reader #ateez hongjoong

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earlycuntsets · 2 months ago

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"DEATH COMES RIPPING" - SPOOKY ISSUE

'THE BLACK PARADE, THE TRIUMPHANT NEW ALBUM BY MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE MAY HAVE A TRAGIC STORYLINE, BUT IT'S NOTHING COMPARED WITH WHAT THE BANDMATES ENDURED TO BRING THE DISC TO LIGHT

PHOTOS BY JON WIEDERHORN PHOTOS BY JUSTIN BORUCKI

STANDING ON A BALCONY nine floors above the teeming streets of New York, Gerard Way overlooks the city in which My Chemical Romance began assembling their ambitious new album, The Black Parade. The newly peroxide- blond frontman takes a deep drag from a cigarette and exhales with a sigh. He knows he shouldn't smoke, but it's his only remaining vice.

"If I hadn't been sober, I think The Black Parade surely would have killed me," says Gerard, who climbed on the wagon in 2004. "We were going insane the whole time, and I had to cling to my sobriety to stay even a little lucid. The album became like this beast that was consuming us."

Following up a release as successful as 2004's Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge, which sold 1.4 million copies in the U.S. alone, is never an easy task. And the various scares the band experienced as they worked on the new record-drummer Bob Bryar had a near-fatal staph infection, Gerard seriously injured his foot, and some restless spirits at the studio where they recorded kept them all on edge-did not help matters. And neither

did MCR's decision to make The Black Parade (Reprise) a concept disc. Together, Gerard and his bandmates-Bryar, guitarists Frank lero and Ray Toro, and bassist Mikey Way (Gerard's younger brother)-decided to craft a record about a dying young man who is visited by a cast of strange characters that help him examine his short life.

But diving into the conceptual deep end proved well worth the hassle. The Black Parade is not only MCR's most realized offering; it's also one of the most eclectic, enjoyable rock records of the year. One listen to tracks

like "House of Wolves," "The Sharpest Lives," and "Dead!" makes it clear that My Chemical Romance can still rip a good metallic punk tune. But the bandmates are now equally influenced by epic albums like Pink Floyd's The Wall, David Bowie's The Rise & Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars, and Queen's A Night at the Opera.

"A lot of bands from the scene we came from try to strip down their music to 'keep it real," Gerard notes. "But the real you is what you've always had inside you and what you strive to be. So when we started compiling the material we had written, we were like, You know what? This has to be a huge, theatrical record."

MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE started working on ideas for The Black Parade in the back of the bus while on 2005's Warped Tour, after which they flew to New York and rented a rehearsal space for two months. And that's when things started to get weird.

"I was living in Queens, and I had to commute on the subway every day," Gerard says. "I was suddenly very scared and paranoid. I felt more like an outsider than I ever had, and I had no confidence, which is bad when you're trying to work on a record. And I had no anonymity because there were a lot of teenagers on the train." In reaction to the young fans he encountered on the underground,

Gerard wrote "Teenagers," a T. Rex-style romp with the chorus line, "Teenagers scare the living shit out of me." "The song came directly from commuting when school let out and being so terrified of them," the singer says. "I was like, Wait a minute. These are the same people that listen to our band. Why am I scared? And I realized it was because they're scared, too. Teenagers are made to feel like they can only solve their problems with violence. They lash out at each other in a really volatile way." After several months experiencing the joys of mass transit, MCR had completed only a handful of songs and felt like a change of scenery (and climate) might do them some good. "I couldn't keep working in New York," says Gerard. "We wanted isolation."

id: Gerard leads the way to what will likely be the band's second platinum record

So the group relocated to Paramour Mansion, outside of L.A. Nestled high in the hills, the deluxe estate overlooks the trendy Silver Lake area and boasts spacious rooms, a gorgeous pool, lush gardens, a state-of-the-art recording facility-and a few special guests.

"The place is definitely haunted," Gerard says. "Doors would slam, and the faucets would turn on. You'd get a bath drawn for you of freezing-cold water in your room, and you wouldn't know why." As unnerving as its mischievous spirits could be, the Paramour was also inspiring, and contributed to the haunting vibe of songs like "The End" and "This Is How I Disappear." More important, it led Gerard to come up with the bleak, surreal concept for the record. "I would have these night terrors, where it would feel like someone was choking me, and my heart would stop and I would stop breathing," he says. "I would wake up in the middle of the night and write these notes to myself, and one of them read, 'We are all just a black parade.' So I started thinking about how this band is kind of a black parade, like a funeral-procession rock thing. And I used that idea to piece together this story about the idea that when you die, death comes for you however you want." Gerard molded his concept into a narrative about a character he dubbed the Patient, whose strongest memory from childhood is of his father taking him to the city to see a parade. Two songs into the album, he dies, and the black parade comes for him.

"During the rest of the story, he meets this entity of death and all these characters, like Mama, who represents anyone who's ever lost their son in a war," Gerard explains. "It's almost like these Canterbury Tales, where he goes along on this journey, and at the end he decides whether he wants to live or die." With the concept in place, My Chem made the songs as sweeping and theatrical as Gerard's lyrics. They accomplished this, in part, by combing through their own eclectic record collections and pulling choice elements that would set them even further apart from other melodic punk bands.

The first two minutes of "Welcome to the Black Parade" stemmed from Gerard's love for Broadway musicals, the horns in "Dead!" came from Mikey's interest in Blur and Britpop, and the jaunty feel of "Mama" was informed by Tom Waits and Nick Cave. But the most poignant moment on the record, "Cancer," was (unlike its morbid moniker) something of a pleasant surprise. "I was very upset about something in my personal life, and that's when that song came out," Gerard says. "It was really spontaneous, and it was recorded pretty much live with Rob [Cavallo, the record's producer] on the piano and me in the vocal booth. Then we added layers of drums, which gave it a certain urgency. It's the song I'm most proud of because it was the most pure emotion we've ever captured, and it gets such an immediate response. You can't shake what the song is about."

As the CD approached completion, some members of the band began to show signs of nervous exhaustion. The group was scheduled to fly to England to play the Reading Festival, and as the date grew near, Toro, who has a fear of flying, got noticeably agitated. Then, after the band tracked "Welcome to the Black Parade," which was originally called "The Five of Us Are Dying," the guitarist lost it.

"I thought I had this premonition," Toro explains. "I was flipping through the TV channels, and on the news. there would be something about a plane crash, and every time I woke up in the morning, the clock would say 9:11. I was playing Tomb Raider the night before the flight, and on the level I ended up at, there was this whole flashback to a plane crash. So right before the flight I was like, 'That's it. I'm not flying."

Despite his misgivings, Toro boarded the plane, and when My Chemical Romance returned to L.A. (all of them still very much alive, thank you very much), The Black Parade was completed without further incident. Listening back to the record, the band members were in awe of what they had achieved and eager to share it with their fans. "There was a real confidence that came to us," Gerard explains. "Having survived it, we felt like we were changed forever. I feel different as a performer now, and I think we really finally discovered who we were as a band." But just because MCR were done with the record didn't mean that it was done with them. About a month later, the band was shooting a video for "Famous Last Words" with director Samuel Bayer (Garbage, Smashing Pumpkins) on a set featuring walls of flame, when-seized by the moment-lero grabbed Gerard's throat from behind and wrestled him to the ground. The singer rolled one way; his foot went the other. "It bent completely backwards, and I heard a crack and felt this agonizing pain," Gerard recalls. "I tore all the ligaments in my foot, but I got up and continued to perform." "I didn't know what I was doing," says lero, shaking his head. "I wasn't trying to hurt him. I felt awful. I still do." Gerard's injury was serious, and he still walks with a cane, but it paled in comparison to what happened to Bryar. At the end of the shoot, the pyro was so intense, the drummer could feel his leg burning, but he stuck it out for the rest of the song. By then, he had a nasty third-degree burn. And the misfortune didn't stop there. Bryar didn't take his antibiotics regularly, and he failed to keep the wound clean. By the time the band got back from a brief tour of Japan, the burn was severely infected. Then Bryar's face swelled up and, after doing the MTV Video Music Awards preshow telecast and a special club show, stumbled into a hospital emergency room in intense pain. "I thought I'd be there for 10 minutes, but as soon as they saw me, they got all serious and gave me an IV and said they had to do a CAT scan," recalls Bryar."They did all these blood tests and kept me there for 14 hours." Doctors discovered that Bryar's leg infection had spread to his blood and caused an abscess in his face that was creeping dangerously close to his brain. If it had been left untreated for another two days, he could have died. "The whole thing was such a nightmare," Bryar says. "This doctor stuck my cheek with a needle about six inches long and the width of an IV tube. Then he went in and out of the inside of my mouth with the needle about 10 times. Fortunately, the treatment worked, and Bryar left the hospital three days later. With tragedy averted, My Chem are now focusing on touring for The Black Parade. They'll be in Europe for most of November, and when they get back at the end of year, they'll start rehearsing for a U.S. arena tour that starts in February. "We want to put on a full show with props and staging like The Wall," Gerard says. And MCR plan to keep the Patient alive long after they're done touring for the CD. "I would love to see the story turned into a play or a musical, and it could easily be a movie," enthuses Gerard. "Making this record, we cut ourselves open every day, pulled out every organ, and lay them on a table so it would be something we're completely happy with. We want The Black Parade to exist for a long time." "The whole hole thing nightmare. This doctor stuck my cheek with a needle about six inches long and the width of an IV tube." -BOB BRYAR

"I felt more like an outsider than I ever had, and I had no confidence, which is bad when you're trying work on a record."

-GERARD WAY

12/2006 revolver - mcrhollywood on flickr

#a spooky mcr for spooky year #sleep lore #black parade production #the paramour #the paramour 2006 #black parade era #12/2006 revolver #mcrhollywood.blogspot.com #my chemical romance #gerard way #mcr #frank iero #ray toro #mcr scans #scans

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zot3-flopped · 7 months ago

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Excerpts

The Tortured Poets Department delivers some of her most cringe-inducing lines yet. The title track alone boasts the worst on the record, even if it’s a stab at sarcasm. “You smoked then ate seven bars of chocolate / We declared Charlie Puth should be a bigger artist,” precedes the clunky “I scratch your head, you fall asleep like a tattooed Golden Retriever.”

Elsewhere, on ‘Down Bad’ she’s unceremoniously “crying at the gym”, and ‘Florida!!!’, an otherwise cathartic, Southern gothic-imbued collaboration with Florence Welch is marred by the line: “My friends all smell like weed or little babies”.

I Can Do It With A Broken Heart’ highlights her unrelenting work ethic that doesn’t falter amid personal tragedy. But, it seems poised for internet virality than anything more substantial, given its restrained verses that plod along before catapulting into a euphoric, Carly Rae Jepsen-indebted pop chorus. Lyrics like “I’m so depressed I act like it’s my birthday everyday” are almost too glaringly obviously written to be lip-synced into an iPhone 13 front camera.

Musically, it’s an album mostly devoid of any noticeable stylistic shift or evolution. It descends into a monochromatic palette, existing in the same Jack Antonoff-branded synth pop as ‘Midnights’, yet struggling to capture any of its brightness.

Most bizarre, though, is ‘But Daddy I Love Him’, which seemingly exists as her response to the backlash against her brief relationship with The 1975 frontman Matty Healy. Their fleeting romance, which seems to be the muse for much of the record, triggered an explosive reaction from her fanbase who were distraught at Swift’s public association to the singer, given his slew of controversial comments (a few of which centred around her soon-to-be collaborator Ice Spice).

Swift seems to be in tireless pursuit for superstardom, yet the negative public opinion it can come with irks her, and it’s a tired theme now plaguing her discography and leaving little room for the poignant lyrical observations she excels at. It’s why the pitfalls that mire her 11th studio album are all the more disappointing — she’s proven time and time again she can do better. To a Melbourne audience of her Eras Tour, Swift said that ‘The Tortured Poets Department’ came from a “need” to write. It’s just that maybe we didn’t need to hear it.

#the tortured poets department #anti taylor swift #taylor swift #finally someone brave enough to criticise her and Jack

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weirdkpopgirl · 1 year ago

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Burden | Dream Reaction #11

Reaction: When their gf feels like a burden to them

Genre: Hurt/comfort

Warnings: mentions of anxiety, dark thoughts, mental health issues

Word Count: 3593k

Author's Note: This reaction was requested by an anon, which I am very grateful for. I feel like the theme for this reaction is pretty common in my stories. So I tried my best to come up with different scenarios and not sound too repetitive. Writing this story made me think of how all the members of NCT Dream are such sweethearts, honestly. I hope you guys like this and please feel free to request more! Thank you for reading ^ ^

~ ~ ~

MARK

Lately, there’s been this growing distance between you and Mark. You hated yourself for feeling this way because Mark was nothing short of the perfect boyfriend. He treated you with kindness and respect. He didn’t hesitate to show his feelings for you and cared for you in ways that no one else in your life has.

But you were someone who carried a lot of insecurities. Frequently, you found yourself pondering if you were truly worthy of Mark's affection. He was constantly busy with his back-and-forth schedules between 127 and Dream. Yet he still made the time to call you and ask how your day went. You felt like you didn’t deserve him.

One evening, you were engaging in a deep conversation with Taeyong at the 127 dorm. As the leader figure of the group, you sometimes found yourself confiding in the male when it came to concerns about your relationship. Unbeknownst to you, Mark happened to be present at the dorm that evening, and as he walked down the hallway, he overheard your voice drifting from the living room.

“I don’t know…Mark is so sweet and loving,” you spoke with uncertainty, as you held a couch pillow close to your chest.“Sometimes I can’t help but feel like I’m a burden to him.”

He observed Taeyong place a comforting hand on your shoulder. “(Y/n), you’re an amazing girlfriend and Mark cares about you a lot. You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself,” he tried to reassure you.

You let out a sigh, “I know…but I just can’t shake the feeling that I’ll never be good enough for him.”

Mark genuinely had no idea you were feeling this way. He’d stay up the rest night, replaying your words in his head. You were so important to Mark, and he couldn’t bear the thought of his life without you. Knowing that you felt so insecure saddened him deeply.

A few days later you received a text from Mark, asking you to meet him at the studio. The message felt somewhat random, but you headed to his company building, unsure of what to expect.

When you walked into the studio, Mark was sitting on the sofa with a guitar in hand. At first, you were confused until his fingers began strumming to a familiar tune.

“Oh, her eyes, her eyes make the stars look like they’re not shinin’. Her hair, her hair falls perfectly without her trying,” he sang softly. “She’s so beautiful, and I tell her every day.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, finding it almost surreal that Mark Lee was serenading you with a Bruno Mars song. But the charming smile on his lips didn’t leave as he finished the first verse.

“Yeah, I know, I know when I compliment her, she won’t believe me.

And it’s so, it’s so sad to think that she don’t see what I see.”

His fingers continued to strum the instrument as he stood up and walked up to you, singing the chorus with heartfelt emotion.

“When I see your face, there’s not a thing I would change. Cause you’re amazing, just the way you are.” He gazed into your eyes, singing the lyrics with such love and admiration. “And when you smile, the whole world stops and stares for awhile. Cause girl you’re amazing, just the way you are.”

Your hands were clasped over your mouth, and tears glistened in your eyes as Mark sang the rest of the song. The raw emotion in his voice and the sweet lyrics touched you deeply, making this moment feel incredibly intimate. The romantic gesture felt so sudden, making you wonder what brought this all on.

After the song finished, Mark gently took your hand in his. “(Y/n), I heard you talking to Taeyong hyung the other day. And I wanted to let you know that you’re never a burden to me.”

You felt a mixture of surprise and gratitude, touched by his openness and the effort he took to address your concerns. The love in his eyes reaffirmed that he meant every word, and a sense of comfort washed over you as he held your hand, grounding you in the present moment.

"I cherish every part of you," Mark continued, his voice unwavering. "In good times and challenging ones, we're in this together. You can always lean on me. I'm here to support you through everything."

His words were like a warm embrace, wrapping around your heart and reaffirming the love you shared. In that moment, you knew that you were truly seen and valued by Mark, and your heart overflowed with love for this incredible person beside you.

✎__________________________________________________________

RENJUN

While you were in the kitchen preparing lunch, Renjun was relaxing in the living room. His group had just finished their promotional activities for their latest comeback, leaving him exhausted from the busy schedule. However, you became a bit flustered when you attempted to reach for an ingredient on a top shelf but found yourself unable to reach it.

Sighing in frustration, you stole a glance at Renjun, who was lying on the couch. Perhaps he could lend you a hand with this predicament. But as you started to hesitate when you approached him. His arm covered his eyes, as his chest slowly rose up and down with each slow breath he took. You didn’t want to disturb him when he looked so peaceful.

Renjun’s eyes slowly opened as he watched you walk away. Curious, he stood up from the couch and quietly followed you into the kitchen. The corner of his lips upturned in a small smile when he saw you struggle to get something from the cabinet.

When you felt Renjun extend his arm to retrieve the ingredient for you, you nearly jumped and turned around in surprise.

Renjun looked at you endearingly and said, “You could’ve just asked me, (Y/n).”

“I know, but you were resting and I didn’t want to bother you,” you frowned.

In response to this, Renjun planted a soft kiss on your forehead. “You could never bother me, darling,” he reassured, brushing away a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You blushed at his warm gesture and whispered a "thank you" before returning to what you were doing before. Renjun was truly a sweetheart, and his caring nature never failed to make you feel loved and appreciated.

✎__________________________________________________________

JENO

The day had been long and overwhelming. Honestly, you were just glad that it was almost over. All you wanted right now was to be in your boyfriend’s arms. However, when you entered the bedroom, you found Jeno engrossed in a videogame on his computer.

Approaching him quietly, you softly called his name. “Jeno-ssi.”

“Yeah, babe?” He responded, keeping his eyes focused on the screen in front of him.

You felt discouraged when you saw how concentrated he was on his game. Not wanting to bother him, you took a step back. “I—actually, never mind.”

Jeno caught the hesitance in your voice and spun around in his chair. Just as you were walking away, he reached to grab your hand.

“No, babe, what is it?” he asked, concern evident in his voice. Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment now that you had his attention. Even if you tried to brush him off again, you knew he wouldn’t let you go.

“I was going to ask if we could cuddle. but I don’t want to distract you from your game,” you muttered, avoiding his gaze. You couldn’t help but feel silly for wanting something so seemingly small.

Jeno’s eyes softened at your words, and in the next second, you were being pulled into his lap. He loved nothing more than holding you in his arms and pressing kisses into your hair. The idea that you thought he would reject you, puzzled him.

“You can always ask me for cuddles, babe,” he whispered softly, his arms wrapped securely around you. “I love being with you, and I don’t want you to feel like it’s a bother.”

You slowly smiled and allowed your head to rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. His touch radiated so much comfort and warmth that it seemed to chase away any lingering insecurities or anxious thoughts from earlier. For the remainder of the night, he kept you in his lap as he played his game. Eventually, he retired from the computer and proceeded to cuddle you in the comforts of your bed. Jeno just loved being close to you and he wanted to ensure that you never felt like you were bothering him again.

✎__________________________________________________________

HAECHAN

Something didn’t feel right when Haechan entered your apartment. After sliding on the familiar gray slippers you always kept for him, he shuffled through the darkness of your living room. His feet padded down the hallway, guided by the faint glow of light escaping beneath your bedroom door. He paused outside the closed door. Apprehension filled him when he heard your shaky breathing.

Haechan swallowed nervously before raising his hand to the door and lightly tapping his knuckles against the wood. “(Y/n)?” he called out softly. “Is it okay if I come in?”

When he was met with an unsettling silence, his determination urged him to slowly turn the doorknob and gently push open the door. The second he stepped inside his eyes fell on you sitting at the foot of the bed with your head buried in your hands. His heart broke at the sight of your body visibly trembling.

Haechan knew you hated it whenever he found you in this state of vulnerability. When he was present, you often put on a brave face for him. You were always trying to maintain this cheerful facade, even when things were not okay. He understood the effort you made to protect him from your inner struggles. But the thought of you hurting weighed heavily on his heart.

With a small sigh, Haechan closed the door behind him. He noticed you tense up when he approached you cautiously.

“(Y/n),” he started to say, extending his hand towards you in a gesture of comfort.

But you shook your head vigorously and pulled away from him. “Please, just go away Hyuck. I don’t want to see me like this,” you pleaded.

His expression faltered at your attempt to push him away. He could sense the pain and he wasn’t going to let you face it alone.

“(Y/n), whatever it is…just let me be there for you,” he said.

But your head shook again, almost as if your brain was refusing to let Haechan’s words comfort you. Your fists repeatedly banged against your head, the pain momentarily numbing the overwhelming thoughts and emotions within you.

“I’m a mess, Haechan. I’m broken and damaged,” you cried. “I’m…I’m nothing but a burden right now.”

Haechan’s eyes widened with panic and he firmly grabbed your wrists to stop your self-destructive actions. “Hey, hey, don’t hurt yourself,” he murmured, trying to calm you down. “Who put those thoughts in your head, huh?”

As more tears cascaded down your cheek, Haechan loosened his grip on one of your hands and gently brushed away the tears with his thumb.

“Look at me, (Y/n),” Haechan whispered. He gently lifted your chin, locking your gaze with his.

“You are not a burden, nor are you broken or damaged,” he said, caressing your cheek. “Please don’t believe those lies your mind tells you.”

His voice was filled with a seriousness that resonated deep within your heart. The tears slowed and your body gradually stopped shaking. Once he was sure you wouldn’t resist, he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a warm embrace. His chin rested atop your head, providing security, while his fingers tenderly stroked your hair.

“I know it’s hard for you to see yourself the way I see you,” he continues. “But trust me when I say you’re the strongest person I know, (Y/n).”

The outside world receded as his words sank in. Taking a deep breath, you closed your eyes and surrendered to his comforting embrace. No matter how frequently the inner demons resurfaced, Haechan remained steadfast in banishing them. Within his arms, you never felt safer.

✎__________________________________________________________

JAEMIN

Although you woke up this morning with a fever, that didn’t stop you from attending all your morning classes. It wasn’t that big of a deal, and you fully planned to spend the rest of the day in bed. However, when Jaemin sent a text asking if you wanted to come by his dance practice, you couldn’t turn him down. You also knew that if you told Jaemin you were sick, he’d get worried, and you didn’t want that.

Despite you not feeling your best, seeing Jaemin’s smile when you entered the practice room forced you to suck it up. The other members greeted you cheerfully, and their faces lit up when they spotted the bag of food in your hand.

“I missed you so much (Y/n),” Jaemin said. He spun you around in a hug that left you feeling a bit uneasy due to your headache. But you tried to push it off, not wanting to dampen the joyful atmosphere.

As you sat with the boys, you slowly started to realize that you weren't feeling any better. The fatigue and discomfort seemed to intensify, making it challenging to keep up with their energy.

Mark was the first to notice your lack of presence in the group. “Are you okay, (Y/n)? You look a little pale.”

“I—I’m fine. Just a little tired,” You mustered a weak smile as you gathered everyone’s trash to throw away. But as soon as you got up, the room started to spin.

Jaemin and the others stood panicked when they saw you lose balance. Luckily, Jaemin reacted quickly and caught you when your vision blurred out. The next thing you knew, you woke up a few moments later, finding yourself resting on Jaemin’s lap.

“Baby, why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well?” he scolded lightly, stroking your hair. “You scared me.”

Seeing the genuine concern in his eyes made you feel a little guilty. “I’m sorry, I just didn’t want to be a burden to you,” you mumbled, slowly sitting up with Jaemin’s help.

Your boyfriend sighed and cupped your face in his hands. “No baby! You’re never a burden to me, especially when it comes to your health.”

Jaemin tried to convince you to go home, worried about your well-being. But you insisted on staying, wanting to support him. Throughout the rest of practice, he kept checking up on you. Despite some teasing and complaints from the other members about how disgusting and cute you guys were, you didn’t pay them much attention.

Seeing how much Jaemin cared for you and how attentive he was to your needs made you feel deeply loved and cherished.

✎__________________________________________________________

CHENLE

Gift-giving was Chenle’s love language, and it was something you still haven’t adjusted to. While you appreciated the thoughtfulness behind receiving flowers and stuffed animals from your boyfriend, you couldn’t help but feel a little guilty. You didn’t like him frequently spending money on you when he could save it for something more important. At the end of the day, you understood that this was Chenle’s way of expressing his love and you didn’t want to diminish that.

One afternoon, the two of you were at an outdoor mall on a date. The initial plan was just to do some window shopping. But there was a clothes shop place that Chenle suggested you guys check out. The two of you walked around the store for a bit and there was a dress that caught your eye. It was a simple plaid black dress adorned with white sleeves. The classic design exuded an elegance that matched your fashion style.

However, your interest was forgotten when you picked up the price tag. There was no way you were going to spend so much money on one dress. Chenle noticed your eyes widening and followed your gaze to the dress you were looking at.

“Oh, that would look so cute on you,” he remarked.

You smiled sheepishly and let go of the fabric. “Yeah, but it’s pretty expensive. I don’t think I should buy it.”

Chenle smiled and swung his arm around your shoulder. “Who says you’re buying the dress? Don’t worry baby, I got you.”

A frown immediately tugged at your lips. The idea of him paying already made you feel bad. Even if the dress was nice, you were perfectly fine with not having it.

“Chenle, you don’t have to do that. I’m not worth this,” you said quietly. The carefree expression on Chenle’s face turned to one of confusion.

“What do you mean you’re not worth it?” he asked. “You’re worth every cent of my money and love.”

“But I don’t want to burden you,” you emphasized. “It’s just a dress Chenle, I don’t need it.”

Sighing softly, Chenle cupped your cheeks into his hands, making sure you were looking into his eyes. “Listen here future Mrs. Zhong, you are not a burden or anything of the sort. You’re worthy of anything in this world and I will prove it to you at any cost.”

His words caused heat to rise to your cheeks. But when you lowered your head in embarrassment, Chenle brought your face back up and kissed you. He couldn’t care less about the nearby customers who were now staring at you two.

Feeling even more flustered, you pulled away in surprise. “Zhong Chenle, you can’t just kiss me in front of all these people!”

“Well if you don’t want me to kiss you again, you’re going to come with me to check this out.” Your boyfriend smiled mischievously and took the dress off the rack.

Any more protests from you went ignored, as the boy was already taking your hand and leading you to the checkout area. Chenle was definitely something else, always managing to surprise you with his spontaneous and caring nature. But you were grateful to have such a loving boyfriend. You could always count on him to make you feel like the most special girl in the world.

✎__________________________________________________________

JISUNG

He was just roaming around your apartment as you were in the kitchen making instant ramen for the two of you. It was Jisung’s second time visiting, and he wanted to become more familiar with your living space. He wandered into the bedroom, instantly picking up on how everything was so neat and tidy. He smiled when he spotted a framed picture of him on your nightstand. Seeing the photograph there filled him with warmth, knowing that you held him close to your heart.

However, he also noticed a small black journal on your nightstand. Curious, he picked up the object and opened it absentmindedly. His eyes quickly widened in horror as he read the top words on the second page.

It was a list of the things you didn't like about yourself. His heart sank as he saw pages filled with bullet points, each one representing the insecurities you carried within. Dread filled him as he skimmed over the reasons that varied from your looks to what you perceived as flaws.

What hurt him the most was the last one on the bottom, which said: “I am a burden to everyone around me.” The weight of those words hit him like a tidal wave, leaving his heart heavy with a mix of sadness and anguish.

“Jisung what are you—” You entered the room, wondering what he was doing in here.

Your body froze when you saw the notebook clutched tightly in his hands. The sight immediately filled you with panic, uncertain of how much he read.

Jisung glanced up, looking like he was about to cry. “(Y/n), do you really think you’re a burden?”

The sadness in his tone only confirmed your fears and caused a wave of vulnerability to wash over you. You took a hesitant step closer, wanting to reach out and comfort him, yet also feeling exposed and uncertain of how to respond. But when tears began to spill out of Jisung’s eyes, you rushed to his side.

“Baby I—” You tried to say something, but the words caught in your throat.

"Was there something I did or said to make you think that?" He fretted, his brows furrowing with genuine concern.

Shaking your head, you wrapped your arms around him. “No, you didn’t do anything Jisungie. It’s just me that’s the problem.”

Hearing your confession only made him feel worse. The realization that you had been struggling with these feelings of, and he didn’t know killed him. As your boyfriend, he felt responsible for not being there to show how much you meant to him.

“(Y/n), I…I love you so much,” Jisung cried, his voice muffled against your shirt. “You’re never a burden to me or…or anyone. Please don’t think that way.”

You slowly exhaled, offering soothing pats on the boy’s back as you tried to comfort him. Seeing how deeply upset Jisung was about this surprised you. It took a few minutes for you to get him to stop crying. You rocked him back and forth in your embrace, pressing kisses into his hair and whispering apologies. Once he calmed down, you promised Jisung you’d work on being less critical of yourself and be more open about your feelings with him.

✎__________________________________________________________

#nct #nct dream #nct dream imagines #nct dream reactions #nct dream scenarios #nct dream x reader #mark #renjun #jeno #haechan #jaemin #jisung #chenle #nctzen #czennie #kpop #hurt/comfort #nct dream angst #7dream

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glossdebut · 2 months ago

Text

Take a Bite Ch. 5

✧ PAIRING: yoongi x fem!reader

✧ SUMMARY: Your fledgling career as a music journalist is finally going in some kind of direction that must be on the path to success. Your coworkers like you enough to invite you out on Fridays, your boss is starting to think you’re competent enough to let you score a few bylines, and you’re finally getting the hang of InDesign. All of your hard work, late nights, and complete lack of a social life are starting to pay off… Even if it all came at the expense of the longest relationship of your life. Fine. You’ve accepted the fact that romance isn’t for you, under any circumstances. You won’t risk your career for anybody. Not even Min Yoongi.

✧ TAGS: slow burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, producer yoongi, music journalist reader, neighbors to friends to lovers? you’ll see, reader is bad at feelings, reader is post-break up

✧ WARNINGS: SMUT, sexting, i guess a little bit of exhibitionism? not really but if we're splitting hairs, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal sex, COMPLICATED FEELINGS! MEN NAMED KEVIN! YIJEONG?????

✧ WORDCOUNT: 7.4k (jesus christ)

✧ STATUS: complete

✧ AUTHOR’S NOTE: TAKE A BITE 5 IS HERE!!!!!!!!! this chapter was ALMOST written in a planet fitness, but it wasn't. this chapter is also almost ENTIRELY smut, but the smut is important to the plot so leave me alone! i'm sorry to inform those of you that wanted more of yoongi's brain that this chapter is entirely reader pov, but there's a reason for that and i promise yoongi will be back before this story is complete <3

Chapter 5: I Think I Need Your Help

Next time can’t come soon enough.

Since Friday night, you’ve been alternating between being super proud of yourself for being direct and asking for what you want, and being equally repulsed by yourself for the way getting what you want has made you act.

You’ve seen Yoongi once since the night in his studio, when he was coming home after pulling an all-nighter and you were on your way out to work, like two goddamn ships passing in the night.

You were in that barely functional state post-waking up where you were shocked you were even able to get your shoes on the correct feet before walking out the door, and the mere sight of him in a short-sleeved white t-shirt had you pausing where you stood and taking a looooong look. You’re that desperate.

And he knows it, too. Exhausted as he looked, your blatant staring didn’t go unnoticed. Mercifully, though, Yoongi didn’t say anything. Just shook his head at you knowingly, smirking to himself as he pushed his front door open and stepped inside, presumably to go crash for a few hours.

You thought, foolishly, that a byproduct of your friends-with-benefits arrangement would be an ability to relax, loosen up a little bit so you’re able to be more productive during office hours. Don’t people say that about sex? That it clears the head? Well, those people have clearly never had Min Yoongi’s head between their legs.

You are decidedly not clear headed. You are wired, wanting, finding yourself zoning out in the middle of newsroom meetings thinking about Yoongi’s hands spreading your thighs, his lips wrapped around your clit, the way he groaned into your pussy. It’s fucking distracting.

You’ve never been like this before with anyone you’ve slept with. Sex with your ex had been good, even great sometimes, but you never really thought about it until it was happening. With Yoongi, you can’t seem to think about anything else.

Meanwhile, Yoongi has been busy, on a completely different sleep schedule from you all week. He’d given you fair warning before you left his studio Friday night, wobbly-legged and fucked out. He’s working on a very important track for an upcoming artist’s debut album, he’d told you. It’s due at the end of the day Friday, and he probably won’t have time for any… extracurriculars until it’s done.

No big deal, you’d said! Dumb bitch.

It doesn’t help in the slightest that, as you’d hoped, nothing has really changed between you and Yoongi, aside from occasional suggestive texts (mostly initiated by your horny ass!!!!!!) exchanged throughout the day, sprinkled within normal conversation. No, Yoongi has continued to be himself: sweet, considerate, kind of nerdy. Sending you links to articles he finds interesting, or funny videos, or songs that he’s had on repeat. It is driving you insane.

On Thursday afternoon, you snap.

You open your phone on your lunch break to find that Yoongi has sent you not one, not two, but three devastatingly cute cat videos, and has provided his own commentary on them.

So, obviously, you text back with what you think is the only appropriate response to that kind of behavior.

[12:14] You: i am begging you to put your cock inside me before i lose my mind

It is by far the most direct you’ve been since Friday night, far exceeding the coy flirtation you usually go for. You place your phone face-down on your desk with a shaky hand, staring down at your sad little salad. Lunch seems impossible now, what with your heartbeat thrumming in your ears and all.

Your phone buzzes not even a minute later, twice. Which stands to reason. You wanted Yoongi’s attention, and now you’ve got it. You take a deep breath through your nose and turn your phone back over.

[12:15] Yoongi: You’re begging, huh?

[12:15] Yoongi: You’re at work, baby. Can’t focus? Need it that bad?

Um. Yes, yes you do. And the way that you can practically hear his voice right now, in your ear, teasing. Fuck. Not helping.

You pick up your phone, hiding yourself behind the monitor at your desk so nobody in the office can see how flushed you’ve become all of a sudden. You’re on your lunch, and they should mind their damn business.

[12:16] You: yes

[12:17] Yoongi: You know I can’t help you until I’m done with my track.

That’s pretty much the response you expected, but you can’t help feeling frustrated about it anyway. He can’t take a break for an hour? You’d even settle for thirty minutes!

[12:18] You: i think you can and you’re just making me wait to be an asshole

[12:18] You: which is really dumb because i can just come to your studio tonight when i get off of work and you can take a break

[12:19] You: let me ride you in your chair

[12:19] You: fuck. you don’t even have to stop working yoongi

You’re acting desperate, you know that. You know how you sound. But you are desperate, can’t help it. Yoongi opened the floodgates to over three years of pent-up sexual frustration with his stupid tongue, and now it’s his fucking responsibility to deal with it.

You watch as the bubble pops up to indicate that he’s typing, and then disappears, then reappears again. Ha. Maybe you actually got him.

[12:22] Yoongi: If you think calling me names is gonna get you what you want, you’ve got another thing coming.

[12:22] Yoongi: You can come to the studio tonight if you really want to. But I can guarantee that you’re not getting my cock.

[12:23] Yoongi: Except maybe in that fucking mouth to give it something better to do than complain.

Holy shit maybe not!

[12:23] You: oh my god

You had a feeling, of course, that Yoongi liked being in control, that he liked to guide. He had coaxed your desires out of you so sweetly Friday night, letting you tell him what you wanted, but how he did it was his choice. But this is more than guiding. He’s telling you what’s going to happen if you come over. You shift in your chair, your thighs clenching.

[12:24] Yoongi: Hey. Tell me if this is okay, Y/N.

You can practically hear the words in his voice, soft, like when he asked you to stay when Seokjin came over to cook. The stark difference between this and the texts immediately before are almost enough to make your head spin. He’s giving you an out if you’re not into this. But you are into it.

[12:24] You: yeah

[12:24] You: yes. it’s okay

[12:25] Yoongi: I need you to tell me if I say or do something you don’t like, okay? No matter what.

[12:25] You: i will

[12:25] Yoongi: Good girl.

God. Being this turned on at work feels like a crime.

[12:26] Yoongi: I’m not trying to be mean, baby. I already told you, I’m dying to fuck you. I wasn’t just saying that.

[12:27] Yoongi: But when I fuck you, I want to be able to take my time.

[12:27] Yoongi: Wanna have you in my bed and not in my studio, first of all. All spread out for me so I can see all of you.

[12:28] Yoongi: Wanna taste you again. I can’t stop thinking about how good you taste, fuck. I didn’t take it slow enough last time, didn’t get to savor it, but I’m gonna fix that. Gonna make you come with my tongue again before you even get my cock, get you nice and wet for me.

[12:29] Yoongi: Not that it takes much. Bet you’re wet right now, aren’t you? Just from this?

Oh, he’s so mean. Your thighs clench again and you chew on your bottom lip as you type, hyperaware of the way the thin fabric of your panties clings to your sex. It feels so dirty, knowing that in a few minutes you’ll have to work like this. You’ll have to talk to your colleagues like this, pretend like nothing’s amiss. You’d be lying if you said the thought didn’t turn you on even more.

[12:29] You: yeah. god, yoongi. i am

[12:30] Yoongi: Yeah. I know, baby. It’s okay. I’m gonna take care of you when I can. Gonna make you feel so good. You sounded so sweet when you came for me last time. Can’t wait to hear what kind of pretty noises you’ll make when I get to have you properly.

[12:31] Yoongi: Fuck, Y/N. If you think I don’t wish I was with you right this second you’re insane. Been dreaming about your pussy. But I wanna do this the right way.

You believe him. Even through your phone, you can feel it—that raw honesty that Yoongi always gives you. He’s been agonizing over this just as much as you have. It makes you feel a little bad, honestly, that you so wantonly distracted him like this, when he’s been working so hard this week. Maybe part of you wanted to get back at him for denying you what you wanted on Friday, but now, you realize that you’re glad he did. You want all of that, too. Everything he said, every word of it. Just because this is casual doesn’t mean you have to rush.

Maybe it’s time for you to give him a little honesty of your own.

[12:32] You: i want that too

[12:32] You: shit i have to go back to work soon but i promise i’m not trying to rush this i just…

[12:32] You: really, really want you

[12:33] Yoongi: I want you too.

[12:33] Yoongi: Soon, okay? Really really soon if I can help it.

You look up from your phone when the chime of an Outlook notification snaps you out of your bubble, directing your attention to an email from your boss. With a longsuffering sigh, you click it open. He wants to talk to you as soon as you’re available, and your salad isn’t going to eat itself, so you resign yourself to letting Yoongi get back to work.

[12:35] You: soon

[12:35] You: go back to work. that grammy isn’t gonna win itself

[12:36] Yoongi: Lmfao. Go back to work, she says, as if she didn’t just give me the most persistent boner of my life unprovoked.

[12:36] You: motivation!

[12:36] Yoongi: Motivation for me to do more inappropriate shit in my place of business, maybe. But it’s a lot sadder when I’m by myself.

[12:37] You: wowwwww pics or it didn’t happen

[12:37] Yoongi: YOU go back to work, pervert.

You do. Begrudgingly.

You quickly type an email to your boss, just a cursory, ‘There are fifteen minutes left in my lunch, and then I’ll be there. Thanks Kevin!’ Afterwards, you scarf down your lunch. And you finally watch those cat videos Yoongi sent you, which effectively tamps down your horny high enough for you not to feel icky about meeting with your boss.

★ ★ ★

Fifteen minutes later on the dot, you’re knocking on Kevin’s door.

You like your boss well enough. As much as one can like their boss, maybe, give or take a bad day. Kevin is nice, but his name is stupid, and he certainly doesn’t live up to your expectations of what a music journalism editor would be like when you first applied to Look Here Magazine.

Foolishly, you expected someone straight out of Almost Famous: young, wears band t-shirts beneath blazers, a chainsmoker, a little bit sleazy, with music knowledge to put Nardwuar to shame. Instead, what you got is a mostly-bald, clean-cut, mid-forties guy who wears khakis most days of the week and says things like ‘circle back’ and ‘best practice.’ He’s competent, sure, and you need him to like you, absolutely, but he does make your job feel a little less cool. But who knows! Maybe Kevin rocks out on the weekends. You certainly don’t, so who are you to judge?

Kevin waves you in, and before you even have the chance to sit down, he’s dropping a bomb on you that makes you feel like your legs are going to give out beneath you.

“You’re taking charge on the Yijeong profile piece,” he says flippantly as peers over his glasses at his monitor, typing without pause.

There’s absolutely no way you just heard that right. Yijeong's profile was assigned already, to a reporter who has been at Look Here a lot longer than you. You tell Kevin as much, as if he wasn’t in the newsroom when the piece was pitched in the first place.

“Sora didn’t have enough bandwidth to juggle the profile and the reunion tour coverage, and that’s going to be on the cover,” Kevin says, without even a passing glance to you. As if he isn’t altering the trajectory of your career over a scheduling conflict. “It’s all you, kid.”

“I don’t have the contacts,” you blurt out, having mercy on your poor, wobbly legs as you sit down.

“Ask Sora for the contacts.”

“Don’t you want someone more experienced for this? Connected?”

It’s not that you don’t want it. Writing a profile on someone like Jang Yijeong is a dream come true for someone as green as you are. It may not be the cover article, but the headline will be written on the cover, and so far you’ve only written the puff pieces that readers likely use to pad outgoing mail. If you do this right, there’s a chance of less puff pieces and more real journalism.

It’s the if that scares you. Jang Yijeong has rebranded his entire career from being an idol to being a producer, so he’s technically considered an up-and-coming artist where Look Here is concerned. Nobody has heard his name in a few years, and a piece on him by a publication like Look Here could make him the most sought after producer in the country, if he plays it right.

But Yijeong has also been in the music industry for a long time. He’s been interviewed by countless reporters. He’s media trained. Good media training is a death sentence for profiles, which are supposed to dig deep into the subject. Trust is everything in this kind of situation, and if Look Here sends a rookie like you to interview Jang Yijeong without the proper connections, without someone to vouch for you, he will show up to the interview with a script in hand. The profile will be a dud and your career will pay the price.

Sighing, Kevin finally stops typing, looking at you for the first time since you walked into his office. You shift in your seat, trying to make yourself look less fucking terrified.

“Look, I could hand it off to someone else, but you’ve been doing a good job these past couple of weeks. In your interview, you told me you’re most interested in writing features. That you’re good at it. I’m throwing you a bone,” he says, and you take a shaky breath. “Take the piece. Don’t try to reinvent the wheel. You’ve written profiles before, you know what to do. Just ask good questions, don’t be stiff, and you’ll be fine.”

Kevin’s phone rings, and his attention is stolen again as he picks it up to answer it without a second thought. “Talk to Sora, and then take the day out in the field tomorrow to see what kind of background you can dig up,” he says, waving you out with the same indifference he waved you in with. You scramble to stand up, rushing to leave.

“Deadline is Wednesday!” he calls as you shut the door behind you, taking a moment to catch your breath before you try to find Sora.

Holy shit.

You have work to do.

★ ★ ★

You spend your entire day on Friday pounding pavement, milking all of Sora’s sources for what they’re worth, but you don’t learn any information about Jang Yijeong that you can’t find on his Wikipedia page.

You don’t give up easily, though. No, you plan to put your investigative reporting skills to good use, via a healthy session of social media stalking. You can find out a lot about someone from what they post on X and Instagram, after all. You have to reach out to Yijeong’s label to schedule an interview as soon as possible, and if you have to get your hard hitting questions based off of what you can glean from a meal he photographed in 2013, so be it.

It’s ten at night by the time you flop onto your bed, phone in hand, ready to pull an all-nighter and plunge yourself into the rabbit hole that is Jang Yijeong’s social media. Pepper hops up with you, curling up on your stomach and purring contentedly as you start scrolling.

Nearly two hours and ten possible interview questions later, your phone buzzes in your hand. It’s Yoongi.

[11:47] Yoongi: Are you coming over or not?

Oh, fuck. It’s Friday. Meaning Yoongi is done with his track.

You’d almost forgotten how horny you’d been for the past week, completely absorbed in your assignment. It stands to reason that as soon as Yoongi is free, you’re suddenly swamped with work of your own. But, of course, it all comes rushing back just from a text.

Whatever! You’ve been at it for hours, anyway. You deserve a break.

[11:49] You: when did you get home?

[11:49] Yoongi: About half an hour ago.

[11:50] You: hmmmm… did you take a shower?

[11:50] Yoongi: Obviously. I’ve been in the studio for most of the week. I’m not an animal.

You snort to yourself, which scares the shit out of Pepper after your complete silence for the past two hours. You’re suddenly proud that you had the foresight to take a shower of your own when you got home from interrogating people all day, although this wasn’t on your mind at the time.

[11:50] You: leave the door open?

[11:51] Yoongi: Will do.

You very carefully nudge Pepper off of your stomach, giving yourself a cursory glance in your mirror once you’re up. You make sure that your hair looks good at least, but your clothes don’t matter as much. It’s not like they’ll be on for long anyway.

Satisfied with what you see, you make your way through your apartment, grabbing your keys to lock your door on your way out.

Maybe it’s the workload that was dumped on you yesterday, but you feel much more level headed about this than you thought you would. It’s like your body has finally caught up with your brain, and you can recognize this part of your relationship with Yoongi for what it actually is: stress relief. You’ll go to his apartment, he’ll give it to you so good, and then you’ll go back to work and he won’t care because, like he told you before, he gets it. You’re giddy just thinking about it.

Walking into Yoongi’s apartment isn’t daunting, nor is locking the door behind you. Nor is finding him on his couch and climbing into his lap without even a hello, crushing your lips to his the way you’ve spent all week dreaming about.

Yoongi makes a surprised noise against your mouth, his hands hovering at your waist, but he quickly melts into the kiss, letting you take the lead for a moment as his hands find their place, pulling you closer. It’s only when you tease the seam of his lips with your tongue, silently requesting entry that he pulls back, forcing you to breathe.

“Hi,” he says, clearly amused by your enthusiasm.

“Hi,” you parrot back, grinning.

His hands slip from your waist to your hips as he looks you over, toying with the fabric of your sleep shorts. “Remember what we talked about yesterday?” You hum coyly, guiding his hand under the hem, which makes him huff, shaking his head with a smirk. “Wanting to do this the right way,” he reminds you, quickly removing his hand from where you led it, instead opting to smooth it over the curve of your ass.

“Easier said than done,” you reply, feeling bold enough to take the initiative that he won’t and sliding your hands under his shirt, running them over his abdomen. The fabric bunches up, and you can’t help but stare at the tantalizing inch of pale skin you’re rewarded with.

You gasp in surprise at the light spank Yoongi gives your ass in return, not nearly hard enough to leave a mark, but hard enough for you to pull your hands away. You know a warning when you see one—or feel one, that is. When you look up at him, he’s raising an eyebrow at you.

“Thought you said you wanted it like that,” he hums, rubbing over where he smacked you. “There’s always the alternative.”

Oh. That.

You wish you could say the thought of letting Yoongi fuck your throat wasn’t appealing, but there��s no hiding the way it makes you squirm, your tongue darting out to wet your lips. Yoongi hasn’t been particularly rough with you yet, but he’s hinted that he can be, if you want it. You imagine his hand on your jaw, encouraging you to open wider for him. Your eyes watering as you struggle to breathe through your nose. You still don’t know what his dick looks like, how thick it’ll feel on your tongue, how much your jaw will ache, but you’re eager to fill in the blanks of your imagination. You’ll definitely take him up on that one day, but no, he’s right.

You want to come. You want him to make you come. As stubborn as you are, you can’t deny that.

“You can take your time,” you mumble, meeting his eyes.

He smiles, bringing his free hand up to cup your face, his thumb rubbing your cheek like it did that night in his studio. “Good girl,” he murmurs, rewarding you with a sweet kiss that makes you moan, shifting your hips to grind against the bulge you feel stiffening under you.

Yoongi pulls away from your lips with a chuckle, patting your hip gently. “Up,” he says, and you scramble to your feet, no more bratty attitude to be found at the moment.

He stands with you, guiding you by the hand to his bedroom. Since he’s so adamant about taking his time, you take a moment to glance around the room, taking in all the little things about it that reflect what you’ve learned about Yoongi over the past several weeks.

Like the rest of his apartment, his bedroom is much cleaner than you would’ve assumed. There’s a desk with a small home studio setup, much more sparse than what you’ve seen in his actual studio. The equipment looks old and well-loved, and you wonder how long he’s had it. A basketball jersey hanging over his desk chair with his name emblazoned on the back. A dresser with various jewelry scattered on top, chains and rings and earrings.

His bed, of course, takes up the most space in the room. Where you have a queen bed in your own bedroom, you note that his is clearly a king, with a soft looking black comforter over top. A comforter that you’re about to be pressed into, you think.

Yoongi comes up behind you, his hands on your waist, lips on your neck trailing kisses over your nape and making you shiver.

“Relax,” he murmurs, huffing a laugh that you feel more than hear. “Lie down for me?”

You nod, walking to the bed and settling flat on your back. God, is this a Purple mattress? You hate him a little bit. You found your mattress on the side of the road.

Yoongi doesn’t give you long to stew on your hatred, though. Not when he’s spreading your legs, your feet planted flat on the mattress beneath you so he can fit his hips between your thighs. Not when you can feel how hard he is already, even through the layers separating you.

He kisses you again, long and slow and hot, all of your breath leaving your lungs at the feeling of his lips on yours. “Remember to stop me,” he mumbles between kisses. “If I do something you don’t like.”

You honestly find it hard to believe that Yoongi could do anything you wouldn’t like, but you nod your head jerkily in response, not wanting to separate from his lips for any longer than necessary.

Soon, he’s pressing open-mouthed kisses down your neck as his hands push your shirt up slowly, only separating himself from you to pull it off entirely and toss it aside on the mattress.

“Fuck,” he groans at the discovery that you aren’t wearing a bra, his hands immediately coming up to squeeze your breasts. “Wanted to make it easy for me, huh, baby?”

In reality, you’d just been dressed for bed, but you can’t bring yourself to tell him that, unable to form the words as his lips travel down to your chest, his tongue coming out to lave over a nipple.

You moan, your head falling back onto the mattress under you with a dull ‘thunk’ as Yoongi wraps his lips around the sensitive bud and sucks, your hands flying up to tangle in his hair.

“You like that,” he teases, a statement and not a question. He lifts his head, looking down at your tits with his bottom lip between his teeth. “So pretty, baby.”

Your cheeks flush warmly at the praise, and desperate to shift the attention away from yourself, your hands slide down to his chest, fisting in his shirt and tugging.

“Your turn,” you breathe, and he chuckles as he sits up on his knees, tugging his shirt over his head.

You can’t help but stare. It’s not that you thought that Yoongi would be skinny, per se, but he does have a tendency to wear clothes a little too big for him, dwarfing him, and given his already small stature due to his height… Not that you would’ve minded in the slightest if he was on the scrawnier side, but Christ. He’s decidedly not scrawny. He’s lean, with shoulders broader than you would’ve given him credit for at a passing glance.

And now here you are, gifted with an expanse of pale, smooth skin over compact muscle. Your eyes roam over him, from dusky nipples all the way down to the thin trail of dark hair starting right under his navel and leading your gaze down to where his cock strains against his sweatpants.

You don’t think you’ve ever wanted to touch somebody so badly in your life. The best part is that you can.

And you do. You feel greedy, your hands reaching out to smooth over his chest, down his abdomen, your eyes half-lidded and lips parted in a daze.

Yoongi lets you touch all you want, but when your hands move down to cup his erection through his sweatpants, you hear his breath hitch as he stops you, shaking his head and pinning your arm to the mattress gently.

“Your turn,” he murmurs softly, throwing your words right back at you. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your shorts, tilting his head at you as he starts to pull them down, the movement torturously slow. “Wanna see if you skipped the panties, too.”

You lift your hips so he can pull them down the rest of the way. You are not, in fact, wearing panties, because you were going the fuck to sleep originally, and you hear him suck in a breath after the shorts are discarded.

“What the hell did I do to deserve you?” he breathes. You ignore the funny thing your heart does in your chest at his words, opting instead to focus on his hand drawing closer to you.

You both moan when his fingers slide over you, finding you soaked once again.

“Fuck,” Yoongi hisses as he gathers your slick with his fingers. He drags them slowly up to your sensitive bundle of nerves and circles around it, only to slide back down again, repeating the motion again and again. You moan every time he reaches your clit, your hips bucking up into his touch.

“This pussy,” he starts, and you lift your head at sudden motion as he sinks down to lay on his stomach, holding himself up with his elbows, “gets so fucking wet for me.”

His pupils are blown as he hooks your legs over his shoulders, just like last time, but instead of going right for it, Yoongi starts pressing kisses to your thigh. Your head falls back onto the mattress again, and you squeeze your eyes shut as he continues to speak.

“Been thinking about this all week,” Yoongi mumbles into your skin, his teeth nipping at the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, forcing a gasp out of you. “You make it impossible to focus, you know that?”

A high, needy whine falls from your lips as he suddenly runs the tip of his tongue between your folds, and when you lift your head to watch, he pulls away, his dark eyes meeting yours in a smoldering gaze.

“I could’ve been done with that track on fucking Tuesday,” he says, dipping down again to wrap his lips around your clit and suck, making you cry out, tangling your fingers in his hair again. “Do you know how many times I jerked off thinking about being between these thighs again?”

“Fuck, Yoongi,” you whimper, his words conjuring images that make you feel as though you’re coming apart at the seams. Yoongi chuckles darkly, pressing a kiss to your clit.

“Yeah, that’s my girl,” he praises, his tone so dark it sends a shiver down your spine. “Gonna make you say my name like that again, baby. You want it?”

“Yes,” you gasp out without a second thought. You need his mouth on you so bad you feel like you’re going to explode. “Shit, please.”

“So polite.”

Yoongi doesn’t make you wait any longer, his head dipping back down again so he can taste you properly, the flat of his tongue licking slowly over your pussy.

“Thank you,” you moan, the words slipping out completely outside of your control. Yoongi’s movements pause for just a fraction of a second, and suddenly you’re overwhelmed with the worry that ‘thank you’ was a fucking weird thing to say to the guy eating you out. But then you feel Yoongi’s responding moan right into your cunt, the vibrations making your eyes roll back into your head, and his tongue resumes its movements.

True to his word, he’s taking his sweet time, savoring every bit of you, but you don’t fucking care. You want his cock, desperately, but he can stay down there for hours if he really wants to so long as it feels like this.

You lose track of time, your thighs trembling around his head as you lose yourself in the feeling of his tongue, but you’re quite literally yanked back into the moment when Yoongi lifts his head again, forcefully dragging you closer and latching his lips around your clit.

“Fuck, fuck—Yoongi, fuck!” you cry out as Yoongi makes it abundantly clear that he’s no longer interested in dragging this out any longer. The way he’s eating you out now is going to make you come, and soon.

You can hear the wet, filthy sounds of his mouth on you, even over the blood pulsating through your ears, even over the way you’re moaning for him as your orgasm barrels closer.

Your fingers pull at his hair, your hips shifting to grind against his tongue, and he moans into you again, his hands grasping at your hips to help you move. You take the action for what it is: he wants you to come. Like, now. Well, he doesn’t have to fucking tell you twice.

For the second time, you come from Yoongi’s tongue, writhing beneath him as you moan helplessly. Your body feels like it’s on fire, your muscles clenching and unclenching as you squeeze your eyes shut tightly.

Yoongi works you through it, but unlike last time he can sense your impending overstimulation before you need to push him away, shifting to sit up on his knees as you catch your breath.

“So fucking sexy,” he grunts, running his hands over your body as his eyes trail over you appreciatively.

Shit, he’s one to talk. He looks so hot like this, his hair a mess from your pulling, his lips and chin slick from your pussy.

Not to mention, just like last time, he’s so fucking hard. The only difference is that this time, he’ll let you have it.

“Wanna touch you,” you breathe, already pushing up shakily to slide your hand beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. Yoongi makes no move to stop you, his breath hitching as your hand wraps around him.

His length feels thicker than you expected in your hand, your mind instantly wandering to how it’s going to feel inside of you very soon. You don’t think you’ve ever taken something this thick before, and you want it so fucking bad.

“Shit, baby, just like that,” Yoongi grits out as you start pumping him slowly, his hips bucking forward into your hand. “Feels so good.”

You lean up to capture his lips with yours, tasting yourself on his tongue as the kiss quickly turns sloppy and desperate, lacking all finesse but somehow still so goddamn sexy. All the while, you keep touching him, his breath coming out shaky through his nose as he licks into your mouth with heat.

When your grasp on his cock gets a little firmer, his hips stutter and his hand comes up to grasp your wrist again, urgently halting your movements.

“Gotta stop. ‘m gonna come if you keep doing that,” he says, pulling away. There’s a flush in his cheeks, spreading down to his chest. It’s almost cute, but then he opens that fucking mouth again, his eyes locked on yours. “Wanna come inside you.”

Fuck.

“Yeah,” you breathe in agreement, nodding jerkily and pulling your hand from his pants in an instant. “Want that. Fuck me.”

Yoongi groans, his eyes shutting tightly. He shakes his head. “Need a minute,” he says, his voice almost pained. “Fuck, you’re too much.”

He busies himself with reaching over your body and across the bed, pulling open the drawer of his bedside table. You keep your hands to yourself, ignoring the overwhelming urge to reach out and touch again. If he needs a minute, he can have it. You’ve waited this long.

Once his body returns to yours, he tosses a condom next to you on the bed before dipping down to kiss you again. His lips are gentle on yours this time, slow and almost sweet, unlike any way he’s kissed you so far. The chasteness of it throws you off, but it isn’t necessarily unwelcome—not from Yoongi, at least. He’s probably just trying to chill the fuck out so he doesn’t come too fast, you reason.

After a few minutes, though, Yoongi’s lips part from yours and he presses one last kiss to your temple, reaching for the condom beside you.

“Ready?” he asks, the edge of the foil packet held between his teeth as he sits up, using both hands to push his sweatpants down.

Your eyes are glued to him as he rips the packet open carefully, rolling the condom onto his cock. Your imagination never would’ve done him justice. The sight of his long fingers wrapped around his length is enough for your last thread of patience to snap.

“I think I’m going to die if you don’t fuck me right now,” you say honestly, your eyes unmoving from his cock, and he laughs, sliding a hand up your thigh.

“Dramatic,” he teases, his fingers trailing over your pussy, ensuring that you’re still wet enough to take him. “You think you’re ready for it?” he asks, two fingers prodding at your entrance before they start fucking into you easily.

You whine, your back arching as his fingers scissor inside your pussy. “Can’t wait anymore,” you gasp out, and he relents, withdrawing his fingers to wrap them around his cock, shifting so he’s over you again.

“Okay, okay,” he murmurs, the tip of his nose grazing yours at this proximity. You feel the blunt head of his cock running through your folds, one last tease, before he lines himself up with your entrance. “I’ll take care of you, baby. Promise.”

Your legs wrap around his hips as he slowly eases in, his breath shuddering next to your ear as he fills you bit by bit. The stretch makes your head spin, but Yoongi takes his time just like he promised, rubbing your hip soothingly to keep you relaxed.

“Finally,” you breathe when he finally bottoms out, and he laughs.

“Yeah? Gonna thank me again?” Yoongi jokes, but the way his cock twitches inside you betrays the way he really feels about that.

“Maybe when you make me come,” you quip in return, but his hips draw back, giving an experimental thrust back into you, and suddenly nothing is all that funny anymore.

You both moan, and Yoongi trails his nose up the side of your neck as he does it again, setting a rhythm of long, slow strokes.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathes, the wrecked sound of his voice sending a flare of arousal through you, causing your walls to clench around his cock. “You feel so good.”

All you can do is moan in response, your arms looping around his shoulders, hands in his hair. “Squeezing me so fucking tight,” he grits out, fucking into you just a little bit faster, a little bit deeper.

“Like that,” you gasp out, fingers tightening in his hair out of desperation.

“Yeah?” he groans, snapping his hips into you with more force now. “You want it harder, baby?” At your choked ‘yes’, it’s like a switch has flipped, Yoongi’s hips snapping into you so forcefully you see stars, your thighs beginning to shake on either side of him as he slams into you.

His hands smooth up your thighs, deep thrusts continuing uninterrupted as he positions your legs, pinning your thighs between your bodies so you’re practically folded in half, and oh, fuck. The angle change makes the head of Yoongi’s cock hit the spot that makes you cry out, your nails dragging down the length of his back as you become instantly aware that you’re going to come soon.

“Mm–Yoongi, fuck, please don’t stop—I’m so close, please—”

“Taking me so good,” he groans. “Touch yourself, baby. Make yourself come, I’m right there with you.”

You obey instantly, your hand sliding down between your bodies to rub your clit with two fingers. Your walls flutter around him, making him hiss as you teeter on the edge of your impending orgasm.

Yoongi braces himself, held up with his hands on either side of you. It’s his eyes on you, his lip between his teeth as he watches you touch yourself that finally sends you hurtling over the edge. You squeeze tightly around him as you come, your body convulsing under him as the pleasure washes over you, his name falling from your lips over and over.

“Nghh, good girl, shit,” he grunts, the rhythm of his hips instantly becoming erratic. “Fuck, Y/N. Gonna come.”

It only takes a few more thrusts before you feel Yoongi’s body tense, his cock pulsing inside of you as he spills into the condom with a groan. He drops down to his elbows carefully, leaning down to capture your lips in a kiss, his lips moving languidly over yours.

You kiss him back, but after a few moments you’re suddenly hyper aware of how… intimate this feels, kissing like this as he softens inside of you. You pull away to look up at him. “Thank you,” you say, grinning tiredly as you try to break the tension surrounding the moment.

It seems to work, because Yoongi laughs breathlessly, pulling out of you with care and shifting off of the bed to dispose of the condom. “Funny,” he says.

You take the opportunity to sit up, despite your body feeling like jelly. You don’t think you can take Yoongi cleaning you up on top of what just occurred.

“Bathroom?” you ask, heading to it when he points you in the right direction.

You clean yourself up quickly, and when you return Yoongi is, mercifully, dressed again and retrieving your shorts from the floor for you. You take them with a small, grateful smile, pulling your shorts and top back on.

“So you got your track done?” you ask, trying to make some light conversation.

Yoongi scoffs, sitting on the edge of his bed. “Few hours ago,” he says, tilting his head and looking at you a little funny. Whatever he’s thinking, though, he doesn’t say it. “How was your week, anyway? I know I was a little M.I.A.”

You brighten the slightest bit at his question, joining him on the bed. “Actually,” you say. “Something pretty cool happened yesterday afternoon.”

“Yeah?”

“I kind of got entrusted with this huge assignment. I don’t know if I’ll be able to pull it off, but if I do, it’s a career changer, for sure.”

“Oh yeah?” he says, grinning at you. “That’s great, Y/N. You deserve it.”

His praise makes you blush, looking down to pick at a loose thread on his comforter. You only blush because you know he means it. Yoongi actually reads your stuff. Rina doesn’t even really read your stuff, and she’s your best friend. But maybe it’s because Yoongi is in the music industry and the stuff you publish is more interesting to him.

Yoongi is in the music industry.

It’s like a lightbulb goes off in your head, and you shift closer to him.

“Actually,” you say. “I’m kind of struggling with it? And I was wondering, um… I’d really appreciate it if you could help me out a little bit. Do you happen to know Jang Yijeong?”

Yoongi stiffens next to you, not a lot, but enough for you to notice from this close. “Yeah, I know him,” he says anyway. “We’re friends.”

You’re confused by his reaction, but you soldier on. “I just need an interview with him. I need someone he can trust to set me up with him so he doesn’t give me scripted bullshit, you know? And… If you could be the one to do that, it would make my life a million times easier, honestly.”

For a long moment, Yoongi says nothing, not really looking at you. You don’t know what you said to get this reaction out of him, but you don’t like it, and you’re about to take back your request entirely when he speaks again.

“Okay. I’ll talk to him,” he says. He’s looking at you now, which makes you relax a bit.

“Really?” you ask softly. “Only if you’re okay with it, but it would seriously be a huge help.”

“Yeah, I’ll put in a good word,” he says, waving a hand dismissively. He suddenly seems much less stiff, like whatever weird moment that just took place has passed now, and he laughs. “Just promise you won’t make me regret it.”

At ease, you snort, rolling your eyes. “I promise,” you say flatly, nudging his shoulder with yours. Your voice softens. “Thank you.”

“Sure,” he says easily, getting up from the bed and making his way to the door. “Have you eaten? I’m gonna make kimchijeon.”

Yoongi really is saving your ass. After fucking you so nicely, too. And now he’s making you midnight kimchijeon!

“That sounds good,” you call after him, smiling to yourself after he’s left the room.

Yeah, you can get used to this.

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tremendum · 2 years ago

Text

landmines

pairing: joel miller x fem!reader (afab, use of she/her, use of the word girl once) rating: explicit. (18+. mdni.) word count: 6.2k summary: (straight lines, they unwind you she does a little thing with her eye that says “we’re off soon,” she says the bleeding’s incidental ‘cause she’s so cool she said “I’m no fun if I’ve only a bottle of wine” and now she’s doing it all the time ) or. “he saw how your hands shook when you exchanged rations for those damn pills. hell, at one time in his life he'd felt his own hands shake in the same way. so Joel doesn't get to be all high and mighty with you, after all.” warnings: Pre-TLOU, set in Boston, canon-typical violence, age gap (mentioned & undefined), joel and reader are in love but joel can’t deal with his emotions, mentions of drugs use (painkillers), drinking, brief and minor allusions to religion, angst, alcohol/drug abuse, this is about reader and joel's drug addictions, and about reader's struggle with going clean (PLS DO NOT READ THIS IF IT IS HARMFUL TO YOU. keep yourself safe <3), love confessions, brief mentions of withdrawal symptoms (reader gets a nose bleed), brief mentions of smut (unprotected PiV, creampie, multiple orgasms, soft its kinda vanilla tbh), fluff. notes: this just came to me while listening to Milk by the 1975. heavily based off of the lyrics of that song and just something I needed to get out of my system. also written in both Joel and reader’s POV, but tbh it’s mostly Joel’s

recent joel fics: fever Mr. Miller

★

there was something so conspicuous about the lines you created with your fingers.

soft music crackles odd over the weak signal in the corner of the room. a breeze chills your bare skin over your head as the swell of the concerto sends shivers over the blades of your shoulders, smoothing over your form as you hunch at the table.

you need this.

stray swipes of plastic - marred around the edges from rough use down with FEDRA or from wear-and-tear of jobs in your life; it's the flimsy, pathetic evidence of your existence within this QZ, within this society, within life. you are here.

your own identification name and photograph stare up at you with a bright smile as you scrape strict lines out with your hands.

currently, you are here, but soon, you'll be a little less than that.

the powder slips through a crack in your nail and you wince, groaning at the smidgeon loss that quite literally slipped through your fingers. but sooner than you'd expect, your irritation is eased with the sight of the jar to your right, nearly empty of its bloody red contents. you smile gently - you're almost out. maybe Joel will come to your rescue soon with more refills; you'd traded enough items as of late to be rewarded with something as delicious as his presence.

slipping up towards the cabinet, you remove your glass from its resting place and set it on the table, completing your sweet altar of peace before you.

the glass you pour the crimson into is smudged but still cherished; its place in the cupboard always rimmed with the absence of dust from daily use despite the scarcity of the product itself. you work hard for these small rewards.

but the thud of your door busting open looses your focus and you can't help the yelp that you let out, head turning on a quick swivel towards the entrance, gauging the severity of the intrusion.

the startled movement of your hand sends the glass tumbling over, acetous red seeping over the grains of wood under you and you grunt in irritation, sighing towards the intruder who's now cost you that very last half a glass of wine.

your door swings on weak hinges as the broad shoulders that you'd know anywhere stumble into your small studio, seemingly overestimating the power with which he'd need to throttle the frame open. there's a denim shirt that stretches over the arms and chest of the intruder, the top buttons undone and revealing golden skin kissed with the sweat of the day's work.

you sigh as Joel Miller's sharp gaze hits you.

"you made me spill." you whine. both of you recognize the adoration that laces your words, straining them of any hostility that might flood through you had it been anyone else to startle you.

a moment of peace as he shuts the door and lumbers into your space, face laced with a sort of exhaustion and irritation that you've grown used to. a hand wipes over the facial hair of his mustache, jaw set with unvoiced exasperation as he stalks forward. "you should really be lockin' that thing, you know." he grunts, face ridden with the displeasure of his easy entry.

you sigh, knowing he's right, "but I knew it'd be you that's coming round, Joel. why lock it for you?"

it's a fair statement, because if anybody in this life were to make you safe, it's him. but he clearly doesn't accept that as he rolls his eyes; sometimes, you wonder if he sees you as a nuisance.

the drawl of his slow accent leaks through his words as he stares at your little altarpiece in front of you, the way your your chest is wet with the spilt wine, your face flustered in your embarrassment. "y'can't always be expectin’ me." he mutters and the words should feel bitter to your ears, but there's a ring of falsehoods that lie within each syllable and it just makes you smile.

you just press your tongue to your teeth; "right. I’ll keep my axe by the door." you say, hoping that’ll soothe him.

you don't want to press it with him today, because it seems he's in an odd mood anyways, his eyes trained on your small little art project in front of you. so instead, you stand to rid yourself of the red that stains through your shirt.

"y'got that thing workin' I see." he states, jutting his jaw to the side towards the radio that crackles with the classical music gently in the evening air. streaks of bright orange paint his silhouette from where he props himself, the dying light of another boring Thursday being swallowed by the sweet nighttime air.

you nod, clearing your throat, "y-yeah, um, I fixed it up this morning before heading down to sweep." you explain, fingers keeping the wine-stained cloth away from your skin. you'd seen him earlier today already - he was working down in the other quadrant this week, but he showed up to see Tess and you while you worked sweeps. he had to discuss business with Tess, leaving you sticking out like a sore thumb when their hushed conversation turned their backs from you. it'd taken a turn recently, since the last mistake you made on a run with Tess. you'd almost died and Tess was nearly there with you, saved by the skins of your knees and a shot through a clicker's head.

Joel didn't really like that all too much, and ever since then you'd been kept on the sidelines. only repairs for inside the QZ, now; Joel and Tess would get the parts you needed from elsewhere for you.

"what are you doing here, Joel?" you ask, though at this point it seems futile to ask him something so obvious- just as expected, he ignores your imploring question. instead, his hand sweeps over your table in a confused motion, gesturing pointedly to just where your guilt falls into three tidy, straight white lines of powder.

you bite your lip.

"c'mon," he mutters, shaking his head as your name falls from his curled lip. "what are you doin' with all this? it's more than a week's work."

you send him a heated gaze; a week of your work, not his. you tell him just as much, in a way.

"it's not a big deal," you defend, crossing your arms; as if that'd protect you from the truth that you almost caved in again after several days of going through the motions, starved of the high that you so craved. (you are here.) your eyes are torn from the floorboards as Joel huffs in irritation, this arms bulging as they cross along his chest.

his eyes flicker over your form in a hawkish gaze, his nostrils flaring in anger, "get yourself cleaned up." he snaps.

it's an order, and you're smart enough to listen.

alone in your room, Joel recognizes the piece that plays over the radio, the kind of music you could have heard at a ballet way back before all the shit. some piano piece by some guy- Satie, he thinks you've told him before- something way before your time, before his time, even. he's sweeping the sweet lines you'd created into a baggie and pocketing them while you're gone wringing your loose top in the bathroom bitterly. he knows you’ll be upset with him, but it’s for the better.

you stare bitterly at your shirt; the red rings down the drain in a vague pink trickle.

it's quiet in the small apartment but not in an absent kind of way. it's a more tired, angry quiet. the kind that Joel carries with him everywhere in town; the kind of quiet peace that has befallen your life ever since earning your name tangled in with his and Tess's those months ago.

it's not that life in Boston is peaceful. nothing is, anymore.

but the things that Joel and Tess do for you, for whatever reason - be it the parts you can fix or the items you've found easy to smuggle for your bosses; or even just your personality, your ability to survive and still flourish despite all the rot of the world - it's nice. and they trust you.

you like Tess, you trust her. she's kind of like an older sister to you, in some ways. the world's birthed out a new kind of life for the people like you, who were too young to remember the before of it all, and maybe Tess sees in you a sister to protect, to survive with.

Joel, though... your head peaks around the corner of the bathroom before you slink back out, almost as if you have a tail tucked between your legs, face burning with something between anger and shame. Joel.

Joel is someone vastly, deeply embedded into you. it's something that you never expected, but meeting him only a month after you met Tess, after you survived the trek from Springfield QZ to Boston, there was something within him that just clicked with the two of you.

and he’d seen how your hands shook when you exchanged rations for those damn pills. hell, at one time in his life he'd felt his own hands shake in the same way.

so Joel doesn't get to be all high and mighty with you, after all.

even he knows that.

when you round the corner, shirt wet and stuck to the soft skin underneath, his heart flutters slightly in his cold chest. he didn't want to pick a fight with you; he was fucking tired. and with you and him, it was always the same: he'd overreact about your safety, or your using, and you'd yell at him that he isn't in charge of you. then it'd get all- as he liked to call it - thick, muggy with the words that he cannot, will not say and the words you yearn to whisper.

you never do, though. so it ends with anger until it's somehow resolved and he sees you the next day on the street.

one time, you'd gotten into such a heated argument that you did not speak to him for six days. he'd gotten angry at you for trying to smuggle something too big by yourself. you'd gone and gotten yourself beat nearly to a pulp by a bunch of assholes and Joel was beside himself with the gullibility, the naiveté of it all. and he'd been real fuckin' mean to you about it, enough to spring large tears of anger in your eyes and earn himself a smack across the face - a harsh one, at that, because you know well how to defend yourself.

but then, you'd really shocked him. you'd told him he was weak because he can't love anything.

he wasn't sure where that shit came from, and maybe it was coupled with the resurgence of emotions from his past - something he did not allow himself to think about - but it just made him more angry.

it ended in an ugly roar of anger and unspoken feelings. he didn't see you for almost a week.

Tess stopped by instead of him to trade for parts or pills, checking in on you with subtle questions that turned into blunt statements. you'd pass him on the way to a job in the mornings, eyes sharp as they saw right past him, jaw tilted with that spunky defiance he so admired in you.

his heart had hurt the whole time, even when your birthday came round and you showed up meekly at his front door to ask if he'd get you some sugar and eggs (he realized as you spoke that you were planning to make yourself a birthday cake). instead, with a lot of huffing and ignoring those all-knowing looks from Tess, he'd baked you your own goddamn cake, showing at your door with the shameful attempt at the confection to effectively end your near-week-long standoff.

you'd cried at his knees out of his thoughtfulness, as you'd called it. at his willingness to just pretend, for a minute, that everything was okay. he didn't know how to feel about that.

he knows the anger that he feels towards you is synthetic; a covering that he throws on top of the storage unit full of things that scare him too much to uncover - age, safety, responsibility, affection, happiness, protection, pain, surviving.

but consequentially you bring it all out of him anyways and light the fire of anger more than anyone else, even those goddamned pricks who paint the insignias onto every street sign in the city. and he never knows how to just talk with you, even after all this time.

you make him nervous like a damn schoolboy in the hallways seeing a pretty girl.

this life is cruel in so many ways; unfortunately, happiness is one of the worst. way back before all of this shit happened, Joel would never have favored sadness, or pain, or hurt, nor sorrow. but the twisting, bitter truth is that he's no longer content with that same, dull pattern of emotions which swirl languidly in his chest that have just nested within him. life in Boston is just that - life. and for the last few decades, he's done what he needed to survive, and that's how it was.

but now, he's got you.

and that's not really anything he'd thought were in the cards for him, not after so many years alone. Tess was his partner, and he trusts her with his life. but you - you. his sweet girl, too much for this world yet not enough at all; with your music, that stubborn independence, light of laughter, and those straight lines; the ones that always seem to unwind you and never seem to stop.

you told him once that you're not sure if Joel Miller was the type to love something. he's not sure either.

when you're face-to-face with him again, the sheepish grin melts from your lips. the absence of the crushed pulls, your identification card, the rolled up scrap paper you'd made into a makeshift straw of sorts paints a bitter look on your face as you stare up at him.

you know he took them intentionally, to help - so the warmth in your chest from the gesture of good faith tells you not to bark at him.

he's trying to do the good thing for a friend right now. it's the same thing you would do anytime you come over and Joel's halfway down a fresh bottle of that amber liquid he keeps on him at all times. you appreciate each other.

so you just pour yourself a small glass calmly, aware of his eyes on you. "d'you want some, Miller?" you ask, back turned from him to fish out a glass.

he lets out a chuckle, "no, darlin', wine ain't really my thing." it makes you grin, because yeah, you did know that. you know a lot about him. you shake your head, tilting it slightly as you settle yourself back into the chair you'd perched on before his company.

"right." you smile at him, a glinting in your eyes as you shrug at him. god, that look. you're tempting him all the same, with your eyes or your smile or just you.

"I took your shit." he admits, knowing there's no point in hiding it. he was a very blunt man, always has been. life's easier that way.

you sigh, shaking your head, "I-" you stop yourself from griping at him for being a fucking babysitter, instead trying again. your eye drops down to him in a wry little wink, your mind static with the noise of his knuckles against the scruff of his jaw. "come on, Joel. you know I'm no fun if I only get a bit of wine." you try to joke, crossing your arms as the liquid breaches your lips, head itching for a bit of euphoria. "I just... I need some of that other shit every once in a while." you try to defend. “I’m getting better.” you convince yourself.

something pops gently inside your sinuses, and as you sniff slightly, you feel the gush of movement.

his eyes are hard as he stares you down, but he soon swears under his breath, turning to grab the rag that sits on your counter. your hands rise to your nose to cover as the blood starts to drip from your right nostril - fuck.

you tilt forward slightly the moment you have the urge to lean back; when you'd first met and he learned about your habit, Joel'd shown you to reduce swelling and swallowing blood to lean between your legs. "I'm fine, Joel-" you start to argue as his grip finds your bicep, "shut up, now." he snaps, clearly upset.

it hurts you to hurt him like this.

licking your lips, your eyes fall onto his own, the movement of his jaw as his plush lips clench, brow furrowing in anger. if you could just- if you could be bold enough to just once surge up and taste him, maybe it'd all be different.

maybe.

"Joel, it's-" you break off, eyes flickering to the pocket you just know he shoved your pills into, roaming over the denim, "it's incidental. it's dry outside now, allergies and shit."

he shakes his head in disbelief, growing tired of you skirting around the problem and not outright saying it.

"you think you're fuckin' special, don't ya?" he grunts, storming over to shut your windows, leaving your body with a cold chill of reality.

the rag he gave you comes away from your face bloody. no, you're not yet a corpse, but you still rot away.

he sighs heavy, like he has to make a grave decision in the face of a troubling truth - had you really gotten to a point where this was an issue, or was Joel just protective? you're not sure, but it makes you feel shitty no matter.

"y'know, it won't make anything better." he tries again through a soft, gruff sigh after a few moments. you barely let your eyes flicker to his.

who is he, to say that to you?

"is that supposed to be some kind of joke, Joel?" your words don't have sharpness, instead you're shrouded with that kind of disappointment he often finds in your eyes every time he can't say the things to you he wants. the things he's afraid of, the things he knows you're not afraid of. "don't you think I know that? you went through this yourself, you've told me that you know how fucking hard it is." you defend, knuckles white as you sip a bit of the wine.

he sighs; a deep, heavy sigh as his fingers pinch his frustrated brow. "I know-" he starts to explain himself, but you shake your head, tired.

"don't say anything about it, Joel. I get it." you sigh, "it’s 'not the same', for whatever bullshit reason you can come up with this week." your words are harsh but they're not mad.

you're not angry in the way maybe you should be towards the hypocrite that stands tall and sharp in front of you.

instead you stand, moving to let yourself fall onto the ratty couch that sits miserably in the corner of the room. you're fucking tired - your body aches from the exhaustion of the week's work, of fixing up all that shit for Tadeau who honestly cheated you out on the last payment. worse, though, you're tired of this push and pull with Joel; where he shows up to bring you what you need, stays and watches with commiseration as you try to feel something - sneaking sips of his own liquid gold until his cheeks are a pinkish red, matching the heat in yours.

but you're most tired with how, recently, it always ends with arguing instead of maybe just- being with each other. you're just tired of stepping over eggshells that may actually be landmines.

landmines like I care about you too much and I just want you to feel something like what I feel for you, because you deserve it.

"I'm just-" he cuts himself off with a resigned look. hardened. I'm just worried about you.

he doesn't sit on the couch. your wine is forgotten on the table now, because the most intoxicating thing in your life stands in front of you with his full, undivided attention just on the way you curl up on the ripped sofa.

the sun is setting now and if Joel doesn't leave soon, curfew will pass. you hate it when he stays over, sleeps on the sofa; your bed always feels huge and guilty beneath your body when you can hear him toss and turn all night, air tense either with anger or with the desire to continue to exist within each other's company even after the exchange of good-nights.

"how is this different from your thing?" you ask, the defense rising up like bile in your chest, swirling inklings of doubt and fear within your chest.

perhaps it's because he's right. his fear is real; he's gone through this before, and as badly as you want to believe him you also just can't keep pretending he's just a really good friend. because it's Joel fucking Miller, and he doesn't have friends.

you're tired of the fogginess of which you lately haven't been able to escape. and if Joel is afraid of something... then you know you should run from it like hell.

he doesn’t respond to your attempt to make him, so you purse your lips, shame curling up your cheeks. you try again.

"I have been trying to- to stop." you admit, fingers tangling into themselves. he heaves a deep sigh and makes the trek over to you, dropping onto the sofa next to you. his thigh brushes yours and the both of you tense, though you pretend you don't notice. you know he likes the touches - subtle as they are - because in a world like this, affection was a weakness but it was also an incredibly fierce strength. it was scary, but it felt right.

he was always just like you, in that way.

"I know you have." he resigns with a nod, eyes flickering over to yours with a gentleness that is only ever reserved for you these days. “’s a good thing.” he acknowledges.

you swallow the heavy lump of regret in your throat because you're done hiding all of this shit. "I'm sorry. I don't- I don't want to let you down."

but there it is - the line that Joel had invisibly, wordlessly drawn in the sand of your blurry relationship. especially when the sun is almost gone, and it's not enough to know that you're not together just because words have never expressed it.

any time you do this, toe this line he’s made, Joel has to close up from you. and you understand that. this is the line - where you admit something vulnerable, something you're both feeling, only for him to go completely the other way. because he’s scared.

he shakes his head in almost disappointment. "you should be doin' this for yourself." he says sternly, jaw tightening as he moves away from you. push and pull. and he is right, you should do this for yourself.

and you are; every damn day you wake up, get dressed, go to get some work done for rations so that you can survive in this hell of a life because you really do love this life. the feeling of belonging somewhere, with him and with your friends and Tess. but it's hard to express that to him when it's like talking to a brick fucking wall every time you mention feelings.

you let out a choked sigh, tears rimming your eyes as you huff, "you're right. I am. I just- I don't really want to fight like this," you sigh, heart thundering with anxiety. "not tonight."

he nods shortly, looking across the apartment to your trinkets that lie everywhere. he doesn't know how you do it - the apartment is full of them, just random shit you find around and treasure enough to keep. it brings life to something that shouldn't have it in the small, crumbling studio apartment that should take life out of people - but your place, it gives people life. it's a glimpse into how things should be, how they used to be. your items are a look back into a life that you never got to have; things that he'd see as trash. but truth be told: in your place, they're so you, and he supposes they're treasure to him anyways. "neither do I." he mutters, hand falling into his lap.

you should probably remind him that curfew is soon. he knows it is, though, you know it'd be pointless to remind him; it's clear that this has become one of those many nights he'll spend on your lumpy couch.

you say something else, instead. "I saw Jonah fall on his ass today while shoveling."

he chuckles at that. shaking his head, he looks down at you, at the sunshine in your eyes despite the sun's dip below the crumbling remains of the city; you're smiling up at him, giggling to yourself at the sporadic noise of his amusement. you're amused because he's amused. you want him to smile.

he wishes, fleetingly, that he could be like you, more alive, more full of love and life and - and happiness. naive as it may be.

that was the kind of gift you brought for him each time you came to see him or he came to see you. somehow, you fill him with words he doesn't know how to express. and you never make him explain them, you just feel them.

"he deserved it." Joel decides with a smirk, ignoring the monstrous green envy that licks at his lungs at the mention of that young pup that followed you around for months, nearly begging to have you.

he remembers when you'd shot him down; much to Joel's shock, you'd said you weren't interested in him. you've said that about just near every damn person who has set their sights on you.

you shake your head at him, smacking him lightly on the shoulder and leaving a buzzing warmth on his skin as you do, "stop it, Joel. you're awful." but you're still giggling, grinning nearly ear-to-ear. "he-he did, though." you agree, smiling down to your lap with a laugh.

his face feels warm as you settle into the cushions, lulling your head to settle it onto his shoulder. the light weight of it blankets his heart in a warmth he swears he hasn't felt in decades.

"never understood why people keep that boy around." Joel shakes his head, "he's a dud."

you let out a soft laugh, staring up at Joel with disbelief, "c'mon, Joel." you tilt your head with a stare at him. he blinks back, jaw clenching as he leans back, wincing as he adjusts his back.

you shake your head as you laugh yet again, "he's not a dud. he's actually quite resourceful for those assholes in the square. creepy, but smart enough." you shrug, pulling a stray seam from the couch beneath you. he sighs- you're too kind for your own good, sometimes. "he's just terrified of you." you add, lifting an accusatory brow.

"don' know why." Joel chooses to mutter, and you send him a look yet again. Joel doesn't need you to remind him why that boy Jonah was so afraid of him, he remembered damn well on his own.

he'd just made sure you were safe, was all. and after it’d happened, you’d spent the whole night convincing Joel that what he did wasn't scary, just protective. worried about his friend.

there's a streak of pride that runs through him, knowing the boy wouldn't come near you again. you deserve to be comfortable, to feel safe in this city, this life. and if Joel can try to do anything, it's that.

"yes you do." you say it so gently, it's less than a whisper. but Joel, emboldened by the soft light of your single lamp in the corner, the crackling of the classical music in the corner, the ambiance of the settled sun, nods his head.

you make it seem so simple. he looks around your apartment; at the glass that's filled but forgotten, at the ripped and faded posters for bands that fell from existence before your birth; at the plants that flourish in your care, at the clay pots and spare keychains and old magazines that you've collected for so long. you make it so damn easy, he realizes.

so for once, why can't he indulge? he knows you wouldn't stop him if he were to try and kiss you right now. there have been several times, in the heat of an argument or after a close call during a smuggle route with you where he's almost just leaned down and gone for it. and each time, your sunshine-eyes have called him in, begged him. pleaded with him.

but he's always avoided that; it's like stepping over a landmine each time. and those landmines just seem to pile up and pile up these days.

the landmines; the ones that are starting to seem more and more like eggshells just waiting to be crushed.

so with a shallow swallow of pride, he crushes them all with one sentence.

"yeah, I do. ‘s because he knows you're mine now."

well, this was certainly new territory for you and him.

you stare up at him after he mutters those words. his eyes are sharp, serious, jaw ticking as he searches for your response. your heart thunders at his admission - the willingness to admit anything even remotely close to affection has never come easy for Joel, if at all. it's almost scary.

but he doesn't look dishonest, or regretful. there's a flicker of insecurity, of course; but deeper inside, there's acceptance. you've been patient with him, and likely will be for the rest of your life - he's ready to be patient with you, too. you let out a shaky breath, afraid that any burst of movement or emotion will scare him away like a wounded animal.

"yeah." you utter, mouth dry, "I'm- I'm yours." you agree.

it was never spoken out loud before; it wasn't really even suggested except for by the prying eyes of others along the street, noticing the one and only soft spot Joel Miller has: you.

hell, even Tess hadn't mentioned it to either of you out of fear of hostility, fear of cannon-balling feet-first onto a landmine the size of the whole QZ.

you and Joel.

but there is simply no alcohol or pill on this planet that will taste the way his lips do, and you know it. you yearn to taste him. "Joel..." you mutter softly, leaning forward as your arm curls around his bicep. your chin tilts up and his eyes, lidded low, meet yours.

he ought not to do this. there are reasons he's held back from touching you, kissing you, making you his before. there are hundreds of reasons that this is a bad idea, but as you stare up at him with the warmth of the sun in your eyes, warming his cold bones, he caves in. he would give you anything you want.

that's just the way it's always been with you and him, he realizes.

your face is close to his, and you stare up at him with longing, desire, need dripping from your whole being. his hand falls onto your denim-clad thigh, his thumb rubbing light patterns as you lean closer.

"why would you let me do this?" he whispers, a ghost against your lips. tilting your head, you furrow your brows, "l-let you?" you shake your head with a soft smile, "I have wanted this since I met you. I've ached for you." you admit feebly. "isn't this right?" you ask, insecure. your brows are pulled together in anxiety and he wishes to smooth out the frustration with the pad of his thumb. "shouldn't we be together?" you ask, almost broken.

his stomach curls with emotion at the tone of your voice, pleading with him. his groan vibrates through your entire body as he sighs, "darlin', you're askin' the wrong man that. y’know I'd tear the world apart to be with you." he admits, feeling the grace of your smile over his own.

"I want to feel-" you beg, hands roaming over his chest, "I want to feel you. please." you ask him gently, and his stomach twists because you know he'll always cave for you.

"I'm a bad man-" he starts with the spiel he's given himself every single night, laying on his mattress or on your shitty couch begging his mind not to dream of your soft, supple skin.

"stop that, Joel. you sound foolish." you shake your head, sunshine in your eyes lighting the whole room. "this life is just how it is, and you are how you are. I am yours, and you deserve to be mine, too."

he swallows roughly as your lips brush against his, and his heart feels the trigger of a pressure plate; he knows he isn't going to be able to stop the words from falling from his lips as soon as they part.

"you're- you're everything." he admits breathlessly, eyes searching yours.

the world explodes around you and even with Joel's shitty ear he can still hear the ring of your laughter, of your smile, of your happiness. his words are broken and choked up from disuse; he's not sure when the last time he said those words were, and he cannot open that closet full of skeletons right now.

but it doesn't matter, when you say your next words with a smile bigger than the whole world. "I love you too, Joel."

and when he takes you on your lumpy couch, your moans are sweet. saccharine. he swallows every single one with his own lips, your fingers tangled in his curls.

you taste different than he'd expected - more sweet, more caring. your skin is soft and your touches on him breathe new life into him.

sure, there are a lot of things that Joel cannot and probably will not ever be able to say. you know that, though, and as you come undone around him, spasming in bliss and sobbing out his name as if it's the only thing you can remember, it's all he can do to pull you closer into a tight embrace.

it's fully dark outside as he pulls orgasm after orgasm from your strained body, gone limp from his love; your lips are bruised and so are your hips, but there's still that sweet smile on your face as he moans your name out, finally able to let go. the couch is on its last leg, crumbling beneath your bodies as you wrap your legs around his lap, squeezing him tighter as you pull your chest to his, your lips to his own. his words are dirty, uttered into the shell of your ear as his hand trails down the line of your spine, pumping up into you until he's shooting spurts of his seed deep into you.

he paints you with his love, and though his words are never enough, yours are. he can't believe those things that you left unsaid for so many months would taste so damn good after they were detonated. both of your fears, entangled with each other in a life nothing like what you'd hope for, are enough to keep your hands entwined even after you're both spent.

his hands are gentle and intoxicating as they clean you up, wiping down your slicked thighs and your spent body, his lips soothing over every mark he'd left in his wake.

and finally, as sleep overtakes the both of you, Joel finally slides under your covers with you. he pulls you tightly into his warm chest, the lumpy couch forgotten. his lips ghost over your neck even after you fall asleep.

your hand twitches in his when you mutter his name in your sleep. he can't help the smile that grows on his lips.

maybe, you could guide him through all of those landmines.

requests open.

#Joel Miller #joel miller smut #joel x reader smut #joel miller x reader #joel miller x reader smut #tlou #tlou fanfiction #the last of us smut #the last of us x reader #the last of us #pedro pascal x reader #the last of us (hbo)#the last of us (tv)#joel miller x you

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randomitemdrop · 8 months ago

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Trick or trivia

Happy Halloween! I do enjoy trivia of many types, but one of my favorite genres is what I call the Berenstein Timeline: unmade shows and movies, versions of classic movies where studios and producers made different decisions, some better, some much worse. All of these are real projects that were, on some level, considered (there are some recurring names)

"Heat Vision & Jack", a 90s pastiche of 70s-80s action shows starring Jack Black as an astronaut on the run from the law and Owen Wilson as his talking motorcycle

"Jurassic Park" directed by Tim Burton with Johnny Depp as Alan Grant, Jim Carrey as Ian Malcolm, and Vincent Price as John Hammond

the 90s "Batman" directed by Ivan Reitman; Bill Murray and Eddie Murphy were going to star but couldn't decide which of them would be Batman and which would be Robin

Back in the 1970s the American network was getting good numbers showing heavily-edited reruns of "Monty Python's Flying Circus", so they tried to sell the Pythons on the next logical step: an animated Saturday morning cartoon

"Edward Scissorhands" still directed by Burton but starring Tom Cruise or maybe Michael Jackson

"Return of the Jedi" directed by David Lynch; Harrison Ford was considering not coming back for the third movie and so when he came out of the carbonite there was a chance he would have been Christopher Walken

Guillermo del Toro's "At the Mountains of Madness". Also "the Hobbit" and lots of other things, he seems to have a lot of unmade projects

the 2010s "Star Trek" movie directed by Quentin Tarantino, where the edgy reboot crew visits the Gangster Planet from that one stupid episode of the original series

Everybody knows about the unmade "Superman Lives" starring Nicolas Cage in the title role, but did you know it was going to be directed by Tim Burton and include Christopher Walken as Brainiac, who would have been a green head on spider legs

Harold Ramis didn't particularly want to act on camera, so when they were casting "Ghostbusters" Egon could have been Christopher Walken, Christopher Lloyd, Jeff Goldblum, or John Lithgow. Supposedly the movie was originally intended to be a relatively serious exploration of Dan Akroyd's very real interest in paranormal investigation, although this clashes a bit with the fact that Peter Venkman was originally going to be played by John Belushi and Winston Zeddmore was written for Eddie Murphy who backed out when the character's backstory and most of his lines were cut

John Waters' animated series "Uncle John" on 90s MTV

the original version of "Bill & Ted's Time Van" starring Pauly Shore and Sean Penn

"Red Dragon" (the original Hannibal Lecter novel) directed by David Lynch starring John Lithgow as Hannibal Lecter and Mel Gibson as Will Graham

the 1970s "Dr. Strange" TV series

the 1990s Disney animated "John Carter of Mars"

the 1990s Warner Bros animated "King Tut" musical with songs by Prince

the serious horror version of "Beetlejuice"

Drew Barrymore's 2000s remake of "Barbarella"

the Dungeons & Dragons movie James Cameron was going to make until TSR left the table over merchandising disputes, forcing Cameron to go work on some dumb movie about the Titanic

American "Doctor Who" movie starring Michael Jackson

Canadian "Doctor Who" cartoon by Nelvana starring a Doctor based intensely off of either Jeff Goldblum or Christopher Lloyd

"Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone" directed by Terry Gilliam

"Good Omens" directed by Terry Gilliam and starring Johnny Depp and Robin Williams

"The Black Cauldron" using character and background designs by Nightmare-era Tim Burton

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rosetyler42 · 1 month ago

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Here's a mixed bag of some crossovers I found while looking through my Sorting folder that I don't think I ever posted here!

1. Bendy meets Bendy! I did this gag after watching Everyone Knows It's Bendy and thinking it'd be funny if Fosters Bendy tried to frame Bendy for a crime yeah didn't commit (considering what else Bendy's been through.) Possible WIR-Verse or an AU where Bendy and friends ended up at Fosters after the studio's closure. As @lovelylivelyv said, Bendy's definitely gonna give the guy the scare of his life for this.

(Side note: While Foster's Bendy is a terrible lil shit as a character, Animation-wise I LOVE how he can go from very malicious to over-the-top innocence.)

2. Reuben and Jackie Khones! Two somewhat lazy, wise-cracking, sandwich-loving cartoon characters I could definitely see getting along. (Outside of their treatment of Wilt. Unlike Jackie, Reuben would see no reason to pick on a nice guy like Wilt, that's like kicking puppies.)

3. XD A hilarious WIR-Verse bit inspired by The Big Cheese. Somehow, Cheese wandered into Bendy and the Ink Machine without getting killed and most likely only got spooked by Sammy singing about Sheep. Don't ask how he made it in there, but Alice will definitely return him back to Fosters unharmed.

(Though...maybe tied up gagged to stop the annoying constant screams and running off. XD Alice might be a mom, nicer and far less murderous than Susan, but...she's a toon with some skewed thinking and would still find Cheese annoying. Even of she doesn't want to KILL him.)

4. Another in the "Don't ask how this happened" column: Bugs offering to help fellow hounded underdog Boris the Wolf deal with his "Angel Dame" problem.

5. This one came from the similarities and contrasts between Coraline and Destination: Imagination. Considering Coraline's experience was with a child-eating demon and The World was just a child looking for a friend (and the Beldam luring her in and spying on her with a doll) I thought it'd be interesting to have these two meet.

6. Some Coraline v Vanellope argument about Vanny leaving Sugar Rush for Slaughter Race. Both girls are in some ways important to their games and very adventurous, clever, and rebellious. But Coraline's learned what running off to live in a fantasy world and leaving family and responsibility behind can mean, what disasters that can bring, and doesn't want Vanny to make the same mistake. Whereas Vanny sees herself as just another racer, bullied her whole life and thought if as just a mistake, who doesn't really fit in there and feels meant for other things.

9. XD Here's an amusing AU: What if Coraline met Pinky and the Brain in the Other World somehow, thinking they were Other World mice since they could talk like she first mistakes the cat? Brain and Pinky most likely were on some take over the world scheme but I could see them trying to help this girl not get eaten by an obvious predator. Bonus, added by a question from @lovelylivelyv : Coraline actually wouldn't be thrown much by Brain's obvious spelling out of his identity and intentions. It's not the weirdest thing she's heard that day, and she might assume he either means THIS world or Her real world, whichever one she doesn't like more when he says it. Which...might bother him a bit, even as much as he appreciates the child's intellect.

7+8 I love the idea of Ki from "Mars Needs Moms" and @lovelylivelyv and I's version of Alice meeting. Two old-timey style characters somewhat unfamiliar with contemporary human culture but with a fascination with color and plants though growing up in a barren mono-color world. 7 shows Ki modified her color tags for the Cycle as a gift for Alice, while Alice shows an excited Ki a flower she grew herself.

10. Some messing around with Pinky and the Brain and my Drakgo shipchild OC, Lily Lipsky! Inspired by Two Mice and a Baby and the History song. I know Brain's not really good with kids normally, but with Lily being a evil genius child prodigy with intentions for World Domination who actually seems to LIKE him and UNDERSTAND his lessons...I feel they'd get along pretty well. Bonus: Pinky as usual, not paying attention and staring at a picture of Pharphignewton as a shout out to @lovelylivelyv 's ship.

@chytag @candyheartedchy (Ok, I know you're not into Reuben anymore and Jackie's an enemy, but I did draw Reuben and Bugs here.) @black-ak9 @hotelt-resurrection @serial-serializednovelreader @heartsong1994 @sammy-lawrence-my-beloved @gothicthundra @midnightcaptions @sweet-or-sarcastic @flowery-laser-blasts @inkiedraws @inkhyaena @inkspottie @inkwelldevil @thedopedemon @thedobermutt @thedemonsurfer @themangolover724 @blo0st4r

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hwaightme · 2 years ago

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Long exposure

THIS IS 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI FOR STAR'S SAKE (nsfw tags under the cut) (masterlist)

🔳 pairing: seonghwa x afab!reader, wooyoung x afab!reader 🔳 genre: smut, angst, dark themes, fluff if you squint 🔳 summary: as you struggle to see a future with your boyfriend, Wooyoung, and spiral into an obsession over your boss, Seonghwa, you hope to see a different world through the lens. 🔳 wordcount: 14.6k 🔳 warnings/tags: photographer!seonghwa, sculptor!wooyoung, everybody in this fic is toxic I swear (this is FICTION pls don't do this), boyfriend!wooyoung, boss!seonghwa, cheater!wooyoung, cheating on the cheater, language, hints at violence, arguments, passive aggressive behaviour, photography, art, living in black and white, unhealthy social relations, kind of edited kind of not, lmk if anything else 🔳 taglist: @doom-fics @layzfeelit @acciocriativity @justhere4kpop @honey-lemon-goose @byuntrash101 🔳 a/n: Hello, this has been haunting me... hope you enjoy, any reblogs, comments, likes appreciated, much love and big hugs!!

🔳 NSFW warnings/tags: slight corruption, pictophilia, fingering, masturbation (m&f), light voyeurism, deriving pleasure from taking pictures of someone with them not knowing, blowjob, wet dreams galore, perhaps cuckolding, degradation, petnames, boudoir, soft dom hwa, jealous/teaser woo, dom-ish woo, implant and pull out (irl pls wrap that before you tap that)

You were no stranger to pleasure. You watched him share it many times. Each one, an offering to the altar of hedonism. Such was his work, his vision.

Park Seonghwa was a man who dedicated his life to passion. The greatest satisfaction imaginable, on the brink of after life and illusion, the closest to heavens above that a person could ever experience. He had an eye for it, discovering its many manifestations in the smallest of things. Rarely was there a place that did not bear its traces in his magnificent, deep brown eyes. To the unenlightened, ones who had not had the honour of being in the vicinity, let alone sharing musings with this enigmatic man, this amounted to nothing more than phosphenes that they assumed had permanently corrupted his vision. But you knew better. His art was an ode to raw human nature, an address which only he would dare reveal and be capable of subjecting himself to the rolling waves of judgement that came with it.

You were not sure who you wanted to be. This was a question that plagued you every time you entered the photography studio and let yourself sink into its monochromatic elegance. Did you want to be the decor - the paraphernalia occupying the white, low shelving units off to the left from the entrance, or the potted ivy, suspended by chains that your teacher had painted with mars black acrylic, cascading to blend with the barely-there tulle? Would you turn into an object so you could spend your days in motionless awe, observing the master at work, embracing art in pure desire? Perhaps you wanted to be one of the models - the goddesses, clad in armour of lace, performing seduction through a complex sequence of motions with a ritualistic sanctity, irony leaving the beholder intoxicated. Maybe you would be willing to expose yourself down to your intricate network of capillaries, tear yourself apart to translate and immortalise pleasure with the click of the shutter, nothing more than a vessel for the artist's higher meaning. One this was certain, however. You did not want to be him. The creator. The bearer of the prodigal eye. The tormented soul curating fantasy. For that place was only ever for the Park Seonghwa as he was - his essence, his flair.

This, you had been confident in, for as long as you could remember, so, for as long as you had been dedicated to following the photographer's work. You were partial to the coiled intensity contained within each piece, and had spent many hours poring over collections, published photobooks, specials in editorial magazines. This had become a near religious act, carried out in silence, in the illusion of privacy of the tiny apartment that you shared with Wooyoung, who, acting like more of a ghost than a man, would lurk behind you to catch a glimpse of the beauties who you could never compare to. In those moments, you would choose to dissociate from the dysfunctional, cacophonic home life and tap into the memories you had with each piece. Be it the past or the present. The grayscale, interestingly enough, possessed more colour than all else you were meant to hold dear.

Tracing the curves of the bodies frozen in time, treasure maps to your personal safe haven, you traversed the avenues of your own memory: from what you had helped shoot and what was now gracing your shelves as a reminder that you were worth something to someone in your home, all the way back to the beginning. It was the triptych that you had analysed for one of your modules way back, when you barely knew anything except the basics of what was now your craft. It was a composition set in what you had later found out was Seonghwa’s secluded seaside studio down in the south, one which he used extensively in the summer months. It had been your first dive into learning of Gestalt grouping, and how easily a photographer could actually influence a viewer – a couple of miniscule tweaks, and the world was changed. Much like yours. The three pieces were terrifically entrancing in their proud solitude, but, in tandem, were a wave that covered and drowned you. The Rembrandt lighting, in contrast to the gentle waves made by white and shadow grey bedsheets, framed the centrepiece, the guideline to observation – rolling hills from waist, to hip, to the hint of a black stocking. Perhaps a person not in the know would try to argue that since the image was in monochrome, just like every other of the photographer’s works, it was not possible to infer hue, but you had the honour of knowing: Park Seonghwa lived in black and white. Floor, set, attitude – a balanced divide. The mind was loud, he had told you. If the composition needed physical colour, it would be able to complete the picture for itself. Otherwise, the colour of sensation was the underlying theme and mission.

That piece was what had started your lighthearted interest, or so you had naively called it. From mild appreciation of his works, to warm enthusiasm for the inner workings and technique, to going down the spiral to feverish adoration of all that Seonghwa captured. It was a glimpse into how he saw the world, and how he wanted to aid others in perceiving it. The initial embarrassment that had come with studying his photobooks that you had checked out from the library had subsided as you ceased to avoid the concept of eroticism. On the contrary, in some of your projects you had made attempts to emulate the master’s style, which had earned the attention of one of your professors and closest mentors. After confirming that you had not gained access to a closed early showing of the photographer’s exhibition, he had been kind enough to extend an invitation, thereby changing the course of your life.

The event had been an extension of the man, complete in the same hues, down to the very last detail. Even the guests were all a part of the scene, blurred to emphasise the subject, the creator. He was gallant, attentive, guiding you from masterpiece to masterpiece even though he had hordes of hardened professionals and eagle-eyed critics to entertain. He had made you feel central to something other than your obligations. Deserving of time and space. And left you with a business card where he had neatly added his personal mobile phone number, making you promise to consider working with him as soon as you could.

After a year of stalling on any decision, you had applied, and became his apprentice. You had discovered that Seonghwa had been keeping tabs on you, producing printouts of your own work during the informal interview he had organised, and asking you to elaborate on aspects that you had intentionally hidden away. You realised that it was impossible to hide anything from him, your mind was behind an open door. Rapidly, his world became yours, and you turned to seeing it in the beautiful black and white.

You took a sip of your hot coffee from your beloved dalmatian patterned mug cradled in one hand, scrolling through social media with the other. Checking works tagged with anything relevant to your teacher’s studio and works had become a habit for you, and as such, you continued to do it even though Seonghwa had hired a social media manager a couple of months ago. To your defence, most of their work was done remotely, so you could take pride in being the first one to see your favourite artist break out into a megawatt grin, giving you a peck on the cheek if you were lucky. In those moments, you swore you would do anything just to see and feel it all again. A smile crept onto your lips as you indulged in your fantastical daydreams, one which you tried to mask by taking another long sip.

“Your boss really should let you catch a break. This is not even intern level stuff.” You had not noticed your boyfriend’s presence behind you, and with a glance behind you noticed that he was lazily eyeing your screen. Good thing you were deep in some nature photography at least, rather than your boss’s or the studio’s page. It had been a touchy subject recently. And by recently, it meant the entirety of the time you had been hired there and had been earning a steady income from what Wooyoung had called your ‘hobby’.

“Call it market research. It is important for any artist to keep a finger on the pulse, otherwise they will be left behind, and won’t be able to innovate.” You locked your phone for good measure, placed it face down on the table and spun yourself around on the bar stool. You had insisted on having a pair at the breakfast table to be economical, seeing as the area was simply an extension of the kitchenette’s counter space. Plus, they were a wonderful snowy white and matched with your recent furniture upgrades.

Wooyoung appeared less than amused, though it was not much of a surprise to you.

“But the guy will be taking the same fap material pics anyways, so what’s the point?” he countered, running a hand through his dark hair. There was something you knew for certain about the man you had been with for the last one and a half years, and living together for nine months. He was hilariously easy to read. Past the façade of biting comments and cheeky quips, he was as good as a flyer on a posterboard at keeping things hidden from you.

“I see you have your day planned out, huh?” Your response was quick and venomous, and you noticed Wooyoung roll his eyes and trail the gaze to a print hanging on the wall to your right, in the living room. It had been a gift from your boss, a ‘less stimulating’ piece perfect for family life, as he had elaborated, making you laugh. After giving you a soft embrace, he had let his hands linger on your waist, and whispered his congratulations on your moving in with your boyfriend right against your ear, sending shivers down the spine. You were not ashamed to say that it was Park Seonghwa’s touch you had thought about during your first night, in your own apartment, together with Jung Wooyoung.

“So do you. Dolled up and ready to impress, I see?” a classic response as of late. Equal parts aggressive and accusatory, equal parts hinting at his still lingering desire for you.

Irritation. Jealousy. That was what had been fuelling your relationship since the start. Truth be told, you were surprised it had lasted as long as it did, considering how you wanted nothing more than to slam his head against the wall sometimes. That was what happened when two individuals who had sold their soul to the creative arts decided to live under the same roof, under the illusion that they had found their lifelong muse. You had been there, in the very beginning; confident that Wooyoung was the one likeminded collection of visions, the closest thing there was on this earth to a soulmate. You had melted under his touch, much like the intricate sculptures he crafted and carved away, but it only resulted in you eventually being burned and the ceramic of your heart - cracked.

Nothing gold couldn’t fix. Or, in your case, it was the hours you spent at the studio, letting yourself get carried away by the intoxicating sensuality you were tasked with capturing. If it were anyone except you who was with Wooyoung, they would have probably started a riot and confronted him, but his behaviour gave you an excuse to mentally reduce him to an abstract expressionist dot on your canvas and dedicate yourself wholly to your idol. You told yourself that you were engaging in these mind games only until your lease were to run out. Then, you would quietly not renew it – to your advantage, Wooyoung was not much of a documents man, leaving it to whoever was closest, which just so happened to be his ‘dearest’ with a vengeance. It was not a matter of taking it out on Wooyoung because you had been scorned – oh no, it was because you found it unfair that he could act this way while your conscience had deemed this to be taboo. Besides, you needed something above you, a higher legislative power, to take that final step.

But who were you kidding? Had you the ability to control the way in which you thought of Seonghwa, you would have probably had the resolve to pack up your things and go anywhere, as long as it was far away from Wooyoung. He would remember you by the pieces he had sculpted in your honour, inspired by your frame, by the fire that had burned out some time ago. But even then, say you had left, and your black suitcase with metal decal at the ready, camera lazily slung over your neck, where would you go, when your feet could only remember the route from this loveless apartment to P.SH Studio?

“Mm, you know it. Rough day today, so I will probably be back late.” Not that you would notice was left unspoken. You wanted to at least finish your coffee before the bickering started.

“Just how you like it. Isn’t it right?” He was pushing your buttons, purposefully twisting your worlds into lewd euphemism. Wooyoung enjoyed driving you up the wall – probably the closest he came to actually giving you some kind of excitement in recent weeks. Otherwise, he was perfectly satiated, and you might as well be décor, sauntering around from room to room. It was as if he took pleasure in knowing that your mind was hazy, but the distance between you concrete, and only getting larger.

You swivelled back around to face away from your boyfriend, but caught his darkened gaze at the last moment. Head lowered to make his dark hair fall slightly over his eyes, a dangerous smirk dancing on his lips, still in your vision as you stared at the bottom of the cup, thoughtlessly moving the remaining grounds that were suspended in rapidly cooling droplets. You listened to Wooyoung pushing himself off the cupboards, and step towards you, until his chin was hovering just above you shoulder, and you could count his breaths.

“Want me to give you a little pep talk?” he whispered, turning to peck your earlobe a couple of times. You gripped your mug, not wanting to satisfy Wooyoung with a reaction.

In these moments, you almost wished you were still infatuated instead of subjecting him to impersonal evaluation. The attention would have then felt special, instead of as an apology in advance for inviting his assistant over to your shared accommodation. Again, his habits and methods were very traceable and blatantly obvious. But at least it let you think of the man you were going to be spending the entire day and evening shooting with, and helped you get rid of your frustrations early, so they did not bother you as much while you watched your master with unbreaking focus. And like in long exposure photography, eventually, everything except him became a blur. It was impossible to associate your own satisfaction with anyone else, so when you felt Wooyoung’s hot, needy lips trailing from your ear to the lower jaw, and his hand snaking up your thigh, pushing your black skirt up with it, you merely shut your eyes, and thought of him.

To your delight, Wooyoung was not being vocal like he usually would as he continued to caress you, his other hand now having found its place on your waist, effectively making him wrap around you. His sturdy chest was pressing against your shoulder blade while he nipped at the sensitive skin at the base of your neck. You cursed yourself as you felt a moan threatening to escape you, and bit your lower lip. Oh, to imagine yourself as one of those models in monochrome, revealing their true nature for the first time only to him. He never touched them, at least not in front of you, but oh how they wanted to be. You understood them wholeheartedly – your imagination being the only thing to get you closer to Park Seonghwa.

The hand that you mentally removed from its owner slinked away from your thigh, completely hiking the skirt up and slipping under the band of your black panties. You liked to think that your strive to match inside and out gave you more desirability, thus enabled you to be more confident at work – a silly way of masking your subconscious intentions. Who were you trying to fool? The other slid under your shirt, and, without bothering to take it off, tugged your bra aside to reveal your shapely breasts. The sudden change in temperature proved to be stimulating, leading to your nipples increasing in sensitivity. The hand carefully, patiently brushed over the tip of its erectness. You inhaled sharply and gave a little further into the feeling. No harm done, right?

Tapping into your mind palace, it conjured an external image of what was happening to you, the subject of the moving photograph. It was a surrealist, fantastical performance, challenging the imaginary viewer with physical abstraction. You could not help but wonder if how you were unravelling right this moment would look good through the lens. What settings would be used for this shoot? You ran the numbers, and with each one, turned more and more pliable, a putty in the strong arms that had permeated into this early morning day dream. Two fingers slipped into your half open mouth, and teasing, you ran the tip of your tongue over them, wordlessly giving full access and commanding they stop teasing you any longer.

A 105mm lens would do it. Focus should be on the act, other elements fading into the background and removing any undesired presence – a mechanical fog, heightening your desire. Heat pooled to your core as you felt what could only be equivalent to sparks of electricity coursing from your exposed and stimulated breasts down to the now aching arousal. He would probably praise you for being so responsive to him – any task, no matter how small, had earned you the warmed gratitude before, so why could that not be the same here? He would give you his undivided attention, slipping those fingers, coated in saliva, down to the pleading sex, poking your inner thighs to give him better access. You obliged, visualising how a gentle, approving smile would settle on the beautiful man’s every feature, down to the slight squint of his eyes. He leaned in closer to you, his chest hitting against your back once more as he suddenly squeezed your nipple, and ran his digits over your hard clit, coaxing out a gasp.

Your molars sank into your inner cheek with such power that you thought you would draw blood, as the fingers continued to tease you, moving in painfully slow circles around the nub, making your muscle clench and inadvertently grind your hips forwards, for even a small bit more friction. The action spurred him on, and soon enough you felt a pair of soft lips trailing across from your jawline to your collarbone, occasionally stopping to pay special attention to what he knew would make you scream. Barely being able to contain yourself, you stopped preventing the sinful melody from escaping you, and moaned to a particularly precise adoration of skin on the side of your neck. Fingers, which had been mercilessly abusing your impossibly sensitive clit, slipped between your folds and glided down their length, coating them in your own arousal. You had not realised just how wet you had gotten, raw desire coating the inside of your panties.

This had to be shot in the same rush as the one you were being enveloped by – handheld, manual, shutter speed at 1/200th – it only made sense to do so. This had to be sultry, less exposed to the lamp lights. A sensuality meant to be contained in the shadows. With a final flick, which made you groan in pleasure, only begging for more, the fingers travelled down the length of your soaked pussy lips, practically hooking it in and curling themselves into you. The entry of the digits into your trembling cunt sent your thoughts into a flurry, clouding you from seeing anything except stars and the man who shared his name with the celestial apparitions.

If not for the heat building in your lower half at an astounding rate, you would have been more amused at your conclusion for best using ISO 800 for this scene – high sensitivity, indeed. How terribly you wanted to capture this intimate portrait, encapsulate the dreamlike tenderness that you were visualising for none other than Park Seonghwa. Black and white. Lustful and loving. Fast and slow. He was a man of contrasts and unthinkable combinations, he was the only one who could understand your vision.

The rhythmic, accelerating pumping of masterful fingers into your pussy was caused you to lose focus, attention span reduced to mere instinct. Writhing in the chair, you were about to fully transport yourself into the studio, forgetting to set the shutter speed for the pretend shoot, when you caught the last voice that you wanted to hear in the building of your high:

“I bet you’re thinking of him, you dirty girl.” Wooyoung hissed right into your ear, an unsaid challenge in his tone. A flash of guilt ran over you as you were caught red-minded but did not want to go through the trouble of denying that what he said was true. Blame sculptors and their skilful hands, bringing you to a certain ruin.

“Shut… up, ah!” you yelped as you felt your boyfriend’s thumb pressing against your bud, moving at an entirely different pace as it stimulated just the tip, shifting your folds further apart.

“What, don’t want to hear me in your daydreams?” he teased you, knowing full well that you would agree if you weren’t so secretive. He had clocked some time ago that you were not indifferent to your boss, however he did not realise just how far gone you were. In his mind, the claims he was throwing out were a mere improvisation, the best he could conjure to fuel his hate-driven passion towards you.

“I- mfph, said, shut-”

“Such a needy little slut for him.” You were insufferable. When you were like this, trying to regain control of the situation even though you were clay in his hands, melting under him, he was regretful that you could not be the only one in his turbulent life.

If it was not work, then it was the mood. If it was not the mood it was something he did wrong. And if, somehow, he did nothing and you confirmed that, you simply pitied him. That was the power you held. You ignited within Wooyoung a ferocious need to destroy the pedestal onto which he had elevated you in the very beginning. But as he gave you distance, toppled one platform after another, you only seemed to soar higher above him, just within reach but still, not someone he could control. He was no longer a figure of romantic authority for you – perplexed by the exact timeline, he assumed that it was simply meant to be that way. Carnal pleasure in this united destruction.

“I know you want his fingers in your tight cunt, don’t you, my darling?”

You could not respond as Wooyoung continued to pick up the pace, bringing you closer and closer to orgasm. The pet name was obviously taken from the snippets of conversation between you and Seonghwa that your boyfriend had overheard. Whenever he would have an idea for another series, or changes to some details for already planned scenes, he would run them by you, always interested in your opinions and taking them as the most valuable pieces of the creative puzzle. You really were here, getting off to the thought of being listened to, the master's hums and approvals at the forefront of ideation. You had to give it to him, Wooyoung knew how to make you come undone, even if it was by guesswork.

The vocalisation of the real source of your climb had flipped a switch, and Seonghwa flooded your mind. Wooyoung did not speak up again, and you were gone from regular consciousness, the dark lustful abyss surrounding you. Park Seonghwa was right there with you. You dashed from vision to vision, stringing them together to describe how he would feel. How it would feel for him to be the one to capture soft, supple tenderness of your throat with his enticing mouth, and how his arms would embrace your form and crush you in boundless pleasure. For the first time, he could be in front of the camera, together with you. The blur of the background disappeared as you adjusted the focus to the lewdness, the wet sounds of his outrageous rhythm. His face was now crystal clear before your eyes, his sharp features, half-lidded eyes as he brought you to your orgasm, praising you for being such an obedient little girl for him.

Your orgasm came crashing down on you with unexpected force. Overwhelmed, you let the sensation wash over you like a tempestuous ocean. Seeing only those two beloved colours, you felt for the seat beneath you to support your unsteady form. You could not yell, could not let out as much as a whisper as the etchings of the man you so desired glinted before you, lips parted in a silent proclamation of brutal, unrefined passion and obsessive adoration. Comical, how it was his manifestation amidst your sensual release that was the embodiment of love and lust, and not the man who you intentionally possessed with the role of Seonghwa.

“So fucked out, Y/N, shit. Just look at yourself.” Wooyoung chuckled as he watched you coming back to reality, trying to blink away the haze of the climax. He had remained still, wrapped around you almost in a protective gesture, his chest serving as a support for your arched body. His own arousal was frustrating him, trapped under a layer of denim, the friction only making him more impatient.

“Vulgar, as always.”

“Says you – look at this precious little mess you made, my sweet. Or can I even say ‘my’ anymore?” He demonstratively twisted you, so you were facing him, and with the hand that was attacking your breast now on his hip, he lifted the other away from your pulsating sex and lapped up the nectar that remained on his fingers, eyes lowered and scrutinising you through fluttering lashes. The bulge of his crotch commanded your gaze, albeit only for a split second. You were far from being in a Wooyoung mood. You squeezed your legs shut, feeling the soaked panties rubbing against you, and rolled your eyes.

“So, why in the world did you do that?” your nonchalance was painfully fake, airiness taking away from any impact you had intended for your question to have.

“If I told you I missed you, what would you do?” he countered, throwing the ball back in your court.

“Tell you to shove that bullshit where the sun doesn’t shine.”

“Way ahead of you there, sweetheart.” He winked, completely dispelling your sensual musings.

“Run that mouth one more time, Woo, I dare you.”

“Oh, so you want my mouth to treat you right too. How greedy. Plus, I bet you would much rather have a certain someone else do that.” He kept on going, goading you into a spat. What had previously been a joke now transformed into a hypothesis, and Wooyoung was keen to see how far you would go to keep the truth from him.

“Shut u-”

“I’ve seen the photos you have of him, sweetie. All ‘focused with tongue sticking out’, or ‘making a playful face in a selfie’. Even I can imagine as far.” He could see that he was close to cracking you.

In your vulnerable, stupefied glory, the barrier between your pursed, plump lips and cruel heart was as weak as it could be. He needed to hear that you did not love him anymore. Not because it would give him any particular relief. Mainly for minimising regret over his actions. Convincing himself that what you two had was long gone and you were stuck in a routine. He needed to hear you say it. Wooyoung needed you to utter the words, be explicit that you wanted someone else. He peered into your eyes, unwaveringly, in search for at least a hint. The rise and fall of your chest was still uneven, yet you managed to return a glare, outwardly unfeeling, unresponsive, and worst of all, indifferent. He wondered if his little act of service was actually an act of pity on your behalf.

“I’m leaving.” Silence turned to bitter disappointment. It was time to slip away, very noticed, but that was the intention. Wooyoung pulled you closer to him by pinching your collar, letting you observe how a natural grimace underwent a metamorphosis into a boyish grin, as though he genuinely wanted to wish you the best.

“Have a lovely day.”

“Have fun being a ‘hand me down’,” you mercilessly quipped, fed up with his taunts. If one were to objectively compare you and him, the answer to who was the instigator of this shipwreck was clear enough. You were confident that it was not you, since up until this point, you had remained strictly theoretical, and did not dare bring up neither his unfaithfulness nor your dissatisfactions. “Fuck, I have got to change these now…” you stated, mainly to yourself as you hopped off the stool and made a beeline for the bedroom to grab a fresh set of lingerie.

Wooyoung fell into deep contemplation, leaning back on the counter with his elbows, and letting out a soft whistle. So, you did know of his escapades, as he had assumed. He had to give it to you, you were a phenomenal actress, and all these months that he had been indulging in one temporary partner after another, you had maintained a cool demeanour, letting your own evolution and walk through life without considering him in the present nor the future. Had you really so readily accepted his dismissal of you? His disrespect? Were you not seeking… vengeance? Could you not openly hate him for his sake?

He regarded you with indignation as you rushed from room to room, intent on ignoring his presence. Had you spared him any more emotion than basal instinct, even if it was just demanding his silence with rude yells, Wooyoung would have been content. But all he had left now was to watch your silhouette, now donning that oversized shirt dress, gathered at the waist with a black leather corset which had never failed to drive him wild, disappear out of the apartment, front door shutting softly behind you and leaving him alone with his demons and the divine shapes of your body that his hands had memorised. For the first time on his own volition, he cancelled that day’s rendezvous. He would only be able to think of you, anyways.

You were late. Terribly late. And no excuses about public transport or traffic could cover for you. And like hell you were going to say to your boss that you were late because you were fantasizing about him while your cheating boyfriend fingered you. To be frank, you could mention that you could not board the trains since they were overcrowded, but you encountered the issue only because you left the house at peak commute time, like an utter fool. Shame had settled into you as you were travelling across the city, squeezed between passengers, faceless and much the same as one another. You had tried to avoid touching anything, relying on your platform shoes to give you balance - you did not want your filth to embed itself into the doors and handles. How was what you had allowed yourself to do at all appropriate? And how had you conceded to Wooyoung's accusations and teasing, accepting his conjectures as soon as he played into your darkest dreams? Stuck in this blameful loop, you had almost missed your stop and had a number of glares sent and not so kind words muttered in your address, as you lurched through the crowded carriage by sheer inertia from the train stopping, and out of the doors.

It was nearly forty minutes past the hour on which you had agreed to begin preparations today, which meant even less time until the arranged boudoir shoot with the model Seonghwa had signed to work with. Thankfully this did not require too much effort, since for the most part you and your boss had the bright idea of beginning last night: setting up the backdrops, readying the series of props and leaving the clothing rack with pre-selected outfits out by the set. But the fact that you broke a promise that you had made to your boss, the master, was what aggravated your brooding.

Once you flew up the stairs that led from the entrance to the main part of the studio, you crept into the space nearly folded over. Bowing repeatedly in apology, you could barely see where you were going, and instead of making an uneventful entrance, were halted by a hand on either one of your shoulders, grinding you to a halt and making you straighten out.

“Woah there, beautiful, don’t run me over.”

You went pale as you came face to face with none other than your boss. The one who you had just been thinking about in less than professional ways. You grinned at him sheepishly, lowering your head and choosing to focus on his outfit. Black Oxfords, slacks and shirt, black hair in the elegant 4:6 parting… of course he would be embodying this timeless hue. He had explained to you before: the reason why he was dedicated to the monochromatic palette was because if one were to consider its formulation, black was the most ‘colourful’. Seonghwa was enamoured with everything around him, and thought its predominant use to be the optimal method of honouring nature.

“Hey, my eyes are up here.” He chuckled, while adjusting the top of the dress from invisible creases, giving you a discreet onceover. It was impossible for you to remain composed, and an indecipherable amalgamation of ‘sorry’s and haphazardly mashed elaborations that all amounted to nervous white noise began to pour.

You were cute when you were shy, he concluded to himself as he took in your presently meek form, cooing that you need not worry. Though the illusion was broken as soon as he spotted what was, unmistakably, a fresh hickey that was only just gaining prominence on your delicate neck. A playful smirk threatened his lips as he raised an eyebrow and cut your monologue short.

"A kiss from your boyfriend wishing you a good day at work, my love?" The odd combination of words sent your heart ablaze. It was like Wooyoung's existence did not matter one bit to him, he was above it.

"Huh? What, sorry?"

"Your neck." You were caught off-guard by the handsome brunette pointing at his own neck, and then tilting his head towards you. An unreadable smile was on his lips as he watched your checks heat up and you stuttering out a barely audible curse. It was endearing, watching how you, normally unphased and professional, crumbling at the slightest mention of something even the tiniest bit suggestive if it was related to you.

Did you want to appear 'pure' in front of him? Unaffected and innocent? Whilst it was admirable that you had been holding out for so long, be it because of your so-called commitments or something darker, it was the not-so-subtle glances you sent in his direction that drove him to the brink of insanity, igniting a demonic creativity that led him to shoot one masterpiece after the other. Your hesitation blended with an undeniable desire was his strange addiction.

When Seonghwa had met you at his exhibition all that time ago, within you he saw a sophisticated fragility, like that of a precious artwork, or of a spring flower. At the beginning of your journey as a photographer but showing much promise, the sparkle in your eyes left him dizzy. There was something about you that reminded him of a cherub, a sweet creature untainted by misery and heartbreak. Or so was his initial perception that had given him the push to take a deeper interest in you. As he observed your rise in the circle, be it through his extensive web of connections or his own eyes, he noticed your expressions morph into showcasing a grotesque chiaroscuro. A daunting heaviness of your portrait miniseries for a class, where you had placed every pore, every wrinkle of your subjects under scrutiny in the stark light, left an inkling of fear and concern in Seonghwa's heart. This was work done in passing, an experiment for a module where you had to present your interpretation of an assigned theme, with yours being 'heartbreak'. He had found out about it by accident while catching up over a coffee with your professor for that class. And yet, it was this collection that demolished any doubts that he might have had about your future as an artist. You lived through each portrait. Your soul was shared with the model, and immortalised. A collection of portraits of people who had lost love.

You had a story to tell, and what better way to do it than through photography? Any description of his joy when you had asked if his offer of mentorship and fulltime work was still standing would be an understatement. He wanted to play a part in your development. To help you harness the immeasurable talent you had and give you the opportunity and resources necessary for a newcomer to the otherwise cruel industry. Seonghwa felt the urge to be your protector, someone who you could turn to and rely on. While you two maintained a professional relationship, he could not help but treat you with extra care and affection – it came naturally. And it only increased once he found out that, apparently, you had an excuse for a significant other. What little rationality he had left when it came to you proclaimed he should distance himself, but by a risk-hungry democracy, he only inched closer to the fire. Although you were always hesitant to share anything about your partner, he managed to piece the facts together. You were hanging on by a thread, and Seonghwa wanted to cut it and be there to catch you.

He felt it tighten once again as you dashed for the full length mirror standing in the corner of the room, inspecting the bruised skin, mortified. If only he could have the key to that gorgeous mind of yours to know just what you were recalling as you stared into the mirror and attempted to raise the collar of your dress to cover it, but to no avail. The corset – a neat contraption with a convenient zip at the back, highlighting your graceful features, was holding the article stubbornly in place. As you began to search in your bag for the concealer which you just so happened to forget due to the disturbance of your routine this morning, Seonghwa stalked towards you, raising his hand to place it over yours, reducing agitation to mere shock. The surprise on your face as he guided you into a more relaxed stance accelerated the pace of his heart to unprecedented heights.

“Do not worry about it, hey, look at me, Y/N, are you okay?” you had refrained from lifting your head.

Everything was going wrong, and you were the only one to blame. Automatically, you moved to cover the hickey, pressing a palm against it. Did Wooyoung do this on purpose, to send some sick message to you and your boss? Claim ownership over someone who was, emotionally, already lightyears away? How you despised that man, but even more, how you despised yourself for the utter lack of control you had. Splitting into thousands of pieces, you offered too many parts to the one and a half years of an illusion, clearly not having enough left to make a concrete decision and dare to spread your wings. Even if you were to be burned by the sun, you would give up anything for the smallest chance to not be plagued by the conundrum and would soar. The ghost of a touch that Seonghwa applied to your knuckles sparked your internal pleas, and again you availed yourself of safe formality, and let apologies overflow.

Confused, Seonghwa let the weight of his hand become more noticeable as he turned you a little more towards him, meeting you half way with a side step. Taking the purse out of your hand and setting it down on a painted bench set right by the mirror, he was about to pull you even closer but hesitated.

“Sorry, may I put my hands on your upper arms?” you glanced up to meet Seonghwa’s earnest expression, “Would it be alright with you?” only once you nodded did he let himself do just as he had explained, and lightly squeezed the muscle. “Y/N, what happened, talk to me.”

This man was going to be the death of you. Asking for permission over things Wooyoung did not even consider. Ever. Not even when he was just trying to ‘woo’ you, for the lack of a better word. If your heart had not melted before, it sure did now, as Seonghwa continued whispering phrases of reassurance, concerned but not pushing you to reveal more than you wanted. Presenting himself as your safe haven. He was normally open about physical affection with those close to him, but respect was an even higher priority.

“Seonghwa, I-… I am not sure I can talk about it… at least right now.” You mumbled, dropping your arm to your side.

“I get that. Sure. You okay to do the shoot? If you need to go home-”

“Anything but home! Uh, I mean, yeah. I am okay. I just need to cover this… thing… thank you for spotting it. And again, I am so sorry you had to set all of this up and I am a mess and-”

“Ma belle, what you need to cover is your responsibilities. So, if you’re sorry, get to it.” The sudden sternness snapped you out of your mental drift, and you widened your eyes. His finger dug into your skin, not quite as strong as to leave marks, but enough to make the temperature begin rising. Voice dropped into a whisper, but still bearing traces of near maternal attentiveness, he explained:

“The make up artist will be here in about fifteen minutes, but I assume you don’t want anyone to see it, so if you don’t mind, I have an accessory for you to try on.” He moved away to stride to a cabinet on the other side of the room and retrieved an item from one of the drawers.

Upon closer inspection, you recognised the item to be a thick black leather collar, with a circular silver detail at the front. This was a prop from one of the shoots you had collaborated on a couple of months ago – a series that took inspiration from dominatrix culture and bondage. Your cheeks began to heat up as Seonghwa raised it closer to eye level, and smiled sweetly, as if he did not have the same association with the object as you did.

“This should do it. And if not, you know we have some items with more… substantial coverage,” you hummed in agreement, unsure of how to proceed. Seonghwa was expectant, motioning for you to let him help with the choker.

Not finding any reason to disagree with the proposition, you lifted your hair, while he walked behind you and slid the item around your neck, positioning and fastening it in such a way that the bruise was fully concealed. As he worked on the miniature buckle, a strong sense of déjà vu overtook you, making you even more sensitive to his proximity. This was too close to what you had been playing in your head; a couple of steps going south, and it would be a re-enactment. You bit your lip nervously, listening to every breath.

When Seonghwa requested that you show the now completed outfit to him, the intensity with which he was affected by it was unforeseeable. He barely managed to utter a compliment, clenching his fist to suppress an urge to ruin the beauty. Here stood the one who he had been searching for in his art. The one who he had subconsciously been dedicating work to. The Aphrodite, and at the same time, the visionary and his partner in crime. And in that pretty collar, there was no longer any reminder that you should be off limits. The forbidden fruit. To hell with common courtesy-

Seonghwa dipped his head towards you, and once millimetres away, shut his eyes and sank into the feeling of his lips locking with yours. Just as he had thought, you were a sweet paradise, leading him into a paralysis - all he could ponder was how far he could go. You did not push away, joining him in the passionate abyss and getting drunk off his delicious and soft lips. In unison you were satiating your hunger, the current proximity simply not enough. To deepen the long-awaited kiss, you ran your fingers through his hair and gently tugged at the back, causing him to break away momentarily, revealing darkened, carnivorous orbs. He stepped even closer to you, his hips almost touching yours as hands travelled to your waist and pulled you in. Perhaps it was good that you had as little control as you did – or were just this willing when it came to this dazzling man.

There was no good reason for this to be happening. In fact, had your life been a show, most of the audience would likely say you were to blame, that you were a cheater, a whore living two lives, but to you even these seconds, turning to minutes, were worth it. With each caress you were erasing your memories of early morning, and of the fiend who, undoubtedly had organised his own fun. Didn’t a girl deserve to smile too?

Nothing felt real. Floating, life forever altered, relishing in the fact that there was no turning back. Finally, the thread snapped. A precious little bird, freed from the confines of losing oneself, day in, day out. Seonghwa noticed how you entered a flow state, hypnotised by the taste of your personal heaven. The Birth of Venus, your vibrancy brought to light by none other than him – couldn’t the other man see that you could not be carved nor moulded? You needed the spark, the energy, the worship. For that, you would go to the end of the world, but now, Seonghwa was the only one who had the power to choose if you did.

A sharp ringing of a phone interrupted your dizzying sensuality, making Seonghwa groan as he took out the vexing device from his pocket, flipping it to answer. As he talked, however, it was as though the moment still continued, with him not taking his eyes off you a single time, only motion being his mouth outlining the contours of your jawline, moving to your reddened lips to wipe away smudged lipstick. You could not move, fixated on his mellifluous low tone as he continued to admire you. Like you were his magnum opus.

“My darling, our time to shine. The whole crew will be here in five.” He covered the speaker, sharing with you what the manager on the other end of the line had stated. Unwillingly, he had to part from you, but was halted by your nimble hands cupping his face and returning the favour, clearing his face of any traces of your makeup. As a way of thanks, he turned to give your fingers a peck, a brief amused chuckle escaping him as you raised your eyebrows.

Though it was customary for Seonghwa to be a little more physically affectionate than most when it came to working in a professional environment, the significance of his attention towards you had changed drastically and did not go unnoticed by either of you. Each lingering caress held a universe, and served as silent reassurance, communication of the ongoing symbiosis between you and him. As he would reach over to grab a different lens, he would just so happen to brush past you, and send you, just you, a smile. While his hands were pressing all the right buttons, and he was uttering the right commands that the manager was translating to the model – as it turned out she did not speak a word of Korean nor any of the languages Seonghwa had picked up during his travels, and generally preferred to remain void of emotion, his thoughts were entirely on you. As he guided the model from one position to another, directed the feeling that she was supposed to be embodying, but ultimately failing, his only salvation was pretending what it would be like if you were on that chaise longue sofa, clad in elegant lingerie.

Far too many long, gruelling hours had passed by, and Seonghwa had shown far too much patience with the solemn, rigid woman on the set. The sun had already gone down, so he was trying his best to retake some of the shots, with you running from reflector to studio light, endlessly readjusting. Both you and him were winded, exhausted both physically and mentally as you, the model and the manager were the only ones left working – upon Seonghwa’s request, you had dismissed the stylist and makeup artist, agreeing that if any last touch ups were needed due to the heat from the lights, you would figure it out. Art school had taught you how to improvise in times of crisis.

At this stage, it would be better to simply wrap up for the day and pick up again tomorrow; it could be that the ‘energy’ for the shoot was off for someone, or everyone. Could be that there simply was dissonance between certain people on set. But it could not be any worse than what you had waiting for you at home, so, in some ways the long shoot was a blessing in disguise. With the new dynamic between you and Seonghwa to explore, you had almost forgotten about the fact that you had a significant other, at least until your phone began to ring incessantly in your bag, forcing you into a run across the room. As soon as you checked the caller id, your blood ran cold, and with a hardened expression, you swiped to answer.

“Y/N, hello there, sweetheart!”

“Hi.” You could not remember the last time Wooyoung had called you out of the blue. You thought that such behaviour had remained in the flirting stage for him.

“You sound stressed. Hard day at work?”

“Yes. It isn’t over yet, so I need to go.”

“Aw… And here I was, about to ask you what you would like for dinner.” He elaborated. You could hear the pout that he was undoubtedly wearing, along with some shuffling.

“Back so soon? No fun at work?” you remarked, implicitly jibing.

“Yes… terribly uneventful. Was thinking about you all day, replaying this morning…” he was acting too sweet for your liking, and for his present character. Had he been conversing with anyone else and you were listening in, you could have made more sense of it. But this made your skin crawl.

As he babbled away, your focus drifted. Never before had the man on the call felt so foreign – more distant than a stranger. It was like the dull words being uttered were entirely inaccessible, nothing more than the ghost of lost meaning, thrown into a gust of wind. His efforts were lost on you, for you had no heart to tolerate Wooyoung anymore. With an unprecedented tranquility, a conclusion had been reached, and it felt right to step away. That decision, that snap that you had been seeking had finally happened, and you were observing him while pretending to listen to the incessant chatter. The dream, the fresh start, the possibility. Seonghwa had captured your heart long before you had even met Wooyoung – so, maybe, it was you who had been unfair. Getting into a relationship when you had been simply fooling yourself.

A conversation between your boss and the manager, which had previously been level and measured out, was growing more heated by the second. You perked up at the elevated volume, and pulled the phone away from your ear to tune in.

“…I can’t work with her when she is not even trying to work with me!” Seonghwa exclaimed, clearly upset as a familiar southern lilt had seeped into the phrase, naturally deepening his voice and leaving his interlocutor taken aback. But not for long enough, as they recovered and snapped back:

“She’s pretty, isn’t she? Making her look good in a frame is your job, so, do it.”

Eyes wide, you whispered some excuse to Wooyoung, cutting him off mid-sentence. You wished you felt bad, to preserve some social dignity, but it was liberating to finally be the one to elicit shock.

"Honey, what did you say? I'm worried."

The fingers of your free hand curled into a fist as you registered the urgency in his voice. A drastic change from even a mere couple of minutes. You fell silent, processing your reaction. Why did you freeze? Why could you not just... leave?

"Y/N, darling, are you there? Do you need any help? I'll be right there if you need me..." he continued, concern growing with every syllable as you began to dig your nails into the soft flesh of your palm.

Part of you was still attached, it seemed. Some subconscious element that had been thoroughly trained by none other than Wooyoung, trained to believe him and only him. That toxic portion was still confident that he wished for nothing more except for you to be well and in a blissful harmony. In his shadow. A gifted sculptor, whispering watered down droplets of affection, softening up the clay of your innocent heart until he could leave his permanent mark. Wooyoung was here. Wooyoung wanted to be your creator. But the magic trick ceased to be impressive as soon as you realised, and now could take the risk to fight back.

"I'm okay, I'll... I'll see you later." You wanted to conclude the conversation as soon as possible, seeing as you could see that Seonghwa was beginning to lose his patience. It was a rare occurrence but unpleasant enough to avoid... at all costs.

"Is he hurting you?" A sharp jab, out of the blue, right into the arguments that you had been collecting against the man on the phone. He? Was Wooyoung really accusing Seonghwa of something you could not even begin to imagine him doing?

"What?" You mumbled, so quietly that it could have been to yourself.

"I can hear the shouting, Y/N. Not only is he overworking you, but... resorting to violence? Who does he think he is?"

Your eyes darted to the black-haired angel on the other side of the studio, about to hang his halo on a clothing rack in the strive to prove a point to a person who did not want to listen. Surely, that was an appropriate reaction? And was he not the one who gave you what you swore to be your first love-filled kiss?

"Sweetheart, just say the word... do you need to go home?"

Wooyoung was your boyfriend still, wasn't he? Many promises and commitments later, many months as one whole. He couldn't recommend something downright outrageous, since he would have to face your wrath in close proximity. Yes, you were still safe there. Home. Not perfect, but a home nonetheless. What did Seonghwa promise? Do? You were a colleague to him, a subordinate. An inexperienced photographer who barely graduated from being a pure amateur. Maybe you would be doing him a favour if you went home right now. Home to the person who had officially called you his.

"I..."

"Mm?"

"Y/N! Can you give me a hand?" You winced at the question turned command that Seonghwa boomed. It did little to dispel your assumption that Wooyoung might be right in saying you should leave, but at the same time, cleared your head just enough to realise that here you were again. Falling into the same pattern of blind obedience.

"Was it him? Say no!"

"Sorry what? Can't hear you I think you are breaking the connection is so bad so sorry I really did not understand bye-" you stuttered out, ending the call, and letting out a sigh of relief.

You felt dizzy. Exhausted. The brief conversation with Wooyoung had drained you more than the photoshoot, leaving you numb and dreading the end of the workday. Just how much strength would it take to cut all ties? You had not noticed that you had been absent-mindedly playing with the choker, and only when Seonghwa had sent a glare in your direction did you fall from your musings in a cold flash and followed his pointing gestures.

He was turning livid, his expression darkening. You slipped into the background, approaching the model, and gestured for her to follow you. Seeing as she was bored to be here, she was more than happy to follow you to the neatly folded pile of her clothes, paying no mind to the standoff occurring a mere couple of metres away. You cowered as the manager leered at you slyly, and dismissed yet another one of Seonghwa's rational suggestions for how to switch up the shoot to take at least couple of salvaging shots. As the model took her time to get ready, not having heard from her supervisor whether it was time to go or not, you saw Seonghwa's eyes bleed into a ghoulish abyss, barely containing what would be the foundation for a catastrophe.

“How about this, I can find another model, and you can find another photographer to complete this lady’s portfolio. I think both of us would be satisfied with that outcome.” he hissed, refraining from stooping so low so as to use informal language, even though the other man had been disregarding the common principle for the better, or worse, half of the day.

"Who, this... girl?" All eyes were on you, and you could not feel any smaller than you did at that moment. The manager gave you a wry side glance and crossed his arms. "Can she even model?"

"I'd say my co-creator and muse can model. Yes. And better than... many." Seonghwa bit back the offences that had accumulated, but the weight of his words was enough to hint at the lack of welcome. He nodded at you in an attempt to subtly share some comfort, but could not find your eyes, which were tracing lines between the white floorboards.

Muse. The title he had given you with such ease and pride. The title that no artist dared to use lightly out of fear of cursing their inspiration. A warmth spread over your body as the notion ate away at the embedded agitation, washing over the soul and taking, with each wave, the rotting floatation left behind by the person who wanted to sculpt your fate. A muse. And there was no better place for a muse than in a place of art and innovation. Wooyoung could enjoy his dinner by himself.

"Now, if you'll excuse us, it is late, and I don't think this should continue for any longer." The manager broke the silence, though nothing except his indignant utterance littered the ambience.

"Adieu."

The duo had departed, thankfully, in a hurry, with the manager practically pushing the lady with the stony face out of the door. As soon as Seonghwa, from his position by the window, having lifted the tulle away from it with two fingers, saw the pair appear on the street and start in the direction of the busier road that was in the studio’s vicinity, he let out a low, exasperated groan and ruffled his hair. The camera, which had weighed down on his neck not dissimilarly to a ball and chain, had found home on a high stool, while the photographer stormed towards the main set, and crashed onto the chaise longue.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you took in the sight. His right arm was grazing the floor, while the other, palm pointed outwards, was pressing into the bridge of his nose with the wrist. One leg slightly bent, the other fully lying on the plush material, he had landed in a threateningly sensual position that set you ablaze. It was impossible to tell whether this was purposeful or not, but at that moment you began to question why this ethereal man had never made an official appearance in front of the camera. The lights gave him a mystical sheen, only further enhancing the dreamlike quality Seonghwa possessed. You took a tiny step closer, careful to not produce a sound with the thick rubber soles of your boots.

He was worn out. It was painted, clear as day, across his face, and yet he still retained a regal quality, his profile – a timeless elegance. He would not hurt you. It had to be a crude lie said in egoistic anguish. The magnificent individual before you was a healing luminescence, filling up the room, embodying it, spreading the monochrome across your universe until you were hesitant to even consider external matters. This had to be immortalised. You raised your mobile phone, swiping to remove the notifications of messages that Wooyoung had apparently sent you, instead switching to the camera. The angle was not perfect, since you were on the side, the outskirts, but with a careful zoom and some manual finetuning to the settings, you could see the opportunity for a shot. Steadying yourself, you adjusted your hold on the device, and snapped away.

An unfamiliar sensation began to course through you as you focused on Seonghwa’s every detail, eyes devouring him and guiding your secret shoot. The thrill of acting on your own accord, capturing an intimate moment for yourself only was leaving you feverish. Enraptured by his slightly parted lips, you went for an extreme close up, leaning further forward and adjusting the settings once again to drop the ISO to 280 and adjusting the shutter speed to a 1/750th. Through the lens you could witness divinity embraced by pitch black, broken only by his grace. One click. Another. You were losing rationality. Snapping away, hypnotised.

“Use the proper camera. It’ll be good practice.” You froze as you were met with Seonghwa’s smouldering gaze, sent right into the lens. With a gasp, you locked your phone and shuddered, flaring up in embarrassment.

“I-I am s-so sorry, I didn’t even a-ask-”

“Apologising to me an awful lot today, aren’t you?” you could not respond, and merely followed Seonghwa’s movements as he raised himself back up and, while still on the sofa, spun to sit facing you. Legs slightly spread apar, he positioned his elbows at the knees, and intently studied you with a smug grin. “A photographer’s calling is to capture beauty as they see it, so if anything, I am honoured, my love.”

A knot began to form in your stomach as you regarded the man. How could he treat your actions so lightly? Should he not be mad? Where was the enraged Seonghwa, who had been on the verge of letting hell break loose? His unreadable nature only proved to elevate your excitement, and you eagerly approached him as he beckoned you:

“Would you show me the photos, darling?” you nodded, taking a seat to his left and unlocking your phone.

Careful not to scroll up, nor to hit any buttons to unleash the guilty pictographic altar that was the candid photographs you had taken at earlier times, you clicked on the first one you had taken this evening and tilted the screen towards the interested man. Prior consideration of your actions as only adorable rapidly evaporated as he inspected the work, astonished by its quality. You had managed to surpass the awkward positioning of the equipment from where you had been standing and made the phone work with you. Seonghwa manoeuvred to be pressed against you, thigh to thigh, and used your startled state to fish your phone out of your hands and scrutinise the pictures freely.

Judging by the reluctance to let go, he could sense that you were hiding something from him. You were heavily interested in where and how he was swiping, and one of your hands was hovering next to his. It was his duty, and his pleasure, to find out what the fuss was about. There was something unequivocally compelling about your transfixion – no dispassionate photographer would be so loving and involved in any image. Even his own works, on occasion, exhibited the ‘technically perfect, and yet far removed’ quality. Seonghwa had a sneaking suspicion about what kinds of pictures you had, but did not want to show how the sheer idea affected him. As he indulged in your reflection on the screen, your trepidation proving irresistible, a spontaneous ruse spawned in his mind, and was rolling off the tip of his tongue in an instant.

“Y/N, could you get me my camera, please? This shot reminded me of one I had taken…”

Waiting for the moment you were outside of arm’s reach, making a beeline to the requested object, he pressed on the back arrow, and within a couple of clicks and scrolls, his guesses were confirmed. A hidden album containing only him. Bursts of his profile, his physique, occupying your gallery. You appeared to be quite selective in when you took the photos, too. More often than not, you emulated Rembrandt style lighting, and the pictures you had favourited were those that reminded him of ancient Greek etchings and sculptures. When did you have the time to do this? How had he not discovered this before? He could not wipe the smirk off his face in time as he saw your shadow fall over him. Far from innocent, weren’t you? The grasp over the camera grew slack, only saved by the habit you had formed of wrapping the strap around your hand to not let it hang loose. With a victorious raising of the eyebrows, Seonghwa turned the phone to you, showcasing what he had ‘just so happened to stumble upon’, and declared:

“I think we have a lot to discuss here, love. Take a seat.” Just when you were about to stiffly settle in the same place, he roughly pulled you to him and onto his lap, grunting as you collided with his powerful thighs. One arm immediately found your waist, fingers toying with the base of the corset, while the other, phone on display, rested like a guard over your legs.

“Now, let’s see… what a collection! How long has it been?” he scrolled slowly, making sure to elevate your sense of shame, though judging by your facial expressions, you were more than happy to be treated how you were at that moment. Eyes half shut, ragged breaths, you were alert and in anticipation. “You kissed me, so you can tell me.” He emphasised, raising up the phone to poke you lightly under the chin.

“A… about seven months…”

“Wow… and how long have you been together with mister Jung Wooyoung?”

“A year and a half…”

“And how long has he been… not satisfying you?” you gaped at Seonghwa in shock. He locked your mobile and set it aside, choosing to play with the metal loop attached to the choker he had picked for you, and tugging just enough for the pressure to build.

“What?”

“Well, evidently there is something that is not there anymore… and these hickeys don’t count, my love. So tell me, what is it?”

“Cheating. He is cheating...” It was challenging to muster up the courage to say the words out loud. It was the first time you openly acknowledged the act for what it was. No euphemisms, no bent truths. It was almost too much for you, as that lump in your throat that had formed during your last conversation with your boyfriend made an irksome return.

“How long?”

“I have had my suspicions for… eight months, confident for… three.”

“I see. I am so sorry, darling I-”

“Now who’s the one apologising?” You joked, a small smile returning to you as you let Seonghwa take the camera from your hands, his chuckle making you shiver.

“Then I hope you won’t need one from me when I do this,” Seonghwa’s voice dropped into a sultry tone before he traced your jawline with his fingers and closed the minimal space between you.

Hands roaming your body, gentle, barely there, treating you like you were a priceless centrepiece made of glass. Compared to the first you had shared, this kiss was an ocean, commencing with a series of lulling waves – a reminder that you need not worry about anything except yourself and what you desired. A crescendo with a building breeze, awakening you from a forlornness and leading you into a glowing, rekindled wanting. The climb towards the crashing tsunami, consuming you as, finally, you felt wholly acknowledged, adored, affirmed.

Your yelp was stifled as he deepened the kiss and let you down slowly onto the velvet fabric of the chaise longue, making sure that your head was lying on the miniature pillow in the corner of the seat by protectively cradling you. Once your back was against the material, Seonghwa hovered over you, a hand on either side while his right knee positioned itself between your legs, with it pushing your dress upwards. His tongue pressed against your teeth, begging for entrance which you readily allowed, and sighed at the feeling of it filling your senses, Seonghwa quickly becoming the only thing you ever wanted to taste. With a tilt of the head, it moved even deeper, while his body was radiating an immeasurable longing for you, its friction against yours nearly making you question your own sanity.

Once you broke apart for gasps of sweet oxygen, sharing the hot air and watching a lewd string of saliva stretch and break between you, you mumbled out a breathy question, which you knew to be your last as you were growing more and more desperate for this man’s heavenly touch.

“Seonghwa… but why?”

“You can only see me. I can only see you. It simply makes sense, no?” he responded, giving you a quick peck on your reddened lips, followed by a couple more on your cheek, until he was right by your ear, “Let me show you that you deserve so much more, darling. Let me show you worship. May I, my love?” his beautiful, dark eyes staring into yours as he awaited your agreement.

“Yes.”

“Très bien.”

With that, the choker flew off you in one swift swipe, and, suddenly, your neck was exposed to him. Hungry orbs trained on the mark that your boyfriend had left, and soon enough Seonghwa’s lips were abusing the same sensitive spot, teasing the skin. After giving it his love and special attention, he moved to another area right beside it, repeating the action, while his knee moved higher for more support, accidentally brushing against your clothed core. You could not help but use the opportunity to buck your hips a little to add to the pooling desire. Unfortunately for you, Seonghwa had caught on too fast, and with satisfied lick, rose up and pushed himself off the chaise longue.

He regarded you through half-lidded eyes, his own arousal starting to build. No longer were there traces of the other man on you. You were free to choose whomever, and you chose him – Seonghwa. This moment had to become timeless.

“Darling, as much as I would love to ravish you right here right now, we have some photos to retake.” He could barely contain himself as you whimpered with frustration, rubbing your thighs together. He reached over to grab the camera and your phone, and added a request for you to undress. Completely.

Erection rubbing against him as he ambled towards the stand, Seonghwa heard a zip, followed by a series of rustles. “You can throw them off set for now, I do not mind.” He called out, his back still to you. A thump, and quietude. Finally at his rightful place as photographer, he let himself retrain on the scene, and felt his heat rise to unprecedented heights. He realised – this was exactly what he had been imagining every time he had a model work with him. Every time he had anybody over, this was what had been guiding his vision. You. Only you. Sat patiently, waiting for his direction.

You heard the clicking of the aperture, and took in Seonghwa’s black-clad form on the stool behind the camera. It was easy enough to guess why it was uncomfortable to remain in one place, but you were not about to ruin the photoshoot. You were a professional, after all.

“Do you think you can show me how you touch yourself?” he asked, readying his camera. You were still a little shy, so he urged you on: “You have so many photos of me, darling, show me how you get off to them. I know you do, my love.” Blushing, you finally acted, and Seonghwa could not believe it.

Sliding a finger between your slick folds, you wetted it with your own arousal and began to rub slow circles over your sensitive clit, head tilting back.

“Legs a little wider for me,” a flash, “that’s it, well done. What are you thinking of, ma belle?”

“Ah… y-you…” the sinful mumble was electrifying, and one of Seonghwa’s hands drifted towards his bulge, which had grown even larger, starting to become problematic for his concentration.

“What specifically, Y/N?”

“H-how you could take me, right here.”

“Take you? Elaborate, tell me everything. And yes, just like that, beautiful.”

Your hand began to move faster, flicking the nub, while the fingers of your other hand took to producing unimaginable sounds as they curled to stimulate the clit even further and progress to glide into your pussy with ease. A course of flashes and clicks signified that Seonghwa particularly enjoyed this course, so you did not hold back and let yourself moan, whispering his name as your high started to approach.

“How you could- ah! Make me come. In any way- AH, Hwa, I’m close-” beloved fantasies floated before you as you continued your performance.

“You are gorgeous, Y/N, I’ll make you come, not to worry, darling, just one more shot, okay?” he cooed as he continued to palm himself through his trousers, watching you bring yourself to a euphoric ruin.

“I- I am n-not sure I’ll la-ast-” you cried out, the orgasm imminent.

“That’s perfect, Y/N, show me.” His finger hovered over the button, like a panther lying in wait to capture its next kill.

“S-Seonghwa!”

“Yes-”

A flurry of shots surrounded you as you shut your eyes and were hit by a satisfying climax that caused you to sink back into the sofa and left your sex pulsing, hot juices trickling out and coaxing Seonghwa out of his digital hiding. It was virtually impossible for him to contain himself any longer, so with a few quick changes to settings, he set an automatic interval timer, for the camera to continue capturing the intimacy, but now with him in the second starring role.

Not taking his gaze off you, Seonghwa slipped out of his Oxfords, and neatly folded his button up and trousers, while having been reduced to a miniscule tremor due to the never-ending pressure on his trapped member, which had already leaked precum onto his boxers. Another flash, and he was walking towards you, ablaze from how you studied him, so alluringly dishevelled and dedicated to him.

A real life Adonis, a mortal blessing seeking you out and yearning for your caress. His equally well shaped cock twitched as he stood off to one side of you, at an impeccable ninety degrees from the camera to capture his length and salaciousness of the scene. Having recovered from your high, you were enthusiastic to please and dropped to your knees as Seonghwa gave the member a couple of pumps. Crawling forward, you innocently opened your mouth, lolling your tongue out. A perfect picture, you knew it.

“Care to prepare me before I make you feel good, ma belle?” he did not need to ask twice.

As soon as he let his hand fall to his side, you replaced it with your own, and with the other massaged his balls, attentive to every flex of muscle, every groan he held back. Now, that was not acceptable. You wanted to hear this man say your name at least once if he truly held you in his heart. You shot him a quick look, and upon seeing that he had bit his lower lip and he was already hazy, took his tip in your mouth, circling it with your tongue and giving it a couple of light sucks. A gasp promoted your continuation, and you teased his hole while not ceasing to give his base thorough focus.

Shaken, Seonghwa could only manage a low, guttural moan as you moved to take in half of his length, still keeping up the intoxicating patterns with your tongue. He gingerly pushed a lock of hair out of your face, unable to utter anything when you gazed up with curiosity. With that, you took a quick breath, and by pulling yourself forward using Seonghwa’s legs, you took him in until the cock hit the back of your throat and caused tiny tears to well up.

“Ah- Y/N, you- mfph-” nothing had ever sounded better than this you leaned back, with only the tip remaining between your lips, and then slid back down, speeding up as you listened to Seonghwa’s sinful vocalisations.

Feeling his member harden, you were about to pick up the pace even more, but your endeavour was cut short by Seonghwa placing his palm on your crown, and tapping you with his index finger a couple of times.

“Th-thank you, love, now I want to make you feel good.” A loud pop resounded as you removed yourself, resulting in the man fighting back a shudder. “Ah, but I don’t have-”

“I have the implant, and you don’t have to come inside.”

“Wasn’t planning to, love, I want to paint over you, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.”

Seonghwa sat on the chaise longue, much as he had done at the very beginning while still clothed, and reached out to take your hand and walk you to him. Only you existed to him, a realisation that turned to fact as he sped up your movements, roaming your body and helping you lower yourself onto his throbbing dick. Prior to giving him the full pleasure, however, you ran the soaked pussy lips, softened by a climax and yearning for more, across it, to coat and lubricate it with your nectar. And finally, you sank onto the member, the dizzying feeling of fullness making your walls clench around it, and Seonghwa’s nails dig into your waist.

He let you remain motionless to get used to him, and to have the camera do its magic, but was ecstatic once you rose again, and began to ride him while lazily rolling your hips. You were now moaning without inhibition, Seonghwa’s name sounding simply right. When you cried out, his cock hitting at just the right spot, he rushed to soothe you by stroking circles over your pelvis, but the concern quickly dissipated as you uttered, much to his delight:

“Seonghwa, this is so-so good…”

“You’re perfect, my love. So perfect for me.” He mumbled back, kissing your shoulder blades.

Only fate could have brought him to you, or you to him. It was as though you had been made for one another, fluid and communicating through exquisite body language. A flash. Another. A priceless collection marking yours and Seonghwa’s evolution into a divine creative partnership. Undefined by standards, understood by inspiration and artistry.

“Mm, love how you fill me up so well, Hwa, please-” the knot in your stomach continued to grow as you grinded on his dick.

“So amazing, my darling, my muse.”

Seonghwa reached over and stimulated your clit while your breathing turned shallower, and you attempted to speed up. The action proved difficult, as with your climax fast approaching, your movements became more disjointed and dysrhythmic. Clearly, they became so uncontrollable, that he decided to take matters into his own hands. Melting into his touch, you followed as he stood up, careful to keep his member inside of you, and told you to bend over, keeping your ass up in the air.

Arranging for the best angle, he checked the camera, and, once confirming that the shot was going to be ideal, inhaled and glided his length into you, progressively picking up the speed until what had been a slow exploration was now him pounding into you, skin on skin, slapping against one another. You let out the uncontainable yelps of pleasure, tuning into a higher and higher pitch until your comments were mere incoherent babble. Thoughts clouded over, you could only focus on Seonghwa and your state on the verge of orgasm.

“AH…ah… Please… Hwa… don’t stop- I’m about to-”

Your yell was interrupted by him increasing the pace to an unprecedented level, accelerating you into an unthinkable crash as you shook with your climax. The way in which you enveloped him, and how you reacted to his demands and touch was becoming too much, and a bead of sweat was threatening to roll down his face as he prayed he would not come while your pussy clenched around him, the walls mercilessly pulsating as he built himself up to his high, which came sooner rather than later, and only just in time did he manage to pull his member out, and watch as strings of cum decorated your lower back and buttocks.

You collapsed on the floor, while Seonghwa fell onto the chaise longue, the back hitting his, and the two of you silently rejoiced in a shared ideal, illuminated by the continuing flashes.

“My love?”

“Mm?” you hummed, listening to Seonghwa stepping around you and shutting off the camera, only to approach you again.

“May I pick you up? Let’s go get cleaned up.” Sleepily, you raised your arms and let him lift you up, first to stand, and next to pick you up bridal style, making you giggle. “Off to the showers we go! Oh, the benefits of having a guest room at work.” He rambled light-heartedly, pecking you on the cheek, grinning, and disappearing into a dark corridor.

For the first time in a while, you felt, as Seonghwa had said, satisfied. Nothing could be more right.

You had insisted that you still needed to go home, even though it was long past midnight. But you did promise that, on that exact morning, you were going to break the news that you were leaving your soon to be ex. Life was looking brighter, and the taxi driver had already called you and Seonghwa a couple, which both of you had actively welcomed.

“I am going to Europe. In two weeks.” The brilliant young man stated as he held your hands in his while standing by the taxi, at the entrance to your apartment building.

“Oh… uhm… where?” you tried to conceal your disappointment, failing miserably.

“Brussels.” The cheeriness in his voice confused you, but as you tried to pry yourself away and mumble a “Bon… voyage?”, he beamed and embraced you.

“Two tickets, darling. You are coming with me. And I won’t accept no for an answer.”

“Then I won’t say no. All the more motivation for me, Hwa.” You snuggled into his trench coat, memorising the aroma so it could help you last the next few hours in that damned apartment.

“Let me know how it goes, okay?” his concern did not fail to make your heart flutter, and you hugged him tighter.

“If you see me at your doorstep in these same clothes, you’ll know it went… supremely well.”

“That’s why you have your good luck collar on.” Seonghwa joked, freeing one arm to poke your leather-covered neck.

“Ha, sure. Well, I’ll be off and see you soon.”

Sharing one final kiss, you departed into what you were looking forward to no longer call your home.

Upon entry, you needed a moment to adjust to the darkness. Assuming Wooyoung was asleep, you decided against entering the bedroom and occupying the sofa. If you were to breakup, it was better to start hyping yourself up early by separating yourself. There was no emotion attached to the walls, to the rooms, to him anymore. You just wanted out. As soon as possible. There was no place for you here, not when Seonghwa was waiting.

You lied down on the couch, exhausted, and what you had assumed to be five minutes of shuteye quickly turned into a deep slumber, recounting the beautiful revelations and your destined happiness. If only the man who was blankly staring at the ceiling, felt the same way. But it was impossible to, after he had spent the entire day lost in memories of you and him, of how you had been before he had gone astray and found temporary fun.

He had prepared an elaborate dinner in an attempt to impress you, only for it to be stuffed into plastic boxes to grow cold and inedible in the refrigerator. Had grown sick with worry over your disappearances and ignorance of his emotional state. And then, the final straw. You, and him, revoltingly enamoured, sharing saliva right under his damn windows. Wooyoung had vowed, today, to change, so who had allowed you to do what he had done? Were you not better than that?

Wooyoung crept out of the bedroom to at least catch a glimpse of you, and there you were a sleeping beauty. He had never seen you smiling in your sleep before. It was because of him, wasn’t it? That bastard, stealing what was not his. Or were you just so ready to give yourself away? Were you not the epitome of loyalty, standing by Wooyoung’s side no matter what? Who gave you the right? No, this could not be. This was wrong on all levels. This was not you, this was an impostor. A possessed version of you, about to do something you would regret. How could he prevent you from leaving, he wondered, toying with the clay-cutting wire in his hands.

#k-labels #ateezlovenet #seonghwa x y/n #wooyoung x y/n #seonghwa x reader #wooyoung x reader #park seonghwa #jung wooyoung #seonghwa smut #wooyoung smut #park seonghwa smut #jung wooyoung smut #ateez smut

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daryascurse · 1 year ago

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TROPETEMBER 2: "Second Chance at Love"

♡ 𝘙𝘦𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘳 𝘉𝘳𝘢𝘶𝘯 𝘹 𝘙𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳

pov : second person, no specified pronouns, no physical description; ~modern AU Attack on Titan ☆ rating + tags: SFW: rated PG13 for implied mature situations and alcohol; second chances, fluff, mild angst, mild hurt / comfort, mild friends to lovers ☆ word count: ~2.9k ☆ ao3

After the breakup, you spent much of your time thinking not of your ex, but of Reiner Braun. Maybe so precisely because he wasn’t your ex, he never could be. It wasn’t only because you’d never dated. Rather, the “never dating” was so peculiar that unlike any other situationship that would still be given the “ex” label out of convenience, it felt almost sacrilegious to mar Reiner with the title.

“We just… had a weird thing,” is the best way you can explain it to friends made in years past, ever since you’d been the one to abruptly sever ties when the new relationship began.

They bat their lashes across cafe tables or send exclamation points through the text messages hovering on your screen as you wind through the story.

“But did you…” they inevitably say. “You know.”

“Not – no,” you say reluctantly. “But – almost. Several times.”

The anniversary of one of those almost times has just passed. You were acutely aware of it, in a way that came more innocuously than the daily dance your fingers take across Instagram to check his profile for new posts, to check any stories you’d shared, to check if he’d viewed. Those actions are intentional. In contrast, you hadn’t initially meant to remember this particular story. You’d just come across that one song when you shuffled through your playlists, the song that made you stop in your tracks as, rather than your front door on your way out of the home, a highway rose in front of your eyes.

Reiner was driving, fingers thick on the steering wheel, eyes honey-colored as he squinted into the sunset. The passenger seat was uncomfortably plush, your knees drawn together and one foot bouncing against the floor. He was going a little fast, his shoulder muscles curved carvings in the dim light that pushed his posture further. He was sitting up, higher, closer and closer to the wheel.

And he was younger, as you were; a good seven years younger than in the present moment your hand paused on your headphones.

The song changed.

“This is a great one,” Reiner had just said, and it was because you had been talking about the artist already.

“But have you heard the last one on the album? With, uh…”

Reiner’s eyebrows jumped, golden wires knit across his forehead, and he interrupted you with the name of the featured artist. “Sorry,” he added.

“Yes,” you said with a purr in your voice, not even minding the interruption.

“It’s good,” Reiner said in his diplomatic, thoughtful way. “But it’s not my favorite. I don’t think it’s either of them at their best.”

“No way,” you said. You remember that drive to your home, and the part of that conversation where you insisted that this song was “really good, actually.” And you’d kept that opinion, and through the years, when that song popped up, you kept thinking of what else you’d say to Reiner if you could go back to that moment. In the last few months, you’ve noticed that if you link songs to your social media posts, and you later check his streaming music, he’s listened to those artists and added those songs to the playlists. You wonder, when you post that artist from that discussion, if he holds the memory the same way you do.

But more than the memory of the music is the subsequent memory. Reiner hadn’t driven you straight home. There was a parking lot behind the local ballet studio, where he had pulled off, and where you two had sat for a moment without words.

The car filled with the earthy smell of him, the sour smell of alcohol still beating from your mouth, and when his eyes turned to you, your gaze must have been glassy back at him. The two of you had unbuckled at some point, must have, because you leaned into each other so easily. His hand cupped at the back of your head. The kiss had the remnants of the tipsy afternoon, something still giving enough courage for you to twist your fingers into his shirt and pull him closer.

“You’re still drunk,” Reiner said softly, kissing the side of your cheek.

“No,” you said, and meant it. “If I’m drunk, then you are too, and you shouldn’t have driven.”

“Stop arguing. I’m trying to think of reasons to be a good person right now,” Reiner said, and his thumb stroked under your ear.

“I don’t want you to be a good person,” you’d said in petulance.

“Someone has to be,” Reiner said.

His fidgeting betrayed his words.

“But what about this is bad?”

“The location,” Reiner said, and as you rolled your shoulders back, opening your body to him, his hand skated down your neck, over your chest, further down. “People could come out.”

“Where else is there?”

“I don’t know,” Reiner admitted in a thick voice.

“Can we go to your house?”

“Can’t,” Reiner said as his fingers roamed. “My cousin’s family’s visiting.”

His hand turned on the fabric, your skin waiting and beating beneath for him to touch you, and that’s when the back door to the studio opened and two instructors came out. They were barking at each other, not noticing the car stalled so close with two hot-blooded young adults palming each other’s bodies, but it lurched you into panic.

“Stop,” you hissed at Reiner, and sat up in a frenzy. His hand took a moment to draw away, and his breath was labored as he started the car.

“What if they saw?”

“They didn’t,” Reiner had insisted, and he reached to cup his hand around your thigh as he drove out of the lot. You’d muttered something, mollified enough, and turned your hips into the seat as he kept massaging his grip higher. But you were left burning and touchless when he dropped you off, the two of you unable to find another place to park and give into desire.

This happened time and time again.

You especially think of that late summer night behind the ballet studio, and the other close encounters peppered across your hometown, whenever you pass it on a weekend trip to see your family.

“I’m worried about you,” your best friend says slowly through the speakerphone as you drive into the town this evening.

“What do you mean?”

“Have you dated anyone since the breakup?”

“I’m fine,” you say, rolling eyes unseen.

“Stalking Reiner’s accounts doesn’t count, you know. As seeing someone.”

“I’m not interested in seeing anyone,” you say, flicking the turn signal with irritation.

“Yeah, because you’re only interested in Reiner.”

It smarts, somehow, to hear out loud from another voice. “I’m not,” you say. The lie feels instinctual and wrong at the same time – because that’s how you realize it is a lie. “It’s just – I mean, I’ve told you, right?”

Of course you have. All of your friends know, either as updates to the Reiner story, or as earnest details shared in the first telling, that he’s been viewing your posts, interacting with them just shy of personal comments. That he streams the songs you share – “the exact same.”

“Am I – like, am I being delusional?” you always check, and they always give an emphatic no that could just be kind.

“Do you even know where he is?” the voice on the phone continues. “Is he in town?”

“I think at some point over the last year he went back to Marley. For his family, his mom’s side is all there. At least that’s what I think, that’s what I saw over summer.”

Reiner had said four or five years ago that you, and, as a sidenote, a handful of friends, were the only reasons he ever came back. If you go to another social media website, something abandoned for years by yourself and your generation, and scroll through messages reaching back near to a decade, you’d find the sentiment memorialized among other sweetnesses too painful to read now.

“I’m going to stop,” you’ve said to yourself before at night, when the camera angles have been exhausted and no lighting is flattering or natural enough to add a personal touch to some screenshot shared to the close friends story really meant for Reiner’s eyes. “I’m going to take him off the close friends list, I’m going to stop posting for him. I’m going to stop looking at his music. I’m stopping.”

And in the morning, there’s the notification that Reiner has liked your post.

“Should I try actually reaching out to him again?” you say again and again to your friends, and echo it now.

“What’s the last thing you sent him, again?”

You drum your fingers anxiously. “I said ‘happy birthday.’ And that was it, I just remembered it was his birthday. But he read it and didn’t respond.”

There’s always a pursed lip, a sad shake of the head, a sympathy in the eyes. “I wouldn’t. I think the ball is in his court.”

You know this. It’s a knowledge that burns even as the conversation shifts, as you head up the hill and eventually hang up the phone before turning into the driveway. You’ve known this since you first reached out with hesitance after this breakup, and sent the first message to mend the bridge.

“I’m sorry I cut you out of my life when I was in that relationship,” you’d written to Reiner when you unblocked him. “You’ve been someone so important to me for years and years, regardless of how that’s looked or where you’ve been or where I’ve been. I understand if you’d rather leave things as they are now. I just hope you’ve been well.”

And I miss you, you wish you’d clearly added, because for all the views and likes, Reiner has only ever said one thing to you in these months since the breakup, one sentence to haunt you:

“I guess I was important enough to get blocked.”

Of course he was important enough to get blocked so that you could focus desperately on the relationship at hand. It was a relationship you’d tried to make yourself believe was meant to be forever, was worth more than the chance of Reiner. The months since have proven it a lie.

“You hurt him,” is what one friend said once, and you hadn’t expected that harsh truth to cut so much.

You pace in your parents’ house for the afternoon and the following morning, the hallways small and closing in. The steps don’t shake Reiner from your mind.

“I’m going to get coffee,” you say to your mother, who waves her hand absently.

You park further away in the lot, the ballet studio innocuous at the end of the shopping plaza. Pulling in here, by the post office and gym, a casual visitor wouldn’t even know that there were more parking spaces hidden beyond, where you and Reiner had parked before.

“Cut it out,” you mutter in self-admonishment.

There are a few cars looping around the lot this lazy morning. You cut across the asphalt as you make your way to the concrete island where the coffee shop hums with mild activity. A black Jeep turns, lurches slowly over the speedbump, and jerks again as it stops to let you pass. You raise your hand, a brief glance to your right in grateful apology.

And your stomach drops as you recognize the face behind the windshield.

You were wrong. Reiner isn’t with his family in Marley anymore.

Reiner is beautiful. It’s something you’ve always thought over the years, a beauty that chiseled firmer into his features rather than hardening over as he grew into the structure of his firm jaw and arched nose. Something in his blonde hair is darkening, silvers creeping in at the roots. And as you freeze with a foot on the curb, every shadow painted across his face as he stares back through the window, you can see the gaunt age starting to pull below his cheekbones and press crow’s feet into the side of his eyes. He looks older than the last time you’d seen him in person three years ago, and the palm muscles of your hands cramp as you wonder how he views you in turn.

He’s still beautiful.

Your blood is ice, even as your breath is too hot. Your head is dizzy. It feels like minutes have passed, but it’s been mere moments, all simultaneous and infinite. His car keeps rolling forward. You step up on the curb. Your feet are still heading towards the coffee shop as if relying on autopilot, but your hands have jumped up, hovering over your phone screen. You need to document this moment, to tell your friends a new chapter in this aching, never-ending saga of yearning for Reiner as he ignores you.

And then your name comes across the lot.

You turn, looking for that black car, and Reiner’s pulled it at an angle into a spot. He’s clambering out of the driver’s seat, his eyes wide.

He isn’t ignoring you now.

“Oh my god,” you say with a slacked jaw.

Reiner must have come from the gym. He’s wearing long shorts and a navy blue shirt dappled with sweat. It strings through his hair and shines on his throat.

The two of you stare at each other. You want to reach for him, and his hands waver in turn, forearms tense as he holds his car keys.

You’re afraid that if you touch him, he’ll vanish.

“Hi,” you say, and the word is thick with a waterfall of tangled emotion.

“Hi,” Reiner echoes.

He’s taller than you remembered seeing him before, on the last hike you’d taken together before you moved out of town and immediately met the person who is now your ex. Maybe he’s carrying himself with more confidence, maybe he’s worked on his posture. You straighten your spine in subconscious response.

“What are you doing here?” you ask. “I – um. I thought I saw some…”

Reiner watches you as your lips twist, as you try not to say, “I’ve remembered everything you’ve posted and I remember the location your cousin tagged you in for this parade a few months ago...”

“Didn’t you go back to Marley?” you say at last.

“My mom’s back here,” Reiner says. “We’re taking care of my younger cousin, she’s going to go to high school here. And I always liked it better here than Marley.”

You remember the words he’d said about you being the reason to stay in this town, and say silent.

“But anywhere��s better than Marley,” Reiner says, as if he’s reading your mind. God, you want to cry at how naturally you two fall back into this instinctual dynamic. “I don’t know how long I plan on staying around, but I don’t think I’ll move back there.”

“Going to travel the world again?”

You remember that too, the summer his best friend died, and he dropped out of the college he had been attending to go find himself abroad two continents away. How he had called you in forests and bars. And how you had moved the opposite direction for a while, and your phone conversations stretched for hours across foreign time zones.

“Maybe. I could say all the same for you,” Reiner says. “What are you doing back?”

“I see my parents sometimes. I’m not too far.”

Both of you hesitate. The small talk is painful.

“I was going to head in,” you continue at last, gesturing with your still-unlocked phone gleaming in your hand. “Do you want to get a coffee? I… I would love the chance to catch up with you.”

Reiner’s eyes are warm, comforting, like tea, and your words keep spilling.

“I think I have a lot I’d like to say to you.”

I’m sorry. That’s all that’s important.

“I know,” Reiner says. His lips waver, as if he’s struggling with the same entanglement you are. “I have a lot I’ve been wanting to tell you, too.”

“You could have texted back,” you say, trying not to sound bitter.

“I know,” Reiner says again. He smiles, and it looks crooked and sad. “I think you’ve always had more of a way with words than I have, though.”

“You could have called,” you say and wonder if he’s thinking of the times you are, when you were a continent away and in a different relationship where you and Reiner would still talk on the phone until it was four in your morning.

“I wanted to,” Reiner says slowly. “But, you know. It’s been a while.”

“It has been.”

There’s so much to say in those years of silence. You want to grab his hands and tell him you love him, that you’ve always loved him, for years and years and across oceans and cities. Even when it came in platonic waves, even when it was familial – you have always loved Reiner Braun.

“There’s a lot to say. But I have the time,” you say, half-turning your body again to the coffee shop, half-leaning into him, so afraid that if you look away, he’ll disappear.

Reiner nods.

“Okay,” he says, and his eyes break in that new pattern of crow’s feet as he smiles. You recognize this smile, a smile you’ve seen for years, and years, and years – years to come.

It’s what makes you open your arms, as he steps closer at last. Each slight shadow of freckle across his cheekbones is real, the familiar earthy smell of him, and his body is firm, warm, when you wrap your arms around him. Reiner’s hug back encloses your body into his. It’s a perfect fit. You’ve known it always has been.

♡

#tropetember #daryafics #aot #reiner braun #reiner braun x reader #reiner braun x y/n #reiner braun x you #reiner x you #reiner x reader #reiner x y/n #reiner aot #reiner snk #reiner snk x you #reiner aot x you #reiner braun fluff

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jetspikepub · 1 year ago

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HISTORY OF COWBOY BEBOP

Attention! This chronology is a mix of fiction and reality.

1965 - Shinichiro Watanabe was born

1994 - Faye was born

1995 - Shinichiro Watanabe debuted as a director in Macross Plus. First acquaintance with Keiko Nobumoto, Yoko Kanno, and others *1

*1 Macross Plus is still very popular

Cowboy Bebop project was initiated secretly. At first, the title was supposed to be Shooting Star Bebop *2

*2 Kawamoto's ideas and sketches as a project proposal at the very early stage of development

1998 4 - First airing of the show on TV Tokyo

6 - The broadcast on TV Tokyo finished with only 12 episodes aired. The final compilation-like episode, Mish-Mash Blues, was controversial

10 - The beginning of complete 26 episode ariring on WOWOW

11 - Masahiko Minami left Sunrise and established Bones animation studio *3

*3 Bones business card (back side)

1999 4 - The complete show broadcast finished on W0WOW. The question of Spike's fate in the final episode attracted a lot of attention *4

*4 Invitation to the launch party held on the night when the last episode aired

6 - Watanabe, Toshihiro Kawamoto, Keiko Nobumoto and others visited Morocco to gather materials for the movie *5

*5 In Morocco

8 - The Seatbelts live "Diggin' my POTATO Puti ~The Irresponsible Night to Dance~" was held at ON AIR EAST, Shibuya, Tokyo *6 (picture in brochure is missing 🤷‍♀️)

9 - A press conference dedicated to the movie production, later known as the "Phantom Lie Press Conference," was held at Blue Note Tokyo (at that time the movie release date was year 2000) *7

*7 Materials distributed to interested parties

2000 5 - The completion of the script

Autumn - Movie storyboard was done *8

*8 A storyboard by Nabeshin (Watanabe)

11 - Yoko Kanno's held the first recording of The Seatbelts in N.Y.

2000 12 - 2001 1 - The title "Cowboy Bebop: Knockin' on Heaven's Door" was chosen for the movie

4 - The launch of the official website

4-6 - The original novel СОЩВОЧ ВƐВОР Ц.Т. (Cowboy Bebop: U.T.) was published on the website; recording for the movie finished

7 - Ask DNA single release

8 - The completion of the movie, setting the preview at Kudan Kaikan, Tokyo *9

*9 Fans who came to the preview form lines

8 - The Seatbelts live "EARTH GIRLS ARE EASY Last Week End" at Shibuya AX, Tokyo

8 - Movie soundtrack "FUTURE BLUES" release

9 - Cowboy Bebop: Knockin' on Heavens' Door release

10 - Seatbelts FUTURE BLUES videoclip release

2007 - Faye recorded a video message to future self that was supposed to be delivered ten years later *10

*10 Young Faye in the video message

2013 - U.T. (Ural Terpsichore) was born

2014 - Faye was put in a cryogenic sleep after a spaceship accident outside Earth's atmosphere

2022 - An accident occurred at Astral Gate located between the Moon and Earth. Earth suffered catastrophic damage, the period known as Turbulent 20's (Roaring Twenties) began

2035 12 - Jet was born

2044 6 - Spike was born

Vicious was born

U.T., a journalist responsible for entertainment section, became a bounty hunter. A chaotic period immediately followed after the enactment of the Cowboy Law *11

*11 Younger days of the legendary cowboy revealed for the first time in this illustration for the novel

2048 - Debut of The Seatbelts

2056 - The Seatbelts song"Tank!" became #1 in music charts of the Solar System

2058 1 - Ed was born (however, it is unclear)

2064 - Jet resigned from ISSP after losing his left arm *12

*12 Jet before he lost his right arm, about 29 years old

2066 - Ed suddenly appears in an orphanage on Earth

2068 - Spike left the Red Dragon syndicate *13

*13 Spike from the Red Dragon era… he looks angry

Jet and Spike teamed up

Faye woke up from cryogenic sleep *14

*14 Sleeping Beauty?

Ed disappeared from the orphanage *15

*15 Edward made up her name, the real one is Françoise, isn't it?

Julia went missing *16

*16 The woman Spike was thinking about

Rashid (Dr. Mendelo) appears on Moroccan Street on Mars in a new guise *17

*17 Mr. Mendelo, isn't it a little too much for a tanning salon?

2069 - Ein was born *18

*18 He must have been a genius dog from birth

A record of Vincent's death in Titan War *19

*19 He had short hair when he was in the army

2070 - Spike left a lobster in the fridge on the Bebop and forgot about it

2071 - The main story of Cowboy Bebop

#cowboy bebop #cb knockin' on heaven's door brochure #spike spiegel #jet black #faye valentine #ed #radical edward #edward wong hau pepelu tivrusky iv #ein #vicious #julia #minor characters

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reginageorgesgirlfriend3020 · 9 months ago

Text

Sam carpenter as your girlfriend headcannons (Part 31)

You have a very specific song you wanna sing to Sam and you know it’s secretly her favorite song

You wrote your own song lyrics to a cover of Just the way you are by Bruno Mars and kept the chorus

So you went to the studio and began to record the song

Sam was working at the restaurant bar place as a bartender. She was cleaning the cups with a rag after serving some man and his wife a drink at the bar

You wanted to surprise Sam for your 1 year anniversary with her

You set everything up. Everyone watched you for karaoke night at the bar restaurant place

“Okay. Check 1, 2. Hi I’m (Y/n) and this song is my beautiful girlfriend Sam. I love you baby. This is for you. Happy Anniversary”. You said.

And you began to sing. “The way you aaaaare the way you aaaarrree”.

Sam listened to every word you sang and couldn’t help but get emotional. She began crying.

And after you were done singing and the song was over everyone clapped and whistled. And Sam walked over to you and kissed you so hard and you kissed her back. “Baby! That was beautiful! Do you really feel that way about me?” Sam asked.

“I do”. You said softly. “I love you so much. I’ve always loved you and I know I’ll feel this way about you forever”. You said.

Sam hugged you tight. “I love you. My beautiful, precious sexy girlfriend”. Said Sam.

Danny saw you perform your song. You smiled and gave you a head nod. And he left.

One night when you were asleep Sam came home from work. She got into bed and gently rubbed your back. “Baby”. Sam said softly. You woke up. “Mm”. You groaned. “Baby?” You said tiredly.

”I’m right here”. Sam said lovingly. “I got you something for our one year anniversary. Happy Anniversary babe”. She said.

You woke up fully and opened your present. It’s a football jersey. “Ooh cool! Thank you”. You said.

She gets the chills when you sing in a high pitched voice

Gets all tingly inside when you sing in a high pitched note with such passion

Loves to play with you especially board games such as connect 4 and monopoly

When you sing about her and you start to smile that seductive smile

Yeah, Sam freaking loves that!!

#sam carpenter #sam carpenter x y/n #sam carpenter x reader #sam carpenter × you #sam carpenter headcanons #sam carpenter x female reader #sam carpenter imagine #melissa barrera #melissa barrera x reader

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neutron-stars-collision · 9 months ago

Text

Deadlines & Commitments

Neil x F!Reader

Chapter 5 - Canary Wharf Underground Station

Masterlist; Chapter 4 Summary: The premiere of Don Quixote is here and you're very much not fine. Luckily, Neil know how to deal with that. Or does he? Warnings: Swearing, E-rated language, a decisive step into E-rated content at the very end :) Author's Notes: Apparently this new chapter is whole novel of 14.4k words because I cannot control myself whatsoever 🤷🏻‍♀️ And it's not even all of what was planned in the outline, so excuse the rather rude cliffhanger there. I promise though, a detailed continuation is coming ;) This chapter opens up the section of this fic that haunts my waking hours and sleepless nights so... brace yourselves ✨ As always, they're still very stupid and very into each other. And, as always, I only have an illusion of control over them. Without further ado - I hope you enjoy this nonsense and let me know what you think? 💕 Taglist: @hollandorks, @kristevstewart, @stargirl25 (let me know if you want to be added)

Every strike of the clock hand, bringing you mercilessly closer to the 6 pm curtain call, felt like a miniature heart attack, tightening the deadly loop around your stumbling heart. After you had stumbled back into the apartment close to 1 am after that fateful rendezvous at the studio, you foolishly hoped to get some sleep. But no such grace was deemed deserved for you.

Instead, you tossed and turned until 5 am before giving up entirely and focusing the restless energy on breaking in the pointe shoes for the evening and not messaging Neil. In that exact order.

You only succeeded at that first task.

When there was nothing left to do but show up at the Opera House later that afternoon, and the watch still proved the time did not want to willingly hurry the fuck up, you left the house with just enough minutes to spare to hop on the Jubilee line train as on every Wednesday morning. As if you had somewhere to be.

You drowned out the reasonable part of your brain, which helpfully reminded you how stupid this was, with a Don Quixote score blasting at full volume through your headphones and hurried through the walk with the usual brisque pace. You were not keen to admit that meeting Neil would offer peace of mind that nothing else seemed to provide. Or that ever since the night before, you could hardly get rid of him from your thoughts for longer than fifteen minutes at best.

Most importantly, perhaps, you did not want to think about the fact that whatever was happening between you had an expiration date. It always did. The only question was when and how far it would go before fate came knocking.

You only paused the music and took off the headphones when you stepped aboard the train and spotted Neil. He did not notice you, entirely engrossed by staring out the window, his pair of headphones perched atop his head. With the backdrop noise of beeping train doors closing behind your back, you allowed yourself another long look. Mostly admiring the fluffy golden strands falling over his eyes and the elegant curve of his profile, so striking in the harsh light of the overhead blinking fluorescents. A pathetic, dreamy sigh had to be swallowed for the sake of your dwindling pride as you crossed the remaining space and leaned over the empty seat next to Neil to give his head a light pat. He flinched, instantly taking off his headphones and turning towards you with wide eyes, poised to flee. You shot him an apologetic look, softened with another one of those fond smiles Neil seemed to have an ease of bringing out on your face.

“Why are you here?” the question was placed with that tint of a shocked gasp still present.

The confusion marred his features as Neil’s eyes wandered over your face as if not yet believing you were there.

“Ouch, I was hoping for a warmer welcome,” you shot him your best faux wounded look, following it with an arched eyebrow and a meaningful glance with an addition, “All things considered,”

It was impossible to stop the sudden influx of memories from flashing before your eyes as your brain helpfully offered highlights from the night before. How it felt to have Neil kiss your neck with all the devotion of a classical scholar. What it was like to be wanted by him.

If his responding blush was anything to go by, you were not the only one bombarded by memories. Neil dropped your gaze and swallowed hard, already making room for you to join him in the vacant seat. Only once you were sat snugly next to him, he raised his head again and spoke:

“You know what I mean. It’s early, and I-” he shook his head and reached out to grasp your hand, giving it a light squeeze, “Sorry,” it was paired with an innocent smile, the light of it making his blue eyes sparkle.

After that, there was no choice but to forgive him. Not that there was anything to forgive.

“You’re excused, sweetheart,” you returned the squeeze and enlaced your fingers, pressing your hands palm to palm. The skin contact was almost soothing, validating the very reasons why you had come there in the first place, “Answering your question: generalised anxiety disorder, stress, insomnia. You name it,” unsuccessfully shrugging off the unease, you broke the eye contact to stare at the stray eyelash, dotting his cheek. Without thinking, you reached out to brush it away, earning yourself another bloom of pink on his face and a wonderous gasp. It was a good enough encouragement to say what might yet be the most revealing truth of all, “I could barely stand still, so I figured I might as well get on the train and bother you,” by the end of the admission, you have dropped your gaze to the floor.

That was much better than seeing in real-time the effect of your confession on Neil. That plain understanding in the blue eyes always made you feel a little too seen. A little too transparent.

The weight of his hand within yours offered enough comfort for now. You could feel him trace small circles at the back of your palm, soothing and anchoring you in the present moment.

“I’d happily be bothered by you,” the hint of a smile in Neil’s voice acted like bait, drawing you out of the hiding.

You raised your head with caution, only allowing yourself to relax once you spotted a harmless grin on his face.

“Good,” you let go of his hand with reluctance, trying hard not to let yourself dwell too much on that flash of something close to disappointment on Neil’s face.

Sometimes, you still fooled yourself that those attempts at minimising the intimacy level could change things. That it could somehow make you more immune to his charms or less likely to get used to something that could never be permanent.

“Are you nervous about tonight?” the question offered a needed reprieve from the mess in your head.

As did the earnestness in Neil’s eyes, the desire to hear the answer and interest in what you had to say. Even if the mere reminder about the pre-premiere tightened the knot in your stomach and made you nauseous. You took a fortifying breath and sighed. The sound acted like the perfect preamble:

“God, yeah… It’s like, realistically, I know it’ll be fine. Probably. But I’m just freaking out” another frustrated groan resounded between you as you threw your restless hands and let them fall weightless in your lap.

The tapping foot was much more difficult to wrestle into obedience. So much so that you only stilted when you felt the heavy weight of Neil’s hand touching your knee with a dose of care. You glanced at him, aware of the deer-in-headlights look painted on your face. But, as usual, there were no cheeky puns to lighten the mood.

“It’ll be better than fine,” Neil squeezed your knee before lifting his hand and placing it back in his lap.

You tried not to ponder the devoid feeling left behind as the warmth of his touch faded from your skin. Instead, you turned towards him with an arched eyebrow and a provocative tone, hiding the insecurities:

“And how do you know that?” there it was again, that same desire for someone else to validate the fears and tell you what you have always suspected.

That you were not good enough for this. For anything at all. That it was best you stopped trying. That the only talent you possessed was talking shit and pretending to be someone you were not.

The depths of affection in Neil’s eyes did not seem to offer that type of honesty, however.

“Because you’re better than fine” the conviction in his voice tugged at the remains of sanity in your head as Neil mirrored your position and continued, the heated tone only growing stronger “You’re brilliant. Breathtakingly amazing and fucking incredible” you knew that battle was lost the moment you met his gaze, for now it was impossible to look away. You had been caught back in his orbit, as always, unable to move as Neil delivered the final sentiment, “And because I’m ninety per cent sure your brain is being a lying little bitch. Nothing more” then, just as you had begun to hope you could maybe look away from him or wake up from the spell, Neil leaned in to place a peck on your forehead.

Quick as lightning. It still made your heart pound with renewed energy. Still made you freeze with the wide-eyed look pasted onto your face. Still made you blush like an idiot.

Only after what felt like a solid five minutes you managed to shake it off, working hard to get past the blue screen of death in your brain and twist your lips into a sardonic smirk:

“You should become a PT,” the sparks in Neil’s eyes felt like instant gratification for the attempt at a joke, “People would pay a fortune for pep talks like this,” you hoped he would notice the gratitude shining through the mask you had put up.

That Neil would know just how much it meant.

“That’s more like it,” the answering grin told you that perhaps he did know.

Ever so carefully, he knocked your chin with his knuckles and shot you a wink, offering an out from the conversation you had hoped would show up.

You did not waste a chance like that.

“Are you coming on Friday?” it was another question you just had to ask.

Because, yes, he had technically said yes. Even accepted the PDF of a ticket you had sent him a few days before. But that didn’t mean anything. As far as you were concerned, Neil could still decide he had better things to do than attend a ballet performance on a Friday evening.

You did not dare look at him until you heard a reply.

“Obviously,” chancing a glance, you noticed the minor look of offence slowly transforming into a deadly smirk. Always too easily drawn in, you could feel its power of destruction as Neil added, “I’m even going to wear a suit. With a tie,” the pointed look following the sentence was meant only for you.

And was yours to interpret. There was heat there, blazing up his irises and making it too easy to drown in the blue. You watched as Neil glanced at your mouth, at how your teeth worried at the tender skin. You briefly wondered whether he wanted to know how it would taste on his tongue. You briefly considered asking him to try it.

Except that you didn’t. Because you did not think you had the right. Not yet.

Instead, you let out a low whistle and allowed your eyes to show exactly how this little bit of information made you feel.

“Damn… And you expect me to act normal?” the deadpan look could not erase the want easily seen on your face.

Even with just your imagination to rely upon, you knew the effect would be deadly. That seeing Neil on Friday might crumble your resolve into ashes and kickstart a chain of events you had tried to delay as long as possible. It would be a lie to say you were not anticipating it.

Neil only smiled, undeniably pleased about the effect of his words and your inability to pretend that you were unbothered. He leaned in closer, just enough so you would have no choice but to catch the smell of his intoxicating cologne, and replied:

“During the show? Sure,” the breath got caught in your throat, awaiting the second part of that answer as you stared back at him. The perfect pause executed with a flourish only Neil could be capable of, “After?” only half-aware of what was happening outside his blue eyes, you felt Neil’s hand cup your cheek. You stared as he carefully stroked your feverish skin and delivered the punchline, “We’ll see,” his touch was gone just as fast as you had felt it.

Yet the sentiment sent along with it would remain for much longer. You were sure of it.

“I’m holding you to that,” you held his gaze for a beat, cementing the hope that perhaps this time, those words would end up as something much more substantial than that – than words.

The responding nod was all you could hope for. And more. It opened a space for a comfortable silence, which settled over you like a blanket of ease. It soothed the nerves plaguing you since the moment you tried going to sleep.

After two stops, you broke the silence with a sudden thought:

“Actually, I’ve got an adjacent question that I’ve realised I never asked,” dropping the lead, you chanced a look at Neil.

As if sensing your gaze, he offered you a smile.

“Shoot, sweetheart,” the nickname rolled off his mouth with ease as if he was meant to call you that.

As if it came naturally. You still held a soft spot for ‘Cupid’, but this was something else. Something different.

“What station do you get off at?” ignoring the thoughts, you raised your head to stare at the Jubilee line graphic above the door on the opposite side of the carriage.

It was tricky to guess as you only knew Neil went further down the line than you, further than Southwark. The desire to know has been sparked by the same thing as usual. The sudden realisation that while you knew so much about him – the details of his childhood, the way he took coffee and how much he doubted his importance on the daily (idiot) – you did not know something that simple. It itched and scratched at your conscience almost as much as the mystery of his occupation did. And you felt this would be much easier to get out of Neil.

“Really deep, existential questions, I see,” his chuckle brightened your horizons, effortlessly getting rid of the sudden melancholy, “Canary Wharf,” you turned to him just as Neil offered the information.

Oh. Right. It was impossible not to perk up, lightening up like a dog that just got thrown a treat after hours of perceived starvation. Isle of Dogs painted a picture that fit what you thought of Neil. Except that it also didn’t.

The high-rise buildings and men in suits chasing after the colourful plastic bills. That wasn’t him. But the elegance, the perchance for dreamers to wander into the district searching for their salvation. Yeah, that seemed just about right.

“Ooh, fancy,” the cheeky smile had to do in place of a different comment. You immediately followed it with a question that needed courage to be asked: “Can I accompany you there?”

That was the crux of the issue. The fact upon which the fate of your soul was hanging. Not to be dramatic, that is.

“You know I can’t deny you anything if I tried,” Neil’s reply was strengthened by the look in his eyes, yet again boring into the depths of your soul in search of something he seemed desperate to find.

The soft smile painted upon his lips was hard to ignore, immediately drawing yours from its hiding place. The weight had been lifted off your shoulders, even if just by a fraction.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you met his gaze for once not scared of what you could find there.

All that mattered was the promise held within the unspoken. Now, Friday evening had an importance that went beyond the curtain call and final bows at the end. Now, you could hardly wait for the night to come.

The rest of the journey passed in peace, filled with light conversations and laughter that you hoped would stay with you for a while after you had parted. That it would be enough to keep the fears at bay during the upcoming evening.

Just as you had discussed, when the PA system called in Canary Wharf, and the view outside got transformed into the steely, brutalist sci-fi wet dream that the station was, Neil shot you a quick smile, grabbed your hand and got up from the seat, urging you to follow his steps. You did what he asked, stuck in a daze that only faded when the first rays of sunlight hit your face on the escalator to the ground level. You did not want to say goodbye. As much as it was obvious to you, it was still something you did not want to admit. Not out loud, anyway.

Instead, you tightened the hold on Neil’s hand and pulled him to a stop as soon as you were both standing in the ticket hall, far from the crowds. His questioning gaze was full of fondness. It fuelled the bravery you desperately sought as you placed your free hand on his shoulder and rose on your tiptoes to close the remaining gap. Pressing a tender kiss to his lips was the easiest of fates as you sighed into his mouth and allowed yourself to soften in the embrace Neil willingly reciprocated with only a second of delay. He let go of your hand to place both his palms around your waist, pulling you closer. Without you needing to be the forward one, Neil deepened the kiss with a quiet gasp, betraying the need underlining his moves.

Yet again, the kiss felt ground-breaking. Almost revolutionary in a way you could hardly describe. But, above all else, it felt important.

It was disappointing to discover that you both still needed oxygen after a kiss like that. With reluctance, you pulled back and took half a step away. Your hand stayed clasped over his shoulder, maintaining the precious contact and giving you an excuse to stay close. That first hesitancy to let go was sweetened by the look on Neil’s face, the dazed haze clouding his gaze. Despite the sudden nerves, the multiplying questions about whether you had not just fucked it all up beyond repair, you could not help but smile in the face of his puzzlement.

It took Neil an additional minute to squeeze your waist lightly and ask the question with all the innocence of a confused blonde puppy:

“Is this something that we do now?” his unfairly long eyelashes bated, the blue of his eyes flickering in and out from view in the emphasis of his befuddlement.

You did your best to ignore the pounding heart in favour of owning up to the rash decisions. The truth was you had no clue whether you did that now. It was never discussed. But, considering the implications of half the conversations you have had since the first meeting, it did not seem entirely out of place. Kinda.

So, instead of running away like the cowardice suggested, you shrugged and met his wandering gaze with something resembling composure:

“That’s up to you,” it was something you were sure of.

Something you tried to stick to when in doubt. Only this was the first time you brought it up and stated the rules of the play so Neil would be in on the secret. That haze in his eyes had faded by now, leaving watchful curiosity in its place.

“Why?” the caution in his tone made you swallow past the rising uncertainty and press forward.

Just fucking say it. You took a deep breath and dove in.

“Because I know what I want, but I don’t want that to determine what happens to us” the sentence felt clunky and graceless, but the understanding dawned in his eyes all the same.

Neil studied you in silence for what felt like ages before he placed another question. This one was devoid of confusion:

“And what do you want?” it was the simplest of questions anyone could ask.

But also one that you did not feel the need to answer. He knew it already. You offered him a signature cheeky grin and leaned in again to place a kiss on the corner of his mouth.

“Bye, Neil,” you let go of him with the farewell replacing your careful touch. This time, you did not want to look back, so you let the addition carry on the wind as you started walking away, “I’ll text you later,”

***

The pre-premiere night was a relative success. By that, you mostly meant that no one died; you managed to step onto the stage and more or less performed the choreography without fuck ups. None of these things meant that the anxiety had somehow disappeared before Friday evening and the official opening night. It was still present, making you jittery with nerves. Still, lowkey made you wonder what would happen if you bailed and made the second Cupid take up your share of shows.

Because the fact that you were given both openings did not escape your attention. You were painfully aware of the responsibility weighing down your shoulders. The heaviness settled in your bones as you went through the motions of the Friday morning. The only light in the tunnel came from Neil’s texts, reassuring and distracting, as always. You did your best not to dwell too much on what could happen after the show. In this case, your best was hardly enough.

By the time the clock struck 4 pm, you had just finished the final on-stage rehearsal. The sweat trickled down your temples as you escaped the company for a moment of peace. The silence was found in the backrooms, the dusty corridors not yet filled with stagehands, prop masters or assistants. But it wasn’t long now.

You slid down the wall into sitting and sighed. The restless mind already going through the itinerary:

4:25 pm – light lunch

4:50 pm – costume change

5:30 - in-costume rehearsal (short)

6:00 – make-up and hair

6:30 – be ready

7:00 – fucking showtime.

The schedule was simple; it offered no space for doubts. But doubts still came because that was a first. A first role of such a calibre. The first time you desperately wanted it to go well while also fearing that it never would.

And then, there was also that part concerning your addition to the guest list. That one ticket you had requested and a top-tier seat reserved in one of the red velvet boxes. That pair of eyes you wanted to impress the most despite logic and sense. With a tired sigh, you unlocked the phone and started typing a message:

/ 🏹, 4:07 pm/ I genuinely don’t think I’ll make it till curtain call.

/✝️, 4:09 pm/ You better survive. I’ve got plans, you know.

/✝️, 4:09 pm/ And before you try it – those plans require your presence, Cupid.

/✝️, 4:10 pm/ So get your shit together, sweetheart.

/ 🏹, 4:11 pm/ See, you did it again! Pep talks guru in the making.

/ 🏹, 4:11 pm/ I’ll try, no promises, however.

/ 🏹, 4:11 pm/ Are you actually going to wear a suit?

/✝️, 4:13 pm/ Yes. I’m getting ready as we speak.

/✝️, 4:15 pm/ And considering how brave you are, I’m going to be very generous right now.

What? You stared at the last message until the screen on your phone turned black. A thousand possibilities knocked around your head, leaving nothing but confusion in their wake. Because while the brief conversation already did what you expected it to, leaving you just a little calmer, that was not an outcome you expected. It was not anything you expected.

When your phone flashed with the notification of a new message, you lurched forward to unlock it with enough haste to mess up the code twice before finally typing it correctly. The messaging app opened first, already foreseeing your needs. Yet nothing, no conscious thought or expectation, prepared you for the sight. For the one photo without a word of caption. A photo of Neil, standing in what appeared to be his bedroom, judging by the background, sans a shirt.

The trademark smirk on his face, the eyes staring at the phone screen, undoubtedly fully aware of the effect this would have on you. And he wasn’t wrong.

You stared, feeling your face heat up. Gaze shamelessly wandered over the planes of his chest and stomach, displayed in the photo for your perusal. You could already feel yourself going crazy, could feel the arousal pool in between your legs. All because of a photo. Just a photo.

You could try arguing with yourself that this was some anomaly. That you were acting up due to stress and tension, only that you knew it was none of those things. It was just Neil. Neil, and his seemingly perfect body you desperately wanted to get your hands on. And mouth, too.

Fuck. You groaned for the third time within the last fifteen minutes and lightly bumped your head into the wall behind you. Now, a trip to the bathroom before lunch was not only recommended but also mandatory. Slowly, you got up and stared at the screen.

It would be rude not to respond. Or so you dared think.

/ 🏹, 4:19 pm/ Thank you.

/ 🏹, 4:19 pm/ And fuck you.

/✝️, 4:20 pm/ You never know, you might.

/✝️, 4:20 pm/ Good luck and give them hell.

***

In the last few months, Neil has pretty much gotten used to that constant feeling of confusion. To the fact that if his brain could transmit one thought to him, it would be a question. What the fuck? Just so. Just that.

Some days, like on that particular Friday evening, the question would perhaps gain two more words. Precisely: What the fuck are you doing? He did not know. Apart from the fact that, somehow, at some vague point, the friendship with Cupid transformed into something else. Something that had him going insane, sending her photos without a shirt on and potentially letting himself be led into some sort of an arrangement. A situationship that would most likely involve sex, but not love. Not feelings. That much was clear from the start. And that was fine. It really was. Neil didn’t love her; he only… liked her. A lot. And he wanted her.

A lot.

Enough so to ask no questions and agree to whatever fate offered him. It would be fine. And, perhaps most importantly, he already had a friendship out of it, which… was always good. Worth it. Probably.

Neil shook his head against the idiotic thoughts and picked up the pace as he left the station and hurried towards the opera house. The thin coat did nothing against the biting wind, so he attempted to undo the damage by tightening the olive scarf around his neck. Although there was still time left till curtain call, Neil could hardly slow down the pace. The strange sense of anticipation would not let that happen. Oh, so carefully, he adjusted the loose hold over the bouquet of roses. A dozen flowers, equally split between pink and red ones. While Neil knew she would still appreciate him showing up without the bouquet, coming empty-handed seemed wrong.

And then, there was the whole bit about coming to see her after the show. The instructions were relatively simple: leave the main building and walk around the side to Stage Door. There, drop her name to a scary usher, asking for permission to come backstage. It’ll be fine. She said. Neil wasn’t sure it would be fine.

But whatever. For that, he definitely needed flowers.

Only once the glass, grand front of the Royal Opera House appeared in his view, it was easier to breathe. To assure himself that he arrived right on time. Ahead of it, even. Following the stream of elegant theatregoers, Neil liked to tell himself that he fit in. That the attempt at looking like he belonged was successful. In truth, he had twice considered changing out of the suit and only followed the plan because of the very vivid memory of Cupid and the teeth worrying at the fragile skin of her lips that he had come to love kissing. She was worth the pain.

The reality of the evening only dawned once Neil had managed to find the correct box and his seat, a fortifying glass of Prosecco sparkling in the glass flute held in his hand. The ballet programme, acquired at the price of a small donation, opened in his lap. The cast list had snatched his attention first as his eyes unconsciously scanned the character list for the one that mattered the most. His gaze stopped at her name, the betraying finger coming up to trace the letters like the idiot that Neil is.

With a sigh of frustration, he turned the page, revealing a photograph. A still from the ballet itself. Most importantly, a still portraying Cupid in the garden of the Nyads, the painted trees behind her back making up the scene. Except that Neil could barely look away from her to register anything or anyone else in the photo. She was ethereal, the white costume looking ablaze in the cold light of the scene. Feeling his pulse pick up again, Neil snapped the programme shut with a decisive move and dropped it on the tiny shelf by the box edge.

One last time, he checked whether the roses were still alive (thankfully) and took out the phone from his pocket. There were no new messages, but he opened the conversation with her all the same. Without letting himself think about it too long, Neil typed out a simple text:

/✝️, 6:55 pm/ I’ll see you after the show. Good luck, sunshine.

He hit send and exited the app without a second thought. Cupid would see it after, but that hardly mattered. Neil made sure his phone was on mute before he pocketed it again, and turned his gaze towards the stage. The curtain was still down, the red material heavy and embroidered with golden thread. It fitted in with the grand interior of the opera house, the splendour of every spot he laid his gaze upon. Including the dome ceiling with a crystal chandelier hanging down. Neil no longer wondered why Cupid seemed so terrified of this evening, why the weight on her shoulders was so intense. Even the theatre itself was scary in its grandeur.

Before he could follow that line of thought, the door behind clicked open, and a flurry of voices rushed in, followed by the patrons themselves. An elegant, older couple shot him a friendly smile as they took the remaining seats in the box and settled in for the evening. A second bell rang out in the auditorium as theatregoers filled the seats. The night was sold out, as the billing in the foyer informed him. That, too, only made sympathy for her fears stronger. A quick, insane thought crossed his mind that Neil wished he could hug her. Wished he had more reassurance to offer than platitudes in texts that never provided true comfort. But it hardly mattered.

Neil downed the remaining prosecco with the third bell and leaned back in the seat. Fucking showtime.

***

By the end of Act 1, his hands were shaking. He dug his sweaty palms into the armrests and closed his eyes against the bustle of patrons getting up from their seats. And that was before the scene.

Because, sure, Neil knew Cupid would be present during some of the group scenes in the other two acts because she had told him so. But knowing and seeing were two different things. Seeing her right there on the stage, being just as incredible, stunning, and brilliant as he knew she was, was something else entirely. Cupid shone like a beacon, drawing his attention no matter what. Hell, half the time she was present in the scene, Neil was not sure he even registered what was happening. Talk about tunnel vision or whatever.

He had a feeling it would get only worse when her moment came. The solo that started it all. So, while the saner patrons visited the toilets and mingled in the bar, Neil sat frozen through the intermission, staring at the red curtain and hoping the twenty minutes would pass quickly. It was not even something he could explain, not an emotion he had been familiar with before. Sure, there had been crushes. Both fleeting, childish things and passion that made him believe love existed if he could feel so much for another person. But this was neither of those things.

It was endless admiration combined with enough fascination and passion to make Neil want to do stupid things. Like taking her home after and fulfilling all the flirtations he had indulged in since they met. Like placing his hands back on her waist and discovering what it’s like to touch her bare skin. Like hearing her- Yeah, that.

It was exhilarating to remember that an ending to the night of this kind was not necessarily out of the picture. Quite on the contrary.

As the curtain rose for the second act and the events of the plot got him, Don Quixote, and Sancho Panza closer to the Garden and Cupid in all her glory, Neil knew he was fucked. Utterly, hopelessly fucked.

Then, she stepped out. All in white save for the embroidered garland of blue flowers on the bodice and the skirt. She danced each step with grace and confidence Neil never once doubted she possessed. It made the breath catch in his throat and his heart stumble. She was perfect. She leapt and turned with each note, just as in that video she showed him at the start. The joy filled every cell of her body, visible in how she danced. The cheeky smile gracing her lips was a sight Neil was used to, yet still, it made him blush. Even from his vantage point, he could tell no one else could look away from her. From the force of her beauty, knocking down everyone within striking distance. Like the goddess she was.

The minute was over before he was aware of it, staring as Cupid completed the final set of leaps. She landed in the set pose and froze. The music was soon replaced with thunderous clapping. The heart palpitations in Neil’s chest had been replaced by glee, a stupid grin present on his face on its own accord. There it was again, that pride flaring up in his heart as he watched Cupid smile.

Yeah, he was decidedly fucked. And there was still the third act left. Terrifyingly aware of the company, Neil swallowed hard and dug his fingers into the armrests again. He briefly wondered whether the cubicle walls in the toilets were sanitary enough so he could faceplant into one during the second intermission. He quickly concluded that it hardly mattered. A man’s gotta do, what a man’s gotta do. Or something.

***

The applause was a sound you could get used to. It filled every cavern of your soul and made you forget about the burning in your muscles and the tiredness that made you feel you were close to fainting. All of that vanished when the orchestra finished the final notes of the score, and the principal dancers stepped in, bowing to the crowds. Even from your spot at the back, you could see the patrons rise from their seats and applaud the dancers with faces full of awe. The feeling got stronger once it was your turn to bow before the audience, legs shaking from exertion and a wide grin impossible to wipe off.

Because, somehow, you actually did it. Survived. Thrived, even. Everything went better than you hoped. Better than you dared dream. The conviction, anchored in your heart with that first dose of thunderous applause after you finished the Cupid variation, began to grow roots. It did not vanish as soon as the curtain fell, and you had all begun to disperse, half-limping from exhaustion towards the dressing rooms. It stayed as you chatted and laughed with the girls, letting the costume assistants help you out of the corset.

Perhaps, most importantly, the exhilaration stayed because you could still remember the text you saw right before scene one. A short, good luck message also showed you were wrong to doubt him. Neil showed up. He was in the audience, watching you excel at the role and perform like never before. That thought alone made you smile.

You got as far as changing into the black dress, perfect for both the celebratory banquet after the premiere and whatever else the night would have in store before the commotion at the door to the dressing room made you pause taking off the stage makeup. You looked up just in time to see Carol, the costume assistant, call your name from the doorway:

“You’ve got company, sweetie” the smirk present on her face was unnerving, almost making the horror drown out the joy you felt at that one sentence, “A handsome boy asked Derek about you,” she added, the smile only widening, highlighting the conclusion you would have easily reached yourself by now.

As you felt the eyes of half a dozen girls turn in your direction, you knew you had fucked it. Inviting Neil backstage felt like a good idea until this moment. Until the reminder that you were not going to be alone. Not with the eager, bright gazes of corps du ballet following your every move like a little clan of hyenas. Swallowing past the frown, you let the used makeup wipe fall onto the dressing table as you stood up. In haste, almost knocking over the stool.

“I was waiting for him, actually” you crossed the space, hiding the sudden nerves with an over-confident grin.

For whatever reason, the shyness had returned. It sped up the beat of your heart as you waited for Carol to turn towards the corridor she came from and fetch Neil. Ignoring the desire to leap into the hallway like an idiot, you rooted your feet in the floor and stared down. Right until you heard Carol come back. This time, she was not alone. You leaned out the doorway, your gaze finding Neil with ease. He stood out among the crowd of dancers, dressed in a dark grey suit with a burgundy tie. It was impossible not to let your jaw hang open as your eyes took him in. The expensive suit jacket fitted perfectly. Beneath, you could make out the matching vest as if a two-piece wasn’t enough.

Annoyed by the lack of flaws to pick out, your gaze flicked up to his face. Just in time to see the familiar smirk telling you all you needed to know about where Neil was. But there was no time to dwell on it.

“You’re in luck, Sir” you could see curiosity in Carol’s gaze as she patted Neil’s arm and threw you a look that promised serious questioning next time. Which would be tomorrow. Fuck “I’ll leave you two to it” throwing you a goddamn wink, she turned away and started walking back down the corridor.

“Thanks, Carol” your gratitude got half choked up by the wave of annoyance, but you smothered it to ashes and turned to Neil with a shy smile, “Hi,”

It was nearly impossible not to be dazed by his beauty, even after only two days apart. His blue eyes looked back at you with enough affection to make you quiver. The hard lights of the backstage caught the gold in his hair, making it look almost ablaze. You blinked against the striking picture, but the brief respite did nothing. Neil still looked too good to be true. Which was why you knew that the moment the girls saw him, all hell would unleash. You steeled your spine against the assault and gently steered him towards the room you had just left. He went willingly.

“Hello” at a moment unknown to you, Neil has placed his arm around your shoulder. He went as far as coupling the greeting with a brief squeeze of your bicep before the touch disappeared, and he came to a standstill next to you, “There’s a lot of staring happening right now,” the remark was whispered, yet it roared in the pin-drop silence of the dressing room.

It took no genius on your side to understand what Neil meant even before you raised your head and faced six equally shocked faces of the ballerinas in various stages of grief.

“I know, I’m sorry,” aware that acting on the desire to hold his hand would only backfire, you glared at the girls with a warning, “They can’t behave” you hoped it would convey enough annoyance to make them snap out of it.

Whatever it even was. Because they had seen the men (and women) you have been with. They knew your shtick. And yet.

“Not our fault you haven’t told us you’re going to have a handsome fellow over” Jemima, the only one not to break the stare under your glare, raised her eyebrow in an accusation.

She was always the feisty one. It was a characteristic you admired in her just as much as you disdained it. Especially now, with Neil’s awkwardness coming off in waves and your sudden desire to disappear growing stronger by the minute.

“Would that change anything?” you countered her allegation with a cold question.

Or, at least, you sure hoped your cool was still intact. The reasons for the embarrassment and shyness were impossible to understand. Not without internal analysis you did not want nor could undergo with the audience present. The soul-searching had to wait. Indefinitely.

“Only that we’d bother you about him earlier,” especially now when no remorse was to be found from the girls.

Rolling your eyes skywards, you muttered:

“Figures,” a sigh had to do as a preamble as you risked taking hold of his hand and squeezing it quickly, “This is Neil, guys. Be nice” one glance at Neil, at the silent panic, was enough to make you add “And stop staring” when he squeezed back, you briefly felt victorious.

Very briefly.

“Easier said than done, babe” Jemima shot you an overconfident wink and took those two paces to walk up to Neil. Her dark eyes piercing and inquisitive “Has anyone told you that you’re stunning, Neil?” she studied him, gaze treading the path over his features that you were overly familiar with.

A strange stab of insecurity at the centre of your heart threw you off the kilter. That was… strange. Unprecedented. Unacceptable.

“Once or twice,” Neil’s reply was the necessary anchor to bring you back from the depths of worrying thoughts.

As was the growing horror on his face. You had to step in.

“Jesus Ch-” choking past the litany of curses, you used the hold over his hand to drag Neil to your dressing table. You could still feel their stares but hoped they would get the hint, “You actually came” unable to keep the wonder out of your voice, you allowed yourself to look at Neil for the first time since the mess started.

He seemed more relaxed now that you have gotten rid of the onlookers. In his gaze, you could only see conviction, as if you never should have doubted him. And you didn’t! Just… needed to see it to believe it. Or something along those lines.

“Of course. These are for you” only now you noticed the bouquet of roses as Neil held it out to you with a smile. Yet it was difficult to pay attention to the flowers when he continued, “You were incredible, Cupid. Blew them all away. Just like I knew you would,” you could feel your cheeks heat up at the attention and the praise.

It was one thing to feel it but another to have someone lay it upon you. Especially Neil.

Neil, with his bright blue eyes and beautiful smile, that always felt like a benediction of sorts.

“Thanks” gingerly, you put down the bouquet on the dressing table and offered him a shy smile, “It’s still sinking in, but I think it was good. It certainly felt good” the promise to elaborate on your feelings was there; implied, and ready for Neil to take on. He did it with an understanding nod, allowing you to switch the topic with minimal clumsiness, “Anyways, I’m just going to finish here, and then I should show up at this banquet thingy upstairs for fifteen minutes, and I’m done” your restless hands played out their choreography, gesturing towards your half wiped off stage makeup and the hair that desperately needed an out from the tight bun.

You hoped the gestures would compensate for the awkwardness you could still feel. For the doubts that kept springing back up like freshly sown flowers in a fertile ground. Except that they didn’t.

“Sounds good” now that you were back at the table, you could see Neil in the mirror reflection.

He nodded, seemingly at ease with the situation and the scenario you had just painted for him. But-

“Unless you’ve got plans and I’ve just-” your anxious voice jumped into action when you let down your guard, voicing all that would not shut up inside your head.

Because you have never talked about his plans. You have never discussed the technicalities of what would be happening after the premiere. Not really. For all you knew, Neil might have just stopped by to say goodbye.

Before you could spiral further, you felt a careful touch at the nape of your neck. Gentle fingers brushing the tender skin and bringing out the shivers. You raised your head to see Neil looking back at you with a soft smile on his face:

“I’m only yours tonight” his hand skimmed lower, ghostly touch brushing over the shoulder blade.

It was gone before you blinked. But the sensation stayed, making you push the uncertainties to the back of your head and lock them away. For now, they were irrelevant.

The flowers, the suit, the photo – it all seemed like maybe tonight you could get what you really wanted. And what you wanted-

“Is that a promise?” picking up the fresh cotton bud, you bated your eyelashes at Neil.

Hoping (praying) he would ignore the crisis that unfolded before his eyes seconds before.

“We’ll see” Neil only smirked as he leaned against the wall closest to your dressing table and crossed his arms over his chest.

All yours, apparently.

***

It turned out that the key to getting more attention when entering the banquet at the Royal Opera House was to have Neil by your side. You could feel the gazes of fellow dancers and their plus ones follow you as you breezed through the hall, rushing towards the table filled with champagne flutes. You did not need to glance behind to know Neil was following you like a shadow. Once a pair of glasses was secured, you turned to him with a victorious smile and wordlessly motioned towards one of the high tables by the wall. It looked like the perfect place to linger until the speeches had been said and toasts raised. After that, you were good to go.

Once that first incomprehensible crisis was over, and you continued with the dressing table tasks, with the addition of Neil’s presence and comments, the strange anxiety has almost dispersed. Its place was taken by the anticipation of what would happen next. It was reflected in Neil’s gaze, the bright blue eyes watching with something akin to enchantment. Almost as if he could not and did not want to look away. It felt empowering in ways you could barely understand.

Now, as you set down both glasses and leaned on the table with a smile, Neil was ready. He mirrored your relaxed pose with ease. The tips of his black oxfords touched your shoes.

“Are you sure I’m allowed to be here?” the question was brought forward with a nervous chuckle and a cursory look around the room.

You could see the remains of restless energy in his movements. How his gaze skimmed through the crowd, searching for reasons why he did not belong. You knew the feeling too well. Tapping your shoe against his to capture the attention, you shot Neil a reassuring smile:

“Perfectly sure. You fit right in” without letting yourself think about it, you shuffled around the high table to stand right next to Neil.

Your shoulders were touching. When you turned to face him, you were struck breathless at the proximity. Up this close, Neil’s eyes felt boundless.

“Is that- Are you just complimenting me?” the baffled pout of his was something else to wonder at.

Something else to ignore if you did not want to make a spectacle in the middle of the banquet hall. Which you didn’t.

Instead, you focused on the disbelief you could see in his eyes, that familiar shade of shyness and insecurity telling you that despite his inherent coolness, Neil was anything but. Nudging your hip against his, you leaned in close:

“I’m also saying that you look very hot right now” your tone dropped to the seductive timbre that, while unnecessary, had a history of making Neil blush.

It was not different this time. You looked up in time to see the pink hue tint on his cheeks as Neil swallowed hard. He glanced at your mouth, clearly weighing the options like you just did. He must have come to the same conclusion, for he looked up again, nervous tongue swiping over the dry lips. Making you itch for a hit.

“How very?” he asked, quietly enough that you had to invade his personal space to hear the question.

Once you got that close, you did not want to increase the distance again. So, you stayed, eyes peering into Neil’s as you rested your chin on his shoulder and whispered the reply into his ear:

“Very” the curious stares of fellow banqueters hardly mattered as you pressed your hand to his suit lapel, “The suit was a top-notch choice. And now that I know what you look like without that shirt… Yeah, very hot” you waited until Neil was brave enough to face you to shoot him a wink.

By now, the picture was burned onto your eyelids. Yet, without a doubt, the photo never held a candle to the real thing. You were sure the hunger for it was clear as day on your face as Neil studied it for a long moment. That same thoughtful look in his eyes always made you feel half a step closer to insanity. Because it was impossible to tell what he thought then.

Remembering your daring gesture, you raised your hand from where it stayed pressed to his chest and folded your palms on the tabletop. For good measure, you took half a step away from him as well. Just so you did not tempt fate. A quick gulp from the champagne flute was also in order.

“So, I take it you liked the photo?” the innocence of Neil’s question made it clear that you were not allowed to let go of the conversation yet.

Not that you minded it. This sort of chat offered an easy space to share all that plagued your mind and soul, consensually and without a dose of awkwardness. Because he asked. And if he asked, then he was bound to know. Slowly, you turned your face again to look at Neil. He was one step ahead, the blue gaze already boring into yours. The hard edge of it softened by a cheeky smile.

“Oh, I did. I just wish you’d sent it earlier when I would have had time to process it in peace” aware that the words would do their job, you returned Neil’s smirk and took another swig from the glass.

If only so that you had something to do until he reacted to your confession. Your eyes scouted the horizon, taking note of the arriving dancers and the ballet directory gathering by the platform. It was not long now before the official part began.

It wasn’t long till you could leave.

“Process it how, exactly?” when your gaze returned to Neil, you found him just as expected.

Blue eyes wide, the magnificent jaw hanging open as his brain evidently pushed at him numerous versions of what your answer could imply. That would explain the dark blush creeping over his cheeks. And, for a beat, you considered it. Considered showing your cards and telling him exactly how he made you feel daily.

But where would be fun with that?

“Ladies don’t disclose their secrets,” you mimicked locking your lips shut with a key and rose on your toes to press a quick peck to Neil’s cheek.

When you leaned back again, he nodded:

“Noted” you could see the questions multiply in his gaze, but Neil seemingly pushed them all back, for when he spoke again, that topic was over, “What do you want to do after this?”

That was a question you needed no time to answer.

“A walk around Soho sounds nice” by now, your post-performance walks were a tradition.

A chance to breathe and decompress after the rollercoaster of preparations followed by the ballet. A chance to remind yourself that it was real. That you were real. Although, usually, you were alone, the concept of having Neil as a companion did not seem off-putting.

Quite the contrary.

“Got you,” his reply offered a chance to breathe out and relax by a fraction.

You shot Neil a grateful smile just as the commotion by the stage caught your attention. It was finally starting.

“Great, now shush” on its own accord, your hand found his on the tabletop and squeezed it once.

When Neil returned the squeeze, you grinned and buried the smile in the champagne glass.

***

The chilly autumn air cooled your cheeks as you adjusted the scarf around your neck, turned the corner of Long Acre Street and glanced at Neil. On the horizon, you could just about make out the Seven Dials pillar, marking the gateway into Soho. Although it was well past 11 pm, you knew that the streets would be full of people. With each step, the tension of the evening melted away, now only anchored by the tiredness set deep in your bones. You would still need a long sleep and a relaxing Saturday to manage tomorrow’s performance. But that, like most things, had to wait.

For now, all that mattered were the golden reflections in Neil’s hair and the tune he hummed as he matched your leisurely pace. Whatever would happen after the walk was very much undecided, so you made sure to banish the uncertainties to the back of your head and focus on the present. For the first time since leaving the opera house, you broke the comfortable silence:

“So… Be honest and tell me what you thought” that infuriating hesitation in your voice was hard to get rid of.

It tinted the sentence with unease and worry, making it abundantly clear that despite your attempts at nonchalance, you were everything but. Worst of all, you knew Neil would pick up on it instantly, too. He was good at reading you like that.

Lost in your head again, you never noticed you had been wringing your hands until you felt his touch, gently stopping the anxious gestures. Your head shot up just in time to see the small smile grace his lips as Neil looked away again and replied:

“I meant what I said earlier. You were incredible. And although my knowledge of ballet comes from Black Swan almost exclusively… Yeah, so fucking cool, Cupid” his eyes were full of admiration you could hear in the praise.

It made your cheeks heat up as the wave of bashfulness threatened to overtake any other part of your being. You swallowed hard against it, briefly tracing the cracks in the pavement to buy some time. Soon, you did what you always do.

“Well, I sure wish there was more gay sex with Mila Kunis at work” Neil’s loud laughter at your attempt at a joke made you grin despite the sudden shyness, “But thank you. As much as I was terrified, it’s all kind of disappeared before I came on for my bit. And then I just tried to do the best I could” shrugging, you allowed yourself a moment to relish in the rare feeling of pride.

That did not happen often. And when compliments came, they hardly held any substance to them. Unlike this, where you could tell Neil meant and believed what he said. The surge of affection was hard to deny, even if you tried to bury it beneath a shrug and a noncommittal smile. It burned through your chest like an ember. It was only a matter of time before it would catch fire.

“You were stellar. I couldn’t look away from you” mindless of your crisis, Neil kept speaking, “Not for a moment” once you made the mistake of turning to glance at him, the softness of his gaze felt like a trigger you did not know you had been waiting for.

Stopping in the middle of the pavement was the easiest part. You reached out towards Neil and grabbed his hand, making him stop as well. The surprise on his face was evident as he closed the space between you and asked:

“Everything alright?” the genuine worry was all but a metaphorical nail to the coffin.

It softened the edges of your raging soul and made you take the decisive step to cup his face between your palms and press your mouth to his. Somewhere between one heartbeat and the next, Neil pulled you closer with his hands on your waist, instantly returning the kiss with equal ferocity. You could imagine the picture you painted to the outside souls. The all-consuming desire was written in every gesture and move. The inability to separate until you had to. The easy conclusions anyone would draw at the sight of you.

The conclusions which at any other time would terrify you.

But none of that mattered when you broke the kiss with the taste of Neil’s gasp on your tongue and caught his dreamy gaze. The long eyelashes fluttered as he slowly came to. The pink cheeks and glossy lips were something you could never quite get over. So, instead of surrendering to the foolish wants and stupid desires, you whispered the only other thing that made sense:

“Thank you” sliding your hand down the length of his arm to entangle your fingers together, you offered Neil a smile.

Grinning, he tugged at your joined hands to resume the walk. With the background of Wonderwall playing inside the pub you passed, he spoke:

“My pleasure. Now I expect to be given tickets to every premiere” the cockiness in his tone was a welcomed change.

It helped to close the door on the inconvenient softness and put your focus back on what mattered. Like the support and friendship of someone who seemed genuinely interested in you. That, too, was out of the ordinary for the relationships with men you wanted to fuck.

Not to be crude or anything.

“I’ll think about it,” you quipped, mind already venturing onto the prospects, mulling over what could happen after ‘Don Quixote’. Not without anxiety, “Next there’s this tiny, teeny off-chance they cast me in The Nutcracker… and that’s a really big deal” even saying the words you had thought of before was enough to make your heart rate speed up.

Because that was a possibility. An idea bolstered by the whispers among the girls and the ballet repertoire announced at the beginning of the winter season. But as much as it was possible, you did not dare hope. Not after the disappointments of the past.

“Like crippling anxiety kinda big deal?” as always, Neil had struck the goldmine without trying.

His talent at seeing through your bullshit and all that you tried to leave unsaid was terrifying. Hardly anyone was capable of that. And historically, those that did were most likely to become someone you could not get rid of. Not even if you tried. That, like many things, was a reason to push against the alarms in your head and offer Neil a grin so bright it looked plastic fake.

“Precisely that,” you nodded, mindlessly synching your pace to Neil’s and raising your head to look around the streets.

The warm streetlights cast a cosy glow around the alleys and shop windows, occasionally replaced with a neon or two, ablaze in the night. A million different songs could be heard from the windows and doorways of the pubs and clubs you passed. The chaos of the area was almost peaceful to you in its disarray. The beautiful mess that had no place in your daily world, in the carefully styled ballet buns and perfectly positioned pointe shoes. It was the antithesis of everything you lived and breathed, yet somehow more true to your nature than order could ever be.

The wonder must have shown on your face, for Neil broke the silence with a question:

“Why Soho?” the curiosity was impossible to ignore.

But when so often it would spark your annoyance and inspire the inherent desire to remain a mystery to all but yourself, here and now, it was almost welcomed. Because it came from someone who gave a fuck.

“Because it makes me feel the most at home, I guess. It’s like life can be shit and awful, but as soon as I get here and lose myself between those streets, nothing matters anymore” the weight of the words hung between you as your finger caressed the back of Neil’s hand, unconsciously drawing patterns. Only when the heaviness and sincerity began to feel too stifling, you added, “It must be that unique appeal of queerness, bondage and flashy lights. All at once” as if on a cue, you looked to the right to see one of the many sex shops scattered across Soho.

A classy, black leather harness lured the interested parties from the shop window. A giggle arose in your throat and spilt outward, tinting the night with a new shade of unforgettability. The feeling increased when you turned to see Neil’s grin:

“Must be” the joy in his face blinded you to everything else.

The comfortable silence stretched as you walked around Soho Square. Within the dimly lit park, you could make out the statue of King Charles II. That late at night, the iron gates were closed, leaving you to trace the perimeter of the square. The red brick tower of St Patrick’s watchfully traced your steps as you passed through the common and continued down one of many busy streets.

The wistful silence felt inspiring in ways you could hardly explain. Before you knew what you were doing, the question was out of your mouth:

“Can I ask you another inappropriate question?” at this point, the opener was a tradition.

It always got a smile out of Neil, so you did not consider ditching it.

“Shoot,” he squeezed your hand and peeked inside the pub you passed.

This one’s choice of music was not any less predictable. With the sounds of Mr Brightside, you asked:

“What are you most afraid of?” the origin of a question was hard to trace.

You only knew that it had been waiting for the right moment for quite a while. Perhaps it was because you barely had anyone else to talk about things like these that most people would rather stay unsaid. Perhaps it was that you were tired of ignoring the complex subjects and shutting the door on the uncomfortable.

Perhaps it was just that you wanted to know Neil better.

“Damn, that’s inappropriate indeed,” his low whistle told you even that sort of question was not too close for comfort.

You were yet to find the limit, which was both an exciting prospect and a terrifying concept.

“You know me,” you shrugged, hoping that gesture alone would help you ignore the implications of the sentence.

Yet the look Neil shot you as you risked a glance at him rendered the attempt useless.

“I do know you” the simple confirmation felt like a punch to the face, but you had no time to react. Neil followed the thought with the answer you had asked for, “Okay… It used to be something like being forgotten or not achieving my dreams, but now, I think it’s just that I’m scared of waking up one day and realising that I’ve nothing to live for. It’s that fear of failure, combined with the real chance of no one ever loving me for who I am” each of his words felt like that pinprick of pain in the molecules of your existence. As did the tiredness in his voice, almost emotionless except for the resignation you were well familiar with. It was the same tone of someone so used to the reality of their situation that it hardly made them feel anything anymore. It was a tone you knew well, “Fuck, that sounds depressing” sighing upon the conclusion, Neil slowed down your pace to look at the display of an indie boutique.

You knew that tactic. Understood that it was just a part of the ploy to shift the subject away from his troubles. But, in the light of all he said, you could not stay silent. You stepped close enough to show your intent in the movement and said what you knew was obvious:

“I think people would be stupid not to love you” despite your history with love, you knew that much.

If love existed, Neil was more than worth the pain of it. And anyone who was blind to it was not worth him.

Slowly, he turned to face you. The impassive face let you know that this time Neil would not be willing to get into the polemics over something he did not believe in. Instead, you got a neutral smile and a tender touch, brushing the stray lock of hair behind your ear:

“I wish, sweetheart” the mournful edge to his smile felt unsettling in a way you desperately wanted to ignore. As if sensing your discomfort, he quickly transformed it into a sardonic grin, “There’s also the fear of the world ending, but that’s just millennial quirks, I guess” before you could react to the mood shift, the invisible mic was extended towards you “Anyway, your turn,”

While you always knew that opening this topic would mean you would also have to bear your soul to Neil, the moment it came, you found yourself struggling for words. The truths were there, but they did not want to be released into the night like this. Without a promise that nothing would change after.

Wordlessly, you extended your hand to Neil and waited for him to take it before resuming the walk. It took you another two or three minutes of silence to start speaking:

“It was always the fear of growing old. And I don’t mean like a teenager shaking at the prospect of being thirty someday. I mean me right now, scared out of my mind for the day I realise I’m old. Because there’s no future for ballerinas past forty, if even that” once the words came, it was hard to stop them. They flowed, empowered by years of awful thoughts you could not permanently get rid of and the paralysing knowledge that they were correct. That this was the future awaiting you, “And I know that for all my talk of not needing other people for anything else than a good time, it’s going to bite me in the ass. When that youth fades, I’ll be a below-average woman who doesn’t have anything to offer” the conclusions came upon a weary sigh, with the burdens not at all lessened but only voiced.

For the first time ever, possibly.

The warmth of Neil’s hand in yours was a spark of comfort, urging you to let go of the thoughts and keep walking. You knew that if you stopped, there would be nothing to pick up from the pieces you would become.

“I don’t think you’re below average” although you did not dare look at him, you could feel Neil’s gaze on you.

Those knowing blue eyes wandered over your features like a tender touch you never deemed yourself worthy of. Although seemingly nonconsequential, his protest was not something you could brush over. It reverberated in your head until you felt like you had to shake it out with another pointless shrug:

“The point still stands, though” unsurprisingly, it was the shame that followed, forcing you to look his way and whisper a needed apology, “Anyway, I’m so sorry I asked that. I don’t know what overcame me,”

The most accurate guess would be the demons of hell or your lack of self-preservation.

“It’s okay. I want to know you more, and what better way to do that than through questions you’d ask at a sleepover in Year 9,” the judgement was not present on Neil’s face as he offered you a hand squeeze and a bright smile.

It almost looked like he was back to normal, having put the strange conversation behind you. You sure hoped that was the case.

“True” returning his smile with a degree of hesitation, you took the phone from your pocket to check the time. It was late, almost midnight, and you still had to get home. That sobering thought helped you decide the best course of events, “Should we get on the tube at Oxford Circus? We could then change at Baker Street,”

To deny that you hoped you would not get off at St. John’s Wood alone would be to lie, so you stayed quiet. The idea was slowly simmering in your mind, hoping to come to fruition through luck or the powers that be.

“Sounds good” Neil nodded, already picking up the pace to lead you towards the mentioned station. After a beat, he asked, “Cupid?”

“Hmm?” too occupied with your thoughts, you only made a noncommittal noise.

“You’re worth more than you know” that fondness in his voice was old news by now.

Yet it still punched the air out of your guts, like always. It still made you swallow hard against the inconvenient revelations and focus on what mattered the most.

Which, in this case, was to get Neil to come home with you. Easy.

***

It was impossible to tell which one was the deciding moment. When the course had been set, except that sometime between getting on the Bakerloo at the Oxford Circus and St. John’s Wood, the dice had been cast. Metaphorically, that is.

Somewhere between Baker Street and your station, with your lips formed into an almost permanent smile, you turned to Neil. Noticing the creases around his beautiful eyes and the fond grin on his face, you chanced an invitation that had been rattling around your brain for hours and days:

“Do you want to come to mine for a glass of wine?” miraculously, the tremors did appear in your voice.

As soon as Neil registered the question, you could see something in his eyes shift. Without a doubt, he understood where it was going. Or where you hoped it would go. He glanced at your mouth, almost as if on an unconscious instinct. Your hand resting in his loose hold on your lap twitched, making him tighten the grasp. The silenced stretched, thick, and substantial in the empty carriage. Empty save for the two of you.

It felt like aeons later when Neil finally met your gaze again and offered you a lazy smile.

“I’d love to,” that wolfish glint in his eyes told you he knew what you had been thinking.

It also assured you that this, like many things, was something you shared.

That awareness did nothing to eliminate the giddiness set in your bones, which only grew in strength as you led Neil through the streets of St. John’s towards the outskirts of Maida Vale. Once you arrived at your apartment and somehow opened the door without dropping your keys (a feat indeed), that giddy feeling transformed into nervousness coursing in your veins. It stayed as you opened the door, letting Neil through and following behind him. It was always a strange feeling to let someone else into your world, into that private space, so separate from the grandness of ROH. Unconsciously, you always expected critique or worse – ridicule.

But none came as you walked past Neil in the hallway and took off your shoes with caution. His eyes roamed over the walls and the furniture with interest, taking in every feature with curiosity. Trying the hardest to discard the awkwardness, you walked down the hall towards the living room and the kitchen, knowing he would follow. It was once you had welcomed Neil into the living space that you could no longer maintain the suffocating silence:

“I know it’s not Buckingham Palace, but…” gesturing weakly towards the room at large, you shot him a tight smile.

It was almost as if Neil going off the script and not being a judgmental guest threw you off to the point where you had trouble acting normally. It must have been visible in your body language, for he grinned and replied:

“No, it’s cosy” another broad look around the living room must have satisfied him as Neil took off his coat and scarf and draped them over the highchair by the breakfast bar, “Fits you,” meeting your gaze, he winked.

Instant warmth spread over your body, replacing the uncertainty with something different. Something dangerous.

“Whatever that means” returning his grin, you stalked into the kitchen and threw open the cupboard doors with a simple question, “Red or white wine?”

Settling the two wine glasses on the countertop, you turned to Neil. Only to find him browsing the bookshelves lining your walls between the windows.

“Red. Thanks” he put down the book he had been inspecting and turned to gaze through the windows down the street below, glancing your way in between.

Procuring the bottle of semi-dry Primitivo from the shelf, you recovered the corkscrew from one of the messy drawers. Only when that was done, and the wine could breathe a little (impressing the snobbish people on TV), you turned back to Neil. He was still perusing the bookcase, clearly doing his best to accommodate your strange shyness. Lucky for him, the worst had passed.

“You can have a look around. Just you know, don’t peek into my bedside drawers or go through my underwear” when Neil glanced at you with a scandalous gasp, hand clutching at his chest, you smirked.

That was familiar. Safe. A trustworthy dynamic to settle upon when looking for pointers for whatever would come next.

“As if I would,” the affronted look on his face made you giggle as Neil finished the living room tour and joined you in the kitchen, “Though now my curiosity has piqued. What do you keep in the bedside drawer?”

Sure, you could give him the answer he so desperately sought. But that would’ve been too easy.

“Maybe one day you’ll see” shrugging off his advances, you winked, hoping it would show how much you meant it.

Admittedly, if everything went how you wanted it to, you hoped that vague one day would come. For some reason, when staring at his broad back as Neil picked up your invitation and walked down the hall towards the bedroom, you knew he could never disappoint you. Not in that way. Somehow, it felt like once you crossed that line, which was constantly getting closer, it would be impossible to go back. And in a good way, too. In a way that would make you want to keep going back, again and again. Neil already was like a special kind of drug for you. Nothing could change that.

When he completed the self-guided tour, you were waiting on the sofa with a carefully chosen soundtrack running in the background and two glasses of red wine. As always, it was not difficult to keep the conversations running, ranging from topics such as how you became a ballerina to how the fuck did Neil manage to make his hair look so goddamn soft all the time.

For the sake of the argument you tried to make, you shifted across the cushions closer to Neil and buried your fingers in his dirty-blonde tresses. It did not escape your attention that as soon as you started intently combing through the strands and lightly pulling at them Neil closed his eyes with a telling exhale. Or that his body tensed, betraying wants and needs he probably tried to keep secret. Willing to spare him some shame (for now), you focused on the silkiness of his locks, staring as the colour reflected the warm lighting of the room.

“I seriously need tips on conditioners” with reluctance, you let go after something close to a minute and leaned back.

Just a fraction. Now that you had lessened the distance, you did not want to leave his side again. Without even trying to be exceptionally smooth, you lounged towards your old spot to move the wine glass and settled back against the cushions. The warmth of his body radiated across the minimal space. Some time ago, probably midway through the second glass, Neil has ditched the suit jacket. The vest underneath only did his body more favours, making it impossible for you to stop staring for most of the evening.

“Will do,” Neil nodded, seemingly having recovered his composure. He took another swig from the glass and regarded you with curiosity in his eyes, “Does that do it for you?”

You did not need to ask for clarification. Not with the way you had always seemed particularly fixated on his hair. Or how your hands always betrayed you when you kissed, taking every opportunity to touch them again. With that sort of transparency, you might as well embrace it.

“Definitely” offering him a shameless smile, you picked up the wine glass to down the remains.

That pleasant alcoholic buzz in your head smoothed out the edges of your vision and drowned out the remaining anxiety. Until all you could feel was warmth and contentment.

Only sometime later, after discussing the intricacies of your home lives growing up and the likelihood of you meeting Neil’s work friends (and getting along with them), the mood began to shift. It was hard to tell at first, smoothly falling into your usual dynamic. It was that sudden desire to lean your head over his shoulder and Neil’s inexplicable tendency to touch your knee with every other gesture during a particularly complex story.

One of those was just ending, with Neil describing in detail that one time as a teenager when he accidentally dyed his hair seaweed green when that uninvited voice inside your head would not keep quiet any longer.

“Can I tell you something?” blurting out the question was the easiest part, although its placement at the end of his story was clumsy.

The abruptness made Neil start, his hand hovering right over your thigh twitched. The blue eyes met yours with curiosity shining through.

“Always,” the dusting of pink along his cheekbones confirmed that you were not the only one feeling the effects of that bottle of Primitivo, now empty on the coffee table.

“I’m so glad you came tonight. And that you stayed, too” the earnestness in your voice was something you did not want to get rid of.

It strengthened the sentiment, showing that you meant it more than anything. Although the gratitude was there from the moment Neil stepped into the dressing room, it only increased with every passing hour. Because as he sat there, listening to your bullshit, one understanding came to the forefront of your mind. Something obvious, yet not at all. No one has ever taken their time like this. No one at all.

“Of course, I’ve told you I had fun. I’m beginning to see how incredible it is what you guys do on the stage” the sparks in his eyes drew you in like a moth to a flame as Neil added, “All of those years of practice and perfect technique. I could never” the admiration was another fatal blow to the remains of your composure.

It shone through his words, making it abundantly clear that Neil meant what he said, too. The fuzziness in your head got stronger the moment you tried to comprehend it. Shaking it off with a shrug, you shifted in the seat and leaned away from him enough so you could breathe. Or, at least, get an illusion of clarity back.

“Well, it is tough, I won’t lie” as always, your mouth kept on running before you could get a hold of your tongue, spilling all the facts and observations you had kept to yourself, “But that’s the thing. You came, and you actually watched, and now you’re here, listening to me waffle on about ballet and pointe shoes and all that bullshit, when you could just… I don’t know, leave?” the groan of frustration tore at your vocal cords as you finished the rant on a particularly bitter note “Or you could do what everyone else had when I dared invite them to one of my shows,”

Even the memory of it stung, making you drop your gaze to the drying burgundy spot on the table. In all your naivety, you hoped that would be it. That another topic would come up and make you forget about it.

But Neil had other plans. Not that you blamed him for it.

“Which is?” his question was the epitome of carefulness, with even the tone of his voice doing everything in his might not to startle you and make you clam up amidst the rare moment of extreme sincerity.

It when then and there that you decided Neil was worth a little discomfort.

“Spend the ballet on their phone, tune me out afterwards and only wait as far as coming here or going to theirs to ask me to be a good girl and suck them off” rolling your eyes against the reminder, your fingers restlessly picked at the loose thread in the hem of your dress. The ghost of that familiar dissatisfaction burned through your system almost as if it had just happened, “Because apparently I’m such a turn-on in those tights it’s impossible to pay attention” the attempt at an impression of that compliment never quite landed because of the venom in your voice.

The warmth of Neil’s hand enveloped yours as he stopped your anxious fiddling. You risked looking back up at him and instantly were struck by the heat in his gaze. It sparked something buried beneath the annoyance and incomprehensible feelings. Something you should have never ignored.

“It’s definitely a turn-on, but so is this” unaware of your ongoing spiral, Neil’s hand slid to your knee and squeezed it, “Hearing you talk about things that matter to you” the heat from his touch seeped through your skin, emphasizing the growing derealisation.

Because how could this be real? How could he be real? Neil, with his beautiful blue eyes and the ability to say the right thing when you needed it most. The breath hitched in your throat as you swallowed hard and channelled the storm inside your soul into words:

“Not according to most men” if asked about it later, you knew you would barely recollect what you said, having surrendered into the inherent ability to bullshit your way into everything ever, “And then they never even try to make me feel good. Well, they do, but not… selflessly” you could tell Neil caught the meaning with the way his eyes widened “When after every show I do all I want is for someone to take care of me” you did not get much time to wallow in the misery.

Not with the way Neil took approximately ten seconds to decide before his gaze turned back to you with breath-taking focus. His palm moved inward from your knee to slide between your thighs. The warmth of it encircled your leg as he leaned in close, nosing at your pulse point without a shadow of hesitation. Your abrupt gasp rang in the sudden silence, legs already parting to let him in without the conscious thought taking part in the action.

All the thoughts you could have had perished from your head as Neil pressed a kiss to the side of your neck and whispered against your skin:

“Like this?” the tenderness of his touch was overwhelming in the best of ways.

It took over your senses as he hitched up your dress and continued the slow journey up your thighs to the space between your legs. You could feel the arousal seeping into your underwear, making the material cling to your skin. It would be so easy to let him do whatever he wanted. Only-

“Yeah, but- Do you want to?” the breathlessness of your voice was bound to be an embarrassing memory.

But only once you had recovered the sanity, which was nowhere to be found. Still, you had to ask. There was no question about what you wanted. Not with the need coursing in your veins, begging you to stop fretting and just let go. Begging you to act like you always did.

But Neil was not like anyone you had ever been with. And that meant you cared. Too much, probably.

Leaning back far enough to meet your gaze, Neil tipped your chin so you were forced to look at him and smiled. The hungry determination was still there, only now interlaced with subtle reassurance. For your sake.

“Oh, trust me, I want to” without giving you time to reply, he kissed you quickly and stood up from the sofa, dropping to his knees before you without a word of warning, “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks” that devilish grin tugged at your insides as tilted his head, silently asking for permission.

Permission to change your relationship forever. You took a deep breath, already aware of the mess between your thighs and the insanity in your eyes.

You nodded, saving the voice for later.

Somehow, you knew soon enough you’d need it. Neil grinned like Lucifer himself. You were certainly fucked.

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